No Wings… #Poetry

 

heart-669552__340.jpg

Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

No Wings

Did Heaven send you

When the sky broke?

Did the angels let you fall?

Did I catch you in time

To see your wings unfurl?

Did the light blind me

Mangling my thoughts

From a time before?

When sound had meaning

Words spoken held true

A time when spells

Were written on the wind

To change the fate of those outside

When Knights rode on white horses

And maidens changed their fate

With a token hidden beneath his sleeve

Of silk and lace

A whisper of hidden promises

Should the Knight be bold and win the day

The lady’s hand would be his to take

No knight’s ride is planned today

It is only I that stands in your way

With a token held, my promise sealed

Within a ring of gold…

AAAAA.png

Ancient Evil…

New Year, New Feature: a Speculative Fiction Writing Prompt

 

This is our first contribution for Diana Wallace Peach new monthly word prompt Challenge! This is truly an awe inspiring image…

 

 

fantasy-2925250_960_7201.jpg

Image by Stefan Keller

 

 

Ancient Evil…

The frozen face of a still white moon

Hung against the starless sky

Remembering Zolon crouched below

His hand clenched on ancient evil

Where men were swallowed

Bones crushed by ice white teeth…

AAAAA.png

The Clock… #Poetry

adgg.jpg

 

The Clock

Time that never ends

Ticking, beating out a rhythm

That endless noise they say is silence

My ears bleed, my mind screams

Trying to remember

The clock has blood on its hands

I am outside looking in

I hear bones breaking, flesh yielding

I cannot write such dark passages

Of a love gone bad

The look of peace on her face

Happy to be gone from this life

That look haunts me

Did love, mercy guide my hand in this?

Did I take the life I love so well?

The sickness changed the one I knew

The shell left behind

No longer holds the love

That held me to her

That ticking clock has beat its last rhythm

As I lay down beside her

I hear the ticking clock no more…

AAAAA.png

 

Shake the Tree… #Poetry

 

 

leaves-291024__340.jpg

Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

Take life by the short straw

Shake the tree see what falls

If it’s apple cores, save the pips for another day

Plant them when the time is right

Never hide your face from the light

Dance under rainbows

Bless the rain that sent you colour

Count your days with great delight

Send love out to catch the waves

Shake the tree a second time

Star might fall to light your way

To bring back dreams from yesterday

If still, you find no delight

Shake the tree with all your might

Until it gives all from sheer fright…

signature.png

Memories…

 

TATE_TATE_N01279_10.jpg

Painted by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

 

 

 

Memories are funny things, aren’t they? The way certain things suddenly pop into your head, and you think – hey, I know about that, and you remember.
I wonder what makes some memories surface and not others? You could say it’s down to something you have just heard or seen, but I know that’s not always the case.

Just lately I have been remembering a specific time in my childhood, and never realised before how that time must have influenced me. Or was it that threshold of childhood, the time you really start to think and question things? To imagine a future for yourself, that you won’t always be just idling along, not really caring if it snowed, depending on others to organise your life.

This particular time was when I lived in Kent, in a small village called Birchington, a few miles from Margate.. I was about 8 or 9 years old, and up to that point I didn’t really think about anything much. So much had happened to me that I had got into the habit of not questioning anything. Not much point really, as I knew I couldn’t change anything.

I was with foster parents by then with several other children, all from broken families; and surprisingly it was the first time I felt relaxed enough to appreciate the peace and quiet of the countryside, not to mention the freedom from all my mother’s problems.

Every Sunday we all went to church, and right outside the church door was a very impressive grave stone. It was made of a beautiful piece of marble and I thought the writing on it was very ornate and posh. I looked at it every Sunday for a while, when it suddenly struck me that this had to be someone quite important. But why was he buried here in this tiny village?

The name on the stone was Dante Gabriel Rossetti  (12may 1828-9april 1882) and I remember being very impressed by the sound of it, resolving to find out more about him. I was about the right age for romantic flights of fancy and the more I discovered about this tortured man and the life he lived, the more intrigued I became. He was a poet and a painter and some would say that he wasn’t very successful, but history will always remember him as a founder member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood with William Holman Hunt and John Everett Millais.

I learnt about Rossetti and how he had ended up a recluse in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea after a nervous breakdown, finally retreating to Birchington for rehabilitation only to die less than a year later. Perhaps he should have spent more time in Kent, for it was making me feel better!  I secretly sympathised with the mess he had made of his life, determined that my life would be better than it had started out to be. I just needed to be old enough to set the wheels in motion.

So you see, I tend to think he was my friend back then, right when I really needed one, guiding me to where I am today…

Signature Jaye (2)

 

 

dante-gabriel-rossetti.jpg

Dante Gabriel Rossetti (wasn’t he cute?)

 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti was born 12 May 1828 in London, the second child and eldest son of Italian expatriates. His father, Gabriele Rossetti, was a Dante scholar, who had been exiled from Naples for writing poetry in support of the Neapolitan Constitution of 1819. Rossetti’s mother had trained as a governess and supervised her children’s early education. Few Victorian families were as gifted as the Rossettis: the oldest child, Maria Rossetti, published A Shadow of Dante (1871) and became an Anglican nun; William Michael Rossetti was along with his brother an active member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and became an editor, man of letters, and memoirist; the youngest, Christina Georgina Rossetti, became an important and influential lyric poet.

As a child Dante Gabriel Rossetti intended to be a painter and illustrated literary subjects in his earliest drawings. He was tutored at home in German and read the Bible, Shakespeare, Goethe’s Faust, The Arabian Nights, Dickens, and the poetry of Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron. After leaving school, he apprenticed himself to the historical painter Ford Madox Brown, who later became his closest lifelong friend. He also continued his extensive reading of poetry—Poe, Shelley, Coleridge, Blake, Keats, Browning, and Tennyson—and began in 1845 translations from Italian and German medieval poetry. In 1847 and 1848 Rossetti began several important early poems—”My Sister’s Sleep,” “The Blessed Damozel,” “The Bride’s Prelude,” “On Mary’s Portrait,” “Ave,” “Jenny,” “Dante at Verona,” “A Last Confession,” and several sonnets, a form in which he eventually became expert. 

Rossetti divided his attention between painting and poetry for the rest of his life. In 1848 he founded the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood with six other young men, mostly painters, who shared an interest in contemporary poetry and an opposition to certain stale conventions of contemporary academy art. In a general way, the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood sought to introduce new forms of thematic seriousness, high coloration, and attention to detail into contemporary British art. Members of the group included John Everett Millais, its most skilled painter and future president of the Royal Academy, and William Holman Hunt, Thomas Woolner; Frederic Stephens; and William Michael Rossetti, who as P.R.B. secretary kept a journal of activities and edited the six issues of its periodical, the Germ (1850). Associates of the group included the older painter Ford Madox Brown, the painter and poet William Bell Scott, the poet Coventry Patmore, and Christina Rossetti, six of whose poems appeared in the Germ.