Category Archives: Poetry in Prose

Imagination, Part 1 – A Tribute #writephoto

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Photo by Sue Vincent

Picture yourself on a boat on a river. When out of the psychedelic landscape, she calls you quite softly, you answer quite slowly, misunderstanding all you see as you are taken to Strawberry fields to pour paint on the piano.  She said, she said that tomorrow never knows. Goo goo g’joob.

Imagine that war is over and peace has been given a chance.  Imagine, if you can, living lives in peace.  Imagine.

Well, we all shine on.  Better get yourself together, darling, join the human race, as you make your way across the Universe.  And we are all together – Imagine a brotherhood of man.  Continue reading

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Songs of Ocean and Moon

moonrise-little-pleasant-bay2

Selina could feel the throb of the Ocean pulsing through her long before she could actually make out the roar of the waves.  The beat of the earth’s salty heart made a rhythm with her own, a dance she alone shared with the mighty Sea.

But as she followed her thin shadow across the silvery landscape she realized that another heard his call.  For climbing up behind her, as she neared the westward ledge over the water, was her soul-sister, Moon.  She had a special relationship with Moon.  Sometimes, when no one was watching, Selina danced a slow, sinewy dance with sister Moon.  It was an old dance, a dance that came from her soul, a restless dance of subtle movements far removed from that earthy dance of the pulsating beat of Ocean.  For the flow and ebb of sister moon took weeks to complete, from absence to full and back to nothing again, always changing, always restless but always there.  The music of the Ocean, also restless, pulsed seconds between waves, hours between tides, creating a much quicker, Earthier, lewder dance. Continue reading

Moon

Blue Moon 31 July 2015

Listen to the wolf.  Do you hear what it’s saying?  Can you hear the loneliness and the longing?  No, really listen.  Do you hear it?  In its howls it is singing a song, a song to the Moon.

The Moon is for wanting.  The Moon is for longing.  The wolf knows.  Look at her up there, so beautiful but always out of reach.  She’s like a long dead lover.  She still tugs on your heart but you can feel no warmth from her touch.  But then, the sun may touch you with his hot fingers, but he can also burn and torture.  You don’t have to worry about being burned by that dead lover, the Moon.

And yet she is so alive, so much in the present, the keeper of time.  Her silver fingers tickle your upturned face, her serene beauty tickles your upturned heart.  She is always there for you, smiling down for you and you alone. Continue reading