These are all written by me (Cait), most of them a few years ago. I don't pay much attention at all to structure, and most of these are in freeverse of some kind or another. Many of them are about stories...either ones I read (such as Antigone), heard, or came up with. Most also have more than surface meaning, but nothing that you should look too hard for. God bless!
When skies are golden as honeycomb, and the roses glow with light,
In the clear, warm night there’s a song. With the sunset glowing bright
It floats along the castle clouds and settles on a stream, but might
The soulful voice be nothing more than grace itself at echoing?
Music’s passion; love and beauty, swelling, undulating here,
The speaker of the words is melody; from the understanding fear
Of melody of loneliness stems harmony and veils the lis’ning ear.
Starry song of hue and sound, lovely wrapping shadow dancing.
Thunderstorms crash
And the sky cracks,
Raving in anguish and beauty and story.
"I must take it back
I must get it out
I must capture the dream on a canvas of glass
The blue is now grey
The white will be black
Grass will grow longer and brush at my back."
The shadow, the shadow, the shadow is coming
The darknes, the darkness, the darkness surrounding
Now as I stand and gaze and imagine
The shade of the stone is so cold, now imagine
A world of no clouds
Or never-blue skies
The hunger, despair, and cold beauty my eyes
Would behold if the sky
Keeps splitting and storming and crashing and growing.
Again, he cried out that he'd soon have it done--
Forever engraved catapulting sky action
Of minutes worth hours of time and refraction.
Now he stands back and sighs with new joy
As the blue returns quickly with new sunny ploys.
The shadow, the worry, the storming is done,
And a gentle light rain breaks through the bright sun.
All that remains is a plate of dark glass
That keeps the remainder of thoughts going past.
Stars are falling,
Dancing.
I am writing
The story of the moon.
It is the best that
He has ever done but I
Am discontented.
If the falling stars
Are dancing
Then why am not I, although
I am hung securely
In the sky?
They are her only friends now, those worn pages.
There is comfort in that, and yet
She is unconsolable.
Together, they look out over the dreary cliff
Into the weary looking span of sky
And she wonders.
A tear threatens to wet her eye and quickly
She forces it back, then finally
The figure turns, and breathes, and hopes.
The hill is bare now, and one drop that might
Have fallen upon its soil
Remains in her equally dry eye.
Went to the world
To look for a song
Never found it
Though I searched ever long.
Around me the shadows,
The darkness surrounds
Tune of the evil
Is all that abounds.
I hated to think
I dared not insist
That all of my hope
Was a life gone amiss.
But there in the black
I saw a bright shape
As closer it came
My heart did break.
The lines were defined
Soon I could make out
A man who was weary
But now turned about.
He looked me in the eye
And it was an implausible feeling
That he penetrated my mind
And knew all my being.
I don’t understand
But I think that I know
It was he who told me
Where I could go.
I didn’t thank him
I didn’t know how
But I think that he
Comprehended somehow.
Now it was my turn
To turn around
And keep on my journey
Searching for sound.
Wandering incessantly
Though not always true
I peeked in every corner
Not the best thing to do.
But when I came
To an edge and a brink
It was then that I finally
Stood still to think.
Words ran in my mind
As if they had before
I was hearing a voice
And listened once more.
I realised whose it was
And then I complied
Though a choking, a catch
I felt deep inside.
It whispered “Surrender, surrender!
To all that is pure
Find what you seek
At last you’ll be sure!
Jump! Let yourself go!
Don’t hesitate, trust and obey,
Then you will hear
The song everyday.”
You’d have thought I would wait
But the words were so clear
I had to surrender
To all I held dear.
When I stepped off the edge
And began to drift
The air was an eagle;
I started to lift.
At the same time I fell
At the same time I flew
It seemed to go on forever
Every moment new.
Though I couldn’t go back
If I had wanted to flee
I began to feel joyful
And unmistakably free.
Then I heard music…
Quiet at first
It was the most beautiful
Sound in the earth.
It grew and expanded
Liberated and echoed
Blissful and full,
Like a bird on the meadow
The tune was so pure!
And its purpose was known
I felt a great tapestry
I had been shown.
I knew here was my answer
Here the song that I sought
Whatever the cost
Not too dearly bought.
It was all I had wanted
And now I was content
On the search for this music
My life had been spent.
Fulfilled was my wish
I had no other plan
What I wanted to do was hear…
The rest of my life’s span.
I lived in a dream
I lived in the song’s love
Far away yonder
Was the call of a dove.
I blessed the whole world
And prayed they’d be shown
The way to the happiness
That I had known.
This melody was my life
So glad I was safe
In the arms of the song
True delight in grace.
The Sea's Song
She is hurting
She is broken inside
She is wandering
Over unknown land;
And she thinks everything’s fine,
And she wonders why He cries.
She is cheerful
She is volatile
She is unsure
About who she is
And she pushes it aside,
And she wonders why they cry..
She is struggling
She knows she’s loved
She is hoping
There is more than she knows
And she sees the stranger side,
And she wonders why He cried.
She is wavering
She strives to win
Yet she doesn’t know
Which ought to give in
Again she turns aside,
And she wonders why He cries.
She is weary
She is weeping now
She is searching
Wanting to find out
“Tell me who I really am,
Define me in you, great I AM.”
She is stumbling
She is still unsure
She is doubtful
Can’t just throw herself in
Now she sees herself in dying,
And she realizes she’s crying.
My Creator,
Fill my emptiness,
Mend this brokenness
Inside me.
My Creator,
Let me feel you
Hold this fragile heart
Of mine.
She is running
She is going to fall
She knows now
She can live again
Even when she sinks again,
He is there to heal her head.
My Creator,
Give me endurance,
I’m craving your holiness,
Help me to stand strong.
My Creator,
Help me to see you,
See you in your loveliness,
Lovely in your love.
You’re enough for me.
When the deep sea is a jewel like a sapphire pure
When the wind’s heartrending voice cries over the waves
When the greens and greys of shores fade away sure
And the ship’s’re like gulls skidding high on the waves
Then the maiden’s song echoes with the wind on the wave.
And the cry of her heart and the wind o’er the sea
Blend mournful together like silver and gold
And the whisper of water is wild on the breeze
And the sound is as doves singing dirges old
And the sound is an echoing story told.
As the light on the tower burns brightly and gay
And the girl stands alone on the shore looking west
And the weather is harsh in a cool early May
And the cerulean blue breaks to foam on wave’s crests
The blue and the cream of her slim velvet vest.
Her delicate dress is of white like the clouds
Wind whips ‘round the skirt and wisps of her hair.
No one awaits her in the dead dark of the house
Not a soul knows that dreary, alone she lives there
The seagulls and mermaids alone know she’s there.
And the ship carrying her love is distant and lost
And her clear eyes are red from weeping for him
And her song is as wind through the silken frost
A year since the frost of early May’s whim
Satin frost gave a chance that was dearer to him.
And he vowed he’d return to bring her away
Or to live on the shore where the driftwood drifts
And the wind blows an elegy or ballad gay
And the crests of the waves white seagulls lift
The crests on the waves her sad spirit lift.
But a year floated by leaving her still alone
Alone with the birds, the wind and the waves
And the voice and the wind blend into a moan
The song of a girl whose sweetheart’s grave
Is far down below the jeweled blue waves.
When purple and gold of the sun-sea’s set
And the tower light flickers and dims
And the gulls with the golden sun set
And the girl watches the mermaids swim
Their mystery is lost in her thoughts of him
When the sea’s a sapphire stretching unending
And the wind song with a maiden’s is blending
And the sailor who loves her is resting, unending
The lighthouse burns, fading, her heart slowly breaking
As the deep sapphire sea crests are on the shore breaking
Deep sapphire waves are on the shore breaking.
Your waifish eyes and hands
And silken wings
And tearfilled eyes
And dying wings
That haunt my dreams, so beautiful
You always were
I never envied you
But still it’s strange
How screamingly quiet we were
Together
I remember countless times
Your songs made me cry
I’d hide my face
You knew and loved and comforted
With those understanding eyes
That saw loveliness
Even in me, hideous
Antigone! Haemon's bride-to-be,
But more mine lovely sister strong,
How could I not have followed thee?
And now 'tis late, for you are gone.
If only I could be as such
An unbroken, faithful, sister-maid,
But I, the younger, dainty crutch,
Bemoan the noose, the flame, the blade.
Ismene mine, my sister sweet,
How couldst thou not have said
That which thy courage can't defeat?
I only weep that Haemon bled.
But, unjust, Creon well may be,
Wherefore I disobeyed his will.
Would you now follow man's decree
If 'gainst the gods he standeth still?
Ah! Never, nevermore shall fight
This maiden heart o'er love or death.
But when ye turn to lordly might,
Our story tell, with every breath!
The stars and velvet night our sacred dance of early-born life
Watching Earthmaker weave the world with one melody…and love
Love deep and true unlike what is to be known in later ages, that imposter.
Undying loyalty bound the universe with love, peace;
Joy, hope…waiting for each other to spring from the shadows
As He created them creatures celebrated time without end—
Time without end of melodious sonnets harmonizing as one full melody,
Sharing the world and its joy in purity under young Sun and his friend Moon.
The stars, the velvet night applaud when angel’s trumpets sound a march
Moon swings out and shines his bright light and Earthmaker is pleased.
The Song continues to wind along its adoring path;
The flowers now spring with life and lift their heavy buds to bloom
Murmuring low words to one another of the brilliance of new day.
Earth is pure like the dew on morning’s rose
Whispering softly of rain in the night and of hopes for the eons
Eons ahead which Earthmaker can see and sigh over.
Harken to the sound of bursting ecstasy; the new-wrought bells toll
Blissfully ringing in tones they never will again.
Then, gently, even’ falls, and the first setting twilight brings calm to the air,
Rosy hues of amber grey and blue and royal gold nest on horizons;
And the light fades peacefully with a tenderly calling dove
Wishing the brimming love in her small heart could be enough to thank Him.
I am flying. I am pretending to fly. I thought I was flying, I believed I was flying, but I suppose I am not. I know that pretending is what I do surpassingly often; imagining seems to be good for my thought. Writing it down is what is hard. Therefore I conclude that I must certainly and inevitably begin to attempt putting them down by painting photographs from my mind.
Like flying. Dragons’ wings and unicorns. I am their maiden, I know, I think.
I must put it on a canvas, the canvas of my mind, impenetrable but for one. The tapestry is so full of color that I cannot see it, it seems to blind me strangely. Transparency and shining clouds my eyes; cerulean and improper clouds, my clouds. Insanity they say, but they only see the paper. I only see the finished painting of myself, the canvas of my mind.
Like flying. Dragons’ wings and unicorns. I am their maiden, I know, I think.
You are with me. I’ll take you with me but you in your inability are hesitant. You’ll have to dream with me and see the things I see; paint them in your bright mind. Beauty is in your eye and mine in a similarly astonishing way, but is not in all the multitudes around us, dear. We must imagine and hope they will find the dragons.
Like flying. Dragons’ wings and unicorns. I am their maiden, I think, I know.
On my own I dream again, flying.
This is actually a song I wrote - about Cassandra, daughter of Priam of Troy. According to myth, the god Apollo fell in love with her and gave her the gift of prophecy. When she refused him, he cursed her, saying no one would ever believe her prophecies.
Whence grow the dreams that come to me?
As writing by the willow tree
The hopes that spring in my new heart
That make me wish to play a significant part.
Those ideals and wishes built in grandeur,
Or in sweet simplicity of taste and lore;
The loves and joys and fears and pain,
That, though soft, persist again.
On the same thought I wonder how
The creases on the elder’s brow
Had come to be? Was it a dream
That, left unconquered, left to glean,
It made him sorrowful to see the young
Go wishing on their fish not strung;
Two doves in the bush not worth one in your heart;
Expect the lack; its disappointment to impart.
Though not all stories end that way
I will beware and seize my chances each day...
What about the dreams that drift
When asleep and burdened, your spirit lift?
They enter your mind and stay growing to gleam
Till they come out to a living wish and dream.
I want to know how they all get here,
I want to thank who tests, gives and hears.
It is God, I was told the other night,
Who brings my hopes into the light;
And all along I lovingly prayed,
Not knowing ‘twas Him who my heart claimed.
I hear your shrieks
I hear your cries and wails
Your screaming of impending doom
That no-one stoops to listen to.
Cassandra, Cassandra
This is come upon you
Cassandra, Cassandra
Follow me away.
Cassandra.
The flailing arms
The desperate dancing
The wild revelry you bear
The frantic, feral whispers.
Cassandra, Cassandra
This is come upon you;
Cassandra, Cassandra
Follow me away.
The temptation you refused,
But this is your reward.
Don’t listen to him;
They don’t listen to you.
Don’t listen to him;
They don’t listen to you.
I can save you
Cassandra.
Shellac
(a short story)
In the top drawer were scrap-booking supplies: ribbons....sticky photo corners....scissors with intricate or funny edges for cutting the thick, hued and patterned paper that made backgrounds for her pictures. The second held an endless supply of ink pads, shriveled and dry for the most part, although the rubber stamps still were usable if soaked in lukewarm water for an hour before. The third drawer down contained an assortment of ridiculous things that had no relation to each other whatsoever: aged markers far past their prime--pink, all of them; a wooden latch-hook, a safety pin with a purple rabbit on the end, and a plastic brooch featuring a tiny ballerina of the same shade of lavender. In the lowest drawer lay one thing, alone, on its side, empty. A bottle of shellac.
Dixie surveyed the dusty room with a mixture of sorrow and contentment. Sensing the movement of the door that still creaked, the computer slowly blinked into life in the far corner. A slide show of old fashioned telephones came on as a screen-saver in a few minutes. She turned her green eyed gaze to the cabinet beside the computer desk. Her grandmother had been proud of her computer, not caring that it was useless to one with her limited technological knowledge, but that cabinet had been her favorite piece of furniture in her house. More often than not, the desk had been littered with scraps of fabric, shreds of glue and ink stained paper. Now it was smothered in hospital papers.
The first time Dix had come across the cabinet was when she was seven, almost eight years ago. The things in the first three drawers were familiar items to her, versions of what could be found in her mother's room. It was the last drawer that interested her. She had thought it was a bottle of air freshener, kept to ward off the fumes of the nasty oil her grandmother used on the sewing machine. Grandmother had insisted that it worked as well as any modern, electrical contraption, even though it rattled loudly even when rubbed down with the putrid oil.
She remembered the laugh her grandmother had given when Dixie revealed this thought. Her head thrown back, her wrinkled face creasing even more, and the corners of her eyes turning up as if they too were smiling. Dixie had been a late reader, and even if she could read then, she would have thought none the more clearly about what shellac was.
"Dixie girl," her grandmother had said (she always called her ‘Dixie girl,' never just Dixie, or ‘lassie' as her granddad had, nor ‘Dix,' which came later when Dixie became a teenager), "Dixie girl, shellac isn't any kind of sweet smelling spray, it's hard, and tangy smelling, not so good unless you have a nose for it."
"Do you have a nose for it?" Dix had asked.
"Yes, I do, darling. Let's see if you do." Grandmother had screwed open the bottle with some effort, cracking the dried bits around the top. Dix held it to her nose and sniffed.
"Do you?" Grandmother prodded.
"Yeah, I think I do," Dixie answered, wrinkling her nose at the unfamiliar scent, yet sensing a feeling wash over her that meant shellac was a part of her life too.
"Wait here, Dixie girl," said her grandmother, and walked slowly up the stairs just outside the door of the den. A few minutes later her small feet appeared lightly stepping down, and in her arms there was an old, tattered box about a foot by two feet wide, wrapped in tissue paper.
She set the box down, and then stretched forward to ease her bones.
"There was a time when I could touch my toes and put my head far between my knees with no effort," she had said with a grimace.
"What's in that?" Dix had asked, curious at what new treasure her grandmother would reveal.
"Shoes," replied her grandmother simply.
"Shoes?"
"That's right, Dixie girl. My shoes. The ones I wore all day when I was younger. All night too, for the first day I had them." Her grandmother inhaled deeply, brushing back a strand of once black hair.
"Can I see them?" Dixie asked a moment later.
"No."
Dixie sighed, and her grandmother caught her breath. "Don't do that," she said.
"What?"
"Sigh. It's bad for your body. You must be light, and breathe in, not out so heavily."
"Oh." Dixie restrained another sigh.
"You really want to see them, don't you darling?"
"Yeah."
"That's good. I want you to see them too. I just have to ask your ma first. She might not like it."
"Why?" the bewildered Dixie had questioned.
"You'll see. Someday."
"Ma?" Dixie had said as her mother tucked her in that night. "Can I see Grandmother's shoes? She said I can if you said it was alright."
Darcy Kirk smoothed the sandy curls on her daughter's brow and closed her eyes. After a long time she answered.
"Yes."
A few months later when the Kirks had again been visiting grandmother Opal MacLean, Dixie found the box still sitting on the den floor. She carried it and the empty shellac bottle into the kitchen and sat across from her grandmother. Dixie looked at the refrigerator, plastered with lists and photos of grandchildren. A picture of a distant cousin was outlined with magnetic letters spelling ‘Andy is cool.' She shifted her eyes to where her grandmother's were directed, out the window framed by blue curtains to the rising, dense, early morning fog. It cam only rarely, and even then only in the late autumn of the south.
"Scottish weather, your granddad would have called this," said grandmother.
A few minutes later she added, "Your ma told me you could see the shoes. And the shellac."
Dixie pushed the box to her over the table. Opal lifted the lid and breathed in the dusty smell. Dixie could sense sweat through the age and wear of the shoes. She stood on her tiptoes and peered over the edge of the box. Inside lay two pairs of silky, pink satin ballet shoes, the kind with a hard toe and sole so that ballerinas could dance like fairies, ethereally balancing on their toes.
"My first pair. And also my last pair." Grandmother said softly, staring lovingly at the pointe shoes.
"You were a ballet dancer?" Dixie had asked.
"Once upon a time, Dixie girl."
Dix carefully took the shoes into her little hands and stroked the satin with her red painted finger tips. Faded ribbons and worn, tea-dyed elastic were securely stitched to the heels. The toes were tapered and stiff, but Dixie could bend the sole if she tried.
"That part's called the shank," Opal pointed. "And that's the box."
"It's really hard," Dixie said, banging it on the table.
"That's right. It's got to hold up the dancer's feet, along with the shank."
"Wouldn't that....hurt?" Dixie looked up at her grandmother.
"Oh, Dixie girl, you don't know how much."
"Why then? Why do dancers want to use them?"
"Why do you think, Dixie girl?”
"I don't know. To look pretty I guess. But it doesn't seem worth it if it hurts all that much."
"Looking pretty doesn't matter. Feeling it does. When you're on your toes and your back is breaking, and your face says it wants to cry instead of smile, and your body is so numb that you can feel every muscle ever thought of, that's when you've got to remember that dancers," Opal leaned her thin frame toward her granddaughter, "are always watched by the fairies. It's because they've got a little bit of fairy in themselves."
Dixie looked Opal far into her black eyes for a long time. Ma had always said they were black, but Dixie knew better. They were violet. Big, deep, purple. Darcy said grandmother had been the belle of Tennessee when she was young.
"I know." She said finally.
"I thought you would," grandmother said. She reached into the very bottom of the box and picked up a feathery bit of paper. It was cut out from an old newspaper article. She read, "Dec. 12, 1960. Prima Opal Jack of the Lily Ballet Company Enchants Opening Night Nutcracker Attendees."
"That's you. Before you were married to granddad."
"Right, Dixie girl."
"You were famous."
"That's right, darling."
"The Lily Ballet Company...That sounds e-ther-e-al, Grandmother."
"Dixie girl, did you know I didn't believe in the fairies then? Granddad made me believe. When he came from Cape Breton that year, he saw me dance, and he came and told me he knew the fairies were watching me extra hard. I said to him that I didn't think so. I was ready to fall down after dancing all day. Fairies would be magical."
"Yeah, I think so too."
"But that's not exactly the way it goes, Dixie girl. They put magic inside. They put beauty there. That's where it matters, and that's where you can feel it, and that's where dancing comes from."
"I want to do that too, grandmother." Opal had shifted her glassy gaze from distant memories to the tear on her granddaughter's cheek.
"I know, Dixie girl," she said.
"I thought so."
"But you know what else you need? You need shellac."
"Why?" asked Dix.
The creases at Opal's eyes crinkled up like they were smiling again. She took one of the pointe shoes from Dixie's hands and rubbed her pale hand over the smooth toe. It was shiny, Dixie noted.
"To cover these with," grandmother had said, genuinely smiling now. Her smile was brilliant. Her teeth were perfect and bright. A real dancer's smile, Dixie thought. Opal often said Dixie had a stage smile too; sweet and cheery. "We loved doing that. ‘Painting the boots.' It made the box last longer, and not slip on the floor. It's got a stickiness to it."
"I'll use that too, someday," Dixie replied.
"You will."
Dix stood a long time at the den door. Her sandy curls were tied back, mascara lined her leaf green eyes. Frowned upon by instructresses, she left the advanced ballet classes for the week of Opal MacLean's funeral anyway. Walking over to the window, she pulled aside the shades and listlessly looked out into the fog. "Scottish weather," she murmured. Tiny motes clung to the window; she brushed them away and pressed her nose against the glass, imagining violet eyes.
She penche'd down to gently pull open the lower-most drawer. Dix blew away the grey dust that had settled in a thick layer on the handle. A tangy smell met her nose, mingled with the familiar thought of sweat, feet, and blood.
