Magpie-Tales

For Mag 309: In the set of her shoulders and the glint in her eye- is the quiet reassurance of certitude; and of knowing. That as certain as after day comes night, And with the wind comes chill, She wins… In the end.

For Mag 308: Dear Future Me, I wanted to tell you that whatever happens tonight- on the corner of L and Ninth; you will survive. That this too, this sense Of worry wrapping itself like a wreath around your windpipe will pass, whether lost in the exhilaration of assent; or obliterated in the loud clang of a cataclysmic bang. That this sense of free fall, of uncertainty gnawing at your insides will give way to the clarity of certitude; that the restful stillness of truth will triumph over the ambivalence of baseless hope. ...

For Mag 305 Like a sentinel She casts her eye over the Sea. Those who have left- A lost, fading blob. In her heart hides defiant Hope For their returning.

--- She whirls to the rhythm of the rain. Her dance, light-footed - A pirouette - in step with the beat The light, gentle splatter of rain - Drops stopped in full flight By the chipped stones makes. As the night light catches The fringe of her costume She is no longer there. What we have is the after glow Of stolen re-memory - Of Peace and of repose And the calming lightness Of the patter of the Rain. ...

For Mag 269 --- Here beneath The glow of your halo, Mother of God, With clasped hands And humble spirit I bow in supplication, Bringing a prayer For redemption, for Absolution from this Weight, this burden Of deferred hope. The crash of thunder, Flash of lightning, Fire and smoke, Echoed across seven hills Is etched in my memory A callus chafed raw By this journey, This unceasing battle Of Self and Spirit Of good ambushed by doubt ...

For Mag 268: --- The dinginess within cannot hide the beauty that lurks here, hidden beneath the patina of age and wanton neglect. Haste hinders the unveiling of poise, of grace carved out of ugly rock, of error transmogrified* by intense, pregnant intent, into a towering edifice of strained sinews and abs chiseled to perfection. This is no drowning Narcissus sinking into a murky river of swirling self indulgence; this is David, bare and broken saved by the master’s hand. ...

John Sargent, A Dinner Table at Night (1884) Source A t first you ask to talk, but B urning deep within is the burden of words, a C acophony of voices in your head, D riving despair like a stake into wetted E arth, a haze that settles in and just won’t shift. You F ind a time and place to have the talk, you G o with the flow, tell it like it is, whilst H e squirms beneath the weight of I nnocence lost, guilt like a pall of smoke drifting in. He J okes about not meaning IT, but there is a K nowing that transcends the clarification of intent, that L ooms larger than any image words alone can paint; ...

Forgive me if I disappear here, if like a dying Shooting star my flight expires in a flash of light, yielding To the encircling murk, this shroud that slowly stultifies. Forgive me if my quivering lips neglect to tell my tale Of broken shattered things and distant pains that still remain And this unyielding weight; of things quotidian and unseen. Why can’t skies have clouds and stars\* and enthralling moon light too? Why must a pilgrim find his way, on slippery pavements too? ...

For prompt 148 at the Magpie Tales, a repost. [](/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/andy-magee-homeward.jpg) Though tears like a river course down like rain, And your heart by cupid’s fiery barbs is rent. Although your cracked voice breaks out in wails, And hell with all its fury and fiends seem sent. Be still, Stay strong, you’ll make it home. Though fear like a cloak your mind enshrouds, And rabid voices, your reasoning besiege. Though Night descends, your dreams to hound, And heart beats resonate to a symphony of rage. Be still, Stay strong, you’ll make it home. ...

For Prompt #145 at the Magpie Tales, and PawPaw, who left too soon. His broken memory no longer can relate to her gentle touch- Or the quiet reassurance of her gnarled fingers atop his wrinkled skin. Or the long faded recollection of the taste of smoked bush meat chased down his thirsty throat by frothy cups of sweet palm wine. He no longer can remember the smell- of moth balls – hanging like a pall, around her clothes a wispy cloud driven out from before the eastward Sun as it streaks across the sky. But the dirty red chair constant like the sun remains- a signpost to a past he can no longer reach A place where once Upon a Life there was a love And a bond so strong Though he barely remembers He still can't quite forget