(Credit: Bokor on DeviantArt)
Her mind grew dark
As the wind picked up.
The growing storm
Threatened to pull
Strands of consciousness
From her head.
She went down deep
To a cavern
Where the water was completely still
And clear
And bottomless.
On the shore,
With her candlelit thoughts,
She waited for dawn.
Posted by Beatrix MGN on January 31, 2017
https://abolg.wordpress.com/2017/01/31/in-the-mind/
(Credit: wallpaperscraft.com)
White horses gallop at the tops of the waves. They surge up, tumble into each other and crash against the rocky shore.
Black branches claw the sky and the sky fights back with pelting hail.
The wind howls a cacophonous symphony with thunder at the bass drum.
Everything stands out clearly in the flashes of lightning:
The chaos
And the beauty.
Posted by Beatrix MGN on December 26, 2016
https://abolg.wordpress.com/2016/12/26/storm/
(www.zastavki.com/eng/Nature/Other/wallpaper-7271-14.htm)
In my dream I am in front of a tower and it is snowing.
And there is a storm coming behind me. I can hear it ripping at the trees in the distance, and when I look over my shoulder I even see one fall, sending up a flurry of snow and dead leaves as it crashes to the ground. I need to find a place to sleep for the night out of the wind. The cold is secondary; I barely feel it at all.
In a sense I am lucky the tower is so close, but I don’t want to go inside.
It is not the crows that make the tower evil; the crows are just birds and noisy. There is something else. Perhaps it is something about the upper windows, red in the light from the setting sun, or maybe something behind them, watching me, waiting for me.
As sweat trickles from under my arms, I am torn between bolting from the tower and rushing inside and up the steps. I even wonder whether I should apologize to whatever is inside for making it wait.
So I shift my feet while the storm catches up. Then the first strong wind rips the breath from my lungs, and I wonder why I don’t wake up.
Posted by Beatrix MGN on December 8, 2014
https://abolg.wordpress.com/2014/12/08/between-a-tower-and-a-storm/
(Credit: trojanhorsecollective.com/conversations-with-my-storm)
There’s no way out of these storms,
These whirlwinds and icy pellets,
This breath bereavement and lack of location control.
There’s no way out of this desert,
This sun powered oven filled with numbing nothingness
The sand eating my feet.
There’s no way out of this ocean
This crushing weightlessness,
These freezing depths.
I will be blown away
To burn
To drown
Because there’s no way out of this head of mine.
Posted by Beatrix MGN on September 3, 2014
https://abolg.wordpress.com/2014/09/03/59-no-way-out/
My father died at sea in 1936. His body was thrown overboard to prevent the disease that killed him from spreading. About half the crew died of the same thing. It came from the biscuits. So it goes.
I keep getting this image of my mother in the prow of a ship with torn sails. She is cradling me as she gazes out over the raging sea. I don’t know whether I’m time travelling, remembering or just dreaming, but I feel there must be some meaning behind it because it is so vivid, complete with the creaking of the ship and the smell of tar.
In the vision, my mother’s mouth is open and there is a song in and outside my head which cuts through everything. Whether she is singing to the sea or me or someone else, I don’t know, but there are splashes later and I wonder who has followed my father into the depths.
Posted by Beatrix MGN on July 16, 2014
https://abolg.wordpress.com/2014/07/16/my-mother-at-sea-a-tribute/
After The Snowstorm In The Forest. (Photo credit: Denis Collette.)
The stinging is like a hundred small knights charging into my face with their lances. I can hear others smash against the trees though the stems are only slightly blacker shadows in the dark. I am being half throttled by the old sweat and wood smoke from my scarf, but it is better than being chocked by the wind. I pull my hood further down and struggle forwards, barely able to see the ground in front of me.
If I had had a horse, I might have risked huddling close to it and waiting for the storm to pass, but I have no horse and my fingers and toes have gone numb.
There should be an inn close by. I remember stopping there a couple of years back. The giggling Ploughman it was called. A ridiculous name, but it was warm and light.
The stinging stops and I wonder how the hail could cease so suddenly. I blink and then I see the light between the trees. I jog towards it and it is all warm and soft, so I close my eyes.
Posted by Beatrix MGN on December 6, 2013
https://abolg.wordpress.com/2013/12/06/hailstorm/
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
There is thunder in my ears.
I hope someone else hears it too; I hate being alone during a storm.
Posted by Beatrix MGN on November 13, 2013
https://abolg.wordpress.com/2013/11/13/thunder/
From Scriptor Obscura. Visit her at scriptorwrites.wordpress.com
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