In The Mind

storm_by_bokor-deviantart

(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.

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Storm

sea_wave_storm-wallpaperscraft

(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.

Between a Tower and a Storm

(www.zastavki.com/eng/Nature/Other/wallpaper-7271-14.htm)

(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.

59 No Way Out

(Credit: trojanhorsecollective.com/conversations-with-my-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.

My Mother at Sea (A Tribute)

stormy_sea_painting-wallpaper-1600x900

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.

Hailstorm

After The Snowstorm In The Forest...!!!

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.

Thunder

This image was selected as a picture of the we...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There is thunder in my ears.

I hope someone else hears it too; I hate being alone during a storm.

During a Storm

Round. Perfect. He caressed them and enjoyed their smooth surface.

‘So young,’ he said, and the rain pelted against the glass roof and walls. ‘Don’t worry, my pretty ones, it won’t get in here. I’ll protect you.’

A flash of light and he threw up his arms to protect his identity from any pictures taken. It was followed by a loud rumble and he snickered.

‘They won’t fool me my pretties.’

Then something smashed through the roof and they were showered with clear razor shards. He covered the plant with his body, shielding it from the worst assault. When only ordinary rain fell, he staggered. Giggled. Held up a red hand in front of the tomatoes.

‘Look,’ he fell to his knees, ‘my hands are of your colour.’

Then his face connected with the flagstones.

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