Archive for the ‘Storytelling’ Category

The Wind Telephone   Leave a comment

Salt spray on glass
Without a caretaker enough to cover this window to another world,
This life-line to beyond and back again.

Here at the edge
Each pane is kept carefully clear inside and out so they may listen closely,
Speaking of things kept hidden inside us.

Wind meets Earth here
Touching the waters with words and emotions locked deep inside without a key,
Stored in the case of a rotary phone.

Beloved One
Tell me the things I was longing to hear from you so long ago, before now,
And I will assure you that I am well, life goes on in the same endless way as
Before.

Inspired by the kaze no denwa in Otsuchi-cho, Japan.

Advertisements

Posted October 3, 2017 by veggiewolf in Poetry, Storytelling, Things They Don't Tell You

Virus   Leave a comment

It
Grows,
Teeth
Clenched,
Fury
Rising,
Burning
Hunger.

It breaks into a million pieces,
It seeds in your flesh,
It seeps and it weeps as it creeps.
The better to eat you with, My Dear.

Posted April 24, 2015 by veggiewolf in Poetry, Storytelling

Dreaming Depression   1 comment

There are words, but they don’t fit.

No one prepares you for the number of ways you can’t explain what goes on in your mind,
or how the turmoil bubbles up like the ocean after SMACKING against the rocky shore…
or how the anger can engulf and turn you into a sandstorm, grains whirling fast enough to cut to the bone…
or the endless flood of tears and empathy…

When CRY LIP makes sense, and is more real than anything you’ve said before,
and you float in the dark places, serene and content in the emptiness…
there are words, but THEY-DON’T-FIT.

An ellipse is a device that hints at what we do not see in front of us,
but I’d rather an eclipse to hide the things I’d prefer not to see when the light is
TOO BRIGHT.

To dream the dream of empty rooms with rounded walls and no corners ever
is to paint the picture of the shadows in your mind and hang it high facing the wall
and hope no one remarks on it.

Sometimes, we’re only what we seem to be.

Posted December 2, 2014 by veggiewolf in Depression, Poetry, Storytelling

Tagged with , , ,

Moving conversation   Leave a comment

He said that he didn’t know where to go from here,
and the topic was fraught, and shouldn’t have been brought up.
And we both said, “No.”
It was not his fault that things grew out of proportion and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d until they touched the ceiling without tiptoes.
Truth is, I am short and you are short and we are short together, but not together in this.

And so I write, and I think about the last two days and where my mind is, stringing words together on screen without edit.

To place each.word.just.so is usually my way,
but not today.

Today I will let the words flow like the conversation – emphatic and strangely stressed.  Today, I will let the words carry me where they may, and not gather
rosebuds.

And when it’s time, I’ll crawl into the darkness beside you and nestle down, soft soft, and slip in     to    the   rhythm    of    your   breathing
and sleep.

Posted August 14, 2014 by veggiewolf in Poetry, Storytelling

Tagged with ,

When you love…   Leave a comment

When you love…
and the words cut like knives,
and you see between the shrugs of shoulders and the splash of water
in the sink;
and every ever after flashes before you…

When you love…
and the whisper of the fan is solace,
and the droning of the voices from the glowing screen is just another
background hum;
and every fit and start is frozen in time…

When you love…
and into mind’s dark reaches you must go,
and pulling on the tethers tying you together is the only path
you find;
and every endless story pauses…

and every endless story pauses…

and every endless story pauses…

Waiting for an ending that will never come,
When you love.

Posted August 14, 2014 by veggiewolf in Poetry, Triggers

Tagged with

Telling of the Bees   1 comment

For the Weasleys…

Lie in the grass, beneath the murmuring fervor;
The bustling mumbling movement harkens to your blood.
It’s easier to dam the river when it’s in full flood.

The endless humming of a million-million wings,
The sour sweetening tang above your head,
These things remain unbroken if the news is spread.

Catch your breath and wait; sun upon your cheeks is shining.
Marvel at the peace when buzzing thrums,
And know, deep in your heart, tomorrow comes.

Though nearby days will not be lived with ease,
Recovery nears with telling of the bees.

Posted July 28, 2014 by veggiewolf in Poetry, Storytelling

Tagged with ,

They   Leave a comment

Just another garden party.

The grass is soft beneath you as you kneel in place, head bowed, arms clasped behind you and nestled into small of your back. The air is sultry with humidity, and feels thick against your skin, and as you take a breath your lungs feel as though they’re filled with moisture. Everything is slowed here – you have all the time in the world to contemplate the scent of the gardens around you, mixed with the earthiness of the leather collar around your neck. You move your head slightly, and the chain attached to the collar makes a gentle clinking sound, the perfect counterpoint to the sounds of laughter and glassware from somewhere behind you.

Your lids are lowered, but your eyes open; you see the stripes of setting sunlight cross your legs and the grass beneath you. For a moment, you forget yourself and admire the way the gold sets off the skin of your thigh…and then your mind snaps back and you close your eyes against the thought that you make a pretty picture against the backdrop of greenery and sunset. You sigh, and the links of chain clink again, softly.

Eyes closed, you focus on keeping position as best you can, making sure each knee is positioned firmly on the ground, that your neck makes a graceful arc from your upper back to the base of your skull, that your arms are clasped just-so. You tighten and release each muscle in turn: first, your ankles, then your calves, then the muscles in your long, lean thighs. You clench each buttock, then try to gently hunch your back against any kinks that might have developed. You work each arm by slight movements of your shoulders…and then freeze, suddenly certain that someone sees what you are doing. You hold your breath in anticipation…

…and…nothing. There’s no break in the conviviality behind you – cutlery continues to sound against china plates, and you hear the unmistakable ringing of wine being poured into crystal. Someone taps a foot against the flagstones of the terrace and you imagine a high-heeled shoe, perhaps a stiletto, pushing against your back until you fold forward over your knees. The image sends a surge of emotion through you, and you break out in goose bumps as a trickle of sweat runs from beneath your collar down your spine.

You’re in a haze, a fever-dream from which you don’t want to wake. All eyes are on you…or not. What does it matter? You are sculpted beauty – hard on soft on hard – and in perfect place; you can taste the rightness on your tongue as surely as anything you’ve known before.

What more do you need than to be a piece of the whole?

A sound nearby breaks your reverie, and you realize that someone has approached you. A hand traces along the back of your neck, just under the edge of your collar, and your breath catches. A click and a snap, and the chain attached to your collar is gathered up into someone’s hands and you are pulled down onto all fours and led across the grass. All you can see as you follow is a pair of black shoes walking briskly in front of you. You don’t realize that you’ve slowed down to examine them more closely until a tug on the chain nearly yanks you flat onto the ground, and you concentrate on trying to keep up.

And then, the shoes slow and stop, and you are gathered up and the chain attached to a ring on the garden wall. You’re arranged quickly but gently; legs tucked under you, hands clasped at the back of your neck. Your hair is brushed back from your forehead, and your lower lip pinched firmly. You shudder, and lean forward into the hand that is now cupping your cheek. A gentle caress, and then the shoes walk away.

Just another garden party.

Posted June 8, 2014 by veggiewolf in Erotica, Storytelling

Tagged with , , ,