findingtimetowrite

Thinking, writing, thinking about writing…

Archive for the tag “beauty”

Autumn Clean

Remove-Makeup-Step-1For days I’ve caked my face with no make-up,

nor dried my hair with gusty blow.

I’ve not set forth in world’s jungle with bayonet lipstick,

I’ve let lianas grow.

I’ve invited light in, with a naked face.

Finished sentences, allowed time to think.

I’ve let children wander, rise above balloons of their fears,

and drift back with or without answers.

No urgency there.

I bask in the pleasure

of dayfall, dawn briskness.

Cooler temperatures make mountains clear

so inspiring

we always believe we can start afresh.

No Reflection

She had a way with mirrors

She tamed them with one look.

No periwinkled gape emerging, unplanned, confusing,

No fairytale abasement of princess lost and found.

She knew the score, the path, and scaling

Was her day job, to step on meek cadavers, to pursue, victorious.

Each face thought out,

Lip drawn in cupid perfection

With dervish undertones.

Eyes framed with agate offerings,

The brow? A work of art, unfurrowed and unhurried.

Regrets are someone else’s,

A sleight of mind, eclipse of hands,

And back we are, unwrinkled,

To smooth-held opinions and shifting granular sands.

Meanwhile, the portrait in the attic

Waxed crueller by the year.

Writing Exercise

This was a 5 minute writing exercise that I was set in a writing group, based on a photo prompt.  I’ve been unable to find this picture again, so you will have to take my word for it: it was a beautiful black-and-white photograph of a Cuban woman in white traditional dress, smoking a cigar, looking out of the window.  She is flashing an insolent smile straight at the camera.  Some makeshift flowerpots are teetering precariously on her windowsill.

The thyme is doing well this year.  Grown all over, in a hurry like a virgin about to be married, all ready to jump into the nearest pot.  Majoram, now that was a tricky one, hasn’t sprung the smallest green shoot. Rowdy waste of time. But who said aloe vera would never make it in a tin? Just bore’em and stuff’em, I always say.  Look at it now: it’s tall, it’s spiky, it sucks up my smoke like a greedy suitor.

Speaking of suitors, it’s nearly time for him to pass by again for the day.  He can’t keep away.  He thinks he’s so irresistable in his shuffling walk-by, with his fancy hat, his spit-polished shoes, his thin moustache. I’m sure he can dance and gaze into my eyes for days.  All he needs is a little feeding, watering, to grow into the man he could become. Do me proud, like my plants, every day.

This time there will be a pause in his shuffle.  This time he will look up. And learn to linger.

Wallflower

It is the swirl, ah, the twirl of laughter

blending hoops,

caressed, undressed with light fantastic,

small steps,

quick flicks.

We sway, away, tingling with burst of flight.

How trim, how sensual those Senegalese hips!

As the Bachata envelopes us in its languorous abandonment,

we rejoice in their envy-soaked grasp.

 

Drowned in cocktails and promise

of bloodened lips, how alone

she felt, past desire, amid the rhythms, the tropical beats.

Not young enough

or pretty enough

the sequins now scattered,

a face in the crowd, too much flesh in a sweat,

as she seeks to convey

all her love for the music,

and forget.

And forget.

 

Hush

There is a quiet deep down things

I cannot rumble

Will not shake.

There is a beauty among the bricks

That, contemplating,

I might break.

There is a tension, and the trigger

Is sometimes bold,

At times hair-thin.

Do I feel part of something bigger?

I cannot fathom.

May never win.

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