Miss Scorpio

She loves and loves but is not loved. For she is barren of the fertile fields to grow a child. All she wanted was to be allowed to love. But we always strive to do what is forbidden. And here it is: the rotten fruit of impoverished love.

The sky was black as charcoal pits, dusted with speckled stars

Ashen grey surrounds the land

Smothered with burning flowers.

The time when clouds shrivel away

When the Sun makes her bed

At the end of the day –

The Moon himself appears with Hope,

Of meeting his Love

Who sets the distant pole -

Where their love can never be found

For distance - darkness forbid it

And they are not Fated to be bound.

The time when Light-time creatures stop;

And Night-time villains stir

And children drift, still in their beds, like sweet little corpses.

Now a twisted dark shadow creeps from her hollow home,

Uncurling her limbs, unfolding her bones,

Like spindly branches against the yellow Moon’s glow.

She gasps a worn breath –

For she is alone.

Miss Scorpio is always alone – even past death –

From the moment she burst forth from the fiery pits below

Forming a woman in thin, black dress with lace like a spider’s webs,

She was alone.

But oh, how she despises having nobody to care

Nobody to hold, nobody to tend to,

Leaving her an empty phantom, wretched, torn, bare.

Every day is hell, every second, misery;

Yet it is all made lighter by the Moon

Who shines over her fears and wishes, eagerly.

He is her ambient Hope.

The Light deep beneath her blackened spirit.

That can never escape the prison where she chokes.

The Moon too is lost in despair,

But shines brightly each dark night

In false Hope and care.

Miss Scorpio plucks a star from the glistening skies

Where stars shine like jewels, mockingly with their togetherness.

She smothers its brightness; in her frail arms it lies;

Momentarily, the brimstone in her core rekindles,

There is a quiescent crispness in the air

As she smiles, skips, glows like a candle

Not caring for her life that burns away

With each hour that passes,

For she has found something to love! Just for one day -

Until that star quickly fades, from white to orange, to dull brown

Then to black, like the two charred, bottomless holes in her sockets.

The heat cools, her trembling arms release the star, her face twists into a frown

Hot tears streak down her dirt-speckled cheek

Scarring her dark and beautiful features

With deep channels, now trickling red down to her feet.

Says she: ‘This pain is slight,

‘Compared with the jolt that forever thumps my core’.

Now, the black ball of dimpled rock takes flight

Down from her body, frozen, scored, wild

Leaving her numb Soul barren, untouched,

Having held that dimming star, cradled like a child.

But Hope is the fuel for any fire.

Miss Scorpio – Nature's Widow –

Never did her efforts to love expire:

Miss Scorpio once walked in the Midnight Meadow

Stopped, picked a flower from the dark fields of green,

Shaking it with joy, as the wind sped her on with each blow

And she ran through the grove

With this new Heart’s desire towards the rays of tomorrow.

For it is so beautiful to have something to love –

But soon, the nodding flower’s petals

Dropped out one by one, escaping her desperate clutches in the cold breeze

Leaving a grey stalk, bent like soft metal

Flying this way and that as they fell

In wispy circles, through dark clouds

Flying to another part of hell.

Miss Scorpio’s Soul bleeds

As her red tears slowly streak down her dark dress

Down like a deadly bullet surpassing time itself, as it speeds

Through a hard granite chest

Containing the Treasures of Life,

Repelled, ricocheted, is forced down to a grim death.

*

*

*

Miss Scorpio is still waiting for Life to start

For a fraction of joy, for a sign from above, –

As her dark Soul will never rest until it possesses a Heart.

 

Copyright © JRFB 2013

Moonboy

As the Sky-dwellers climb wearily through the golden gates of puffing clouds, Almighty Nyame winks his gleaming right eye and the world grows dark: the sun is setting. His left eye opens wide: a beaming bright circle in the charcoal sky emerges. This source of light hardens from a pale slither to a deep yellow orb, smiling at the patient ground below.

It is at this time, when the soaring birds sleep and the parted clouds disperse, that the Moon-worshippers arrive wearing midnight blue masks with glinting flecks of gold that dance in the light. They place polished stones and shards of flint in a perfect circle with a smoky fire in the middle, under the cold shadow cast by the Moon. Boys in blue and gold robes begin a slow drumming as the griot enters the circle:

“Tonight is the night of the Full Moon.  Let me tell you a story…”

Still with their masks on, the Moon worshippers begin to sing and hum while the griot paces and prances in the organic circle of holy rocks. He begins:

With a wink, the Sky Lord’s eye is turned

And the Sun’s rays slowly cease to burn.
The land grows dark, the light runs thin;

For at night, a serious matter lies within….

Moonboy walks alone in his golden mask

Adorned with gold and painted parts.

His movement is brisk, slow, tall, long,

His voice, so graceful, he sings his sad song –

The Luna dance which calls on the Moon

Asking the gods for blessings soon

On this clear, cool, crisp night

To open his soul, deep and bright…

With a sigh his breath flees his shell

And wisps this way, that way, soon to dwell

Up in the sky, breathing new air,

Seemingly content, holding no cares.

He becomes the Moon, shining his great light,

Beaming full, gazing at the sight

Of his people below sending such love,

Yet something is missing in his life above:

Bright yes, and forever glowing full,

The Moon’s calm mind will never dull.

The light he promises will always shine,

“But I need a companion, to call mine.

For you, my friends, I'm proud to call my own,

But I lack a partner, where true love can grow –

In my bold heart, which seems so kind,

Where love’s own faults may leave me blind.

Oh Nyame, my lord, grant my wish!

I serve so loyally, your feet I kiss –

So please, oh Father, give my heart joy

And end my suffering by one divine ploy.”

And that night, oh, how Moonboy cried,

Adding waters to the oceans, now undried.

Our hearts broke for his sad tale,

But what could we do? Mere mortals fail…

With a downcast face, and tear-stained eyes,

Moonboy tried to hold his ties

To heaven above, now starless and lighter

But Moonboy only held on tighter.

His piercing scream of grieving sorrow

Echoed from night until the morrow,

When divine Nyame began to shift his vision

And the Moon was caught in this division:

The Sun, so radiant, gleaming crimson red

Arose, still weary from her golden bed;

Bemused, she sees the forlorn white beast

And wonders why he’s here, floating in the East.

Unseen, she swiftly hides behind him

Causing the world’s light to grow dim,

As her curious acts of wonder

Leave us down here now to ponder

How this glorious and bedazzling meeting

Is possible, real, without cheating.

For it must be the doing of the gods                           

Watching proud, as their son no longer sobs.

He sees her light, hot yellow with lightening,

And cannot stop himself from fighting

With his conscious thoughts of love

Was this blessing sent from Above?

Never had he seen such aura

Of exquisite beauty, in his corner.

Smiling, beaming, he is Home

Finally, he does not feel alone.

She shyly shines when she sees

His love for her burning through the trees,

Over hills, in the Earth and skies

Her heart flutters in surprise –

Their soft eyes meet and brightness bounces

From their hearts, the light renounces;

For, having been so intimate, so near,

The time has come to return the sphere

Back to sleep, back to the eye,

Leaving Moonboy alone to cry

Tears still hot from Sun’s warm light

Soon hardening, cool in Earth’s sad night.

“Oh Sun, don’t leave, I love you so!

With you I'm free, my body is whole –

Your breath, your light, you fertile rays

Nourish my lost heart in this lonesome haze.”

With that, the Moon, his heart so splintered,

Began to fade, Summer turning to Winter –

Having lost his beaming yellow soul,

Now remains a wisp of light in the cold.

A line of pale light blends in the sky,

The Earth-dwellers often wonder why

The beautiful circle of pure light

Has gone to bed, little by little, tonight.

The Moon-worshippers wail in terror at the tragic tale of Moonboy's lost light. Their chants and cries drift through the sky, kindling Nyame the sky god with the same cares. He thunders and the ground grows wet, the soil, once pale from the Moonlight now is darker than night.

Moonboy awakens from a sad sleep, and sparkling with delight, he shouts blessings from above to his faithful worshippers, “When my blue light had scattered into cool night, your cries and prayers roused my shattered soul!” And gradually, the Moon began regaining his strength – his dimmed inner light became illuminated from the spirit of the people. 

Night by night, the Moon emerged into the dark night sky, averting attention from the spotted stars until on the thirtieth night he was whole again, his heart was restored and his hope renewed.

From that night, Moonboy slowly dispersed and re-emerged from a small slice of pale rock to a mighty orb of brilliant light every thirty days, in the hope of meeting with the Sun, whom he loved dearly, and  that they may again share their ethereal beauties in the sky.

Copyright © JRFB 2013

'Review' of an abstract beauty; common, yet an overlooked symbol of Nature's enticement...

[I recently published this via my friend Floraidh's blog - http://floraidhsuncensoredpen.blogspot.de/ but figured I should post it here too.... so here's a repost, enjoy!]

The day before yesterday I went to the most extraordinary event in my lifetime. I did have to travel to some distant field and queue for about three hours, but I can confirm that the discomfort and agitation stirred beforehand was totally worth it.

I had never heard of this event until the very night before. A rogue dressed in khaki bed sheets knocked on my door and offered me a pamphlet for the next day’s happenings. Well I say pamphlet, but it was actually a dried Horse Chestnut Leaf with faint words inked on (presumably this was done by organic means as later, the nomad tried to convert me to Veganism and I hadn’t the heart to point out that the leather jacket on my back and beef steak in the oven would forbid me to do so). I was rather intrigued, to say the least, and since this man seemed trustworthy - if you omitted the stench of horse manure and bare feet which were muddy like a Woodland’s floor and stumpy like a Hobbit’s - I gratefully thanked the rogue and delightfully decided to attend this fantastic affair the following day.

The map on the Leaf was rather peculiar; instead of showing roads and houses, it depicted footsteps, paddocks and cornfields. I know you may think that I am insane for accepting and attending such an obscure invitation to an event so unknown and so eccentric on my own, but I’ll have you know that the neighbour’s Springer Spaniel, Odysseus, barked at the chance to come with me (for this was a once in a lifetime opportunity). Whatever, we set off late that night or early the next morning, (depending on your own perception of Time) and bounded to the field in a state of dreamlike euphoria.

The invitation suggested that fancy dress was appreciated, for the theme was Mythical Beasts, and so I decided Woodland Sprite would be appropriate. I harnessed Odysseus into a dog-sized purple, scaly dragon bonnet, allowing his sun-tainted brown ears to flop around his elated face and I slotted an equally scaly tail over his own. It was dark when we set out, and so I used my luminous wand, crafted from the Stars, to guide the way and to allow my straining eyes to read the Leaf-invitation. I never lost sight of Odysseus, as his scales shone back the glow of magical exuberance from the wand.

We came across a multitude of Mythical Beasts all lined up in an urbane manner, which did not befit their costumes. I could see the licks of Flame of a bright Fire at the very front of the queue, the distant Smoke billowing and curling like the stems of the Wheat heads at my feet. Enriched by the magnificent spectres ahead and those which were still to come, I eagerly took my place in the queue and waited.

I got chatting to a few witches and they told me that they came every year to what they referred to as ‘The Illumination’ and that it was absolutely spectacular. One let out an exhausted sigh as she’d been forced into making small talk with vexing relatives whom one only hopes to see at Christmas parties where the occurrence is somewhat bearable as one tends to be intoxicated off Christmas ‘Spirits’. Sadly, just as she was going into explicit detail about how her Great Aunty Johanna has the niggling habit of exclaiming ‘Esmeralda you’ve grown so much since we last saw one another’, (albeit Esmeralda is in fact thirty-three and has had the same height, width and weight since she was fifteen), an anomalous bugle-like noise jangled through the air, vibrating in and out of our shivering skin.

It had begun. The crowd started heading towards the heavenly light of Flames and swirling grey Air ahead. Although this Smoke was engulfing my blue lungs, I felt as if I had inhaled an air of magic; I marched on with the crowd.

***

When I entered the field with Odysseus, I saw it. There it was: the texture so exquisite, so enchanting, so impeccable that I could hardly believe that I was laying my transfixed eyes on it!

The green tufts were twisting and spiralling upwards like a new-born child’s soft fuzz of hair; the green rinds, so bright, so crystalline, so breath-taking seemed to glint at me coaxingly; it was sublime, surreal. The deep hue of the thick strands was mesmerising, elegant; yet it looked as sharp as a knife, mercilessly slicing the frigid air as it climbed into the Skies.

The warm Loam beneath effortlessly pulsed the opulent curls out from its depths, sighing with each collective movement, as if the Earth was smiling as it tensed and relaxed, the light tufts unwinding as they are nurtured by kisses from the velvet Air…

This event was not a manifestation of humanity’s ‘Creativity’, nor was it a vulgar display of Man’s skill in technology or cinematics; it was an illumination of Nature’s simplistic beauty, which charms those who take the time to value its magnificence. There was I, watching Grass bloom from Nature’s loving bosom: the mane of the Earth.

   



Copyright © JRFB 2012

Rouge

I gaze at the fruit as she pulls at its soft skin, tearing it with her teeth which appear to glow a luminous white in contrast to the unforgettable bright reds and oranges as they ooze out.

What was once a pristine, spherical lump of softness is now a misshapen, ugly, mangled mess. She sucks at it - the innards being absorbed from one organism into another. But no matter how natural the process, this image before my eyes disturbs me. For nothing so lovely should be treated in such a dishonourable way. The fruit, (barely recognisable) seems to bleed small fragments of life in its desperate attempt not to prolong its own, but to begin the life of others. Only one escapes, as it glides down the chin of the oppressor, in one long slippery movement.

The others were not so lucky.

The fruit breathes its last breath and collapses in on itself, exhaling a sigh as juices protrude - from ripe, tender skin to a wrinkled, shrivelled husk; thus mirroring the lives of our own species. It is a very strange spectre; like watching a plump, new born baby with skin as soft and smooth as a pearl of the sea suddenly merge into the archaic, crippled old man it is destined to become after a lifetime of memories, wither away into the darkness from whence it came.

*

It no longer resists. The oppressor has won and celebratorily wipes her mouth with a handkerchief of the same white as her teeth. Horrified, she is taken aback when she catches sight of a dark red, clotting like blood as it seeps into the open pores of the handkerchief; the blood of her victim.

As she frantically rushes to the nearest pale of water, to inspect the damage done to her mouth - where the danger had begun - the one and only spawn of life from the fruit lies still on the damp earth. Silent; waiting. Waiting for Light to come, to appear from hiding and nurture its growth. The girl screams with hysteria as her blood-shot eyes spark after fearfully gazing at her mouth in the pale.

Dripping with cold, dark, sparkling blood, its smell is repulsive - like decrepit jagged metal rusting on the side of a deserted road. Although no one is around, the smell lingers, adding a weight to the air, hoping to intoxicate the next living man, woman, child, or fruit that has the misfortune to come across it.

The seed of life listens, but does no hear; it breathes but does not inhale; it grows, it flourishes, it lives. For it comes - even the darkness and dreariness of the commotion and horror cannot obstruct the pureness of nature's gift to our troubled world: Light.

Comforted by the warmth of Light, as if by instinct, the seed of Life stretches its roots down passed the screams of death and into the cool earth, embracing a chance for new life to begin.

The sounds of the girl are lost. Only nature can be heard now. The inculpable, pure shoots sprout from the spawn of the fruit, slowly curling and uncurling in euphoric replenishment. Energy is re-released back into the soil, the earth quivers with excitement as it soaks up the new Life. 

Much time may pass, yet still in the garden of men, although nature seems to be lost, the strong, tall steams; the broad thick leaves; the glorious, ripe red fruits all remain on the tomato plant - spawned from death. And not a single fruit from this plant of righteousness is to be harmed.

Copyright © JRFB 2012

Home.

She came home last week. Her soul, delayed for six years, dragged back here by her weary, wandering, impoverished feet having already deserted their own helpless body; floating aimlessly in the abyss of day dreams and night time terrors, she landed here, on sandy shores, sprinkled with prickled bushes and beach shrubs..


Her body, though encrusted with seaweed and bitter brine from the waters, glimmers like the crystals of water running free down her body, as if they were enjoying their freedom for the dark sea. She is not shipwrecked, nor lost, nor washed ashore on some heavenly bay of the gods, she is home; but she is unaware of how much significance the lapping waves, tainted by milky white tips have.


The sun is up high, it must be nearing midday, but nothing of time or reality can really be felt, only the ecstatic giggling of waves as they gently glide down on the hard, cool sand, before softly retreating home, back into Neptune's cave. Those sparkling waters, the serenity, yet brutality of the waves, the high sun's rays brightening everything in sight; it was all so sublime, so exquisite. Despite her awe of the enticing landscape, Cherry failed to notice the way the Wind, mindful and gentle, charmingly motored a light breeze mirroring how a mighty hand might nudge someone on their way from the sloping hard sand onto the paler, more inviting grains with gentle caresses of his invisible forces. Cherry, on reaching the top of the slope, faintly collapsed in the way that weary bodies keel over after utter exhaustion. The chalky sand began gently soothing her grubby feet, prickled and pinched bythe dune plants which peeped among the fragments of the warm silk beneath her. Cushioning her raw soles, Cherry could not help but allow the delightful massages from the rippling grains and softkisses from the sun to overcome her, and soon those soporific lids yielded to the warm breezes.


A deep mist invaded her psyche, objecting light's admittance into the corridors of her brain. Her eyes flicker from empty room to empty room. Her legs mechanically run, never conquered by fatigue, but fueled by horror. Her chest pulses rapidly. However, like a grandfather clock being launched out a five story window, no time at all seems to pass whilst she darts around the empty chambers, frantic, searching, lost in her own mind; on her own soil.

A tumultuous clap of thunderclouds shakes her from the internal darkness of her mind, but now the hellish gloom pervades reality. The rain beats down. The sand is ripped apart. The grains which were once as soft as velvet are flung up and hammer into the concrete ground. All forces focus on their victim: vicious and merciless, the razor-shards of sand tear at Cherry's salty arms and back as she leaves them exposes having recoiled into a less vulnerable position. She cries out a devastating scream when the relentless stony jabbing now draws blood on her shoulders, but her shouts for mercy do not seem to inspire any sympathy on those who control the weather. Weak, dehydrated and now with her body covered in blood and sand, Cherry seeks refuge by slowly, but productively heaving herself back into the monstrosity that brought her to this doom in the beginning: the Ocean.


Never in her life had anything been as refreshing than the instant Cherry dived into the stirring waves. The violence above the surface softened abruptly and an air of tranquility arose. Cherry descended deeper and deeper into her liquid garrison of still numbness, frantically trying to shake the raucous sound of the splattering pebbles of rain. With her eyes shut and her breath held, she waited. The mist was seeping back into her thoughts; that awful darkness. But the storm, the precipitation, it would rip her limb from limb, shredding her bones, heart and body; she must remain under the refuge of the compassionate sea. The oxygen gathered when inland was depleting, Cherry thought that if she did not surface now her body may collapse and just one sharp intake of salt water may drown her lungs and destroy her. Yet the rain was like icicles plummeting from the dark sky, shivering, waiting to kill. Either way, Cherry was against some force of nature (the Water offered only temperamental relief, she was not expected to stay under forever).

With the light fading, and her head soaring away from consciousness, away from survival, Cherry dragged her now weighty arms through the thick water towards what she believed to be ultimate death directly above her.

The water parted for her struggling head and neck when she came up, vehemently spluttering and coughing out the significant volume of water which had begun to pervade her organs during her dive. Her eyes, kept shut due to the brine burned when she pried them open; the light trickled down from the heavenly sky.

She opened them wide. The rain had stopped. There was the high Sun, smiling, coaxing, as if it had never experienced a storm in its entire existence. The sand hugged onto her body, as if each grain had absorbed the golden elation emitted from the inviting rays of the Sun and wanted to share their joy.

Cherry Reason, perched knee deep in the shallow, lukewarm water scanned the shore: the glowing sand, the deep greens and purples of the vegetation on the banks, the smooth, crystalline sky, free from any clouds.

Here she sat; she is Home.

Copyright © JRFB 2012

Life: an entity we can all enjoy

Life is something precious. I feel that we sometimes forget this, overlook it,or focus solely on what isn't going right. Life can be guided and misguided; shaped and re-shaped; lit up and distinguished. My Life is something which I have learnt to value very much. Although I am fortunate enough to have never experienced a mishap which would alter my way of living for the rest of my existence, it is this reason that I feel blessed to breathe the fresh breeze every day, to feel the pulse of the Earth under my toes.

 Of course there are those days where all rational thinking about the sanctity of Life is lost, and I much rather would stay enclosed, stuffed between the bed and the duvet, blocking the Sun and all other sources of vitality from my clouded mind. I have appropriately called them my 'Dark Days'. They occur approximately once a fortnight, and everything seems to crumble to lonesome, fragile dust and self-pity (and loathing). I seem to forget that this moment is fleeting and I will soon return to my headquarters of optimism, golden hope and a genuine adoration for the spiritual connection between Light and Life that I feel when everything is running smoothly.

Life is exquisite, differential, purposeful; but only if you allow it to be.

Every day, having been roused from the bed of dreams where my soul is allowed to explore beyond the 'limitations' of Life, I seek to discover an intention for my waking, a reason for my rupture of sweet slumbers. I discovered this: each day is different, therefore each day there is something different to live for.

I did not have to look far, for I did not even leave the house; gazing at the burning Sun, inhaling an air of light, darkness, joy and sorrow, I realised. The slight tittering and fluttering of morning birds, ecstatically soaring around the sky, seemed to burst into lurid colours: deep greens and browns surrounded the light, bursting like works of fires, shattering into burning shards of feathery glass. There; the smell of recently mowed grass, sharp and sweet like an exotic fruit juices invaded my nostrils, overcoming any doubt of whether to turn of the light and retreat back into sweet sleep. 

This beauty, this euphoria, these sensations which Life provokes within, surely make vitality Victor in this battle - a skirmish between dreams and reality day and night, light and death. Yet, on both sides, the adversaries seem to drift together, blurring any such boundaries between them. In short, there is no distinction. Life is what you want it to be; it may indeed be lived through Death, or Imagination or Midnight Hours.

Each day I try to perceive Life as something new, a Friend, a Lover, a Stranger - all are equally as satisfying a seach other. All are unique. 

I adore Life and its changeability.This is the beauty of Nature, of the Soul.

Copyright © JRFB 2012