The Yellow Challenge

Well the challenge was to write a poem about, or inspired by, the colour yellow. Harder than one might think! But I added an extra challenge for myself - mostly I write wordy, rambling poems, heavier on description than emotion. This time I aimed to write something short and pithy but meaningful.

A sunshine poem came to me on the morning train - making it light in word count but still saying something proved too hard so I just let that one flow.

But on reflection I starting thinking about yellow representing a lack of courage. We have all experienced fear, fear of failure, of rejection, of change. And to my surprise out came a poem unlike my usual ramblings.

Writing is a journey in self discovery, sharing that writing can be a laboured walk along a muddy track of good intentions and well aimed barbs. Here are my yellow poems :)


Morning Train

Morning sparkles on the river.
Harsh yellow sunlight
burns through train windows
on the morning run to the city.
Glinting off silver necklace
and pearl pendant.
Highlighting deep wrinkles
and downy facial hair.
Small woman opposite
reads king-size book.
Tall man alongside
scans financial section.
Two men behind speak rapidly
in a language harsh and high.
School bags congregate in doorways
their owners squeal in delight
behind oversize sunglasses
as each stop admits
another member of the coterie.
Four seats away, why
is that man frowning so deeply?
Eyes squeezed shut.
Window frame refracts the light
slicing his face into deep shadow
and washed out white.
All is well on the morning train!


Be Yellow

Keep quiet
stay small
blend in.
Swallow back
the rising bile
of fear.

Go along
Avert eyes
close mind.
Push down
the spreading ache
of angst.

Curl up
Switch off
numb senses.
Quell all
glimmers of light
and hope.

See yellow
Feel yellow
Be yellow.

Gargoyle Smile

Walk with me in the moonlight
crunching along gravel paths
skipping over clumps of moss
past fallen angels and crumbling Madonnas
unfurl your wings and stretch out your claws
leap from broken stones to crumbling mausoleums
breathe deeply the damp air of decay and neglect.

Lift up your wings and soar over forgotten tombs
around and up, looping and diving
then landing at my side
for me to clamber onto your back
and nestle in my special place
between your wings
before climbing again
into the crisp night air.

Fly with me above ancient forests and oceans
under the moon and infinite galaxies
past ruined castles on lonely hilltops
and rat-race cities eased into once pristine bays
eyes gleaming, smile untwisted, this is our time
our time until the rising sun calls us back
to our prisons of stone and wood.

Atomic Tangerine

Looking quietly in Valencia for a perfect calming sphere
peace is shattered with a smack in the head
from a misshapen myopic mandarin
shouting 'look at me! I'm here!'

Waking slowly and wobbling on unsteady legs
to the pungent odours of tikka masala
in a working mans bar deep underground
where a clear amber liquid is served from old-fashioned kegs.

Pulsing alarm beacons glint off ragged topaz crystals
crawling between safety suited legs
to a long rusted ladder soaring up
I ascend slowly cradling a pair of gold handled pistols.

Thousands of halloween pumpkins flicker
below a gorgeous low hanging harvest moon
the priestess wears an ant trapped in baltic amber
in a necklace forged eons ago, but under the same tableau.

Lit by a tawny peach and crystal blue morning sky
a handsome ginger tabby licks marmelade from his paws
on a bird bath of bronzed mexican mosaics
the sun climbs slowly and glints like a dragons eye.

Under fragrant sweet scented orange flowers
I follow each bite of sinfully smooth delicate chocolate
with a sip of opalescent cointreau over ice
and completely forget the rush hour.

Autumn in Melbourne

Walking the dogs with a glorious blue sky overhead, crisp leaves underfoot and cheerful lorikeets going about their noisy business – who would want to be anywhere but Melbourne in autumn. 

Fires are already burning from suburban homes adding smoky intensity to the heady odours of green grass and autumn leaves. We are heading to the café by the lake, where I will sip a skinny, extra hot, hot chocolate in gloved hands, while Ella and Billie alternate between asking for a share of carrot cake, and snuffling in the leafy debris around the park. My nose is cold and almost certainly red, but I feel like a million dollars in my new coat and boots. All too soon, we are heading home, where we will play the towel game, before trudging inside with clean feet (me) and barely dry ones (dogs). 

 

It's time to get out another book and curl up in the reading chair in the last of the afternoon sun.

Dragon Wings

With dragon wings wrapped around me
shadows disappear
I sleep in a cloud of innocence
there is nothing here to fear

The sun rises and his scales sparkle
midnight blue and pearly grey
around me his wings are the softest silk
he defends me and keeps demons at bay

We fly higher and higher
the world below becomes small
playing peek a boo with wispy clouds
far far away from the urban sprawl

We skim over treetops and a glistening lake
my hands touch the icy water
on this perfect morning with my dragon
I am mother nature's daughter

We land in a meadow of wildflowers
surrounded by majestic trees
as I make a pretty posy
his wings make a gentle breeze

Foes may come and go
he will burn them all to ashes
or flay them with his spiked curly tail
they will flee in fear from any clashes

Climbing again into a perfect blue sky
nestled and secure
I know my dragon will protect me
come what may his love is pure

KC April 2011

The Darkness - Chapter 2

Posted especially for Jenny because she asked so nicely and is such a lovely sister :)

In another part of the ruins we came to what appeared to be an old schoolroom, there was a blackboard still on one wall, and chalk in a pot that looked like it had been made by a child. He handed me a piece of chalk making it was obvious that he wanted me to draw the strange circle again. I had to shut my eyes and really concentrate to remember it clearly.

“I’m not sure…” I started to stammer. But he silenced me by placing his finger on my lips, and he guided me to the blackboard.

“Just relax, and let your hand draw,” he whispered.

Upon opening my eyes, the drawing was there before me, smaller but otherwise just like it had been on the chapel floor. I had no idea how long it had taken, but it had darkened outside now. This time I knew I had drawn it - and that I had to find out what it meant.

“Did this diagram call you? I asked.

 He nodded and his fingers traced the pattern I had drawn.

 “I can teach you some of what you need to know, but we have much to do.”

I now had a million more questions, but it really was getting dark and I needed to organise somewhere more suitable to sleep.  The small room with the chest of old clothes seemed the logical place. This time he did not just disappear; he helped me move a few things around. By the time we had finished, I had a comfortable spot on a pile of old clothes. I was warm enough, fed, and tired. I was also in desperate need of a bath, but that could wait, especially as I hadn’t seen anything to heat water with, and I had never been fond of cold baths.

“You still haven’t told me your name?” I questioned him the next morning.

“You have not told me yours,” he retorted.

 “But you brought me here, you must know who I am, what you want with me?”

“It has been a long time since anyone has called me. Even longer since I have responded. I do not have the answer to either question yet.”  Was his frustrating reply.

“Come on” he said, “lets get to work.”

As we walked, I told him my name and how I got it. The nuns at the orphanage had named me, after St Jude. We had spent a lot of time learning about all the saints. There were a great many - and we had to learn and remember their lives and deaths in detail. Those of us that lived past the age of eleven and a half got a name rather than a number. It was usually selected to humiliate us somehow. St Jude was, and still is I guess, the patron saint of lost causes and hopeless cases – with me falling into the latter category, and with apparently no redeeming features.

The name gave all the nuns endless amusement. When I was smaller, they often joked about the myriad of different unpleasant ways in which I would probably die in physical agony or spiritual longing. It often gave me nightmares. However, I outgrew it, and it annoyed them more every passing year as I became hardened to the taunts.

He had listened in silence as I rambled on about the orphanage and it is naming practices. We reached a cobbled area with a heavy grill. He pulled it up with seeming unlimited strength and we descended worn stone steps into a large chamber and a rabbit warren of tunnels and smaller rooms. It had obviously been a torture chamber of some kind once, as some of the instruments even now hung from the walls. They still looked menacing but there was no evidence of blood, just a thick layer of dust and a lacy weave of cobwebs hanging everywhere - almost to our waists in some places.

I followed him as he swept the cobwebs out of the way and we bent slightly to get into and through one of the tunnels. It was narrow and dark and the walls felt damp. It opened onto another large chamber. He must have had matches or something handy, because a light flared and he lit the candles on the walls.

 

 “A library,” I exclaimed in delight as I clasped my hands together.

It was dusty in this chamber too, but without the cobwebs. Every wall was covered in floor to ceiling glass cabinets. Without waiting to be asked, I moved to the closest shelves and started scanning the books on display. I loved reading and I had never seen such a delicious collection of rich and varied titles.

“Over here,” he called as he opened a locked cupboard over to the side. “These books will help you to understand who you are.”

 I headed over to where he knelt in front of the open doors. I could see a small key on a chain around his neck, before it disappeared inside his shirt again. He told me to shut my eyes and take out a book.

“It’s another book about Saints,” I exclaimed as I opened up the small book I had pulled out at random. “Oh, but it’s not saints! Its, it’s about witches and wizards?”

He took the book from me and flipped through the pages before handing it back. “It’s a good one for you to start with” he said, and added “this history is much more important to you than anything you might want to learn about the saints.”

I felt like telling him I had not chosen to learn anything at all about any saints, but I held my tongue.

 “Am I a witch?” I asked.

“Maybe.”

“Well that doesn’t make any sense at all! There are a lot of people I would have turned into toads if I could have done…” I laughed but my voice trailed off under the intensity of his gaze.

“Maybe you have,” he said holding my eyes in his for several seconds.

I felt myself blushing and started looking at the other books in the cupboard. Many did not have titles, but looked very, very old. Others had writing in a language I could not read. I felt a powerful draw to read all of them. One in particular–a huge and beautifully bound book in rich burgundy leather- reminded me of the Bible in the chapel, it was always kept open on the stand in front of the alter. Its gilded pages glowed a deep bronze in the late afternoon sun in summer.

 “Not yet” he cautioned as my hands reached for it.  “You will know when you’re ready.”

The Darkness - Chapter 1

I did promise to start posting the short story I am writing ... but of course,  so many things get in the way. Here is the first chapter, or at least what we will call a chapter for now. I am breaking it into approximately thousand word chunks so it's not too long to read. It was meant to be a short story, but I feel I could write much more–perhaps I will :)

Further chapters will be posted according to my time and inclination !

The darkness surrounded me, enveloped me, I felt strangely warm, as if a quilt had been wrapped around me.

Through half open eyes, I could see whiteness in all directions. Snowflakes fell in my hair and eyelashes, the coldness of each one stung as it landed on my face. I felt myself lifting, could feel hot breath on my neck, strong hands around my chest and abdomen and very definitely warmth; and then darkness again, and then nothing.

 

I woke on hard rock, hungry, thirsty, and cold. And then I saw him in the dim, grey light. Unkempt and grubby, he sat cross-legged on a pile of rubble picking at his nails.

He ignored me in total silence, so I said “hello”.

He carried on picking at his finger nails, which were more like dirty claws.

“How did I get here?” I asked.

Still no response. But he swirled something around in his mouth and spat out a small bone - licked clean, devoid of meat. My stomach rumbled, I hadn't eaten since dinner two nights ago. Maybe he heard them too, or saw me licking my dry lips, because he turned his head to look at me as he said, “there is water in the well.”

When he said nothing further, I stood and set off to look for the well.

The well was outside, in a courtyard of a crumbling castle in the middle of a black and white wilderness - the bucket was small enough to tip to my mouth and the water tasted clean and fresh.

I felt him staring and turned. He sat in the decaying surround of what used to be a window. As I shivered and watched he jumped down with the grace of a big cat.

“Follow me,” he murmured as he brushed past me.

I followed. We walked around the corner of the building and entered a low doorway. At the end of a long, roughly paved corridor he stopped.

“There are some clothes in there” he said as he pointed to an old chest in a small room.

I found a heavy hooded cape and some lace up boots that fit. No gloves, but I could keep my hands inside the cape unless I needed to expose them to the cold air. I hoped he would offer food next, but he had disappeared. Returning to the room in which I had first awoke; I smelt the roast lamb before I saw him. He had bread and potatoes as well, and he silently handed me a cloth bag. He dug into his with his hands, but I was happy to see a fork in the bag for me. I had a million questions that I wanted to ask him.

 

“Why have you brought me here?” was the first one that quite involuntarily came out of my mouth. And interestingly, it was at that time that I realized without any doubt that he had done so.

“Why did you call me?” he answered.

“I didn’t, I don't know you, I don't even know your name, I can't explain anything that has happened since Father Andrew found me in the chapel.” I blurted out in a rush.

The only response I got was a raised eyebrow; he finished eating his food, and looked at me expectantly.

“I don't know where to start”

“At the end of course” he said without the slightest hint of sarcasm.

“Did I die in the snow? I know that is what was meant to happen. But I didn't make the diagram on the floor! I didn't! I have never seen anything like it before.” Memories of being dragged to the vestry and locked in, with no explanation, nothing at all, just left there in fear and disbelief, still rankled and hurt. I fought to keep back tears.

“You are not dead”

“Then where am I, who are you, what am I doing here?”

“Tell me about the diagram” he said, somehow his words had a soothing effect.

“I remember Father Andrew shaking me awake. I was on the chapel floor; I don't remember how I got there. I think I still had chalk in my hand.”

“Go on”

“There was a circle, and pictures of things inside the circle. There were triangles too, and some sort of lettering. I think Father Andrew recognized it, he looked angry and sort of scared and he was rough with me when he pushed me into the vestry and locked the door.”

He stood - and motioned me to follow him.

“You still haven't answered my questions, why should I trust you?” I asked, but I was already following him.