Gossamer Wings (revisited)

You spin words into phrases

like silk thread

fine

lustrous

 

You weave them into

a gossamer shawl

breathtaking to behold

 

Delicate

iridescent

resilient

with unexpected

body and strength

 

I long to wrap myself

in the cloth

of your words

cocoon myself inside

 

White mulberry leaves

nectar

shall sustain me

as I metamorphize

 

I will emerge

changed

by your heartbreakingly

tender

words

 

Luna moth

delicate

new

Ready for flight

I shall glide

toward your moon

bathe

in your silvery light

Shifting Sands

Last Spring I took my first Creative Writing Class.  One of our short in-class assignments was to take a pleasant memory and write it as if it were a horror story without altering any of the details.  I recently stumbled across the notes for that class and decided to polish it up for posting


high noon sun

baked sand

under their feet

cousins 4 and 8

bright plastic buckets in hand

aching call of the gulls

stranger at the pipe

where water flows clear

salt free

down to ocean’s taboo edge

they are not allowed to go down there alone

dangerous they are told

but adults distracted yards away

by their dime store novels

cryptic conversations

that bore them to tears

parallel digging with strange girl in the deep sand

few words exchanged

something about her eyes

unsettling

building ephemeral castles

before knocking them down

again

and again

tired of this ritual

her 8 years old eyes slide toward shore line

incoming tide hypnotizing

tugging at her navel

so tempting to drop her shovel

walk out where it isn’t allowed

stick her foot into the ice cold

Atlantic water

and just keep walking

no looking back

mermaids

calling her home

feverish

fever comes upon me

suddenly

flaming cheeks

streak with crystallized salt

as drops of sweat

meander from dark matted hair

to sharp bare collar bone

ice blossoms

silver calcium roses

deep in my marrow

such a beautiful ache

as I shiver-burn

shot of flash-frozen vodka

down the back of the throat

it is now

that I speak in tongues

phantom snakes

twined around my arms

it is now

that I sing the songs of my dead

in ancient syllables known only to poets

madwomen in their attics

and the ghosts that gather near me

reaching out hungry hands

to absorb heat radiating

from my blistered skin

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

 

Meet new Whisper and the Roar Contributing Writer Kristiana Reed- Metamorphosis

Meet Kristiana Reed/Whisper and the Roar

Whisper and the Roar

Metamorphosis 1KRMetamorphosis Pt. 1

Limp and beautiful

she hung

foetal, knee to chin

shimmering in sun

and starlight

reflected in morning dew

slipping beneath curled toes

foetal, knee to chin

woven membrane

silk in which to blossom

to grow.

Limp and broken

she hung

stretched feet dangling

low

deformed wings

hints of blue

she could have been so beautiful

ripped too early

layers of silk torn in two

in which she blossomed

and bled.

Metamorphosis Pt. 2

Time taught her fingers to work

Bandaged bruises

Marionette strings holding

Up smiles

At first she flitted

Between flowers and trees

Flirted with destiny

Towing her baggage

Learning to love

Her damage

Patience with needle and thread

Spun silk sewn

into the fibre

Of her very being

Soothed bruises

And her heart of lead

From crawling on awkward knees

Wind whistled softly

Lifting paper thin wings

Made of steel.

Metamorphosis 2


Kristiana Reed juggles writing and…

View original post 33 more words

Meet new Whisper and the Roar Collective Member Karem Barrett- Little Girls

Meet Karem Barratt/Whisper and the Roar

Whisper and the Roar

Little Girl Karem Barratt

once heard that little girls were made of sugar

and spice and everything nice.

And it’s true.

But they forgot about the butterflies,

And the adventures in golden meadows

To catch them.

They forgot about the trees and the ropes to climb them.

They forgot about the stars and the telescopes to see them.

They forgot about the skyscrapers and the bricks to build them.

They forgot about the pianos and the notes to play them.

They forgot about the jiggles and the breeze to carry them.

They forgot about the broken hearts and the audacity to heal them.

They forgot about the dreams and the courage to seek them.

They forgot about the monsters under the bed.

And the mettle to fight them, beat them

And make them your friends.

They forgot about unexpected thunders and warm parents’

Beds, where little girls run, to protect them.

They forgot about the moments…

View original post 362 more words

First Timer

Response poem to S Francis’s (SailorPoet) poem In the Cafe  All are welcome at the Go Dog Go Cafe


I stand getting wet in cold rain

watching through plate glass windows

edges fogged

rendering the scene inside

a soft feathered oval

Aroma of coffee

faint but distinct

drifts past my nose

Feeling a bit shy and tentative

I approach the door

pull it open

to the sound of a cheerful bell

I am greeted by steamy warmth

that fogs my glasses

intriguing smells

hum of lively conversation

A few patrons

look up at me with curiosity

as I approach the counter

I intend only to order coffee

but impulsively add a scone

enticingly calling from the glass case

The barista smiles as she hands me my order

my change

You’re new around here

statement

not a question

I nod

Writer?

I nod again

then add Poet

She points to a large wooden table

toward the front of the café

full of laughter

easy conversation

Steve, can you find a chair for a newcomer?

the barista calls from behind the counter

Before I can respond

everyone good naturedly

rearranges themselves

to accommodate an empty chair

I nod my thanks at the barista

before approaching the table

coffee and pastry in hand

I am greeted with warm open smiles

A tall man in the center

gestures to the now empty chair next to him

Welcome

he says as I put down my food

absorb the introductions

my shyness fades as

I take my seat

seamlessly included

in the conversation

as if I am an old friend

who has been away

I mentally sigh

Home

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

So I decided to host a Winter Holiday Writing Prompt Challenge and nobody came. . .

Actually, that’s not true–  my dear friend Eric Syrdal sent a submission.  The only submission.

I suddenly feel transported back to my hopelessly awkward and geeky thirteen year old self who never got asked to dance at those middle school dances held in the gym with lame paper streamers that always ended with Stairway to Heaven.  Longest. Song. Ever.

Don’t make me go back there! 

Please, please submit. 

The Guidelines

Writing Prompt- The Winter Holiday Song of Your Choice**

  1. Using a Winter Holiday song of your choice as inspiration, write a 100 to 800 word original, previously unpublished piece.  It can be poetry, prose, short fiction or even essay.  The Winter Holiday song can be used as the title, you can use the phrase intact, or break it up however you want within the written piece.  I do ask that tell me what song inspired your piece and that you include a link to your favorite version.
  2. Pick out an image to go with your submission
  3. Write a brief biography
  4. Send the following to christine.e.ray@gmail.com by midnight on Friday, December 15 2017:
    • Your original piece
    • suggested image
    • brief biography including the name you write under
    • link to where you post your writing (blog, Facebook page, Instagram, etc.)
  5. Submissions will be judged by me and at least one guest judge.  If you are interested in being a guest judge for this challenge, let me know.
  6. I will publish all submissions on Brave and Reckless as long as they are appropriate and you are welcome to reblog to your platform once they have been published on Brave and Reckless first. They will also get a plug on Brave and Reckless‘ Twitter and Facebook pages. All participants are strongly encouraged to reblog the winning submission to their own blog.

Please feel free reblog and post this challenge invitation on social media.

**I really mean any song that mean the Winter Holidays to you.  Except for maybe Alvin and the Chipmunks singing Christmas music.  That is an abomination.  If one of the Alvin and the Chipmucks Christmas songs is your inspiration, your writing had better be EPIC!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Name They Call Her

Always said with venom

Always intended to punish

“How dare you?!” it asked her

insinuating that she was uppity

presumptuous

a ball breaker

to draw a circle around her body

declare loudly “Mine!”

 

Was she 12 the first time

that she had been called bitch?

Or was it 16

when she tired of boys and men

acting like her body was theirs

to look at

comment on

hold down

insult

touch

control?

 

Tired of adult women

telling her to be

nice

quiet

polite

complacent

a “good” sport

She was NOT a good sport

 

The rage became a

knife

sharp

deadly

that she learned to yield

much too often

on her own flesh

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved