You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give. —Khalil Gibran
Note from Marlene: It seems to me this is what writers do . . . we give of ourselves every time we share our writing. We put ourselves out there . . . our emotions, our vulnerability, and our hope that our writing is understood. Kudos, Writers, for being willing to put yourselves out there. . . what would we do without you and your stories?
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Ke11y
At the edge of the ocean, where moon-flowers drip their silver rain, That’s where she is; a woman, dead beneath shipless waves, spreading her light in blues and insolent greens on faraway beaches. She plays there with a boy, calling him ‘dear heart’.
Smiles brighten and break. Tears squeak in the sand.
I cannot be touched by words anymore. Only visions work. Nudity covered and clothed in rainbows, flowers, and the sea. Do not talk to me of priests and cathedrals but of leviathans and bright fields that rock and roll. The fisher maid and the pirate song. Talk to me of pebbles and seaweed, and hair flying.
It felt like trickery; to die and then dance on, never to whither from my mind like dying flowers, but smell always like the ocean, at the ballet of the jellyfish knowing and forever attached to its skirt. It is trickery to leave, go hide, and become nature. I became the abandoned child once again, left on the causeway, while our ‘dear heart’ runs and rolls on the waves, bumping his flaxen head against the sky.
You drift with ancient insanities in a place before history or religion, where the whistling’s of death occur daily, while I’m forced to live outside your world, listening to lovesick songs. Tears start. Tinklings vibrate in my chest as my eyes fill with the golden wash of sunset.
Before tides nothing moved. It was a small disaster. Your death.
Mother and child fell together through a misty green light and turned the abyss blue. Wings rose in the shape of memories as the two fled among steeples and domes, leaving behind their scent and laughter. Grief is like watching a flower unfold. I scrambled like a beggar to keep her memory home but she rose soundlessly. The veil of death shredding closeness into past. I was afraid to leave the ocean. You.
For many months I walked the ocean’s raggedy edge, sifting through petticoat waves, wondering…waiting…looking…not wanting to find you; frightened someone else might.
You were beautiful, you see.
End Note:
On September 28th 1994 my wife and son became a part of nature.
mcullen Post author
Breath-taking. This writing takes my breath away. Heartfelt, awesome writing. Kelly,your writing “should” be in a book format for others to read. Although the topic is sad and tragic, the writing is lovely with exquisite visions: “spreading her light in blues and insolent greens on faraway beaches” and “petticoat waves” and “The fisher maid and the pirate song. Talk to me of pebbles and seaweed, and hair flying.” Thank you very much for this gift you have given us.