Tragic BeautyI remember lying in my hospital bed at the physical rehabilitation facility, far too many years ago, staring at a picture of a little girl. Someone had brought it in for me, though I didn't remember who or why. In the picture she was wearing shorts, and leaning to feed bread to the ducks gathered around her. I stared at the little girl's legs and cried. She was beautiful."I broke you," I whispered to her. "I'm so sorry I broke you. I never meant to. Please, forgive me." And she did, of course. But I'm not sure if that made it better or worse.There was a poet staying in the room next to me. He was a brain trauma patient, unlike me. For so
The Ballad of SerenityA nightingale in a birch nearby,sang a song that made her cry."Another note and I shall die!"Her threat was met with no reply.And so she rested by the stream,and heard the crickets softly dream.She watched the cattails kiss the stars,believing heaven not so far."And here is where I shall be free,"whispered fair Serenity.The orphaned child, the strange young girlborn into an ancient world.No elegance or skill had shebut the ballad, of Serenity.She was cursed with just one song:a ballad haunting, soft and long.The words were never hers to hear,but danced always beyond her ear.On harp, flute, lyre she wiled aw
White OwlThe white owl opens up her eyes,sways her vision to the skies;seeking out a creature's cry,through the woods' nocturnal sigh.In the darkness crickets sing,far beneath the owl's white wing.Dew drops to the leaves still cling,sparkling with a lucent sheen.Senses alert, she prepares for flight,hearing creatures near their plight,she spreads her wings into the nightsilent as moonlight, and as white.
Dark MotherBleed your colors to the ground,let them swirl in the vortex of your breath.The gathering chill escaped from your lungswhispers the green earth into death.Dark Mother, keep the spiritsyou hold within your hands.Souls eternally bidden,soaked and seeped into the land.Dark Mother, keep your furyquivering deep within the ground.Harm us not, but let us hearthe power of that sound.The wheel is turning, always turningas the sun falls from the sky.Mother can you tell me,oh can't you tell me why?Dark Mother, stir your cauldrondeep living waters of rebirth.Wash clean this wretched wreckagewe have wreaked upon the earth.Dark Mother, shall we reapall that we have sown?When spring returns will you be there?to light our path toward home?The wheel is turning, always turningas the seasons slowly die.Mother can you tell me,oh can't you tell me why?Will you exhale a merciful breath,to warm our world once more?Or stop the wheel from turning,leave us trappe
Today, I Am Still ThereToday the wind is warmand carries scents that spark my memory.Today, I am not here.On a day much like thisI shattered my spirit;splintered shards slid from my spine,through shattered vertebrae,and clung to cracks in walls,then scattered on the wind. Today I can feel those fragments,I can smell it in the musty scent of booksthat takes me back to the house made of paper and words.Some fragment would remain there, I know, even if not for the fall.Today I smell roses,I feel warmth against my skin,and hear birds chirping hymns to the spring;sometimes I can almost hear footsteps on the deck,and I wonderif I even miss the sun.Today, I am still there. Today I can feel wind in my hair,and if I close my eyes,I can catch that fragment that still flies,zipping past the sidewalkson legs strong above the blades.Today, I ride the wheels I long for.I've always heard I was was an air spirit;sound and scent my guides,and to
December RainThrough mist, through my eyes, I see I am blindmy soul hath no knowledge, heart hath no sightthrough my ears the wind blows, cold as the nightdeafening me to the sounds of my mindThe sun, his face shining, mocks me with lighthis bright severe finger pointing at meilluminates things I can't bear to seenowhere to hide, I am faced with my plightBut rain falls, empathic, drowning my cryher icy chill numbs me so I cannotfeel memories of a heart so distraughtthus consoling me with tears from the skyAnd if the rain cannot drown my sorrowShe will cry with me until the morrowCopyright 2010 Julia Rain Jeys Wellman. All Right
Winter Alliance Contest! Greetings, fair Allies! It is my pleasure to announce the Winter Alliance Contest! :iconlit-visual-alliance:What is the Alliance, you ask?The Alliance is a project group intended to encourage visual and literary artists to work together. I've felt for some time that the dA Literature Community can at times be somewhat insular - to its detriment. We in the Lit Community are also sometimes prone to griping about the lack of exposure our work receives when compared to that of visual artists. So in the spirit of ^thorns brilliant Complaint Challenge I thought I would try to do something about that. And so the Alliance was born!Because I, your founder, have a deep and abiding love for the seasons, this group will now host seasonal contests, and as the Autumn Contest is now over, it is time for Winter to reig
Unmarred MementoI thought about how I cut my palmfalling on sharp rockwhile we searched the lost and foundof the sea, hoping for treasure.I wondered if the oceanwould take our lives as paymentfor the wares it could not recoveruntil high tide -when we would be long gone,warm inside the cottage on the bluffs,admiring our pilfered discoveries,safe from the sinuous fingers of waves.While outside the foghorns bellowedand the mist crept inthrough cracks too small to see,seeping into our seaside refuge,to once again caressthe lost shards of its kin.I watched the blood swirl in the wateras white sea foam rushed forwardto colle
DreamsDreams. An odd word, isn't it? For it means two very different things. Dreams are your goals, your aspirations. They are also the visions that come to you in sleep. Why do we use the same word for them?I am beginning to fear that my dreams are interfering with my dreams. I fear I may, in fact, be addicted to dreaming. I spend my life dreaming now, one or the other, asleep or awake: the two definitions wrestle with each other for control of me, like a rag doll, I am pulled back and forth, in and out, feeling nothing but stretched and shamed.I am sick. I am damaged. I sleep. I truly think if I were to lie down right now and time was of no i
Announcing The First Lit-Visual Alliance CONTEST!Announcing the first contest for the :iconlit-visual-alliance:What is the Alliance, you ask?The Alliance is a project group intended to encourage visual and literary artists to work together. I've felt for some time that the dA Literature Community can at times be somewhat insular - to its detriment. We in the Lit Community are also sometimes prone to griping about the lack of exposure our work receives when compared to that of visual artists. So. In the spirit of `thorns brilliant Complaint Challenge I would try to do something about that. And so :iconlit-visual-alliance: was born. As often as I hear literary artists complaining about lack of exposure, I hear visual artists complaining of a lack of inspiration and motivation to create art. And that, I must say, is simply nonsense. There is a massive amount of inspiration to be found on dA - and it's called th
Prayerearth shrugs shouldersour tiny cities fallswallowed by tearsyet in spirit,together, our hearts stand strongagainst the fallout
PassionYou look me overAnd you turn awayYou lead my heartInto silent decay'Cause you want something beautifulWant something beautifulYou want something beatifulSo you look awayWell, this I call passionThis I call realAre you ready to see me?Are you ready to feel?But you don't see anythingYou don't see anythingNo, you don't see anything'Cause you don't see meYou speak such wise wordsBut won't believe what I sayThink you've got to hold outFor some brighter day'Cause you want something realWant something realYou want something realBut you turn awayAnd, this I call passionThis I call realAre you ready
Letter To My Ten-Year-Old SelfDear Julia,Hi. You don't know me yet, but I'm you, thirteen years from now. I'm writing to you because I know you need encouragement right now. You're sick. You're scared. You need hope, and to know that things will work out, in one way or another. That's why I'm writing to you now. It's nearing Christmas, and you're trying to keep your hopes up, but sometimes it's hard to be cheerful. And you know what? That's okay. You don't have to put on that brave face for everyone, to suffer in silence so that they suffer less. They love you, and they want you to confide in them. They know this is hard for you. I know this is hard for you. And I know
FallenHer body broke; her spirit shattered.
Sepulchre SolaceIt doesn't matter that I can't see your eyes, love.I've already memorized the deep azure,and if I stare deeply into the night sky aboveI can find their hue, their shimmer in the twinkling starlight.So it is of little matter that they remain closedas I lie beside you on your bed of satin,twisting my fingers through your long, dark hair.It is longer than when I last saw you,as you drew shallow, shaky breaths, and I drew you against me,your frail form clutching with feeble strengthbefore they took you away.They didn't want us together, love, you see.So they hid you away from me, tried to tell me you were gone.But I knew
ExistenceYou haven't lived in years. You've been too busy just trying to stay alive.
RemnantWashed up a remnant,a relic of abandoned epochs,she inhales her first breath in an aeon.Air thick with soot,pungent with poison,sinuous hands fly to her throatas she sputters a cursein a language long forgotten.Beneath the slick surface of her murky realmlost, she wandered on,searched through centuries for a landhalf-remembered in dreams.Time and toxins took their tolland when she arose from the depthsher scales shone bright with mercury,glinting silver in the moonlight.With trembling fingersshe combs starlight from her tresses,brushes moonbeams from her curves,counting lesions to her body,carved by knowledge, knivesor nothing. She no longer knows.She shivers in the shadow of impossible structures,their quivering reflections ripplingacross the magic mirror from which she surfaced.In the dark their glass eyes gleam,a thousand starry-eyed monstrosities,rake their gaze across her form.She clings to the shoreline,jagged rocks and filthy sand.Anothe
CatsCats are special in all ways.They'll play with you for days and days.One rule about owning a cat:love them, love them:that is that.
...scattered on the windWe drive the path of thornsthrough dark summer streets,stagnant air shiftedby rolled down windows, speeding.My head in his lap,his eyes curious upon me,I sing.She, ahead of me,notes drifting back,entwine our rising voices.Both their eyes upon my face,and with soft, endearing notes,seamless terms -she gives me away...to him.
Only The WildOut here, eyes are unnecessary.This is what I say to the childrenI've been asked to supervisethis dismal February week,out here in the mountains -the woodland -the wild. Out here you can feel the trees;the sheer weight of their presence -physical, tangible -envelopes you like snow,a shiver in the soul.Biting wind wailing through the branchesraises the hairs on the back of your neck,and you tremble like saplings in a storm.Rain and ice and something in-betweendrip down from the leaves above.You feel its caress against your flesh,taste the kiss of the frozen forestagainst your lips, face upturned to the pine-bough sky.You know it's there -you can smell it:deep and ancient and heavy with pungent memory.Pine isn't a variety of air-freshener, children. It is alive with the spirit of the earth. Pine outlasts this brittle seasonwhen all else cowers from the cold.Evergreen stands proudagainst battering wind,
There is nothing like the companionship of a cat