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December RainThrough mist, through my eyes, I see I am blind
my soul hath no knowledge, heart hath no sight
through my ears the wind blows, cold as the night
deafening me to the sounds of my mind

The sun, his face shining, mocks me with light
his bright severe finger pointing at me
illuminates things I can't bear to see
nowhere to hide, I am faced with my plight

But rain falls, empathic, drowning my cry
her icy chill numbs me so I cannot
feel memories of a heart so distraught
thus consoling me with tears from the sky

And if the rain cannot drown my sorrow
She will cry with me until the morrow

Copyright 2010 Julia Rain Jeys Wellman. All Right
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
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 girl
born into an ancient world.
No elegance or skill had she
but 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
Clouds In WinterI remember every day,
slipping, slipping away
into memory's abyss.
Oh, what I'd give for this...

The relentless sway of time
rocks the cradle, trembling,
while I'm lost remembering
in the boughs of timeless trees,
shattered by the breathless breeze;
above me swaying candied apples,
perfect in a childhood dream.

My heart drowns
in the empty space
that no time ever shall erase;
left by the memory, the endless demand
of time immortal severed by our own hand.

Hours and days,
dreams gone astray.
Weeks and months,
of fruitless hunt.
It's all gone wrong
our years dying and gone

We cease to exist
as the chasm rips,
and leave only the husk of resp
I KnowI remember
when you were born,
you were so small
I was afraid to touch you.
But you came to me, right away.
I know you wanted
to be my child
and I obliged.
Yet I often wonder
who it was that rescued whom?

I remember
that cold November day
when you cuddled against daddy,
warm inside his coat
and fell asleep.
I know you wanted
to stay always indoors
away from that wretched cold,
against which your dark, silky hair
simply was no match.

I remember
when you first spoke,
your voice so small.
How my ears perked up, and my heart leaped
when you tried to say "Mom".
I know you want
to speak just like me,
but for never saying
FallenHer body broke; her spirit shattered.
About The AuthorThe greatest challenge for me is returning my life to some semblance of normalcy after my spinal cord injury. When I was seventeen, I fell from a ladder and bruised my spinal cord, which left me in a wheelchair for over a year. Since then, I have progressed from a walker, to crutches, to a cane. At the time of the accident, I had only been dating my boyfriend for a month. Astounding, he stayed with me, even though I spent a month in rehab three hours away.

I've had to face the fact that I will never walk the same again. At first, I thought that I would just take a few years and use them to get myself better. I put my entire life on hold. It
PassionYou look me over
And you turn away
You lead my heart
Into silent decay
'Cause you want something beautiful
Want something beautiful
You want something beatiful
So you look away

Well, this I call passion
This I call real
Are you ready to see me?
Are you ready to feel?
But you don't see anything
You don't see anything
No, you don't see anything
'Cause you don't see me

You speak such wise words
But won't believe what I say
Think you've got to hold out
For some brighter day
'Cause you want something real
Want something real
You want something real
But you turn away

And, this I call passion
This I call real
Are you ready
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
The Architect's DaughterGrowing up, the drafting table was a strange contraption lording over the basement and over the crown of her then small head.  As she slowly came to understand the table's function, it came to teach her that A) work and home are inseparable, and B) the world is flat.  Skyscrapers collapse into thin piles of layered printer paper and torn, pen-marked transparency sheets.  Mountains and forests reduce to stacked shapes.  Fathers compile into cramped calendars.

Now the early lessons are thoroughly embedded.  Art and architecture are inseparable in her mind.  The easel is her own table, similar to a draughtsman's and yet completely different in
Lost Love LetterTo You,

Love is blind
and now I see
we were always never meant to be.
Nothing left of you and me
just give up, just let it be

I shall never let you go
this, by now, you surely know.
True love is wrong, or so I'm told
yet without it what joy
could this world ever hold?

I shan't know soon
for I don't know now -
someday I shall
though I know not how

How I long for those days
so carefree and gay,
when all we wished to do was play.
And never gave thought to destiny, fate -
when there was no lightening
at my garden gate.

We both shall learn to say goodbye
and then our lives become a lie:
a myth, a legend, forgotten and lost
a memory, a dream,
Today, I Am Still ThereToday the wind is warm
and carries scents that spark my memory.
Today, I am not here.
On a day much like this
I 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 books
that 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 wonder
if 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 sidewalks
on 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
Truthit whispers small realities
in the quiet pauses for breath
you take every time you lie

it crawls out from the noisy
raspy sound of heartbeats
speeding up to match
the falseness of your words

it's the message read
in between the lines
and all along the margins
that your unblinking eyes
refuse to be able to see

it runs it's dirty claws
along the bottom of  your soul
digging up insecurities
and doubt and vulnerability

and it leaves you in a crumbled heat
alone on your bathroom floor
disturbed by the pain of truth
Immortal CallI won't forget all I've found
Oh, you can't convince me
As this life fades into the background
I close my eyes and dream of what I could be

Distant shadows show the way
Oh, into the twilight
Lead me back to yesterday
Before I made the choice to lead a "real" life

Dancing moonlight
Whispering leaves
Tease this ghost inside of me
Can't return without your will
With every breath I feel the chill

Life is slipping out of me
To meet the voices in the trees
Don't leave me here
To face the light
Call me back into the night
Don't leave me here to face the dawn alone
Bring me home

Starlight burn emotion deep into these thirsting eye
She Called Herself a Poetshe spent years telling herself that her ribcage was a keyboard
and that her body was a twisted, deformed stick, eager to be broken
and staring herself down in the mirror, she would tell herself

you. are. hideous.
uglyuglyuglyuglydontlookatyourselfuglyuglyugly

she was falling in love just to fall out of it
and breaking her heart just to
experience the feeling of it falling apart

she devoted hours of each day
to convincing herself that
she walked to the wrong beat
and sang in the wrong key
and lived in a world overflowing with pain

she cut red lines across her wrists
drew crippled hearts across her walls
smeared blood across h
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More from =LadyofGaerdon

December RainThrough mist, through my eyes, I see I am blind
my soul hath no knowledge, heart hath no sight
through my ears the wind blows, cold as the night
deafening me to the sounds of my mind

The sun, his face shining, mocks me with light
his bright severe finger pointing at me
illuminates things I can't bear to see
nowhere to hide, I am faced with my plight

But rain falls, empathic, drowning my cry
her icy chill numbs me so I cannot
feel memories of a heart so distraught
thus consoling me with tears from the sky

And if the rain cannot drown my sorrow
She will cry with me until the morrow

Copyright 2010 Julia Rain Jeys Wellman. All Right
Cruelty...Cruel?

She considers. Could she really be cruel? Ironic. She has thought of herself as many things, over the years, so many of them unfavorable: ugly, stupid, kind, thoughtless, inconsiderate, good, a flake, a pushover, pathetic, self-sacrificing, doomed, cursed, a bad luck charm, awkward, pure, unlovable, untalented, ordinary, meaningless, broken. Many fair, many unfair. But cruel was never among them. Cruel was the last thing she thought she was. The last thing she wanted to be. Was it really so cruel, to keep the horrors to herself, rather than multiply them at the expense of her loved ones?

Yes.

But unintentionally so. For what good
UnderstandingShe wonders why she's writing in third person. Maybe because she's so detached. She no longer feels connected to herself, and she wonders how she feels about this. She's such a flake, such a screw-up, that maybe detachment is good. But herself is all she's ever been. Who is she if not her?

She stops. This is why you always burn these, she reminds herself. You get too lost in the meta. She remembers the positive side of detachment. Talking to yourself is less lonely when yourself feels like someone else.

She wishes she could be the self she idolizes. Seventeen. Not careless, not senseless, but unknowing. In the very best way. Everything ahea
Immortal CallI won't forget all I've found
Oh, you can't convince me
As this life fades into the background
I close my eyes and dream of what I could be

Distant shadows show the way
Oh, into the twilight
Lead me back to yesterday
Before I made the choice to lead a "real" life

Dancing moonlight
Whispering leaves
Tease this ghost inside of me
Can't return without your will
With every breath I feel the chill

Life is slipping out of me
To meet the voices in the trees
Don't leave me here
To face the light
Call me back into the night
Don't leave me here to face the dawn alone
Bring me home

Starlight burn emotion deep into these thirsting eye
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 girl
born into an ancient world.
No elegance or skill had she
but 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

Featured in Groups:

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The words are the spark. :iconhighqualityart: #HighQualityArt
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Writers Of The World Unite! :icontalentedwritersguild: #TalentedWritersGuild
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February 19, 2011
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[x]

White Owl

:iconladyofgaerdon:

The 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 night
silent as moonlight, and as white.
:iconladyofgaerdon:
I wrote this while I was a counselor at nature camp. I miss it there more than you can imagine. We would go on night hikes and hear them calling to one another, and occasionally catch a glimpse of them above the trees. They're so amazingly beautiful. I was also lucky enough to have two huge white barn owls living in the abandoned factory across the street from my house. I got to listen to them and usually see them every night. I didn't realize how spoiled I was. Now I miss them greatly. I haven't seen one in years...


Entered into the :iconcalling-all-poetry: Nature Contest.


Questions for :iconthewrittenrevolution:

1.) The usual - diction, rhythm - where does it work, where does it need improvement?

2.) Is there enough emotion? I know it's a descriptive, visual poem, but I also tried to get across the mystery and wonder that the woods and their inhabitants have for me. Did I succeed? How could I do it better?

3.) I'm especially concerned about the last line. When I first wrote the poem, the last line was my very favorite. I thought it was kind of clever, and was a nice way of definitively ending the poem, and repeating the "white" theme (okay, so I really like the color). But people seem to think that it doesn't fit well. So I'm thinking maybe "silent as the bright moonlight" would be better. I'd love some thoughts on this.

Here is my critique of :iconazizriandaoxrak:'s haunting Delirium Sings A Song For Me.


My work is copyright protected. And stuff.
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:iconnostrovia-poetry:
~nostrovia-poetry Mar 6, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
I'm not a particular fan of rhyming poetry, but I did enjoy this poem. Mostly because the mixture of visuals and animals tied nicely together.
Reply
:iconmordial33:
Mood: Love ~Mordial33 Nov 5, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
This is beautiful!
Reply
:iconladyofgaerdon:
=LadyofGaerdon Nov 12, 2012  Professional Writer
Thank you so much. :)
Reply
:iconmordial33:
~Mordial33 Nov 12, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Very welcome!
Reply
:iconthelunalily:
Mood: Love ~TheLunaLily Mar 8, 2012   Writer
This is just wonderful, wonderful! You really took me there to a forest lit with moonlight, listening to the cricket song, and watching a beautiful, snowy white owl.

Bravo.
Reply
:iconladyofgaerdon:
=LadyofGaerdon Apr 21, 2012  Professional Writer
Thank you so much! Happy you liked it! :)
Reply
:iconautumn--thunder:
=autumn--thunder Dec 4, 2011  Student General Artist
It just flows... This poem is so lovely
Reply
:icondarthcj:
~DarthCJ Oct 26, 2011  Student Writer
Not bad. I like how you used concrete detail to describeses the owleeee
Reply
:iconladyofgaerdon:
=LadyofGaerdon Oct 26, 2011  Professional Writer
Thanks! :D
Reply
:iconamme-hsuor:
*Amme-Hsuor Oct 9, 2011  Student Traditional Artist
This is lovely. I can tell you really loved working at that camp; this really brings out the beauty of the memory.
Reply
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