Word Vomit of the Imaginary Traveler

I have gone on many paper adventures, pages and pages of text have carried me up and up, far, far away. Daydreams and sleepy dreams have comforted my thoughts and set an imaginary trail behind me. Footsteps through cobblestone pathways, sipping dark coffee, following lamppost moons. Then tracking through snowy banks, heavy feet and runny nose, breathing in crisp frost, windy tears wiping away snowflakes that land on cheeks. Sun baked faces turning red as gazes are lifted, trailing the side of ancient monument and sand castle. Silk or linen draped across wandering eyes, highlighted colours amongst sepia and terra cotta. Crickets keeping souls awake in the night, a reminder to feed the fire to keep the warmth from escaping the tent, so that catching fireflies is a little bit more interesting. Though harder to see them in flame light, it is better for roasting marshmallows. Stopping by a stream to sip or splash water in the cracking faces and worn boots. Stopping by the side and peeling off jackets to rest heads on, stones to prop tired feet upon. And finally listening to ocean swells with active ears and quiet faces, being sprayed with salty mist. Then to squish toes in the sand when the water has not covered them, scraping a heal on a little shell, a tiny home built in repetitive beauty, swirling and twirling curves. The shell made of soft pinks and yellows, like the canvas stretching far beyond the rolling and bouncing waves, going going on until hidden by blues, lighter, then darker, then burst of silver overhead. Twinkle to preserve some light for walking home in, howls to bid goodnight.

TDM

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Bathe

I would very much appreciate some feedback on this piece. I haven’t decided if it is complete or not. Please let me know what you think.

 

I washed with primrose

Rosehip and jasmine oil

On the night of the full moon

In a stream

Under hill

I bathed over pasture

And disappeared with

With every ripple

And drip

In the superb

Retrograding reflection.

 

TDM

Child Grin

Here is a very rough poem for which I was hoping to get some thoughts on:

i can tell

when you lean in quite close

that you wear the fragile grin of a child

on your face,

to hide behind gritted armour

has done you well

but you leave a trail of feathers behind

whenever I walk with you,

a hurried look on your face

to peek through fences

and burrow in the mud

excitement for any difference in the day,

what wonderful character that is,

to fill my head with thoughts of

daisies and falling

leaves and perfume

staining the air,

innocent charm that

scoops me up and tosses me

onto a bed of golden leaves

stealing sweet smiles

that become gentler

and soften into tiny baby giggles

as you frame my face with your hands

and lean in quite close

 

Stray

This piece is yet another work in progress. I would appreciate any feedback on composition or completion (is it complete or does it feel incomplete and abrupt).

A stray took to me

Like a fox to a fawn

And in so doing clung to my skirt

With such grip that she

almost tore me loose

From my garment

So instead of resisting

I guided her

along with me

And took rest by a bank

For I knew she would like to investigate

Just as much as I

What company had befallen her

 

TDM

Overhead

The following text is a snippet from a short story of mine which continues to be a work in progress.

I could tell it was storming, but not for the sound of thunder or rain. The window frame was plastered so well that I could hear no sounds from the outside, but I could see the drops falling and the trees whipping wildly in the wind. Sparse flashes of light illuminated the dark room and made Caroline visible. She seemed so much smaller underneath the covers, and I didn’t think there was anything that could make her petite frame look any frailer than it already did.

When insomnia took me, as it so often did, I sat on the end of Caroline’s bed and rubbed her legs. So far, she hadn’t been woken by this, but I swear I could hear her sigh when I started massaging. When the snoring came, I knew she had drifted off properly and I could stop rubbing her little legs. Caroline would fight with anyone who pointed out her. No way did she snore. Snoring was for boys and old grandpas with bad breath and white hair.

Sometimes I imagined what it would be like if Caroline and I lived in the country. The grass would be lush and green wherever we could see it, and the wheat fields would be golden like the stars that hung above them at night. I pictured the two of us lying in the grass with the moon over our heads and fireflies dancing around like fairies. We would probably swap stories and rhymes and point out the Milky Way. Maybe we would lie like this forever.

I moved to the window, my bare feet patting against the cold grey floor, and saw that the rain had stopped; something to look forward to, a clear day, made it easier to rest when I returned to my bed.

I couldn’t help but think about the look Caroline gave me earlier, when I bent over to kiss her sweet little forehead. Her eyes were wide, black and piercing, like eagle eyes that began to well up with tears. She smelled of jasmine and roses and cool summer nights, a mixture of scents that seemed to stick on her body and never leave.

TDM