A Tale

I remember the day a princess floated onto the shore, naked and shivering with seaweed entangled in her hair. I stood with my eyes wide, not for seeing someone wash up on shore, but for seeing a lady with no clothes on. How risqué! How more than risqué! How scandalous! This woman, I thought, is someone I would like very much to get acquainted with. Imagine, having courage to pull off a scandal such as this, to scurry out of strange waters alone bearing all. What an interesting life this woman must lead. Was she escaping a ship full of pirates who tied her to the bow? Maybe they had made her walk the plank. Six paces with her eyes shut tight! Or perhaps she fled a loveless marriage and magnificent dowry. A throne in an enormous castle with servants and subjects. A tiara made of pure silver and crystal. Ballrooms filled to capacity with twirling gowns. Long white gloves being held by their gentleman suitors. And at night, soft beds and pillows stuffed with feathers to lay a tired princess head upon, who dreams with starlight pouring in from the open window, the light of the moon in her sight.

I hurried over to her, pulling off my shawl to spread over her shivering body. As she gasped for air I examined her face. Porcelain skin, the bluest eyes and a head of golden hair. She was the story book princess I read every night. The one who kept me company and softened my gaze right before I could no longer keep myself awake. A real story book princess here, wrapped in my shawl. How lucky of me to be walking here today.

She coughed and coughed until it grew tiresome and wiped her face dry with the end of my shawl. I led her away from the water, up toward the hill where the grass was high enough to hide what the shawl could not.

I stared at her, like I was not supposed to. Everyone told me that staring was not polite, but they had never been this close to a princess before, so obviously their judgment was skewed.

The princess caught her breath and looked back at me with as much amazement as I had when I first saw her.

To be continued.

TDM

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With So Many Tears

With so many tears

A dismal life of clutter

And not

Having anything of value

Not a one

Decent face

with whom

To bid the morning anew

 

Sallow and pale

A cause for no real

Alarm

Nothing permanent to cling to

Not in object defying

Wasteland

 

Sleepless nights

Tangled sheets for one

With so many tears

For lights out

Without any bed time story

 

II

With so many tears

A hopeful breath familiar

And with

Attentive nods and grins

Always

A lovely face

with whom to

Tuck away the evening and

bid the morning anew

 

A smitten tide of

Suitable love,

Of comfort,

Of

 

Mind at ease and

Simple pace of thoughts

Heart still racing

With excited touch

Lights out

With promise of bed time stories

 

TDM

Wings and Tied

It has been a long time

Since I have listened to chirping or

A flutter

A far cry from usual territory

Out of range by a long

Shot

 

Beats

Like a propeller, where there is a chill

In the air

Retreat

Or do not if your bones permit

If your fragility

Has not caught up with you

And your garb is puffed and fluffed

 

In flight you are

Formidable

On solid ground

You are canvass and backdrop

All in one

Swoop

 

And glide

In a most translucent way

That there may be less chance

Of foul and etched irritants

From gilded feathers

Plucked

Of a nuisance.

 

TDM

It is Never Enough

I heard once

That slumping through

Moss was enough

To satisfy any

Lust for adventure,

That turning

Pebbles over in my

Hand would be

Rugged enough,

That I should not

Dirty my dress

Or get bugs in my hair,

But I have also heard

That rolling

Over hills and under

Starry skies is never

Enough for a

Single lifetime,

It is never enough

To quench a thirst

For dipping toes in lakes,

Washing hands

In rivers and falling

Asleep to the crickets

Buzz, humming in my ear

Whilst grass and

Earth so cool

Under my body

Tickles before I become

A treat for tiny

Bugs whom I implore

To be gentle

To leave a little something

For myself.

T. DM

P.S. I would love some feedback on this piece, mostly regarding whether or not it sounds incomplete. Cheers readers!

A Remembrance of Winter

The snow is falling now, and I am happy to walk through the village and let it cover me like a cloak. The flakes tickle my eyelashes and for once I am okay with giggling to myself and smiling, even though passers by can see no reason for a grin or a smirk on such a grey day.

Grey days hardly bother me. I like the stoic feel of the sky, to find the peeking light in other places when the sun is not shining amuses me and brings me much pleasure. And how amplified the little pleasures seem on days when there appears to be no light. The want or need for them is much greater.

I do not want the winter to end. I really do not. I like the way it makes me feel. I love the coziness of coming indoors from a frosty walk and warming my cheeks by the fire. I like how hot chocolate is smooth and how quilts are heavy warmth wrapped around my legs.

I like the woods when it is snowing. How the birch looks behind a sheet of falling snow. How the evergreens become white monuments with green needles poking through. How tracks outline a walkway of otherwise white roads and guide me anyway and every way. And if I find a lonely path, I would hope that my own tracks would not be covered by the ceaseless snowfall, though beautiful and silent, that I might, when I desire, be able to find my way back.

T. DM

Nostalgia

I thought it was about time I posted something, so here is a poem I wrote that was published in “Hearing Voices,” an anthology of poetry released by Bareback Press.

When we were young

we scraped our knees

and it felt good.

We looked to the street

lamps like golden lanterns

to light our way home,

as luminaries with promises

of warm blankets

and sweet delights,

and for that, we knew

when the day had ended,

when our breath finally

caught up with us,

for we were certainly

more inclined to hold

warm hands and

turn over our beds

while our hair clung

to sheets of perfumed lilac,

the last trace of warm weather,

and covering our eyes to

hide from the harvest moon,

we laughed ourselves

to sleep through thin walls

of in-jokes and outcomes.

T. DM

Selfish

Does it feel like punishment

when you keep your eyes wide

and withering

till the early morning?

though the dawn singes them closed

and adheres them to one another

you still put up a front

with seething, gloating

cornerstones of whatever you expect

to come around,

really, it should always feel like

punishment

when you keep your eyes wide

or when you submit them to shut out

the day like you have always done

 

how can you be so impossible?

 

T. DM