Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Cracks in the Canvas

As I wash the fields and the forest on the damp mountain side I rise to wash the dust off my gun... Mother...Holy Mother..hold your summer hands against my face. WAR waves hello. I wave goodbye. The tangerine trees are still fragrant, in season and I ache. Yes, this suit I have brought back is heavy, blood drained and marrow might be all that is left. No more blood letting and these 23 clocks running backwards. And, war is glistening like a dying heavy branch of thorns under an oath of morphine, truth.

© Words ~ Wendy Rose Watson

Sunday, March 6, 2011

The Singer

You are as a stranger to me as I have not yet seen your face, looked into your eyes. Our mask, I know at times, takes us deeper into the blinding void of happiness where they try to peck out the everlasting hope inside, but they can't. Eyes that are scorched and burned by the torch that we carry in our own hearts can never be stolen. And, we march on...we go far out into the fields because we are nomads that are living the stories that have been written for us...the ancients knew us from the time we were conceived and with that discovery within we come to find ourselves again. Birthing ourselves back into this land we shake. Sometimes the Dark places bring about so much light, hedonism, truth, lessons, deeper insight all because we dared to go the miles. Perhaps you wouldn't believe me if I told you and if I did tell you it's my torch that would burn your eyes... They say that I don't have a very good voice but the better the singers voice, the harder it is to believe what they are saying so I use my voice to my advantage.  

© WORDS Wendy Rose Watson