angiemflanagan:

Today marks the one year anniversary of my diagnosis with lymphangioleiomyomatosis. I’ve come a long way since this posting last year, but I think Thanksgiving is a good reminder to be grateful for every last breath…

Originally posted on angiemflanagan:

Snowflakes by Wilson Bently

When I was a little girl, I had a recurring dream that a beautiful woman with dark hair smiled benevolently down at me.

“Would you like to see your life?” She asked. “How you live, and how you die?”

I can be a bit on the impatient side. I’ve always struggled with the urge to read the last page of the book first, so I let the woman take me by the hand. She led me into an ornate theater. Twin angels stood on either side of red curtains.

“Just say the word,” she waved toward the angels, “and they will open your life for you.”

As I sat in my velvet seat, I began to have my doubts. I was curious, but to lose the anticipation of Christmas mornings and new school years might be a terrible price to pay for having it handed over upfront. Eager as I’ve…

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The Nile River

What if time were a river?
The Nile maybe—
And the Amazon and the Mississippi too
All three tied together mouth to tail
to tail to mouth around our secret globe
We could travel forever
Always end up right back where we started
Find our old beginnings at our new endings
Years of living every single day
Find the seen and the unseen—
They always hold on tight to one another
We’d ride without oars or sails to catch the wind
Let that endless river carry us
Time holds her breath for no one.

The Fall

I went to find God
Someone
Anything
Behind the name
In a blue sky, those clouds
Too fleeting
In the night, those stars
Too distant
I spread myself wide
On the ground
Under an oak tree
in its dappled light
God? I whispered
A leaf fell
full of sunlight in my hand
Yes, said that blade of grass
against my skin
Those rocks at my feet
These last summer butterflies
Here I am in this moment
This life being lived
One breath to the next
Here
I Am

Divan of Hafiz Binding Gul u Bulbul 1842, Iran Public Domain

Divan of Hafiz Binding Gul u Bulbul 1842, Iran
Public Domain

The Nightingale sings
in the rain by the water
where time draws ripples
and so does the sky. Her world is a tree
at the edge of the garden
near the old home’s foundation.
It’s roof in decay.

She softens her wings
to the sound of a whisper
when Night spreads his palm
like a priest over wine. The leaves fall around her
heavy with water. They age into ash.
Give birth to their death.

When the young buds make love
under blankets of snow
in the scattered remains
of that tree come undone, she finds
herself there. The bird she’s become.

She calls to the Night,
your name is inside me.
Wherever I go,
a nightingale I find.

She knows her own beauty
in the sound of her singing.
The half-second silence. Her voice
caught by the wonder. The call.
Her breath.

The stars hang down.
They’re old and they’re heavy. Tired,
they’ve journeyed from days far away.
If you happen to stand
at your window
to find her. Look up.
Take notice.
Life carries on.

by Judy Pfeifer Used with permission of the artist.

Art by Judy Pfeifer
Used with permission of the artist.

Grandmother sat at her loom by the fire. Her fingers danced across the strings like a harpist. A beautiful pattern of intertwining loops grew into a tapestry from nothing more than the little balls of thread on her lap. She came to the end of a white strand and worked in a thread of black until you couldn’t see where one began and the other ended. The moon was full and low and pregnant.

Grandmother’s house sat on the side of a low mountain. Below the house, there was a thick line of forest and beyond that a bog. The bog was usually wrapped in a thick mist, but that night everything was clear. The bog lay barren and unprotected. That empty place under the light of the moon was like a secret. I thought if I were a decent sort of person, I would look away, but I couldn’t.

In that circle of moonlight, I saw the woman who ran with wolves for the first time. She appeared from the forest and into the bog with her hair wild and silver in the wind. Two wolves loped behind her. One was white and the other black. If they followed her lead or chased her, I couldn’t tell. The wolves stopped at the edge of the bog and took up a fight. The woman dropped to her hands and knees and started to dig. The wolves rolled and bit until they were a blur of black and white. You couldn’t see where one began and the other ended. The woman took no notice. She left the hole she’d dug and crawled forward to start another.

“Who is she?” I whispered.

“Ach,” Grandmother pulled her thread tight. “The moon is full and you’ve grown old enough to see the world as it truly is. I’ll wager you’ve caught your first glimpse of the Bog Woman.”

“Where does she come from?”

Grandmother took the dark ball of thread from her lap and held it in her old, gray hand. The ball was as dark and rich as the peat soil of the bog. The chill of the night moved across my skin. The wind moaned and the wolves howled. “That answer is buried in the past, all the way down to the first women who ever lived and loved and wished she was better than she’d been.” Grandmother cut the thread and took up a line of red.

“What is she doing?” I asked.

“Some say she used to meet a man out there at the edge of the forest by the bog. It has always been a place of secrets. When he was young, that man had found a bag of gold on a bench in the courtyard of the market. It had a name on it, but instead of finding the owner, he concealed it in his pocket. On his way home, he saw the hat maker. A hat! He’d never bought a hat before. He’d never needed one.

“The thrill of the purchase made the trees greener, the sky bluer. For a moment in time, he was full of a power he’d never known before. He told the hat maker that his father had sent him to pick it out, because he would need it for a journey they would take together. He wasn’t going anywhere with his father, of course. In fact, the hat would never be any use to him at all. If he ever wore it, his parents would know he hadn’t come by it honestly. When he got home, he hid it under his bed.

“That silly, stolen hat tormented him. Every time there was a knock at the door, he was sure it was the owner of the gold come to tell his parents what he’d done. The shame of his parents knowing his wrong doing frightened him where the theft had not. He buried the hat and the empty bag in the peat like dead men. Even when it was lost in the earth, he feared the owner of the bag would find him and give him away. He had dared to be a thief, but he couldn’t stand to be known as a fool.

“One day, her lover left her in the bog with his other treasures. He married a wealthy girl and never returned. The woman couldn’t stand to be known as a fool, but a heart isn’t a hat. It can’t be buried and left for dead. She has stayed in the bog ever since, digging for the hidden story of someone else’s shame. While she digs, her wolves fight untended.”

“Are those wolves good or evil?” They both looked wild and dangerous.

“Neither. All of us live with two wolves, but we keep them hidden inside. One wolf is love, compassion, forgiveness…all that drives us to good. The other is jealousy, anger and fear…all that drives us to hurt. Our wolves battle to the death.”

The woman was bent and old and desperate, but I still saw the beauty in her. If she could find solace from such a battle, certainly I could too.

“Which wolf will win?” I asked.

“That’s her choice. “Grandmother tied a knot at the end of her work. “It will depend on which wolf she feeds.”

angiemflanagan:

I’m disappointed that I can’t make the reception myself, but if you happen to be in Rockford, IL on September 5, go check out my poem, She’s a River in this lovely new book!

Originally posted on Mary Lamphere:

I am SO excited to announce the kick-off of Word of Art, a collaboration of authors and artists sponsored by In Print Professional Writers Organization.

wordofart1

I participated in a similar program last year called Drawn with Words that was part of the Batavia Fall Fine Art Fair, Art in Your Eye. I stumbled upon a solicitation for authors to submit stories of two hundred words or less. Artists would peruse the posted stories and select one to use as inspiration for a canvas.

I wrote and edited and wrote some more and cut and wrote again until finally I thought I had the perfect two hundred word story.
I put it out there.
Nothing.

So I did it again.
This time I took a story I had begun but never developed past a couple of hundred words and applied the repetitive technique.
I submitted again.
Nothing.

All in…

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