About Me~, art, Fae, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Tír na nÓg

00d03f7932bed5512c7ca8aa089083db

I thought it was the rain ,

that called to me,

and so I walked .

A grove  beckoned,

 seemingly manifested ,

from everywhere, and nowhere  all at once.

Dark? Was it?

The path had grown so very dark.

So much so ,

it seemed that

the trees themselves seemed to forge a cage;

bars pushed close ,

to what used to be a path.

Time? Had I noticed, what was the time?

Stretched so very late now .

So much so that

the moon itself has fled away, with its

Covers pulled,

over what was once a glowing night.

Tired? I thought , I must be,

I have grown now very tired,

So much so that even

 my eyelids fall under the veil ;

 of  a  sealing away , in unspoken concert .

I drift and  swear,

I  hear the mossy music

of  the Seelie,

wings in canopy above.

Light? Is it morning ?

The knoll where I am now , drips,

with light;

so much so that ,

it is glittered. Gilded.

Gossamer strands of green;

grey, misty and ethereal.

Reverie? Illusion?

Perhaps, it all  had  been.

The path, the glade,

the gold, the music,

all conjured ,

From a bogle’s twinkling eye.

 

 

 

 

art, Poetry, Uncategorized, world affairs, Writing

#cyberpunked

tvreview-alteredcarbon-header

“Do androids dream of electric sheep?”

What would we know of the secrets they keep?

An altered carbon,  a perfected sleeve. 

Would there be random fragments of code, 

those ghosts in the machine?

If you weren’t real, how would you know?

Your programming would not tell you so.

In simulation it would all seem to  turn,

streams of   data, digital burn. 

Iamus?

ICARUS? 

Beauty and flaws. 

Asimov, Morgan, 

Turing, Three Laws. 

 

 

About Me~, art, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Undeveloped

The purple creeps 

up from blackened trees, 

turning into the hazed, then suddenly  gilded flashbulb of dawn. 

I should still sleep

under heavy duvets,

turning thoughts from daytime images,   into panoramic  dreams. 

But rest did not keep

me overlong , as it is wont to do,

turning my slumber into a grey -tinged negative. 

Of photos yet developed. 

R. Jeanette Woods ~ February 2

 

About Me~, art, chronic illness, humor, inspirational, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

The Things We Carry ~

c46151b65f6f35449f74dae25424f95d

 

We’ve all seen them.

There are all these quotes on FaceBook,

Pinterest,

Instagram,

and Twitter.

They seem so bold, inspiring, liberating……freeing.

Things like , “Leave the woman you were , in the past, because the future is bright. ”

And Lord knows, I’ve been guilty of sharing some of them.  They seem good.

But I was suddenly struck by a bolt from the blue , yesterday.

You see it was my 39th birthday .

15 years past the date when they said, I should not live.

And it dawned on me , as though the universe itself had spoken to me ,

in a moment so clear I could almost have sworn everyone around me had heard it.

Saying, “You do not have to leave the woman you were, in the past.

You do not have to leave the person you were as a child, as a teenager, or as a young adult.

We do not leave those people behind somewhere in the ether of the universe.

We carry them with us. Not as a weight, or a burden.  Not with hurt, or pain; but we carry them with us ,as knowledge.

Knowledge that lets us reach others. And wisdom to see that although there was hurt,

we grew tall and strong in spirit anyway.

We carry them as teachers, reminders that who we were then , is still valuable in the journeys we take today. We wear them as deeply as if they were  sewn on badges , celebrations  that we survived.

So I will not leave behind the child I was, the gangly teenager I grew into, or even the much -scarred woman I have become.

I will be all of those people , all at once; the child, the youngster, the woman.

And walk through this world with the quiet  knowledge

That in spite of it all,

I made it. 

About Me~, inspirational, Uncategorized, world affairs, Writing

It Wasn’t On the List ~

 

1613531-bigthumbnail

The sun is rising up over the trees of my hollow , painting the pines, the maples and the oaks with a magic that only God himself can bestow. The dark sentinels recognize that day is starting and gives way to the light.  It is quiet.  The kind of quiet that can only be found when we still ourselves.  No television. No cars.  Only the quiet of the reality that , no matter where we go, possessions don’t matter.  Outside in the forest packages tied up in bows , really have no value .

I’m sitting here in my little frame house, warmed by the fire ,of the wood -stacked by my husband (before he headed off to his job) , a handmade afghan on my feet ,  a tiny , furry dog making snuffling noises as she settles her way ever deeper into the cocoon she has made for herself.

It’s that time of the year again.  Where people seem to turn into frantic genetically engineered  gerbils stuck on a giant wheel that spins ever faster. I am often agog at the speed they are able to manage, and wait in a kind of  morbid fascination wondering if the wheel will fly off into some other galaxy at the current rate they are going. The stores are jammed packed with those who carry those sacred  lists ;   as though those pieces of paper somehow carry the keys to true happiness, or even the map to Ponce’ de’ Leon’ s fabled fountain.  Gripped so tightly , and conversing to some unseen person (  themselves?) , that I can’t help but ponder  if a trip to Bedlam might needs be in order.

I know they are doing their best , to make the ones who made those lists happy. That “perfect” gift . The end goal being , to see the lights in their eyes shine so brightly that all of the effort was worth it, thus granting them Le’ons  immortality. and that ever elusive JOY.  But…………….temporary.  Because those toys are  tossed aside by next month’s end, as the next “it” thing is discussed, in terms of  , “Well, NEXT year I am going to ask for ………………!” Bigger , better, more expensive. So back on the gerbil wheel the givers go.
Til suddenly their legs, finances, stresses, and sanity ;  give way, and the wheel comes to a grinding halt.  It is an unsustainable momentum……… the mythic fountain just out of reach.

For what has been obscured in the misty fog of store lights, faux snowdrifts, bedazzled costumes and the street hawkers is this :  immortality , the fountain of a memory of youth is not hidden in any of those things.  It’s hidden in the decisions you’ve made every day , of every season.  Summer; in laughing with those you love over some ridiculous joke . Fall; in feeling that full crisp air hit you while you walk down the street having a conversation that will never be remembered, but the moment will. Spring; in the first flower spotted by someone and you realize that Winter is truly over; and Winter ; all of Winter, when the weather forces you indoors to sit together talking about “Remember the time , we?”  and “I will never forget the day that we ……….”

Those are gifts. Not in department store boxes, not in bags, or in the ubiquitous gift cards of our era. THOSE. 

May we never become so jaded that we forget that THOSE are the  gifts worth remembering.

 

About Me~, art, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Zero -Sum ~

princess-fantasy-trapped-art-80076.8

 

Whole hog,

or none at all.

To feel like the Princess,

or be thrown off the wall?

Only extremes in your world.

Am I your archenemy ,

or your favorite girl?

Backward,

forward,

nowhere in time.

You  have   to  set the rules,

Can’t  have the rhyme.

One-sided,

lop-sided,

upside down.

You got the boat,

and left me to drown.

Ruby J. Woods ~ 2017

 

Military, Poetry, Uncategorized, world affairs, Writing

Do You See?

bc58772773ac9e8413de973748ab165a

He sees. 

The masses of humanity  who pass him by ( if you can even call them that.) For where IS their humanity ?

Webster’s , that great tome of definitions, tells us ; HUMANITY ~compassionbrotherly lovefraternityfellow feelingphilanthropy, humaneness, kindnessconsiderationunderstandingsympathy, tolerance …………

Perched on a milk crate , in mis-matched shoes, soles worn down to paper thin.

The little dog,  eyes shining bright , with the reflection that , he and the man are a tribe all their own.

The man’s grayed hair , and face lined  with a hundred, no maybe even a thousand memories .

Perhaps even memories he would wish to forget , of places far away, jungles hot and fetid.

The chopping sounds of helos flying over, and wondering if there is an end to this madness.

He sees.

That the people passing by have forgotten about those days, easier for them to pretend it never happened.

And so to pretend that he does not exist either.

But , he sees. 

And wrapped in an honor that only a few will know, that even fewer CAN know.

The creases in his face , would tell you the story, if  only YOU could see.

About Me~, art, chronic illness, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Fluid ~

 

 

85d579a3a0aeb77d2ca7fb5e9229b0e9 (1)It waters the Earth, and the flowers , trees and all things green.

The lovely yet jangled noise of it on the tin roof of my house,

reminds me that it is good for all living things.

And yet, my broken body , shrinks into itself,

when it sees the clouds on the horizon.

Bringing with it the ache of the dark forces of weather.

And then it comes full -force.

I see it dripping from the eaves, in perfect timing,

reminiscent of a thousand drops of  intravenous fluids.

The rivulets of rain , coming sharp and fast,

like needles in the hundreds of hands ,

I’ve been subject to.

I remind myself , “It is only rain. “

And yet my subconscious whispers ………….

“It is only rain………….for now.

About Me~, art, Uncategorized, Writing

Komorebi~

1 (1)

Komorebi~木漏れ日

Early a.m, and the magic will start  , ever so slightly at first.

That certain gold that drips from God’s never-ending palette.

Down from the tops of the elms, and oaks,

it comes,  unaware of its own spectacular beauty.

Diamonds lit from within , dappled light transformed.

Glittering down , in a never-ending spectacular kaleidoscope ,

infinite in its choices of fractals.

I am struck by the feeling  that the golden drops have their own secrets,

and whisper them only to the leaves, who raise their veined bodies to hear it all.

Devotees’ to the words the sunlight speaks.

Never spoken to outsiders,

but passed from one to another ,

on the sacred parchment of their own greenery.

Komorebi , 木漏れ日,