What Witches Weave

Take what you need and leave the rest,
I sat barking like an aged crow,
an Angel to my left asked my forgiveness for blocking what was right,
and I had to think on that a spell.

Bickering in the tongue of human nature,
ten swords offered cuts at your choice of depth.
A petty bargain to make when there is no escape,
no limbo, harrassment, or bloodletting crafty enough,
no, sanguine enough,
to purchase a passage away from the slander.

Bark, caw, pecking in the dirt like a dog unto my own errands of absolution,
I did not choose to leave peace behind,
but only picked a path through the fire,  weaving a rope of straw pickings,
Harping on the lessons you'd need,
should anyone else bless the path to freedom.

Disney's The Nutcracker and the Four Realms: The Song in Clara's Music Box Egg

     I haven't posted in over a year. This last year of grad school to earn my MSN and APRN certification as a PMHNP has been all I could handle. But I have finally finished, shy of a few minor details left to wrap up. I graduate Dec. 7th and I am catching up on all the holiday spirit. I know that this will be one of my best holiday seasons ever.
     Today I went to see Disney's Nutcracker. I really don't understand why the critics aren't liking it. It is lovely, the costumes are just incredible, and the incomparable Misty Copeland dances a few short ballet sequences. I have never had the chance to see Misty dance, so I was thrilled to see her. The camera work on her feet at times allowed us to the the incredible precision and artistry.
     Morgan Freeman makes a wonderful Drosselmeyer. I like to think he is a magician who ended up working for Batman at Wayne Industries labs later on, continuing his inventions. Clara is given a Faberge' egg type music box by her mother, which plays a song. Later her father says it is the first song he ever danced to with Marie, Clara's mother.  I knew I recognized the song, but could not call it to mind immediately. Google was no help at all, which is unusual. I did see that others are asking the same question that I did: what is the song in Clara's egg?
    There appear to be no answers as yet to anyone's queries. But I was sure I could find it because I knew I grew up hearing the song.  My mother loved The Nutcracker. We had a 33LP album of Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite with cover art which entranced me, and I would play it and dance in the living room. It made sense to me that the song in the music box would be from the Nutcracker, so I started listening on YouTube.  I am sure I have solved the mystery.
     The music box is only played twice in the movie, so I can't be 100%. Leave me a comment if you think I am incorrect! But listen to this- and I think this is the song. It would make perfect sense...The Pas de Deux...the  Dance for Two.  A dance for two that she dances with her father.

I hope this helps clear up the mystery if it is driving you crazy. Have a wonderful holiday season!
Sylace

Bigger by Far

As I leaf through the pages of the swamp
the crocodiles have set their gantlet teeth in rows
and watch.
Had I not read this book a hundred times at night
through the bare threads of an aging muslin sheet,
I should be lost
to their snap, and the slither and roll to the death,
coming early like autumn this year.
But this is not my first bedtime story, and not my
first, nor second, mapping of wet leaves on cracked pavement
which none will come to repair in this life
and watching where you step is tantamount…
to nothing…
but an inevitable buildup just the same.

The frost at the edges of your mouth
bit me sorely, in times when what I needed was a whiskey, or a kiss, or
a kind word
or really by god anything with a slight tang of humanity
that one person might offer another,
much less a beloved, so shrunken and losing essential particles every hour.

Madly and passionately, I am huge now,
bigger by far than anything you never saw and never looked to see,
and I am enveloped in an unending kiss, and the intoxication of a love
I never dreamed,
consumed by sighs of relief and joy so often that
I have to catch my breath. 

In Greaves and in Armor

She would like to say she has outgrown this armor
but in truth it was never made for her at all,
sheaths of beaten steel she polishes-
a timeless ritual of women,
in thoughtless anticipation of battles to come.

She would like to say she can lay down this outsized monstrosity
and find a clear stream to wash off the dirt,
sweat of fear and unending exertion-
but it cannot be laid down, not now,
it is hers to carry even when she cannot recall where it came from.

She would like to live in her own skin,
or at least choose to make her own armor,
designed to mold to her and move like water-
responsive to her own call for protection,
so unlike this ugly ruin of mail and grief.

She would like to sing instead of cry, and smile instead of hide
as she fights and she dreams for the right,
to exist as she is, in the way that God made her-
while so many other beating hearts tell her,
that her battle is not real and her pain a cruel sham.

She would like to be unbound, and know for sure
if the armor is the problem,
after all, it was not hers-
does it work to keep her lost through the misadjusted visor,
all a trap that's sprung inside, so she never sees the truth and flies away.

Painting the Roses Red

As descents go, this was effortless.
Each foot placed in a hold
as sure as walking the pavement.
Unexpectedly Alice tumbles,
teacup over kettle,
only to find the cake finale
an indeterminate mystery.

Our hearts won't be ruled.
I imagine
it is up to us to govern ourselves
in the garden we were given, and
the games will end
when we tire and walk away.

I don't want to forget this journey,
the taking of this trip
entirely by accident, as if I
did indeed merely trip
and fall,
as if I
could pick myself up and skip away-
chalk paintings done in magic,
bleeding color into the background.

I don't look back. I can't look back.
Like the leading man leaving the explosion,
I stare ahead behind rose glasses.
Every descent is not a disaster.
Some are just epic daydreams,
where white and red are both love.

The Lie in the Candle

She bends at the waist and

Her hair is a fury- it fights like a wild thing possessed.

False sprigs of cypress curl smoke

From the mouth of the oven, the brick cherry red

With the heat.

The air has gone dry, and the eye of the ocean is open,

It sees to the floor, out the door to the north.

Paint it all blue, for the chi, for the life left inside there,

Where she cooks,

What she casts,

With those cats underfoot.

As she smiles the two smiles that she has, maybe one, maybe not,

Maybe both, it depends,

On the fire in the wood, and the blood on her hands.

But the truth in the witch is a

Lie in the candle,

A light left undimmed, whether free or kept chained.

Just the spectre of freedom, a plaid in the heather

Swept down the river, and

Lost in her howl.

The Deal

who made this deal that I would be in this skin for this life
thin lines of grease paint ran off my fingertips into the cracks in the concrete
as I sat there with my overpriced tea and orange confection of unhealthiness
overhearing, no listening openly,
to the sales pitch of an acting class hustler,
guaranteeing this poor bastard he would be a star,
dropping the Denzels and the Tom Cruise,
talking Walking Dead and Lee Daniels.
It was a great moment when he dared to correct her...
all wrapped in her uninformed costume of middle age
and he all of 20...
but he knew to correct her when she said
say the script says you play a preacher,
are you going to be an Al Sharpton,
are you going to be a Jesse Jackson,
or a Martin Luther...
he said, Martin Luther King, Jr?
Honest to God did she not know the difference between the two?
Honest to God did she not see he could play whomever he wants,
if he wants,
not just black preachers. I was appalled for him,
but that's just me thinking I have any right to think anything,
when I don't,
because all I have is this skin I am in...
but I do know better than that.
When she told you to get over yourself
about roles you said you would not take,
I had to leave
before she turned you completely into a whore.
Keep your morals, keep your dreams,
Best of Luck to you, kid.
I'll buy a ticket...
hell, I already did. It's called Starbucks.