Then ask the stars,
their trillion years of wisdom
might reveal the answer to the riddle,
which taunts the sanity of your mind.
Then search the endless universe,
its myriad of heavenly bodies
might guide you to the cosmic oracle,
patiently awaiting your perseverance.
Then plead with
the northern lights,
to brighten still this heavenly phenomenon,
and shed light on the incomprehensible,
hidden in the darkest corner of the arctic.
A distracted
dragon-fly flusters in your ear,
the better to accept my confession,
made without a compromise.
A declaration of an oath before a sacred altar.
Long gone are the swallows,
whose acrobatic flights in perfect formation
cast lightening shadows on the once waving corn fields,
now hidden under the soft white blanket of the first
snow fall
and perforated by zigzag paths of some early morning
hare.
Traces of its hungry, frantic search for food.
There is a silence, a peacefulness of winter time.
The animal kingdom in deep slumber and nature herself,
exhausted after the last ravaging storm of autumn,
has finally taken her well deserved rest.
Passersby hang their heads in non-communication,
their faces hidden ‘neath woollen scarves,
an attempt to hide their harsh expressions;
caused by the bitterness of the biting arctic winds.
But my favourite winter works of art
are seen only on such sub-zero dawns.
A delight to the awakening eyes,
to behold the masterpieces of some nocturnal artist,
whose frosted window images will disappear for ever
with the first rays of the winter sun..
The Temptation of Albrecht Duerer by
David A. Thorpe
SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL
by David A. Thorpe, 2006
(Dedicated to Christine Ann Piwowarski)
Contact: david.thorpe@huddersfield1.co.uk
I remember the beauty of her smile,
sincere and full of caring,
warming my entire body,
even on the coldest day of winter.
I remember the beauty of her eyes,
her gaze sealing her promise of commitment,
reflecting her acknowledgment
of the understanding between us.
I remember the beauty of her voice,
never harsh but full of confidence,
giving support and advice of how things perhaps,
could better be accomplished.
All in all a daily reminder of her trust.
Now on a journey on the other side of my reality,
her
beauty continues to give joy and inspiration.
It’s not insanity
to want to be submerged in your eyes
of crystal clear lagoons,
enchanted by their own inconsistency.
Sometimes bewitching, sometimes green.
It’s not insanity
to want to dive into the depths of your gaze.
Soaked into irrationality
by the enticement of your glance.
It’s not insanity
to wish to be a prisoner in the darkness of your blink,
released in an eruption of shed tears,
falling slowly like pearls of lava over your cheeks,
extinguished without pain,
in the voluptuousness of your lips.
The rising sun sheds warmth
and lightens up the darkened stage,
whose back-cloth was provided by
the fairy kingdom of Tatiana
and her ass-headed lover
for their mid-summer night of love.
A mystical night pregnant with fragrances
of druid rituals within acient towering
stones
and Viking bonfires,
witnesses to Nordic summer ceremonies.
The early morning song birds,
a full choir of heralds
of the awakening day,
whose cooling air clandestinely creeps
over the sills of open windows,
and gently disturbs the flimsy curtains
with designs
of petrified butterflies of pastel
colours;
the only intruder to the intimacy of
slumber.
No painter’s
palette could ever reproduce
those hundred shades and hues of green,
which drape the dozing landscape,
drenched with bright sunshine
from a cloudless summer sky.
"Tonight we’re going to Europe!"
Exclaimed the
excited and overjoyed Rufina,
the 10 year-old repeating her
news at every open doorway,
as she ran barefoot down the
dusty and empty street,
sweltering in the tropical afternoon
heat.
The village was aroused out of its siesta
and the following
commotion echoed
through the ruins of the 'Spanish Villa',
the citadel
overlooking this once flourishing colonial plantation.
Its
impoverished population now abandoned
and left alone in its
struggle for survival.
They had been sighted,
approaching the village on the narrow
coastal road,
walled on both sides with banana and bamboo trees.
The three
young men from the capital,
their vehicle packed with equipment
for a week-end of beach
and submarine exploration.
The portable cinema had arrived.
Before dusk a once white painted house wall was chosen,
the
new cinemascope screen.
The projector was loaded with the first
carriage of slides.
Chairs, arranged in rows, were already
fully occupied
with impatiently awaiting spectators.
Josefa was surrounded by children,
all eager to receive their
home-made ice cream treat.
Some of the girls were wearing their
Sunday dresses,
their hair adorned with coloured ribbons.
The evening sun took its bow and disappeared.
The journey
could begin.
That evening they went to Denmark, England and Germany.
With
eyes and mouths wide open in wonder,
they were transported
to their destinations:
Helsingor and Copenhagen , York and
Bath, Heidelberg and Dresden.
A journey of a lifetime!
To retell over the years to come
to their children, grandchildren and fellow travellers.
Jenny & The Seagulls - Artwork by
David A. Thorpe
