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Surrounded

My eyes hold to the quiver of the chrysalis;

Both of us suspended to the re-birthing.

Forest rain beads on the silken pod.

Magnifies the thread that wove it to perfection.

I am drenched in the wonder of this resolution of caterpillar to butterfly.

Held to the linger of it before the struggle.

When the desire for flight chants its mystery, and The grace of life calls to the flutter of blue.

 

Iridescent blue, Brazilian butterfly blue. I follow the blue of you in forest green till your resolution leaves my eyes and I am bound in the memory.

 

 

 

 

Or for Fun:
Discombobulate" means to throw into a state of confusion. Write poetry, prose, haiku, instructions for weathering a personality disorder, using the non-word: Bobulate. Make up your own meaning for it.

 

Put your serotonin in Take your serotonin out

Release the voices in your head and shake them all about

Do the Bobulation and spin your life around

That's what it's all about.

 

Put your irrational fears in

Take your irrational fears out

Do something you're afraid of then climb a hill and shout

Do the Bobulation and spin your life around That's what it's all about. Put your crazy self in Take your crazy self out Retrace your angry path and choose a different route

Do the Bobulation and spin your life around That's what it's all about.

 

Surrounding Us

We go through our day, sometimes barely noticing our surroundings. We pass thru this room or that, on our way to do something in another. We pass the furniture, the pictures, the nic-naks on the shelf, barely noticing them. Or we take our daily exercise, walking past the neighboring houses with slight interest, listening to the birds, the traffic or our mind chatter. We look at the people around us, the trees,the shrubs, the lawns, we watch the birds and squirrels. We notice the living things in our environment. What if I told you that the chair in your living room, the one you pass everyday, is also alive? And all that "stuff" you have piled up in the garage? What if I told you everything you surround yourself with is alive? Made up of pulsing energy, giving off vibrations all the time. Vibrations that affect you and your moods, your energy, your happiness, your prosperity. When you look at and think about each thing you have surrounded yourself with, how does it make you feel? What about that thing sitting over there on the desk, or that one on the table? Does it make you smile? Do you love it,does it bring you happiness? What will you do with it now? Will you keep it or let it go?

 

 

The candle glimmers, its crackling flame softly hissing as it laps at the molten wax pooling round the wick. Fleeting shadows that bobulate and dance upon the walls - casting tortured shapes of demons and angels in a provocative embrace. Vespers over, the priests long since retired to their rooms, only the wizened caretaker, old Cyrus, (gray as ash)is awake. He cups his boney hand behind the flame and inhales with fragile lungs. Leaning to, he invites the night as he purses his lips and with measured breath, softly blows. The hour is late and Cyrus is longing for bed.

 

COMBOBULATION Snowflakes forming, discombobulated they fall, dancing, flying sideways guided by gusty wind. No two are alike. Makes you wonder of infinity, the endless possibilities of the types and kind, now and before and yet to come. Here and everywhere all around the world, no two are alike, ever. Makes you wonder about the design of tiny tips and angles and crispy delicate configurations – falling, blowing, drifting, dusting into crevices and tops of things for thin frostings. Or groups large and small, piling, blanketing deep as the rivers and high as the mountains. Snowflakes. No two are alike. Like people, falling, drifting, blowing around in the cold stifling air discombobulated. Created of the same material and similar conditions. Collecting like stories of need and want and desires with myriad blueprints of tiny tips and crystals and patterns. Maybe sometimes similar, but never the same, stories and people, separate, and falling, and landing, and combobulating. Makes you wander deeper into the sparkling cold the quiet vastness of infinite possibilities. “May your life be like a snowflake, leave a spot, but never a stain.” –author unknown

 

Too Late For Goodbyes "Ummm... what did you say?" "I said, do you know a nine letter word for tiny?" Sheryl thought for a moment, more to humour the passenger next to her than to make any real attempt at an answer. "Hmmm...." she shrugged her shoulders slightly and offered a blank look. "I'm sorry, my mind, it's"..... and making a small gesture with her hand, Sheryl raised her eyebrows and smiled weakly, letting the sentence die. She returned to the window, cloud gazing, back to her thoughts and back to a conversation that would never take place. Ever. No matter how much she wished for it. "Oh dad, I'm so sorry, all the years and distance between us, both of us too proud to reach out to each other. I always thought that one day..." She realized that one day was too late for goodbyes. A few tears fell, rolling down her cheek, slow and bitter. One sparked briefly, catching the light before spattering onto her blouse. Sheryl was a warrior, a fierce competitor and had always made her own way. She defiantly managed her own affairs. She was an only child, her father's pride and joy, so it seemed. With a simple note along with his last will and testament, he had left her everything. He had written: Sheryl, You are my tiger, my light, in you I am everything. I believe in you. Love always, Dad. She felt violated, as if she was raped, or robbed. She did not feel comforted. She felt exiled, defending herself in the high court of existence, trying to justify her youthful ambitions with tired, mundane arguments. Not so long ago these arguments were brilliant words to live by. Only now they seemed completely worthless and empty, they carried no weight. Words to live by are not always worth dying for. "I am nothing" she thought, "I've nothing left to prove to anyone. Not even to myself. I thought I was alone. I fought for everything I ever wanted. But all along I was surrounded by love, held in esteem, and cherished by family. How could I have been so blind?" Sheryl tried to smile at the irony, but her throat hurt and she couldn't swallow. The ache in her chest stole away her appetite for humour, each heartbeat a grim penance. She learned her lesson much too late and the price she paid was much too dear.

 

Maribeth Doerr said:

Surrounded by bobulate, Virginia smiled. "Who's afraid of me now"?

 

lisa said:

Surrounded by discombobulation, the cat finds peaceful rest on a rumpled blanket. I look around the room, seeing the chaos I've created, and try not to feel panicked by the mess. Lessons are so often right before our eyes, and this time I choose to take a higher road. Pushing aside some boxes I curl up beside her, "Move over, Tash", I whisper. She yawns, stretches, and plasters herself against my side.

 

Kathy K said:

Daddy lost his flashlight. We was walkin’ home from my friend Hildy’s house, me and Sammy and Daddy. Then Daddy dropped the flashlight. He’s swearin’ and cussin’ and, I guess, crawlin’ around on the ground. I can’t see nothin’. It’s so black in front of my eyes and I’m too scared. I can’t see or say nothin’! My eyes is buggin’ out from tryin’ to see. Sammy was next to me when the light fell out. I can’t hardly hear him breathin’ it’s so dark. It’s like when I was down the cellar and Momma turned the light out. She didn’t know I was down there. I was playin’ with Daddy’s tools and makin’ believe I was buildin’ new stuff for my Barbie dream house. I wasn’t really; I was just makin’ believe. But Momma didn’t know I was down there and she thought she left the light on. So she turned it off and slammed the door and I was standin’ there with my eyes buggin’ and my mouth open and nothin’ comin’ out. Just like now. Hey, I’m startin’ to see a little bit. It’s like that dimmin’ thing on the parlor light at home. I like to play with that and make it go dark and light and dark. Momma hollers at me when I do that so I try to do it when she’s in the other room so she won’t be yellin’ at me. But, right now, my eyes is startin’ to see a little bit. I can see Sammy over next to me. I can see his Giant’s shirt with his name in big blue letters on the back. His eyes is buggin’, too, I think. Daddy’s still swearin’. Wonder if he can see some now. I don’t know why we was walkin’ through the woods anyway. I never go through here. Even when I’m late for dinner and rushin’ cause I’m gonna get hollered at I take the long way. It’s dark and wet in the woods even when the sun’s hot and shinin’. I know there’s bad things here. I just know. So I go on over to the road that cuts through the woods. That’s how I go home. Momma likes bein’ surrounded by the woods. I guess she don’t get scared. Me and Sammy, well, we know there’s bad things here and we go on the road. I hope Daddy finds the flashlight real soon. I’m cold and my eyes hurt from tryin’ to see things. I found Sammy and I’m holdin’ on to that Giants shirt. Maybe we should all three of us hold on and find our way home together like that. Like the time Momma and Daddy had people over and Sammy and me had to stay in our room. We snuck out and peeked down the stairs. They was all laughin’ and silly. They was playin’ music and holdin’ on to each other. They got into this line and they was bouncin’ and wigglin’ all through the house, goin’ from the kitchen to the livin’ room, down the hall. The next day Momma was hollerin’ at us a lot and sayin’ somethin’ about the night before and somethin’ ‘bout bein’ all lost in a paper bag or somethin’. I don’t know. I was hidin’ in my room. Later I think she said she got bobulated and then she stopped hollerin’ at us. I think it was the dance they was doin’. Maybe we should do that dance and we’ll get bobulated and everythin’ will be okay and we’ll find our way out of these darn woods.

 

AnnieVirginia said:

We can speak of sickness, the eternity of chaos and pressure of panic, all born of me and the tearing away of layer upon layer of space which could not be distance only suffocation and the weight of wasted warriors and the thrashing in stillness which only created heat, the loaded pinpoint of all sour sin... We can speak of that... or survive and surrender and fall into the sea and roll with the earth like a child in the womb of the world let the words of melting poets be just ours as we know that ache like we know home, a place that gives us love just ours, loved like color, the only precious immortality the way, with young faith, I wish for you to be immortal and be soft and infinite, hold me seamlessly and ceaselessly until the last day's snow silences all but memory and holds us within the simplicity of a heartbeat and the ageless wonder of winter We can speak of this until the time comes for us to become color and immortal, intertwined oaks of bone from before and after words Then let's lay down and speak the saturated sighs of wood and keep this story waiting in the water Until then...

 

Caitlin Kelley said:

Bound secrets surrounding my heart hidden in the folds of fear Tethered whispers fix my voice Fettered tears restrain my eyes Shackled memories imprison my longing The secrets surrounding my heart

 

Gina Milanese said:

At the edge of reality where shadows grow wings and dreams become expressions and there never seems to be time to sing a melody of caution to someone who’s about to get hurt. Letting life be lived one tedious moment at a time. ~Gina Milanese

 

SURROUND Sir Round was one of the finest knights at the Round Table. The problem was, he was often mistaken for the table itself. He always wore a brown tunic, and his shape was as orbular* as the table itself. BOBULATE To bobulate. To move up and down in the water. Bobulation. An annual celebration of, by and for all men named Bob. The Bobulator. A portmanteau, with two actual meanings: 1) A machine that simulates an up and down movement, and 2) When a man has one name in the present, but has plans to change it to “Bob” at a later date and time.

 

Sir Round loved to cuddle Miss Square. They made quite an unusual pair. Her sharp edges tickled him silly. His curved circumference thrilled her willy-nilly. Their fondness did grow as they moved to and fro. Shaping wheeled boxes that made the world rock and roll.

Reply | Edit | View | 3 days ago on Prompt #5, Due Thur…

 

Janíce said:

On a chilly day in late February, Perry took his young wife, Halo, home from the hospital in Bearbrook. The nursing staff had brought her such hope following the dirge-like procession of overly serious doctors--hope springs eternal, doesn't it?--but all Halo wanted to do was fold herself into layer after layer of old brown and pink quilts and mismatched fleeced pillows. Perry would have a fire blazing multiple shades of red and orange in the wood stove. Halo would be greeted by her two calico cats and would willingly provide their soft presence while she surrounded herself in familiar comfort, sleeping like she did before she found out the cancerous news.

 

She looked so sad, her hands clasped and unclasped, wringing her fingers anxiously. Where can he be? Her eyes full of sorrow, tears trickled down her cheek. If only she hadn’t rowed with him this morning, if only she had kept her temper instead of shouting and banging the door behind him when he stormed off. He’ll never come back now, he’s gone for ever. I’ve been such a fool she thought, such a fool. He didn’t mean all those things he said, he was just worried about what to do, to get himself out of the mess he was in. Why could she not just have sat quietly, held his hand and supported him? Instead of starting such a stupid row, about nothing at all really, it just escalated and got totally out of hand. And now she was alone, sitting at the kitchen table, waiting. Waiting and watching the hands on the clock tick round, waiting and wondering where he went and what he was doing. He had been the apple of her eye since the day he was born. She remembered how her heart had totally melted when he was placed in her arms and she had looked down at his tiny, new born face. All through his life she had loved him totally, unconditionally, no matter what he did wrong. It was the same right now. He had got himself in real trouble this time, trouble with the police and there was nothing she could do to help. She had tried to understand, tried to reason with him, but all it had done was make him angry, and they had ended up arguing, loudly and horribly, shouting terrible things at each other. It had lasted almost an hour, before he stormed out of the house, announcing he would never be coming back. She knew he had no money, nowhere else to go, no friends to help him. She hoped he would come back home when he eventually calmed down. She hoped. She wished. She worried. And all the time she continued to wring her fingers, anxiously.

 

response to Virginia Wolfe:

There is something about that - an envelope surrounding the newly born soul. I have witnessed on 3 occasions the "luminous halo" of life at its pinhole beginning. Seemed to me, the new-breaking point of the halo was largest then, at its very start. What I saw was brighter and bigger than a human could handle. The start of it is concentrated and enlarged much like the exaggerated sized human head at birth. No wonder the baby cries, then keeps his eyes closed shut so much of the time. I would love to time travel back to my birth and have a look at the initial blingy bright halo. Would i be able to keep my eyes open this time? I bet not. Not with these tired old eyes and clouded psyche. I bet it is something like when you first die - that white light, the sense of passing into something so different that the halo has to blind the soul. Protect it. I wonder; would it hurt this big transformation? I doubt it. How could it? Then, I have witnessed as the semi-transparent envelope ages into a heavy sticky yellowed cotton pad that gets heavier and heavier until impossible to move. My father took his tired old cloak to its bitter-sweet end. He died from complications of Alzheimers. I must say the Alzheimer's victim is not so bad a victim at all. I believe as my father's condition worsen the halo grew bright again. He was able to drift toward his curiosities in a quiet, untroubled spirit. And in the end (or is it the beginning?) he was able to go, without fear or emotional drama- a very tidy package to his new form. I admit, I was a little jealous of him. If only I could have a tiny smidgen of his peacefulness in my complicated life. He knew I was jealous, that's why, while he was leaving me behind, he let me witness that other small pinhole. The new halo that so blindingly carried him over. He smiled and exhaled. Thats what he did. If he could have, he would have given me the thumbs up. His envelope of a soul was like a heavy duty-sized airplane that gently came to a four point landing. That is what I witnessed. It was quiet and graceful; a thing of beauty landing on a snow white fluff. I understood enough to know that there should be applause at that place where he alighted.