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Dark standing-stones block out the horizon,
shading the pinks and reds of sunset. Whether with a sprinkling of snow, or the green spikes of pines, these behemoths capture and cage the attention of us all. Behind them, you see the light, the blinding point where all of the sun's power seems to concentrate. It slowly sinks down, like it normally dives into the sea, but this time, lowers itself below our sights, shielded by montains, playing hide and seek, until it finally reappears the next day, ready to run it's marathon across the sky once more.
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What could be better than friends on a beach?
What once was the simple beauty of green,
is now the complex color combinations you see before you. Purplish pigments appear, with dashes of red and yellow mixed in, and the last few emerald stragglers are almost swallowed up by the flood of colors and tones. The curve of the mountain slopes morph like a chameleon, and shine in autumn, with unbridled beauty and majesty. Catching someone’s belief in your hands is hard sometimes.
It flutters fitfully against clenching fingers, not wanting to hear words that fracture and taint the picture they have in their heads, chipping at well-crafted facades that were made to never be doubted. It’s hard to get them to listen to you, when you whisper in clipped, fear-soaked words, that their friend and neighbor, isn’t who they thought they were. Or even worse, they are, but behind closed doors, or in the presence of only those less powerful, they become swallowed by the deep pit of anger inside them, and drag others down with them, shoving their kids down below the surface of what childhood should be, where they have to thrash and claw their way to any small breath of cherished air or risk still silence that is inescapable. Where those small faces can sit forever, hiding under a blanket, hoping the screaming will stop, and never realizing that they’ve grown up, moved away, started their own life. That no one can hurt them now. People don’t want to believe, that a person whose clothes are perfectly ironed, who goes to church every week, volunteers to help you move during a Phoenician summer, runs his own business, and has a gleaming smile, can also be an abuser to his spouse and children. It’s far too easy for them to tell you that you’re over reacting, dramatizing, lying about it all. You’re just seeking attention. You’re too young to know what abuse is. You’re complaining over nothing. You’ve played too many violent video games. It was just a nightmare. With these reactions to our truths, it’s no wonder that when we grow up, we find new abusers, and we tell ourselves our own lies. It was only once. They won’t do it again. I deserved it. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s my fault. I don’t want to be alone. This is normal. No one would believe me anyway. We are lanterns floating in a dark room,
drawing the eye of all who catch glimpses of us. We light the way through the prevailing dark mists, even if we aren't aware of it. We are following the lights that we can see ahead, but we never know who is following ours. Even a flicker can be enough to reach someone's eye, and encourage them to drag their feet a couple more feet closer to their goal, instead of giving into the darkness then and there. Everyday, people assume things about one another,
after a single glance, a dismissal. We do the same. Judging by looks and superficial concepts, skimming the surface, and never thinking to delve deeper, into the truth that lies far beneath. Judging books by their covers, houses by their height, foods by their colors, and automatically dismissing them for no true or concrete reason. You will never know the lifestory of someone just by looking at them, nor the effort put forth by an author if you just glance at their work. We need to stop skipping like stones across a lake, and start exploring like scuba divers, searching the depths for sights indescribable, and before now, undiscovered. You never know, we might find Atlantis, instead of reaching the other side and saying, "Well, that was disappointing. What's next?"  With skin of faded ivory,
The lady awaits her Lover’s arrival. Her brown hair pinned up in a tidy fashion atop her head, reveals the soft curve of her neck, awaiting a soft kiss. The ladies dress stands out starkly against her skin, A deep Shadow collecting at her tiny waist, before falling in the thick curtain at her feet. It is held Aloft by fine jeweled thread, one across each shoulder, Allowing the highest amount of skin to show. A site that will surely excite her lover, when he comes. She stands alone in the dreariest room in the house, Knowing that she will practically glow and it’s dim, poor lighting. It will attract her lover all the more. I wonder if there’s a point where the flow of creativity stops.
Does the muse just decide she’s done singing, And the essence of creation halts its stream for good? Will there be no more nuance or spiritualism in word? An eternal absence of song, music, dance? I think that would be a very quiet world. One of boredom, apathy and sorrow. What would raise the hopes of the fallen? Push away the dreaded darkness? I pray that day never comes, Because for all the days I yell curses at that fickle muse, The world would be cold without her. These screens that we worship at home,
or carry around in our pockets like talismans, have so much potential to impact our world for the better. With them, we can access more information than we could absorb in a dozen lifetimes. Literature, science, music, art, are all present and thriving in communities around the world and outside our door. If we put in the effort of a couple keystrokes, or a brief conversation with Siri, then those portals can take us to levels of thought and understanding that we could never had imagined. So take a moment, and step into the dark with me, out of the quiet of your comfort zone. Come and learn and listen with me. A Golden Shovel poem, inspired by:
“As is a landscape to a blind man’s eyes” -William Wordsworth The eyes and their fickle functions taunt my mind as they pretend to reveal mysteries to those whose focus is sharp and dedicated, but their true aims seem to be showing us a world full of threats and anxieties that hide behind the beautiful landscape. What appears at first is a breathtaking sight that steals away your worries, before leaving you to Wonder on what lies beneath the beauty. Eventually, that which you thought was a sight to clear your mind of all negative thoughts, reveals a plot to blind you to its obvious beauty, and leave you hollow and empty inside, until you see the beauty of man’s creations only. And for the sake of your own mind, to nature’s stunning showings, you turn a blind man’s eye. |
Cheyenne Bramwell
I love to write, and poetry is one of my favorite ways to figure out what my brain is doing. 
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