Tag Archives: beauty

Four Letters Forgotten – Friday Five Sentence Fictioneers

18 Jan
Mouth by Thomas Saliot, I own no rights. Image source and more of his art at:http://www.thomassaliot.com/?gallery=mouth

Mouth by Thomas Saliot, I own no rights. Image source and more of his art at:
http://www.thomassaliot.com/?gallery=mouth

Four Letters Forgotten

I can see the shake in your eyes, the ache strumming at your spine. I can hear your stomach mourn every miscarriage of words like a loving parent would, crying in pain as your expressions melt in the hell’s kettle of acid and hurt that has filled your hollow bones. Steam gathers in your eyes and foggy ghosts of the past lurk in the corners of your lips. But in all their darkness, they’re still scared of your glorious cupid’s bow, the god-carved figurehead of your brave spirit. Because when every shop and soul is sold out of smiles, you lead your mouth to another wondrous waltz and your laugh rings like the bells of Notre Dame, in a loving concerto that revives the four letters forgotten.

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That little piece above is my first ever Five Sentence Fictioneers and needless to say, I’m excited! Five Sentence Fictioneers is an intriguing challenge that, as lovely Lillie McFerring explains in her blog, is ” about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist. ”

Five sentences, a prompt word, inspiration. A recipe for an imaginative adventure.

This week’s prompt word is forgotten. To check out other creative Fictioneers click here, to know more or to participate dance over to Lillie’s place.

Peace and love, always!

xx

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Nature of Happiness

16 Jan

Deep below, under the stubborn ice and mouths frozen shut, the roots of life still linger. Slowly, they string their fine fingers upwards, infiltrate the army of snow flakes besieging us. Those fingers, you can feel them caressing your skin when you fall your cheek pressed to the iron-cold ground; sprigs and sprouts of onion being born, the sweet-tasting sap brewing, the birch babies and oak saplings still playing hide-and-seek, until the day that earth’s anticipation, its certainty of spring stronger than thousand ice ages, breaks all winter’s barriers and blossoms into light leaves of coltsfoot, pansy, primrose and thistle. But not quite yet my dear, not quite yet. First, we have to live through this concerto of whispering winds, nothing but rumours of life budding. That way we can have two summers; one blossoming in our ears and one, in time, blooming up from undeground, inviting us to a flower field dance.  

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Waiting for the spring is a sweet expectation, it is like waiting at the train station for an old friend to arrive. Peace and love, and warmth to melt your winter fingers! Take care.

Growing things in Farmer’s Kitchen- art and fiction

20 Dec
Farmer's Kitchen By Ivan AllbrightSource: http://www.flickriver.com/photos/maulleigh/4161478770/

Farmer’s Kitchen By Ivan Allbright
Source: http://www.flickriver.com/photos/maulleigh/4161478770/

 

Farmer’s Kitchen by Ivan Allbright. Sometimes also called: Beautiful.

Look at it, isn’t this piece just fascinating?

I could keep staring at the patterns, the colours, the details for forever. If I wasn’t too busy drowning into the expression on the man’s face, of course. Is he sad, tired, lonely, wistful? What is he? What’s the story behind this piece? What’s the story he carries in his heart?

I suppose these questions really show why art is so engaging. It makes you wonder, makes you imagine, makes you consider things that would have not even crossed your mind otherwise. Best art haunts you, it sticks to your mind like a post-it note and reminds you of all the realisations and feelings you experienced when you witnessed a good piece.

This piece definately did that to me. I could not stop wondering about the man. That’s why I wrote his story:

 

Growing things

I never was handsome.

– You wouldn’t make a model, you said when you saw me for the first time, but being a farmer must be a calling to you. Ha, even your nose is like a potato, a hairy and bulky tuber!

I let you say things like that because you  always laughed at them, and your laugh was like a choir of cheerful jingle bells.  How I miss your laugh!  It was the happiest part of you. I wish I could hear it once more, bursting out and bringing these dusty rooms back to life.

I wonder what you would say about me now. Often I imagine you appearing from the rain, standing on my doorstep with smudged make-up and chapped lips, tears running down your face. You would smile and pretend they’re raindrops. You would have a toothbrush in your hand and a backpack.  In my dreams you always look like this, oddly beautiful. In my dreams I look at you with bright lover’s eyes.

I miss you but maybe these kind of dreams should be kept shut away, in my little treasure chest of fantasies.  Because with you, these kind of dreamy scenes of love would only be an illusion. Reality would hit them hard, so hard they would be broken to pieces by your high-pitched shrieks:

“Why on earth are you wearing my old dress? And my apron too?”

“And look at you, you’ve got potato peels stuck all over it!”

“And your hands are all scratchy!”

I’m wearing your dress because once it smelled like you. Just after you had run away. I could smell the cigarette smoke, your sweet-tinted sweat and Chanel’s No. 5. And so I slipped it on, to have you near me. Now it’s lost the smell of you, the softness of your skin. I’m losing you too, the round shape of your face, the wild gestures of your hands.,, I hope this dress can bring them all back. And the potato peels… I’ve been cooking a meal for us. For the past five years. I’ve set the table too. Come in, please! Would you?

Would you? That’s what I wonder every day. Would you love my face now,  would you love it still now that it’s full of deep raisin lines? Would you love my awkward hands that resemble the dry, cracked ground I try to tame? Would you take my hand, hold it gently and not flinch at the touch of my rough, scaly skin? Would you dive into the quarry of my heart, dig out all the sharp stones of misery and grind them into soft sand? Would you?

I will never find answers. I don’t expect to. But I cannot be moved, I cannot forget, I cannot leave like you did.  I’m a work horse on this farm, I stay here faithfully even after everything’s dead. I go about my routines, try to make things grow, I set the table for two, wait for you in vain and then allow the cat to take your seat. The cat meows and looks at me in amusement, spoils the soup with its hairy paws. Oh well, you always disliked soup anyway. Maybe you started to dislike me too, or was it just the solidity of these walls you feared? When the house squeaked and creaked at night, did you fear that our security was falling apart? If I lean into a same wall for too long, it crumbles under my weight, that’s what you always used to say. I have to keep on moving, you mumbled many times. Did you plan your departure already, even then?

I suppose you were right. You leaned into me after all, you got close, so close I could feel the even warmth of your breath and the fast rabbit’s pulse on your wrist. Then you left and I crumbled. I turned into rocks scattered around this house.  I started to carry the colours of beetroot, carrot and potato on my face, blending into the lonely landscape of abandoned vegetable crops. I look like this house more and more every day. I’m empty like this house and my joints creak like the doors that are not opened often enough to let someone in. I’m old, draughty and unhinged like my kitchen. Our kitchen. I’ve become a bit skewed, this house was built sweked and so was our love. Shouldn’t we have known better from the start?

And maybe one day I will fall apart, turn into ash and fire and burn with this house. Or maybe I will become a solid part of these worn floors, one of the blind planks. Then I would find oblivion. But before I do, I want to forgive you. I used to think that the only passion I ever got from you was a passion fruit. You grabbed it once during a fight and threw it at me with blazing eyes. It hit me hard on my lips like a violent kiss. I didn’t mind the bruise, but I hated you for ruining a perfectly good fruit. I loved all things growing, and you laughed at me for this. You used to stand and look in wonder as I tended my garden.

“GROW UP! GROW UP!!”  I shouted at you, during our fights.

Grow up, just grow into something, into anything. Grow so I can love you too. Why did I left that tint of affection unsaid?

Now that it’s too late I understand  that you gave me so much more than one poorly aimed fruit and bruises on my heart. You gave me totally insensible love, the most honest kind of love, the one that doesn’t follow any planned paths. Stubborn kind of love that just comes like a wave and swipes over you, one that doesn’t come early or late or when it’s asked. It just comes and takes you.

And I loved you, you have no idea how much. Despite your poor temper, your chain smoking and the fact you sometimes treated me like a foreign object, I loved you.  Because I remember those other times… the time you snorted juice through your nose because I made you laugh so hard. The time you insisted on making pancakes for me in order to make up for some silly comment, and somehow you managed to set the frying pan on fire. Your cheeks were burning red as you panted and panicked, trying to figure out how to save the pancakes and not cause an inferno. I remember you sliding around the kitchen like a lost ice cube. I came to you, and you melted under my touch. And all was calm again.

And always, as I looked at you, I felt a weir lump swelling inside me, like a sponge that sucked all air out of me. It was just a feeling that never quite translated into words or proposals, but it was a strong feeling. It made me gulp and shiver. It was love, I recognise now. Our  bittersweet love that didn’t make any sense, totally incomprehensible, maybe doomed from the start, but just too beautiful and pitiful to be shooed away. You gave me that love and you forgot to pack it away and take it with you when you left, and for that I’m thankful.  It still lingers here, keeping me company. As I stand in the middle of my fields and look at the light creeping up, stretching its hands above the horizon to push the darkness away, I feel it. Our love, the memory of it mixing with the fresh light of dawn. And look, what’s that? A little growing seedling, how odd. I had forgotten what they look like. But now I remember. They look beautiful. They look like you but funnily, they look like the future too. They look like hope.

Your turn. What does the piece bring to your mind?

Finding clarity

9 Dec

Right now, if I could give you absolutely anything in this world, I would give you a peaceful moment. I would give you a moment that is just for you, your own tranquil hiding place. I would give you some time to think, to laugh, to sleep, to cry, whatever it is you need right now. Unfortunately, I cannot stretch the day to cover more hours. But I can try and share you the clarity and peace I found today, just wandering outside my house. Luckily, nature is ancient and eternal, it does not bow to our watches. It just watches us as we pass by, offering us peace under its many branches and roots.

Wishing you a gentle Sunday!

 

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Finding clarity

 

What traces, what lacy webs

Of laugher do I leave behind

Carved into the swooshing, surging

Swift winds of time, into its flooding quicksand

 

Only guesses and howls shouted

Into the winding tunnels of night

Faint heritages ringing out longingly

From inside the worn-out grandfather’s clock

Its hollow clanging clinging on

To the memories, calling for answers

 

Till I find them all, quietly passing by

As luminecent and pure as a willow grouse

Against the snow’s light that crowns

The treetops and the windows of my heart

Gazing out to meet the eager eyes of this world

 

There I find it, the invisible in the air

As it tenderly, peacefully, slowly

Bends me lower, pushes me to feel

The vibration of life travelling

Above and under, enveloping all

Entwining us in its sleeping beauty

 

So gently, I am grounded

And peace touches me like owl’s wing

In flight, not waiting for an answer

Just softly awknowledging

That I am here, in time, in touches, alive

 

Copyright: Poem and all photos ©daydreamdaisies

❤ Language love ❤

21 Nov

If you’re at all fascinated by languages and words, you might enjoy listening to this. Even if you aren’t, it might still make you chuckle because I’ve heard Finnish sounds like gibberish. And as a bonus, it’s a really special song!

 

I love the English language! It is not just the fact that I’m fluent enough to do the practical stuff, like express myself at the doctors, either. I just feel so connected to the language. I have christened that feeling ‘the soul fluency’. It is when your mind, your dreams, even your feelings function in a certain language. It is the feeling the language gives you when you open your mouth, the feeling of coming home. Like that language forms a part of your soul. That really is English to me.

But then again, Finnish is my mother tongue.  It is the language I uttered my first word in.  So it is, too, a part of my soul and that is a side you don’t get to see here often. That’s why I thought it would be nice to introduce it with this song. Finnish is weird, peculiar, complex language. It is beautiful too, like the man above. Or what do you think?

Anyway, I admire the artist Samuli Putro endlessly. He is a lyrical genius. I think he really has a unique, gentle way of portraying our ordinary lives. I hope the feeling comes across! But just so you don’t have to trust Google Translate I have translated the lyrics for you. Listen, read, fall in love!

But before you do, just out of curiousity, what is the language that speaks to your soul? Or the word, for that matter, if you’re more of a word-geek?

Lyrics:

Ash in the Jewellery Chest – Tuhkaa korulippaassa

 

In the morning, I see migrant birds

In formation, on the sky

I’m moved and I greet them

See you in the spring, or later

 

I stood there, in the shade of the moment

Musing on the frailty of human life

And I could not question

Some kind of God

 

Our life has a purpose

And beauty in its every moment

We’re not automatons

Typing errors on the screen

 

Our life has a purpose

Everyone’s story is precious

We are not meaningless

Ash in the jewellery chest

 

I celebrate my birthday today

My present was a digital camera

I took two photos of a woman

Other one of them looked pretty

 

I decided to propose tonight

To the lady on the photo, knees on the carpet

I pondered over the words carefully

I closed my eyes and I smiled

 

Our life has a purpose

And beauty in its every moment

We’re not automatons

Typing errors on the screen

 

Our life has a purpose

Everyone’s story is precious

We are not meaningless

Ash in the jewellery chest

Ash in the jewellery chest

 

People’s expressions and

In the old songs

Flowering fields and

In the winter snow drifts

Spouse’s haircut I’ll notice or maybe not

Yellow September and stains on the linen

 

Our life has a purpose

And beauty in its every moment

 

Our life has a purpose

And beauty in its every moment

We’re not automatons

Typing errors on the screen

 

Our life has a purpose

Everyone’s story is precious

We’re not meaningless

Ash in the jewellery chest

Ash in the jewellery chest

An ode to the 21st century

7 Nov

Photocredit: guardian.co.uk

This city is the faceless eel

that sucks your body dry,

it is the greyness and rain

dampening your brain,

turning it into poisoning fungi

This city is the pit of vomit, cold

and egoistic battles, it is the cages

of our minds that rattle, it is

the reek of loneliness in our tears

as we squirm in our one-room flats,

in our boxed-up apocalyptic fears

And yet, I do not hate this city

and the dark pit of dirt it bears

No, I do not hate but dream of the day

we’ll buy all the pure-coloured paint

and overnight, we will spray this city white

And we will watch that glimmer

we created, we will watch it peel

the buildings out of stiffness and

the people out of their sunken forms,

we will watch us all being reborn,

again carrying the sun in our cores

I do not hate this city for it is not evil

only baby-blind, waiting to open up

its hazy eyes.

I do not hate this city because

to love the sun one must first be

shown the light.

Winter bliss

28 Oct

First snow.

Had it not been dark and would my photographic skills be greater, the photos above would convey the whole beauty of it better, the gently frozen tree branches and a world turned into Narnia. I drew my gaze to the ground because I loved the grass and the leaves so lightly touched by it. It was as if the world had decided to still all the seasons, emerge them into one; the grass was still green and the leaves had their autumn fire, but now they were also wrapped in snow, the fresh winter gliss. It was so calm, so quiet and as I looked around, I made peace with the world. And it was this feeling of kindness in the air I wanted to share with you today. Be safe!

Winter bliss

 

The snow strips these streets

bare of you, of all painful

and leaves only the naked slumber,

total surrender, a forgiving promise

of the past wiped aside

 

and the petals of frozen daisies,

so fragile and untouched, untraced

by all evil, they leave me floundering

with their peace, their sweet sleep

and unplucked answers

 

For the dead are not gone

from your heart, they dwell here

in the frozen beauty, stilled in time

to be forever free and sincere

 

They are the sigh of relief

the rest in you, a pure flame

igniting you, pulling you

into harbour

 

to love, to make peace

with all that is given.