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9.8k · May 2014
Silence (6w)
Elaenor Aisling May 2014
The silence
is too loud here.
5.2k · May 2014
Elaenor Aisling May 2014
I've learned to hate uncertainty.
Changes that come cursedly unannounced.
The future glass is half empty, and leaking.
God, Luck, and the Fates have lost my file.
Tossed by mistake to the recycling bin,
to fend for itself.
Time is the only one that plods along,
dragging moment after moment
to the slaughter, though they shriek
never taking a day off.
Death is the only certainty
and even he
works by spontaneity.
I am, at times, a panicking, over-planning pessimist...
5.1k · Feb 2015
Elaenor Aisling Feb 2015
Water bearer*
It is always borne.
Never passing under the bridge
where it's supposed to be.
Streams burst from under the tongue
and sponge pores.
Drowning inside,
under memories weight.
I don't place much stalk in signs, but I always thought this an interesting ideal. Any other aquarius have hard times letting go of memories?
3.4k · Nov 2015
Night Flowers
Elaenor Aisling Nov 2015
Night flowers bloomed
in moments to rare for words.
It is morning,
and they have still not folded upon themselves
but turn to face the day
unfurling more beautifully
than before.
3.2k · Apr 2014
Elaenor Aisling Apr 2014
can you remember the name of that tree?
the one with the big leaves?"
He asks me, raising a withered hand
towards the young magnolia,
not yet blooming.
"Magnolia, I believe."
A light comes into his clouded eyes.
"Ah! Magnolia! Thank you."
he says, before shuffling away.
I pause for a moment.
Staring at the sapling.
Something stirs in memory.
Something deep, or shallow,
I cannot tell.
Memory, none the less.
I feel as though I should remember
a meaning behind the white flowers,
and broad leaves,
but I draw a blank.
idk, drabble. Not much.
2.6k · Feb 2014
Ex Accent
Elaenor Aisling Feb 2014
He tells me I could get a boyfriend
if I spoke in my bad British accent.
It's very illegitimate.
I've only ever been to Heathrow,
I have no idea what dialect it is.
But he still says it's ****.

It would catch attention, I'm sure.
Interest from long haired hipster boys
Maybe the occasional "Oh, are you from England?"
And I could fib and say yes,
because the average American can't hear the difference
between a girl imitating Masterpiece Classic and Keeping Up Appearances,
and a true born Bristolian or Brummie.

"You're sure to get a man," he says.
'But I don't want one.' I think in reply.
I think he really just wants to know
if I am considering replacing his memory.
"Not yet Govn'a," I say in my best Cockney.
Not yet.
2.5k · May 2014
Elaenor Aisling May 2014
Alone she weaves her tangled web
Twisting, tying, all amiss
and she sees not the darkened threads
that twine about her wrists.

A single light in a darkened room
one window one mirror, little sight
to the world outside her bower wall
Blurred separation between day and night.

Her head swirls with tangled threads
forgotten thoughts and anguish low
the monotony of a thousand days
left to weave and wind and sew

Sighs escape now from her lips
those ruby lips, once known by kings
now known to only lament and sobs
for what she lost in love-lorn pining.

"Faithless have I been, O father."
she breathes at morning prayers
as pearl beads slip through milk white hands
and dust hangs about the air.

When all is done, and mass is sung
she retires to her cell
once again to sew and weave
her rich and long, sad, tale.

First she finds the pale while thread
and then she finds the blue
And quickly, with her shaking hands
weaves the face she once knew.

She weaves the gown of green she wore
on the fated wedding day
and adds the flaxen hair he praised
When laced with the flowers of May.

At last she finds the golden thread,
but pauses, silent, the room a mess
she lays the golden spool aside
and kneels before the long locked chest.

With trembling hands, and gleaming eyes
she lifts the lid, on the life she once had
A rush of air and dust and mould
and feeling, at once, joyful and sad.

First she takes the bright blue gown
and then she takes the green,
finds the jewels her mother wore
it's all where it should have been.

Within the dusty corner dark,
the twilight fading, sun going down
she sees the gleam of gold once more
and takes from the depths her golden crown.

In the flickers of the candlelight
the jewels they sparkle once again,
And all the memories come rushing back
From childhood days to the kingdom's end.

Tears are falling from her eyes
when again she takes the golden thread
and reverently she weaves the crown
upon the figure's head.

At last she's cut the final string
and takes a step back from the frame
she sees her life before her eyes,
and feels the tears come again.

There Arthur stands, in kingly garb
His soft eyes staring back at her
and in his arms, her younger self,
she remembers, how happy they once were.

To her left stands Lancelot
his shining armor gleaming bright
his pleading gaze finds her again
with the love that turned to blight.

Between these two men she still stands
Two heros, once in brotherhood bound
She chose the Knight above absent King
and three hearts were trampled into the ground.

Memories swirl about her head
as she takes the knife flashing flint,
and drives the blade into the silk
Till every thread once whole, lies rent.
Took a few cues from the Lady of Shallot, plus smatterings of several different Arthurian traditions. It is said that Guinevere joined a convent after Arthur died-- hence the mass. Tapestry making was a common pastime for noble women--I'm not sure about nuns, but it's not as though she were an ordinary nun.
2.4k · Mar 2014
Flightless Birds
Elaenor Aisling Mar 2014
My hands,
Flightless birds with parchment skin,
marked with scars, glowing white.
They turn blue when the weather is cold.
The old wives say to look for men
with hard-working scars on their palms.
But what of a woman with marked hands?
1.9k · Apr 2015
Evening Sun
Elaenor Aisling Apr 2015
I want a lover like the evening sun
half shadow half light
wanderer of dappled paths between leaves,
sojourner seeking the reflection
of life in darkened eyes.
He will taste like Pheobus
bright, amber honey tongued,
the golden glow spilling into the deep corners
light has yet to reach within me.
But his arms will fold like Erebus,
the comforting dark
of purple shadows behind lids falling for sleep
the peaceful night, quiet, cloaked
in the solemn strength of dying stars
and the last whisper of northern lights.
Remind me what it is to know
the depth of dark
without leaving the warmth of light.
1.9k · Jun 2014
Elaenor Aisling Jun 2014
The grief has not set in yet.
Only the foreboding weight of sorrow
hangs in the distance.
I will find it in my mother's eyes,
bright from weeping.
The sweetest lives are always the shortest.
The Good die young,
and we the half-good, remain.
Pausing for prayers and graveside tears.
I would say unfair,
but death is always the great equalizer.
I may join her tomorrow-- who knows.
Cradled in earth still damp from rain,
or burned to ashes.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
But Death, be not proud.
Family friend just passed away.
1.8k · Nov 2013
Elaenor Aisling Nov 2013
I was 17,
when we discussed workout routines in gym,
thin legs branching from ruby-red shorts,
skin pale and dappled in winter air.
I described my workout of 200's.
200 crunches, 200 sit-ups, etc. etc. etc.
"You make me feel fat,"
my model- built friend complained.

I stared down at my shrinking thighs,
wondering how fat she would feel,
with hollow spaces beneath her skin,
numbed by the gnawing of metabolism on muscle.
If she could feel her labored breaths circulate
through drained limbs,
and saw the stars and sparks in the haze of exhaustion,
that perpetuated around me.
If she shivered
walking home in without a coat in December
simply because
Cold burned more calories than warm.  

At 17, I learned
Electric blankets were invented for asylum patients
so they wouldn't freeze when they were lain outside
to get fresh air.
I shivered under mine in a warm house--
strangled by three layers of hoodies,
a morbidly comical scene-- the skeletal inmate cowering
in masses of cotton
and still cold.

The skeleton in the mirror had no eyes,
Only its bloated stomach stared back at me.
Forget the thigh-gap,
the stomach was the only thing that mattered.
It should be as flat as the unleavened bread
I refused at communion:
I didn't know how many calories it had.

I was 17,
when the word "beauty" fell from my vocabulary.  
Lank, unwashed hair hung limp to hide the
Inflamed scratches on my face: feeble efforts to eradicate
the hatred, guilt, over two extra bites,
and what I had become.
Here I was, in all my gollum-like, two by four perfection:
except the stomach.
That ****** bloated *****
I wished I could tear it from my body,
Throw it aside to rot on the heap
of moulding high-school dreams
I kept in the corner of my room.

But it remained, day after day,
the stubborn thing stayed on,
even when filled with saltwater,
to force it to give up the last bit of its contents.
Three mugs, and several tablespoons later
it finally relinquished,
in the emergency room,
as my mother stood
holding my hair and crying.
I still thought she was over-reacting.

I looked up at the ER doctor,
middle aged and blonde,
her eyes were sympathetic, but annoyed,
As she asked me if I was trying to **** myself.
"No," I said. Not Yet I thought,
I heard my dry throat crack with the words,
"I have an eating disorder."
Thanks to rehab and prozac this is all behind me.
1.7k · Feb 2014
Elaenor Aisling Feb 2014
Sparrows land on the telephone lines,
tiny scaled feet feeling the vibrations
of clumsy human speech
coursing through the connections beneath.
Come, tiny sparrow, nest in my hands.
My palms were hollowed to fit your wings,
My fingers poised to feel your heart
beat within the down breast.
I rejoice in finding something so beautifully real,
Authentic in your wanderings, your songs.
If only I could be half so truthful.
1.7k · Oct 2013
Quilts and Copper
Elaenor Aisling Oct 2013
I have yet to bare my soul to you.
I've seen some of yours,
beautifully ragged and torn and patched,
but still strong, gentle.
Like the old quilts my grandmother made.
Only you're not half so old as they.

Our souls are old, regardless of our mortal age,
they've known much, seen much,
staring through copper eyes into a spectrum
of past, present, future.
Mine linger in the past,
yours glance back now and then,
but always know what's behind.
1.7k · Feb 2014
Elaenor Aisling Feb 2014
I think my grandmother is convinced
that my ovaries will shrivel up
if I do not find a man by summer.

She was married by 19,
and has always wanted great grandchildren
she loves buying baby things, children's toys.
Kindergarten is the golden age of life.
I did not date in highschool,
but if she saw me looking at a boy,
she asked if he was single,
and told me to ask him over for dinner.

When I hit University,
I found a sweet, mad, mess of a boy
and she was quiet,
but we went our separate ways,
she started up again.

Scheming, the unwanted matchmaker.
Asking if the piano player at church was single,
(he's four years younger than I)
and trying to arrange play-dates for me
with unwitting high school acquaintances.

She means well, I know,
but despite the hopeless Romanticism I harbor
I know I need time, (there are still open wounds),
to fall back in love with myself,
before trying to fall for someone else.
1.6k · Feb 2014
Prayers in Sociology
Elaenor Aisling Feb 2014
Looking back,
I found prayers scribbled in the margins
of my sociology notes.
I am unsure if God still lives
or if we have killed him.
But considering the answers those prayers received,
I believe He is still kicking.
1.6k · Dec 2013
Skip that Song
Elaenor Aisling Dec 2013
I skip that song again.
Too many memories still hang on the words,
the notes clang like old glass bottles
the woman with the red scarf tied to the oak tree,
they knock in the wind, fragile whiskey ghosts,
of times to sacred to be remembered now.
So I'll skip that song
till the bottle strings break,
and my someday-daughter asks
about the snowflake shards of glass
beneath the old oak tree.
This is why you DO NOT associate songs with relationships. This one written specifically about "I'll follow you into the dark" by Death Cab for Cutie.
1.5k · Jan 2014
She Dreamed of Pomegranates
Elaenor Aisling Jan 2014
She dreamed of pomegranates among lilies,
red orbs glowing among the white,
water beneath, black as soot and death,
while life drifted just above the surface.

She thought of Catherine of Aragon,
forlorn loves, starved dreams,
desolate, but beautiful, on the surface of death.
The most lovely thing about life,
is that it ends.
1.5k · Sep 2014
Strange Alchemy
Elaenor Aisling Sep 2014
I am of a strange alchemy.
Iron and tarnished silver,
with porcelain hands.
The rest feels like glass.
As though the smallest tremor
could send me falling
to shatter.
1.4k · Jun 2013
The Dam Builder
Elaenor Aisling Jun 2013
I am the stream,
you are the dam builder
with gentle, work-worn hands,
you guide my free waters,
but do not diminish them.
You embrace me with
the caresses of smooth river stones,
till I am transformed from placid lake,
to tumbling rapid.
1.3k · Feb 2014
Elaenor Aisling Feb 2014
I sewed my mouth shut with broken heart strings,
A shard of bone to pierce the lips.
A sliver of rib, I think.
My voice was never worth hearing
unless it was channeled in ink.
1.3k · Dec 2014
Elaenor Aisling Dec 2014
Your truth is sweet.
Mine is sharp.
I cut away at you, without meaning to,
my hands are scissors,
yours are feathers.
Icarus, do not let me be your sun.
Elaenor Aisling Dec 2015
The house, when empty,
feels like a moseleum.
Everything is dark.
It is strange, how literally I can feel the heart tear.
Pericardium and myocardium,
ripping with the slow, tough **** of time and waiting,
atrium and ventricle split.
Far away my brain turns in on itself
as I stare at the candy on the road,
left from a Christmas parade,
Defined by the things its left behind,
though they lie unwanted.

My soul has fled to the wilderness
birth pangs of grief beginning,
prepared to deliver a stillborn heart,
As another star falls out of my sky.

It will go dark, I know.
One by one fall, without wishes to bring them back.
I stare at my sister's golden hair
and dread the day when she will be the one lying white,
in a hospital bed.
Oh my mother, Oh my father,
are you to fall away, too?

Light. I scream, I need light.
But I will not throw bits of glass at the sky
to pretend I have re-lit the stars.
1.3k · Nov 2013
2am Souls
Elaenor Aisling Nov 2013
Give it up,
relinquish those thousand thoughts,
the thousand hopes,
no one ever wanted to know.
Keep only the things they wanted to read,
the ****, the gossip.
The secrets shared between you and your lovers,
whispered in hushed tones
across mascara scarred pillows at 2am.

Bury the dreams,
that had no meaning.
The happy ones, full of lavender and vanilla,
But keep the nightmares,
the ones that left you screaming at 2am
that will make the hair stand up on the nape of their necks,  
and give them nightmares of their own.

Starve your soul,
till all that's left is the shell of a body
that they will praise, then critique.
Who needs souls anyway?
Without a soul, you remain forever,
undamned, unsaved,
alone, in the dark, at 2am.
1.2k · Jan 2014
A Literature Critique
Elaenor Aisling Jan 2014
I read stories of women,
dressed in silk and wool,
quiet, passive, faceless ladies
defined only by their spontaneous romances
with strangers on trains,
who dug out childish notions in their heads,
as they forsook their loving husbands of twenty years
for slick haired young men,
who pretend not to mind their sagging *******.

Madam Bovarys for a modern age.
Afraid of fading youth, dying embers,
bringing up the same high school insecurities,
they felt when their prom date flirted with the cheerleading captain.
And quenching them just as quickly
when they fogged up the windows of his father's car.

But maybe I should keep quiet.
What do I know?
A thin, ******, school girl,
who has known little of passion, but some of love.
And when I learned love, I learned loyalty.
1.2k · Feb 2013
The Masochist
Elaenor Aisling Feb 2013
Give me the pain, please.
Even if there is none.
Project what you think fit
onto my masochistic spirit,
who waits, open, longing
for the jab.
1.2k · Jun 2014
Elaenor Aisling Jun 2014
I like my days melancholy.
But beautifully so.
When the sky is grey,
with the few solitary raindrops.
I stand at the sink, in the fading sunlight,
washing my two navy dresses.
A soft old jazz piece plays on the radio,
I turn the fabric over in my hands.
Scrubbing between buttons and seams,
washing the remnants of church services,
a job interview, presentations
down the rusting drain.
I dunk a lace collar into the water
it comes up dark, black, heavy
as though someone has dipped it in tar.
It's delicacy is gone,
but it's spaces seemingly filled.
I stretch it across my palm,
black against alabaster.
The emptiness is here, today,
as it is in all days,
but for a few moments,
it feels filled.
1.2k · Jul 2014
Elaenor Aisling Jul 2014
I am queen of afterthoughts,
rarely of fore.
Especially not in matters of hearts.
I am dry heaving sighs,
with leaden guilt
and what ifs.
**** them.
**** me.
I want to curl up and die. I can't stand to hurt people. I didn't mean to, just stupid me didn't think things through. *******. I don't know. I just wanted to do the right thing.
1.2k · Nov 2013
Elaenor Aisling Nov 2013
A thousand words, never to be written,
too many moments to translate.
An unnecessary task, but a preferred one.
It should be easy, I am a wordsmith, as you said,
but my fire is merely embers,
my hammer, lost,
The billows need patching.
Discouraged, I sit by my dying fire,
a pile of horseshoe memories by my side.  
Broken plough hopes,
iron backed words.
All once glowing red,
now solidified in time,
by the cooling tears in a barrel.
1.1k · Feb 2014
Aged vanity
Elaenor Aisling Feb 2014
And we never stop being girls at heart.
Even at 80, in the nursing home bathroom mirror,
I will probably stop
and stare, at the parchment-faced woman,
with wrinkled cheeks and drooping eyes,
and wonder where the acne faced girl,
with bright round eyes,
has hidden herself away.
I will smile at the young, handsome, CNA
as he passes in the hall, wondering
what he would think of me at 18.
1.1k · Apr 2014
F words
Elaenor Aisling Apr 2014
"Am I fat?"
My little sister asks,
poking a delicate finger at her tiny stomach.

My heart sinks.

I stare at her thin limbs
well muscled from gymnastics
and playground antics.
"No. Don’t ever let me hear the "F" word come out of your mouth again,"I say.

But I know she will ask again.
She will ask herself when she stares in the mirror,
and will pass judgment on her thighs, her hips, her stomach.

Just as I
and nearly every other woman ever born,
asks the glass, permission to approach the bench
and the judge gives a final verdict— not thin/pretty/beautiful/skinny/fair/tan/ enough.

How ****** up it is—that we think worth is visible.
1.1k · Mar 2015
War of a Woman
Elaenor Aisling Mar 2015
Take this violent heart of mine.
Someone pulled the pin with a kiss
spit shrapnel and blood,
cut your lips without meaning to.
Cough enough smoke, and your eyes water
phosphorus breath.
Born under the rising of a red sun.
Blood spilled this night and every night
between sheets of rain and steel
cold, heavy, stark as my eyes in the morning
when waking to the sirens.
Foxhole of fear and foot-shooter,
What am I good for?
Men may cry peace, peace,
but there is no peace.
Not in this violent heart.
1.1k · Apr 2012
Savage Beauty
Elaenor Aisling Apr 2012
I watched you in your savage beauty
wild and untamed
You sprang from here to there to here
your garments rent
in splays of silk
trailing like wings behind you.
Your talon hands
they grabbed for mine
digging in deep and drawing blood.
I was no longer watching you
I was with you,
in this savage beauty.
Ignored pain drove through my hand
as you guided me through
your dance macabre.
How I loved you as I bled
my hands about your waist
You kissed me with the kiss of death
And dead you fell within my arms
My deadly, lovely, savage thing
with splays of silk
enveloping you.
Inspired by Alexander McQueen's Savage Beauty collection.
1.1k · Mar 2014
Introverts 101
Elaenor Aisling Mar 2014
Invisibility is a lonely place.
Quiet, peaceful, but empty.
There are others here, too.
But we're to afraid to speak.
for fear our voices will shatter glass of silence
that shields us from the rest of the world.
A desire rests deep in our hands
to strike the pane, color our knuckles with something
as real as blood and pain.
To see life in liquid form,
coursing down our pale skin,
grasp a hand from the other side
to be lost in deep words
with a like minded companion.
Traipsing down the deer trails of thought
while the leaves of dreams
fall at our feet.
1.0k · Jan 2015
Stress Dream
Elaenor Aisling Jan 2015
Reckless sleep
a car accident dream.
I see red, no, blue?
Someone is panicking outside
the imagined steel.
Big, gentle, I don't know him.
I am calm-- too calm.
They can't get the door open.
1.0k · Jan 2014
A Southern Haunting
Elaenor Aisling Jan 2014
A sadness haunts that town.
stuffed between the cracks
of dilapidated matchbox houses,
and in the grit of rusty trailers.
Even below the green carpet of government buildings,
And the marble courthouse floor.

Poverty stares Wealth in the face from across the street,
his haunted, empty eyes
lit by the embers of discarded cigarettes.
Wealth is good at glossing over the cracks,
setting up the chain link fences and rail road tracks.
Iron curtains that could be stepped over,
if anyone knew they were there.

But no matter how many fences,
there's still that nameless sadness in the soil.
A potent concoction
of dead dreams, harsh realities, and broken hearts.
With a dash of Cherokee tears and lead from the War.
All stirred by Monotony,
who lights her cauldron fire
with electric bills and dollar store receipts.

Like a curse, it spares none.
Though they've learned how to smile
with tears in their eyes,
above moth eaten scarves or pearls.
It's permeated everything, down to the roots.

But not to leave the glass half empty;
Some still find happiness,
some are still sad.
That's just how it goes.
Hope and despair are but two notes in the same tune.
1.0k · Sep 2013
Love and Biology 103
Elaenor Aisling Sep 2013
"Define life," he said, "In under seven words."
Several gave their answers,
cold and scientific, their wavering hands,
hoping for good reputations.

I had an answer.
The word leapt to my lips,
struggled to part them,
but I clenched my teeth to hold it back.

"Love." My heart whispered.
"We have not life,  if we have not love."

But love is not in the textbook.
1.0k · Jan 2014
Chekhov in the Bathtub
Elaenor Aisling Jan 2014
And she reads Chekhov in the bathtub
thinking that 19th century Russia
must have been visually interesting, but literarily dull,
writing overstuffed with description and repetition.
It's pungent perfume pleasant at first, but soon overbearing.
She never made it through Anna K. either,
and only conquered Ilyich for academics sake.
Swimming in the long winded, emotional descriptions,
all she could think, was of what Northern ancestor
decided all Russians should go by three names
and what cunning linguist adored 'V' and 'Y' to such extent
that he proclaimed they should be used as much as humanly possible.
A popularized,  sadistic joke
for a younger brother with a speech impediment.
No offense to the Russian language, or anyone who is a Tolstoy or Chekhov fan, I just find it a little heavy for my taste. :)
1.0k · Apr 2014
Portraits in Art History
Elaenor Aisling Apr 2014
To my left,
there is the Neoclassical beauty,
profile drawn by David himself,
bright eyes, reminiscent of Gainsborough.

The Rubeniste sits in front of me,
full figured, though not as colorful
as the Graces.

Behind me lurks the Rembrandt,
moody, dark,
in the chiaroscuro of a leather jacket
and tousled hair.

Here I am.
With my Schiele hands,
Rosetti lips,
but without the quiet grace
or distortion of either.
1.0k · Feb 2014
Deadly Sins
Elaenor Aisling Feb 2014
I am a paradoxical mix of vanity and self-hate.
I will catch my reflection,
caught in the lure of my own eyes,
wide, dark olive drab, soulful, some might say.
The full lips, naturally red.
Slender limbs, well made.

The next moment,
I am all acne scarred skin, pock marks,
tiny *******, weak chin, critiquing the weight my bones carry,
tracing through every thing I've eaten that day,
decided, on a biased scale, if it was too much,
and how much work
will be needed to take it off.

The dichotomy of beauty and ugliness,
each raising separate voices
within the same body.
Both deadly sins, in their own right.
My mind reminds me, I am more than body,
I am also a soul,
but my body if fond of stifling it.
996 · Sep 2014
Elaenor Aisling Sep 2014
I determine to die loved.
Even if it is only
by myself.
I will learn to love myself before I die.
979 · Jan 2014
Wrinkles in Time
Elaenor Aisling Jan 2014
By mental age they say I am 43.
Old soul, yes.
I have crows feet from perpetual introspection,
reading books in dim light, inspecting the folds of time
for the tiniest wrinkle
that proves I was born in the wrong century, wrong time.
By some un-ironed twist of fate, I was placed in the wrong womb.
But I am resourceful, I can bloom where I was planted,
Though I will always have heart strings in the past.
968 · Mar 2015
Daughters of Eve
Elaenor Aisling Mar 2015
Adulthood is falsehood.
I remember at the darkest,
hearing a voice other than my mother's,
mantra repeated for knife-depraving comfort,
keeping nails away from face.
I thought it should be the voice
of the woman who held me against her breast
who bore me through blood and near-death.
The voice seemed more woman than my mother.
The deep, solid, earthy voice of iron eyes and earthen hands
rough tenderness of nature,
the comfort of Eve
made woman, never born child.
But I suppose she understood better than we
innocence lost.

My mother has the fragility of spun sugar,
But steel bent will--
I realize there is still the scared child
buried in her heart
and I see the same reflection of me in the mirror.
Buck-toothed, grass haired, round faced, and wide eyed.
I wonder if I will ever feel fully woman.
Or if we're all just scared children.
Powerful and powerless
as the girl building sandcastles
holding dominion
till the tides of time bear them away.
960 · Jun 2014
Elaenor Aisling Jun 2014
I am frightened
the world will break me,
wring brittle bones in iron fists
till they lie in porcelain shatters.
All the king's horses
and all the kings men,
will sweep me under the rug
with half of history,
and a score of lost souls.
953 · May 2015
Poema X
Elaenor Aisling May 2015
I hold nothing against you.
These spines are in my chest
clutched like a sacred heart grenade
with fingers too close to let the blood through.
Driven in desperation
cyclone of nonsense and the neurotic
marred by nothing and marred by all
and the red dash trenches
with no man's land slowly decreasing
but too many futile-over -the-tops
for far away victory.
Fruitless as the wavering charge
one step forward
two hundred back
Stalingrad psychosis.
Shell-shock guilt and the stark reality
of one's own mind and the prisons it builds.
Peace is a forgotten word
not even whispered in dreams.
Freedom drowned in the mud.
924 · Feb 2014
Trinkets (Four tiny poems)
Elaenor Aisling Feb 2014
Let’s pour a little salt,
flavor the Earth,
so She’s the only one to remember
that we were ever here.

2. I painted Care and Sympathy’s portraits,
and (falsely) titled it Love.
And you hung it on your wall to remind yourself
you weren’t entirely alone.
But I’m sure you’ve taken it down by now
and it’s sitting in a corner, under the white sheet of time.

3. And if I faced death today,
I would like to think
I could face him without flinching.
As long as he would strike quickly, in the head or the heart.
I shouldn’t mind at all.

4. He called me tiny dancer
even though I couldn’t dance.
At least not very well.
He still insisted on waltzing
in my parent’s kitchen
despite my stepping on his toes.
923 · Mar 2014
Pale Rider
Elaenor Aisling Mar 2014
This is how I’ll end;
not with a bang or a bonfire,
I’ve saved an apple for the pale rider’s horse,
and will smile when he bends down from the saddle
to carry me away.
Gosh I want to do some longer work, but the muses have only given me tuppence lately. :p
918 · Feb 2013
Elaenor Aisling Feb 2013

Hollow eyes in haunted faces
Concealed by lead and lace,
Pale as the pearls
They loop around their necks,
Beautiful nooses the hangmen wait eagerly to tighten.

We suffer under the grip
Of corsets pulled to tight to breathe
Pain with every breath we draw,
But force the smile, nod the head,
There’s never anything wrong here.

Blood drops fall from the hairline,
Running into eyes, behind sharp edged masks.
Masks changed too often, too fast, too soon
A different mask for every partner
Keep them strait, the order cannot be compromised.

Pirouette, spin, bow, change
Till you stumble, grab the wrong mask, take the wrong hand
The claws are unsheathed,
Shred the brocade, lace and silk
Cast you tattered from the light,
All a blur, chaos, till you stop, in the dark
Your only companion a remnant of your soul
Which lies bleeding at your feet.
918 · Apr 2014
The Alchemist
Elaenor Aisling Apr 2014
Does that book still burn on your shelf?
Or have you stuffed it under your bed,
its pages torn, still smelling of cigarette smoke
with a few coffee stains.
(Mine rests next to Tolkien).

Do you flip through it once in a while?
Noting the words you marked,
once full of meaning.
Are they empty now?
(I found empty words in my copy).

Do you take care to avoid
the covert letter under the jacket flap?
Or maybe read it, and wonder
(I regret writing it.)
not very good just thoughts. I gave my ex a copy of "The Alchemist" by Paulo Coelho, and I had a matching copy.
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