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 Nov 2018 Elinor
a mcvicar
298
 Nov 2018 Elinor
a mcvicar
298
i'm so late & i'm so lost
a laberynth of daisies
pop out of my skull
23.10.18
 Aug 2018 Elinor
Peppyraindrop
Do you have the supplies? Did you get the shopping list? Okay, good. Let's begin.


    Step 1. Give her a wild mind, a heart that won't settle for "good enough", that won't stop trying.

    Step 2. Show her the world through a window pane, tinted glass. Give her a taste of what beauty could be, but don't give enough to make it last.

    Step 3. Grant her such magic, such power in her veins, that she doesn't fit in anywhere, no mold, no shape, no box. Never let her feel too content. Don't give her enough to feel secure in her state. Keep her floating, treading water, climbing rocks.

    Step 4. Don't help when she's hurt, don't listen when she cries. Let her be lonely. Leave her. Let her fall in, let her drown, let her dive.

    Step 5. Allow the dust to settle, the wet to dry.

    Step 6. Look out! Here comes her soul, on that piece of paper there, her latest masterpiece.


Congratulations. You have made an artist.
 Aug 2018 Elinor
Donall Dempsey
MY FEET HAD COME TO THE END OF THE WORLD.

"What...is this...'place'?"
I hear myself ask.

"It is Death."
I hear my self answer.

Myself and my self
have become separate entities.

Death is a 'place.'
I've got to stop thinking of it as that.

Sans space...sans time.

The day fades
as night sets fire to the sky.

This sunset( so to speak )
is sent to offer me comfort.

It does not exist.
It is a scrap of memory

that has somehow
survived.

I watch its 'world' like a film
with the sound turned down.

I watch my atoms
recombine

to give me some semblance
of who I am.

Or rather - who I was.

So. There is no God.
That is good to know.

Nor no - Heaven either.
Only this 'Hell' of not knowing

who or where
the hell I am.

Death, it seems is only
a beginning.

I re-sculpt my face
at this molecular level

in order to hang on to
who I used to be but

it is like living in 2-D
a me that's not-me.

Forgetting who I was
I must accept who

I am now
and only then

it dawns that "Yes,
yes...Death is. . ."
It was the trope of Heaven as was expected...White bearded Big Guy etc., that didn't materialise. He survived his dying so to speak and this was his experience.

My own experience was one of the pain that passeth all understanding and at the instant where no more pain could fit into my tiny mind...the pain transformed into absolute bliss...the world simply fell away into nothingness.

But many there stood still
To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge,
Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world.
Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled
By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge,
For though the summer oozed into their veins
Like the injected drug for their bones’ pains,
Sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass,
Fearfully flashed the sky’s mysterious glass.

Spring Offensive

BY WILFRED OWEN
 Aug 2018 Elinor
Peppyraindrop
Colors mix in the vainest of ways,
in the strangest of states.

A sunset makes sense
blue, pink and yellow shine soft,
exchanging compliments.

but if a bird shares his view
blue is how to fly, how to wash,
and how to feed.

What does that mean?

Pastels know how to dance.
Have you watched them before?
They lift hearts and tickle hairs.
They don't care what's on your mind,
but give each thought a chair.
It's a world of wonder through
their eyes. Let us explore.
Let us try.

If you’re feeling bold,
mix in some orange, wild green,
rich plum.
Ramble and embrace and relish
in the present tick of the clock,
before the paint dries
and we‘re back to the start.

When we're curious,
change the palette to gold.
Add some earth to the mix,
browns and tans to keep us grounded.
Canary to teach us courage,
honey to give us a hold.
You are every shade of yellow,
all at once, never cold.

Can I tell you a secret?

There is wonder in the deep hues.
Magic in the woods.
The night sky is brilliant
if you think to look,
look up,
with purple swirls
and silver ideals.
Mystery fills the lavenders
and the periwinkles and the crystal cyans
and whimsical teals.
There is uncertainty in the depth.
The ocean waves are fierce,
hard to control,
the dreams free,
the souls impossible to mold.
There is extraordinary wisdom,
Every heartbeat a way to pray
new ways to see in the twilight,
perspectives that are invisible in the day.

Is that what scared you away?

For I am the blue,
the cornflower petals
far from the path
the space between the sky
and the world
when the sun goes down
the sapphire glints floating far from the learned,
from what you know.

When I asked you to stay,
and you promised me time,
I thought it was in our shade
it was yours, not mine.
Do you mind?
Being stuck, dried up in the fear of it all?
Yes. You can stay in the hues
you know all too well.
Maybe ask amber for a dance,
have coffee with cream,
snuggle close to mustard,
hold on to bronze's warmth.
Don't mix too carelessly,
Be careful the paints don’t touch,
the brushstrokes don’t show
It could ruin the lines.
Remember your lines.
Stay safe. Stay yellow.

What if we turned the wheel?
There is curiosity in your blood,
I can feel it waiting to bleed.
Like watercolor,
Searching for the canvas to accept its gift.
You are eager to skip into another palette
you are ready to see another world.
Let's feel all the hues,
use every shade,
dance with the primaries,
one two step, one two.
Mix up the tone with their creations,
until we invent new pigments,
until we run out of names
for all our formulations and hues
Let us walk the rainbow.
Turning light to color
Back to light again
Let me show you my view.

I know. You know.
You never know
what you'll get.
Painting with the rain
instead of an arranged set
can lead to a storm, nothing but grey,
nothing but dark,
but at least even then
there's no regret.

Yes, colors mix in the vainest of ways, the strangest of states.

And perhaps yellow and blue don't have any more skies to paint.
 Jul 2018 Elinor
alexa
i wonder if you’ve noticed,
her fingers are always stained with
black or blue ink,
sometimes purple,
color seeping through the
swirls on her fingerpads,
color imprinted on her milky skin,
forevermore.
you asked why,
she said “writing”
...you never stopped to ask
what kind of writing stains your fingers
everyday?
well,
it’s the kind that takes you over,
the kind that controls you
completely.
the kind where
you don’t know what words will come out of you
until
you see them written on the page
in your own handwriting.
it’s the kind of writing you couldn’t stop,
even if you wanted to.
 Jul 2018 Elinor
ali
moira
 Jul 2018 Elinor
ali
fate...
an invisible power
meant to intertwine our strings
but soon disappear
so everyone else may watch us
begin to fray
where we've tied our knots.
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