Where is Peter Rabbit?

There was a patisserie I loved,
everything was shaded with pastel colors.

Awnings carved in gold,
flourishes coming up because it's my favorite garden.
He used to be in that garden, but not anymore.

You had three sweet sisters,
We drink raspberry-flavored tea,
the air was soft and graceful.
We wore dresses with thin lace at the edges,
matching hats with the dresses.
Transparent colors, like our hearts.
We perfumed with violets and art.

Flopsy was kind and generous,
Mopsy was attentive and virtuous,
Cottontail was imaginative and talented,
I was a mix of all.

One day Peter Rabbit came through the door,
touched and disheveled for breaking the code
in the garden.
We look at each other like a second and now I live in that second.
The times you showed up at the door and we never said a word,
that game I liked to ►

Then you disappeared because You wanted to evolve.
I stood there without knowing anything about Peter Rabbit.
Little reality was lost, Peter.
(You wanted that?)

Now we are the greyhound and March hare, playing the one who runs the most.

Why did Peter Rabbit leave?

-Codelandandmore // 0:36 ©

As potential grew, a desire to write, disclosed to few

Imagination immerse, but yet to thirst for knowledge, accrued ambition address

All aboard the express, thoughts of Harry, a plot to marry

From fanciful flights to greater heights

Capturing such visualisation, twas the formation

Characterisation, of wings to soar, with metaphor

From Dumbledore, yet taking shape

Professor Snape, assume the plot, lest thoughts forgot

A forest to roam, a philosophical stone

Such creative flair of which to share

Joining of the dotted line, artistic mind

Transporting train, journeyed acclaim

Of whom to impede, the will to succeed

The ability to write, the capacity to teach, the desire to reach

An impetus for change, a literary role, a priority

Of which to seek with tenacity

Beyond horizons, beyond confines, stand undefined

Awe-inspire, great readership, a due reply

To simplify, a noble shift, outstanding writer in the midst

Dynamic plot from pen to page, persistence through to published stage

A realised dream, challenge overcome

A victory won definably, stocked supplies to library

Broomstick flight phenomenon, a mystical tale was to become

Would generate, the bus of Knight, to render right

A rebuilt life, a legacy made

From chosen craft to final draft, a world of creativity

The right to type, to innovate, an intriguing wait

A shining star that would liberate



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©

Beneath the innocence of a child
Is the yearning desire to rebel,
Not against his or her youth,
But against the universal rules of normality,
Whether it be unleashed within a cupboard below a staircase
Or while sitting in the next room over,
Listening to the sound of what magic could be.  
Perhaps if I keep reading,
This fantasy will live on
In a reality that is, instead,
My own.

As a child’s adolescence blooms,
The morbidity behind what it is to
Repeatedly fall victim to fiction  
Is surreal.
Something that non-readers cannot comprehend
Is that the fantasy does live on in a way that is unfair,
For it simply resides in our ever-seeking minds
In which that same desire to rebel, too, lives on;
As I have already come as close as I ever will
To filling that void.

streams of salt and H2O leak
down reddened cheeks and condense
in a golden beard. a war-torn nation,
half-a-world-away, crystallizes clear as dayspring
in an insomniac's screaming and fragile psyche
at half-past-three in the morning.
what strength must a seven-year-old posses
to persevere amidst the perversity of cluster bombs?
munitions bought and paid for with the taxes
we fork over to the United States. will her blood one day
stain our hands with crimson? will her mother's?
a girl who just wanted to read, to escape
the tragedy that inundates our surroundings,
to a magical realm of pure imagination.
where we can summon spectral stags
to save us from the misery of humanity
and learn to disarm those who would harm  
us with the charm, Expelliarmus!
the bastion where i found the first seeds that grew
into a rebellion opens its doors to you, Bana.
there's a crater where your house used to be,
rubble strewn in Aleppo, Syria. but know that Hogwarts
will always be there to welcome you home.

my hands used to shake as a child
they were spears to be impaled upon
and my teeth,
knives;
i remember feeling lonely
and then you came along
so i shed my skin each month
and waited by the tree
we spent our childhood in
there i realize that more than a decade has passed
and i am still waiting for someone who will never come;
i am alone again

I am but a lump of clay
Within the Potter's Hands
Help me to be such today
Help me understand

I am plastic. Malleable.
From the roots of stumps
For the Master's Hands available
Although I have my lumps!

He has to pound and knead me
Sprinkle me to moist refine
Mould me in my body
Mould me in my mind

Mould me in my heart
Mould me in my soul
So I won't break apart
So I can be bold!
I can use my art
To have my story told...

Sculpt me then Lord Jesus!
Do whatever it will take
Throw me on your wheel
With Force enough to break

My own thoughts and wishes
For vanity they are
My love for fame and riches
Which can only twist and scar

My love for things of "beauty"
Of worldly surmise
Give me a sense of Duty
To be useful in your eyes

You rose me from the muck and mire
You scooped me from the slime
How can I so then aspire?
Be in myself sublime?

Death, he has his clutches
This assuredly I know.
And I am but ashes

Dust to dust I go.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/30/2016