The Day is done, tired thoughts slowly fade to grey. Do you find comfort, as you lay down your weary head on the island of your bed? Drifting on the shifting sands of reality upon the shores of sleep. The Sandman will soon take you sailing into the void and blessed oblivion of the deep.
Catch the Moon beams as they come dancing in a playful game, glancing off the window panes, across the ceiling and upon the walls. They turn the darkness of your room into sacred, hallowed halls.
For in twilight hours and liminal space, nothing is as it truly seems. Do you want to walk into the forest of the night? I will take you through numinous mists and midnight rays of Light, onto the field of dreams.
Lady La Luna’s tendrils weave Her gossamer, silken strands, enticing you back to the Heavens above. Entranced by the music of the night, dancing across the stars, into the arms of the pure Light of Love.
The Lady heard the yearning of your Soul to be free, to be whole. There is so much more to see, so much more for you to be! Forget life’s silent screams, believe in Magick and know that you are innocent when you dream.
With the rising of the sun, the mysteries of night are done. Leaving fragrant fragments like blossom on the breeze and the whisper of the trees, beyond reason, beyond rhyme. Moments that breathe, in fragile memories of the Truth, we only find by stepping outside time.</p>
Eily Nash ~2020
It was such a pleasure introducing Chris and Randy to you dear Readers and I am excited they have agreed to regular guest appearances. Their collaboration is a poetic dance of romance, and brings much joy. I hope you enjoy the love! ❤️
Photograph courtesy of Randy #Chasingsunsets
Tell me the story
of forever..
of the way it began
introducing us
to this final chapter
speak to the how and why
to the dream, our reality
of lives to reconcile...
~cf
* * * * * * * * *
The reconciliation began
as a final exit
but the sun and moon had other plans
The stars aligned under a cloudless sky
So they chased every sunset-
danced in the light of a lover’s moon.
Now empty pages await the rest
of this happily ever after to be written...
~RW
Photography Courtesy of Randy
Our Poets are on Twitter, pop over and give them a follow!
The wild North wind howls, a hungry Wolf at the door seeking to feast on the souls of the lost and the lonely. Seek warmth from the Applewood burning in the hearth, let the flames warm the ice within your cold heart...Lest He creeps stealthily within, stealing you far away from the place the sweet wildflowers grow, to His frozen lair in a wild domain .
I am excited to share the debut anthology of poetry from Raymonde’ “Beautiful Knowing” is such a truly beautiful book, which with an Adept’s hand delicately covers difficult themes of pain, loss, loneliness and sadly abuse. With great delicacy and emotional intelligence each poem weaves a story, and as I read, I also deeply felt the words.
But there is so much more than walking into the deep forest of Darkness…
Raymondé (What a lovely name!) also offers hope as the poetry unfolds she embraces a longing for the return of the Light, for connection and love, penned as sensuously and as spiritual as the Sufi Love Poets.
I found this collection hugely inspiring, the Author has such a graceful way of unfolding her words, that as a reader, I was drawn in and entranced into a world of darkness, shadows and despair which ultimately was transmuted in the crucible of Light into a place of incredible beauty. Written from the Heart it touches the Soul.
Beautiful and evocative. A Collection to keep revisiting and to gift to others. Please visit the Amazon link below and see for yourselves, Dear Readers, the magic within…
Spellbound, I held him in my arms✨ summonded by magick, candles and charms✨ Illusions of distance and linear time✨dispelled by a bewitching rhyme✨that which I desire shall be mine✨My Beloved will come to me✨So mote it be.✨
Brittle Sunlight shining on a cold November day.
You try but words don’t come, nothing left to say…
walk away, walk away…🎶
The River of Life flows on leaving fading notes
Of a sad song hanging in the air…
walk away, walk away…🎶
Do not cry, Love's unkind, there is only heartache
If you should you turn around and stay…
walk away, walk away…🎶
Eily Nash (2021)
Did she fascinate, charm and beguile? Maybe a distraction for just a while. Did she fill your thoughts in your waking hours and seep into your sleep. Before you knew, were you in too deep? Did she really have that power? With her faraway eyes, she saw other worlds, far beyond the veil. Was she for real or were you lonely?
I loved him well, I loved him true Something he just could not do For to lay with me would be a sin I knew he longed to touch my skin Yet he kept me so far out of reach Scared his defences I may breach Passion’s flame burnt in his chest Lustful thoughts gave him no rest At last, of free will he came to me Torn, tormented by his own misery My beloved Mortal slipped into my bed Offering his body, I took his soul instead And down we went to the depths of hell For he had fallen for a Succubus spell.
Poetry is one of the sweetnesses of life, and it is my pleasure to share with you a sensuous poetic collaboration between two wonderful poets, and to offer a warm welcome to “Gossamer Threads” to Chris and Randy 💞
Lake Michigan courtesy of ~cf
I am your sea and you, my shore
My waves will always wash over you
just as sure as the sun rises and sets
All the granules of your sandcastle soul
collapse into my undertow..
I undo the pillars of your fortress
with each passing wave
Sand and salt water dance together
in an endless waltz leaving your thirsty shores quenched,
until the next wave engulfs your surface..
Drink me in and push me away
my waves are relentless,
as is your thirst for them, endless...
~RW
Lake Michigan courtesy of ~cf
You are my sea as
I am the shore that waits
for you to wash over me
from the depths of your
currents
you reach me in waves
that breach my barriers
the cool of your water,
craved as you fold over me,
white capped
feeling the force of each
wave's pull-back
in retreat, in succession, this
dance that keeps me restlessly
awaiting the next...
~cf
O’er, my Beloved’s thoughtless treat has caused me such distress. He has given given me a bucket full of manky stress 🙁
Dear Eily, what could make you so mad. Has your man been really bad??!😡
Well listen up, M’dears with eager ears…
‘Darling, I am going to gift you a Premier 24 hour Membership to the gym with me!’ Says he, a touch too gleefully.🏋️♀️🤼♀️🚴♀️🏊♀️
I trembled, I shook. Sweaty excercise, so not in my book!
‘Er, no! ‘ says I ‘that would make me cry. I am lush & lovely as I am. Don’t you appreciate my gorgeous assets, 40D … do you want to shrink me?? ‘
I saw the thoughts whirl in his head…As I invited him to snuggle up and watch my favourite movie in our king size bed.
‘Oh no my Love, what would you prefer instead?’
‘Beloved, I don’t want to throw my toys from my pram, but I’d rather like a shiny, Sparkly something. Nothing grand, a bracelet for my hand. I’m feeling a tiny luxury, maybe a little trinket from Tiffany’s!’ 💍💝💎
His face lit up in a big smile, ‘The 40D’s are here to stay, both yummy breakfast in bed and the Tiffany trinkets are on the way!!’
Alone in London, I stand by Tower Bridge. Old Father Thames hears my thoughts of you and how deeply I am falling. Wise is he, takes them rippling on the current down to the endless sea.
Somewhere far away in a Northern land, you are standing too, on your bridge of stone and steel beside a Castle Keep. Do I imagine that I hear you calling and feel you reaching through the ethers for my hand?
Day is fading and our City lights flicker into life. Do they hear the music of the night? And meet with moon beams upon the waters where both our ancient rivers flow? What stories do they share and what secrets do they know?
Perhaps they speak of Lovers hearts taking flight to meet upon the Bridge across forever. A special place, lost in time, where we come together. In the heat of the night, two rivers meet and our bodies entwine to dance upon the glory of the Tyne.
Two strangers met deep in the Greenwoods and both being lost decided to walk with each other for a while.
The rugged path diverged to the left and the right. A simple glance was all it took, a tacit agreement ~ it was time to part, as each had a different journey to undertake.
Perhaps further down the line their paths may merge again. Perhaps not.
The journey of the eternal Soul is never simple nor set in stone. That which we think we need/want/desire in our human form is seldom what Spirit requires.
They smiled and said farewell with a ‘Merry Meet and Merry Part.’
The Lords of Darkness and of Light sat down to dine, drink some wine, all on a moonless night. Up for discussion, the subject of Souls. It never grew old.
‘ Which are mine, who are thine?’
An age old theme arose again. They debated. Conclusion came, they agreed the same.
Humans were over rated. Their little lives need not be fated. Let them use Free Will, they will heal or harm, bring pleasure or inflict pain,cure or kill.
There is no celestial charm to cure the vagaries of men. Having thus concurred the gods refilled their goblets of nectar and wine once again.
Phantom in the window holding onto a locket Stranger to delirium keep that gun in your pocket Bullet holes never fade Bang Bang it goes
Gangsters clawing at my eyes doing cartwheels in the mud Doing cartwheels in the mud
One girl and thirteen stones her eyes glowed like the sun Wreaking from insomnia carrousel spinning around There’s an echoe in my closet Bang Bang it goes
Dancing in limbo a child singing a song Danger he’s nefarious Bullet holes shredding little wrag dolls Mothers hanging coffins Bang Bang it goes
Dark Angel who carried me to the edge of heaven, wrapped in your flaming wings of burning desire, you who cast me into the abyss of unrequited love. Exulting in bones broken, laying in unhallowed ground. Hear my lost soul wandering, weeping, through Hades Halls searching for you.
My latest anthology of Love Poetry is deliciously dark and Witch Lit 🖤 Hardback, Paperback and eBooks now available on Amazon Worldwide.
Silent Sentils stand around your Sacred Northern Mound, as Venus chases the Rising Sun across the sleeping night sky. And you and I, my Love? There is no reason. There is no rhyme as to why your hallowed ground is not mine, nor mine yours. Perhaps you will never find the place the West Wind blows, or the Magic the Goddess bestows from Her Southern Tor…
Ary Scheffer~”The Ghosts of Paolo and Francesca Appear to Dante and Virgil” ~Taken at the Wallace Collection
“I knew these people…once…It was a long time ago…”
She looked like she needed to talk, some fragmented ghost of a memory rattling around the caverns of her mind seeking to find a voice. So I pulled up a chair and sat down beside her and prepared to listen. After all, it is what I do. Listen. I listen a lot. People tell me things, always have. Seems to come from nowhere, the torrent of words, the secrets and the shames. I never judge. That is for the Man above not me.
A waiter came over. Smartly dressed with slicked back black hair, just a hint of grey kissing his temples and a smile that reached his rich brown eyes. I noted he was deferential without being subservient, in a very European way. I liked him and resolved to leave him a good tip. I saw he liked her, a lot. Did she like him? It was difficult to tell. There was a story hiding behind his smile, but that would be for another time. Right now was her time. She had something to say and I had a strong intuition I needed to hear it.
I ordered a pot of English Breakfast Tea, toast and marmalade, “Make that for two, please,” I glanced at her and she nodded her approval at him.
“Très bon,” he rewarded us both with a smile, hiding just a soupçon of merriment. This man did not take life too seriously at all. He really was very handsome and as he walked away a delicious hint of citrus and spice lingered in the air.
“Mmm,” I sniffed appreciatively “Do I detect patchouli and sandalwood?”
“Indeed you do. Top notes and base notes. Quite enticing, isn’t it? Clive Christian 1872,” she replied with authority and I wondered if she was the one who had gifted him a very fine bottle of cologne.
We sat in comfortable companionship in the beautiful glass roofed Courtyard. Soft pink stucco walls wrapped the restaurant with the elegance of a bygone age. She asked me if this was my first visit to the Wallace Collection. I smiled and told her I often came here to Hertford House and take yet another admiring stroll through the sumptuous rooms of the museum, admiring the works of fine art, especially paintings depicting angels. I told her my Mother had first brought me here as a little girl.
A.-Victor Fontaine (fl. 1837-1884) Ganet the Elder (fl. 1871 – 1883) “Love Triumphant” ~Taken at the Wallace Collection
“Mummy are Angels just make believe or are they really real like the elves with their black patent shoes with big silver buckles and fairies with their gossamer wings in my big picture book?” I had made earnest enquiries.
“Indeed they are Evie,” Mummy had replied, “Would you like to see the lovely paintings of the Angels in Hertford House? We shall look at suits of armour and you can see for yourself knights who protected princesses were very real too! We shall have tea and toast and yummy jam when we finish. ”
My Mother always had a special way of making the most magical things sound a natural part of everyday life. I missed her and gazing at my elegant companion momentarily wondered would Mummy have looked just like her if the sickness had not came and took her away much too soon. Would we be sitting here now recalling my delight at the moment I had gazed on the beautiful paintings of Lords and Ladies of long ago. Entranced by the many treasures housed in the Wallace Collection, I had moved from one sumptuous and ornate gallery to the next, each filled with armour, fine porcelain, ornate snuffboxes and gorgeous fireplaces and rococo chandeliers. And I had seen the Angels. And I had believed.
I saw I was under close scrutiny, “I like it here,” I told her, “ I like it a lot. It’s been a long love affair,” I said.
Velázquez’s black veiled beauty “The Lady with a Fan” ~Taken at the Wallace Collection
She smiled and told me she loved it too, had been visiting the imposing Georgian house, standing proudly on London’s Manchester Square, for as long as she could remember. She said that she loved the Gainsborough’s and Fragonard’s. She smiled in appreciation as she divulged her favourite painting and said she found Scheffer’s “The Ghosts of Paolo and Francesca Appear to Dante and Virgil” hauntingly beautiful. She said it made her cry. She told me she hugely admired the serenity of Velázquez’s black veiled beauty “The Lady with a Fan” and shared she was intrigued by sculptures depicting veiled beauties. She wondered if Raffaele Monti’s emotive statuette really depicted a Circassian slave? Perhaps, she postulated, she was truly free and her beautiful veiled countenance was an allegory for her seeing ‘beyond the veil’ into numinous realms. She said her name was Evelyn and she had a town house close by in Crawford Street, she was a Writer and she was glad of my company. A lot of words as one would expect, but not what she really needed to say.
I shivered involuntarily. Crawford Street was a place I knew well, having grown up in an elegant stucco fronted Georgian house. In different circumstances I would be living there now, but for the premature loss of my darling Mother. That house held many happy memories and I had vowed one day to return, that it would be my home again. Meeting Evelyn was proving to be more than a touch synchronistic.
Raffaele Monti~”Circassian Slave” ~Taken at the Wallace Collection
Our tea and toast arrived.
“Those people…?” I tried to engage her to take my mind away from wandering down dark avenues from the past.
I poured tea, fragrant with freshly pressed leaves, from a pewter pot into our cups and she added the milk and sugar. The toast was good. I ladled on rich yellow butter and a generous helping of deliciously bitter marmalade and as I savoured the flavours I waited for her to speak. You can have an intuition on what they may say, sometimes hear the words before they actually speak them. Then when they do speak, the emotions come in, sometimes softly flowing, sometimes a tidal wave. And I have it all hitting me, sometimes it’s hard to remain inscrutable, to just listen. But it is about them, not me, so they never know I have eyes that look into their distant pasts and possible futures, their right here, right now’s or just how much I know…
She was different. Looking at me quizzically with intelligent eyes, and with a start I realised she was reading me reading her. A feint smile. I winked at her, knowingly. We laughed conspiratorially.
Sunlight, delicately streaming through the glass roof caught her hair. Cool blonde with strands of silver pulled off her face by a black velvet band. A woman of a certain age, but what that age was I would be hard pressed to say. Quietly understated elegance. She wore pearl earrings. Beautiful pearls, soft as moonlight. I admired them.
“Indeed yes, they are beautiful. Tears from the moon.” Her eyes misted. I reached over and covered her hand with mine. A simple gesture, speaks more eloquently and deeply than words ever can. She had long slim fingers tipped with manicured nails varnished the colour of her pale pink pearls. Her hand was surprisingly cold.
“Those people…” I encouraged, knowing the earrings held the key to her story, as did love. Was it lost, unrequited, had her heart been broken or did she carry the heavy weight of human frailty having inflicted pain and hurt on another? I munched my toast waiting for her to reply. The toast here is really very good. My reward for patience just a flicker behind her grey eyes, a wry smile and the deafening sound of silence. Perhaps a guilty conscience lay behind her insouciance? I truly hoped not.
Suddenly I had a very strong desire to know and held her gaze searchingly. I saw the relief in her face as the waiter returned with a fresh pot of tea and she took the opportunity to slip her hand away from mine, the shutters were down. The moment had passed. I got she was uncomfortable with my touch, the warmth of another human reaching out to her. I wasn’t sure if she would tell me her story, or keep her secrets to be shared only with the ghost living in the caverns of her mind. With a start, I realised I could not read her, looking into her eyes all I saw was myself looking back, my pale pink pearls catching rainbows of light as the sun danced through the atrium.
She may well have a lifetime of stories to tell, but I was going to have to live them before Evelyn shared our secrets with me, Evie…
My favourite vocal Artist, the sexy and sultry Chanteuse, Penny from Penny’s Scar is also an accomplished poet. I am privileged she has let Edendene Books host her work. Enjoy 🌹🖤
It is my absolute pleasure to welcome back to EdenDene Books one of my favourite Artists, the beautiful and talented Penny from Penny’s Scar. Her voice transports me to a special place, her vocals are sultry, soft, sexy and lush.Her songs, deep, meaningful, mysterious and touch both heart and soul. Listen for yourself and hear and feel the magic that is Penny’s Scar.
I am so happy to share a beautiful poem from my friend and amazingly talented singer, Penny from Penny’s Scar.
Find my ethereal Chanteuse and Poet on Twitter @pennys_scar
Enjoy listening to her music for free. Her songs are mysterious, sensual and evocative and are on Soundclick 💕 Click the link and be transported to a magical place ✨
The mystery and magic of She who holds the keys of night began to unfold as my words delicately caressed her fragrant skin.
Black velvet robe falling to the floor, she brought me to my knees and pulled me in deeper, deeper to swim in seas of sensuality.
Enticed, enchanted, charmed …
I fell under my own spell, for that Witch of mine, she knew me well. In her eyes and in her arms I found both the agonies and ecstasies of heaven and hell.
Lightening strikes suddenly. Monochrome skies watch over an angry broiling sea.
Silent screams seek release but who to tell, who to hear?
Who to care, who to share?
Turbulent breakers pounding against unfeeling granite rock create endless emotional storms.
If only you would hear my voice, still yourself to hear the wisdom of the West wind…
Let the storm brew and blow. Throughout life storms come and go.
Look at the beauty within each tiny grain of golden sand. Each was once battered and broken by angry waves. Now they glisten in sunlight and bathed by moonlight, soothe the restless ebb tide of the sea.
The beauty of serene sandy shores formed once the silent scream made the choice to shout.
She was a Writer, weaving stories around the emotions she read in others. He was a charming enigma. Eyes, deep as the cold North sea. She searched their dark depths, looking for answers but chose to leave her unasked question hanging in the air.
Who or what had poisoned his heart to love? Would he tell? She doubted that. A mystery she would have to unravel, as with a greedy ear she anticipated listening to the tales he may or may not share.
He walked away from the girl who danced by the Light of the Moon. A heart lost to Winter finds warmth in brittle Sunlight smiling on cold snow. She was Beltane fire, bringing the promise of Spring, but could not melt the ice in his Soul.
Sappho~Charles Auguste Mengin (1877)Sappho~ Miguel Carbonell Selva (1881)
When a painting touches the soul for the very first time, how it lingers like a lover’s kiss in the caverns of the mind…
Two Sapphos, two artists (Miguel Carbonell Selva & Charles Auguste Mengin), one story…
Which is more compelling in depicting the raw emotion of a woman on the edge of reason? Which one embodies the woman behind the myth?
I have been unable to find out if either Mengin’s brooding or Selva’s sultry depictions of Sappho were posed by models. Did either have a real flesh and blood ‘Muse’ or was ‘She’ a composite formed in the mind’s eye?.
Perhaps Sappho stepped out of the mists of time and into their psyches to be immortalised on canvas? Could an alluring voice from the past carry such power?
Questions, questions…
Mengin, for me, has captured an ‘essence’ that is soulful, deep and moody, those dark eyes! What secrets do they hide? What knowledge, what pain. I am intrigued.
Here are her own words, translated from Greek.
The poem is titled ‘Lonelieness’
Set are the Pleiades; the Moon is down
And midnight dark on high.
The hours, the hours, drift by,
And here I lie, Alone
Those words echo from antiquity and are as relevant today.
Art, speaks the language of the soul, feelings. I posit that is why we have a strong emotional reaction to beauty on a visceral level. Some ‘knowing’ lays far beyond that which words alone can convey.
The Lady is indeed beguiling, both her myth and mystery still speak to modern minds. After seeing Sappho for the first time at Manchester Art Gallery:-
“I think it was the look. The mystique. The eyes and the draw that reminded me of someone I once knew. Yes, I read about her exploits in her life, but safe to say I couldn’t escape those eyes ! Did she jump or didn’t she? There were a few bits of art there in the Gallery, with her not so naked. All with the same follow me eyes. And I shamefully did. For a while. She got me.”
A.N on his encounter with Mengin’s Sappho
What did Sappho’s paintings say to speak so deeply to capture and captivate those who gaze into deeply hypnotic eyes?
‘What do you see in me, that is in you too?’
I could be wrong. My fanciful question is purely rhetorical. Perhaps she said nothing at all.
The story behind the imagery is a legend that she committed suicide by leaping from the Leucadian cliffs over the unrequited love of a beautiful ferryman named Phaon.
I did some research. There is no historical evidence for this legend, rather scholarly thought suggests that she lived to old age. A less romanticised outcome to the visual narrative of both of the Artists.
Perhaps Sappho once stood on the precipice of her own unquiet thoughts and contemplated annihilation in the way that afflicts those of artistic temperament. Felt the pain and then stepped back from the edge. I am sure we have all been there. We have all felt pain, been hurt, caused hurt. It is part of the human condition. What we do with this understanding will either break or elevate us to a higher plane of ‘knowing’, understanding and integration of the ‘self’.
Just a thought…
To create, be it art, music, poetry, literature, they are all languages that speak from and to the soul. I would suggest that an artist is ‘hard wired’ to feel deeply, to understand depth psychology in both self and others and face existentialist crisis head on. To see beauty in pain. To stand on a precipice as Sappho did, and look deep into the abyss yet also reach up and touch heaven.
The Winter sun hung low in the sky, tantalisingly bright yet withholding the promise of warmth on the fields below. A murder of crows took to the wing for their last supper before the dusk wrapped a grey blanket over the land. Melisande knew once they returned to roost high in the line of ancient Oak trees it would not be long before night would come riding in. She felt the temperature drop and shivered, pulling her woollen shawl tightly across her thin body. The morrow would arrive with a dressing of hoar frost. Clutching her basket, meagre rations of berries and nuts forlornly rolled around as she made firm strides for home. The barren fields had no more to give and neither did she.
The cottage had seen better days. The interior was a grey as her ragged hair. A motley collection of worn out furniture, table and two wooden chairs, a threadbare armchair before an empty and cold grate. A dirty mirror hung above the mantle. There was no need to clean it, long ago she had stopped caring about the reflection looming back. The lonely ghost of the woman who once was remained trapped behind cobwebs and dust.
Melisande’s bones ached. She longed for warmth, from a lover, a friend, someone who cared. But there was no one. They had all left long ago. She piled applewood logs and kindling into the grate. Reluctantly the fire took, spreading a wan light into the gloomy room. She would make herb tea and maybe try to eat and then sleep, in dreams maybe she would be free, if she could keep bad at bay and the nightmares away. The cawing of crows heralded the coming darkness. She shuddered.
The fire flickered into life, and slowly sipping the soothing tea she stared deeply into the flames, into the past.
It had not always been this way.
Back to vibrant times when she had turned heads, a selfish woman with many married lovers she met at her work in the big city. The cottage in the country was her retreat from the madness and mayhem and greedy life of an investment banker. Treating people badly was her trademark. It didn’t matter, there were plenty more foolish enough to replace the ones she callously discarded.
A tear rolled down her face. In the flames she watched the scene replay as if it were yesterday.
Another party, another drunken, drug fuelled night on the town. Worse for wear she had crawled back to her penthouse. Needing to sleep, but wanting just another drink. Ignoring the stabbing pain in her chest, she snorted another line of coke. Another pain, gripping her with vicelike intensity. A knock at the door. It is a handsome man. She asks if he wants her body. She is drunk and drugged. He says no. He is Death. He wants her soul. Shocked she slams the door. The next night he returns. Again she slams the door. The third night he returns and tells her I have not come for your soul tonight. I have brought you a gift. It is in this box. As long as you open the box every night at midnight I will not return.
She accepts the box. The handsome man leaves. She begins to fret, death knows where she lives. She moves to the cottage, opening the box at midnight. But still she fears the knock at the door. She thinks back each night to what she lost and what could happen. Every night the crows caw. Many moon-tides pass. Beauty fades; she is old, poor, wizened and lonely. The firewood runs low. Freezing she throws the box onto the fire. Blue sparks. A knock at the door. It is death.
“You said you would not come. I opened the box every night at Midnight. Every single night for the past twenty five years!”
“Yes, but you have now burnt the box. The contents have been destroyed.”
“But there was nothing in the box. It was empty!”
“No, it was full of your fears. Every time you opened it, you let them out. Every time you closed it, you put new ones in.”
“So I have been a prisoner here, of my own making? Trapped by my fear of dying?”
“You should have come when I first called. Happiness awaited you in paradise. But your greed kept you here and then you made yourself a prisoner of your own fears. You have not lived but you have died a thousand times…”
He held out his hand. Melisande walked through the open door. The winter sun hung low in the sky, dawn was breaking and there was the promise of a bright new day.
There once was a Secret Garden filled with beautiful blooms of every colour and hue, ruby reds, yellow, purple, orange, pink and blue filled every flowerbed.
Everything from delicate Daisies to strong Sunflowers thrived in the rich dark earth everywhere. Bluebells, Freesias, Lilies, Jasmine, Honeysuckle and Roses all harmoniously blending into one heavenly perfume. A myriad of intoxicating fragrances filled the air.
There was magic in this special place, kissed by warm Summer rain, caressed by Sunlight and bathed in Moonlight, the Secret Garden created a dance of the senses for those who knew the inter connection of all things and felt the hand of Grace. Honey Bees gathered sweet nectar, birds sang, beetles and ants worked hard, Butterflies and Dragonflies danced.There was a home for everything and all was in perfect balance and harmony. A Secret Garden filled with all that was good, hope, faith, love and serenity.
Until one day the Stranger came.
With jealous eyes he looked through the garden gate, there was no admittance for him there for his heart was filled with hate. Rather than just walk away, the Stranger decided to stay.
With malevolent eyes, he looked to the skies and cursed the Sun as he scattered seeds of hate. His darkness grew and infernal night came riding in. Without the Light from a benevolent Sun and the kiss of soft Moonlight, the garden of love withered and died.
The Stranger smiled, his dark deeds done. If he could not have admittance to the beautiful garden, then no other ever would. He alone would enjoy the seeds he had sown, once they bloomed. Eons passed. He regarded what was now his garden. The ground was barren and bare, not even Bindweed grew.
The Stranger cried out into the darkness ‘Why does my garden not grow?’
A soft voice answered ‘Love cannot grow from seeds of hate.’
Understanding tore through his rigid body, a lightening bolt of realisation. He closed his eyes and began to cry. A blinding flash of Light filled the darkened skies. His tears of remorse formed into a pool. A Nightingale began to sing a soft, sweet song. The sound filled the caverns of his empty heart.
Opening his eyes, he saw upon the pool of tears a perfect Lotus Blossom.
And the Stranger understood.
For the rest of his days he walked lightly upon the Earth, tending the garden with deep gratitude. The Sun and Moon poured Blessings and Benedictions upon their Son. No longer a Stranger, he had found his way Home and the garden grew in such beauty that the people came from far and wide. They asked him what was the secret of such a magical place.
I believe music, like poetry, to be gifts of the Soul. There are some creative people who through their creative talents bring magic, healing and love to the World. I am in awe of the sheer beauty of the lovely Penny from Penny’s Scar. The Lady is a Poet, Songwriter and musician. It is my pleasure to share with you some of her work. All her music is free to listen to and also download from Soundclick. Have a listen and immerse yourself in the haunting, mesmerising and sultry tones of Penny’s Scar 🎶
The bridge is down My heart has found Another rock to throw Wispy sounds on the water Rippling through broken shadows Kissing time frozen inside Which way do I go Midnight coming Slowly takes the pain away
The bridge is down My heart has found Another rock to throw Wispy sounds on the water Rippling through broken shadows Kissing time frozen inside Which way do I go Midnight coming Slowly takes the pain away pic.twitter.com/bZs01Be47Y
If it seems the World has grown ugly, it hasn’t. Earth is full of beauty. People cause the illusion of ugliness by their treatment of others and this precious blue planet, our Home.
The heart of the Great Mother, Gaia, beats to the love song of the Universe.
A solitary man stood looking out across the warm Aegean sea.
His heart torn. Did he love in vain?
Far away, on the wings of the wind, he heard a yearning, keening, calling….
A Nereid sang a sad lament of star crossed lovers, for Poseidon’s power had pulled her from her Mortal man, down home to a silvery cave beneath the briny deep.
Silence fell.
The man’s tears for a forbidden deity, witnessed only by silent Starfish on the beach.
Pen dipped in ink Chasing words Across rich vellum Red is the colour For Empathy of heart Blending Chakra Blue Unspoken Feelings Travelling in thoughts Across empty space The Poet writes Essences of Love And colours you Purple
Where did it begin Journey of the Fool I do not know … This Slow fading away Out beyond the soft tones Colours and hues of day Descending to oblivion Far beyond the comforting Blanket of night and the Magic of us, dancing across Star strewn skies. An aching need for the Void To rest in the Soul restoring Emptiness Of All There Is…
In your hands, I could not breathe. I tried to break free, but thinking you knew me better than I knew myself and what was best for me, you would not let go, and took me far away from the sea that was so much a part of me, to your home upon the land instead…
If only you knew the magic of the Deep, and were not afraid to leave the safety of the shore!
For there is so much more far beyond the horizon than your eyes can see. Maybe then, there would have been a shared life of adventure for you and I.
For some can only walk upon land and some have wings to take to the skies and fly.
And some, like me, can enjoy the gentle kiss of the Sun, caresses of the breeze whilst we rest awhile upon a sandy shore. But for us to live and breathe, we have to slip away from the shallows and gently drift back home to the comfort of the endless mysteries found in the seven Seas.
She had a special way with words, knew how to soothe his unquiet Soul. Written in velvet, wrapped in silk, the Truth fell upon his hungry ears. For with a magic touch, the woman knew just how to ease his fears. Was it witchcraft, he never knew. She smiled, for her power was so much more than the arcane arts.
Long lonely miles of separation stretch across the wide expanse of time.Music plays. I close my eyes and sail on seas of dreams. Far from Southern city lights, dimming the clatter of party nights, and noise of it all. Somewhere, the sea washes upon a silent Northern shore. Two Souls meet beneath a smiling moon.
The Winter sun hung low in the sky, tantalisingly bright yet withholding the promise of warmth on the frozen fields below. A murder of crows took to the wing for their last supper before the dusk wrapped a grey blanket over the land. Melisande knew once they returned to roost high in the line of ancient Oak trees it would not be long before night would come riding in. She felt the temperature drop and shivered, pulling her woollen shawl tightly across her thin body. The morrow would arrive with a dressing of hoar frost. Clutching her basket, the meagre rations of berries and nuts forlornly rolled around, as she made firm strides for home. The barren fields had no more to give and neither did she.
It had not always been this way.
The cottage had seen better days. The interior was a grey as her ragged hair. A motley collection of worn out furniture, table and two wooden chairs, a threadbare armchair before an empty and cold grate. A dirty mirror hung above the mantle. There was no need to clean it, long ago she had stopped caring about the reflection looming back. The lonely ghost of the woman who once was remained trapped behind cobwebs and dust.
Melisande’s bones ached. She longed for warmth, from a lover, a friend, someone who cared. But there was no one. They had all left long ago. She piled applewood logs and kindling into the grate. Reluctantly the fire took, spreading a wan light into the gloomy room. She would make herb tea and maybe try to eat and then sleep, in dreams maybe she would be free, if she could keep bad at bay and the nightmares away. The cawing of crows heralded the coming darkness. She shuddered.
The fire flickered into life, and slowly sipping the soothing tea she stared deeply into the flames, into the past.
Back to vibrant times when she had turned heads, a selfish woman with many lovers she had met through her work in the big city. The cottage in the country was her retreat from the madness and mayhem and greedy life of an Investment Banker. Treating people badly was her trademark. It didn’t matter, there were plenty more foolish enough to replace the ones she callously discarded.
A tear rolled down her face. In the flames she watched the scene replay as if it were yesterday.
Another party, another drunken, drug fuelled night on the town. Worse for wear she had crawled back to her Penthouse. Needing to sleep, but wanting just another drink. Ignoring the stabbing pain in her chest, she snorted another line of coke. Another pain, gripping her with vicelike intensity. A knock at the door. It is a handsome man. She asks if he wants her body. She is drunk and drugged. He says no. He is Death. He wants her soul. Shocked she slams the door. The next night he returns. Again she slams the door. The third night he returns and tells her I have not come for your soul tonight. I have brought you a gift. It is in this box. As long as you open the box every night at midnight I will not return.
She accepts the box. The handsome man leaves. She begins to fret, death knows where she lives. She moves to the cottage, fear ensures she makes a ritual of opening the box at midnight, just as Death instructed. But still she anxiously awaits the knock of Death at the door. She thinks back each night to what she lost and what could happen. Every night the crows caw. The years slowly crawl by, empty and barren. In the end she is old, poor, wizened and lonely. The firewood runs low. Freezing she throws the box onto the fire. Blue sparks fly up the soot encrusted chimney breast. Then in the silence of the night “Rat-a-tat-tat” it had finally come. A knock at the door. It is Death.
“You said you would not come. I opened the box every night at Midnight. Every single night for the past twenty five years!”
“Yes, but you have now burnt the box. The contents have been destroyed.”
“But there was nothing in the box. It was empty!”
“No, it was full of your fears. Every time you opened it, you let them out. Every time you closed it, you put new ones in.”
“So I have been a prisoner here, of my own making? Trapped by my fear of dying?”
“You should have come when I first called. Happiness awaited you in paradise. But your greed kept you here and then you made yourself a prisoner of your own fears. You have not lived but you have died a thousand times, when you had only need die once…and step into eternal Life!”
He held out his hand. Melisande took his hand and walked through the open door. Death was nothing to be feared, He was an Angel leading her Home.
The winter sun hung low in the sky, dawn was breaking and there was the promise of a bright new day.
'How much more can I take,' she cried
'More than you know,' He replied
'What if I break?' she sighed
'Angels walk by your side,' He smiled.
'Why does life test so much?'
Wrapped in Grace, she felt His gentle touch
'Pain teaches compassion & Love'
So spoke her Beloved Father, God above
Eily Nash ~2021
It is a delicate dance as I step between memories and thoughts of you, and my words take form. Sometimes, subtle and shy; a ghost prowling the corridors of night. Or perhaps the exultation of a bird on the wing. Summer returns. I am a Swallow in flight, spiralling in the arms of the wind.
In the dying embers of the year lay the lost hopes of fading dreams. From a spark to a flame will never ignite again. Desires grow old, burnt out in the rage of passion’s scorching fires. The last vestiges of searing heat, fated to become no more than ashes and dust. Love goes cold when left to tarnish and rust.
I whisper your name into a starless night
From the depths of my darkness
I feel your light
Misty colored dreams come to life
Cuts right through me like a knife
All I bleed turns to ink
Lost in you I try to think
Words escape & fill the sky
The stars have gathered to say goodbye
Randy Wiley (2020)
To be ..
The West Wind
Wild and free
Felt, yet unseen by Mankind
Blow where I will
Over gentle hills
Tumultuous seas
A soft Zephyr breeze
On fierce Panther Paws
Or ...
A fixed Star
Adored from afar
Required to shine Bright
Illuminate the dark night
Until clouds gather
Illusions of self shatter
Immutable Celestials jealously look down
Unable to wear capricious gossamer gowns
Eily Nash ~2020
Did you think of me, as I did you on this Holy day?
Long lonely miles of separation stretch across the wide expanse of time. Music plays. I close my eyes and sail on seas of dreams. Far from my Southern city lights, dimming the clatter of party nights, and noise of it all.
Somewhere, the sea washes upon a silent Northern shore. I know I will find you there. I see you smile. Two Souls leave the world behind, to dance to the music of waves and wind, as they meet again beneath a smiling moon.
I wonder...
Where do all the Lost Souls go?
Is Solace to be found in the dark heart of Night?
Or does their yearning spin silken threads
Across the Void, drawing them to each other?
Can the Power of Love shine Eternal Light
Illuminating the path back Home?
Do you hear me cry out to you?
Are you lost and alone too?
Eily Nash
Find my books on Amazon.
The Day is done, tired thoughts slowly fade to grey. Do you find comfort, as you lay down your weary head on the island of your bed? Drifting on the shifting sands of reality upon the shores of sleep. The Sandman will soon take you sailing into the void and blessed oblivion of the deep.
Catch the Moon beams as they come dancing in a playful game, glancing off the windowpanes, across the ceiling and upon the walls. They turn the darkness of your room into sacred, hallowed halls.
For in twilight hours and liminal space, nothing is as it truly seems. Do you want to walk into the forest of the night? I will take you through numinous mists and midnight rays of Light, onto the field of dreams.
Lady La Luna’s tendrils weave Her gossamer, silken strands, enticing you back to the Heavens above. Entranced by the music of the night, dancing across the stars, into the arms of the pure Light of Love.
The Lady heard the yearning of your Soul to be free, to be whole. There is so much more to see, so much more for you to be! Forget life’s silent screams, believe in Magic and know that you are innocent when you dream.
With the rising of the sun, the mysteries of night are done. Leaving fragrant fragments like blossom on the breeze and the whisper of the trees, beyond reason, beyond rhyme. Moments that breathe, in fragile memories of the Truth, we only find by stepping outside time.
I could sing you as the lyrics to my songs,
Depict you in art, watercolours and oils.
Or write you into fantasy, poetry or prose
Enough to fill the pages of a Library of books.
I could appreciate the intoxicating scent of you,
Delicate and fragrant as Night Blooming Jasmine
Or the headiness of a Rose, kissed by the Summer Sun.
But you would only recoil from these tributes of mine.
For loving you is wrong, if you choose not to see
There is only heartache lying in wait for me
Until you see as I do, the beauty in you and your Soul
... and give yourself permission to love yourself too.
Eily Nash ~2020
I am excited to welcome back to EdenDene Books
Penny from Penny's Scar
Sharing her lyrics and a link to one of her songs
This one of many that I love very much.
Enjoy the haunting, atmospheric and poignantly beautiful
sound of Penny's Scar.
Over 1.5 million listens on Soundclick !
The Lady has the most sensual voice I have every heard.
She sends shivers & tingles up your spine with her hypnotic voice.
Her lyrics and music are something just so VERY special.
Listen to the pure magic that is Penny's Scar x
As the Wheel of the Year begins to turn and we draw closer to the Winter Solstice we are warmed by the knowledge the darkness is receding and the Light grows stronger. I’m delighted to share the wonderful works of one of my closest friends, she is a Singer/Songwriter and Poet of incredible beauty and depth. I’d like to give this Sunday on EdenDene Books over to her music and poetry, dedicated to all who dare to LOVE…. Enjoy xxx
It was just a look, a fleeting glance,that was all it took.
A remembrance of lives past?
A star written cosmic dance, destined to last?
Who knew, not you nor I, or words of a Poet's rhymes.
Only Father Time and The great Mother's seasons
Will reveal the reason for our bewitching spell.
My Soul whispered lyrics for you,hearing the words a gentle breeze carried them to the trees. Their rustling leaves became my music. A Nightingale heard the soft sounds. His sweet voice sang to the magic of the Night.
And somewhere, far away, you heard a little bird sing of my Love for you…
She had a special way to soothe his Soul. Velvet words, wrapped in silk, the Truth fell upon his hungry ears. With a magic touch, his woman eased his fears. Was it witchcraft, he never knew. She smiled, for her power was so much more than the arcane arts. She knew Love heals all.
I am delighted to share a beautiful, sensuous poem from my dear friend and talented Writer & Poet. Enjoy, Dear Readers, the magic of Randy Writes…
From the shadows
She appears
Kissed by moonlight
Wearing a gown
Spun of silken words
Her curves caressed
By his story which covets
Her flesh in a poetic aura
Of sensuous ink
Illuminating her unparalleled beauty & timeless grace
Randall Wiley (2020)
Image by prettysleepy1 from Pixabay
FOLLOW RANDY ON TWITTER FOR SOME FABULOUS POETRY & GREAT TWEETS!
You are mine yet I never speak your name, just wear it like a charm wrapped around my heart. Love lives and breathes between the notes of my songs. Your essence, fleetingly moves through rhyme and verse, your eyes shyly smile at the World hidden behind a veil of my poetry. I write you into every line.
It is my great pleasure to introduce my Dear Readers to a very talented Author and Poet, Nicole Wild. As an INFJ, her work is so very deep and enriched with emotional intelligence. Nicole is part of the fantastic team of WALLIS & WILD, the powerhouses behind BLOODREDSTAR PUBLICATIONS. I have been honoured to have my own work featured in their Anthologies, along with other gifted Writers.
You.
The absence calls so I evade,
a dance within my soul.
The words get stuck and I can't speak
because I don't feel whole.
Blue has put the fire out.
Red has left me cold.
I miss my love, I miss my friend,
I dream of times of old.
I wonder if he's warm tonight?
If winter met his gates?
I wonder if he's happy?
Drains me until I break
I know his routine, where he is...
Ugh, for goodness sake!
So I choose to dance in circles
Cuz this grief
I cannot take.
~Nicole Wild (2020)
“Wrapped Up” is Nicole Wild’s first novella. Click the Amazon link to preview inside, my review is below. I HIGHLY recommend this superlative observation of interpersonal relationships.
Having read Nicole Wild’s poetry anthology ‘Once Unchained’ I was excited to read her new book. I was not disappointed and read in one sitting. She has taken the themes of unbearable loss, pain and grief and the search for integration and meaning making, weaving them into a searingly honest and poignantly beautiful love story.
Ellie’s world has closed into a lonely and grey place. She is unable to process the Soul rending loss of Ricky, the love of her life. Retreating ever inward and away from the noise of the world, continuing alone is an unbearable burden. Enter the enigmatic Kain with his promise of sweet release. Dare Ellie open her heart to love again or will the shadow of Ricky forever walk by her side?
An excellent read. Nicole Wild writes with such rich descriptive detail, she absolutely gets the depth psychology of the human condition. I was totally immersed. And the ending…I will not spoil it for you, but it was so incredibly, sensitively written and I cried.
Eily Nash
And as well as appearing in other Anthologies, Nicole Wild has her own collection of beautiful and emotive poetry. Please click the Amazon link to take a peek, and again my 5* review is below.
The last line in this gorgeous anthology reads ‘We write to heal our souls’. My goodness, how through her poems, the author takes the reader on a journey, through the emotions that flow through the human heart. Her words are poignant, delicate, strong. And throughout you hear the call of an incredibly beautiful soul. I absolutely loved this book. Highly recommended.
Eily Nash
FOLLOW THE LOVELY NICOLE ON TWITTER
Be a tree. Be rooted in the storm, conserve your energy, shed leaves when you must, breathe life into others when you can, stand tall, reach for the sky, and never be afraid to grow into your full self. pic.twitter.com/63XZz6sdWt
It is mid Fall, I am watching from a window above, leaves of gold and brown, gently dancing down. They lay one by one upon the cold, hard ground, creating a carpet of Love beneath the bare branches they were once part of, and I cry for the beauty of it all.
A sneak preview of a Chapter from a manuscript I am working on…
KIMBER
I’m home alone. Again. Husband is in NYC. Again. He’s a frequent flyer, goes where the money flows, London or New York. Right now it is a tidal wave flooding back to Papa across the East River from his latest project. Who knew Manhattan money would actually want to cross the Brooklyn Bridge? He did. Has a sixth sense for seeing potential. Where others can’t see beyond the raw product, Richie sees polished perfection. From his vantage point on the 95th floor of our Midtown Penthouse, he has 360 degrees views across the City and Central Park. GreenPoints caught his eye. All those rundown old warehouses lining the waterfront, battered and bruised, he raised them from the ashes of dilapidation like a Phoenix, reborn into something wonderful and new. Once given the full Richie treatment, hiding their humble beginnings, the luxe new apartments began enticing buyers hungry for a bite of the Big Apple’s property boom. Richie has a magic touch. He likes fixing things and then moving on. He did that with me. I was a waitress in a cocktail bar…you get the picture…
So my man is a mere 3455 miles away. Separated by the Atlantic ocean, a mere five hours time difference. Nothing compared to the gulf between us. I’m here in our Park Lane penthouse looking out over London. Richie likes high living, literally. Our homes are a statement to how he sees himself, a property magnate on top of the world. I step out onto the terrace clutching a glass of Veuve Cliquot, watching night falling. The twinkling lights of the West End are enticing for anyone with an itch to scratch, looking to find the heart of a Saturday night. And I’m here. All alone. Longing to be all dressed up with somewhere to go.
I’m inside looking out and laugh at the irony of people outside looking in. Window shopping. Wanting what I got. Don’t let it fool you. The glitz soon wears off. Only so many Manolo’s you can line up next to your Birkin bags and all your Chanel, Dior and Armani clothes hanging in your custom walk in closet. Envy from some, aspiration from others. Looks can be deceiving. Beware what you wish for, I want to say to them, go read the tale of the ‘Emperor’s Nightingale’ then tell me you want what I got. Don’t you see it in my eyes that I want to be free…I want to be me. Don’t envy me. I ain’t got what you got, freedom.
My iPhone kicks into life, incoming Skype call from the man himself. I tear myself away from the enticing lights dancing on water and answer.
“Baby Girl! “
I detect he is a touch too bright. Slate grey eyes, holding more than a hint of steel forged in a foundry of darkness somewhere north of midnight. Shutters down, the demon hiding in those dark depths did not choose to be seen tonight.
“Miss you baby love,” I coo making sure he sees I am wrapped in my silk dressing gown. I slide it open. He doesn’t bite. I know he is not alone. He’s all dressed up with somewhere to go. I can’t see the bitch but can smell her. If she isn’t next to him she soon will be. I act like I don’t know. I’m not acting if I were to confess I don’t care.
“Got a deal to seal, baby girl, heading over to the Upper East Side in 5. How’s my Kimber?”
“Good, missing Papa Bear!”
“Love you. Call you in the morning.”
I call the dog over and make sure he sees us snuggling on the couch, watching the wall hung TV on Netflix. Satisfied he hangs up.
I have an itch. I’m going to scratch it.
In less than half an hour I’ve changed into a barely there dress and the most killer heels I can find. I shake my long blonde hair free from the confines of the tight chignon he likes and replace the elegant pink pearls gracing my ears with gold slut hoops. A dash of Chanel Rouge Allure on my lips and a lick of black eyeliner, heavy coat of mascara. A line of Coke, a blue pill and I am good to go.
A quick call and an Uber is on the way. It’s not the night to take my Bentley out. Not the part if London Town I am heading.
“Don’t wait up, Mama’s going to be late!” I stroke Kimber’s sweet little Bichon Frisée fur and head for the door. I have an itch to scratch.
The nightingale has wings and she is going to use them, taking flight into the heart of the night…
The Poet took his words formed from delicate, silken strands of silver and gold, weaving them deftly into the heavy blanket of my infernal night. My Soul had grown cold, now the warmth of his Love wrapped me in Light.
Falling. Falling. Soft embrace of the velvet deep calling, calling. Leave far behind shores of pain. Warm waves of oblivion sweeping it all away. No need fight it, hurt never felt again. Down, down to sleep in endless seas of eternal night. And so I sleep…
I woke from a deep, dreamless sleep,
Searching the hinterlands of my awareness.
You had faded away into nothingness,
No longer silently hiding in the shadows,
Watching me from your tangled forest of lies.
I breathed freedom and smiled.
Where do old ghosts go?
I do not know.
Eily Nash ~ 2020
Her gift was of the Soul, in her hands she held healing Light.
Her Heart a home for the lonely, the broken and those who lost their way.
She knew, with time and tender care they would dare to love again. Walk free from the brutal chains of shame and pain that bound them to the past.
They would no longer be fragmented, but healed and whole.
Ready to the embrace the dawning of a brand new day.
There were those who called her an Earth Angel. She would shake her head and smile. For there was no need for them to know the tears she shed alone or the scars she hid, or that the Gifts of Light were forged in a foundry of her own pain.
….I never knew.
GOSSAMER THREADS 