Witheringmooncomp
16 creative works found
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Time has passed, another day / Where flights are flown and fledglings play / And faces light up in the sun / To welcome time that has begun Whilst busy, working on the wing / Foraging, for food to bring / To make the most of daylight hours / Feeding around scented flowers Yet soon the time will come to hide / To wrap up warm and stay inside / For peril does Dark’s company keep / Where hunters have no need to sleep So off we fly, in harmony / Then search on for a sanctuary / We dance the sky and sing a song / Evening nigh, it won’t be long And as I wait for night to draw / Protected here from tooth and claw / Cooped up in this tiny space / I’m safe within my secret place. Thanks very much Julie Langford
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This is a collaboration between myself and Flyboy for WitheringMoon’s competition on Secret Places I just wanted say thank you to FlyBoy for such inspirational piece of writing – he really has got into the mind of a child and added a whole new dimension to this image. / / Secret Place / / My head was a castle / with more than a thousand rooms. / One for cat, / one for goldfish / one for teddy bear. / I dreamt of wings and talked with fairies, / and filled my chambers with the incense / of defenceless innocence. / But, like vipers, / hiding in a fresh green field, / there were the others too. / Frosted shadows, / growling, grinning, / firing burning arrows of contempt, / for which no bear could be my shield. / When I got hurt / I went downstairs, / where, in the cellar, / light was never seen. / There, in a dungeon, / was my secret place, where / I locked away the weight of a burden / my little feet just could not bear. / Since then I saw the sun rise / fourteen thousand times, or more. / I bought new lamps, / I found new friends, / and, in the evening, / lit a fire. / But, when the wind starts howling, / and the moon projects a shadow play / of fingers piercing through the wall, / I notice something deep beneath. / Like stumbling feet, / a desperate voice / crying loud to be released? / My hands are tied, / I must endure. / Oh, long ago, / on a dark day, / when things got worse than ever, / I stashed my burden, / locked the door, / and, driven by my burning fear, / I threw away the key, / forever.
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More from the Lightscapes Set Poem: The Secret Place From: The Ice Cream Store. Toronto: Harper Collins Publishers, 1991. There’s a place I go, inside myself, / Where nobody else can be, / And none of my friends can tell it’s there— / Nobody knows but me. It’s hard to explain the way it feels, / Or even where I go. / It isn’t a place in time or space, / But once I’m there, I know. It’s tiny, it’s shiny, it can’t be seen, / But it’s big as the sky at night . . . / I try to explain and it hurts my brain, / But once I’m there, it’s right. There’s a place I know inside myself, / And it’s neither big nor small, / And whenever I go, it feels as though / I never left at all.
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This is a collaboration between myself and Empress for WitheringMoons’ competition Secret Place I want to thank Kate for accepting the challenge of writing a new piece and to congratulate her on such a wonderful result, Dear Diary all written in a day! I only put her up to the challenge less than a day ago.. time zones mean nothing! Thanks also to WitheringMoon for such an inspiring Competition. Anyway, enough of me, over to Kate… Dear Diary Angel crouches atop the pillar, still as the monument she mimics. A sigh escapes her lips and her wings furl in a dark embrace as soft footfalls dance closer. ‘Sapphira. Don’t.’ Partway between the light and the dark, Sapphira spins. She’s a lily of a woman, a shining young thing with pearls and baby’s breath crowning ebony ringlets that spill down to tickle the book she holds. Her fingers tighten, clutching the volume close to her heart. ‘Once it’s gone, it’s dust and there’s no getting it back.’ Angel lands lightly on the Lane, boots soundless on the lush grass. ‘Not even a legendary love.’ / Sapphire stands proud, her shoulder back, steel infusing her spine. ‘I can. I will.’ / ‘No. I’m sorry, Sapphira.’ Angel’s regret is genuine and it colours her voice in shades of mauve. ‘I’m probably one of the few who knows that Lovers Lane is really a corruption of Lover Slain, and one of even less who knows who’s buried beneath out feet. And who you really are.’ ‘Congratulations.’ Sapphira’s smile is brief, a momentary quirk of plum-dark lips that fails to reach her midnight eyes. / ‘I know all that.’ Angel steps closer. ‘But I don’t know how you found the book.’ / Sapphira’s pale hand caresses the book which seems to arch into the stroke like a cat. ‘It found me. Eventually. It is my diary, after all.’ / ‘Ah, yes. A record of a young woman’s hopes and dreams, her wishes and secrets.’ / ‘Don’t forget potential blackmail material.’ / Angel folds her arms and nods thoughtfully. ‘Which is rather why I thought it was burnt with all your other belongings.’ / ‘Like heroes, books never die. They just go elsewhere.’ / ‘Have we covered the banter and cryptic taunts yet? Or are you done?’ / Sapphira glances up at the quarter moon riding low in the sky above Siren’s Gate. The pure light illuminates her face and her resolve. ‘I’m done. Done with waiting and for conditions to be met. I have the key to unlock Destiny’s Door and there is nothing left for me to lose.’ / Angel hums skeptically. ‘That’s what they all say until they’re proved wrong. Usually in some horribly messy fashion guaranteed to stain the brickwork.’ / ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Sapphira flicks the latch apart and skims through pages. The gold talisman ring on her left hand winks. / ‘It does if you have to clean up the mess,’ Angel points out. / Sapphira slices a sharp fingernail across her palm, cups her hand as the blood wells. A delicate frown distorts her brow. ‘The turning of the year, midway between Above and Below, between Before and After…’ / Angel wrinkles her nose as mists coalesce. For a popular nightspot Lovers Lane is lonely tonight, rife with aversions and small mercies. The mists cloud the boundaries, hiding the buildings, muffling the streetlights… and shifting the Lane to another plane. / Straight as a stiletto, green as a fairway, the Lovers Lane becomes the entire world. Mists hem its edges and frame the endpoints. Even mists don’t dare occlude the Deco Dinner or the gothic slendour of the Fata Morgana Tea Palace although they can reduce them to ghosts. / Sapphira shivers and the ruby liquid in the cup of her hand threatens to spill. ‘Almost.’ / ‘Hallow ground. Interesting.’ Angel’s wings retain the full rich colours of midnight, impervious to the half-tones that dominate this version of reality. Except for the verdant turf, herself, and the woman with book. ‘What exactly is your party trick, Sapphira?’ / Sapphira turns another page. She checks over her shoulder, compares behind with ahead and moves until she stands in the middle of the Lane. She drags the tip of her shoe across the ground and the grass unzips. ‘It won’t be a secret much longer.’ / ‘Yes, that’s what I’m concerned about.’ / Sapphira isn’t listening. Her focus is on the well of blood in her hand. Brighter than glory, precious as love, red as rage, it seeps from the slash across her heart and fate lines, closing in on the moment when it will overflow. She brings her hand in line with the break in the ground, starts to angle the outside edge down— / Angel catches Sapphira’s hand and forces it into a fist. / ‘No!’ / ‘That’s what I tried to tell you,’ Angels says. ‘Whatever you call up won’t be him. Just like you’re not you anymore.’ / Sapphira struggles. Angel grabs her other hand, tugs Sapphira round and up on to her toes. Angel’s hold is implacable, her expression gentle. ‘Sapphira. You’ve been dead for decades.’ / Sapphira’s lashes flutter. ‘Pardon?’ / ‘Denial and Belief are powerful forces and when you combine them…’ Angel winces. ‘Sorry.’ / ‘Oh.’ / Angel catches the diary as Sapphira dissolves. The weight of the book is a surprise, drags her arm down. The snap of Angel’s wings flaring for balance is one bruise too many and brings the Lane back into phase with Siren’s Gate. / The moon continues its serene journey and music escapes from the twelve bars between the Diner and the Palace, perhaps a little bluer than normal. / This time Angel’s sigh is heavy as regret in winter. She shakes her head. ‘The Forbidden Book Vault is getting close to full.’ (c) kate smith
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Solitary bench on hill, framed by the setting sun.
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regeneration
by bellmuskerI almost touched someone today / Almost
One of the blessings of agoraphobia – and yes, there are a few – is that it gifts you with a finely tuned awareness of safe spaces. Watching life pass by my porch was both a tantalising and yet devastating reminder of what I was unable to embrace. I couldn’t leave my house for an appallingly long time, and I’m still dealing with the intimacy that encompasses reconnecting with people. I still have a lot to learn.
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Same day I shot Morning Frost Just as I started to pack up and leave, I see this man crossing the lake on a canoe. I was out of film on my 35 mm, but still had some 120 in my Holga! I love the way it turned out, and think that little plastic camera suited it just fine!
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Well hidden from prying eyes, / My secret place you may wish to find, / But by looking you shall not see it, / For it is safe within my mind.
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Created for Witheringmoon’s Secret Place competition. / . / . / Sadness / Loneliness / Rejection / I just want to stop the tears / ... / I want you to take my pain away / Take my fear / My sorrow / My loss / ... / I want the shadows gone from me / The darkness / The cold / ... / I want a secret place to hide / With my memory / of you.
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Forever rest in long grass, / dappled by the shade of trees the flowers are all wild ones now; / grief long forgotten caressed too many times by nature’s hand, / the letters of your name are lost yet your beauty lives on in the warmth of the sunlight; / your laughter on the wings of bees.
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Secret Place
by Martin DerksemaBut, when the wind starts howling, / and the moon projects a shadow play
A couple of weeks ago Deborah Parkin: asked me if I wanted to collaborate on a competition on the theme Secret Place. This competition is an initiative from WitheringMoon I felt honoured Deborah asked me, because I am a great admirer of her work and her pure and mind-enhancing vision on childhood and life in general. As soon Deborah showed me the image she had in mind, the words started flowing. I want to thank Deborah for the pleasure of working together and for being such an inspiration. You will find our complete project here Also, I want to thank Mawaho for proof reading and her valuable comments.
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Haven
by Rhana GriffinRelax, breathe deep, / beneath the branches / that lovingly weave / their web of protection. Once again they faithfully / obscure the vis…
This poem was created for Withering Moons Secret Place Competition. For a change I thought I would let my inner poet run wild and use the photographic talents of another. My collaborator for this piece is Andrew Bosman. The complete work can be viewed here Thanks so much Andrew… this poem and your image together worked out better than I could have hoped for.
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This is a collaboration with the wonderfully talented writer bellmusker for the witheringmoon “Secret Place” competition. This is my first collaboration and it has been such a privilege to work with belmusker. Thanks also to witheringmoon for encouraging the visual and written artists to collaborate, I hope to have the opportunity again. I really wanted to have the Poem on the image but it’s difficult to read at this size so here it is: REGENERATION I almost touched someone today / Almost / I heard her skateboard clack along the footpath / and I hated her / for the freedom it allowed She didn’t see me / They rarely do / The leaves of this holly bush / shield my porch from the street / and so much more I sit here all day / Safe with blood red berries / and sharp pointed leaves / “Dark and spiky” he once laughed / “just like you” I knew I was healing / after two years of stale air / when I drew a ragged breath / and dragged the chair / to the light of this porch The air from out here / feels like honey on my skin / I catch the words that float across / and try to remember / how they felt in my mouth The wheels of her skateboard / sang defiant down the street / and when a breeze chose / to send her cap across to me / it felt like a gift It swung loosely on a leaf point / and my hand / braver than my heart / reached out to unhook it / You could barely see the shaking A grunt of thanks / and her song continued / I sat with my honey air / and blood red berries / and shook I almost spoke to someone today / Almost.
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