The Scarlett Letter

Is there any balm in Gilead? Tell me, truly, I implore.

Quoth the Raven, nevermore.

*

“Tomorrow will be a very special day.” Heather informed Penny as she tamed her unruly white curls. The reflection of mother and daughter flickered in the mirror, for Heather preferred light by candles, and the result was an atmosphere continually muted and dimmed.  “Tomorrow is your seventh birthday.”

“It isn’t!” cried Penny, her head quivering indignantly. “It is my four hundredth!”

Heather felt a slight shiver slide down her spine, but she brushed the feeling aside as she brushed Penny’s hair. “What a silly thing to say.” She murmured, her expression fixed and calm. “You were born seven years ago. I was present at your birth, after all.”

“You were not.” Insisted Penny, and her eyes snapped with quizzical excitement. “I sprang five hundred years ago from the blackest forest mud, as a daisy or a white, white rose; and you found me and keep me here for, I don’t know why.”

Heather tilted her head and considered what she ought next to say.

“And you are not my mother.” continued Penny curtly. “Vous n’etez pas ma mere. You also sprang from that black ground, and the dark man on the platform did also. For we are all made of the same dirt on the ground, and came from the same secluded spot, and we all have the same soul.” Penny turned her head round so she could find her mother’s eyes. “But your rose is not white. It is red.”

Heather sternly turned Penny’s head to face the mirror and continued fixing her hair.

“What a silly thing to say.” She murmered lightly, with no strain except in her eyes. “Are you Anaximander, to claim to spring spontaneously from the mud? When you speak such silliness, I doubt that you could be my daughter.”

Vous n’etez pas ma mere.” Penny insisted.

“Cannot you say “Tu n’es pas ma mere?” Heather questioned, giving her daughter a teasing tap. “At any rate, whether you are seven years old or four hundred, tomorrow I would like to play a game.

“We are always playing games.” Penny reminded her tiredly.

“Hush. This is what you must promise: you must be very quiet, well behaved and obedient; essentially entirely different from your normal self. No matter what happens, you must obey mother. The more obedient you are, the more points you receive, and if you get the most points, you will win. But if you are bad and mean and disobedient, you will get no points and you will lose the game miserably. Do you understand?”

Heather knew her daughter’s competitive spirit. Penny determined to win more points than her mother, and Heather knew that she would be well-behaved.

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The Snow Queen

Is, there, is there balm in Gilead?

Tell me, truly, I implore.

Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.

Poe.

5. TheSnowQueen

Tis a calm and lovely night

For the snowflakes falling light

Glitter the most perfect sight

You can know.

And the wind is slipping past

And the stars are fading fast

Oh, your dream has come at last

The first snow.

Can you feel the snow queen?

When the moon’s unearthly beams

Strike the snowflakes like a dream

She is there.

You can feel her pass by

And you shiver as her sigh

Quivers as a distant cry

In the air.

The night takes a darker tone

As she wanders all alone

And a melancholy moan

Is her song

 And that strange, seductive tune

Mixing with the snow and moon

Lures you to your death and doom

 Before long.

Come with me

You will see

Things you never knew to be

Come away

And we’ll stay

Far from glaring light of day.

Trailing blood on virgin snow

With a diabolic glow
Her insanity does show

In her eyes.

For they glitter when she’s pleased,

And they snap when she’s uneased

And can drag you to your knees

There to die.

Feel the creeping sense of dread

Tis continually fed

Pounding, pounding in your head

You are found.

Oh the burning, churning fright

How the snow flakes seem to bite

Eerie echoes fill the night

All around.

You must fear time is dear she is near almost here

You must run find the sun there is none you are done

You must run find the sun there is none you are done.

Photo rights to enjoiordie.blogspot.com

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The room

In the middle of the room

Is a glimmer in the gloom

Just the beating of the moon

On the roof.

As it tries to slip inside

Open willing, open wide

On the shingles it resides

Still aloof.

Light a candle in the dark

Make it, mix it, mark it, spark!

As your lashes shift and smart

From the light.

If your heartbeat starts to race

Turn and tilt it from your face

(Or below a crystal vase)

Out of sight.

So the beating of the black

Is compiling in a stack

And you cannot take it back

Anymore.

Maybe now you can forget

The elusive lucid net

Of pellucid, prude regrets

That were poured.

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Poem in High Society

There is no high-road

To the muses. -AU

I wish in front of others we could speak more clearly,

So, dear, you would know that I am laughing behind my serious expression too noble and true.

You do lose much of my meaning, seemingly because we must justly tip and sip our glasses

While boredom attacks our shackled brains. (Stains on reputations are horrid things to gain.)

Ways you cover for me: you smile not so sincerely, nearly as if you believe the lie

But your eyes are laughing because deep down

They know the truth.

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New Blog

Hello, readers! I know that I rarely address you directly, but I just wanted to let you know I’ve added a new blog. While liseuse deals more with art and abstraction, Political Corrections deals more with current issues and facts. If you have time, check it out!

http://politicalcorrections.wordpress.com/

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What We Can Learn, From Audrey and Liz.

Whenever I feel discontented in my life, I read Hollywood biographies.

Please don’t throw stones. They always make my life look so much better.

As I’ve escaped the semi-literacy imposed by Dewey and Huey on the American masses, I’ve cultivated a slightly satirical perspective.

For instance, I think it curious that actresses that manage to survive Hollywood sans suicide (such as Elizabeth Taylor and Audrey Hepburn) suddenly cultivated  philanthropic tendencies in their aged years, after dedicating themselves making meaningless movies, money, and love throughout the decades of their cosmetically-prolonged youths.

I would hate to assume that such women, used to being seductive icons in their youths, found themselves finally flung from the interest of the media and resorted to any means to gain themselves some recognition, and found charities to be the best method of prolonged attention.

Let me be more generous. Perhaps these women, generally self-serving in youth, became reflective in old age and, sensing instinctively some approaching judgment, sought frantically to balance with later good deeds those afflicting affairs and abortions that dotted their youth.

Yet I have a challenge for my contemporaries.

Let us learn from the lives of those elevated and emulated actresses. Perhaps by focusing on others and not ourselves, remembering our Creator in the days of our youth, and cultivating our character and striving for the virtues of patience, dedication, and reflection; perhaps by denying ourselves and seeking to help others we can escape the divorces and suicide attempts and overdoses of the matriarchs of Hollywood and find meaning and purpose in life.

I’ve learned this the hard way. But we were created by a God of second chances.

 

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The Morning After

Was she thy god,

Superior, or but equal?

That to her thou didst

Resign thy manhood?

Paradise Lost

I wonder how Adam looked at Eve the morning after they became as gods.

Perhaps she slept passed him, turned, for the first time, from his face.

Perhaps she woke first, and had moved away, shaking determined mud from her drying hair.

Perhaps Adam thought of yesterday’s decision. perhaps with clouded eyes he remembered glossy tears glistening, grinding into his nerves,

Perhaps he remembered a flawless form, a frightful look fretting he would leave her,

That insistent whisper that he must have her, if in desolation,  in hell.

Now a rotting apple lay at his feet, a symbol of the birth of progress.

The decision was done,

The morning was come,

And with steady sternness he searched for that immeasurable elegance that determined his choice.

Now he could see the chips of her painted nails,

The smears of her painted face,

The roots of her painted hair.

When Eve returned, his eyes were closed, as if in sleep, but really in disguise, hiding disgust, or fright, or despair,

To find his perfect idol flawed and defected, to have sold his soul for a gilded goddess and to wake to receive a poked paper doll,

Leah’s veil removed,

And reflection without respite

For eternity.

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