Moonflower

Moonflower

© Jennifer K. Marsh 2015

There once was a man so holy of heart,
though oft times he wondered when his life would start;
he roamed through his town with his shadow forlorn,
beset by a sense that the world he must mourn.
For, though holy his heart, a piece was misplaced,
which could not be found with imprudent haste –
like flowers that blossom with each merry spring,
the timing of Grace is a delicate thing.

And as this man rambled through well-trodden streets
he yearned for a beauty for his eyes to greet,
but where could he find such delight to the eye
when all his surrounds were a joy so denied?
How this man yearned for the blush of a flower
to inspire a smile through his lonely hours!
And so with a sigh and a drop of his head,
he wandered away to meet what lay ahead.

His feet led the way, knowing not where they went,
but being a vagrant bettered silent laments;
he would wander afar to seek what had been lost,
through valleys and tors, and sunshine and frost.
Perhaps, so he thought, if he ventured these lands,
someday he’d return with a flower in hand,
for with hope in his step and with faith in his soul
he would find the stray piece to make his heart whole.

Ever onwards he went, though the flowers he saw
were pretty and special, and yet nothing more –
he saw flowers of peach, of pink and of blue,
but knew that in spirit for others they grew.
Though he was perplexed by the flowers in sight,
for they wilted not beneath the blazing sunlight;
they were as gentle and as fair as could be
and suffered none in the heat – which was not so for he.

How he longed for the shade as he journeyed the dale!
Alas, no trees he found to offer avail.
The sky above had not even a cloud
to ease the travail he felt on the ground.
Only woe he had found as he travelled abroad,
and so, with despair, he cried out to the Lord:
“Why must my heart bear such sorrow as this!
Why is your Grace not enough for my bliss!”

So passed the day ’til the sun’s fall was due,
for the dusk welcomed he with a heavenly hue.
Relief was his own when the heat fell away,
and so he awaited the nightly display;
soon he would see the diamond dance of the stars
and moonstruck he’d be by the light of afar.
His wonder so grew for the dark mystery –
a vision of glory so melancholy!

But then as he trod ever marvelling still,
providence sang over wind-smitten hills;
it taught him of patience – his heart would soon sing! –
for he was so blessed, and a lover of spring.
The truth of these words he could not deny,
but his heart still wept for a flower to find.
But then his eyes met, on the horizon faint,
the shape of a tree that compelled to acquaint.

The tree greeted him with a smile and said,
“Hail, weary traveller, may my roots make your bed!
Dear child of God, I bid you rest beside me,
for you are my keeper and in return I keep thee.”
The man offered his thanks, expressed humble and true,
but the tree spoke again, for foretelling he knew:
“I have heard word that a flower you seek:
Turn and behold! The Lord’s flowers are meek.”

The man turned and beheld but he could not admire,
for this flower was frigid and stirred no desire;
she hid her bloom from the light of the sun
and retired her beauty to instead only shun.
But though this was so, he was caught by intrigue,
for what flower can hide with such quiet mystique?
How would she be if she opened her heart?
Would she be fearful, or broken, or dark?

The tree chuckled and said, with much good intent,
“You know in your heart this here flower I meant!”
The man did respond, “But how is this so?
For she is no heavenly image I know.”
And the tree so replied, “And so that should be,
since her beauty is only for your eyes to see!
She has been waiting for her sacred spring,
for the timing of Grace is a delicate thing!”

He sat down in thought, pondering over his plight
as he was amongst the ever darkening light.
So came to be the sky faded to black
and the stars sparked to life for him to gaze at;
they waltzed around the moon’s silver throne,
but how could it be the moon seemed so alone?
And yet, even so, it was the sphere of peace,
and night brought him many a sentiment sweet.

But then he noticed amidst the gentle moonshine
that now arose Grace, for the timing was nigh:
the flower, with care, did open her bloom
beneath the pale light of the moon.
Her petals were bold in a delicate white –
an angel that shone in God’s holy light!
Her beauty was more than he could ever tell:
she was the moonlight’s own precious belle.

But what did he see when she opened her heart?
She held a fragment – his heart’s missing part.
She was of heaven, this he now knew,
for within her the Holy Ghost surely grew;
she was his gift for his heart so divine –
the piece he had always been yearning to find.
With blessings abound the Lord showed him the One,
and his heart was anew – a new life had begun!

Nevermore would this man pine through the hours,
for he had found her – his little moonflower.

moonflower


It has been a while since I have done anything on this blog, and an even longer while since I have written/shared a poem. I believe I’ve said before that I never write poetry unless deeply compelled to, and ‘Moonflower’ came to be in quite a… Well, I was cleaning the house when out of nowhere the idea popped up in my mind. I knew I had to let this one out. I don’t think I’ve ever written such a long poem, either – it just kept on going and going! Still, it tells a story, so it’s okay.

As for the odd (and not desperately wonderful) sketch I did to accompany the poem… I’m not quite sure what happened with that, to be perfectly honest. It wasn’t supposed to be what it ended up as. I planned to draw a tree with a man kneeling by it, admiring a blooming flower in the moonlight, but, when I sat down at my desk with pencil in hand, the above happened. For whatever reason, I drew a woman’s hand with the flower coming out of it… And the rest is history. Make of it what you will.

We have all heard of the glorious sunflower, yes? It is sunshine in a flower, blooming and flourishing in the sunlight.

But did you know there is a moonflower? What a gentle thing this flower is! It does not bloom during the day, but rather once the sun has set. It blooms throughout the night.

Lovelovelovelovelove

I want a garden full of moonflowers, so I may see its white beauty, and feel as if the moon’s essence dwells before me in a delicate flower once the night falls. And maybe these moonflowers can be grown amongst some sunflowers, for when one opens the other rests, and the sun is a joy to behold! The sun and the moon, different as they may be, are very much one. Though, for me, my heart lives on the moon.

An aside: I wrote a little song about the sun and the moon once – a ‘love’ story, if you will, between the two. 

‘So the two share the sky, though at differing times,

yet they long to know something more.

Can the sun hide away?

Can the moon see the day?

Would their yearning soon make them fall?’

***

I feel very much like the man in the poem at the moment. A wanderer. Lonely. Mourning what is not there to be mourned. Maybe I too should wander away in pursuit of my flower… *sigh* 

*

May you find your flower, be it one of the sun or the moon,

and be at peace, my friends.

Blessings keep you,

~JKM

Secrets from the Wondersong, and Dreamings of a Tree

Secrets from the Wondersong, and Dreamings of a Tree

© Jennifer K. Marsh 2014

sepiatreeeees

A little bird perched on a low branch hanging from a tree within a woodland, but this little bird sang no song and made no tweet; instead, she puffed a sigh, and so her wings drooped by her side.

The tree upon which this bird was perched opened his eyes, awoken by this sound. “My, my!” exclaimed the tree, “was that a sigh I heard? That is not the noise the world wishes to hear from a little bird.” He yawned away his drowsiness, shaking his leaves here and there, and gazed kindly at her. “Whatever is the matter, dear little one? If you so wish to tell, I shall listen to your every word till all your woe is gone.”

The bird forced a smile, as strong as she may, touched by the trees tender ways. “I didn’t mean to wake you, Mister Tree – you seemed to be dreaming merrily. I wonder, if you would, could you share your dream with me?” She bobbed her tail feathers, giddy at the mere thought.

“Hmm,” the tree pondered. “And wonder why a little bird may wish to know my dream.”

“Trees are ever so wise,” replied she. “Surely, through your dreams, you have a thing or two to teach me.”

The tree smiled. “Why, dear little one, that depends: what is it you yearn to learn?”

The bird sat in thought for a moment before sighing once more.

“Again with the sigh!” said the tree, concerned for the bird. “Dear little one, I am half expecting you to cry. No such tears do I want to see!”

“My heart is heavy, Mister Tree,” she told him, “and it bears me down in flight. How am I to soar free when such misery dampens my wings? Can you teach me how to fly again?”*

The tree absorbed the bird’s words, mulling them over with great consideration. Finally, he chuckled, yet the bird was perplexed by this: how was this an amusing situation? “Dear little one, you fret so needlessly – I cannot teach you how to fly, for you already know! But do not let a heavy heart hinder where your spirit goes. Although it may be hard to carry woe upon your wings, you can still fly high and reach for brighter things.”

The bird hung her head, weighed down by it all. “But I am small, and I am weak: I cannot carry this heavy load, for I’m too weary in defeat!”

The tree gazed upon her with eyes of earnest care, and so tender was the look that it helped to ward away most of the bird’s despair. “My little feathered friend, let me tell you of my dream: I dreamed a dream of future woe that fluttered down lamenting so, and how funny it should be that this woe was, in fact, a little bird! She came to me telling of the heavy heart she bore inside, and ever so concerned was she that she’d forgotten how to fly. And so I told this little one a secret known by all the trees, passed down by the sun from ancient days of wondersong**: ‘Heavy hearts are full of love! Did you not know? That is why they weigh so much, but aren’t they such a burden-load! Love for all that they see near, and love for those away from here; love for themselves, though warped through doubt, and love they did not even know about! ‘Tis a blessing high to feel such deep emotion, yet I know it can often feel like a curse in full devotion. How do I know? I see your eyes ask! Do you not wonder why the trees never move? The heaviest hearts of all are found in the woods, for trees’ hearts are laden leaden with the love from the core of the world, and our roots burrow down to it so we may hug it close! But little birds do not have roots, and thus, are not confined; may you never forget that you are free throughout the journey of your life!’ And so this little bird then pondered all I said and wondered whether all her doubt came solely from her head, for if the trees so mighty wise can smile with such heavy hearts, there was no reason why she couldn’t, too, as her heart wasn’t destined for gloom – it merely needed a lighter mind to help it shine on true. And so the bird chirped a song and thanked me for my time, and flew away so merrily and perfectly benign.” Wearing a grin with an attentive eye, he leant closer to her and whispered, “I wonder, dear little one, whether you may learn from the wondersong!”

The bird ruffled her feathers, a-flustered by all the tree had said, but deeply considered everything she thought that he had meant. “Is it true?” she finally asked. “The trees never move because their roots are bound to all the love of the world?” She paused for a moment, and the tree remained silent, so as to let her mind explore her thoughts. Suddenly, she splayed out her wings, bursting with verve. “Why, it must be true!” she affirmed to herself, “for how else could the trees care and give so much for all who live? How you give your lives and freedom for all others! Why, it makes me smile just at the thought!”

The tree chuckled. “And so you should smile, my little friend, for you are blessed with so many joys! Such a beautiful little creature you are! Why sigh when you can sing? Why look down when you can fly high into the sky? For you will feel such joy again if, to the world, some joy you bring! How the world so loves to hear the sound of the birdly serenade, and how the world so loves to see the sight of their flightful escapades!”

“You are right, Mister Tree, of course you are!” said the bird, with a glistening in her eyes that told of new-found hope. “If troubles I so have, why not sing them away? If fears drag me down, why not fly above them?” She gave a tweet so blissful. “Thank you, Mister tree, thank you! You have helped me see the sun again.”

“Dear little one,” the tree started in a tone so kindly, “that is what I am here for. Just remember: the sun is always there, beaming down his merry ways to lend you a smile on your darkest days. Now go: be free, my feathered friend, and make the most of your day!”

With a fond chirp farewell, the bird fluttered from the tree’s branch and up above him, and the tree waved his branches in the wind on her departure.

The tree watched her fly away until she had left his view, and then, with a small smile planted on his face, he released a long, contented exhale and snuggled himself back into his slumber, falling into dreamings while in wait for the time he was to wake again.

GNOWLLIS

(that’s Kurpian for THE END, just so you know)


A little while back, I finally ventured out the house on a dear old walk through the woodland for over an hour and a half. It was hardly a gentle slope back into walking, though (quite literally), for my local woodland walks are actually through the most ridiculously steep hills you can imagine, whereby your leg muscles gradually go on strike and your lungs are like, “GIVE ME A MINUTE, GOOD HEAVENS.”  It was wonderful, though, of course it was, and after all the toil I was treated to the most glorious view up at ‘The Beacon’, I believe it’s called, where the light broke through the grey clouds onto the distant shoreline below (to see this, refer to my Instagram which you can find by clicking over at the side of this blog somewhere –>>)

The photo used at the beginning of this post is one I took while walking down one of the flatter trails. It is slightly blurred, yes, because my phone’s camera is the most temperamental pile of [insert profanity] ever. We fall out on a regular basis.

This is only the second short story I’ve ever done for my blog, would you believe? I’ve been hating on Ilimoskus’ Book 2 for a couple of weeks now and cannot work on it (story of my life), so I wasted my time writing this instead. Find the message within, dear people, for what is writing without a message, hmm? I think there’s a little bird within us all. Don’t you?

I have used ‘dear’ far too much in this post, I feel. WORD OF THE WEEK.

(It took me about five thousand years to name this piece of writing. I hate titles sometimes. And what I finally came up with was a long load of nonsense. Wondersong? Dreamings? <- Why is dreamings not a word? This is a serious question. It sounds far more enchanting than ‘dreams’. And wondersong, by the way, is an age – a period of time – in my mind [imagination] that flows through many pieces of my writing and musics etc – almost like the beginning of the world, when all aspects of nature obtained the secrets, knowledge and teachings that make them so special.)

*…Can you teach me how to fly again?” – I was so listening to this when I was writing this short piece. (Side note: I approve of the man being out in the woodland in this video. Not that my approval means anything. Still. I approve.)

**wondersong, dreamings, burden-load, birdly, flightful – In case you hadn’t noticed, with Ilimoskus, my poetry and other writing larks, I like making up/playing with words. Because why not.

Until we meet again,

I fare thee well.

And if you wake a tree,

may you listen carefully…

– Jenny

The Apple

Good day, everyone. I have emerged from my shadowy lair today so as to venture back into the world of WordPress and share with you a poem of mine. It is not the happiest poem I’ve ever written, yet still there is hope within it. I actually started to write it on Christmas Eve last year (I wasn’t in the greatest mood over Christmas), but stopped after the first big paragraph because I wasn’t sure where I wanted the ‘story’ to go. Basically, I didn’t know whether I wanted a happy ending or a sad one. I left this poem for a while, and ended up finishing it on 22nd February. Is it a happy ending? Yes and no.

***

The Apple

© Jennifer K. Marsh 2014

Oft times I wonder how the oak tree bore
an apple
and not an acorn.

What a foreign little thing
this apple seems to be
among the acorns of the tree.
This apple will not sing the oak tree’s song.
This apple knows it will never belong.
But this makes the acorns stare,
knowing all too well the apple’s aware:
“What is it doing there?” the acorns say.
“Why won’t it go away?
Why won’t this apple simply fall?
On this tree it should not be bore!”
The apple fights back its tears, saying,
“I know I am not your peer –
I don’t know how I wound up here.
I wish more than all of you
that I could simply fall.
I wish I could plummet down and roll away,
’cause I can’t stand this anymore!
For so many years I’ve tried to sing your song,
but whenever I do it always sounds wrong.
I just don’t belong!
But what can I do?
Here I must stay,
for here I am bound,
until I grow old and rot away.
Oh, how I wish I could be on the ground –
maybe there some hope can be found!
Oh, what can I do?”

At this the acorns sneer,
just as the apple had feared;
why should the apple speak its heart
when the acorns wish to tear it apart?
What can this apple do
but endure the scorn of acorn spew?
The sun slowly sinks as the day passes by
and oh how this little apple cries
well away into the night
beneath the darkened eventide.
The endless sky leans down to paint
the apple black for its dark escape;
it has been kissed by the lips of death,
for time decrees its final breath.
And so while the acorns sleep
so soundly lost in visions deep,
the apple breaks away and falls
far below where the grass blades grow.
The apple lands, crashing with might,
splitting in two like its heart during life,
to reveal a centre so rife with seeds –
the seeds that were the roots of its dreams.
But now the apple halves roll away,
down the hill of a dawning day,
leaving behind the oak tree’s ways.

And time goes by, so steady and slow,
all the while these small seeds grow;
soon will stand the tallest tree
of apples, both red and green,
and blossom will burst for every dream
that times before had never seen!

Time has passed and now I stare
at all the apples way up there.

Oft times I wonder how the oak tree bore
an apple
and not an acorn.
Oft times I gaze at the apple tree
and whisper:
“Now you are free.”

***

theapple

Serious face for a serious question:

Do you often wonder how the oak tree bore an apple and not an acorn?

I know I do.

Go Back to the Starting Line

This poem originated from me answering questions about my book. While I was in the middle of writing answers to a load of questions, I happened to be talking to a friend at the same time, and I said to him, “There are a million questions and I’m still on one”. He then said that sounds like the beginning of a poem. So, I made it one. But, story aside, this has a very important message which we should all take to heart.

Go Back to the Starting Line

© Jennifer K. Marsh 2013

There are a million questions
and I’m still on one;
I fell at the first hurdle
and there’s no rerun.
The humans all ran on,
leaving me behind,
but they left a little message:
‘We thought you wouldn’t mind.’

There are a million answers
but I can’t give you one;
I fell at the first hurdle
and watched on as you won.
Now I’m all alone
’cause I was left behind;
how I wish I could rewind
the ruin of mankind.

I am but a humble tree –
I am humble nature –
but please look after me.

This is my only plea.

In Our Dying Dream

In Our Dying Dream

© Jennifer K. Marsh 2013

Our tree once grew amidst an emerald land
and we once lay beside it hand in hand;
with our hearts together we would sleep
upon a soft bed of grass so deep.

Do you remember, my dear,
when this land we loved was near?
How we lost our way is not clear,
yet we have not lost what we used to revere.
Just close your eyes,

and again…

our shadows will dance beneath the golden sun
in the sapphire stream,
as the changing leaves fall one by one
in our dying dream.

Our tree has died amidst a barren land
and we’ve released the other’s hand,
but our hearts we cannot cast aside,
for in this land they still reside.
So, although our tree no longer grows,
for as long as the river flows
I’ll have you know that I will never truly go.

Do you remember, my dear,
when this land we loved was near?
How we lost our way is not clear,
yet we have not lost what we used to revere.
Just close your eyes.

But never again…

will our shadows dance beneath the golden sun
in the sapphire stream,
as the changing leaves fall one by one
in our dying dream.

Close your eyes, my dear, and venture to this distant place,
to the bygone time,
but one that is veiled in every shade of grace.

Our shadows stand beneath the setting sun
by the frozen stream,
as the dying leaves fall one by one
in our memories.