Dreams

Underwater Waves [4]


Stuart Stevenson 2

                                            [Flash Fiction Chapter Four]

Underwater Waves 


Was it not yesterday?

Here, yesterday is the past; and the past is gone.

No . . . something that haunts you day and night, is never gone.

Her patience abandons her, and madness takes hold of her like a tempest. She will rage against everything she believes to be destroying their paradise. She forgets the truth. She shuts her eyes to her cowardice. In her fairytale she is free; only life filled with vivid colors of youth, and the scent of spring in every scene. And in this lonely place, she was not so alone. The sky knelt down to welcome her smile, as her eyes fixed upon the sun-rays of a new day. She felt a soft breeze, and then a faint melody; the melody of a mockingbird; familiar sounds, but nothing real. Then one by one, those forgotten bits and pieces resurface.

She recalls all those things along the way. The gestures of love; the song of hope. He was a compass of dreams, a philosopher of thought, and she, the goddess of his make-believe. And in the quiet of the night, he sang to her with his laughter as she danced to the chant of his sweet delight. She caressed his pain; sometimes with kindness, and sometimes with silence; and in his endless disbelief, she bore his storms. She had become a friend to a stranger from another world; a world cursed to never be.

Between you and me; The bridges . . . The walls . . . And when they said it was impossible, we showed them how it could be done –

A while, and then halfway before her end, that which she thought had destroyed her paradise, was the thing that saved her. And it was never his fault. It was she who willed him to leave; she feared to dream, so she pushed him away to protect him from her pain. She hoped that he’d betray her; she begged for it to happen, and when he’d refuse, she’d disappear to punish him. He had to be her villain, but he was not. He was a kind man searching for hope. He told her, it would be a struggle, but they would get through it in the end – Oh, and he did try to save her in every way, but some souls cannot be saved my love.

To go back to that day, when trust destroyed her; the day he left with a promise to return, but never did –

To be continued . . .

 

 –Photograph Credits: Stuart Stevenson

Anticipated Memories


 Anticipated memories IM

Anticipated Memories

The wickedness of collapse, is that it comes in idle whispers.

It takes you in its arms; numbing the yearning to dream.

In quiet steps, it alters the world you thought was real.

The present is misplaced, and in the depths of darkness you descend.

You see a glimpse of truth in your attempt to trust.

A faint spark of memory keeps coming back;

There it is; nearest to your heart, that little thing called love.

My muse had a charming way of bringing back the dead.

   – In all its imperfections, it was a perfect World.

Anticipated Memories; love remembered never goes astray.

Like notes of a forgotten melody; of a luring hidden moonlight –

In quiet steps, it takes back every moment you called love.

Within empty spaces of time, a struggle to recall.

The wickedness of collapse, is that it comes in idle whispers.

[Dedication to Robin M. Williams]

© Picture Credits: source/vmburkhardt.tumblr.com –

 

 

Of Beauty


of Beauty

Of Beauty

Love; an echo . . . a thread of faith –

Into his eyes; tainted by a heritage of pain to embrace:
Through the pillars of your birthright, the chant –
Vibrating through the flesh of your skin:
That echo . . . that echo of hymns.

I wake up to the decades lost; the struggle of uncertainty –
A hum treading beneath my screams.
Such legacy of hope; forced upon me.
An echo of faith . . . of beauty . . . of a dream.

Love is nothing more than a spark;
– within a captivated heart.
And that my love, is everything.

© Maria Fokas/ February 7 2016 – All Rights Reserved

Photograph credits – Unknown (Please contact me if information is known)

 

The Flame


Pyromaniac by smallvillian

The Flame by Maria Fokas

Like an Empress of Time, the Flame distorts the mind, dancing her seductive dance, as the wood crackles with each breath. But who keeps track of what is lost, as time goes by. The walls kindle in deep maroon, and time stands still again, then disappears into a darkness, and I dream of impossible things; of distant oceans, under the seas, with gentle crests of endless waves. Soft ripples that caress the sand, then retrieve back into the sea with a soft melody – hidden in the stir of the flame:

In a world far away from here
I look beyond the deep blue sea
And as the sun sets,
I light a fire with dreams and desires
And I wait in silence, for your return 

Everything begins to fade away –

Silence, with its many masks,
Claims to know the truth.
But after all the time we bore,
You and I should know,
That silence with its cunning smile
Never spoke, of promises worthwhile.

 

 Photo Credits: Pyromaniac by Smallvillian

Beneath the Waves


Brooke Shaden

Beneath the Waves by Maria Fokas

The greatest treasures are simple things
Few gestures that say; I love you!

Take a sip
Delight in a kiss
Turn the last page with me –

Blow out the candles
Say good night
Never regret the promises

Vulnerable to the Waves
Loyal to the rock
The windmill spins
The anchor pulls

Under the sea the treasure will be
Remember to embrace your dream

The waking hour may change your wants
But never your deepest needs –

 

Photo Credits: Brooke Shaden

Forbidden Shells (Reality)


1. Forbidden Shells (Reality) by Maria Fokas

I woke up this morning from the inside out; opened my eyes to a broken day –
He asked me if I knew anything about reality, but who can claim to know? It would have to be an objective lad, but minds are subjective most of the time. Maybe there’s one percent that knows, but what would they say? : “I know that I cannot possibly be objective when cultured to think a specific way, and regardless of what I choose opposed to what I deny, could it be the inner voice of my subjective world? How could we know?”

We can’t know, but we can know about Holidays, and so to honor the seasonal spirit (holiday food-for-thought):
Do you want to live in a world the way it is now? This reality? “No…not at all,” I heard him say: Some notes just catch my attention – I can’t help it.
I’m going to tell you, stay with me please – Wait . . . it doesn’t matter what I think. Yesterday someone planted a seed in my head (but was it already there?). Who wants to live in a world where the majority work simply to survive, where the criminal act of taxation is condemning our dreams and owning the one precious thing that life gives us arbitrarily; Time – yes, time – a world which drains creativity out of a child’s heart – where the word “Love” is losing its color; its scent; its sanctuary. I wonder if we can “uncreate” the world we’ve created. Write it down – Tell the story inside of you; not the one they carefully placed on top of yours.

Are there no words to save us?  – Hope maybe? “I’m hoping, if tomorrow I wake, to find a baked roll on my breakfast spread, prettier than a diamond tiara,” Modern Sleeping-Beauty said. Christmas was just around the corner, and then it was over – Sweet Santa made a trip to the US of A, on Christmas Eve, then headed over to Ireland for the best Irish coffee in the whole wide world – a few laughs, many secrets, and finally, he’ll make his way over to the Europeans (those who open gifts on New Year’s Eve). Santa is generous; it’s the best time of year; an important man was born in December, and since then – it’s been the season of light – snap – but no cinnamon rolls for my love. I was lost and he found me; will I survive when he goes away? I want to read a sentence that lasts 150 words . . . can you find me that sentence, please? I’ll be patiently waiting behind the window-pane. But no, I won’t.

 

If


New Castle Collection

If – by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;

If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

 Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And — which is more — you’ll be a Man, my son!

 

 

I wonder


I WonderI Wonder by Maria Fokas

Broken dreams in a recycle bin. Caring with violence; no means to an end. How tragic to claim trust in such a way; to wrap up your love for all kinds of occasions. Mistakes which keep repeating themselves all pile up, for no one to see. The law which keeps conforming to twist the truth – protecting the enemy.

 I wonder about all these things. 

I wonder how it all started, and if it will ever end. I wonder how to stop it, then laugh at my arrogance to ever think I could. And I give up, like a coward would. To fall back on my ignorance; a safe place to be, is this a lesser version of me? I cannot decide. So, I take a trip to the center of town, to walk by shops I dare not go in, and I wonder why.

 

Dreams


 

Dreams

Dreams By Maria Fokas

A heavy choice to make

After all this time of planning

Don’t ask me to explain

Something about the pain I’ll feel in the way you’ll say goodbye

All this talk of no regrets, I could be wrong this time

 

Maybe I do not need the things I want – my promises and my devotion

But for every choice I make, I gain and lose in every gasp

A heavy choice to leave it all behind

I crash against these dreams I want

In the lonely hours of the night I need to let it all go by

A day, a decade, or two – it makes no difference now

For all I want this time around, is to make your dreams come true

In the lonely hours of the night, I know what I must do

So god if you can hear me, take it all away

For around the corner rest regrets – I cannot afford to let loose