few can compare

anyway my darkest secret is that i was in the onceler fandom dont unfollow me for this

i think the ask swag onceler account still follows me on my old blog

4

I hate rain and I hate wind even more. I don’t quite understand how anyone can enjoy these unless your prepared and happy to be blown about and end up looking similar to a drowned rat. However, as much as I do really despise them, the aftermath of rainwater is something extraordinarily captivating.   

The raindrops appear so perfectly placed on surfaces, moving and connecting with others, whilst the city lights glisten in the reflections. It’s a photographers dream. As I explored London in the early evening yesterday I became significantly soaked and frustrated that I was unable to photograph anything outdoors. However once the rain had come to an end, I could fully appreciate my surroundings. There are very few sights that can compare to the beauty and calm of a city night after a downpour. 

Magic Carpet

Full moon’s high in my window pane,
a sleepless night yet again.
I think of what that old moon’s seen,
and the billions of days in-between.

Billions of stories it could share.
But few like grandma’s can compare.
Her life began long, long ago.
Raised in places few ever know.

In forests, jungles and never-ending plains,
there were exotic cities and quiet country lanes.
Naturalist nurtured traversing the globe,
her parents explorers and professors in robes.

She too attended their university,
majoring, of course, in anthropology.
She graduated at the very top of her class.
Then returning to a high mountain pass.

A place where dear friends made, one nevermore,
new will be made though not as before.
For the sisterly love they both did share,
her dowry passed from generations with care.

Their rug was presented for the mutual esteem,
more cherished than a simple weaving would seem.
With sheep twists dyed and hands knotting all day,
life’s artful history’s made to give, barter or pray.

That winter spent mourning by choice and terrain.
Gram then ventured east with the new spring rain.
Her path soon ended on a long Pacific beach,
her life of the past now far out of reach.

She then called upon as never before.
She volunteered proudly as a nurse in the war.
Through years of blood, pain and tears she served,
refusing all the medals and honors deserved.

Though her true love was found slumped on a cot,
they soon returned home, where time was forgot.
Gramps got better and a new family sown.
their many shared scars were never shown.

Her old rug was placed by hearth and chest,
each full of stories though not all are best.
It’s a place we’d sit to hear grandma recall,
sometimes a place to do nothing at all.

So I tip-toed downstairs since sleep no option,
I’ll rest on that rug where dreams are begun.
It’s where secrets are shared and magic seen,
then a place for relaxing time in-between.

Once sewn as a bag keeping safe, precious things.
It’s been many a blanket with a picnic to bring.
It’s been a shawl in the cold and hood in the rain -
and a comfy pillow on the overnight train.

Adventures had in time that’s flown,
together worn from long years grown.
This rug’s grandma’s confidant and oldest friend,
soaring together their wove lives transcend.

Though colors now faded, ends torn and frayed,
beauty more timeless cannot be remade.
And when the winds do bellow just right,
we’re drawn up the flue and into the night.

Holding fast and climbing high,
we touched the stars in our moonlit sky.
We’d see twinkling lights in our town below,
then off to the hills where roads don’t go.

Over the wood, back to the place we all live,
where the door’s always open and love’s to give.
There blissful slumbers had snug as a bug,
whilst wrapped with a hug in grandmas old rug.


`
sck032116

Edwige Belmore …Rest in Power … I first  met her in 1983 while working  as a ladies’ room attendant at the NYC club Area.  I was new on the scene and feeling awkwardly out of place when  her big beautiful red lips kissed me on the cheek as she was applauding  me for looking  “ unique” .  in 1987,  I was a cocktail waitress at her cabaret night on 13th and 6th . She was the hostess and chanteuse and living life with a passion and flair few can compare. 


if I was, would you be?


April 2, 2010  by Edwige Belmore


My life has been nothing but a blink…. a breath…. a hiccup…. a sneeze….
I’m opening my eyes and everything burns. everything ’s blurred.
I see a bridge, I’m crossing it, I’m almost over it.
Am I the bridge I need to cross and get over? Bridge to what? I’m confused as always, and yet the clarity of my emotions is frighteningly blinding, burning, crippling.
No wonder I’m losing my eyesight along with the rest of my human capacities….
Am I becoming the crumbling stones of what used to be a path, a destination, a temple?
Am I the pounded dirt of a family home, or the dust one kicks in anger? Am I a rock, a root, a pebble, a leaf, a feather?
and again what would be my purpose?
if I was a rock, would you stand on me or hit me with myself?
if I was a root, would you grow with me or trip and fall?
if I was a pebble, would you collect me or throw me in the river?
if I was a leaf, would you gather rain drops on me to quench your thirst or crumble me?
and if I was a feather, would you let me float in the wild wind or wear me on your neck and nestle me on your heart?
If I was, would you be?

Edwige Belmore