THE WITCH

'The Nameless Place'  by  Trish

My mother is a wicked witch.

She's taken my doll Betty with the broken head

and thrown it into the fire. She says,

'Now! that's the end of her!'

I hear the fire crackle, see the pretty face of my doll, with her little blue  lips, melt before my eyes.

Later in the day, my mother takes the  key,

that hangs on the long fine gold chain around her plump neck,

points it at me, and tells me to go on an errand for her.

She slips the key into the tiny key hole, looks from side to side,
then quickly turns the key, and opens the door, barely wide enough for me to squeeze my skinny frame through.

I hurry away as fast as I can, but I still hear her voice,
that's because her witch voice lives in my ears. It always has. Her voice says,
'No, no, no, wrong, wrong, wrong! Just you dare, just you dare! young lady! and see what happens!'


But, I have a secret. Its a moonbeam. Well that's what I've called  it.
I'm not afraid of her wicked voice in my ears, when it glows within me,
The only problem is, I don't know what turns the little beam on.

I can't remember when the, moonbeam twinkle, began
helping me with my troubles.

I think it would have been on one of those nights,
when there was angry shouting in our house.
On those nights, I would sit in my bedroom, and hold my breath, to hear better.
A misty darkness would float around me. As I held my breath and listened, the floating darkness would turn into a blanket of smokey gray mist, it would roll over and over, until it covered me from head to toe, and keep me a prisoner all night.

That's why I'm frightened of loud voices, especially angry ones.
And that's why I never  dare to do anything, for fear of what might happen to me.

I have no idea, what could happen, but I can feel,

'Moving On'  by  Trish

 it would be something worse than any thing I could think of,

or anything I've ever heard of in my five years on earth.

I do wish I knew how to make the moonbeams light stay on,

I think it would make my world a wonderful place.

But never mind, the glow is definitely growing,

and as it grows, it lights up more and more of the darkness.

So,with the help of my little moonbeam friend,

my world  will  one day be, a truly wonderful place.

Tushie





'Betty Before She Died'   by Trish

                                                                 (Betty has a hood on
                                                                   to cover her broken
                                                                   crown)

DEAR M0THER



'A Magic Carpet'  by  Trish

Dear mother,

No doubt you still attend your beloved church, and wear your special Sunday hats? I particularly recall the pale blue hat with  petals of pink, scattered across its brim.

Is it long since I  last saw you? Perhaps, those flowers, are now crumpled and crushed?

I recall, how, as a child, I so loved the soft glow of your ivory skin, and the luminous silver hue, that glinted in  your long dark hair.Would a child really notice such things? Or is it my feverish imagination playing with my mind? I don't know. But even so, to me, they are sweet memories, innocent, childhood memories.

And now?

Mother... pray for me... it is so cold here in this place.

I shiver at the sinister sounds of the dark night. Yet, even the silence, seems to hold within its stillness, a promise to bestow its own form of vengeance.

In truth, it's not the cold nights, nor it's ugly symphony of madness, that numbs my flesh, freezes my bones.
No, it is the hard hearts of those who step over me,
walk blindly past me, hurry on. On, to who? and to where? I ask myself. 

Sometimes I'm tempted to follow, but it would be too terrible to discover,

they hurry on to no one and to nowhere. Last night in the moonlit lane,
someone bashed old Joe, why would they do that?

Mother...I fear it was I. Yes, I struck the first blow, on the poor souls frail body, and all the blows that followed, last night in the moonlit lane. And then?

Mother ...pray for me.

                     (Part of a letter, from my play, 'The Half Way House' 1995)

Tushie  

                                 

HIP WOMAN

'Surfing Color'  by Trish

'Black and White'  by  Trish

Style is individual, or  a fashion,

For this dear lady, it's a raging passion. Black and white was once her go
it's OK for a while, but made her very slow.
Color helps her handle, the hours in each day.
She loves to create color, it's a creative way,
to remove  oneself from the edge, of black and white issues,
and puts an end to tear filled tissues.


 Wish I'd learned this earlier, but, better late than never,
And the precious things I learn are mine to keep, forever.

Tushie

A BRIDGE OF FLOWERS

'Daisies'  by  Trish

This is the start, of a daisy chain,

It'll be the prettiest, one ever made

The petals will be white and pure

The stems strong steady, secure.

There's a woman behind this fragile scene,
I don't know where she's from or been,
I feel there's familiarity of a sort there
But a daisy partly covers her face, and I don't want to stare.

Tushie

AZALIA PINK

'Loosing It'  by  Trish 

This is a picture of  our neighbour next door,
Really, I think her behaviour is  poor.
She stays out until all hours of the night,
Comes home well and truly tight.

Seems someone is bunking, her, over her back fence,
It really is ridiculous, it makes no sense.
The woman is at least, let's say around forty,
Far too old to be be acting silly and naughty.

Her looks are fading, I've noted that of late,
And over the past months she's put on weight,
Well, I won't see her for a while, the poor feather head,
She'll barely open her eyes , let alone get out of bed.

Sometimes I must admit, I feel a little  sad,
On the rare occasions she speaks , she doesn't seem too bad.
There's signs and symbols, that explain all, to those who can tell,
Maybe, her necklace of pearls, was created in hell?
                                     (Room for future thought)
Tushie

REFLECTING ON SHADOWS

'Remnants'  by  Trish 

To me, this is a shadow image, I don't see it as completely black.
A shadow is a place of shade, that  the sun does not reach when it shines.

I was told it is a myth, that one can steal  an other's shadow.
I was very relieved to hear that. I don't know why it should have been so important to me.

In some way, the image, which is something that can be seen, but is not actually there, links itself to the shadow-shade, and sunlight not touching each other, basically due to distance?

It's as if I want to be able to see, the shadow and sunlight, in the one place, at the same time.  As if I've been searching for a way to eliminate negative space. There was a time when the shadows and sunlight felt like life itself; as if I was seated on a train travelling at high speed, on endless -circling- rails , the shadows were the tunnels and the sunlight the stations.

There are still those moments, when I feel, a jolt at life's disconnection, but now the jolts are only moments. If the high speed train feeling, should reoccur, the shadow-shade tunnels are far less  and the sunlit stations far more.

On occasions, life can appear as liquid scenes painted in brilliant colors, upon moving panels of glass; the glass scenes slide into the, shadow-shade, then out into the sunlight. These scenes are like beautiful stained glass.
I've heard, there's a work, where
people have to move their eyes in a special way,
to see both pictures that have been brought together.
I think I should find out more about that, I'm sure it would
come in handy.

Tushie

SACRED SALT

'Rising'  by  Trish

She is a rainbow, built of salt and sun,

A reflection of colors,

Carried by rain, rivers,

An eternal beam of devotion,

To herself,

She is risen.

Wings of an open heart feather,

spread rays, breathe living waters.

Day and night she rises into her rainbow sky,

Over the sea city with its mournful gladness,

She roams and soars beyond her perception.

A rainbow fish burning bright,

See how she soars built from salt and sun,

She is risen.

Tushie