© Franz Kiline Figure eight, 1952

On wings of mo(u)rning
she flew in from infinity
turning circles of eight
in a restless sky.
Rays of hope filtered through
her feathered rustlings
there is no escape
when destiny calls.

The soul awaited
it was soon to be their time
No-one saw the raven arrive
except the one for whom she came.

With a swift downward rush
she swooped below to where
the soul was reaching up to greet.

Gathered all around the bed
emotional… people cried
The spiritual raven’s wings enfolded
as the soul gave out one final gasp
then, smiled
Its light now free at last
and for those that remained was the



© Daydreamertoo          *All rights reserved

*For some reason the painting reminded me of a black bird’s feathers, either a crow, raven, or some such. It also made me think of feathers we see laying on the ground and wonder how they come to be there. Also, in some cultures how they are seen as ill omens and symbols of death arriving. I wanted to write about that but, not in a sad way because (to some) death can be a happy release too. So, I wanted to show the bird as a good thing, not bad.

Shared with Magpie Tales #127 Abstract Art of Franz Kiline Figure eight, 1952
Poets United Pantry #107

Wishful Thinking

In marble halls
inside marble walls
everything is rosy
her life is pristine

She silently reposes
in melancholy mood-swing
endlessly supposes.

All that glitters is not gold
Does she really have it all?

She waves the fan
wafts a spray of air
acutely aware the slightest
lift of a hand would see
her every whim fulfilled by
those tasked to give her
most royal majesty whatever
she asks, or indeed…

But yet…she yearns.

She sees another world
out there, beyond the cover of those
sterile walls which hold it all but are
so lacking in warmth and love.

The book of powders that she reads
to make a face both glow or pale doesn’t
captivate a mind whose senses need
to feel erotic breath in all
colours of a life that’s lived
…..not governed.

Her thoughts stray
as the water draws her into its
constant energy and flow but
now they tend to go beyond
this musical contemplation.

Calling to her heart, she knows life
is in every beautiful thing to be
seen there, blossoming in those
grasses and gardens of another heart that
beats and breathes without the
need or care to impress a
mighty crown.

One day…

Will she find the courage to
fling down the book…
and take the first step across
a bridge of hope that divides
the rich but sterile from
the living true.


© Daydreamertoo *All rights reserved

Shared with The Sunday Whirl #66