Still I Rise- Maya Angelou — Go Dog Go Café

Let’s hear it for the divine Dr Maya Angelou and her life-affirming words! I recall seeing her at a poetry event in London many, many years ago. An incredible presence.

In honor of the anniversary of Dr. Maya Angelou’s birth You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells […]

via Still I Rise- Maya Angelou — Go Dog Go Café

Advertisements

Dance of the Bird of Paradise – March 29: Flash Fiction Challenge

dancing-709908_1920

Mojpe, Pixabay

Charli’s challenge for this week is:

99-words

March 29, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about fingers that fly. Think about the different ways we use our fingers and what happens when we add speed. Go where the prompt leads.

Respond by April 3, 2018. Use the comment section below to share, read and be social. You may leave a link, pingback or story in the comments.

Here’s my contribution, featuring a passion of mine, flamenco:

The dancer’s hands unfurled like the wings of a bird, speaking in a tongue so easily understood by the true sight of the heart.

The music beat out a rhythm that enveloped the onlookers like a lover’s embrace, full of gentleness and grace.

They gazed entranced at the dancer’s figure, watched her hands weave a hypnotic spell, watched them perform a feat of extraordinary flight.

They spoke so eloquently, more than the voice could ever, ever express.

Her body overflowed with passion sublime, crowned by the delicacy of her hands, reminiscent of the dance of the Bird of Paradise.

 

Inescapable

model-2408511_1920.jpg

Engin_Akyurt, Pixabay

The Archivist picked up the book gingerly, it held the histories of all their kind, warriors who faced the horrors of the Abyss and more. He wrote the beginning and end of their task, of vanquishing fear in all its forms, of their conquests and failures. Hers was the most tragic, for she faced Love and lost herself in its embrace. Shadow and Light met, merged to become something else. They held the balance between Chaos and Order, between Becoming and Unbecoming. He gazed at the words, marvelled at his sorrow, it was done and could not be undone. It was an inescapable act:

The stars fall around them, lighting paths that lie receptive as shadows rise from within towers of silence.

Love lies spent on a bed of petals, as breath issues from lips that have tasted honey. Tasted other forbidden wine, tinged with iron, scarlet and burgeoning with life everlasting.

This path was inescapable, foretold in cryptic language, and hinted at in signs and symbols. Both play their role, of lovers unrequited, of assassins masquerading.

Hunger floods his veins, inflames at her scent, redolent of amber, cinnabar and damask rose. What price love? Worthy of sacrifice, revelation and surrender? She feigns languor, whispers words torrid.

The stars gaze impassively, gaze at futures possible, will the bait be taken? Will the dread beast succumb? They urge her caution, and she acquiesces.

Soft are his killer eyes, the fires of passion rekindled. Is she his lost love, snatched away in times long past? Pliant is his gaze, inviting yet more seduction.

hands-1161112_1280

kalhh, Pixabay

Her heart hardens, steps back from precipice approaching. There is only eternal darkness and pain unending, if she falls, if she takes his bait.

Star fire floods her gaze, so begins the conflagration. She offers release, urges unbinding. Vampyr, his name is steeped in nightmare and longing. A dream risen from ashes of stars long vanished. He is one Fallen, from Darkness ascended, She is one Fallen, from Light descended.

Which life is worth ending? Which life is worth saving? Can Love spare bleak devastation?

Hunger floods her veins, inflames at his scent, redolent of Cedar, Hellebore and Myrrh. What price love? Worthy of sacrifice, revelation and surrender? She feigns languor, whispers words torrid.

This path was inescapable, foretold in cryptic language, and hinted at in signs and symbols. Both play their role, of lovers unrequited, of assassins masquerading.

Engin_Akyurt, Pixabay

Heart and Soul: The Power of Dance

Dance was, is a passion of mine. It’s been many years since I gave myself up to the beauty of the rhythm and passion of the emotion associated with this art. Flamenco in particular stirs something visceral and potent within me. Its spirit brings indefinable memories and associations, rather like a haunting perfume carried on the breeze it tantalizes and initiates yearnings. It is infused with sadness, beauty, passion and truth.

You may think me too effusive where Flamenco is concerned but once it has caught you in its embrace there is no going back. Music and dance speak to the Soul on a deep level, and why not? Should our lives not have meaning, not be stirred by things of loveliness and depth? To feel the kiss of each note and gesture is to be enriched, to be made whole and feel loved by powers immense and wondrous.

For your delectation I present Sara Baras, a wonderful example of the art. Enjoy.

 

 

We Are in the Place Between

girl-2217926_1920

Image:

What is this place between? A state of mind or a state of being? One stands yearning, the other spurning. The space between is heavy with meaning.

Matter looks on, eyes blazing, heart beating. Spirit responds, utters softly, remonstrating.

He breathes on skin, fingers trailing. Her eyes close, senses flaming. She reminds of unions past, of times of ecstacy and of pain. Hands cup face and lips seek lips. What is unfolding?

He is Sun and She is Moon. Reflecting and absorbing. Spirit infuses Matter, shapes and moulds, gives love freely.

Human and Divine co-mingling, Spirit and Matter re-uniting, seeking fulfilment and illumination.

They are in the place between. A space withdrawn, held in abeyance. Filled with possibilities, touched with oracular truth, touched with starlight. Touched with Love.

Passion and Pathos: Spirit of the Dance

sport-1818691_1920 (1)

Image: Pixabay

The dancers moved intuitively to the sound of their hearts as the music swelled and sobbed. It finally paused, waiting for the lovers to catch their breath. This was more than an interlude in a cafe that had seen glory and laughter in a bygone age. Few tourists ventured into the old quarter of the city, much less enter through the portal of this place. The ones that did manage to find this near mythical establishment were fated to come. Their souls were infused with the elixir of passion and pathos. Forever rising on the swell of the rhythm and then slumbering in the arms of the silence that followed.

dance-238263_1920.jpg

Image: Pixabay

A woman sitting at a table in the corner of the room stared intently at the dancers. They presented a magnificent picture; gentleness, poetic beauty in the lines of their faces and a certain melancholy in the embrace. Her dark eyes glittered, mirroring the luminosity of the stars and moon. They mirrored hope in a world that appeared to have embraced shadow and pain. The spirit and soul of humanity were being sorely tested, falling prey to the excesses of materialism and naked cynicism. Was she being naive now? A laugh escaped her blood red lips. She was present in this space set apart from time, present during day and night.

The dance rose from rather less salubrious origins, in the bars and brothels of the old quarter. It was a magnet for travellers from across the globe and some had hinted, from across hidden worlds. This is not to tarnish its reputation but to explain the soil its soul had taken root in. Its root went deep, deep into the fabric of stone and brick. Deep, deep into hearts and minds of the people moving through the city. The woman closed her eyes and travelled down streets clothed in shade and dappled sunlight. Her ears took in the chatter of thousands of voices, each reflecting sorrow and bittersweet regret, each reflecting joy and exuberance, each reflecting darkness and light, each reflecting boredom and inertia. All found solace in the heartfelt tune that rang out of doorways and windows, a memory of something thought lost but only lying hidden within mystery. This was the spirit of the dance, she was the spirit of the dance.

intimate-1523821_1920

Image: Pixabay

A voice interrupted this reverie. She opened her eyes and spied a green-eyed god staring down solemnly. He respectfully held out a strong, elegant hand. She grasped it and was gathered gently in his arms. They moved as if one being. Sinuous limbs gave expression to their hearts’ yearning, entered into each nuance and tone of the music washing over the couples gathered in the room. His silence spoke to her of things lain hidden for generations, of perceived shame, of deep regret. She listened and did not judge. She never judged. For that she earned his eternal gratitude. Even gods are inclined to give in to vulnerability now and again. The music soon ended and the radiant god kissed her hand and disappeared into the shadows of the bar. He did not leave empty handed but carried a pearl of the dreams she freely gave to all who were in need. The spirit of the dance returned to her table and carried on gazing at the magical ritual she had created, something filled with awe, passion and pathos.