November post

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So sorry for the lack thereof.

But please stay tuned...I'm working on a new piece. And thank you for your interest & support :)

Happy Holidays!!

Christy

The Whittier Witch

October brought to mind an old poem from the archives & an all-time favorite of mine to write...

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Once upon a time, a peculiar little girl

always hid

behind 

brooding eyes & unkempt hair

    
Her look read your soul

and 

    stirred it inside you, 

mysterious intensity often defined her

    
Mystic behavior 

puzzled 

    her parents, 

hours & dollars

    foolishly spent

on

    experts' conclusion:

“Forces of darkness are heavy influence; 
SHE'S A WITCH.” 

    
Parents instructed,

“Hide her behind a locked door!”

    
Prevention 

of

    contamination 

of

The excellent parents & children of Whittier

http://www.thedailygreen.com/cm/thedailygreen/images/recycled-witch-lg.jpg 

Alone inside

    a musty room

    upon

the top floor

    of a 

Victorian house, ravished with age,

    the little ‘witch’

    cooperated

with 

    unjust confinement,

    completely ignorant 

of

    special privilege

http://i466.photobucket.com/albums/rr26/Delaney_55/pretty%20pics/45f710d69d9e5_s.jpg

Amusements inside imagination

her

    only play,

    interrupted 

by 

sounds of childish giggles

    throughout

    the day

 she heard from an open window

    many feet above 

her

    stony floor

“Why not permitted the company of other children to enjoy?”

    

    Thought unanswered burned inside her,

day-by-day, month-by-month, year-by-year

until

    curiosity

into 

    jealousy

grew

and into 

a frothy, bitter brew

of 

which the young ‘witch’ 

diligently stirred

    against

The excellent parents & children of Whittier

   

 “Witch, witch

witchy poo

which we know,

    Witch, do you?

    Witch, witch

witchy poo

which we know,

    Witch, it’s you!”

    

http://s7.thisnext.com/media/largest_dimension/4E123A6F.jpg

Over and over 

    the mantra went,

day-by-day, month-by-month, year-by-year

until

    the rage brewing

    overflowed 

from

    the ‘witch’s’ stew

&

    her hands, bony,

reached

for

    the handle, dusty,

of 

a broom

http://www.nexternal.com/masquerade/images/17715-l1.jpg

She straddled her friend

and

growled,

“A witch am I? Then I must fly!” 

    Suddenly, 

a jolt, flutter, twitch

    propelled 

    the wiry ‘witch’

up 

&

through

the window atop her

    convex

    room

Icy wind against her face

    planted the smile

matching 

    her grace

as 

she soared across the sky

The youthful grin

    then 

    into

    turned

a sneer seeking

    revenge 

    upon

The excellent parents & children of Whittier

http://whi.s3.leg.thumbs.lg1x8.simplecdn.net/20090317141850.jpg 

Fashioned & posted

    were her notes

the following day which read,

    “Warning:

    Do not be out past the hour of ten.

    For tonight,

    my collection of children begins!” 

And now, 

doors are locked,

  windows shut tight,

    sleepless eyes

    watch through 

the night

    all

    because 

    so long ago,

fear kept 

an odd girl

    invisible 

    & 

    deafeningly unheard

    among

The excellent parents & children of Whittier

http://rlv.zcache.com/wicked_witch_hourglass_wizard_of_oz_art_print-p228782890417531461trma_400.jpg

--Christine Kincer 2003

I Want It Back!

"It's the ups & downs, rises & falls, which make up the rhythm of life. And it's the pulling together & pushing away that gives us someone to dance through it with." - Christine Kincer

It's wet here in this land not too distant from reality

Inside the trees creatures are sitting & finding shelter beneath the leaves

While they watch, wait

For the downpour's ceasing

After squeezing them of rain, Lyric stretched striped stockings

Up her legs,

Slender & firmly

She fastened them in place

Then to the end of a branch, Lyric marched

and

Assessed the drowning drops --

What a disastrous time for a walk!

Determination pulled a hood over her face; grit sent her off into the rain

The space crinkled between her eyes, and her lips pierced tight

Lyric fell to the ground just right

Then with

Arms swinging at sides, quick & large stomps became her stride

Fury fueled her, passion pushed her

Lightning from instinct

Flashed

Around her

Through the floods, over the stumps, against the wind

Her drive drove her

And, once again, those striped stockings became drenched

Dripping & dying

Lyric pounded on the door and nearly puddled on the floor, "Give it back!" she shouted.

Poet opened & answered her attack, "What?"

"You have it!" Lyric said.

"Have what?" he asked.

"You have it! I can feel it!"

"I don't know what you are talking about."

Lyric's instinct then moved her like a magnet to Poet's chest. Into which she snuggled before touching the chain about his neck and from his shirt she pulled it.

"My heart," Lyric in silence shouted, "You have stolen my heart," she whispered out of breath, "And I want it back!" Then yanked the locket from its link.

--Christine Kincer 2010

**Most images taken from google search engine. Lyric marching on branch drawing by Christine Kincer

Writer's Block

"The usefulness of things is in their emptiness." - Author unknown

What to do? Where's my muse?

Are you being lazy? Have I not fed you?

Come out

Into this void

Where 'Castles in the Air' dreaming

Comes true

I'm listening, waiting

For your sounds

Higher than my existence,

Are you

Grace in the wind

A whisper, breath, caress

Upon the sacrifice of

Stillness

Yet, I cannot clasp them...

Your secrets

Oh, the frustration!

Inspiration

By this fool passing

Sensor set to delicate

You,

Escape my grasp

Mind distracted; heart a mess

Why would you choose,

upon this fool's wreck,

To breathe & rest?

Ease taken - that in

Nothing

the absence of Something

Exists

When I'm ready

You...

My muse will take me,

Madly

Until then, I look upon

these

drops of Ethereal Dew to

descend upon me soon.

--Christine Kincer 2010

The Queen Fairy's Room

In her boudoir are doors and drawers. Holding & hiding intimate things. All those attributes hidden underneath -- the "shh's" she does not share, but we all know are there. Supporting the image she seeks to be seen

Her room is a world of gothic, pointed arches. Atop windows and mirrors, which reflect & reveal the creatures dwelling with her there

Such delicate & sensitive beings inhabit her innermost scene. They like to drape from & peep. About the places she tries to put them into. To keep 

She cannot help that they exist within her space, private & deep

And now are here for eyes keen to see

Look into the glass which separates. It is a slight grace. Between the lines of public & privacy

If you stare, please. Do not glare. As to what you find here, it is quite rare -- believe you me -- windows & mirrors are set about discreetly. Allowing her concealed personalities to be seen.

You, she will not see in this secret window looking

To her it is but a mirror. Reflecting what does not appear. To herself so readily

Those creatures within & beneath the surface of things. Shy & not perfect. Sneaking out and peeking about

Will frighten away quite easily. If they catch a harsh gasp. 

Peering at her & they severely

Enjoy the view, please. Of this interior place. Where close to the heart many things lay. And of which, she never really meant to be on display.

--Christine Kincer 2010

Under the Fairy Lights

In the mystical moment when day forms from night, the first hour of twilight. I hear sneaky sounds. They're muted, little crackles. Very, very soft. Very, very slight. A bit bratty too. Adorable, yet spoiled. Tickles in your ears. As they laugh outright. There's no care for those sleeping. No care for polite way of doing things. Or rules, which are appropriate and right. These snickers take their claim to exist any way. Any time. Any place -- as loud as they like.

'Let's see if we can catch what they're doing.' Thought through my mind running. As those scatchy sounds lead me to a scented scene. Damp & woody.

I look up into such a magical sight. I find myself standing and awing under the fairy lights.

Mist falls on a banquet. What a mess! My goodness! Those naughty fairies left -- must have heard me coming.
Muddy footprints. Dainty light steps. Touching all over EVERYTHING.

Goblets tumbled down. Some even now. Back & forth rolling with berry red wine. Spilling and staining. The linen fine on a table lengthy wide. There are candles with wicks still lit and down the wax drips. Showing the party was not quite over just yet.

Raspy noises again capture my attention in the distance. Those stinkin' fairies are laughing at me. It's okay. Yes.

I'll catch them next time. But for now, all these long coats left behind. Are mine. I'm taking them from the chairs, whose backs are high, scattered about here & there under the fairy lights.






--Christine Kincer 2010

Be Aware

There was a fairy 

once I knew, 

who flew

About streams

innocent & lovely 

In your hands, 

she 

couldn't help but be

Friendly, enchanting, free

Until, one day...

Pebbles 

thrown her way,

harsh judgments 

shot to screw 

Up 

her childlike 

attitude 

Oh, beware please! This loving fairy's 

messed with fanciful flights...

cause her now 

to

uncharacteristically & unavoidably...

BITE!

--Christine Kincer 2010

Just wondering...

When I think of the month of March, the color green comes right along with the thought. This happens to be the only month that I associate with a color -- well, sometimes I see yellow-orange with October.  I sometimes also have a mental image of newly budded grass on hills under a fairy-tale blue sky with maybe some clouds softly floating by.  Yet, green happens EVERY SINGLE TIME. 

March = Green. 

Interestingly enough, green does not equal March. Don't know why :/

I guess green is how I associate and label the month, as this brain operates in the categorizing function. I can only assume that it must be the Irish holiday of St. Patrick's Day that dominates the month for me like this. And perhaps, it was the bulletin boards that I grew up with in grammar school that had such a profound affect on how I still continue to mentally view the month of March. I can still see those four-leaf clovers grow in number as the days passed. Note to the teachers out there: all the hard work on those boards last a lifetime for visual students, so make them count! 

I often wonder if others use color and/or symbol association in their minds for distinguishing classification as well.  

Happy St. Patrick's Day!!