Visions from Hell, Paolo GirardiThe small bird was close to our window: her voice rose high and clear in the light mist shrouding the garden. She was celebrating life and the dawn of a new day, she was saying hope is alive, and look at me: I am small, but I am here, for God is great and I am a small spark of life in His Creation.

So the dark thoughts of the night were dissipated: the ugly sight of a vicious murderer, walking free from a court room, thanking the corrupt judge, and smiling to the hapless “world press”, the thousands of women and children massacred by powerful armies over five continents, the despair of seeing a once great nation protecting the greedy, the torturers, the hordes of trolls masquerading under the symbols of hate and death…

As I write I hesitate to turn on the news. For it is mostly lies and irrelevance. This is not a place for a writer to tread: and it is Sunday, which used to be a day of peace.

Then I think of the small bird: this is a new day, and somewhere the angels are smiling, ready to turn the Devil and his legions to ashes.

Image: Visions from Hell, Paolo Girardi

#FiveSentenceFiction: Darkness

Antonioni short film “Superstizione”The low growl of the city, and this feeble light that does not mean dawn: sleep has evaded me.

For I think of you: the multitude, you, who used to count for nothing, but now you do, and they know it.

The future belongs to you, a future full of light, full of hope.

The darkness, still to be defeated, grows weaker, and its cruelty more vicious, but you have much experience of that.

And so morning will come, chasing away the clouds, and the demons.

#VisDare 77: Precocious #WritersWednesday

PrecociousI see your little family, slowly following the narrow track on your journey,

And I admire you, your beautiful silhouette, the narrow shoulders, and baby Lama in her cot.

This is a long route, but you are safe, for, secretly, the mountains are protecting you.

Here, behind the clouds, there is no shelling, no bombs, no beating:

You have left this war far behind, and are making your way to a new world of Peace.


Also inspired by the tragedy in the Ukraine and Novorossiya

#FiveSentenceFiction: Thunder

In Lauenburg

The river flows, grey on grey, and fast is the Elbe.

Through the wet cobbled streets, past the old mariner observing the clouds, we walk hand in hand.

So dark the sky, so fast the clouds, when we see her, behind the window.

You smile, she smiles, you have acknowledged each other.

For like you she’s beautiful, and her gesture enticing, like yours…

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#FiveSentenceFiction: Faeries

 You are in the sky: I can see you, diaphane, silent, moving so fast – unless you want to pause, and observe, or visit…

Yet, you are of flesh and blood: I know, often you come to my place and touch me, a light finger on my lips, your presence I feel, in my dream, but in the morning I see your sign: the little cross with a diamond, and a drop of your blood on my pillow.

So, one day, one night, maybe, when the moon is out, you’ll let me see you, in all your naked beauty, and, even, if I can be forgiven, touch you?

My finger on your lip, light, timid, hesitant, until you seize my hand, and guide it where I can no longer pretend…

My faery, my lover, my life…

[dedicated to Cara, who will laugh]

Take me to the clouds in a dream…

________The mind's sky________ Der Himmel des Geistes

If I could grow wings
I’d start my flight in a field
full of Van Gogh’s yellow.

I’d fly high in the sky
above the tree tops,
the pylons, and smoke stacks, …
until people look like ants.

I’d feel the wind in my face,
rivalling with it, now,
and, flowing with it, then.

The yellow that first flooded my eyes
would now just be part
of a checkered patchwork,
with earthy tones,
and muted greens;
woolen here, silken there.
I’d see solar cells glitter,
fleetingly, as I pass.

I’d fly with the clouds,
and then above them—
cotton wool carpet
of purest possible white,
upon it, my shadow cast.
I’d see a halo,
around my own shadow,
with ALL the colours of the rainbow.

I’d feel the sun burning on my back,
fuel my eyes with sky’s blue,
and I’d wonder if my feathers, my wings,
were held together

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Clouds melt into angels…

________The mind's sky________ Der Himmel des Geistes

Blue clouds and white sky,
served softly in a cone.
Clouds melt into angels,
that make bubbles,
that pop.

While feet walk on fish,
strewn on deserted paths,
brought by feathered ghosts
from ponds in high up trees.

Heads are under hats
that are mantis green,
and made of lawn.

We’re polishing our souls,
and buffing them,
until they shine,
so much,
that they rival the suns.

And from the lawn,
we hear the roar,
of a little lion—
a yellow, dandy little lion.

Copyright © Quirina Roode-Gutzmer 2012.
All rights reserved.

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