Shells are the bones of the sea

and that is why you can hear chanting
like ghostly whispers from the other side
undulating against your ear
when you hold a shell up to it.
And salt is the sea’s kiss.
Once you’ve tasted it
you can’t imagine even the simplest joys of life without it.
The moonlight on the sea is heart’s own memory
peeking through ragged clouds and gracing
even Charybdis swells with grace.
You are a metaphor made up of longing
strong enough to pull a tide and raise the dead,
to shake seashell bones and tumble pearls from their tight beds and yet
quietly lap at the edges of my dreams leaving me
to wake with the lessons of salt and mystery
upon my lips. — Annette Marie Smith

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Words

Words have paper hands.They light their hands on fire to illuminate the meaning they are chanting with their tongues made up of silver bells while their feet do the Harlem shuffle.

With apologies to Emily, words, really, are the things with feathers that sing and sing and sing.

Words congregate thickly, like a murder of crows, on the branch of a poet’s brow.

Your branches are thick and wild, heavy with the howls of wolves. Your forest is inked darkly, a tattoo on the muscled forearm skyline of this cardboard and concrete nature preserve. — Annette Marie Smith

Just Another Facebook Post

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Photographer unknown

“A door in an alley. Anyone need a door?” The caption, accompanying a photo of a door, plain, white, and unassuming, propped up against assorted odds and ends in an alley, came across her newsfeed on Facebook and she realized that yes, she did need a door. The friend who posted the photo lived in the next town over. A twenty minute drive to go and fetch a door was doable and, the very next day, done.

Once she had the door in her loft she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with it, where she wanted to put it, etc. But the very fact of having the door imparted a sense of possibility to her. She was an artist and lived her life with a strong, almost religious, sensensitivity to symbolism. She propped it up against the living room wall in between her potted palm tree and her pink velvet couch that was snuggled up against a huge picture window. She knocked on the wood of the door for good luck and turned the handle too, patted it and smiled.

That night, as she lay sleeping, the door creaked open. Someone, or something, came into her loft through the door and stayed until the morning light. It left just as the sun peeked in at the window, closing the door behind it.

When she woke up she noticed that the door smelled of fresh paint and was a startling shade of green.

After this she started to sell her work to collectors who were more than casual in their appreciation of her art. In fact they were a bit fanatical and she quickly aquired a small fortune through their dedicated pursuit of the freshness they felt in the presence of her work. (One of her collectors joked about feeling like he could live forever if he could only surround himself with enough of the vitality that was his when he gazed upon her work.)

When the mysterious visitor came next it was in response to her knocking on the door, turning the handle and smiling at herself for her forgotten ritual. The next morning she awoke to the smell of fresh paint and her lucky door (for that was how she thought of it now) was blue.

The happiest time of her life followed in which she fell asleep to blue waves of contentment and woke to what seemed to be the veritable blue bird of happiness perched on the windowsill of her life every day. She did not believe things could get any better for her.

But then she met a writer, an impossibly intriguing man, imposing in his masculine beauty and whose eyes, when she met them as she entered the party, stopped her in her tracks. One thing led to another and she agreed that they should have dinner the next Friday, just the two of them.

Getting ready for her date with him she found herself drawn to her door. She gave it three light knocks and a kiss for good luck on its cerulean surface. The outline from her lipstick print beat and blurred like a heart with wings, like Cupid’s own signature carved/graffitied against the wooden surface.

After she left the door creaked open and a certain someone, or something, transformed, amid the strong smell of paint, the door to heart’s own red.

I will gloss over the way the door changed when her writer went away. He had promised her forever but he really had no say. As unpredictable as one of his own plots, his demise met him as he drove to a book signing. Death had the decency to blush at the aircraft fuselage that had dropped out of the sky and crushed her writer in his small mobile world of car on his way to sign small mobile worlds of books.

I will say only this: the door was gray.

Her door stayed the color of ashes for a very long time. But then one day something wonderful happened. Without a knock, without knuckle provocation in the least, someone, or something, opened the door and when that something left, the door was a yellow that captured all the hope of a rising sun on its grainy visage.

This layer of yellow was followed by one final coat of paint.

She awoke to find her door deepening in color, combining all the colors really, into one. As the door darkened to purple, deep brown, and finally black, she reached out her hand, turned the knob, and walked through to the other side.

~~~
“A door in an alley. Anyone need a door?” The caption, accompanying a photo of a door, plain, white, and unassuming, propped up against assorted odds and ends in an alley, came across his newsfeed on Facebook and he realized that yes, he did need a door…
— Annette Marie Smith

David Bowie

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David Bowie poster by Rex Ray

The heavens have opened up their indigo arms and wrapped him in a velvet robed embrace. Even so he burns holes, stars, cigarette burn scars into the fabric of the heavens. He’s just that bright. And these lights streak and fall like shooting stars, like tears made up of diamond dust swirling in a celestial waterfall born, in all its brilliance, from our collective heart. Our eyes flood heaven with a river that he rides and he, our golden barque. The light that he is and that we have made him shimmers, puts on such a show, moving from galaxy to galaxy because even heaven is too small a town for someone who glam-shines so. — The Man Who Fell to Earth Falls Up, 1/10/2016, Annette Marie Smith

All the Flames

The night comes in the same way that Odin travels the roads and paths between the worlds: portended from afar, his heavy walking stick booming as it hits the cobblestones of stars, and yet a surprise in sudden arrival. Street lamps flicker on of their own accord as my hand makes the sign of peace that the stroke of a light switch can be. All the flames — sulfur, incandescent, sodium vapor,and more — all the flames dance in welcome. — Annette Marie Smith

Portcullis

portcullis
Portcullis to a frozen fairy land,
these teeth of winter gleam
as they bite the bright air.
If they do open
at a secret touch or word,
creak with the weight of weird
like an omen bird,
then pause at the threshold
and read the two limen words carven there:
“beauty” in script and bold “beware”. — Annette Marie Smith

Tradition!

I love reading all about New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day traditions from around the world — flaming ball tossing, dark strangers ONLY for first-stepping through the door, the eating of specific things in a tightly prescribed manner, carrying a suitcase, shattering plates (fun!), NOT taking out the trash — all strange and weirdly wonderful!

(Although, I did have to say, “Stop! Wait. Doesn’t EVERYONE wear red underwear on New Year’s Day?” 😉 )

One of the common threads stitching all of our global superstitions together is the desire to have a hand in creating the things that will occur in the new year. Love, luck, health, wealth, happiness, and peace, we want them all. We are witches in our tradition-brewing, a pinch of this, a sprinkle of that. Casting our intentions and desires like a spell on the future. We are all our own Moirai (or want to be). May we all call into being successfully. May we all weave well. ❤