A Stunning Prose piece, Recurring Dreams Of a Happy Child

Of Water and other Dreamy Things

I  had the BIGGEST IMAGINATION when I was a child. One recurring dream I had was that our house was full of water and I could swim all around in it like a big aquarium. Now, I am sure there are all kinds of interpretations of this, but for me…it sparked this lovely piece of prose. Enjoy!

Water Bubbles Under the Sea

Of Water and Other Dreamy Things

 

          I used to dream of water. Not the kind of water that winds down hills, shifting itself, a great endless slinky stepping across land to a vast and hungry sea, but a strange, floating, weightless water that filled our tiny house from wall to wall, window to door, toy box to floor. Iridescent blue, glowing, breathing, holding great bouncing bubbles in its belly, it welcomed me. Moonlight crept in the windows, wrapped its arms around each bubble, and danced a quiet waltz down my arms, across my back, and into my floating brunette spirals.

          I swam from room to room. From my bedroom I swam, down the quiet hall past my brother’s room with the great clown walls, past my parents ’room with the drawers of pencils and paper and the gray flat table where Daddy drew lines that made buildings grow up, to our white-flushed simple bathroom. There I’d float before the mirror, a tiny princess. I’d brush my teeth and get ready for school; my jeans legs pulling on easily without the usual tug and jerk. Jeans weren’t heavy in liquid dream. Mom didn’t have to shove her arm up the pant legs to tuck in the extra length., knuckles scraping knobby bone. My sleeves hung like moss, a velvet hug on cool skin.

          I used to dream a lot of things and not always in my sleep. I used to hear monkeys in the woods. They sang to me as I sailed on wooden swing, feet stretched toward sky, waiting for the night to bring its firefly dreams. A crimson sky would yield once more while toads tucked themselves safely under stone.

          I used to dream. I was a magical child.

If you enjoyed this, please like and comment, and check out these prose pieces as well:

“Clarity,” Winner of the Arrowhead Awards Best Prose Work, 2004

Today~

Horizons

Tomorrows ~ a poem about HOPE, by Christina Ward

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This poem is about hope. About reaching into tomorrow and becoming whatever you want to be. It is about connecting with the world around you and truly feeling inspired and blessed by it. What will your tomorrows bring? Will you embrace it? Here is my newest poem:

Tomorrows

 

Here it is.
A new year rising,
a great orange ball
of fire in the sky,
wearing my name
like a smile.

The door behind me
closes so easily,
the dust slipping away,
falling away like ash.
Grays can be
so deceiving.

This year I will dig
through colors and words
and paint them out
with a new fury.
Unbound and imperfect
I form and take flight.

Possibilities hang,
towels in the wind, clean,
smelling like summer,
tomorrow peeking through them
smiling at me.
Hope is fresh in the trees.

I am a fiddlehead
rising,
unfurling.
Can you see me?
The winds that drive me
are ever-changing.

I am feathers and fury,
green and growing,
Cirrus and stratus
stretching my arms in the sky.
I release and release
and unfold.

 

 

 

 

Comments and likes always appreciated. Have a great day everyone! (Note here, if you enjoy my poetry please do share it with others that may enjoy it. My group of readers is slowly growing and I would love to have more readers who can appreciate my work. Thank you so much.)

 

Christina ~

Cornucopian Dream ~ a poem for my fellow Earth lovers

 

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**Trigger warning, rape reference but only metaphorically speaking

 

 

Cornucopian Dream

It topples, crumbles
into soils that regret
to bear their yield.

We burn it, borrow it,
bend it and stake it,
box it,
ship it,
buy it,
b
ut we cannot make it.

We cannot build minds
that know the end,
minds that know no want,
minds that know enough
must surely be
enough.

Abscission is approaching
and on her heels
is Winter.

She must be angry that we
have raped her Mother.

 

 

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I earned my Bachelor of Science in environmental science, I have been told a “junk” degree, but it sure wasn’t, and isn’t, to me. I treasure my environmental education, and the liberal arts college I earned it from. It is difficult to hear people discredit science when it comes to Climate Change, something that YES is a naturally occurring event, but not at the RATE at which it is happening. Imagine you are driving a car toward a concrete barrier, and you are destined to hit that barrier. You are going 1 mph. Are you afraid? Probably not. Now imagine the same scenario, only you are going 100 mph. Completely different feeling, right? Well, the simplest way to explain Climate Change is to say that humans have sped up the natural process so much so that it is no longer safe, not for the earth, and not for all of its inhabitants.

My writing, if you are following it, is permeated with references to nature. I cannot help this. It, simply put, is part of who I am and often the core thought that births the poem. The preceding poem is addressing the burden I feel concerning our precious planet. It was written in 2008, but still touches  me. I hope that you can connect to the core purpose of it and that it touches you as well.

Christina Ward

A blog suggestion for my fellow earth lovers: https://ncnaturalist.wordpress.com/

Dear Mr. Valentine

A hastily written but mightily felt wish of the heart…

 

Dear Mr. Valentine,

 

You sleep next to me like a happy rock.
As night rolls over into tomorrow,
I sit staring at our future.
Two creaky rocking chairs are there
Gnawing at the porch as we rest our aching backs
And laugh until breathing hurts our ribs.
Waterfalls and grassy balds and eagles
We’ve shared will occupy our minds
As we, together, will forget to say
The things we forgot that we meant to say
And laugh, still more.
This tea is so good, you’ll say.
I made it for you, I’ll say.
We are great old people aren’t we, Babe?
We’ll agree.
Just like we’ve always said we would be.
Dear Mr. Valentine,
as you lay there sleeping
As the night turns over to February 14,
I just want you to know I don’t need any flowers.
I remember all the ones we have seen.
I don’t need a ring or shiny things.
I remember the suns and the moons we’ve seen.
I don’t need you to say a bunch of romantical things.
I see them in the way that you still look at me.
Just promise me that
We will make great old people someday.

 

Christina Ward
2/14/19

 

 

Because sometimes you just decide it’s Valentine’s Day, and there are things to say. To the “happy rock” sleeping next to me, Happy Valentine’s Day.

Thank you for reading…Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!

Bluebirds in Late Winter

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Hi all. I hope you are having a poetic day. I recently discovered an unfinished poem in my  drafts of an email I hadn’t used in years. What is interesting, to me, is that it was begun before I learned that my mother loves bluebirds. She shared with me that seeing bluebirds is a very emotional and spiritual experience to her; like God is showing her that everything is going to be ok. I love this. Perhaps you, too, have a symbolic experience like this with something that you see in nature? Something that stills your heart, centers you, and touches your spirit in a way that defies explanation? I hope that in nature you have these experiences and cherish them. Another interesting thing about this poem is that the other bird mentioned is my favorite bird, Cedar Waxwings. At the time I began writing this, that collaboration was not intentional, but now it is very special to me. As writers, it is sometimes difficult to adequately express how we feel about our loved ones. How could one ever show the depth of those emotions in their poetry? Well, we try. And with that, this poem is for my mother, a truly beautiful spirit in this world.

I hope that you will enjoy Bluebirds in Late Winter as much as I enjoyed re-discovering it, and polishing it up to completion. Please, do, share your thoughts with me on this meaningful poem.

Bluebirds in Late Winter

Surprising blue spirits descend
transforming snow-covered fences.
They search the snow for pieces of Spring
to pull from sleepy ground.
They carve spaces in the sky
for her to enter.

Flashes of red tuck under as
Waxwings alight, all stern and masked
They pluck berries
Shift and bounce and disperse,
Leaving the bluebirds
To sing of Spring.

Poetry by Christina Ward

February 2019