I have learned to not question the muse. To heed her urgings and let her whims take me where they will.
Following the multi-hued wisps of magical mystery she casts within me and all around is always a journey into, through and with trust.
This morning, her whispered incantations took me into the land of poetic free-form verse.
I had no idea where it was going. Where I would end up or even what story would appear.
All I had was one phrase… Serendipity, she said.
And I followed it.
What appeared warms my heart.
If I had to name a flower that described my father, it would be a rose. Deep. Mysterious. His words flowed like rivers of poetry peeling away life’s edges to reveal the delicate nature of life in all its seasons, all its manifestations. Yet, he was prickly. Cantankerous. Prone to flashes of angry outbursts. A hard man to get close to.
My mother. The Iris. Not only was it her name, but she was like an iris. Strong yet fragile. Elegant yet girlish. Beautiful yet unconfident in her beauty and her body. Uncomfortable with life and all its demands. Yearning always for a more peaceful, calm, still world. Like the iris.
As this poem unfolded, I followed the mystery of its threads and there they were. My mother and father. Laughing. Dancing. Spinning through fields of wildflowers. My father no longer clumsy and awkward in his movement. But flowing. Lithe. Strong. Supple. And as he spun my mother about, my mother who seldom laughed in life, through back her arms, leaned against his arms holding her and let joy fill her up like she’d never done in life.
I love it when the muse comes to visit and I throw away caution and fall into trusting her ways with all my heart wide open to the adventure.
A Love Story
by Louise Gallagher
Serendipity, she said I was just thinking about you wondering where you were. Right here, he replied flicking a speck of dust out of her hair. It clung like moss to a tree until he blew on it softly and it lifted off and floated away. But where have you been, she asked, confused. She hadn’t seen him in years. She was sure. Was her memory failing? I have always been right here, he said, next to you. His voice was as smooth as water flowing over a rock in the river beside which she sat bare toes stretched out to touch the surface of the water. It was cold. Icy cold. I’m cold, she said. Shivering. Let me warm you, he said, wrapping his strong arms around her shaking body. Thank you, she replied, taking in his warmth, the sweet tantalizing smells of his breath, his body pressed against hers. Funny I don’t remember you, She said, burrowing down into his embrace. I’ve always been here, he replied, picking her up in his arms. She felt light, like a feather fluttering effortlessly through the air falling falling towards the ground. I’m afraid of falling, she whispered. It’s only a short journey to the other side, he said as he stepped into the water holding her tenderly in his arms. He began to cross. You have nothing to fear, he said softly. She closed her eyes and listened to the steady thump thump of his heart beat against her ear where she pressed her head into his body. I’m not, she whispered. And he carried her to the other side.
It was there, on the other side, where rainbows danced on sunbeams and wildflowers grew with abandon in fields of summer blossoms strewn across a wide valley that spread out in all directions as if it had nowhere else to go but everywhere that she ran as if her bones did not ache and her memory did not fade . It was there spinning beneath a kaleidoscope field of scarlet and lemon and lavender clouds streaming across the sky that she remembered. Him. His touch. His breath. His smell. His body. What took you so long to come and get me, she asked, trailing her fingers through the fronds of wildflowers blowing in the wind. You can only cross the river in your own time, he said. She watched his hands the hands she remembered toiling touching tending to the fire the fields the cattle her body. He lifted those hands she remembered so well up up up above her head and from his palms petals of sunlight fell all around her showering her in beams of golden joy sparkling like raindrops falling on a spring fresh morning. Have I died and gone to Heaven, she asked, her smile girlish her laughter tinkling soft like the wind chime that hung outside the window of the only home she'd ever known where she was safe in the arms of the man she’d loved so long ago. Death is just the beginning of what comes next, he replied. And he bent down towards the ground and picked a blood red rose from the field of purple irises through which they walked and gently tucked it behind her ear. We’ve only just begun, my love. We’ve only just begun.