Sound and Fury

There are more senses to be described than just the one...

As writers, we tend to rely heavily on sight to describe our narrative. But we have four other senses which often go woefully underused. This was a writing exercise we did to try to practise using all five senses in description.
Using all five senses, describe the first time you fell in love...

Note: I wrote not about the first time I fell in love, but one instant where I realized just how deeply in love I was.



I looked down at him, and I felt explosions in my chest. There's something inside, something bubbly and sunny, just overflowing in me.I have to laugh, have to let it all out.
There are tears in the corners of my eyes, and my vision is blurring; the impossible happiness is leaking out He looks up at me, and his eyes, his startling, baby blue eyes, they came alive. So many shades of blue! He smiles at me, and I can see each tiny little tooth, and all the gaps between them. His teeth are so white, his lips and tongue stained pink fro the watermelon. His smile is so big, it seems it can't fit on his face. It sets off more explosions of happiness in me.
He offers me the piece of watermelon in his small, chubby hand, still smiling that perfect, toothy smile. I grin back, lean forward, and take a bite. It is the sweetest watermelon I have ever tasted... wet, delicious watermelon, dancing on my tongue.
He takes another small, child-sized bite, and offers it to me again. We share he whole piece together, one bite after another. The music is playing in the background, I know it, but I don't hear it. I only hear him -- his faint breath, his little giggles, the small way he hummed "mmm mmm!" when he took a bite.
Finally, we finish the chunk of watermelon. He looks at me again, and I am amazed he is still smiling. He never stops smiling! I grin back at him, and he turns to study his plate, as though looking for something else to share. My fingers are wet and sticky, but I touch his little hand. His skin is so soft, his hand so tiny.
I lean closer, breathing in the sweet, gentle smell of baby -- shampoo, baby skin, and the sweet, soft scent of youth.
"Honey," I whispered, "can I have a smooch?"
He turned his face towards me, upwards, lips pursed. I kissed him gently, the sweet, lingering taste of watermelon, just a hint, stuck to his lips.
He smiled at me. I smiled back, still exploding with joy.
"I love you, Noah."
"Looo!"


Marina Reid

Good writing comes from asking questions about our world.

This exercise, done in class, had us generate ten different questions (following the model of "I want to know why...?") and choose one to free write about. Note that the ideal question does not deal with any large issues (I want to know why we're here), but rather is more specific (I want to know why the cashier at the grocery store never looks me in the eye).
So with no further ado...



I Want to Know Why...

I want to know why that Dancing Dan guy started dancing. I mean, who wakes up one morning and thinks, "hey, I think I'll find some street corner and dance for the stopped traffic"? It doesn't make sense.

He must have had some reason to chose dancing. I mean, why not mime at the side of the road, or perform Hamlet's soliloquies for the passing cars? But no, he picked dancing. Maybe he took dance for 8 years when he was younger. Maybe his mom was some famous burlesque dancer who was always teaching her kid to groove. Maybe he went to one of those hippy schools that made him express his inner feelings through interpretive dance. Or, well, maybe he just likes to dance.

But what made him decide to dance at the street corner? Could it be that he wanted people to make the obvious jokes? Maybe he feels strongly about road rage and wants to do his part to fight it by providing road-side entertainment. Or perhaps he suffered from serious abandonment issues as a child, and as a result found in adult self a pathological need for attention and validation from total strangers. Of course, maybe he just likes to dance.

My cousin thinks he's an idiot, that his sudden jumps and spins are dangerously distracting, and she's glad he got that stunting ticket. My mom thinks he's fantastic, and loves driving by him. She says nothing cheers her up more, and was so happy when that radio station paid his ticket for him.

Me? I'm not sure what I think of him. No, that's not true. I think he was at the corner, one day, listening to his music as he waited to cross, and he just started dancing. I think he had so much fun, he didn't cross the street, but stayed there dancing all day, and came back again the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that.


Marina Reid

More Tales from Creative Writing...

What follows is another assignment from Creative Writing class... a free writing exercise in which you simply write non-stop, no thinking or editing, for a short length of time.
Observe...


I couldn't breath -- it hurt too much. Have you ever been in so much pain you can't even breath anymore? It's not fun. You lie there, staring up, wondering if it's ever going to go away, that huge pain on your chest, that giant sadness stalking you. You lie there, staring up, in so much pain you can't think, can't react, can't even breath. But you can feel. Oh god, you sure can feel.

You feel the unending weight of just going on. You feel the sadness wrapping around you, almost tenderly, moving itself around you so you cannot escape it's grip. And you hurt. Oh, you hurt so much -- you feel that pain, that awful, endless pain, so much you can't even keep breathing, can't even keep going...

And then, just when your head starts to get fuzzy and the little spots start showing up over your eyes -- then, when you think the pain and the sadness and the continual, awful breathing is finally done... then your body pulls a fast one on you and takes the goddamn breath whether you want it to or not and it starts all over again...



Marina Reid

Welcome back to school!

Last year, towards the end of the school year, I started working on a creative writing porfolio — a 12-15 page sample of my fiction writing. I then sent it in to try and gain admittance to WRITE 295, a creative writing (fiction) class at University. In late August I finally heard back, and lo and behold, I had been accepted.
Today was the first day of school, and the first day of my 3 hour weekly writing class. I am so excited!

So I've decided to post some of my writing for the class here, starting with my portfolio submission. Keep in mind it was a rushed piece of work finished barely in time for the submission deadline, and I didn't get to set it up the way I wanted to, but here it is!

Marina Reid




Post-Apocalypse
A story of survival

Marina Hale



Special thanks to Katarina Purich and Lyndon Ramler for their assistance and information in their specific areas of expertise: attack dogs and weaponry, respectively.






Fuck, thought Raven. Fuck, fuck, FUCK.
Peering forward, Raven gripped the steering wheel tighter. She squinted.The fog was problematic.
It was late at night — so late it was early the next day — and Raven was driving home. Alone. In the foggy, murky, dangerous dark.
At the time, it had seemed like a wonderful idea; sneak out of the townhouses to meet her friends at Tor’s house and watch old movies. It didn’t matter that it was after dark, and you didn’t go out alone after dark. It didn’t matter that she had to sneak out to avoid getting hell from her roommates, and now that she’d snuck away from Winn’s, no one knew where she was. To Raven, these kinds of things never mattered.
Raven nervously gripped the steering wheel again, then released the pressure. If only there wasn’t so much fog! What she wouldn’t give to have her high beams on, to be able to see into the dark a little bit. With all this fog, something was bound to sneak up on her. They always came out of the fog.
Well, thought Raven, this is what I get. You’d think I’d learn my lesson! She grinned to herself at that thought. Raven Odden, learn her lesson? Fat chance.
A loud snort startled her. She glanced to the passenger seat and grinned briefly at the large bullmastiff sleeping there. Drooling. As usual. Thank god for plastic seat covers. Raven turned her glance back to the road —
“SHIT!!” Raven screamed and slammed on the breaks. Not soon enough; she heard a sickening crunch as whatever had been in front of her truck was suddenly relocated under it.
All thoughts of rules and attacks gone from her mind, Raven threw the truck into park, yanked out the keys and leaped down to the road, leaving the drivers side door swinging open. She started to run around the front of the truck… slowed down… stopped.
She stood absolutely still, hardly breathing. Waiting. Listening. Everything was silent. Perhaps she had imagined it —
A muffled groaning sound from behind her. She spun around without thinking, flinging her long black hair as she spun. In a split second, she had unsheathed her katana and held it to the throat of the creature behind her.
Yellowed, blurry eyes looked out at her from the jumbled mess of filthy, gray, decaying flesh that was the creature’s face. It wasn’t a human, but it looked like it had once been. He was taller than her, even in her boots, and kind of lanky. Thick, matted hair hung in his face, filthy and tangled with dirt and blood. The same was streaked across his clothes, which were so dirty and torn it was impossible to tell what they had once looked like. His skin, also caked in mud and blood, looked like it was falling off his bones. He was covered in wounds, oozing thick blood and pus. He was missing an ear, and several chunks of flesh from his arm and side.
All this Raven took in in less than a second. A second later,and the creature fell: his head one direction, his body another. Though she had little respect for most of the rules, there was one that Raven never broke: always keep your weapons on your person.
Gripping the now bloody katana, she looked around. There were noises, movement, muffled groans, coming from all directions, though she couldn’t see anything but indistinct shapes through the fog. The scent of decaying flesh assaulted her nostrils. Fighting the urge to gag, Raven backed up closer to the truck. How stupid she was for leaving the truck! Of course it had just been one of these creatures she hit. Who else was out this late? Only Raven, stupid, idiotic Raven.
There was a menacing snarl behind her; a flash of tan and suddenly the bullmastiff was there, having leaped from the open truck door. He stood in front of Raven growling, terrifying.
Out of the fog ambled more of the creatures. There was at least ten of them, and they had her pinned to the side of her truck. Raven adjusted her grip on her katana, a grim smile stretching across her face. This would be, at least, another great story.
They came closer. She waited… waited… then charged at the nearest one, the blade shining in the foggy moonlight.
“Fucking zombies!”

It has been 42 years since the apocalypse hit, and even now we still have no clear idea what actually happened.
Where they can from, we are still unsure of. How they spread around the globe so incredibly fast, we still don’t know. All that we do know for sure is that within a few weeks, the Infected were everywhere.
Weeks went by. Months. People regrouped, tried to fight back. Eventually, we were successful in pushing them back, liberating some of our cities, though not without heavy casualties. No matter how much we fought, we were never able to defeat them all — never able to win.
And so we adjusted. In that strange, impossible way that belongs only to humanity, we adjusted. We learned to fortify our homes and began training our children. Slowly, governments formed. Families came together. Society was, slowly, rebuilt.
Each individual settlement spawned it’s own autonomous government, reminiscent of the city states of Ancient Greece. Some were peaceful, democratic societies that flourished without conflict. Others were… well, not so lucky.
The majority of the survivors were older teenagers and young adults, 17 to 30 year olds — so, naturally, the internet was one of the first things re-established. In a world where leaving the safety of your home was a constant danger, travel occurred rarely, and internet business blossomed. Soon, people were ordering everything online, from medicine to food to weapons. Anyone who could find or make these commodities became very lucky, as most things had to be bartered for. Truck driving soon became the most dangerous, yet necessary job, and anyone willing to take it on found they never had to pay or barter for anything, as long as they drove.
The most important thing that the truck drivers brought were weapons. Everyone was taught how to fight off the Infected as soon as they were old enough to hold a one. Guns were the most popular weapons, of course, and everyone had their favourite choice. Machetes were probably the most common close-quarters weapon, and very effective. Crowbars , surprisingly, were also used frequently. Swords and spears of various kinds were popular choices, when a properly made one could be found. Some people were better fighters than others, prompting the creation of rules enforcing the buddy system at all times, and the constant reporting of your whereabouts and expected return time.
The Infected tend to stay away from dwellings and buildings and are usually solitary creatures, living in the forested areas or deserted cities, and only venturing out to hunt. By following the rules, most people can go their entire lives without ever facing the Infected. But those with dangerous jobs, or those who ignore the rules and frequently go out after dark, often have to fight them off. The most dangerous time to be out is during a fog, when, for reasons still unknown, the Infected will band together and hunt their favourite food: human flesh.

“Ten of them?! Oh my goodness! Raven! What did you do?!”
Raven resisted the urge to put her hands over her ears at the sound of Destiny’s high-pitched screech. Instead, she smiled weakly. Destiny, called Tiny for her small frame, was easily excitable and about as mature as your average eleven year old, despite having just turned 27.
“Bully took care of at least half of them, to be honest,” Raven said with a smile, looking down at the dog drooling on her feet. Bully, the 120 lb. bullmastiff, had been her best friend and guardian since she had gotten him, as a puppy, for her twelfth birthday. Eight years later and Bully still followed her everywhere she went.
“Oh come on now Raven, don’t be modest.” This silky, yet almost menacing sounding voice, came from a tall figure in the corner. “Please, regale us with the tales of your dangerous and foolhardy exploits. We want to hear how you single-handedly drove away the horde of zombies that only attacked you because you’re too good to obey the rules everyone else follows!”
The tall girl in the corner grinned, glaring angrily at Raven. A stocky girl with thick brown hair, dark eyebrows and vibrant blue eyes, she was an impressive and daunting figure.
Raven just rolled her eyes. “Shut it already, Winifred.”
Win’s eyes bugged at the sound of her full name, which everyone knew she hated. But before she could respond, a very tall, skinny boy stepped forward.
“No arguing in my house, girls,” said Torren, brushing his straight black hair out of his face.
Raven looked up at Tor. At 33, Tor, like most of her friends, was only a second generation survivor. His parents were still young when the Infected first attacked. They had lived through the horrors of the Initial Attack — what was now referred to, only half in jest, as the Zombie Apocalypse.
Tor never spoke about his parents, both who died when he was only six. All Raven knew was that they were killed by Infected while trying to protect him. Calm, mature, and very well off, Tor often had everyone over at his house, where he would allow absolutely no arguing. He believed very strongly in the need to stand together, humanity united as one. Despite being very soft spoken, he had an air of authority, and when he told you no arguing, you stopped arguing.
The group moved on, started talking about something else, but Raven tuned them out as she often did, instead rubbing Bully’s ears and becoming more and more immersed in her own thoughts.. Raven was the youngest person in the room by at least ten years, and though all her friends (except for Win) included her in everything, she felt very lonely with them, which only made her more frustrated.
After the Initial Attack, it was many many years before anyone felt comfortable with the idea of young children in such a violent and unsure world. Raven’s mother Maki was the only child born in their city, New Sherwood, for almost ten years after the Attack, and only because Maki’s mother, Kaida, was already pregnant when the Attack first hit.
At only 14 years old, Kaida was raped, and became pregnant. Rather than deal with the family embarrassment, her parents sent her from her home in Japan to live with her aunt and uncle on their country acreage in Alberta. Not even a half a year later, the Infected began to attack. Kaida’s aunt and uncle were killed, and little Kaida, only 14 years old and five months pregnant, had to survive on her own. It took Kaida months to find any other people. A few months after that, Kaida died in childbirth.
Raven was so proud of her Granny Kaida, whose family katana she wore on her belt always and fought with often. Because Kaida never told anyone what happened to her in the months she spent alone after the Attack, Raven often made up stories and games about it when she was little. When she wanted to hear the actual stories about Granny Kaida, her father Darin would tell them, and Raven would listen attentively and excitedly.
Raven never understood why her mother wouldn’t talk about Granny Kaida, but she didn’t understand her mother much at all. Raven was impulsive, crass, and easily frustrated, with little respect for tradition and nothing but contempt for the confining rules of her existence. Maki, on the other hand, was a small, timid woman, easily worked up and constantly worrying, who thrived on inaction and was perfectly content to rely on blind compliance with the rules and the protection of her husband’s family (Darin was a rather bulky Italian man with many large brothers), to keep her safe. Maki was the complete opposite of her daughter, and, Raven was sure, her mother Kaida.
While Raven loved her parents, she couldn’t help but be constantly angry with them, especially her mother. With all her heart, Raven wished that Granny Kaida hadn’t died. Raven needed someone to talk to before she went insane.

The sun was setting in the distance, and Raven was starting to get chilly. Wishing she hadn’t left her leather jacket in the truck, she trudged onwards, Bully trotting loyally behind her. She could hear Zeen’s footsteps of a ways behind, scrambling to keep up. They were taking a shortcut through one of the parks on their latest foraging trip into Edmonton, laden with ancient food preserves from one of Edmonton’s old grocery stores. Edmonton itself was deserted, and a likely place to run into a few of the Infected if you weren’t careful. New Sherwood, where Zeen and Raven lived, was just a short ways east of Edmonton, and notably smaller. With it’s small size and lack of tall buildings, New Sherwood was a much better place to build a new city in a terrifying, zombie filled world.
Bags stuffed to their limit with canned and boxed food, Zeen and Raven were making the long hike back to the truck, already almost full with the labours of their previous hikes to the old grocery store. The truck was parked as close as possible, but because of all the wreckage in the city roads (mostly abandoned cars), it was still a long walk back.
Raven and Zeen were foragers. It was their job to make these frequent trips into the old city and raid the deserted ruins for supplies. The grocery store in New Sherwood was running out of food, so in they went.
“Raven,” puffed Zeen from behind her, “can we, can we rest? For, for a moment?”
Raven stopped looked behind her. Zeen was breathing heavily, and his usually pale face was a dark shade of red, which wasn’t an unusual sight; Zeen was the caricature of a ginger kid, with pale skin, flaming red hair always falling in his face, and a bright spattering of freckles. It didn’t take much to make the red flush appear on his face, but Raven stopped anyway. They had been really pushing it to make as many trips before nightfall as possible, and both of them were getting very worn down. And of course, gentleman he was, Zeen always insisted on taking the heavier of the loads, despite the fact that Raven, while much younger, was a good six inches taller than him and perfectly capable of carrying the extra weight.
“Sure,” said Raven, setting down her bag. Zeen let go of his bag, which landed with a loud thump, and dropped to the ground, taking out his canteen. Raven stayed standing and looked around first, taking note of the terrain. She marked possible shelters, exits, and high points, in the case of a battle, then checked each of her weapons for emergency accessibility: her grandmother’s katana, her two guns (a .44 Desert Eagle and a .357 Magnum revolver) and spare ammo, and her last resort weapon, a large hatchet. All were in place and ready to go. After one more look around the campsite, she took out her own canteen and sat down, realizing only then how exhausted she was. Bully trotted up to her and she smiled, scratching his head and listening for signs of movement. She may be reckless in regard to the rules, but Raven didn’t take undue chances. She’d had to fight her way out of an attack by the Infected far too many times.
For awhile, her and Zeen sat in silence, drinking and resting. Zeen’s dog, a large German Shepherd creatively named Karl, stood on alert. Bully lay down at Raven’s feet, drooling again, but ready to be up in an instant if trouble occurred, Raven knew. After awhile of this, Zeen spoke.
“Raven… how do you do it? How do you survive so many attacks, fight off so many zombies?” Some people got angry at the use of the term zombie for the Infected. Neither Raven and Zeen were one of them.
Raven sighed. She got this a lot, this almost hero worship by people who hadn’t had many encounters with the Infected. Zeen was new to foraging, having recently gotten annoyed with his old job as a computer repair man — an important job in a time when all communication was done over the internet.
“It isn’t nearly as exciting as it seems, Zeen. I’ve just been stupid enough and unlucky enough to have a lot of run-ins with them, and smart enough and lucky enough to survive it. It’s really just luck.”
Zeen nodded and went back to his canteen, but Raven could tell by the look on his face that he still thought of her as an impressive warrior. Sure enough, a few minutes later, he looked back up at her.
“Raven? Do you know how many you’ve killed?”
She smiled at him. “No… I stopped counting. I don’t like to dwell on it, you know?”
“Oh.”
“Do you know how many you’ve killed?” Raven asked.
“Five.” Zeen looked up, away from Raven, staring off into the distance. He looked troubled. Raven was surprised; she’d figured Zeen as the run for cover type, not the stand and fight type. Something in his face told Raven there was a story behind those five.
Before Raven could say anything, Bully was on his feet and snarling at the trees. Raven was on her feet in an instance as something suddenly broke from the trees and rushed towards them. Raven drew the Desert Eagle and hit it, right between the eyes. The zombie fell.
Raven brought the gun down, but Bully was still snarling. Karl was growling too. Both dogs were looking in different directions. Zeen was on his feet, one hand on his rifle, another on his machete, as if unsure which one would be the best choice. Raven didn’t know either.
She looked around. There was movement in at least three different directions. The dogs looked confused, turning one way then the other, snarling viciously. Something was wrong.
“Come on,” said Raven, grabbing Zeen by the arm and starting to run. “This way.”
“But— the food—” he started.
“COME ON!”
They ran, the dogs following close behind them. Raven could hear the crashing sounds of a disturbingly large amount of Infected following them. She ran faster.
The reached a clearing, a slow sloping hill with a building at the top. Raven smiled when she saw it, glad she had taken the right route. They ran to the building and collapsed against it’s wall, puffing.
Raven grabbed Zeen’s arm roughly and pulled him to his feet. “Hurry!” she yelled. “They’re almost here!”
“What do we do?”screamed Zeen, panicked. “Why are there so many of them?! There isn’t any fog, they shouldn’t be group hunting—”
“Shut up!” yelled Raven. “It doesn’t matter. Get your rifle out, take out as many as you can as they come up towards us. Keep your back to the wall and whatever you do, don’t try to run. They’re bloody fast. Don’t worry about the ones that get through, I’ll get them. Watch the dogs; let them do their own thing, and for Christ’s sake don’t try and shoot any their fighting with.”
Zeen nodded grimly and pulled out his rifle. As he started firing, Raven unsheathed her katana and took a few swings. Zeen was capable. With someone to take command, he faired well. She wasn’t worried about him.
She was worried about their numbers. There were at least twenty five Infected rushing toward them now. Zeen was right, they shouldn’t be out in groups, not without a fog…
The dogs rushed past her, teeth bared, growling. They reached the Infected, the zombies, the whatever, and attacked. No mercy was spared.
They weren’t interested in the dogs. They wanted human flesh. None stopped to help those dropped by Zeen’s bullets, or mauled by Bully and Karl. They just kept running, closer and closer to Raven…
She gripped her katana tighter and swung it artfully at the first one that approached, slashing it open across the stomach.These things drove Raven crazy! She hated having to arrange her life around these disgusting things, stuck in this infuriating town without anyone her age and nothing to do. She swung the blade round the other way, slicing it’s head half off. She was tired of hunkering down at home, waiting for the Infected to come to her. It was about time someone took the fight to them.
It rushed at her still, with half a severed neck. It was a female, probably younger than Raven. She took note of it’s tattered yellow dress for a split second, then aimed a high kick at it’s dangling head, which went flying.
Spinning to the next attacker and slicing at it’s knees, Raven thought about everyone who had lost so much because of the Infected. Tor and his parents. Zeen, lost and sad. Her mother, timid, afraid. Her father, short how many family members at the dead hands of the Infected. Her grandmother, dead and gone. Even Tiny and Win. Even her. She stabbed the fallen foe in the brain, hard.
With a boot on the dead Infected’s head, Raven pulled out her katana, her grandmothers katana, which had seen so much Infected blood. With an angry snarl, Raven charged at the closest Infected.
“Fucking zombies!” she cried.

Every once in a while, I have bursts of poetic inspirations.

I'll write so many poems, often averaging a poem a week, usually two or three at a time. That will last a couple months, and then I just wont write anything for like, ever.
But that's okay, because my poems are silly and selfish..
So here's another silly and selfish poem, inspired, yet again, by the beauty of a winter night.
(Yes, I know it's spring. But there's still bloody snow on the ground.)
Enjoy!
Or don't. I really could care less.

Marina Reid





Shooting Stars and Windowpanes

From within the darkness
The windowpane
Glows
A soft deep blue
In the silent black

Through the window
The night glows
The slim sliver of moon
And her tiny children
The sparkling stars
Gazing down

Out in the night
The sky dances
In Silver light
The trees sway
And the clouds glide
And the stars twirl about endlessly

Out in the night
The world is alive –
Vibrant –
Humming in anticipation
A shooting star
Streaks across the sky
And moves on

Inside the dark
Behind the glowing window panes
I watch the slash of starlight

Inside the dark
My world is silent –
Sombre –
Lonely thoughts creeping
A shooting star
Streaks across my window
And I think only of you


(c)Marina Reid Hale 04.27.09

I'm a poet and I didn't even know it!

I haven't written a poem in forEVER. So when I wrote three, I figured I'd share them. They're rough. They're raw. They're not all that good and they mean absolutely nothing. But that's okay because they're just meant for me. They don't NEED to mean anything. I write them selfishly.
I only post them for the world to see because I like a little praise sometimes. Or criticism, if that's what comes. I can work with that too.


Notes on creations: a post script

You can't write a poem about something mild. You have to turn it into something huge. You can't just write a sad poem, it should be unbearably depressing. You can't just write a sweet little confession of like, it needs to be a passionate declaration of undying love. That's what I do: I take little things and I inflate them into (hopefully) beautiful poetry. It's not that I don't feel those ways... I just don't feel quite as intense as they make it seem.

So many of my poems seem to come to me from looking outside on a really bright night when the moon makes the snow flow almost blue. There isn't a more beautiful, haunting, and (sometimes) lonely sight.
The second two are working titles. I don't know that I like them. The rythm and rhyme of the second one bothers me. It likely wont stay that way but I wanted to put it up anyways, so there it is. I'm too tired to play with it anymore now. The third one is my favourite so I left it for last :)
Yes, I do actually write my poems in the dark. And yes, there is a Twilight reference in there. Goddamn Twilight... it just fit so perfectly with what I wanted to say!! :(
I suppose I can always say it's an allusion. Somewhat of an inside joke. Do you get it?
If not then I guess that poem wasn't for you, now was it?

Marina Reid



Moonlight White Snow

Glistening
In the dark night
The moon
Serene and watchful
Bathes the world in her glistening light

Silver moon beams
In the black
The world
A lake of silver shimmer

The night on fire
Cold silver fire
The snow aglow
With magic

The earth is a mirror
Reflecting the beauty
The magic
The light
Of the night

The earth is a mirror
And the snow is aglow
Reflecting the silver fire of the moon
Reflecting the silver fire of my heart

Pale bare skin
Glowing white
In the burning silver light
Bare feet
Warm against the cold snow
Arms outstretched
Naked arms reaching to the sky
Catching moonbeams

Arms spread open
To the sky
To the sun

Waiting
To warm this cold silver fire
That burn so feircly in my heart

(c)Marina Reid 03.12.09



To my Darling, Whispered Softly

Do you have a moment to spare
In your busy life?
I have something I'd like to tell you.

I want to tell you
How you dazzle me;
But that's been said and done:

I want to say to you
What you mean to me;
But the words are lost on my tongue.

I want to make sure you know
Why I feel flustered by you;
But I couldn't really say why:

I want to try to explain
What's so perfect about you;
But I'm too afraid to try.

I want to make you see
Why I cling so hard to us;
But even I don't understand all my fears:

I want to know if you feel
Just as strongly about us;
But I'm frightened by my thoughts of years.

Do you have a moment to spare
In your busy life?
I have something I'd like to say:

I want to tell you, to tell myself,
How much I love you;
But using that word frightens me away.

(c)Marina Reid Hale 03.13.09



The Highway of Inspiration Indecision

Before me
The road stretches onward,
Disappearing into the distance:
Into the black night.
Endless possibilities,
An infinity of uncertainty;
Now I understand why they say
'The vast unknown.'

With nothing but the pale foggy moonlight to guide my way,
Onwards I trek.
Through the silence,
As the music dances and sings
And explodes in my mind;
Ever onwards.

Through the quiet dark,
I travel onwards:
Travel home.
A violent storm of light and sounds
Fills my little world.

I travel onwards,
To write my sparkling thoughts;
I travel home,
To write my poetry in the dark.

(c)Marina Reid Hale 03.13.09