Pentecostal

Locked in my head

consciousness

here the repository

of thought and will

furnace room

of memory

tool box

of action

house of bad tidings

room of innocence

by Rhyll McMaster

Inside a rose

Inside a rose © Jennifer Phillips

The cleaving

In the first moment of momentum,

time escaped its crucible -

twin stars were divided

and fell from the grace of gravity.

They shed the skin of angels - 

and the dreams of light.

Fleeting, was the memory of love.

In the final moment of momentum,

time will fall back on itself - 

twin stars will be reunited

and forever, never, fall out of orbit.

They will shed the skin of earth,

and the dreams of life.

Fleeting, will be the memory of loneliness.

© "Neon Veil" (All rights reserved) 

Plumage © Jennifer Phillips

On eye contact

André Rieu - about his mother:

"She was very strict and very cold – and I am completely the opposite. She was afraid to show her feelings. She always said to me, "André, you don't have to look people in the eyes like you do." But I like to [do that]. That's why I have my face to the audience, unlike other conductors. I want to have this contact with people. It's how you connect. Everything goes through the eyes. My mother was afraid to look people in the eyes because then your feelings come. She is 96 now, still driving ... very independent and strong-willed. We have contact, but not much."

Source:  "What I know about women" - May 12, 2013 - Brisbane Times, by Paul Connolly

Smoky mountain lullaby

Half a life asleep

we have been

almost lovers

each in another 

lover's arms.

I fear we may wake soon

from this  dream

and forget the names

for who we could have been. 

So I have hidden

a box for he and she

that never became you and me. 

It is buried deep

at the end of the moonbow, 

guarded by fireflies,

flashing in unison,

masking the glowing 

rhythm of that unborn heart.

© "Neon Veil" (All rights reserved) 

Firefly plumage © Jennifer Phillips

Aphids on a hellebore

Aphids on a hellebore © Jennifer Phillips

Days like beads of tears

The days pass like beads 

along a necklace of tears

I am as driftwood floating 

on humanity's aimless tide, 

rise pale and naked, 

washed, scoured by tears. 

Heart's a solid piece, 

eyes see only stones and crows.

No playful symphony of birds, 

only soughing of wind in pines.

A lonely cavity couched in emptiness, 

words drip and ripples expand.

After a momentous day, 

the ensuing days

follow one another sheepishly 

in pale comparison

to the extraordinary events 

of that incredible day.

Whether I look back 

in wonder and delight

or creep haltingly, 

counting days or stitches, 

I founder in the return 

to routine and normalcy.

Days drip slowly like tears, 

a string of rosary beads

and I question that once 

having tasted Heaven or Hell,

can I stomach banality

and paste a smile?

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

Beads - a chain of tears © Jennifer Phillips