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Monday, September 17, 2012

MEMORIES OF THE MEADOW




Tired and confused, I rode into the afternoon. I let Blaque, my charger, wander the meadow that I had stared across so many times, but never took the time to enter. Ahead in the distance were the blue/purple mountains of tomorrow, rising high into the air above the lake of memories. To the right was the forest of dreams. I could see all the faerie folk moving about and preparing for the evening dance and feast.
Something drew me to enter the forest, an unknown calling to my heart. I mindlessly allowed Blaque to walk at his own pace. After half an hour of mind cleansing serenity, I realized that I had no idea where I was. I still my soul and mount and listened for the slightest of noises. Through the dense trees ahead, I could hear the faint crashing of the ocean against the bluffs. I nudged Blaque toward the sound. I knew finding the coastline would give me orientation as to my whereabouts.
As I rode from the tree line, I saw her. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen or imagined could exist. My senses reeled. Was this a legendary siren, or mirage? Flowing red hair matched the fluid motions of her purple gown that was embraced and dancing with the sea breeze. As she turned to look at the stranger that had interrupted her reverie, she lit up like the sun. It was as if she had been waiting for me. Somehow, I knew she had. Somehow, I knew it was "her." She was the "one." My one. I dismounted and ran to her embrace. There in her arms, I found internal, external, and eternal peace. I was complete.



© Nov 18, 1981 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic
PHOTO: via my.opera.com

  NOTE: I wrote this in High school while living in Red Mesa, Arizona. My imagination had started developing beyond simple childhood fantasies. Again, this piece seemed more like a memory than a thought. Was this also a random thought or a memory from the past? We will find out one day.
 I had a friend, Sylvia Hearne, that inspired me to write more than a line or two. So, I did. I wrote on napkins, paper towels, cardboard, paper, whatever would hold my thoughts in graphite or ink.I still possess some of the scraps of memories. 

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