Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit

The Mermaid's Gift

Memories of waves and seaside bliss

Spiral in the mermaid’s gift.


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There's a heat wave going on here, and it makes me nostalgic for summer outings to the beach.

(I'm the one with the bucket)

These days, though, I prefer to visit the beach off-season, when I can poke around in tidepools and search for sea-brought treasures without all the hoopla of the "Jersey Shore." But even now, many years after that photo was taken, I am still enchanted by the notion of merfolk.

Perhaps part of the Mermaid's Gift is a lingering sense of wonder, the belief in something *other* that swims in a sea of possibilities, the knowledge that folk and fairy tales are more than just words on a page meant for children only.

Fairy tales follow us into adulthood, shape-shifting as our paths broaden, marking the sea-changes of our lives. Recently one of my short stories that explores what happens beyond the "happily ever after" has gone up online. I wrote it with a specific piece of Parrish Relics jewelry in mind, and you can see both the gorgeous necklace and the tale by clicking *here.*

Frog Prince?

The story starts with a golden ball gone rogue and a bargain ~ not exactly a great premise for a romance. “Kiss me,” the frog pleads. The princess tries to be polite, but disgust wins out over obligation. One minute he’s sitting in her hand and in the next, SMASH! He hits the wall, bounces twice and, instead of squashed amphibian parts, out pops a prince. Go figure.

Somewhere in that tale, there’s a lesson for little girls, everywhere. Right?

For the record, this scenario has never happened with any of my boyfriends. But then, I’ve never dashed any of them against the wall. Perhaps I should try it sometime? I don’t imagine the ensuing inquiries will be assuaged by my excuse of “But I thought you were bespelled!”

So much for that idea.

To be safe, I just stick to the kissing part. I paint my lips ruby-red, secure in the knowledge that sometimes magic happens. When he leans in close, I tremble in breathless anticipation, poised on the hopeful edge of imminent transformation, and then I cherish those sweet liminal moments when infinite possibilities and fairy tale endings sweep between our pressed-together mouths.

What happens after that is anyone’s guess…

Dream

Behold

The power of a dreamer;

Poet, shaman, child,

Painter, lover, you ~

Creator of another world.

Follow

Colored threads, winding.

 Know the mystic scent of hope.

Feel the sense of wonder

Spiraling, and then

Wake

To a vision-kissed

Shape of a tomorrow,

Newly made. Not lost,

But found in a dream.

The Summer Girl

The summer girl wears lilies in her hair and sunlight on her skin, always. She favors skimpy silk dresses and is partial to boys with curls. She kisses a number of them, lips reckless in the moonlight, until she finds her favorite, the one without tan lines. 

He is so smitten that he forgets his own name until she gives it back to him, murmured over and over into his hot skin while the rest of the world slumbers. In the morning his eyes shine and his limbs glow. All of his friends are jealous.

The couple spends long afternoons lounging on the beach or splashing in the sea and at night they chase fireflies. They have not spent more than a few moments apart since they met; their entire world is comprised of one shared delight after another, each pursued with a leisurely disdain for time. And then the nights turn crisp.

He is surprised to discover that she owns neither jacket nor socks. He slips his sweater over her head, but it is not enough to stop her shivering. The next day he wakes to a cold pillow and a puddle of silk on the floor. He cradles the dress in his arms and weeps her name into it, but the summer girl is gone.

For months he pines for her touch, dreams her shape back into the bed beside him. He sees her face in every passing cloud and shouts his love for her into the sky until he is hoarse with longing. Eventually her memory fades to a whisper only, but for the rest of his life, the scent of lilies instills heartache.

Angels in the Necropolis

Layered photos taken at Laurel Hill Cemetery

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This post is dedicated in loving memory to my hero, inspiration and soul friend ~ my Dad. 

Here be Dragonflies

Once

There was a time

When the world was filled

With dragonflies, only.

The sun’s rays shimmered

In delight at their song

While the wind sang harmonies

And it was oh, so pretty.

It was almost perfect, in fact,

Until they finally realized

There was no one on earth

To dance along with,

To record their flight,

To share in their beauty.

There was no one

Who would ever

Dream  

Of wings.