Earth to Ash Podcast Episode # 8 – Weathered!

AUDIO VERSION

This Purgatory

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

white 
white everywhere 
no walls 
no floor 
no ceiling 
just white 
am I touching anything 
am I alive 
where is the door through which I come 
did I walk through by will
is this punishment for the black 
is this void now my penance
I feel no love
I feel no loss
where are my memories
tell me what sin lead me here 
I can’t see in this light 
because of my darkness

Story Jot # 7 – Dark Twins (Continued)

Here’s the original Story Jot that started this tale. For continuity, (Please Click Here)

Aeryn: Sister, you’re injured. We should stop. That is a lot of blood coming out of that wound. 

Adria: It’s fine. We don’t have time to stop. Those humans won’t be stopping, so we cannot afford to. Let’s keep on moving. You know the plan.

Aeryn: I know the humans are on us, I remember the plan, but we just need to slow down enough so we can heal you. Come, take hold of my hand. 

Aeryn moves close to her sister who by now has no use of her entire left side. She could barely keep herself in flight. The gunshot wound she received from a shower of bullets sprayed at them during their escape was looking more and more serious. As soon as Adria got ahold of her sister’s hand, both began to glow. They flew in a trance-like state with their eyes closed as Adria’s wound began to heal and her skin slowly started to grow over. Colour came rushing back into her face and body and the blood stopped right away. She was healing. 

Continue reading “Story Jot # 7 – Dark Twins (Continued)”

Blueberry Hill

when the blueberries come back…so do you 
we’re together again
scraping and scrounging along the hillside 
every three paces we fill our cups 
 
the colour blue today is for happiness 
its sweet taste…a reminder of your touch 
as I hold a few on the day they first appear 

the air is the same chill
trees with the same tinge of change
cloud shadows still pass over me like they did
I see them at my feet

I am seven again
catching up with your pace
as my bucket spills over
on blueberry hill









By the Trestle Bridge

Actual Trestle Bridge from Google – no copyright infringement intended

no idea where I was going
where my footsteps were taking me
not long off the bus and my bags still hanging off the borrowed bed
I’m running toward something
my faith in a girl next door relationship
built on the stock of only a few summers
we were school break friends and I just had to see this
according to everyone
and everyone was going to be there
that was the promise and with a pinky swear
I was a nervous boy in a foreign land
on loan from thirteen-year-old best buds
speaking only the language of the shy and quiet ones
making what would become a beautiful memory
under the bright big moon
along the sparkle-kissed river
surrounded by the sounds of the teenage
on a warm night in August
by the trestle bridge

Fading to Black

Photo by Anthony DeRosa on Pexels.com

In the night 
like a ghost 
nothing is ever seen 
premeditation a superpower 
skewing the real, while dancing with the devil 
visiting worlds very far apart 
the sky in one, a sky 
the other could be anywhere envisioned on the spot 
in the sweat, in the sins, in the climax
flying close to the sun 
is a high like no other 
a racing heart is a drug buried deep in the same shadows 
but one beam of light and it all goes away
the curtain comes down
no more beautiful horizon
no more escape 
 
 
  

A Shade of Ash # 19 – The Write Start In My Life

My birthday gift Trixie.

When I was a young boy, my grandmother would always tell me that I was bound for something great. Glimpses of me behind a desk somewhere with a pen and paper. No more substance than that. Just that nothing else would fit what mould she had envisioned for me. She would tell me this with a smile and pride in her voice. It would instantly make me smile too. But, for years I wondered what that meant. Now, as a published poet and six years deep into my blog, Earth to Ash, amongst creating every single chance I get, this is what she had seen. This is what she knew was coming for me. A future with writing. Sharing my thoughts, feelings, and emotion to the world around me. Like I have said from the start. I don’t consider myself to be a great writer, but I am enjoying the journey of someday becoming one. And when I reach that goal, it will forever be because of Theresa Douglas. Nan/Mom, if only you could read those words you seeded inside this soul of mine that writes to connect forever with yours and the world can take a peek too. – Ash 

One Saturday

My home

One Saturday 
an old used-up weekend in my life 
back when I was a small boy who took shortcuts home 
I remember that Saturday and how golden was the hillside
how the fences cast shadows through blades of long grass
while it danced when the wind played the lead
along the way I ducked clotheslines with flapping white blankets and wool socks
that made dogs bark for no reason
almost home I stopped to take a drink 
from a cold stream with those floaty things 
a puttering engine in the distance pulled me up for a look
when I do I see a fishing boat breaking the glass harbour
I become lost in the triangle wake of that trail the vessel leads behind 
as its crew steams toward their living into the greying eve 
while seagulls give chase for little company
it stretches a few seconds for me for some reason
captivates me, holds my breath, takes grip of my soul
until the lighthouse steals away the attention
enough to break my trance 
in time to hear the voice of my grandmother who sings my name
through the hills 
beckons my return from the adventures of my childhood 
it won’t be long now, just cross the torn bush garden and the triangle stone
like I remember…one Saturday