I've always had a problem with evangelicals- not just the Christian type but anyone who feels the need to be totally in your face about their beliefs. That kind of loud, proclaiming, utterly self-convinced style of communication has always seemed to mask an empty person. I remember an encounter with some of them years back when I was trying to hire a room from some Elim Pentecostals for my Authentic Movement group. Fearing that if I mentioned the word 'dance' they would immediately assume I was going to play loud disco music (this was the normal reaction I got from church halls and such like)  I was at pains to tell them that we worked in silence and that it was 'meditational'. Well! Wrong word!! At the mere whiff of a hint that anything like 'meditation' might be occurring on their premises they closed up. 'Oooh no! we don't  hold with meditation' - said in the same kind of tones as one would normally expect for adultery or smoking weed.  Anyway- a couple of days ago I had a run-in with one of these people who started to pick on one of my friends. I made absolutely no headway in convincing this guy that he was quite wrong about said friend, as you never can with those types. But I did come up with this poem in the reflective aftermath. 

The Evangelist

He's a hollow man

All on the outside.

All noise and certitude.

His jaws clack-clack-clacking,

Everything is alright as long as he keeps talking,

Proclaiming. Filling the silence.

Because in silence there is space,

Emptiness, longing.

He shouts and no-one listens.

He knows the words by heart,

A well-worn groove,

That jumps and repeats repeats repeats.

His greatest terror lies within.

What lives in there leaves him

Trembling under the bedclothes

Scarcely breathing.

In the silence he hears their pant and shuffle.

The monsters of his deep.

That place his terror keeps at bay,

That unknown locked away room

In the attic of his soul contains

A  shriveled tiny seed,

Abandoned, alone, waterless,

Un-nourished, waiting waiting waiting

For a chink to open, a crack to appear,

To let in, maybe, oh! maybe!

A single ray of light.

And maybe, Oh! Let it be!

An ear, that finally listens,

And hears his own tiny desperate voice,

Calling "I am here!"

Yay! I've just finished a new story. I still have to type it up, as I have found I can only write in long-hand on that weird stuff - what's it called? o paper!! Shows how old I am. 
Having suffered from severe issues over valuing my work - panic attacks when I tried to write anything, even frequently destroying anything I did succeed in writing - for a lifetime, I am amazed at how it is now flowing. The reason is purely because I now make sure to surround myself with people who say nice things and encourage me in my writing, instead of people who ... well .. just don't. 

I have long since realized that creativity is like a very young child, it needs to be nurtured and sheltered and protected from abuse, until it's ready to stand on its own two feet. And I have slowly learned to do that - especially with my dance work. I am very careful about who I share creative ideas with. As dance is usually a collaborative art, it is essential to work with carefully selected people who will help rather than hinder. I have rarely found that among professional dancers, who let their insecurity and competitiveness get in the way of collaboration. My way of dealing with that was to decide, quite deliberately, not to be part of the professional dance world. I worked in the community with people who had no background in dance. Everyone i worked with was there because they enjoyed the experience for its own sake, and I was able to make work our of the pure joy of it. I never made a penny out of it, and was still a comparative unknown in Wales where I worked in Community dance for over 25 years. But I am proud of the work I made.
  
But it is a revelation to me to find that in the writing world too. To discover that there are people out there who will give good feedback that comes from a positive place, and not just from that competitive place that makes people want to pick anything to pieces before it is ready to be exposed in that way. I'm not claiming to write great literature, but writing (and keeping) my stories and poetry gives me great pleasure,and I owe it all to my generous and supportive friends out there. You know who you are!!!!  
I'll let you know when I have got my self-confidence enough to start to publish to Amazon. And I'll let you know the name of the new story when I have thought of it. 

Invisible.

I’m dreaming.

I’m finding a way.

I seek.

Things shift and I find my footing.

All my feets.

This foot, that hand, this hand, that foot,

I roll and stay upright,

Chameleon, I vanish,

I’m in your sight

But invisible.

C Blackfeather. April 2013

Let's see if I can post anything today.

Here's a poem I just came up with a few days ago:

Body-Life

Here’s my small body in a vast plain,

Sky blue and hard above me.

I know the world is round

And sound journeys, molecule bashing molecule,

On its way.

I shout and listen, waiting to hear

My own voice travel back to me

Around the sphere.

Here’s my small body, bundled

Against the Alberta snow.

I dig the white, taste it,

I find green, grass still green

Under snow.

I marvel at this revelation.

When it’s all dead and cold

Life still goes on.

Here’s my little body, terrified and cold,

Always so cold in this new land.

I’m frightened all the time.

Of the bursting gas flame, the news of an earthquake.

My mother is afraid, she falls.

I find my hero, inside me.

NoddyChristopherRobin

He flies to the rescue.

Here’s my small body, high in a tree,

Singing the world on the springy branch.

I smell the green

And brachiate, confident in my own springy strength.

My body fits the tree, knows it,

My name carved into its pulpy bark.

I hang, child-soft shoulders unafraid,

And drop to the welcoming earth.

Here’s my small body pushed against a wall.

I’m dangling in his hands, held by the jaw.

I turn my head, see the door,

Half-kneeling I twist and wrench,

Refusing, I hang from his hands,

The door only an aspiration

He thrusts into my mind gone blank.

Here I am, coltish and beautiful,

Not enjoying the attention I get.

Sweaty hands fumbling and bad-tasting breath.

How many ways can I say No

And still they don’t stop.

My body is a soul of yearning

Pushed and pulled any way but right.

Star aeons pass in acquiescence.

I float, far from myself.

Knowing love and passion,

Full of heart, always open yet

Missing, missing.

The green still grows under the snow.

My voice, finally, travels back to me.

Molecules from long-ago air,

Return to me

Through wind and storm and the world’s lungs

Three molecules only

Stir my ear-hairs

But they grow and GROW.

The springy branch is flowing with sap.

A kundalini cavort through moonlit woods,

My feet know the path

My feet have eyes,

I dance the Earth

I am whole, I am healing,

The trees hold me

My springy strength.

WolfieWolfgang: I feel like I'm joining a club - reading and meeting Ward Wood Publishing's writers.

WolfieWolfgang: I feel like I'm joining a club - reading and meeting Ward Wood Publishing's writers.