Amarine Ravenwood’s Magical Realm hosts writing of a fantasy nature – the dreamy stuff, the otherworldly, magical, and fairy-tale types of writing. All you see here is by Amarine Rose Ravenwood. I hope you enjoy reading some of these as much as I enjoyed writing them! Under the menu in the left sidebar is a Table of Contents that lists posts by type and date.
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Amarine Rose Ravenwood
Violet-gray, the skies are, today,
And the droplets pour around;
No longer May, but June, all the way,
And the roses gently drowned.
A thunderclap; a lightning flash,
the rumble moves the earth;
The flooding smash of puddles splash,
as water rills in mirth.
The broken boughs, from wind that howls,
in quite-loud cacophony,
bow and swing, as room allows,
from the trunk of a nearby tree.
The rivulets run, in buoyant fun,
down every street and lane;
It won’t be done, even after the sun
has made the weather sane;
For Earth’s thirst is quenched – in fact, it’s drenched
her cup is overflowing;
the gardens are wrenched and the houses, entrenched,
and travel’s dependent on rowing.
But for now, the frogs, and the pollywogs
are having a lovely day;
even though the dogs – maybe even the gods –
are cowering where they may…
© Amarine Rose Ravenwood, 2020
Tempestuous gusts,
Shivering that echoes my soul,
As the trees shriek and squeal,
And the wind-chimes sound
Like they’re dying
On the shuddering breath
Of grief
As my wrung heart cries
An anguish that stutters
On morals and vows
The wind screams, lawless
As my heart trembles
Words falling off my lips
As indiscreetly as
Leaves stripped off the bough
By razor blades of ice
That burn like fire
in the pit of the belly:
Repressed passion,
Or was it the love
Of a soulmate denied,
Tamped down and bottled,
Almost forgotten
Shattered open
never to close, again?
And the trees beat themselves
With war-cries
The wind lashing
Deep grooves in their skin
Punishing, raging, weeping,
Unforgiven for denying
What was pure, true, and beautiful:
A spring of the loveliest roses
Warm, balmy butter of sun,
Velvet skin in semi-darkness
A cup of joy overflowing;
A perfect magical tapestry
That lasted and unfolded
A story told
In golden threads,
Until the world crushed it
And it crumbled
Like dust in the hand;
The final ember,
Still very alive,
Buried,
at the bottom of a bottle
That waited for
The violent gust
To shatter it.
~Amarine Rose Ravenwood
Public domain photo courtesy of Pixy.org
Dedicated to my grandmother, Lorraine Simpson.
May she rest in peace – but I know she’s still watching over me…
A Grandmother’s Promise
A grandmother’s promise
To always be there,
To watch and care and love,
Is carried out long,
even after she’s gone,
As she watches from above.
She knows each mistake;
the chances you take,
But she never stops her cheering;
For each time you fall,
Not one time, but all,
Is a lesson not for fearing.
She spreads out her wings,
At times even sings,
In the hopes that your heart will hear,
And take strength from it,
Become inner-lit,
For to her, you are that dear.
You should never forget
How you two used to sit,
And she’d tell you all her stories,
For she’s never left;
You’re not so bereft,
And she revels in your glories.
~Amarine Rose Ravenwood
Originally published by Voice of Eve, Issue 2, 2018
Arms spread wide to touch the sky,
She embraces all she is,
Not missus or madame or ma’am or mom,
She is definitely a Miz.
Her heart, it soars, it flies, it sweeps,
It blasts all in its path,
In fiery passion and flaming expression,
Her joy can flash to wrath.
In highs and lows, there’s no mid-ground,
Adventures are a must,
Experience is first upon her list,
In this, she’ll always trust.
Brazen and brave, she takes such risks,
And always bets her all,
And though catastrophe abounds,
She learns from every fall.
Her heart is light and heaven-bright,
Still full of innocence,
The twisted world has not impressed,
Or made its own imprints.
The future, now, still seems far off,
She’ll plan for that tomorrow.
Today, she’s all wrapped up in now,
And trouble, she won’t borrow.
She’s currently in the prime of life,
The world bends to her will,
And though someday, her age will fray,
For now, she takes her fill,
Of life, of hope, of love’s sweet passion,
Imagination free,
She revels in joy and tastes the day,
Content to simply be.
~Amarine Rose Ravenwood
Originally Published by Voice of Eve, Issue 2, 2018
She holds her child near,
Her child, so dear,
As the chair rocks to and fro…
It’s been a hard day,
And the long night is gray,
As she straightens the little hair bow…
Sleep may be far off,
for the little one’s cough,
Yet, the mother’s touch is sweet…
And the gentlest sway,
of the chair, just for bae,
is controlled by Mama’s feet…
The fire, nearby,
In the hearth, makes Mom sigh,
And her head drops down to doze…
Snuggled in place,
is that sweet, precious face,
and the child is in repose…
There’s rest, after all,
‘Till the morning’s bright call,
And the night is deep and mild…
A mother, she gives,
For as long as she lives,
To the care of her cherished child…
~Amarine Rose Ravenwood
Originally published by Voice of Eve, Issue 2, 2018
I’m not consigned
to old age, yet,
although my youth
has lost the bet.
I still have passion,
heart, and drive,
and in my inner soul
I thrive
Although I like
a rocking chair
as much as anyone,
beware
that’s not my forte,
not my place:
I’m not done
with this long race.
Don’t unsee me,
Invisible.
Don’t mark me off
predictable.
You don’t know me,
from what I’m made;
where I am opal,
you see jade.
I still have spark,
I still have fight,
I’m still willful,
with all my might.
and just because
I look an age,
don’t use it as
unfair presage.
I dream, I dance,
I fly, inside.
In my heart,
I’m still a bride.
You think you know,
Like age tips fate;
Like golden youth’s
the only trait
But I know me,
and I am strong
and though I’m not young,
I’ll live long
and this is nothing;
just the gate
to better things,
if I just wait
You think you’re young,
well, that’s just great –
your soul’s just twelve;
well, mine’s just eight.
The outside shell
don’t tell a thing,
it doesn’t say
what life will bring,
It doesn’t say
how sweet the soul
it doesn’t show
the endgame goal
All it does
is mark the years
the smile lines
the trace of tears
and shows I’ve lived
from here to there,
and shows I’ve learned
just how to care
but my essence
still remains
despite my losses
or my gains
unchanged inside me
my deep core
which will remain
forever more
and that was young
‘twill never age
no matter wrinkles,
what their gauge
for what’s inside me’s
like a bird
gentle, light,
a breath of Word
and though I am
no longer young,
my journey, here,
is far from done.
~Amarine Rose Ravenwood
In grace she walks,
As in a breeze,
And though she’s dreaming
Of all the seas.
Her windswept hair,
Of lighter gray,
Still flows as youthful
In her midday
As it did
When she was young,
Full of spirit,
Freshly sprung.
But now, she glides,
Above it all,
Beyond the raging
Wild call.
And flows her mind,
In wisdom’s loops;
Freed from, now,
Confusion’s hoops:
Self-finding done,
And in the past;
She goes on now,
Free, at last.
~Amarine Rose Ravenwood
A slower kindle,
A softer ember;
Old youthful fire,
Now just a cinder.
Mellowed like wine,
Or a half-faded rose,
A calmer waltz,
That ebbs and flows.
Less moved to passion,
But when so, deeper;
My love overflows –
For my grandchild’s keeper.
What used to matter
Matters less;
I take more time…
More time to bless.
I look for joy,
Less frivolously;
I’ve found what’s true,
More thoroughly.
My wisdom blooms;
I try to share…
But most of all,
To show my care.
Above all things,
I’ve found a love;
And where I breathe,
I breathe thereof.
A softer gait;
A slower pace,
But my full heart,
It can embrace
The ones I love,
More deeply now,
And richer still,
And this I vow:
You are my joy,
Our chain of life:
And I live now,
Much less in strife.
So let me hold
You in my heart,
My dearest child,
And never part.
~Amarine Rose Ravenwood
How do we decide:
When is a shoe old?
When it’s worn in,
and nicely soft-soled?
Or is it when it’s
tattered and threadbare?
When its color
matches your head hair?
When is the time
of your shoes’ middle age?
When they’re broke-in
and your feet they assuage?
They still look nice,
and comfy, and fit…
They might be your favorites,
they’re loved, quite a bit.
Well, this, too, is life;
we are much like our shoes:
We’re not old ‘till frail,
battered, and bruised,
By the very air ‘round us;
air we enjoy;
When we’re far too mature
and refined to be coy.
Middle age is a cross
between comfort and fear;
A time when we long
to hold close what’s held dear.
And we look to the future,
and we feel some worry,
Our hearts are still big;
our sight’s not quite blurry.
We’ve gained qualities
of wisdom and hindsight;
We still look young,
but we’ve gained Grandma’s insight.
It’s a hard age to be,
but it’s also perfect:
In between young and old;
a time to reflect.
We’re far from worn out;
we’ve still got much wear left;
And we know what joy is,
and we know what is bereft.
We keep looking forward,
while we also look back,
And we seek our own place,
and we’ve learned our own knack.
Don’t forget where you are:
you’re not olden yet,
Those shoes still have
some good tread, I’ll bet.
And while the sun
glistens and shines,
You still have sparkle,
in all kinds of times.
~Amarine Rose Ravenwood
