The Bottle


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,
at the bottom of a bottle
That waited for
The violent gust
To shatter it.


~Amarine Rose Ravenwood

Public domain photo courtesy of

A Sunny Moment

Late morning sunlight nourishes the trees across the tracks, near a lot bordered by a weathered, wooden, bird bespattered fence. The sky carries but a single wisp of vapor in an otherwise pale blue expanse of infinity. The hum of a plane can be heard, its source a small, white, delicate looking plane; tiny, single-manned, circling in the clear atmosphere.

A train with cars full of coal arrives and passes by, two engines in front, a hundred and twenty four identical cars, fully loaded, followed by two more engines at the end. It must be a mile long, it seems. A baby’s babbles sprinkle the air with its light, happy noises as its parents push a stroller, then carry it across the tracks after the train is gone.

The drone of the plane overhead is overlapped by another, deeper drone. The distant sound of someone hammering echoes across a deep split in the landscape, through which the train tracks run. Far off sounds of traffic are distant and noninvasive. Closer to is the sound of birds in those sun-fed trees, the hum of a few bees, the swishing rustle of the tall grasses as their long fronds rub against one another. A small broken branch dangles and flutters in the breeze from a dead and leafless bush or stunted tree. The sound of another plane completely overshadows the other planes, as it flies directly overhead, and looking down into the ravine, a tumbleweed – the first of the season – rolls down the now very empty tracks.