Thou has touched the Shaking

Heart, thou hast felt the touch of my hand in the murk of mind's meandering,
Deep in night ink, when all was still, and even birds dare not mock feelings extreme;
Nay, dare they not, when fire within the mind's eye dared Death to further Dreaming in my cause;
And Life joined the melee, singing a Stranger Sprightly Song of Shaking, wondering at the crew
Assembled there.
Yay! In keeping thee thus, have I called upon any, and all,
Wherein, my Soul,
Bereft as it Was, Before thy Browed and Beaten Visage,
(only thus, from care, though woe has etched its verisimilitude, seeking equal)
appeared Quieted, and downcast.
See! The whirling fire within Thee, matched,
As when Solomon, gazing softly, did wonder at Earth
Filled with Spirit and Grace, and Flame,
Known only, in that silent Moment,
As Defiance, and Essence, and Now.

Posthumously Rejected

Come morning, sweet and late;
Come as gentle fingers in the quavering, watery light,
Nursing ruinous paths etched by agony's Tears, across cheek caves
Deep in the rock recesses of Death Victorious;
Oh! Cover with skin and bone, fierce and fire, the very breath that, ragged as a dying man,
Even now breathes victorious,
Having won its lifes's retreat,
Comforted.

STORM CLEANUP TIME...music to cheer you along...xo

GREETINGS everyone!

For those affected by Hurrican Sandy, thoughts and prayers come your way, in hopes that life returns to normal for you very soon....I have gone home from work every night this week worried about all the people affected by the conditions created by this terrible storm, and hope that the warmth, generators humming, and some truly wonderful staff help to make this temporary state of being a little more comfortable, for those of you we were able to help accomodate, or assist in procuring shelter, access, or travel information which made life better, somehow.

This is a busy weekend for me, too, as I attempt to clean up from the storm here; the winds took out two huge branches on my beloved willow, and made one heck of a mess of the yard, so I am out in the cold and wet, like many, rushing to get things tidy and "floodless" before the cold weather sets in. There were snowflakes in the early hours of post midnight, and "frost on the pumpkin", so I don't think I have a lot of time in my area, until the first real snow flies!!!

After working all day on it, today, I put a pretty major dent in the task. Smile. My hot cup of tea never tasted quite so good! It's amazing how little things like that keep you determined to accomplish what you set out to do, isn't it?....

I hope you have shelter, warmth, food, and love near you, and if you are not where you want to be, or things are not happening quite as quickly as you had hoped, remember there are many hearts - and hands - doing their best at helping and hoping that life will return to normal soon....

Meanwhile, my prayers go out to the Obama team in the USA, to "keep on keepin' on", with this, and other huge challenges they have faced, with the stoic hope and fierce determination of a people who will not go back to "things as usual", and who will not forget the man who rescued an industry - despite the greed he had to face, in doing so.....among other achievements which his opponents - while padding their pockets in case the "boost" did not take fruit - want you to forget very quickly! Don't be fooled!

Here is some "music for cleanup". Hope you enjoy this little autumn surprise! Take heart...

GOD BLESS and TAKE CARE....more "written thoughts" shortly!

Keep the Caring in your heart.....

                                                        Dawn M. Nevills

Some songs for you - Click, wait for song to download, listen, and enjoy! (and feel free to sing along!)

(Join, too, if you can...even for a little while...it's great therapy, to sing your troubles away! Smile....xo.)

http://www.thekaraokechannel.com/online/karaoke/community/Dawn-M.-Nevills/Smokey-Robinson/Cruisin%27/r_751665#rid=751665

http://www.thekaraokechannel.com/online/karaoke/community/Dawn-M.-Nevills/Roberta-Flack/The-First-Time-Ever-I-Saw-Your-Face/r_623540#rid=623540

http://www.thekaraokechannel.com/online/karaoke/community/Dawn-M.-Nevills/Ray-Price/For-The-Good-Times/r_777827#rid=777827

http://www.thekaraokechannel.com/online/karaoke/community/Dawn-M.-Nevills/Chicago/Baby-What-A-Big-Surprise/r_777777#rid=777777

http://www.thekaraokechannel.com/online/karaoke/community/Dawn-M.-Nevills/Minnie-Ripperton/Lovin%27-You/r_751740#rid=751740

The Elf Adventures by Dawn M. Nevills

The woman walked her dog slowly past the twinkling garden lights in the fading light. The dog looked up at her, quizzically: it was a very intelligent canine, and quirked his ears at her, as she whispered "psst", and then shot him a glance, at which he sat down, immediately, waiting.

"The elves are home", she said, quietly to him. He quirked his head to one side, his ears twitching.

"They're making Christmas gifts already!", she said, explaining, and then sighed. "Always so organized....and me just trying to be in time for Hallowe'en in ten days!" She smiled at the little dog, patting him on the head.

"And what do you think about that, Max, my funny little guard dog?"

The dog jumped up, prancing in front of her, affectionately licking her hand. Then he dragged her, pulling at the leash, towards the lit side of the kitchen, where he knew she had already placed his kibble, as a reward for a smart poop and a little jog in the yard. Elfwise....and towards dinner, where the twinkling lights inside  looked mysteriously just a little like the little elf ones scattered about the yard, like street lights for mini dwellings in a forest.....they blinked just a little brighter, as she laughed softly in the darkness.....like twinkling stars, which, looking up, someone might have noticed, almost seemed to answer......!

----------------------------------------------------------------

 

THANKSGIVING

For sunshine bright and glowing moon,
For laughter's rich and merry trills,
For quiet thought and gentle smile,
For harried day of challenged thrills;
For hugs, and hams, and apple's juice,
For narrowed eyes, and lovers' truce,
For each new day the bird's song brings.....
We give Thee thanks, for Everything.

xo.

PUNKIN' 'TUDE - Ward away frowns...make smiles!...ON SALE NOW..http://www.reverbnation.com/store/store/artist_1316932?item_type=merchandise

Dawn M. Nevills - ReverbNation#!/artist/control_room/1316932?tab=store&subnav=store_buyproducts

Dawn M. Nevills - ReverbNation#!/artist/control_room/1316932?tab=store&subnav=store_buyproducts

A collection of Shakespeare's Sonnets....great for thespians, poets...or those who, like me, believe
Shakespeare only comes alive when the words do, too!

Just released to retailers....pick one up for the Stratford Festival lover in your family!

(Just don't be surprised if you see a few doing a slow sashay in the lobby...wink.)

The Dawn M. Nevills Store

The Dawn M. Nevills Store

Intermezzo Dewings - A Sonata in Spring.

Oh, the steady pulse of spring, within the bright blessed orchestration of Season's Sound!
Birds, that chirp and warble, wakeful with the gleaming dew;
Bees and cicadas, measured drone and drill to warn and sound the methodical beating of each noted Pause;
Drawing deep from each, its pleasant sap and savour;
Rustle and round, the mild, playful whir of an errant, circling wind, flitting and flowing amongst the petals,
So that even the rollicking roll of a burgeoning, fuzzled caterpillar, is stilled by a waving, watchful Twig.

Oh, Tree and Twitter, hum and hasten....altogether! Drawing back its probing, curious Finger bod,
The Snail sighs, and waits, its glistening trail of wet and wonder, strange paving for a drying breeze, and,
Frond-like, the hula grass whispers and opens for its starring
Butterflies.    

Warning: Authorship is not, by definition, autobiographical

It always astounds me that every spark of creativity is assumed to be drawn from the depths of autobiographical despair and angst.

I daresay that if it were, indeed, so, there would be very little creativity in the world. Indeed, having no license - or daring - for either character development beyond personal understanding or known lifestyle, the resulting prose would be the dull, flat stuff of weedy paperback novels, stolen from the same plot line as yet another pair of heaving somethings, cast aside amidst the throes of ....well.....something seedy. 

And yet, mixed amidst the dire dreams of monotony, and tucked into the confines of a still beating heart, there live the quiet meanderings of the creative mind: ever the stuff of possibility, which, quenched by the better part of both valour and common sense, bid adieu to the sad, stale realities of the workaday, and, casting caution aside, ........live.

This is not autobiographical. This is beyond largesse, laundress, and finesse, and hovers somewhere in the nether shadow betwixt all good Reason, and the things we we were told would only result in us being......well........

not ourselves. Interesting, that.  

Quietude, Finitude and the War of the Roses

His eyes were fixed on her face.

Her hands instinctively flew up to her cheeks, hiding the lines that time and pain had etched there. He stepped towards her, gently grasping her hands in his, and raised them to touch both hands, fingertips all, to his lips. His voice was low, and quiet.

"You have life, and the passage of time, in your eyes, to mix with the fire there". He pressed one of her hands to his chest, and raised the other to his cheek, laying it gently there, like a bandage. She stroked his face gently, spreading the fusings of time and agony away, like a brushstroke on canvas.

"Ah, Mishka mine." Her laugh hovered in her throat, like a piece of toffee, savoured and tasted, like the fire of a sip of brandy, on a freezing winter night - just enough tremble and sizzle to make him breathe in, tingling, and exhale....and, in doing so, recognize the thrill of being alive.   

She bent her head, and pressed her lips to his cheek, and then drew back, smiling at him.

"I can feel the air, coursing through here". She touched his throat, gently, with her index finger, where the pulse was beating like a slow, methodical drum.

Then she threw back her head, and laughed, the wildness not yet extingished, despite the years.

He smiled, stroking the cap of hair, which made her look like some strange elf, or a wild Inuit woman, loping along in the gathering gloom, devoid of pelts. He rather liked her without the tresses...or with them; it just made her fiercer, somehow. The Roma in her made him twinge....and trod gently. He knew that glint.
"Can you imagine?", she murmured, leaning in against his lips, speaking against them, with hers, while conspiratorially, rubbing his nose with hers, and murmuring....."that some poor chit told someone else that I was a LESBIAN?'' The sudden, spontaneous grin split his face in two, with her glinting hazel orbs two inches from his face....he couldn't help it: he burst out laughing. It rumbled in his chest, comfortably.

Then he swung her around, roaring, until they both tumbled into the sand, and lay there, laughing; too old to care; and too young to stop from clinging to each other.  The urgency, after this time, was touching.

He pressed her face against his neck, and spoke to the top of her head.

"Clearly a manic woman, Contessa Fireball....or maybe just jealous, I think." He said the last somewhat softly, and kissed the top of her head. "Are you still mad at me for leaving?" They were locked in an embrace somewhat startling to him, if only for its fierceness.

"Everyone leaves me", she said, quietly."Except the ones who cling to me until I can't move, or breathe...." she sighed, moving her head back , to look him full in the face, softly, and smiled at him. He held his arms in the air, exaggeratedly, wide-eyed, and she gave him a soft punch in the arm.

 "Life gave me a moment of fire so sweet that it burned itself into my life, and my heart, forever....." She spoke the words with a nostalgic reverence, savouring them, quietly.   

She continued. "Some might call me old, my darling, and I never was any kind of testament to physical perfection or beauty, but the lines are a different, wild testament -  to fierceness, and feeling. Did you expect anything else from me, at the last, then?"

Her voice was soft, but her eyes were green flecks of steel, nestled amongst the grey. This was a woman who had made it her business to drag men bigger than him back into wanting to live. Beneath every other conflicting emotion coursing through him, there was immediately, there, along with what had been present the day he met her: unspoken, implicit respect. 
He ran his finger along her lips, and kissed them. They were soft, and firm, and gentle rock, just as he remembered.

Age had made her interesting, concerned, compassionate, fierce, and complicated: gone was the girl. The  wild rock woman in her place pressed her fingers into the side of his head, laid her cheek along the side of his face, and said,

"Time has flown away, along with all of the things I might have asked you, as far as what you might have expected of yourself,  my Soul. There is only today."

They lay back, wild and calm, peering at the stars peeking out into the blanket of ink sky, and as she cradled her head against his neck, the green flash of sunset burst out for a moment, lighting their face in glint and shadow - and the promise of a new day. He felt a calmness he had not felt for twenty years, surging through him, like an elixir.

He bent against her, breathing in Time with the rise and fall of her breasts, which he laid his face upon,  gently, as, staring into the sky, he was suddenly awestruck at the diamonds which had suddenly shown themselves, whirling and still, in the pale, glowing sky. 

Towards Expression, Impression, and Growth!

The artistic impulse is instinctively towards healing and creation, through expression of some sort. If you look at a DaVinci, or modern visual art, or think about music or sculpture, the idea of "being touched, moved, and inspired, somehow" - the "pointer finger connecting to pointer finger" as one little girl said, perfectly - is its Essence.

Search for Air - A Discussion of Process

He was slightly bent over, one hand on his hip, breathing in and out laboriously. Spittle was hanging from the end of his nose. He turned his head rapidly, sideways, to peer up at her, through one open eye, pirate-like. The other one was squinted shut. A glob of the nose spittle flew up and hit her in the eye. She smiled, unfazed, like a surgeon.

"What was THAT?" he whispered, weakly.

"Eight solid hours of induced laugh therapy", she intoned. She wiped the nose spittle glob out of her eye with her shirt, sighing with satisfaction. "I learned it from a slightly odd Indian man who most people thought was just psychotic. He turned out to be a genius, therapy-wise, despite being alone a lot." She smiled at him again, watching him anxiously, like a bug.

"I may have overdone it a bit, but I didn't want you to think I had been neglecting you. I just get very focused." He was coughing, and gripping his side.

"Is it supposed to result in this much sharp, stabbing pain?" he answered between coughs.

There was a little spittle lodged in the corner of his mouth, foam-like, which he couldn't quite manage to wrap his tongue around. The tongue itself was hanging out of his mouth, dog-like, fighting for cooling air, like a lizard - and, really, to shepherd more of the air stuff into his lungs. The resulting intake of breath was interspersed with a strange moaning sound. He was terrified he'd have to urinate next, and destroy the whole carefully orchestrated process of bodily functions he was still, at the moment, mastering. He could only imagine what he might have looked like, to someone passing by....

"Stop, oh stop", he gasped.

"Are you sure?" she said. "We want to try and push this to your burn limit, if we can. The effects last longer." She was squinting, as if she had a tic, where the spittle had flown into her eye, as the cool air hit the wet surface. A mad image of Groucho Marx flew into and out of his head, briefly, standing there. He felt lightheaded.

He was staring at her face, helplessly, gagging at the tic. He thought he might die at any moment.

"Can't you just stop all movement briefly?", he moaned, finally. The tears had slipped out of  his left eye, and were pouring down his face. The body was showing its rebellion against stroke.

"Liquid release!" she blurted out. "Usually it's the other end! You're really worked on the control focus exercise, haven't you? Good for you!!!!" She was relentless. He thought she might end with "my little elf man", or something equally impossible. He was allowing himself the moan sound mixed with air, generously.

"Ahhhhhaaaahhhhhh errrr mroooow, " he said. He crossed his legs, still bent over, and fell over, at last.

"I'll be right back", she said. "The phone's ringing....."She trotted off, like a pole vaulter. He noted, absently, that although the rest of her body moved - including her breasts, which jiggled slightly above the underwire bra beneath her shirt - her head, like a bobbling dashboard doll, remained unflinching, like a strange orb eye, or a rock, with hair on it. The sound of his moans bounced off it, echoing slightly in the afternoon sunshine, as she retreated.

He lay there, silent in his sudden private moment, looking at the dark stain on his trousers, and sighed. He was her slave, he knew, happily.  He felt wonderful, despite the nasty smell. He barked out loud, suddenly, for no apparent reason that he could understand, feeling free at last. Martin Luther King Jr., he knew, would have understood. He looked upwards, slowly: the dark cloud had lifted.  

Never again would he refer to himself as Schleprock. She had won.

  

Happy Mother's Day, 2012

Sunday May 13, 2012

One of my fondest memories was of my mother and I going on a hike together, one Good Friday, down
Red Hill Creek Valley.

When we found our destination, and after looking at various small animals, including birds, squirrels, and the occasional rabbit or two, the best lunch ever got cooked over an open fire: wieners and beans.

The smell of the open can of beans, roasting over our little fire, while we roasted wienies and then mixed them in the beans, was out of this world, and seemed a rare feast to a little girl with a smudged nose, and a canvas cap. All I knew was that I had the coolest mom, ever.....still do, in fact: an adventurous spirit still wending her way, with my dear Dad at her side, through the highs and lows of life. My life has been blessed, as a result.

For everyone lucky enough to have a mother in their lives - or a woman dear to them, who tried to fill in for her, as best they could - here's to remembering, celebrating, and letting them know how grateful you are for those moments.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom! I love you! 

Intelligent Design

Each image is pressed upon my brain, like Darwin's silhouetted imprint:
Curve of jutting bone; high flush of cheek - and warm beneath my trembling fingers,
Pulse beating frantically, quietly, defiantly in a surge of
Tintern Abbey's all-encompassing Dance:
Ages and Sages tell of these etchings, eked out upon our lifelines,
But not
The glint in two other worlds,
As they stare into Sudden Speechless Mindlessness
Developing into Happenstance and Hinterland, in an instant of
Flame and Reason.

Freezing Spray and Lemon Torte

The whoosh of wind had whipped the waves into neat froths, like a meringue torte amidst an ice of freezing gelati. She turned her collar up, shrugging her shoulders against the buffeting, as the spray and freezing mist bit into her face, and stung her ears.

She was not sure what made her look up at that instant. Until then she had been sauntering along the beach, unrestrained and unknown, really, aside from the haunting of the gulls, and the slight awkwardness to her gait, as the boots cut into the sand, making her "walk wobble plonk", in little indents, as she plodded along.

She did, now, though, stopping dead in her tracks.

He was standing about twenty feet away, hands jammed deep into his jacket, a wild flush high on his cheeks; the hair flopped about his head in an impossible shock of newly clipped and failed decorum. 

"You're late", he growled at her, from somewhere very strange, deep within his chest cavity.

"I can't possibly be late; we haven't actually met yet", she shot back, setting her lips, and narrowing her eyes at him. She cocked her head to one side, giving him her twinkly cheeky look. When in doubt, go for the injured supervisor look. Supervisor of someone else, obviously, she thought resolutely. 

"Besides; you're much too nasty." She stood there, trying to decide if she might have to drop kick him.

"You look like a mad elf", he said, relenting. She looked like a human cactus. He was suddenly unsure of himself for the first time in his life. This was definitely NOT the reaction he had expected.  

"I am a mad elf", she said, simply. "It was very rude to sub in a dwarf, you know." He coughed, trying not to laugh. "Look at you!" she trilled, sarcastically. She didn't hold out her arms.

"Come here,' he said, quietly, with exasperation.

"I'm not a dog", she said, sticking out her chin and glaring at him. And then, "You're quite cheeky for such a large, slightly bossy man. It's not very attractive".

He could see she had absolutely no fear of him at all, and blew out his breath, exasperatedly.

"Especially since I made a point of shocking you back to yourself, after you were done acting like a total asshole."

She jammed her hands into her jacket pockets, her cropped head
poking out of her turtleneck and canvas coat with a windswept defiance. "Mr. Snarky."

He did laugh, then, standing there, twenty feet away from her, feet planted in the sand, on a freezing Saturday afternoon of a New England beach - facing off against each other, really, both of them with their hands jammed into their pockets, like two very strange Marines.

"We're quite far away from each other, still", she blurted out, unnecessarily. "It's slightly awkward."

He was coughing, and trying to breathe. He wiped his eyes with one of his hands, and jammed it back into his pocket. "Shit", he said, hating his own guts and then feeling ridiculous, since he really wasn't, he decided objectively, an asshole at all. 

"Also" she continued, "then you CALLED me, like a DOG. You're a rather odd man, aren't you, as far as first meetings go.....?" He was quite perplexed as to what to say next. "In this part of the planet human beings do not salivate and come running up to be led about with a leash. Got it?" 

"Not until now", he blurted out, exasperated with his own reply. His face went beet red.

"I have that effect sometimes; sorry", she said, cocking her head to the other side, and staring at him, relenting slightly. "I took assertiveness training. You look cold."

"I hadn't really planned on a walk on a freezing beach, pre-tornado", he said, drily.

"It's rather nice, isn't it?', she sighed, cheerily. "Invigorating." Her hair was stuck to her head, like a sort of flat brillo pad of wet growth. "I think my hair is stuck to my head", she said, describing what he was looking at, matter-of-factly.

 
"I was thinking it needed a towel," he said, quietly. He closed his eyes, sucking in his breath forlornly, realizing the continued, unfortunate, dog reference. 

She sighed. He walked towards her, slowly.

"You're shorter than I thought", he said, stopping two feet away. She looked up at him, hands still jammed into her pockets. She could probably take him out at the knees without too much trouble.

"You look very aggravated. Are you annoyed with me?" She said the last part very softly. She hadn't moved an inch. It was worrying, he decided, that she sounded so hopeful.

"No", he said. "Yes", he said. He put his hands around her face, stepping towards her, and moved his hand around her back, pulling her gently against him, as her hands came out of her pockets, and up and around his neck.

"You have to decide which one", she said, against his mouth, finally, and staring into his face, sternly.

He kissed her then.