Lady Guinevere's Tales - My Poetry Blog

Poetry, musings and meanderings of my time...what has created me and my world. This is a chest of precious things...silks, satin, velvet in rich, deep colors...there are jewels tucked away...sorrows and pain...travels and boundless joy. Wearing thin, it is time to bring them out and share. "You know my face, my laugh, my smile, my scowl and my anger, but you have not known me...until now." All writings and artwork are my own and copyrighted unless noted.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Eternal and Infinite

Eternal and Infinite

you have haunted me

from childhood

guardian

beautiful lover

fire and lightning

blaze from your fingertips

surrounding my soul

in a feather's touch

you are my longings

that transcended dreams

vibrating

with the movement

of waves in moonlight

intoxicating

hypnotic pull

draws me

over endlessly

headlong

into his sea

your creation

eternal and infinite seduction

are promises

you hold within your eyes

it lingers

honeyed

on your lips

impossibly soft

waiting for the

right

moment

to steal my resolve

my body

my past disappointments

opening my mouth

I breathe you in

great gulping breaths

becoming part of your sea

both of us

as one in the waves

Lost Lake

Lost Lake

scattered out

bits blowing under dry oak debris

the dogs

lick their bones

back to life

sinew stretching

in plumps to rip corruption

in the shallows

deep down white fingers

grasp

disjointed movement

suddenly scorched by

sunlight piercing secret holes

the hidden dead withdraw

to their raven pools

skirted by slime and brambles

searching

cloth and leather

tearing into living flesh

to raise scarlet ribbons

the sand is alive

liquid

sucking

at legs and arms

craving the caress... carrion

never alone

buzzing clamor

greedily fattening

their pearlescent bulk

in his city of maggots

no merry Jack is he

for children's stories

keeper of secrets

guardian of lost lake

Girl with the Smile

Balloon Over Baghdad

Dancing on a Pin

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Empty Room

Tortured Soul and the All Seeing Eye

Empty Room

sounding casual

he simply stated that

he missed her

after only a few hours

coaxing her

just

little

while

longer

kissed her

held her

whisked her away

to the room with it's music

reason had little

to do with this

frenzy

picking up the phone

his voice

so low and

dusky mellow

tempting her

to break

running

forgetting reason

convention

the promises se made herself

throwing open the possibilities

the door eases

closed

to an

empty room

Anesthesia

Anesthesia

an ampule of water
clear
crystal
green canisters
and red filled vials
colored fluids
staining yellow
under eyes pressed
so tight
it flares out
into raw nerves
pulsing
through fibers
bloody endings

hold still

silent

unbreathing

mock sliver

unstable

sensations

blending bitter tastes

whirling and snaking smoke

pushing it

down

into a crevasse

nonexistent

only moments

before

Voice

Sphinx at the Egyptian Mausoleum - Fresno, CA
Copyright 2001 - Louise Ann Stowell

Voice
the times I speak loudest
are when I am most silent
tumble twist
the silver strands from my heart
spin
so fine
the eye can not see
but the soul
perceives clearly

Friday, January 25, 2013

Fear - Can You Be Afraid of a Character in Your Writing?

Calvary Gates - Fresno, CA
copyright 2008 - Louise Ann Stowell

Can you be afraid of a topic...more importantly a character in a story you are writing?

I had checked out a fantastic book from the library last week called The Winter Ghosts by Kate Mosse. I love her other books...Labyrinth and Sepulcher. The weather is changing from snow to rain and I was feeling the need for a little moody reading.

There was a paragraph in her book that described almost exactly and incident that happened to me many years ago when I was living in Fresno at the Calvary Cemetery. It was, I guess, a ghost story. I am not completely sure what "it" was nor why the incident happened. The only thing that comes to mind is that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Other than that I have no idea why the incident occurred.

However, upon reading Kate Mosse's description of "silence," I thought, "Wow! I need to write that story down. Fictionalize it. This would be a great story!"

And so I began to do so. I soon found that I was having difficulty in getting the beginning down. As I progressed, I realized that I was writing like it was one of the old reports I used to generate at the engineering firm. It had descriptions and details, but not nearly enough emotion. I was writing it clinically. That bothered me. Bothered me enough to roll around in my brain while I slept and awaken me at 3 in the morning last Wednesday. Waking Terry on my getting up, I wound up discussing it with him.

What he said was interesting. He suggested that it could be that I was afraid. Silly, right? Not really. As we talked more about it, he said that perhaps there was a part of me that was more frightened than I consciously admit. That maybe I was afraid I would conjure this thing up...get it's attention just from the telling of it. Enlightenment! (He is so good for me! How he pus up with me, I don't know!)

So today I am about to sit down and re-write the story. I am going to allow myself to let my imagination go and get it out on paper. My thinking is that I need to exorcise it. This may be achieved by writing about it. Let's see what happens!

Friday, January 18, 2013

Research and Writing - San Francisco Style

I have been spending the last few days researching for a story I am writing. The story line was created a little over ten years ago. Suddenly in the past week, I have had more and more information and ideas come to me for this story than I almost know what to do with.

Looking through at lot of pages from the Outside Neighborhood Project, SF Genealogy, the Ocean Beach Bulletin and the California Digital Newspaper Collection I have found a wealth of information on subjects that have stumped me for years. Many of these places were still in existence when I was a child or still are around...at least building wise. Many have been torn down over the years, caught fire or just vanished in the 1906 earthquake and subsequent fire. The history I have found has been fascinating! The articles from the years of 1895-1896 in the San Francisco Call Newspaper Archive have more than charged my imagination, they have been extremely valuable in giving me a more in depth view of life during that period of time. One article was humorous in the fact it was written as a complaint to the newspaper from a gentlewoman of the period complaining that the papers gossip had besmirched her good name by printing an article talking about her assignation with a gentleman at the Cliff House in a private dining room. She claimed not to have known of the Cliff House's sordid history. Women didn't go out with "strange" men unescorted in those days...and especially not to the first Cliff House. It was known to be quite a rowdy place before Adolph Sutro purchased it, being a saloon, diner, gambling hall and supposedly rumored to also have some prostitution going on at times.

If you ever get bored and wish to look through some interesting sites, I suggest you try one of these above and check it out.

For the record, her is a photo from 2002 of myself drinking a Gin Fizz in the corner booth overlooking Ocean Beach in the Redwood Room of Cliff House prior to it's new (and ugly unhistoric) reincarnation.
To the ghosts and memories of the Old Cliff House...Cheers!

And again that same day by the old lookout at the Cliff House by the Camera Obscura.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

And That's Reality

And That's Reality

mutant fly

hopping

falling

wingless freak

what became of your wings?

flutter and kick

in a certain death dance

your moments (not days)

are numbered

enjoy your time in the sun

the shadows will come

and with it

the others

who wait for fly bait

Feast of All Souls

He's Got Buttons On His Eyes
Copyright 2007 - Louise Ann Stowell - Al Rights Reserved

Feast of All Souls

slip the mask

over

your face

caressing the curl of lips

left

unkissed

touchable

only

through glitter plastic

shield in place

with eyes that have never

looked

naked

a sinless simulation

artfully crafted by a thousand nights

of indelicate deceits

variation justified

by cold corpses surpassing fiction

in their dumpster decadence

draping bloodless

bloated limbs

fingers point

nothing in particular

but inanimate eyes

charge

you

as your spotless boots

pick through the refuse

discreetly

you blend

into the absolute onyx

of the night

Mine

Ghosts of Beauties Past
Copyright 2000 - Louise Ann Stowell - All Rights Reserved

Mine
writing to angels
light
circles on the ceiling
pulse
beat
slow moving
alone but yet alive
bass lines faint from far aways
blanket heart beats
throbs silence in the music
stealing a place
peace
for me
simply because
I
wanted it
a created space
to ride Pegasus naked
and come back to earth
when
I
choose
Copyright 1991 - Louise Ann Stowell - All Rights Reserved

The Beach

Laughing Sal #2 - Musee Mechanique
Copyright 2002 - Louise Ann Stowell - All Rights Reserved

The Beach

Serenaded by the billowing laughter

of the fat lady

fish and chips fry in the Playland Cafe

Soft serve swirls into the cone

as your memories

wonder back

Yum Yum sticky and

still frozen on a morning of 1968

Monday, January 14, 2013

Alchemy

Alchemy

Conversational elements

the wind and fire

pour emotions

from an ethereal cup

on parched earth

where nothing grew in this garden

for so many years

Astral

Astral

Calling me back across the green

lantern in hand

I am dreaming

spinning out

drifting silently past

the lion's gate and through French doors

you

conjured me up

out of

nowhere

nothing

ahhh... the dragon's breath reaching out

brushing your face

strands of of silver glint

in firelight glitter

Thunder rages

playing out the dreams on the night

mists and memories

flow by

through me

as a ghost

I am a whisper

an embrace

from heaven sent through the rain

Typhoon

Typhoon

time drifts too quickly

for making pleas and prayers

peace of mind comes seldom in these raging seas

sail to me though it be days!

pursue the long voyage

ever mindful of that awaiting port

once more

sighting sanctuary in the current shift

as the vessel inches closer

in the raging seas within me

Olivet

Olivet

beautiful

solitude

dark dead leaves on the wet grass

patchouli pungent

fragrance this little spot of earth

heaven is marred by

moldering flowers

crumbling

running sticky

faded confetti fragments

to the moss vibrantly green

hugging the carved surfaces

highlighting the black letters on the stone's front

gray heaving fog

floats

carnival like through Colma's streets

filming the windows of the crematory

blowing through cypress trees

and driving their arms

down

to circle frozen

in their own danse macabre

watched only by the angel

head bent

in silent grief

Thursday, January 10, 2013

After Thought - 20 July 1995 (12 June 1987)

After Thought - 20 July 1995 (12 June 1987)

the weeds have grown

paint peels

tiny black chips

flake

floating down to the gravel walk

gray in the heavy morning mist

graying like the strands of our hair

surrender

we have let go

given up

and it is sad

and it is still wrong

Maples in Waiting
copyright 2013 - Louise Ann Stowell

12 June 1987

12 June 1987

it is wrong

wanting and denying the passion play

being a player and refusing to dance

dancing the dream and forgetting the music

singing our songs and remaining dumb

all for the pride of a moment

the look of fear in our eyes

it is wrong

waiting for the traveler to come

knowing it is I that is travelling

knowing it is you that is waiting

and waiting for you to knock on my door

instead you walk into your room and the sun

and the green light of the leaves on ancient oaks wet with rain

all the passion of eternity

the power of the gods in our lives

we wait

I wait

you wait

and it is wrong

The Tragedy Lingers

The Tragedy Lingers

avoidance

exiled

there is nothing that can be done

movement in

c a r e f u l measures

dancing around the abyss

until my heart

is raw

so close to the edge

that falling is no longer a question

grace has turned to brittle shards

an ancient sorrow

consumes the players still

driving us on

and away

from the truth that lays as an ocean between

Street Dancing

Street Dancing

finally

living in my heart

the wild one that it is

"I am eccentric!," I cried

whirling my skirts down Peascod Street

An angel in full flight

barely

touching the cobbles on the castle grounds

"Alive!"

Oh, Windsor, alive!

Holding my head up

smiling at the sky

and the swan who has taken my spirit on her wings

I Remember (Just a Little)

Lodgepole Park
Copyright 2013 Louise Ann Stowell - All Rights Reserved

I Remember (Just a Little)

come through the rain

mist and memories

dreams play on in the night

it has been a kiss

an embrace from heaven

sweet perfume

as it floats by me

through me

calling

dreaming out

drifting

drinking in the darkness

to stop the momentum

and grab your hand

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Armoire

Opening the door

a sign escaped

deep billowing breeze

rushing through an empty corridor of time

hot

rushing

anticipations

held the clothes on their hangers

dark sorrows

from a sudden funeral

languid summer

lusty cut in violent shades
shimmer floating back

casually the flannel rests

folded on the shelf

waiting to drape the curves
of my winter waist and hip
all this late in a night
of searching for some unnameable thing
while sipping hot rum and reading Dickens
I have become
a wearable scrapbook
of lovers
leisure
and loss

Copright 1995 Louise Ann Stowell - All Rights Reserved

This is my Chronicle

I started this blog as a way of releasing many years of stuff built up inside of me...

Writers block (or constipation, as I call it) is hell. Dare we write something that will be thought of scandalous ...or worse hurt someone's feelings?! I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but I need to purge. I need to throw up the words and push them about on paper until they fit.

Writers, poets, and artists struggle with this and other insecurities all the time. Dare we share our secret places? It makes us vulnerable and shows our soft underbelly that is so unprotected regardless of what we do. Shore it up, putting on the Kevlar vest and we hide behind a wall of self imposed jadedness that eventually traps us rendering us impotent.

Poetry has been a passion of mine since I was about 9. Often it has been a way of saving my sanity by allowing me to travel into, as Robert Graves put it:

" I never dared question my muse about the government of her queendom or its geography."

It is a place I have gone to frequently in times of pain, sorrow, reflection. It is my safe haven... half reality, half fantasy...although I am rather unsure about the fantasy part.

In this life which we live, what is truly real and what is illusion?

It has been said that our lives are what we make of them. Well then, I guess that rather settles it.

I am retreating into my life and world as I have made it and continue to create.

Seabird

Pure essence and emotion

portrayed in dances of the secret heart

rolling waves

and she

flies

to the music

gently

lifting to soar up in the storm

and just as suddenly

cascading down

outstretched

pulling away from the approaching crags

with precision timing

to settle

lightly

on the shifting sand

Guinevere

Forced exile

becoming beloved silence

the Lady waits

painfully weaving

the moments into memories

counting tears as drops of rain

All things become a labor

of love

given freely

perhaps borne in penance

for sins past

past

and all future

elusive dreams

Tissue Waves - The Howling

Passion swirls

in whipping fabric

silks blowing in the wind

spinning

softly

draping

to the sands of a familiar beach

Colors dazzle

against the dry, cool sand

tissue waves

rocking me out of my dreaming

billowing into nights

of longing

surrender

until the wolf calls

my throat swelling with the raw sound

and the stars kiss naked daybreak

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Fate

Fate

Of all the times

This was not the one I would have chosen

But Fate does not leave it to our predilections

Fate looks on and finds

the timing

off...

...the slip hanging TOO low on one side...

...tripping over the carpet

landing in your arms

to both

of our surprise

delight

confusion

Fate

looking on

laughed.

Zephyr

My Granny's Old House in San Francisco

Zephyr

A firm believer in passion

She stood

transfixed by sudden light

spilling from shutters

above

piercing the indigo of the cobbled street

below

piercing her heart

with a sudden humor from a sigh

overhead

overheard

on the evening wind

You Do Not

You Do Not

You

do not know

You suppose

guess

conjure

judge and

assume

but

you

do not Know

You have never asked me

about my deepest loves

my passions

the greatest tragedies of my life

You know

my face

my laugh

my smile

my scowl

my AnGeR

but

you

do not Know

Me.....

as I am in my moments

such as

Now

Me.....

when I muse

silently

quietly

pushing aside cobwebs

to peek at memories of the past

...what I have seen...known

Who am I

I have kept that to myself

and shared my secrets

with the dead

whose tongues are

silent.