Trust

Trust

~*~

A precious, fragile gift

To you, from me.

Unseen to the eye,

Yet ever present in the heart.

Handle with care.

If you break it,

Don’t come back for more.

~*~

My response to Kellie Elmore’s Free Write Friday challenge for this week.

trust4

Yes, I know it’s Sunday. 😉

Thanks for visiting …

Dorothy

~*~

©Dorothy Chiotti, Aimwell CreativeWorks 2014

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Winter’s Field

Winter's Field
“Winter’s Field” ~ taken with an iPhone 5

~*~

In Winter’s barren, snowy field I stand,

My tender heart gripped tightly in his icy hand.

His frosty breath across my naked soul doth blow,

Leaving in its numbing wake a frosted, ruddy glow.

*

I didn’t mean to stand in Winter’s field so bare.

When first I stood it blossomed green and lovely there.

But then, alas, the changing leaves did fall,

And that which I had first observed appeared to be nowhere at all.

*

So here I stand, in nature’s stone-cold lonely place,

The light of love gone briefly from my care-worn face.

Instead a dormant season now resides ~

Within my chilléd heart love’s smouldering fire hides.

*

Yet Winter’s frosted season too must end,

As Spring her warming greeting soon will send.

And so my frozen sojourn, too, will cease,

And once again love’s warmth in me increase.

~*~

Temperatures have plunged again. Minus 20C with windchill is not such a winter blessing.

Still, the frigid weather reminds me of this poem written years ago when my life was in a dark and chilly place.

How the years have changed me; what lessons they have taught. I am blessed to be able to look back on desperate times with an open mind and healed heart.

Winter cannot last forever. Just eight weeks until spring. 😉

Be well,

Dorothy

~*~

Note: This image was taken yesterday afternoon as temperatures were dropping. What caught my eye were the prismatic colours bouncing off the clouds. It was just that cold. Do you see them?

©Dorothy Chiotti, Aimwell CreativeWorks 2014

#FWF … The Heart is More Than Words

Connection

The heart is more than words as passions run

And spirits soar to lift above the cloud.

For one thing only moves beneath the sun

And trumpet calls my name so true and loud.

With joy my heart doth leap in sheer delight

As beauty bourn o’er all doth jump and play.

A dream; a dance; a marvel to my sight,

And to my soul it speaks in every way.

*

In form as mighty as in spirit dwells,

This catalyst for centuries of change

Pure power harnessed in such beauty spells

A bond that now most people find too strange.

Life would not be the same for me, of course,

If not for love profound of noble horse.

~*~

Poetry, beauty, romance, love.

O me! … Oh life without the spirit equine would be for me less than divine.

I will say I was a little disappointed that the horse was in no way represented in that Apple ad.

How soon we forget our partner, the horse. A noble animal who, for thousands of years, has graced the Earth with its beauty, majesty, spirit and romance. No other animal, not even the dog, has had so profound an affect on humankind’s evolution as we’ve leapt the boundaries of knowledge and change that have brought us to this point in our story.

The beauty and power of the horse have inspired hearts to art, music, writing, poetry, invention, exploration. The horse has engaged with us in battle; industry; recreation; sport.

Wherever man has left his footprint in the long ascent from barbarism to civilization we will find the hoof print of the horse beside it.~John Moore

In return all for which he asks is the regard of a kind heart, and to be fed, sheltered and loved.

Can you imagine a world … our lives … without the poetry, beauty, romance and love of the horse?

Perish the thought.

Thanks for visiting …

Dorothy

~*~

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?” — John Keating (Robin Williams) Dead Poets Society

1477384_696513200380722_443439577_nHerewith my response to this week’s free write prompt from Kellie Elmore. Written in sonnet form as this appears to be my preferred form of poetic expression at the moment.

©Dorothy Chiotti, Aimwell CreativeWorks 2014

Wit’s End

Weekly Writing Challenge: Cliffhanger!

~*~

This is an excerpt from a novel I started writing many years ago. It’s been parked in a file folder on my computer for a while and when this challenge came up I thought I’d take another look at this scene and give it a re-write … without the ending, of course. it’s virtually a new piece. It could still use some work, but if I don’t post it now I’ll miss the challenge deadline … and perhaps never post it.

Enjoy!

~*~

It’s the late afternoon of a mid-August day. A storm has broken inside of me I cannot quell. I am as a demon possessed, galloping my poor horse, Pandora, at breakneck speed up the country lane to our doom. Riding her too hard and too fast for the extraordinarily hot and humid conditions. Yet, I am unaware; irrational; lost to some evil spell.

When we reach Iron Will Hill I yank Pandora to a stop. The mare steps nervously as I raise a shaking hand and brush the sweat from my brow. It’s only then I am reminded of the throbbing ache in my sprained left ankle, an injury sustained much earlier in the day.

I shouldn’t be riding. Shouldn’t be out in this heat. Shouldn’t be pressing my mare beyond her endurance. But I can’t help myself. I’m at wit’s end.

Ignoring my ankle, I shelter my eyes from the sun disappearing in a blaze of glory behind thickening summer storm clouds. I survey the field. It takes an iron will to negotiate most of these jumps, but today I’m not even thinking about that. All I feel is this overwhelming impulse to over-correct.

I’ve had enough. Enough of coach’s lack of confidence in me; enough of the constant berating and verbal abuse; enough of the punishing hours of training in the mid-summer heat for a championship for which, frankly, I simply no longer give a damn. The joy of competition has been beaten out of me ~ mind, body and spirit.

The trouble is I can’t seem to let it go. My coach, Joanne, is the only person who doesn’t get me. Even though we’ve worked together for several years she still insists on treating me as a commodity in her perpetual narcissistic drama. There’s no warmth. No humanity.

This is something I’ve only recently realized, and with this the realization that I have to leave. And, I am going to get out of here. I am. Now that I understand what’s going on here, I have to. Still, I feel so betrayed.

I’ve given so much of my own time to her cause. The accolades were never about me, only about building her training profile and business. And I’m tired of it. I’m done. I can feel myself toppling over the edge of a precarious emotional cliff. A cliff upon which I’ve been teetering for some time.

I’m in free-fall.

And as I fall I am, for some inexplicable reason, even more determined to prove myself to that evil woman.

“I’ll bloody show you, Joanne Milthorpe, even if it kills me …” I yell to the winds as I see, in the distance, Joanne’s pick-up truck roaring toward us up the dusty lane. “Too little, too late, you bitch!!”

I force Pandora into a trot, on the look out for our first fence. There’s a thunderstorm rolling in from the southwest. It’ll be here soon, but we’ll be done before then. I’m no fool.

This cross-country course is a favourite spot to ride in the summer months. We do a lot of hill work up here. It’s so beautiful with its long views over rolling countryside.

The course was designed by an Olympic event rider Joanne spared no expense to employ. Each meticulously landscaped natural jump offers two degrees of difficulty, and every week, during the eventing season, landscapers come to mow grass, trim shrubs and plant flowers. It’s another one of Joanne’s expensive obsessions. Another reason she depends on me to drum up business by winning in the show ring.

Against the backdrop of a darkening sky, the field takes on an ethereal quality. My heart thumps loudly in my chest. A tympanic crash of distant thunder underscores the adrenalin pulsing wildly through my veins. Pandora prances restlessly beneath me. I can feel the swell of her body rise and fall in rhythm with her laboured breath; feel the heat from her sweaty steel grey body.

And then she screams. A piercing, penetrating scream that slices through the thick, pre-storm silence. A plea for the safety of the herd. And even though we are a good distance  from the stable yard Jezebel, Pandora’s anxious paddock mate, trumpets a frantic response. Pandora rears.

“Stop it, you cow!” I wail, and dig my spurs into her quivering sides.

As we canter down the hill, I hear the storm rumbling ominously, getting closer. A crack of lightning flashes across the sickly green sky, punctuated by the desperate siren call of the approaching pick-up’s horn. But I’m in the zone. Nothing can change my mind or distract me from our run to the Log Jam.

“Three-two-one ~ jump!”

I always count the last three strides. Force of habit, I suppose. As I give Pandora a dig with my heels she thrusts herself into the air, tucking those well-practiced front legs under her chin in a leap that might have cleared a fence twice the size.

“Wh … hoo!”

Oh, god, that feels good.

We round a turn to the left and head toward  a big, boxy, jump Joanne calls the Chicken Coop. Pandora stumbles. I set her right; we rebalance and keep going.

I’m already beginning to feel better. There’s nothing like a natural high to chase the blues away.

As we approach the Coop I yell in Pandora’s ear. She twitches it, confused.

“C’mon, girl, let’s get this thing. … Three-two-one ~ jump!”

Again, Pandora’s powerful hind legs push the ground away, easily clearing the coop. The warm breath of the breeze against my face is such a thrill. Finally, I can breathe again.

We could stop now, but the momentum has grabbed me and I want just one more jump.

As we canter further down the slope to Basil’s Brush, Pandora stumbles hard enough to give me a bit of whip lash. It’s a wake-up call. I realize we must stop, but no matter how hard I pull on the reins there’s no response. She has the bit between her teeth and now all I can do is go with it.

So I do.

“C’mon, mare, we’re almost there. … Three-two-one …!”

I feel push, but no propulsion. Pandora has given it all she’s got but it’s not enough. I can feel her stagger in the air, her front feet dropping. I hear the gut wrenching sound of a front hoof knocking the solid rail hidden just below the top of the brush. It’s not a hard knock, but it proves unbalancing for my already exhausted horse.

Instinctively I grab for Pandora’s mane to rebalance. But, it’s no use. My normally sure-footed, beautiful mare, with barely enough strength to right herself let alone compensate for my shifting load on her back, wavers and mis-steps as she touches down.

To be continued …

~*~

Thanks for visiting …

Dorothy 🙂

©Dorothy Chiotti, Aimwell CreativeWorks 2014

~*~

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You can’t make this stuff up! – Part 1 | Magnet for Foolishness®
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Mother, part 2 | Who Would Have Guessed
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her call | Little Cubicle
Weekly Writing Challenge: Cliffhanger! (part 2) | In my world
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Winter

~*~

Winter Sun

~*~

The cold of Winter hath the landscape gripped

And wrapped its frosted fingers good and tight.

And from the trees vast branches hath been ripped,

Their scars a sad and plaintive sign of plight.

And o’er the hills vast swathes of icy snow

A mass of crystal twinkling ‘neath the sun

A blesséd sign that e’en in ten below

The light still shines upon us, everyone.

*

And so the winters of our lives unfold

Perchance a time to hibernate and grow.

When life seems hard; the world outside is cold

Yet in our hearts we warm to truth we know.

Soon beastly Winter, too, itself will sleep

As Spring time o’er the hills doth start to peep.

~*~

It’s actually -20C outside. Hibernation feels like a really good idea. 😉

Thanks for stopping by.

Happy New Year!

Dorothy

~*~

©Dorothy Chiotti, Aimwell CreativeWorks 2014