Cerulean

A Birthday Poem - with apologies to Rhina P. Espaillat From blue, to mage, to mate, to friend a smile unfastens like a gate - a gaze, a tale a ghost she knows she cannot name the thing, she shows a word - and distance will not wait for blues, a mage, a mate, a friend. There is a circle, tight and close through laughter written when it's late of gazes, tales and ghosts she knows who leap at life, who frown at those who'd intercept the call to fate from blue, to mage, to mate, to friend her birthday wishes: river flows through deserts, snowhills, England's haze from blue, to mage to mate to friend a gaze, a tale, a ghost she knows. I hope you have a fantabulous day J - and I want the photies! *loves and huges* C.

As Rydia slipped out of her room, the spot above the cat basket shimmered and an elongated shadow plopped out. It nosed around suspiciously, checking for banana skins and dictionaries (easily scared by yellow things and even more so by items that could legislate that fear into language.) One paw flickered in front of its shadow whiskers and then dabbled behind a dark ear. Crinkle-nosed it sniffeted something unusual and idled over to where Carp's bowl sat on top of a wrought iron stand. One or two nano-moments later, the shadow was backing away, tail down. A smaller more defined shadow launched itself from the vicinity of the basket like it'd been self-ejected from somewhere without chicken. It tumbled against its companion, rubbing noses and headed over to Starlight's sexy chair before leaping up onto the lusciously plumped cushions. The shadow trod the fat purple grapes, careful not to pluck, trod the purple, sleepy, purry, rhythmic, sleepy - before it was batted round the face by the less patient other. Comfy shadow bumbled off the chair, tummy wobbling and yawned a fantastically theatrical yawn - before following-my-leader out of the door and into the familiar corridors.

Cerulean had wandered far and back since the casting of her spell apparently failed. The path from the keep had led her towards the trees where Cyril and she would talk some evenings. She'd walked further still, to the circle of rocks where Wyvie had first showed her how to juggle coins. She laughed at the memory and furrowed her brow slightly as she recalled how the ones she dropped never seemed to make it back to her hands. Oh for simple days again. The blue mage walked on ignoring the thorny ground beneath her bare feet. She remembered studying the ways of Blue majick - and losing her thoughts to a cloud. She'd never been the most attentive Phantasm mage, but as far as she could see the basic Wish spell had been imaginatively combined with her cats' favourite items. DD's best pencil had gone into the mix as well as Moppy's sunspots. True the pages of the spell-book had been fluttering about, and thinking back she couldn't actually remember having used fern or fronds for any rectification of loss majick before. In fact she recalled using them only for... Cerulean's legs buckled and she sat down quickly. 'What have I done?

Battling valiantly, Helga was on to the dropping Ninjas like Wyvern on a misplaced geld pouch. She wasn't exactly able to leap on them mind you, but by retracting her head fully into her shell and then powering it out to full stretch, she was managing to hurl Cerulean's reagents at the marauding intruders from a little cache she'd assembled within her carapace. 'Take that you buggers!' she cried when a lump of black ash spattered over several Ninjas as they were flipping towards her. The Ninjas, blinded temprarily stumbled round knocking into each other while Helga raced up slowly and bashed them with the lip of her shell. CRACK! A similar fate lay in store for the other unwelcome guests, one was kyboshed by pellets of arrowroot and flailed uselessly to earth. CRACK! Another - having been strafed similarly, grasped hold of a hurtling toadstool stem and upended it to feather-fall gracefully back down - for all the world like a spandex-clad Mary Poppins. Sadly, said Ninja landed in Helga's saucer of stems and was impaled on a daisy stalk. SNAP! Helga breathed out a slow steady breath and wandered round the chamber, collecting her thoughts from where she'd dispersed them earlier. Something niggled the back of her mind like a lock that was clammering to be picked. 'Well the less I think about it, the quicker it'll come' mused the tortoise, stacking up an assortment of feather fronds and fern in the alphabetised reagent cupboard. She gathered what was left of the ash and slid it into a small pouch before returning that to its home. 'Cerulean doesn't often play with majicks nowadays, these here look like some powerful ingredients too.' The little tortoise scanned the floor and took in the spell-book's pages fluttering back and forth from the skylight air currents. She let her eyes slide over the other spilled and trodden items. Some violet drops of Hope-Flower juice were beginning to skin over in the corner, next to them sat a mound of loss-bark. The nobbled surface of the bark shavings had snagged a wriggling patch of spandex and Helga went to deal with it before its windmilling limbs came unpinned. 'Loss bark, Hope-Flower juice? She'd only use them for casting 'Wish' Helga murmured. Her eyes shot up to the likenesses of her felines which Cerulean had commisssioned after they'd slipped away from this world. 'She wasn't trying....?' Helga shook her head and wondered about Cerulean's wisdom in trying to draw back ghosts. 'But there isn't any seed hull, she'd need that to cup the Hope-Flower juice while the chant was laid.' Helga hurtled up to the flapping tome and saw the pages flick from the bookmarked page 'Wish' to 'Summon Sprites' to 'Wish' to 'Summon Sprites' 'Oh dear' said the tortoise sucking in air. 'It looks like you should be careful what you wish for.'

Cerulean’s room lay empty. The ceiling-length skylight was open, flooding the room with cool night air, but nobody sat appreciating the speckled skyscape. A soft violet aura permeated the stillness – a usual consequence of Cerulean and Scarlett having coincided, but there was nothing otherwise odd about the scene. Helga’s basking stone, highly polished by Cerulean, was positioned exactly where tomorrow’s noon sun would strike it. A tortoise’s tray of assorted stems had been recently nibbled and an ancient Phantasm tome - crack-spined and yellowing sat open on the floor atop the Persian rug. The woman had been reclusive of late; she’d taken the loss of her feline companion badly, the second loss worse still. Helga was excellent company and all, but you couldn’t bury your face in a shell. Nothing smelled like the dry dusty warmth of her cats and nothing would replace their fourteen year reign. Cerulean had avoided Scarlett as far as possible, fearing the other’s matter-of-factness. Harpy took a pragmatic perspective, pets were convenient foodstuff surely. Gradually the emptiness of the room receded as Helga hurtled in, neck craned forward, beady eyes popping. There was a scrap of spandex astride her shell squeaking ‘Giddyups!’ and chuckling. Helga headed full pelt for the stone where she intended to scrape away the unwelcome guest, but was startled motionless by the stir of air above her head. Helga’s neck grew smooth as it extended fully allowing her to gaze upward at the open skylight. Parachuting ninjas fell like petals in the breeze, Helga gulped.

Hey that's brilliant news for you Salinye! Congratulations and jubilations!

TWO celebration days - one for Cerulean and one for Harpy! Cerulean claims the scientific celebration and deliberates on the similarity of Avogadro and avocado. Scarlett blows the dust off her widow's weeds and declares the 'Day of the dead' to be definitely worth an outing.'

That would be brilliant!

*Interrupts* I love the word 'mole' and wish there was a mole celebration day then I could add something more meaningful to this topic! *Slinks off*

She sounds like an amazing lady - I'm so sorry for your loss. *gentle hugs* Cerulean.

What a delight these are! Thanks Kikuyu for bumping this thread, I'd have missed it otherwise. Thanks Regel for your conversational observations and gentle spirit. Cerulean.

Oz - I've never peed on either my school or my students. Not that I didn't have a desire to, rather it had never occurred to me until now. Thank you. Phoenix - A global 'aye' When I lived in Greece and happened upon a bar that was closing the following day that was happy to get rid of all of its booze that evening, for free. When I ate a rice salad in Dubai that had been in my bag for a day and a bit. When I downed a can of Czech vodka in Sweden. And WHY? In Malta after I inhaled a wave from Gozo bay, which contained - I hate to think. Have you ever reached for the toilet tissue only to have a cockroach drop out of the cardboard tube onto your fingers? Have you ever screamed as loudly as I did?

"Radio 3 Wilfred Owen Season 12th November - 18th November 2006 The complete canon of Owen’s war poems are broadcast on Radio 3 during the week beginning Sunday 12th November (Remembrance Sunday). During the week you will be able to hear the poems positioned throughout the schedule." Link here I'm late coming to this so have missed yesterday's readings, but thought I'd link it in case anyone here is interested.

That's exactly what I used to think at the end of most classes. The poem has a hesitancy, a recognition that truth scales off into calibrations and chimeras. I liked the journey. C.

Hey there, I found this a thoughtful commentary on the (al)lure of the past. You remind me of Canute pressing palm to the foam. Thanks for posting, I enjoyed this. C.