A little boy in awe, aged six, perhaps more
…or thereabouts, it matters little or less.
Four years had passed since She had been
proclaimed our Queen, our first coronation for
a Queen Elizabeth in nearly four hundred years.
So young. So pretty. So popular and pure.
Around my age there was another little boy
her son and heir apparent, but not quite so excited.
He wasn’t by her side at her glorious crowning.
Now, whilst in my retirement, he bears the burdens of
the decease of his darling mother, whom he had to
share with us. So close. So secure. So family. So far.
Meanwhile, at the family picnic, they were
serving us all, by the loch, among the trees
copious fresh air, inspiration, love and fun
the children, renewing family ties, learning their
duty to serve us. With such stamina, She, so young
with such a burden, accepted with such grace.
Our friends’ lonely house lay by that same road
the Royal planners decreed they should follow
to their next tour venue…that evening in 1956.
As she was passing through, after a busy day
She said “I think we should stop for a cup of tea”
as She is wont to do, with such instinctive inspiration.
So willing was She to walk about and meet us all
on the streets or in our places, we came to expect it.
It seemed so normal. It should have come as no surprise.
Our teacher to the class: “who saw the Queen, yesterday?”
Me, in total belief: “ Yes, Miss, yes, she came to tea with us! ”
Her response, dismissed my heart-felt truth with just one look.
In her younger days, poignantly, Lillibet once declared…
“…we are all just passing through ”
The diaphanous
sheets susurrate against the onyx parchment
As I gently turn the dog-eared pages of our mothballed
album—
The treasured cache of moments and memories of
bygone days
Conserved, before the scythe of Time mows us down.
As I gently turn the dog-eared pages of our mothballed
album
I chance upon ‘him’—self-assured, charismatic,
articulate—
The 2 a.m. buddy and confidant to my nerdy, antsy,
teenaged self.
Cupid struck, but with a slanted dart…and he, forever,
remained unscathed.
The treasured cache of moments and memories of
bygone days
Enshrouds the wringing, wrenching, carmine landscape
of my heart,
Crisscrossed by a breadcrumb trail of wistful longing,
Glossed over by the voguish masquerade of marital bliss!
Conserved, before the scythe of Time mows us down,
These metaphors of yesterday blend with my fragile todays
And gossamer tomorrows; and together, they help
me weave
The warp and weft of my soul’s fractured tapestry.
Flashes of lightning streaking the skies,
Taking the fissured, sapless earth by surprise,
Drops of pure love, thy name is April showers!
Drenched leaves and stems waltz in glee,
Their rustling whispers are music to me,
Tiny prismatic droplets dangle on the bowers!
Purged of dust and grime, terra firma breathes easy again
My parched soul inhales the redolence of summer rain
Glens and vales come alive with fresh, iridescent flowers!
Sometimes I am Hope—
Weaving roseate, virile dreams in hoary, nebulous eyes
And heaving hearts, yearning for a fillip;
I play hide-and-seek with ennui, by the day
At night, I hum a plaintive lullaby of moth-eaten desires
Interred in the caverns of the infecund, impotent mind.
Sometimes I am Light—
Glinting off the Chardonnay in a crystal stein
Held by star-crossed lovers traipsing a parallel universe,
Immured within a prism of perennial passion,
Kissing the full-bodied, carmine lips of eternal youth, today
Only to be eclipsed by the penumbra of transience,
tomorrow.
Sometimes I am a Star—
Tucking my pearly corners into the moire duvet
Of the onyx sky, one spark at a time—
A luminous metaphor for waxing wishes,
Until I explode on the milky way of destiny,
Sprinkling confetti of crushed novalunosis and
half-kept promises.
I am a memory, I am a void,
I am a chuckle, I am a tear,
I am alchemy, I am Kintsugi
I am here, there, everywhere—
A celebration of life, an inventory of scars!
…is a former educator whose articles, stories and poems have found space in national dailies like The Hindu, The Times of India, multiple literary platforms, as well as poetry and fiction anthologies.In 2022, she won the Orange Flower Awards instituted by Women’s Web, the second position in the National Poetry Writing Competition, and several such accolades. Reviewing and editing are other areas she finds engaging
Stiletto in the red sap of the cherry orchard birches.
The saber of the kagan shines. The clatter of hooves resounded, and a shiny dress shoe fell on the Alai carpet. Then the door of the hall opened, and the Mongol Shah himself entered. He was in festive attire; musicians and dancers followed the Shah, and all of them loudly shouted out some kind of joyful song—a song about the sea. And the sea (in the meantime) either existed separately from the land, or burned like a candle along with the night and a smooth surface, difficult to distinguish from air.
The game began. With whom? What? How the Shah would like it all to be a dream—but no, no, the pawn is already moving. And something else.
The gates of the world were opening. To whom are they open now, why? What kind of mysterious expensive shoe, what kind of feast, noise, musicians, and even the Shah himself?
Chess opened the gates of the world. The air weighed heavily on the shoulders of those present, superstition found on everyone.
Chess opened the gates of the lost world. Raya? Hell? Hey, angels, come here, come—we will give birth to children. They will become Cossacks. Those will be kamikaze. Their name will be Zuhra. Myopia of tears—their name will be eared, and above the name—the fungus of Hiroshima, and the Fuhrer, and nothing but the name of the Fuhrer.
Chess of angels opened the gates of the lost world. The machine gun was baptized along with the child. The shah knew all this, he was present at the same time, and his soul was touched by a cloud of flame.
Chess of angels opened the gates of the lost world 2.0 (Vexila regis prodeunt—stars in the sky—addresses of whores from the telegram, a sonorous voice, chatter respectful of the shah. The dog howled—who doesn’t know, this is Andreev, he still has a book "Red Laughter" .In a white corolla of roses, in front of Santa Claus, red nose). It's scary to even imagine: what will happen tomorrow? The cage went to look for the bird—Kafka (in fact, everything in the world has already been said). Fucking feminists, strange children with purple hair, an incomprehensible body—you are so afraid, they will force you to give birth, and everything, everything in the world, slurred, reflected in the pupils of the kagan. Oh, that is the check. That is, someone else. Someone special. Someone who is trying to be someone else. Superstition. We all understood everything. We don't understand. And only death calmly wandered on the shores of the strictest peace.
* * *
This word smells good
It's like a hacked account
Changed password
Passion-poisoned air
The word with which you will not be able to rhyme
So
The look word is dead
Our mysterious touch chat is exhausted
About your armpit hair
Oh my red fingernails
Oh my armpit hair
Oh your red fingernails
Send me attachment in pdf format
(Secularization?)
Let this be your photo
Today there are more of us than me
Where is my long hair
Where is the long hair?
cut off
Kissed the mirror of the day
Lilies of the valley placed on the table
lilies of the valley
Lilies of the valley on the old avatar
Simulacrum of air
Ice nipples on the new avatar
The ghost of the heart and the chest between the ribs screams ayy ayy
No it's not scary it's not scary
(Only between us
You have nothing more to lose)
Yesterday, Washington legalized the word queer for the 100th time.
And in your communal apartment down the street of sadness
The Mongols baptized the child
Lilies of the valley filled with water
They said that the Mongolian hands were born for the hard work of beautiful horses with shaved legs—no not shaved
When you grow up you will be Genghis Khan
Throw out the lilies of the valley ventilate the apartment paint the walls change the floor
So who are you girl? be Mary
Shulamith you are my Shulamith
From the outlet in the kitchen sparks
Hey maria bring cigarettes
_Sister or brother
Mother or father_
Nobody will know)
Bring cigarettes breathe listen
What if Jesus was gay?
Then everything would become clear
Then everything would become clear
But for now, about Allah
Mongolian child
Become Genghis Khan
He will become Genghis Khan
Horses will be whipped fiercely
/Shameless return lilies of the valley/
/Best form of silence dialogue/
He will become Genghis Khan
/ Icy nipples scars on the chest /
And he will wear wardrobes home
The horses will be whipped
/ Eyelash caught an eyelash /
Fuck the kids off
noble women
/we will never have children/
Pih pah oh oh oh
* * *
Blind is your love. Yes, it does not really exist—there is only the fear of loneliness, which at least slightly subsides when the simulacrum of love approaches. Love is also not the highest grace. After all, it is possible to love only one's neighbor, to sympathize—to any creature in the universe. And contrary to popular belief—the end of the world will never come, because the universe is an ideal geometry; the perpetual motion machine is also an ideal geometry, someone launched it at one moment, and it will never stop.
But I have great appreciation for people who would never consider themselves artists, and yet they make an art of work.
Some apply exceptional creativity to their work, like this fellow who rigged a bicycle to power a sugar cane juicer, to crank out a little work of art one cup at a time.
Some turn an ordinary business into something with a very personal touch.
In Ireland, I was moved by the gravestone of a man lovingly remembered for his gift of turning his work into an art.
Be it traditional…
…entrepreneurial…
…fleeting…
…or a treasured heirloom…
…art is all around us, and everyone is an artist in his or her own way, whether practicing with a paintbrush, chisel, camera, wooden spoon, plow, or scissors.
NAOMI BALTUCK ~ is a Contributing Editor and Resident Storyteller here at Bardo. She is a world-traveler and an award-winning writer, photographer, and story-teller whose works of fiction and nonfiction are available through Amazon HERE. Naomi presents her wonderful photo-stories – always interesting and rich with meaning and humor – at Writing Between the Lines, Life from the Writer’s POV. She also conducts workshops such as Peace Porridge (multicultural stories to promote cooperation, goodwill, and peaceful coexistence), Whispers in the Graveyard (a spellbinding array of haunting and mysterious stories), Tandem Tales, Traveling Light Around the World, and others. For more on her programs visit Naomi Baltuck.com.
The king was plagued with the heavy burden of responsibility. “Drought and famine, war and rebellion, disease and disaster, one after the other! I must find a way to quiet my troubled heart, so I can sleep at night!” He offered a reward to the artist who could paint him a picture of perfect peace. Artists came from all over the kingdom, each bringing his own vision of peace.
One painted a sheltered mountain valley.
Another a pristine lake, still and calm, a perfect mirror to reflect a clear blue sky.
There was an orchard in full bloom.
Fluffy clouds with silver linings.
Cheerful sunny days.
And so many sunsets!
The king studied them all, and at last he decided. He chose a painting of a waterfall, tumbling down a mountainside, beneath a dark, angry sky.
“But your majesty,” said his counselor. “Why this painting? This is a portrayal of chaos.”
“Look closely,” said the king. He pointed to a sheltered spot behind the waterfall, where there was a ledge between the jagged rocks. Upon that ledge a mother bird had built her nest. Snuggled beneath her wings, safe and warm, were her precious chicks.
“I understand now,” said the king. “Peace happens not only where there is an absence of strife and suffering. In the midst of chaos, if there is calm in your heart, will you know the true meaning of peace.”
(Mrs. Bradford Ripley and Her Children, 1852. By Robert Walter Weir, Detroit Institute of Art)
(Sculpture for his friend Robert Arthur by Samuel Murray, Detroit Institute of Art)
Copyright 2013 Naomi Baltuck
NAOMI BALTUCK ~ is a Contributing Editor and Resident Storyteller here at Bardo. She is a world-traveler and an award-winning writer, photographer, and story-teller whose works of fiction and nonfiction are available through Amazon HERE. Naomi presents her wonderful photo-stories – always interesting and rich with meaning and humor – at Writing Between the Lines, Life from the Writer’s POV. She also conducts workshops such as Peace Porridge (multicultural stories to promote cooperation, goodwill, and peaceful coexistence), Whispers in the Graveyard (a spellbinding array of haunting and mysterious stories), Tandem Tales, Traveling Light Around the World, and others. For more on her programs visit Naomi Baltuck.com
People find the light in their life in so many ways and places. It can be as easy as turning on a switch.
Some find all the light they need in a sunset…
…or a moonrise.
Others find illumination in a church…
…a synagogue…
…a mosque…
…or a library.
Sacred is a place that lights up your heart.
It isn’t always easy to find…
Some look for it in food…
…at the bottom of a wine glass…
…or through yoga…
Some light up with the joy and anticipation of adventure.
And what constitutes an adventure is very personal.
Sometimes light comes in the form of a bright idea, a flash of inspiration…
The joy of creation in all of its many forms…
Everyone’s light shines through differently. To each his own.
For me, love shines brightest of all.
It’s our life’s work and pleasure to follow the light…
…or to make our own.
It is there.
It is there.
It is there.
All words and images copyright Naomi Baltuck
NAOMI BALTUCK ~ is a Contributing Editor and Resident Storyteller here at Bardo. She is a world-traveler and an award-winning writer, photographer, and story-teller whose works of fiction and nonfiction are available through Amazon HERE. Naomi presents her wonderful photo-stories – always interesting and rich with meaning and humor – at Writing Between the Lines, Life from the Writer’s POV. She also conducts workshops such as Peace Porridge (multicultural stories to promote cooperation, goodwill, and peaceful coexistence), Whispers in the Graveyard (a spellbinding array of haunting and mysterious stories), Tandem Tales, Traveling Light Around the World, and others. For more on her programs visit Naomi Baltuck.com
When my daughter Bea was a little girl, she found a seed in a seedless Satsuma, and was inspired to plant it in a paper cup. Our little Satsuma tree has lived on our kitchen windowsill for years now, a reminder that unexpected marvels can come from a single seed. Creativity is a seed that grows ideas.
It helps us to see beauty in the ordinary.
Or, upon reflection, to take the ordinary and transform it.
Sometimes inspiration comes to us in a flood.
Sometimes in a flash.
Or even in hindsight.
More often, it comes in disguise.
Or as a creative response to something we feel passionate about.
Perhaps we are inspired by another artist…as in Bea’s sculpture, The Ice Scream.
I love working with a creative team…
Sometimes it’s a process.
…but the end result is worth it.
However it comes to you, wherever you find your inspiration, you are never too young…
Or too old….
To fly with it!
May all your ideas and inspirations be fruitful!
Copyright 2012 words and photographs, Naomi Baltuck.
All images and words copyright Naomi Baltuck
NAOMI BALTUCK ~ is a Contributing Editor and Resident Storyteller here at Bardo. She is a world-traveler and an award-winning writer, photographer, and story-teller whose works of fiction and nonfiction are available through Amazon HERE. Naomi presents her wonderful photo-stories – always interesting and rich with meaning and humor – at Writing Between the Lines, Life from the Writer’s POV. She also conducts workshops such as Peace Porridge (multicultural stories to promote cooperation, goodwill, and peaceful coexistence), Whispers in the Graveyard (a spellbinding array of haunting and mysterious stories), Tandem Tales, Traveling Light Around the World, and others. For more on her programs visit Naomi Baltuck.com
The BeZine 