Can't You See the Shapes

I can see the shapes
But my hands can't form them right

They're trapped in my mind

Why can’t I see the light?

Dancing and soaring

I forget what's around me

Electric body

Won’t you do what I do?

Come sit in the shade

Let the arid world fly by

Luscious, dark gray shade

Take my hand, come and fly

Can’t you see the shapes

Our fingers form them right

Trapped in our minds

Can’t you see the bright light?

~a poem by Gemaine~

~based on a series of haikus by Hannah~

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Instrumental - a Short Story

Instrumental By Germaine As quiet music filled the house, a cat black as night crept out of her basket. Pausing to stare at the nearest window, she watched the sun slowly burst out of the horizon. Warm light filled the room. Purring, she turned and padded downstairs to greet the pianist, who stopped playing only to stroke her. The cat nudged back his hand. In return, he smiled and continued to play. The cat rolled her eyes. Upstairs waited for her. When she reached the top, a white cat with bright green eyes met her. The black cat’s striking blue eyes flashed with recognition as she mewed a greeting. “Harpsichord! Finally, you’re awake.” “Woodwind, you were always an early riser. It’s no wonder that you’re already up.” Harpsichord answered. Woodwind purred at the compliment. “Come on, let’s see if Oboe and Bass are awake yet.” Oboe, a raven, was sleeping on her perch. Flashing Woodwind a mischievous grin, Harpsichord let out an ear-piercing screech. Oboe...

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Ostrich short story

She holds her elegant neck high above the masses which she saunters through. Like a diva at a show she flaunts her plumes, casts a wary eye about for rivals, and turns up her nose at her drab brown and cream comrades. Behold, an animal of distinction and refinement. Here is the ostrich, queen of the winged kingdom. Around her, antelope bow their heads in shame, cringing at their inferiority. Where she steps the grass seems to wither in embarrassment. Even the sun seems reluctant to disgrace her chestnut and ivory feathers. Stop. Look around. Sour musk lines the brisk breeze. She lowers the foot which was held aloft a moment ago, her previously serene expression now one of incandescent disapproval. The antelope prick up their ears. A glimpse of golden pelt in the grass and an explosion of hooves signifies the beginning of the chase. She runs like a demon, head pointed forward and wings outstretched. Long legs kick up turf, spraying it into the streak of gold fur b...

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