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  • abramsuzan 2:14 pm on April 5, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    Untitled 


    by Suzan Abrams

    And she saw him today, head bent at work.

    As usual, he appeared not to notice but she in her emotional lighthouse, where dishelvelment melted into the great high rocks of her steadfast heart, with the winter now warring thin and the spring fast coming…she saw everything.


    She caught a glimpse of his height as he bent to retrieve something, his smile as he winked at a friend.


    And with patience for a shadow, she quietened her thoughts into willing, “Let him rest.”


    Today, her heart need not fear, she would not go near.

    Already, they had met yesterday in a strange game of wills, they had begun to play together, day after day, each knowing and yet to the other seeming unknowing.

    But the time had finally come and he had looked into her eyes and called her beautiful.

    To the hidden spirit and oblivious that perhaps, she was getting a little old for such things, she accepted the compliment graciously.

    But within herself, she knew she would never be too old for him.

    Already, the taste of her lips felt to him like honey in glue…he did not want to be parted from her, would suffer real pain if she went away.

    For the first time in a long time he told her this.


    And now the new beginning would start from the old ending that had shut its doors. He had finally noticed her from where she had noticed him for such a long time before.


    And they must play a different game from waiting; now together, they must cast the dice.

    But a lighthouse doesn’t stumble and it bides its time and it waits for its lovers, wrapping a shawl around them that they may keep warm in the cold dark night.

    In the cold dark night when ships pass on without a word and without a kiss.

    Of course, she would miss his smile but on waiting a while, she needed to foil a magic strand for every whisper and in her memory bunch them up into a tight posy of roses to closet within her forever.


    And he had called her beautiful.


    And so today, with her own infactuation tired, but at last happy, she closed her eyes for one moment to a brief eternity and said, “Let him rest.”


    Photography credit: Tessa Trae
    ger/nouvelleimages)

     
  • abramsuzan 10:15 pm on April 4, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    The Bubble 

    by Suzan Abrams

    She seduced the keys of the baby grand like a woman possessed. Her back arched upwards in the direction of the ceiling; her face lay writhed in agony but powerful in its passions. As she raced with Rodney Bennet’s composition Excursions, I saw myself swinging down memory lane for the good times and with the awe of a sudden gasp, wept.

    She dressed like a cabaret performer would; bearing the voluptuous layers of showy flesh on her tiny body with the tranquil air of the oddly cultured.

    Her pearly complexion was alluring as she faithfully swanned in week after week, to hold a cello, balance an ambitious violin or blow the trumpet with gusto.

    Destined to watch, I would arm myself with a trained mystifying air.

    Today, I am late.

    I am cautioned at the doors with a shush finger-to-lip sign and warned to tiptoe in with absolute silence. The pianist has just begun her second movement and I am advised to let “her fingers settle.”

    Concentration becomes the mistress for the moment. I promise to add on dignified grace. The entire audience is held together in quiet rapture. Today, I have been excluded held outside the circumference of this elite bubble where backs are arched forwards; caught in stationery positions like a scene straight out of Sleeping Beauty.

    Could music command even the silence to stop breathing?

    I become a reluctant observer, protectively shadowing the performer and her audience. I am the hesitant butterfly that is sad at not being able to spread its wings. I am the fly on the wall; producing a predictable scene. I am the audience watching two performances all at once.

    Two ladies quickly get up to go. The daughter slips out with clumsy courage and her blonde mother follows, smilling apologetically. In the eyes of a discreet but slightly stern and disapproving audience, the pair commit a grave sin.

    I snatch the opportunity, I move forward now, some familiar faces greet me with a welcoming smile. I enter the bubble, taking my place as the substitute audience with relief. I slide into one of the abandoned warm seats and this with the grace of an understanding spectator, held spellbound by composition and composure.

    I can now join the mute breathtaking scene with gusto. That providing I don’t for a moment, brave a sneeze.

 
  • abramsuzan 12:48 am on April 4, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    The Sunset 

    by Suzan Abrams

    The sunset was bloodied today. It stood watching closely, waiting behind the trees. No birdling heartbeat nor veined branch could hoard its finery. Its solitary breast lay decked in gold even as it beckoned me to it, the steely matriarch with her restless fiery heart. I stood chilled and unable to part,  fearing an embrace that would crumple the ashes of my skin.  The bloodied sunset smiled slowly as it finally fled, watching me quietly  and watching me still.



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  • abramsuzan 12:02 pm on April 2, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    Ouch my Foot… Baby you dance so good… 

    by Suzan Abrams

    Ouch…my foot, your shoes like wood! Baby, you dance so good! Ouch…my
    foot, your
    shoes like wood! Baby, you dance so good! Ouch..my foot, your shoes like
    wood! Baby, you dance so good! Ouch… my foot, your shoes like wood!
    Baby, you dance so good! Ouch…my foot, your shoes like wood! Baby
    you dance so good! Ouch…my foot, your shoes like
    wood!
    Baby, you dance so good!
    Ouch…my foot, your shoes

    like wood! Baby, you dance so good! Ouch…my foot, your shoes
    like wood! Baby, you dance so good! Ouch,,,my foot, your shoes like
    wood! Baby, you dance so good! Ouch…my foot, your shoes like wood! Baby,

    you dance so good! Ouch…my foot, your shoes like wood!
    Baby, you dance so good! Ouch…my foot, your shoes like wood! Baby, you dance so good! Ouch…my foot, your shoes like woo…

    Picture Credit: Stolen from the legendary & gorgeous Fernando Botero.



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  • abramsuzan 3:21 pm on March 28, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    Images 

    I have been cruising this site as I was unwell. I will still work on the play above and other longer stories and place them here soon. There is some old fiction like the one below that I plan to tackle. Unfortunately, as regards a few for which I may later seek publication, I believe placing them here may work against me or otherwise, damage a publisher’s copyright for my work. In this respect, I have to be careful. – suzan abrams –

    Note: This is a short piece from a longer work of fiction which I had buried away. I think I wrote it  in Melbourne.

    Images

    by Suzan Abrams

    …Choosing religion and loving you in this London dusk, my passions now swum hungrily in the waves of grace.I am a ballerina toppling about in a wide blue sea. I am a fairy penguin, somewhere in Port Philip Bay, waiting with paralysed wings to emerge from a shadowy night. I am a broken-winged swallow nesting in my sensuality, crying for a sunset. I am a submarine planning a pounce on the sunken treasure in your blue-black heart. Or how about an enthusiast for an icy Channel crossing.

    After all, I am patient in my endeavours and my repertoire is ready. A breaststroke for when I miss your strange, dark thoughts. A butterfly movement for when I feel beautiful and brave in this cold dark slush of ice. When I am tired, I will slip underneath the robes of a wise one that swish about here and there with tantalising power, yet saying nothing. You will not find me in the twilight.

    My winged angel is busy quilting secrets into mirrors; a fantasy here, a truth there. Nothing much. Just another revelation to embroider. Someday you will see all and know that we were meant to be. Today, I am no longer a sentimentalist but I know who I am and that is enough.

    Yet on that evening, my passions stayed fugitive lost in the Songs of Solomon. I took consolation from its robust poetry, turning my simple prayer into a shiny sheath-blade weapon. I buried silent hum-humming of love into desperate worship; burrowed deep down in the spirit then shovelled up to the beyond. Such was my selfish devotion that I admitted to greed in all my heavenly supplications. A peaceful Madonna, a blushing bride, I desired nothing but to lie under you, slunk in an abyss of kisses.

    “Make-believe my purity for a virginal makeover,” I teased with a giggle and covered my face with the shawl. “Swirl me into your palette of geisha shimmer.” I brushed a swift kiss into your ear for encouragement and threw a nibble. I covered my mouth with my shawl and tried to look as enticing as a harem concubine with sensual eyes. “Paint me nude,” I hinted again mischievously.

    Once I had found a blue postcard of a Rembrandt woman soaked in creased linen, smiling up at a lean bent lover with her creamy breasts and apricot nipples swung slightly sideways, so that one heavy mound of flesh looked like it lived directly under her armpit. It dived deeply into the sheets.

    The other, sculptured like stoneware, titillated the invisible photographer with its explosive ripeness, Catch that balloon, catch that balloon, I hear you laugh, before it bursts and crashes the lens.

    Inflatable boobs, elongated ones and all amiss.. Elephantine stomps to crush a face with. Roly-poly ones to ride on. Virgin knockabouts and dying dropdowns. Catch them all, I hear
    you say. Catch them all.

    Swollen white arms stretched upwards contrasting with the fuzzy browns in forbidden corners. The abdomen stayed pregnant and wobbly in repose. Wriggle. Wriggle. The fuzzy brown lost ground with the wide desert flesh but picked up on the way down midway, circling an oasis that disguised a deep rivulet of red. Wet. Wet.

    The lover in question looked like he was on the verge of feeding this sharp taut
    sensuality of sunken bust and staring navel with quick hard brushstrokes to egg on her
    mood for a painful adventure.

    Like a rich cake that waited to be iced, the brush warned of dripping paint and brutal ambitions. His bearded face studied hers with attentive detail and a devilish grin. Her smile looked deadly. The temptation was obvious.

    And then I hear you laugh again. A tryst or thrust, you suggest, playfully. To kiss or tease. To gorge on licks or prick a leak. Trim that messy rose bush. Prune its thorny bits. Hide the smells of desire. Water corners with his sticky scent and bullseye on her perfumed zones. Or
    don’t you know how to screw a dame with a paintbrush.

    I know, I know. Call the Chup-Chup man; Here I am at Melbourne Central, next to the old GPO before that terrible fire. And where are your lollipop wares, Mr. Chup-Chup man? Catch that delectable flavour of sticky sweetness, that delicious trail of drippy breath. Let’s lick the toffee and whip up a coffee.

    Experiment on caramel and pour out the treacle. Suck away, my friend.

    Remembering your words of disbelief, I too mocked at the picture, sensing frigidity. I pressed my thoughts close to the print. I drew on urgent breaths to evoke these faint signs of lust to life. I commanded my efforts like a guaranteed ointment to the rescue. …

    Image Credit: FeebleMinds

     
  • abramsuzan 11:38 am on March 24, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    Rest is Paradise 

    (Note: I remember I wrote this in Africa recently when I was a little worn-out with all the adventuring.)

    by Suzan Abrams
    Stir not the stillness, rush not the agitation! Give my overwrought joy a bed and pillow, I tell you and my muscled exhilaration in need of an unruffled massage, will grab solace somewhere between the folds of a satiny sheen. Let my restlessness twirl sublimation about before being enraptured into a statued pose and nosed up a plumped-up cushion. I shall drown in the silence of the night and raise my snores like an offering to quietude. May watching angels who catch my sacrifice shush my room up and grant me breathing space. I will not stir until after the alarm has run its course a 100 times and run my bath too at that! My dreamy peace will stretch the dawn’s final yawn, demand breakfast from a torn timetable and orchestrate my safari action once again like a rhino on the run!

     
  • abramsuzan 8:14 am on March 23, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    The Unfinished Crossword 

    by Suzan Abrams

    And so she died, the blight of a crossword still unfinished upon her tender shoulder. Someone had mixed her body parts up all wrong; fancy knotting ankles to joints and pencilling lips to shin like a madwoman high on drink. But her legs had gone missing again …running ahead to search the galaxies for uncovered destinies warehoused in time. Why, just this minute, she’ll have you know, her toes were having the time of their life skating along the Milky way.  And to think, how muddied too, their varnish.

    Still, her heaving breath would not wait; retirement had set its designer death knell upon her pool of sweat. It bade its time; cut closely to the fringes of her heart. Her soul would demand that renewal be tailored for ressurection from the same cloth. But her blood had ceased to watch its colour and so she curled herself into a hedgehog ball, begging tearfully, a last hour for a schoolroom playtime romp. Now, her final fit of rage was apparent and unyielding. She would take revenge with a memorable toddler tantrum and refuse to stretch for the last rites. She would snub God, just wait for it, and challenge him to a duel. Now, if that wasn’t a fine way to go.

    It was on this strange hard bed, from where the dark wood groaned at her heaviness and shuddered at her coldness, that she dreamt of possibilities. From where her wrinkles at last changed into harmless creases like baby skin and from where she would float, the beguiled dancer on carpeted air… a once industrious damsel bereft of light and now on a  rocketed flight. She would never be pointed at up in the night sky. Never be described as a star.  Not when she bounced up high, a winged balloon, mocked by gravity and ready for take-off. Instead, she would be remembered for knots and crosses and scolding always…  “Never you mind and don’t forget to mark the spaces.”


    (This picture is a free piece of Pre-Raphelite clip art.)

     
  • abramsuzan 5:24 pm on March 21, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    Maturity 

    by Suzan Abrams

    She stayed prominent in her ministrations and affections lest she be led to the docility of hearts. Grazed from a misfortune of spirit, she may have removed herself from the blight of indignity but that the puzzlement of life in its varied catastrophes continued to grip her. She moved willingly but happily into the webbed audacity that love demanded of entanglements. An uneasy truce prevailed in the disposition of the self. She held court with an everyday splendour, eager to mount her vision upright. She bottled up a straying distracted sight for an early wisdom. Her legs were trained for a steady course and she could only run forward…her head being sadly labelled as much too stiff for backward glances and recriminations of the past. Hindsight would be her memory’s only gift and this too, from time to time, to summon with acute displeasure and warn of an old foe. Hindsight and an eagle-eyed endeavour for an icy patience, keen to hold her still.

     
    • hada 5:30 pm on March 22, 2009 Permalink | Reply

      Hi Suzan,
      it was a very stressful and tensed days…
      Am really sorry
      hugggggg
      Hada

    • abramsuzan 4:19 am on March 23, 2009 Permalink | Reply

      Hada,
      I understand.
      No problems.
      Write to me privately on
      suzanabrams@live.co.uk

  • abramsuzan 2:52 pm on March 17, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    The Leftover Angel 

    moon-02-june

    I am the leftover angel secluded in heartbreak. I pass through an equilibrium of time, deafened by the noisy dimension of my worth and whatever is left now, crumbling into the blackness of disbelief. I see my sadness curled into a wisp of smoke, held up to the gaiety of a twisted messy spiral. I spy the leftover sweetness of myself only slightly. My kiss is no longer sugared, my hugs no more warm. As such as was once upon a time, when I slumped back into cold inclinations to avoid nettling favour with the beloved. And that is how I lost you.

    I am the clumsy Jack in the Box. No perky bounces for me I’m afraid… I lie, condemned and limp like a weathered glove that saw too many handshakes. I am the glint of a needle hovering in its resting place in the sand, the timepiece on your hand that went astray. I am the puppet on the string turning the clock around and embracing it into a tangle of torn bandages. I am the marionette gone on strike for her wilful dance. Times stops and then it does not.

    Where is your voice now that I would hear you call to me from the morning sun. Where is your song now that I would hear your hums on the bed of my dreams. I will run to eternity searching for the lost and wailing your name… lest you hear me and lest you cry a plea that says no more. Be warned that you must answer.

    But scream into the starlight I must that my heart bleeds not with loneliness but begs the sound of your voice to stay the willing friend.

    And the moon will smile its playtime wiles at me and throw me down a box of toys from high up the skies but I cannot stop to stay. For I must run. I must lift my skirts and run for such then is the cajoling fantasy of my longing. Call my name and I will come to you. I sit here in the meantime, a shadow in the dark and my halo fallen to the ground and upon which the spiders have built their homes. I promise acclamations to these tender creatures but crawling in a grumpy frenzy, they say nothing. I promise hymns to the angels that stroll about cradling my heartbreak…all of old dames and dusty gowns and what have you… as if if milk-bottled rightly, my loss would spring from infant to adult in something of a splendid jiffy.

    Only I cannot bear the romanticism of a wound bleed, I cannot. Call my name and I shall come to you on a winged flight, holding clasped palms to my chest. Then I shall wear the sun upon my face and the night of pain from a forgotten rod still steadfast on my frail sore back. – suzan abrams –

     
  • abramsuzan 2:49 pm on March 17, 2009 Permalink | Reply  

    Sincerity 

    I take a flight of fancy and creep into the destitution of my confinement that my valour be promoted to an indulgence stemmed from goodwill and my thoughts be aligned to the muteness of the self. In my aloneness, I am one. I seek a harbouring of affection that my heart be given a rest from treachery. I toss betrayals into the air and look for sincerity in the burrowed holes of
    imaginings and deep pleasures known to the pursuits of the mind. To where can I run if not for blanketed dreams that I be cherished in a need for forgiveness and restitution. I value only truthfulness and the coyness of the moment wrapped into the need of the self. Life is movement and speed but reined only by willing hands. On the contrary, it may be designed to tailspin the secondary motion of a half-hearted whine dismissing passion like a paradise lost in the sun. Today knowing what I do, I seek not the slippery carefree pangs of childhood so carelessly attained as I would the sophistication of age that swirls the quiet mind with needful charity and from time to time, the swing of my step, moulded from an exhilarating noise. – suzan abrams –
     
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