Tag Archives: pirate



A moment of silence, the promise of sound,

And then! In but a breath the sky erupts

In colour and smoke and cries of delight,

Like children playing at pirates in Neverland.


The gold of the sunrise against night;

The red of the roses from the Queen’s court.

Emerald, silver, blue, purple, white,

A cloak of peacock feathers and Venetian mask.


For the briefest of seconds, nought but a trickle

Of time in an infinity of water drops,

You stand between the Rosette and Orion

A slip of a star, basking in the multitude.


Gushingly inspired by this collection of gorgeous awesome-ness.



Μέσα απ’τη λάμψη και τον καπνό των βεγγαλικών ξεχυνόμαστε στο λιμάνι. Νωρίς είχαμε βγάλει τα καΐκια στ’ανοιχτά, και τώρα με κραυγές και τραγούδια κάνουμε ρεσάλτο. Κρύψτε τους θησαυρούς σας όπου μπορείτε, κι αυτά που θα βρούμε θα είναι δικά μας. Απόψε θα κοιμηθούμε στα σπίτια σας το πρωί θα ξανοιχτούμε.

Inner Monologue


…And simply sitting on the sun, letting the breeze play with a few stubborn strands of hair that escape my bun is nice. It almost makes me wish I could capture the moment and live in it forever, with no worries, just the warmth and the peacefulness filling me in like never before and a pair of eyes studying me in an admiration I do not understand…At least the pose he made me sit on is comfortable… Peculiar, fascinating child-man…Walking back from work at the fields, the last thing I expected was being stopped by a complete stranger and asked to become his model. He said I was an everyday beauty, a part of Nature herself, ebony hair and golden skin (he doesn’t know of the sickly white I turn during winter) and eyes the shape of a teardrop and he would go on and on with his flattery if I hadn’t cut him off, asking what I was going to get out of this. He stumbled, probably did not expect someone to be more concerned about the mundane everyday struggles rather than “the eternal existence of a piece of art.” Regardless the money he’s paying is good. All I have to do is sit there in my work clothes -why would anyone care about those old things instead of that beautiful stitched skirt Mary gave me on my birthdate or the dress my mother made for my wedding I do not know- and stare at him unmoving and bored -thoughtful he says-. He has found this small field near the coast. No one bothers with it. It’s too near the sea to grow anything properly, but he finds it the perfect inspiration. Or so he thought until he wandered curiously further down to the beach. The view stole away any loud comments he might have had, all full of description and color. It looks the same to me, just a few rocks and lots of sand and the tide’s soft roar sending you to sleep like my old mother’s lullaby. How I wish I had children to sing the old songs to. He is an overgrown child; he comes from the city, the painter. I’ve heard that things are different there. Nessy was telling me the last time she was here that the house she works in does not even have a garden and yet it’s one of the best in town. Townsfolk is weird like that. So he makes me sit on the ground, my back to the water, only half-turned towards him so that the light will be “just right.” Then he spends the rest of the morning taking turns between staring through me and painting in his canvas. I have no idea what the painting itself looks like. He covers it the moment midday comes, insisting that he cannot work without the light hitting me “properly.” Then he returns to whatever he does the rest of his time and I rush back to my life and the chores that cannot be left undone because an artist -as he calls himself- wished to waste his mornings staring at me. Or through me. Jake worried that I spend too much time with him but the moment I brought home the first payment all his worries flew out of the window. This is the most either of us has ever made. We can finally make the repairs we needed in our house and even put a little on the side for when the good times are long gone. If I were to be honest (and I pride myself to be) I’d say it’s nice to be noticed. No one ever called me any kind of beauty and I never entertained the thought that I might be anything other than plain. Then this strange man stops me and declares that I would be the Muse for his latest work. I don’t know what a Muse is but his tone was nice so it must be something good. I wish Jake took the time to notice me. It’s been two years that we have been married and he spends more time in the fields and the tavern than with me. It’s not fair to compare the two men of my life and yet I do. Jake is sturdy; strong like the oak that he used to make our bed. The other is a child stuck to the body of a grown man with a tendency to drop things in the most inconvenient moments and places. What does he know of the real world? But then what do I know? I’ve never left our little spot in the world. I dreamed once, dreamed that a pirate like those of the old days would come and whisk me away. Then I woke up.