Monthly Archives: July 2018

Full Moon Dance



She danced in the moonlight,
reflections of pearl white stars
Crystals swirling all around
like butterflies in first flight.

Alone under the stars,
with joy in her heart,
surrenders her soul to the rhythm.
She danced in the Moonlight.

Melodious voices echo in the sky,
Angels’ chorus announces their presence.
Lifting up her hands, caressed
reflections of pearl white stars.

Fairy sparkles adorned her musical form,
stars alight on the blessed gathering.
Enchanted halos above
Crystals swirling all around.

Carried by the dance
Spirit felt total abandon.
Dainty feet are feathers in the breeze
Like butterflies taking its first flight.

Hélène Vaillant© (Cascade poetry)


Garden’s Treasure



Life’s treasures at my table
Splashing colors of Fruit
As many as there are colorful fields
Greenery sprinkled on the leaves,
A fresh aroma of things to brew.

There in the fire,
The one at my shadow,
I cook fish
And fruit
All that will not keep.

Meticulously brought inside
The garden becomes the center of my Dwelling
It receives shelter
Nature is taking a different side.
It is the bounty of my Season,
That Grows in a distinctive Style.

Change is with the season,
Transformation of life’s little treasures
To resume the overflow
Of all that passes into tomorrow.

It’s a joy of anticipated surrender
One that comes from great Sun and Water
Unto this Season,
Muted Spirit,
Warmth cherished at my Center.

Hélène Vaillant©willowpoetry

Brain on Cocaine

Prada red shoes

( I hesitated to post this…but what the heck… the prompt led me to write these words)

Written for:  Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie, First Line Fridays, and short fiction

Prompt: First Line Friday: July 6th, 2018 – Bobbie Jo wouldn’t know class if it crawled into her knockoff Prada and went home with her.

Brain on Cocaine

Bobbie Jo wouldn’t know class if it crawled into her knockoff Prada and went home with her. She had been on the street all night selling her body so she could afford her next line of cocaine. These days it was getting difficult to attract the Johns. Undercover cops patrolled the sidewalks and she could smell them a mile off those bastards.

Her pimp changed her usual corner giving it to a younger girl. Bobbie Jo had regular Johns at that spot. She fought with her pimp, scratched his face and ended up with a fist in her belly. Her nose started bleeding running down her dirty halter top.

The pimp shoved Bobbie Jo to the new corner while he settled himself under the lamppost watching her.

The next John was quiet and dirty. They stayed in the car behind the garbage dumpster. A messy blow job. Back at the corner, the pimp took her money in exchange for one line of cocaine.

Around the age of 10, Bobbie Jo’s three brothers had abused her one after the other.  They initiated her to drugs and cocaine by the time she was 13. At the age of 15, she got on the street, living between two buildings in the downtown core.  She lived from John to John, cocaine line to cocaine line.

She was now 36, her brains fried for the past decade, passed the age that Johns cared to look at twice.

Bobbie Jo lived for cocaine. She knew that Johns and her pimp took care of that. In essence, Bobbie Jo wasn’t fit to know any better.

She wore fake Prada shoes; they were red, the right shoe had a hole in the sole.  Bobbie Jo wasn’t fit to know any better.

Hélène Vaillant©willowpoetry


New Found Sprout


New Found Sprout

In the days of the ancestors there lived a lad clothed in brush and leaves.
“Why?” people thought, “why this strange attire?”

He was a wise lad. He had learned directly from the elements on how to observe what is given to him as a keepsake: using the gifts well while caring for them as they led sustenance to his life. Whenever other lads, of course, saw him they would make fun of him by calling him a living tree.

The lad knew of the mysterious energy, teamed with knowledge, that all came to him through his clothing. This knowing he did not take lightly. He would smile at those who laughed at him, then make a wish that, soon, they would also come to know.
Though lads laughed at him, they also questioned themselves in secret. Perhaps they did not understand the reasoning behind his attire. They thought that he indeed blended in with his surroundings. They also wondered how he dressed inside his own home.

One day, a lad followed him home, peaked through an opening. He discovered that the interior of this home was carved out of a vast tree, extending upwards into the sky. It had no roof. The walls were part of the tree.
Inside his home, he wore a lighter sort of brush and leaves. The lad was peeking through thinking that this was the same as he did when he got to his own house. When he walked into his own home, he took off his coat and hat wearing his lighter weight clothing.

He went home realizing that the lad had a simple way of life. Eventually, he made friends with the nature lad. More and more, he liked going to his home in the tree. He felt different there, alive, happy and calm.
One day, he asked his new friend to help him out in choosing nature attire for himself. From then on he wore this outfit when he visited his friend in the tree house.

Then there were two lads. People who saw them laughed at their outlandish attire. The two lads smiled at them. They knew something that most people had not understood yet.
The lads were happy living in harmony with their environment.

One day more lads came to visit the two in the tree house. They asked the lads to teach them what they knew.

Soon after began the change in attitude and consciousness in this one little town. The small village grew and spread far and wide. The teachings remained the same and reached every corner of the land.
When the teachers left this land to join their Creator, the people slowly forgot the teachings. Eventually forgotten the attitude and consciousness could not be kept alive.

People began to cut the trees, built houses and furniture with the dead trees. Eventually, there were hardly any living trees available. Their breathing suffered from lack of oxygen.

One day a child found a book sticking out of the earth. It was the book written by the two lads, as they grew older and wise. Further in his reading, he questioned himself about the attire the book was mentioning. He read more and more of the teaching instructions. The child then went out to pick leafy branches and leaves and brought them back inside. Using the bush and leaves he made fitting attire for himself. Soon the bush and leaves withered and dried. He was sure he had not followed the teachings outlined in the book correctly. No matter how well he read the instructions, he never succeeded in having any attire that lasted.

Eventually, he realized that the attire was part of a whole way of life; without the other attributes and elements, it could not sustain alone.

By this time it was much too late even to follow the teachings of this book. There was no more living nature to sustain his breathing let alone his body.

The child understood the teachings. He also knew that the generation before him had not. The sadness was palpable to the four corners of the land.

The child reached out to the Heavens. Tears filled the rivers, the oceans, the streams and much of the Land. Life began to sprout in the darkest of lake paths and river beds.

The child walked along with his new found book. He spotted a fresh, gentle sprout. In that instant, he knew this sprout would provide him shelter in the very near future.

Hélène Vaillant©

Enchanted Dream (1)

Willow Poetry


Enchanted Dream

Carry me, My Beloved,
To the threshold of dreams
Lie me down in the meadow of rest
There, in the midst of wonder
Were ideas form

Never has there been a greater light
Shining bright there on the path
Bring me far Beloved
I may need you to carry me

My heart is open
To know the journey
My soul is yearning

My mind laments its eerie shadow
Mistaken for pitfalls
Not knowing
It is but a mere shelter

Last I dreamt
We were sitting so near
Enclosed in the cocoon of your embrace
Enchantment awakening me

With you in my heart
Nothing can divert me
Safe in your embrace

Hélène Vaillant © Poetry

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