5
" He considered for a moment, then started to play a piece that was very familiar to Ruth, although she had no idea what it was. It was lilting and wistful, and she could have sung the melody if she had wished.
'Alright?' He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
'Yes. Exactly.'
It was effortless and perfect, and he played it through to the end, closing with the softest and most delicate chords, which hung and faded in the quiet hall like the grains of dust raining through the evening light. Ruth was touched. It was all she had wanted. He did not move until there was complete silence again, then he closed the lid without saying anything, and stood up, shoving back the chair. ... 'What was that piece?'
'A Brahms waltz.'
'Hasn't it got a name?' she wanted it to remember.
'Number fifteen. Opus thirty-nine.'
It hadn't sounded like numbers to Ruth. "
― K.M. Peyton , The Beethoven Medal (Pennington, #2)
10
" As I looked down at him, as I saw his yellow hair pressed against my coat, I had a vision of him from long ago, that tall, stately gentleman in the swirling black cape, with his head thrown back, his rich, flawless voice singing the lilting air of the opera from which we'd only just come, his walking stick tapping the cobblestones in time with the music, his large, sparkling eye catching the young woman who stood by, enrapt, so that a smile spread over his face as the song died on his lips; and for one moment, that one moment when his eye met hers, all evil seemed obliterated in that flush of pleasure, that passion for merely being alive. "
― Anne Rice
11
" Lollipops and raindrops
Sunflowers and sun-kissed daisies
Rolling surf and raging sea
Sailing ships and submarines
Old Glory and “purple mountain’s majesty”
Screaming guitar and lilting rhyme
Flight of fancy and high-steppin’ dances
Set free my mind to wander…
Imagine the ant’s marching journeys.
Fly, in my mind’s eye, on butterfly wings.
Roam the distant depths of space.
Unfurl tall sails and cross the ocean.
Pictures made just to enthrall
Creating images from my truth
Painting hopes and dreams on my canvas
Capturing, through my lens, the ephemeral
Let me ruminate ‘pon sensual darkness…
Tremble o’er Hollywood’s fluttering Gothics…
Ride the edge of my seat with the hero…
Weep with the heroine’s desperation.
Yet… more than all these things…
Give me words spun out masterfully…
Terms set out in meter and rhyme…
Phrases bent to rattle the soul…
Prose that always miraculously inspires me!
The trill runs up my spine, as I recall…
A touch… a caress…a whispered kiss…
Ebony eyes embracing my soul…
Two souls united in beat of hearts.
A butterfly flutter in my womb
My lover’s wonder o’er my swelling
The testament of our love given life
Newly laid in my lover’s arms
Luminous, sweet ebony eyes
Just so much like his father’s
A gaze of wonder and contentment
From my babe at mother’s breast
Words of the Divine set down for me
Faith, Hope, Love, and Charity
Grace, Mercy, and undeserved Salvation
“My Shepherd will supply my need”
These are the things that inspire me. "
― D. Denise Dianaty , My Life In Poetry
12
" You’re angry at me,” she says.
I stop crying at once. My whole body goes cold and still. She squats down beside me, and even though I’m careful not to look up, not to look at her at all, I can feel her, can smell the sweat from her skin and hear the ragged pattern of her breathing.
“You’re angry at me,” she repeats, and her voice hitches a little. “You think I don’t care.”
Her voice is the same. For years I used to imagine that voice lilting over those forbidden words: I love you. Remember. They cannot take it. Her last words to me before she went away.
She shuffles forward and squats next to me. She hesitates, then reaches out and places her palm against my cheek, and turns my head toward hers so I’m forced to look at her. I can feel the calluses on her fingers.
In her eyes, I see myself reflected in miniature, and I tunnel back to a time before she left, before I believed she was gone forever, when her eyes welcomed me into every day and shepherded me, every night, into sleep.
“You turned out even more beautiful than I’d imagined,” she whispers. She, too, is crying.
The hard casement inside me breaks.
“Why?” is the only word that comes. Without intending to or even thinking about it, I allow her to draw me against her chest, let her wrap her arms around me. I cry into the space between her collarbones, inhaling the still-familiar smell of her skin.
There are so many things I need to ask her: What happened to you in the Crypts? How could you let them take you away? Where did you go? But all I can say is: “Why didn’t you come for me? After all those years—all that time—why didn’t you come?” Then I can’t speak at all; my sobs become shudders.
“Shhh.” She presses her lips to my forehead, strokes my hair, just like she used to when I was a child. I am a baby once again in her arms—helpless and needy. “I’m here now.”
She rubs my back while I cry. Slowly, I feel the darkness drain out of me, as though pulled away by the motion of her hand. Finally I can breathe again. My eyes are burning, and my throat feels raw and sore. I draw away from her, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hand, not even caring that my nose is running. I’m suddenly exhausted—too tired to be hurt, too tired to be angry. I want to sleep, and sleep.
“I never stopped thinking about you,” my mother says. “I thought of you every day—you and Rachel. "
― Lauren Oliver , Requiem (Delirium, #3)