Month: May 2020

Fade

image from pommitravels.com
Written in response to the word prompt with the restriction of using exactly 17 words

Weekend Writing Prompt #157 – Fade

 

Hours pour steadily,

prattling into darkness,

groping for light.

Your ghost

drains life colorless

from my soul.

    Dance

    https://scvincent.com/2020/05/14/thursday-photo-prompt-dance-writephoto/

    This week’s prompt ~ Dance

    For visually challenged writers, the image shows a pale sun piercing the mists above a green path through a golden field, leading into the center of a circle of stones.

    A mist of souls weaves among the stones

    A dance between grasses of green and gold

    Breezes chant in ancient secret runes,

    Speaking in tongues of priestesses and druids–

    A single soul leaps toward a shrouded sun,

    And something in our blood no longer runs—

    At all fluid.

    Tone Deaf

    image courtesy of Etsy.com
    Written as a response to the following prompt:
    https://amanpan.com/2020/05/11/eugis-weekly-prompt-harmony-may-11-2020/

    Harmony never made sense to me
    And neither did melody.
    Can’t tell the difference, you see.
    No talent with any instrument.
    A singing voice that’d send me
    To some lower level of hell.
    Well, I’d never play Orpheus,
    That’s for sure.
    And no matter what you may think,
    You ain’t some worthy Eurydice.






     

    Every Rose

    In breaking silence,

    earth and sky kiss again.

    At a toast of mid-day,

    the moon shows her face,

    a smile of grace.

    In the glimmer of a star’s dance,

    a thorn on dried roses prick,

    a reminder of circumstance.

    Jagged

    Written in response to:

    https://onewomansquest.org/2020/05/11/vjs-weekly-challenge-95-bits-and-pieces/

    Pieces broke away,
    pebbles and stones
    chipped from a boulder.
    The edge of a pane of glass
    broken off, no longer smoothly square,
    but rough ridged like a broken thumb nail,
    begging to be filed away.

    Pieces broken away,
    missing in wordlessness,
    cannot be found.
    Jig saw together the rest,
    glue, duct tape,
    what is left,
    never to imitate new, unbroken.

    Broken, hollowed parts,
    make for an ever incomplete,
    an always abyss
    to fall headlong into,
    always a scratchy roughness to scrape
    a knee, an elbow, a hand.
    Always a sharp edge to slice open
    an abdomen, an arm, a femoral artery, a throat.

    No. No. No.
    Everything, everything
    at once, best kept at arm’s length.
    Never can such wounds be allowed
    in the here,
    in the now.

    Where the Heart Is

    Image from the openingbelle.com
    Written in response to https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2020/05/09/weekend-writing-prompt-156-home/

    Isn’t home where the heart is?
    Or where you hang your hat?

    My heart, well, I don’t know.
    I seem to have misplaced it
    Somewhere along the way.
    I think I just mistreated it
    And it decided to run away.

    Didn’t treat it tenderly–
    Let it get bruised,
    Broken, bashed about.
    So, it up and decided
    It was time to go.
    It bought a one-way ticket
    On a now defunct airline
    And went to catch the sun
    On some tropical beach.

    But that’s what happens
    When you carelessly
    Fling your heart around.
    It develops shadows,
    Misses beats,
    Valves leak.
    Then it gets pissed off,
    runs away,
    and home isn’t
    what it
    used to be.

    Tapestry of Spirit

    my mother

    In her grandchildren,
    her spirit is woven–
    What a tapestry
    These children create.

    The strongest fibers
    of her determination run
    In the eldest, wearing her grandmother’s face,
    Though she never knew her.

    Threads of her courage and strength
    Weave into the only one who knew her,
    Who can remember the smell of her beef stew,
    As the grown child wages a battle for her life.

    Yarns of responsibility and fun spin
    In the lone grandson,
    As he raises his son
    And forgets not how to play.

    The delicate fine threads of her caring and her dreams
    Spin through the twins,
    Born too late to know her,
    One doing what must be done
    to care for others.
    the other creating a business of her art.


    The warm, soft yarn of her love and generosity
    weaves through the youngest, my daughter,
    Born under the same December sun,
    As she becomes a nurse caring
    For babies born too early.

    In my mother’s grandchildren,
    A tapestry of faith is woven,
    And I am taught
    DNA is more than science,
    Woven with soul upon
    Some ancient loom.
    This tapestry of spirit
    Where my mother lives still.

    Sweeter Morning

    image courtesy of The View from Great Island

    Warm now on the edge of summer.

    Still, I shiver gathering coffee to my lips.

    I war with the craving for a cigarette.

    When I take the morning deep into my chest,

    The air lacks nicotine.

    Years since I kicked that habit,

    Yet some mornings it does seem

    Nothing could be finer

    Than caffeine and nicotine—

    But it would not be you and me

    Starting our day outside on the covered patio,

    Watching for butterflies,

    Drinking our coffee and smoking our cigarettes,

    Dreams drifting in clouds of nicotine and steam.

    flowering

    image courtesy of Getty images

    Walk to the end of dark uncurling days
    at the edge of the earth,
    witness it split open
    flowering,
    beautiful.
    I’d give it to you
    could it be contained
    boxed, bottled,
    held within my hands,
    weak as they are,
    that cannot hold
    such flowering strength.

    Fine tune

    Tuning Fork in Water #1 courtesy of KaroAntonyan
    Written in response to Weekend Writing Prompt #155 
    “Tune”
    This weekend your challenge is to write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 10 words.
    Sammiscribble.wordpress.com

    Use a tuning fork,

    Fine tune this old tone-deaf heart.