Handmaid’s Tale on the Horizon

Brevity of years
Right, paid in blood + death, destroyed
Fiction drips history

https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2022/06/25/weekend-writing-prompt-265-brevity/

Brevity in 12 words

Endlessness

Image courtesy of Pexels.com

https://godoggocafe.com/2022/06/21/tuesday-writing-prompt-challenge-june-21-2022/

Todays prompt: Begin a poem with “endless”

Endless winds rustling

Through leaves baked a thin crisp green
By summer’s noon sun.

Endless wilting flowers
Reaping words of empty dust
Sands away meaning.

Endless hope sprouts blooms
In the dry cracked refuge of earth
A survival scented thing.

Ablaze

image is my own

https://amanpan.com/2022/06/21/eugis-weekly-prompt-ablaze-june-21-2022/?amp=1

Coffee in hand,

watching the summer sun rise here,
would that I could gather
these colorful threads of light,
golden rose, orange raging gem hues,
weave of them a perfect thing for you,
I do not know what it would be,
but a picturesque thing—
so pure, so perfect, encompassing all
you did not know you wanted, needed:
words would fall away in breath stolen,
our spirits cleansed by the sight
would bask in its light.

Being human, I have no talent
for weaving or creating
a thing so new
for you.

Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women

Now available on Amazon

#1 New Release Bestseller!

I’m honored and humbled to have two poems included among the works of such talented authors. The work resonates with the strength it takes to not just survive—but to thrive.

She Detaches

Photo Courtesy of Alexander Dodds on Pexels.com
Detach,

Detach from it all,
All that held her down,
Sandbags of what others wanted,
Needed, expected her to be.

She detaches,
Cutting loose and through
Tentacles of veins and arteries,
Strangling ropes of memories.

The things she could never be-
Mary, The Mother, to wash you clean
Before placing you in your tomb;
A variant of some second coming
To cure you and cleanse you of sins;
The perpetual penitent
To beg forgiveness from you:
All these she will not be.

From these things you wanted her to be,
She detaches, though she wears
The scars of the floggings given her
By those who accuse her, blame her
For not being enough—
The scars waxen now melt
In the warmth of her detachment.

Though you call her cold, emotionless,
When she detaches from those who
Bleed her life away,
When she rises
From beneath the ton of stones
You place upon her chest
To stop her breath,
Freed from the stone,
She breathes.

No Grief for a House

I will grieve the memories 

not made in this place.
I will let the ashes of hopes
Sift in wisps like fine sand,
Falling in desperate escape,
Between the fingers of my aching hands.

A pretty house, yes.
The aesthetics, pleasing—
Built to fill a need
To cook Thanksgiving and Christmas,
Those production number meals,
Of which picture post card
Memories are made,
—the brined turkey, the standing rib—
Yet this place remains a hollow shell, pretty, yes,
containing no memories made
Of laughter and holidays and meals,
Didn’t need that larger Christmas tree—
No need, no need—

A harsh lesson to learn—
There is such a thing
As aging out of a place—
Too old for patience,
I have not five or ten years
To see if memories be made
To turn this hollow, pretty shell
Into the home I hoped.