Peace, an elusive thing you are, I have known you in fleeting moments At best--- Would that I could see the whitest of doves, Feel the lightest, glancing touch of feathers, Hold the olive branch for a moment— Yet, how can I partake of such a luxury when— When children’s bellies bloat in hunger When those of one religion kill those of another When those of one skin hate and kill those of another When men rape, beat, kill women When children and women are bought and sold When humanity seeks dominance over all the earth At the cost of future generations? Yes, I want to see the white dove with the olive branch fly— To know the world is at peace To know my daughter lives in that peace To know all the children of world will grow knowing only good Then death could take my hand And I would willingly go In peace.
Soaring, the stretched-out cloud drew herself together today, whispering of her travels of covering mountains gently with the purity of her grace, of caressing the mounds of low lying prairie lands, of the torrents of tears she shed when tortured by the wind who kept her too far, too often from touching her love, the earth. Thus, she spoke of her eternal struggle to touch her lover as she wished— melting into her completely lost within her and never being forced by wind or sun to move away and along.
in moonstone skin carved of dreams–
softness of dawn’s glow.
Nerves crackle with life
as if the stars strike lightning–
gentle winds whisper.
The sky, arms wide, smiles,
coloring the west toward
magic sweeping us.
A world bequeathed to us
In the breaking sounds of softness
Sighs from the weight
Of lost innocence and souls,
Mourning the loss of her lineage of love
In our desire for riches and more,
Grows weary of the heaviness of us.
The tonnage of our selfishness
Swirls in her oceans,
Fouls her air,
Tears apart her mantle.
Her sky weeps,
Her winds whip up her seas–
All to wipe the weight of us
From her face, her body.
Thus, the earth we bequeath.
For visually challenged writers, the image shows a green horizon, beyond which the mist veils a hill topped with strange rock formations.
I knelt before God
as the earth was formed.
For ages I have been here,
spirit of stone unmoving,
waiting above the forest land.
I am the tonnage of stones,
living veiled behind swirling mists.
Yet, I am billions of stones,
existing beyond the veil.
I press the earth for meaning
when I hear the children of earth wail
of suffering through centuries.
I rise above the peace of forest land,
lifting the tonnage of anger I carry.
I am the billions of stones now,
moving beyond the veil.
I have risen, the world,
in the weight of stone,
the children of earth will not be moved.
Behind the veil, I am the tonnage of stones.
I will retreat there when this time is done.
Use the word downpour and create a poem or prose piece in exactly 88 words.
It does begin with whispers of wind,
Steady, slow rhythm of fattened rain drops.
The distant rumbles begin.
Then the slight, quick flashing starts.
Soon the wind howls.
The rain beats as if a beast
Against the windows.
The rumbles, the shouting of an angry God
At the petulant child of a world.
The flashing, the cracking whip
Of our forgotten master.
The downpour is here,
The sobbing of the forgotten,
The hated, the poor,
The ones we were to love.
No ark on this horizon is seen.
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.
Walk to the end of dark uncurling days
at the edge of the earth,
witness it split open
I’d give it to you
could it be contained
held within my hands,
weak as they are,
that cannot hold
such flowering strength.
Rend the earth again.
Tear, rip through miles of rock and soil
Till the swollen, rounded, glowing core
Of bubbling liquid lies exposed.
Note the flow,
Time the pulses of heat,
Beating with undulating life seen and unseen.
Then watch the viscous liquid cool,
Solidifying against the pain
Of each cold breath you expel,
Stilling the beat of life
The transformation to cold, hard stone,
The breaking of her spirit,
She weeps stone tears
Her mother’s heart is torn open.
This red heart cedar stump,
With its dark crevasses
And holes where bugs had homes,
Was sanded smooth.
A urethane finish added for shine
The rings are visible still,
Rings that count the years
Until the tree fell in a storm,
Twisted from the earth
By tornadic winds.
Thus, I found it
In the yard.
Took the chain saw to the tree,
Cut it into chunks,
Along with the others that fell
That day while the dog and I
Sought shelter from the storm.
Now I sand and chisel away.
Routing out some hearts concave,
Bowls to be used for filling
At some future date,
Now standing empty.
Sanding some hearts level,
Tables to be used for holding things,
Yet these are empty too.
All this red heart cedar,
Once stood filled with life,
Now stands empty.