Icy cold wind walks.
Blinding sunshine ironic,
Burning horizons,
Promises of warmth
Unfulfilled in morning’s cry
Of grey storm cloud’s tears,
And then nothing left
Of fires or dreams curling,
Blanketing round us.
Winter’s Grief
Category: Lessons of Nature
Autumn Dawn
https://freeverserevolution.wordpress.com/2020/10/19/oct-4-ripples/
Ignoring the ripples doesn’t work,
Beautiful though they may be
In the early light of an autumn dawn.
The ripples return.
Their warmth long gone,
Drained of blood.
Injected with colors of autumn’s dawn,
They look full, alive with mysterious meaning.
But cold these ripples remain
In their return to me.
Time shifts,
Tilting beneath my feet.
I shutter and stare, a moment only—
I cannot weave these cold things
Into a useful thing, resembling you.
In the Secret Place
https://scvincent.com/2020/08/27/thursday-photo-prompt-tokens-writephoto/
I hid them carefully,
The tokens left
In the forest keep
Of dreams sheltered
Far too long from mists,
Giving life to forms
Shifting in shadows
Where once we danced,
Loving for a time
Among the trees
Leaning to hide us
From those
Wishing us harm.
Then I woke.
Human once more.
On The Horizon
Thursday photo prompt: Vista #writephoto
Gazing at lush greenness as it travels
along this vista, a soul emptied of itself,
shrinking away to dust
for all the of giving it had done,
breathes in fullness and begins to glow.
Only here in green wildness breathed,
can pinhole prick holes and jagged slashes
be sealed in a soul emptied of itself.
The Spider’s Life
https://scvincent.com/2020/05/21/thursday-photo-prompt-painted-writephoto/
This week’s prompt ~ Painted
For visually challenged writers, the image shows a rather oriental red bridge over a pool covered with waterlilies and surrounded by trees.
She lived a painted life.
Careful with her brushes
Always touching up
A chip, a mark, a ragged flaw
As she found them.
If she found a rip or tear
In the precious canvas,
It just would not do,
But she would oh, so carefully
Apply the much-needed glue.
No. Not a single person could tell.
Not a single person knew.
No one knew the time
And care and money
She spent on this
Carefully painted life–
Of verdant grasses,
Irises of every shade
Deepest purples
To palest pinks,
The lush canna lilies,
Fragrant gardenias and lilacs,
The splendor of magnolias,
The stately cedars.
Everyone speaks of a gentle stateliness,
In the air of her personal dress,
Her blonde locks, and her wounded blue eyes
As they looked out
Upon the careful paint of her garden lair,
A spider inspecting her web.
But her victims knew
Of every rip and tear
And all the rot beneath the paint.
For her victims lay silent, faint
Cocooned beneath
Many coats of paint.
Early Morning Walk
Early mornings I walk my dog.
What a pair, what a sight we must make
in the early dawn light.
She, with her little legs flying,
her little French Bulldog smile–
Then me with my crazy, curly, too early,
morning hair and not enough coffee yet face.
As the cool sun, rising, greets
us with a loving grace,
no one would know
how my little dog schools me in life.
in her jaunty little prance,
in her little smiling face, looking up at me,
her joy, her pure delight
in the movement of her body,
in the scent of morning in the air,
in the gentle quiet of dawn upon us–
It is the moment,
Purely, simply–
The moment
Of being–
Wild and Tame
Originally written in July of 2015. Revised 2020.
My friend, the squirrel, sits at my feet.
I wonder perhaps should I be sitting at his.
He is tame
Unlike me.
I have peanuts for him.
He knows.
He is willing to wait
And teach me
All the lessons he knows
Of a heart
That is wild
Yet tame.
I marvel at all
That is contained
Within his tiny heart.
The joys of peanuts and sunflower seeds,
Being unafraid in the face of strangers,
And making friends so easily,
Of finding a home among things lush and green,
Knowing no fear to leap
Into things unknown.
Will he instruct me
In the ways to live once again
And move on?
Tell me to remove these rings
Linked to a grief buried beneath grey granite?
Can he share with me the lesson
Of what to do with all things circular,
New and old grief– link upon link of chain?
Teach me the ways of letting go?
The ways of living without fears
To staunch the bleeding of wounds
Both new and so very old?
Is this the meaning
Of being wild and tamed?
The White Ones
I wanted to run among the wild ones.
Live with them among the mountains.
Rub muzzle against muzzle.
Eat sweet grasses.
Enjoy golden warmth upon my back.
Let my soul and spirit rest
Among the trees with the wild ones.
But it was not to be.
My heart could not slow enough
To contain their peace.
And so, I sought the white ones at the sea.
They crashed about restlessly.
Truly wild they were, as they raced continually.
Their cacophonous pacing furious, relentless.
Yes, these wild white stormy ones were in keeping
With my heart, a raging irregular and brutal pace.
The Mechanics of Flight
Image from Dreamtime.com
The science of flight
Broken, stripped down
Into the realism of words.
The dryness of what happens:
Lift and torque,
Drag and propulsion—
All things the ancients
Dreamed of mastering.
And so, we moderns have:
The smallest of Cessna,
The most enormous Airbuses,
The cavernous military transports,
Such technology and science
To destroy the magic.
Until watering the garden
On a summer evening
And turning to see
A tiny green hummingbird
Stick out his chest in pride
At having mastered
Standing still
While flying.
Under A North Texas Sky
No roots here,
Not under this.
Not under this,
North Texas sky.
Nothing grew,
Nothing rooted,
Although I tried.
I planted native plants,
Fertilized and tended,
Weeded and watered,
Talked lovingly even,
Became the crazy lady
With the plants.
For a bit, just a bit,
Each plant bloomed
In wonderful cinematic,
Glorious technicolor.
I would think–
I’ve got it right!
But no. Each would start
To wilt and fade.
I googled and researched,
Soil tested even.
Yes, it’s true– to know
What to do.
But I was doing everything right.
No expert could tell me true,
Just why I could not
Get anything to flourish,
to grow, to root
In this, this North Texas soil
Under this, this North Texas sky.
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 