Bandaged, gauze coved, blanketed-- now-- She never thought of bandages until one wound oozed infection, a malevolent fluid. Thus, she learned of cleansing wounds, bandaging them for protection, changing dressings. Twice, she thought her wound healed, scarred over, rejoicing, removed her bandage. Twice, her scar split open, infection returning. Resigned, resolving keep her bandage always, Refreshed daily, keeping infection at bay.
shattered on the floor my favorite coffee mug nothing big, not much of a thing, just my favorite coffee mug-- sunshine yellow, with coffee beans, and a coffee spoon printed inside at the top along with a line from my favorite poem, “I have measured out my life in coffee spoons” yes, trite, you might say, emblazoned upon a coffee mug but still, yes, I loved the mug, love the poem. and there it was— shattered upon the floor there she stood, apologizing—ad nauseam— saying she’d buy another to replace it. But it was not to be found. Of course, the store didn’t have them anymore. The mug was the first broken thing. The first of a few, if it wasn’t liked, didn’t fit into the ideal of what could be forged of me if pinched in the grip of tongs and held in the fire long enough to be broken down to a molten, malleable state, pounded upon the anvil, shaped, dipped in water to sizzle cool enough to start the process over again— for easy fracture. Many things ended up broken, shelved, stored in closets— pictureless frames and frameless pictures, parts of me hidden away, never to be seen sitting on shelves in black closets— until I emerged chipped but no worse for wear unbroken into the light.
Weekend Writing Prompt #267: This weekend your challenge is to write a poem or a piece of prose in exactly 31 words using the word “Return”.
I envy the monarch’s, the hummingbird’s arc of return,
My jealousy consumes as I have
no return, no cycle—
Only the damnation of this linear thing,
As I prepare the hummingbird feeders To place in the yard, My mind gathers the threads of my what-ifs, Thinking to knit Some alternate reel Of these last few years. But my what-ifs unravel As my hands no longer possess The dexterity to knot The ends and edges Of time I never found To circle the earth, Looking for you As I took wide gaited steps, Covering as much ground As possible. Yet still, knowing Had I found you, My words would Have stumbled Over each other, Clumsy from lacking sense Of time lost, wasted— And yet, I think of you every day, after all these years. The you before the world shrank with color draining away, The you before the new penny color of your hair faded to white, The you with warm blue topaz eyes reflecting sunshine prisms, Not the ice glinting gemstones they became. And I— I had fresh, pure words, Weaving us a blanket of innocence and love As we curved toward each other in youth. But I cannot stride the world anymore In search of you. Thus, I let you go, Hoping you find softness Like the hummingbird Who brushes her cheek against The petals of a dinner plate hibiscus In search of nectar.
I search for words—
Pour what I feel
But my anger
Turns them molten metal,
Defiant to the forms,
The molds I attempt
To use to shape
This gob of white hot liquid metal
It is what they want—
Make us heavy once again
With chains and shackles,
Place and close the Master’s padlock,
A designation of second class,
Something much less than they,
Round our necks once more,
Making of us an example,
So others live in fear
Of what they come for next
And so acquiesce—
Staying silent, eyes lowered,
Hoping to escape notice
By allowing them to feel smug and safe.
My anger burns bright white stripes,
Others will not die bleeding the red.
Remember the stars provide the light
Of what we know is right.
We will not live on our knees
Or on our backs, being beggars
For shredded scraps
Of what is the promise of our nation.
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.
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
There exists no lexicon
For the echoes of emptiness here–
Where the azaleas bloom
Purple, pink, and white,
While dusty looking
Lavender sends up
As roses yield up
Open, thirsting mouths
To the sky.
Though the soil here
Nourishes color and green
While life appears
Although neighbors smile and wave,
The soil remains absent of truth, of meaning,
Of love—of a spirit—of a soul.
No lexicon exists for the emptiness
Echoing throughout the soil
In this place.
Spring threatens to melt into us. Summer follows soon enough. Birds will return, seeking seeds and worms, Building nests for the young to come. Will the birds remember the songs they sing? Songs of summer, songs to mate? Flowers will emerge, warming their petals And leaves under a brilliant sun. Will they remember how to open Their blossoms? Will they remember how to dress themselves In glorious color? How can the birds or flowers remember When the world walks a tightrope Over the abyss And sunflowers may never grow again Tall enough to bow their heavy heads to God?
Leaves half dead brown half living green dappled with the gold of hope, sparkling, dangle from the tree as if life clutched within holds a secret on this wonderful warm winter afternoon— masquerading as a spring day-- joyous—these leaves reflecting light like crystals of a fancy chandelier-- yet the leaves, fragile as they are, will fall upon the forest floor with tomorrow’s cold winds which they cannot withstand and my heart, like the leaves— not green enough to withstand assaulting winter but today, today— chooses to clutch at the hope in this masquerade of spring.