Whispered Tales

Image courtesy of Pinterest.com

A phoenix rises in flames

From out the left side of my chest

With feathers of flame yet,

Set free to fly where it wills.

 

One day, it will return,

Nuzzling deep inside my chest again,

All the ashes gone,

All flame having died away,

Its fiery colored feathers

Whispering, singing to my blood

Of beauty seen,

Of tantalizing things touched,

Of all the air breathed, smelled, felt,

Of the sounds soft and harsh heard

All along the way around the earth.

 

Through the whispered tales

Of those fiery feathers

My blood will tell me

Where I am to go.

 

Winter Has No Cheer

Image courtesy of Pinterest.com
Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge—December 8, 2020 | Go Dog Go Café (godoggocafe.com)

As winter whispers

The longing starts

For warmer days

Of a warming spring

Leaking slowly

Into a sweltering summer.

As winter whispers

In pretense of knowing

Warmth and cheer

Of holidays it cannot contain

In its freezing coldness,

We are left untouched

For far too long—

Our souls grow grey

In these winter days

And leap at the hope

Contained in striking colors

Of Winter’s sunsets–

Only to have hope

Bashed, broken, bleeding

Against the frozen Winter

Ground.  As Winter whispers,

Chuckling at our fragile humanity. 

Schooled

Image courtesy of Daily Hive
https://amanpan.com/2020/10/12/eugis-weekly-prompt-foresight-october-12-2020/
https://godoggocafe.com/2020/10/13/tuesday-writing-prompt-challenge-october-13-2020/

 

In the fading light,

My hindsight schools, lectures, drills

My foresight

In how to take steps,

In how to look away,

In how to live hopeless,

In how to heal with saltwater dreams

Overflowing with hope.

Yet still with foresight

In how to guard,

My scars, my wounds,

My picked at scabs

In this

fading light of days

Unfilled,

Lived,

Cheered,

Flowering with dreams,

Left

Of life remaining.

Thoughts on a Stone Fairy

Photo from social media attributed to Jean-Michel Bihorel

I started to write this one when I first saw this photo on Facebook.  I did some research to find the true name of the mountain and then wrote down a few lines. Then I saw Eugenia’s weekly prompt was “fairy” and things took off from there.

UPDATE– However, the fact checkers did not have all the facts when I checked, and it seems I was duped.  Fact checkers I used (and I used several) only had the name of the mountain as being incorrect, and they all agreed that this was a drone image.  However, it seems they have been updated and the image is really the digital work of an artist named Jean-Michel Bihorel.  Thank you to Susi Blocks who brought this to my attention.  I may remove the post entirely but I will take a minute to think about that.

https://amanpan.com/2020/08/10/eugis-weekly-word-prompt-fairy-august-10-2020/

She rests now,

              Snowbound,

              ‘Sleeping,

Some giant stone fairy of another land,

Another time, when fantastic creatures

Walked with us.

There is in me

Awe, admiration of her peace—

Thinking wistfully of what if’s—

Had I been born a giantess of stone

Or one with fairy blood of snow—

I could have loved her,

              Curled behind her,

              Spooned for centuries.

              No one to care,

              Know,

              Disturb the peace

              We shared—

              Till seen from above

              By a modern drone—

Then perhaps humanity might again know

Fantastical creatures once roamed,

Possessing magic.

But I am no fantastic being.

Possessing no magic,

I am no match for a mythic wonder.

My blood, without a drop of the fairy kind,

Destine for warmer, ordinary climes.

Gratitude

Image courtesy of Flickr

August–

The resplendent month,

Of sun’s heat and blinding light.

The lethargic month

Of jealousy’s blight,

A thing of loss, not fought.

August—

The milestone marking month,

Of anniversaries, holidays, tears.

The flaming month

Of ashes where freedom,

A rising thing, held dear.

https://amanpan.com/2020/08/03/eugis-weekly-prompt-august-august-3-2020/

On The Horizon

Image courtesy of Sue Vincent

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.

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.

Catacomb of Colors

Wikipedia image of Rosh HaNikra grottoes

I can hide in catacombs of colors and never look to the sky.
My blood shed, bled out in tiny droplets of all the years of parting,
dripping, draining in the darkness
And carried away, scattered to the winds,
Leavings upon the ground, seedless seeds,
Sprouting up in colorless flowers of summer without colors,
Without the dreams of sunlight on their faces,
Without fragrance sweet, divinity in scents we can never forget lost.
We learn to live with regrets taken, earned, packed away
With the mortgage of things within our hearts, within our lifetimes of meaning,
Within our trying just one more damn time,
Drifting up in clouds of long-ago cigarette smoke.
Crush this dried out husk of me,
Scatter those particles of dust to the wind
And see if colors sprout once that dust settles upon the ground,
See if there’s meaning left within their regrets,
See if there’s fragrance, some elegance of divinity within a scent
To be remembered when there is nothing,
Nothing left but this wisp of memory
Within your breath.
Let go my hand, love. Leave me wrapped in the shroud
Of all my days and regrets shared along the way
To here, this time of parting. Leave me to hide away
In this catacomb of colors.

Horrid Spring

image from kilduff’s.com

Wind and rain
Of this horrid spring
Whips us to perfection
Of brokenness being
Beaten souls
That we are
In this time of need
And want of touch.
Our loneness sheltered
Bodies, our silence shattered souls,
Contoured colors of minds
Restrained our madness
In this once upon a time.
If only to wake in the warmth
Of human skin upon skin
Once again in some perfumed swirl
Contained in believing a speck of faith
Preserved as a fly in amber.
That fly who found rest
In warm liquid ooze
But was never to escape.
Yes, grateful to escape to
This fitful rest though, yes,
It is, indeed, blessed.
My mind scatters,
Struggles to find a train of thought
To ride in peace from one station
To the next, make a trip to the elegance
Of a dining car, white glove service
And all else– in contrast—
To this vast emptiness—
With which to wrestle like Jacob,
But my soul has long been crippled.
All the trains left the station,
Ran circles around my heart,
Chugging on into the tunnels
To find there isn’t much
In expectation on the other side
Of those darkened tunnels.
No light, no light,
Just a cold grey
Of a horrid spring.