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Dance

https://scvincent.com/2020/05/14/thursday-photo-prompt-dance-writephoto/

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.

Tone Deaf

image courtesy of Etsy.com
Written as a response to the following prompt:
https://amanpan.com/2020/05/11/eugis-weekly-prompt-harmony-may-11-2020/

Harmony never made sense to me
And neither did melody.
Can’t tell the difference, you see.
No talent with any instrument.
A singing voice that’d send me
To some lower level of hell.
Well, I’d never play Orpheus,
That’s for sure.
And no matter what you may think,
You ain’t some worthy Eurydice.






 

Every Rose

In breaking silence,

earth and sky kiss again.

At a toast of mid-day,

the moon shows her face,

a smile of grace.

In the glimmer of a star’s dance,

a thorn on dried roses prick,

a reminder of circumstance.

Sweeter Morning

image courtesy of The View from Great Island

Warm now on the edge of summer.

Still, I shiver gathering coffee to my lips.

I war with the craving for a cigarette.

When I take the morning deep into my chest,

The air lacks nicotine.

Years since I kicked that habit,

Yet some mornings it does seem

Nothing could be finer

Than caffeine and nicotine—

But it would not be you and me

Starting our day outside on the covered patio,

Watching for butterflies,

Drinking our coffee and smoking our cigarettes,

Dreams drifting in clouds of nicotine and steam.

Fine tune

Tuning Fork in Water #1 courtesy of KaroAntonyan
Written in response to Weekend Writing Prompt #155 
“Tune”
This weekend your challenge is to write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 10 words.
Sammiscribble.wordpress.com

Use a tuning fork,

Fine tune this old tone-deaf heart.

Sharing Our Truths: Arrival of Spring – M.A. Morris

I am honored to be featured on BraveandReckless.com

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Spring arrived
Barely seen.
Our eyes turned inward.
Suspicious of air,
We could not take spring
Deeply into our lungs,
Feel the warmth of it on our skin,
Taste the freshness of it on our tongues
For fear.

We counted our first born
And tried prayer.
Had we forgotten the blood of the lamb
Above the lintel?

We sought protection in distance,
longing for human touch.
Hate and fear drained us.
We grew weary hearing–
Wash your hands
Don’t touch your face
Wash your hands
Prayed Mother Mary full of grace
Six to ten feet apart we must stand
We feared to touch
Our mothers
Our fathers
Our sisters
Our brothers
Our sons
Our daughters
And longed–
All the more–
For touch.

Yes, this will make us aware—
Appreciate what now
We could not do.
Yes, we would improve,
We would appreciate all.
Technology would see us through.

Somewhere in…

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The Perfect Legend

image courtesy of windowtoparadise.com

Written in response to Eugi’s Weekly Prompt-

“Legend”- April 20, 2020

The day you left,

You became a legend

In the child’s heart.

True, she was a woman/child

By that time, but you—

Dying too young,

You became a legend,

Crafted to perfection

In her child’s heart.

Her memory forging steel

Fiction tales of your deeds

With iron ore dust of truth.

And I became the villain,

Who had neither the words,

The charms, the incantations

For healing to whisper

Over your body,

Nor had I the spells

To cast so you would live.

Thus, I was guilty of crimes against

Humanity in the book where she kept

A record of all my misdeeds, sins, crimes.

And now, she is grown.

A woman now and she finds

I am just a little less guilty,

Not so much the criminal,

In the present.

But you,

You will always be

The perfect legend.

The Quilt

Sown together,
A patchwork quilt,
Torn and worn
Through all the years.

Sew places torn.
Patch places worn.
Put away to be used again.
Soft and broken in.
But not much left
To cushion or to warm
Against the chill of autumn,
The cold of winter, or the setting sun.
Not much left to be any good at all.

You’d have to take it apart.
Re-stitch, re-sew, replace the batting,
Find new scrapes and cut to make the pieces fit.
Wouldn’t it be better to start from scratch
Than to try to re-make something so old, so worn, so weary?
Wearied from the years of sheltering breaking hearts,
Wearied from the years of taking tears,
Wearied of being tossed to the floor
When the needing time ended,
Wearied of being the place
Of softness
For everyone else,
But itself.

Early Morning Walk

Her Mona Lisa smile

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–

The Nomad

Image from dreamtime.com

I have lived a nomad
Inside my own life.
I have wandered
From old homes
To new, attempting
Always to find a fit,
A place my tent could forever rest.
A time or two, maybe three,
I took rest in the heart of another,
Feeling blessed for a time of such
Delightful comfort,
Yet I’ve never found a place
to end my nomadic travels,
A ceaseless, endless
Restlessness.

Written as part of Sammiscribbles.wordpress.com writing prompt where one is given a word, in this case NOMAD, and must write a poem or short fiction piece in exactly 68 words.