Imitations of Petals

Image is my own

Eugi’s Weekly Prompt – Petals – July 29, 2021 – Eugi’s Causerie (amanpan.com)


Petals of these words
Capture not your true essence,
A perfume to me.

The rarest flowers
With their soft, fragrant petals
Are waxen mimics

Of

You stretched, glowing sleep
A contented, wonderous sight
Perfect perfection.

The Smoothness of Ink

Image Courtesy of The Irish Times

https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2021/06/26/weekend-writing-prompt-215-ink/

Its flow

From the tip of my fountain pen—

Not smooth enough–

Fails capturing anything

Within this labyrinth of senses

Now alive

The Words Rebel

I had an argument with all my words today. 

For they would not stay
in their delightfully organized spots.
Seems, if you will,
they wanted to jump around and play,
ignoring the sense of my color coded dots.

I must admit I lost my patience, yelling,
“We will never accomplish
anything useful if you play
In this most rambunctious way.”

To this, they in unison whined,
“Why must we be serious all the damn time?”

And to that, I could not provide argument.
Thus, we decided to play
And took a vacation today.

The Chase of Words

Image courtesy of Windows Report

VJ’s Weekly Challenge: The Chase – One Woman’s Quest II


 

The words—

It is the always—the words—

I have always been

Searching the sidewalks, paths, trails, highways, the sky outside

     For the words—

Combing gently through those I love

     For the words—

Hunting the faces of strangers, my own face, my dogs, my friends

     For the words—

Scouring the hearts, the souls of those I observe

     For the words—

Ransacking restful, peace giving nature

     For the words—

Scourging even, in the chase, my faith

     For the words—

And they are never perfect.

Words for You

image courtesy opmat.org.au

https://onewomansquest.org/2020/05/18/vjs-weekly-challenge-96-circling/

 

Circle through the years of youth

Find the gems along the streams

Of your years, my love.

Collect them in a basket,

Keep them close.

When the time comes

Give each away to your

Young ones.

Make each a gift,

Tied with ribbons

Of what you dream

And all of your

Wishes

For them.

As I have given

All my words

As a gift

Tied with ribbons

Of my dream

Of love

And my wish

Of happiness

For you,

My love,

My gift,

My daughter.

The Words

I
Words scattered across the page.
Words littering the soul.

All these words
Piled upon the table,
A hoarder’s table of words.

Words left unsaid,
Unwritten,
A bouquet of words
Wilting in the heart and mind.

Words twisted in contortionist meaning
Of manipulations,
Weaponized for destruction,
Yet leaving victims living.
II
Words of things that can’t be said.
Words of things that should have been.
Words of things we could not speak out of fears too deep.
Words of things we could not begin to understand
Of ourselves, of each other.
Words of things we wanted so to believe
Of others, of the world.
Words of hope
Of love
Of charity
Of peace.
Words of what we have lost.
Words of what we may never again find.
III
Words, words, words
Slipping through the fingers
Like water in a desert,
Dripping away, evaporating
Before they can be used.

Words, words, words
Twisting round the wrists,
Writhing up the arms,
Biting the face and neck,
Killing before they can be used.

Words, words, words
Left unread by faded ink,
Left unwritten by a tired mind,
Left unsaid by a fear filled mouth.

 

A Word

Remember whispered intimations

In the time before sleep.

Having faced down the hours

Of another day of what must be done,

How long will it take before

Forgetfulness wipes the whispers away

Of well-intentioned comfort

Along with any memory

Of facades presented but to a few

Who knew the truth?

Until then, stumble onward

Facing the intimidation

Of a blank page,

Smash a soul against it.

Read the splatters left

And know time is the matter.

Time, neither too fast, nor too slow

Can it pass before realizing

Nothing really mattered,

But the kindness

In forgetfulness.

Heart and Soul

 Tell me a truth 
 of burning flames.
  
 Better yet,
 Chant me all the truth
 Of a holy rosary.
  
 Or would you whisper a truth
 Of a head on a silver platter.
  
 Perhaps, you’d like to
 Express the truth
 Of a dance through the city.
  
 Or act out the truth
 In the washing of your hands.
  
 Could you do all that,
 Plus destroy a temple or two,
 And it be the truth 
 Of your heart?
  
 I know you say it would
 But no bushes burn,
 No seas part,
 No lepers heal, 
 No dead rise
 When you know nothing
 Of your own heart and soul. 

In the Songs of Birds

When I was three,
My mother taught me to read,
And words
Became playthings and playmates
As I sat in the back of the restaurant
Watching her work her dream to death.

Later, as I grew,
Family losses piled, heaped
Weighty upon the shoulders of a nine-year-old.
Words became
Escape, shelter, survival,
A path out of destruction.

And so, words stayed
For more years than I’d care to say.

But now here,
Waking mornings,
Hearing birdsong,
Or in early evening,
The warm sun blanketing
My skin as I fill the birdfeeders,
I hear words in the songs of birds.
Silly though it may seem,
The cardinals have much to say,
“It’s cheaper here. It’s cheaper here.”
To “Pretty, pretty, pretty.”
The mockingbirds chatter away
Announcements of “She’s here, she’s here, she’s here.”
And I’m not sure which bird continually asks,
“Wanna see, wanna see, wanna see a receipt?”
All the while, the Blue Jays squawk away,
Warning all the others,
“Stay away! Stay away!”
Then in the chittering of the squirrels,
I hear the demand,
“Where’s the food? Where’s the food?
You let the food run out! How dare you?”
As they scurry away,
Pretending, at least, to be afraid of me.

Among all the noise and chatter
All the words of birds and squirrels
One word, never felt before now,
I feel move within my chest,
Peace.

Falconry

animals_hero_red-tailed_hawk_0 (1)

A screeching hawk climbs overhead,
Gliding, swooping in pursuit,
Her flight a perfect merger
Of beauty, purpose, and skill.

If only, if only
I could capture such a hawk
Train and bend
That beauty and skill
To do the bidding of my will.

Sent forth from my hand
In a powerful surge of wings,
Pummeling air,
Finding the perfect draught of air
To glide upon,
Turning, searching for prey,
Then sighting her trophy, her prize,
Sweeping down, a beat of wings,
A shift of body,
Talons extended,
What seems a pause,
A slowing,
Talons snatching,
Squeezing, sinking into a snake’s skin,
Wings beat, once, twice,
A cry as she lifts her body
And her limp prize,
Upon the air to glide,
Turning homeward,
The purity of her purpose,
A dance upon the air,
Done.

If only, if only
From my hand could fly
Such beautiful purity of purpose.