Fear and greed migrate
Cuts a burn path ‘cross land
point blame at blameless
Burning hate migrates
No history lesson learned
decade to decade
Did all Gods migrate?
leaving us to destruction
in abandonment?
A scribe dips a sharpened quill into the red ink well, addressing the naked need for barbed wire fences of words to create barricades in red. Next, weaving starts. Words to cushion, Kevlar words, preventing of any element from penetrating and thus, creating need want desire-- For such things burn,,, dangerous when they trespass the Kevlar of red ink the Scribe fashions with her sharp quill— Words of arm’s length, only so far, no farther, Step back Back away Turn away Words of red to always protect-- Woven into blankets, vests, a house, never to be a home.
golden promises shimmer in summer’s sunlight somehow cozy now think eternity somehow cozy, snuggled in velvet lined starlight as earth turns toward fall no comfort of faith within Fatima’s secrets
days spinning faster
now toward twilight it seems
hours before dawn
years ago hours
lived, died, born again screaming
before twilight’s edge
watch the dawn hours
spin, dizzy and drunk with years,
into twilight’s grave
Bandaged, gauze covered, 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 to keep her bandage always,
Refreshed daily, keeping infection at bay.
https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/category/weekend-writing-prompt/
I envy the monarch’s, the hummingbird’s arc of return,
infinite, eternal.
My jealousy consumes as I have
no return, no cycle—
Only the damnation of this linear thing,
finite, directionless.
Brevity of years
Right, paid in blood + death, destroyed
Fiction drips history
Brevity in 12 words
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.
There exists no lexicon
For the echoes of emptiness here–
Where the azaleas bloom
Purple, pink, and white,
While dusty looking
Lavender sends up
Multiple spikes,
As roses yield up
Open, thirsting mouths
To the sky.
Though the soil here
Nourishes color and green
Growing things,
While life appears
Apparently abundant,
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.
Close the blinds against the grey light. Prepare a cave for the soul in cold January as the wind rages. Contemplation, prayer like John of Patmos? This cave readied, awaits the apocalypse devils wish.
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