Standing in lunar light, hands extended to cloudy, star studded skies, I scream to the heavens. Silhouette me!
This cursed disease. It is a time machine with rusted levers. Disengaging cogs cranking ever more slowly. They will stop far too soon. I cannot leave shadows behind. Dark thoughts of what-ifs and could-have-beens. Family and friends who will only remember the deep hollows of my eyes. The chaffed dry skin pulled tautly across these brittle bones.
They deserve better. I deserve better. Realign your celestial scrim! If there be Ursa Major, then let there be me. A forever galaxy of light.
Originally written for a Flash Fiction challenge/competition I saw — to write a piece of 100 words or less, using the word “silhouette.” Unfortunately, I waited too long and the deadline was past. Assurances to my readers: this is fiction. Photo in public domain at Pixabay.com
Words falter, flicker,
like a moist match head
producing sulfuric stench
dropping its ash.
Ideas flit through synapses
dead end at fingertips.
Oh fleeting poetic muse,
thou has forsaken me.
Clouds filter lunar rays,
I am spent.
Feather dust star strewn night,
spread sparkle sheen to darkest place
and shine the earth with hope.
Written for misky’ twiglet prompt, “shedding dust.” The words are used to motivate a thought, fragment, idea…the shorter the better.
to thrive in this topsy turvey world.
I shall walk upside down, toes in the stars,
leave diamond shaped footsteps in the sky.
When down is up and in is out,
I shall touch the soil with outstretched arms
fingers wriggling in earthworm rings.
I will be a handstand acrobat
padding through sunflower fields,
pollen dust knees attracting bees.
When the sun sets, I shall ride the moon,
kicking stars into nova showers
and I shall never wane.
Bjorn is tending bar at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. He challenges us to make our words into the equivalent of expressionistic art. “The simplest and most effective way to define expressionism is that you present the world in a totally subjective perspective.” He also asks us to write in the first person. Bar opens at 3:on PM Boston time. Come join us! Artwork: The Starry Night by Van Gogh.
Surrounding reality melts as I seek the comfort of sleep. In that half-aura, lying with eyes closed, weight of quilt on chest, I work to release tense shoulders, facial muscles. Within my mind’s eye, weightless arms rise, outstretched. I float above my body, cares released, and soar into the night.
heron, tense, alert
dives hungry into dark sea
soars with silver fish
Björn hosts haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Photo credit: Bird Sirin by artist Sergey Solomko. We’re asked today to find artwork that does not illustrate our haibun, rather compliments its meaning. Haibun: short prose, not fiction, followed by haiku. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time.
Simplicity is a roomy closet, an empty drawer,
stars overhead and terra firma souls.
Memories and dreams conjured
from maps, photo albums, paper and pen.
Long walks in whatever weather,
wherever place, your arms round me.
Thankful for everyday.
Tobacco Bay. Ten minute walk from our rental in St George’s, Bermuda.
My Namrah, fantastical beast,
is always waiting near.
When fear accompanies darkness,
I know he will be here.
He flies me to the shining stars,
appears within my dreams.
Lifts me up on widespread wings
and soars through sequined streams.
Frank is our guest host at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, and asks us to write a poem in common meter. This is one of the most difficult types of poetry for me to master. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time.
Pull the moon within my reach
sprinkle stars in my palms
open my eyes to untold mysteries.
Let me journey through life
unabashed and brave.
OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Come join us and share your words or imbibe the thoughts of others. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Photo is in public domain.
slipping from here to there,
drifting toward sleep
my hand reaches for yours.
I will not let you cross alone
this darkening nocturnal bridge.
Fingers interweave. I wait. I listen.
Soft even breaths become my evensong
and I succumb to dreams.
Hosting the dVerse virtual pub for poets today. I’m asking folks to write a poem that contains the word “bridge.” So many possibilities! Come join us – bar opens at 3 PM Boston time.
rare glimpse of winter anger
snow angels disappear in gales.
Softly swirling snow
heaven’s hushed lullaby
midst city streets and sounds.
She stands by her window
wrapped in color splashed comforter.
Forehead on cool pane, eyes closed,
her thoughts begin to drift
like falling snow on once green mounds.
Photo: From our window…looking out on Boston as snow piles up on ground, trees and window sill.