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
She stood outside the car, the driver impatiently snacking on pistachio nuts inside. The waiting seemed interminable. She’d come so far for this moment. Found the certificate stuffed in her mother’s journal. Attended the funeral, dry-eyed, in shock. This was her destiny. Would he recognize it as his?
How could a name inscribed on a document, assume fatherhood after a lifetime in absentia? She held the document in shaking hands, ready to show him the proof. She could see the trail of dust far down the road, kicked up by the approaching vehicle. A new reality was about to materialize.
Written for Friday Fictioneers where the talented Rochelle Wisoff-Fields poses a photo prompt each week. Classified by some as “flash fiction” we are to limit our text to 100 words or less. Word Count here = 100 Photo Credit: Kent Bonham
Come roundabout with me.
January then January,
again and again.
Hours one to twelve repeat
add A to M or change to P.
Teeter up must teeter down
hinged to teeter up again.
Perennials are as annuals will.
Your hands are theirs and ours
to fold, to point, to plant and pray.
Stones cast upon the waters
ripple out toward the morrow.
Time copulates where we are
and when we’re not.
I am. You are. We are will be
small arcs within the world
go roundabout with thee.
When the cacophony of news blares deafening dreadful,
‘tis time to still one’s feet, one’s hands, one’s mind.
Seek the beautiful, but for a moment.
Listen to stillness and you will hear the quiet.
Contemplate the beside you ~
the chair upon which you sit
the cold-hot water you may choose to drink, to draw
the texture of cloth which warms your skin
the view through glass panes that alternates,
day to night to day again
the love you carry within your heart,
from those who have held your hands.
Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.
Then slowly rise and move deliberately,
into the good.
It’s Tuesday and that means Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Paul is hosting and tells us about a book, Anam Cara, by Irish poet/philosopher John O’Donahue, which includes a number of “Blessings” poems. Paul asks us to write a blessing, adding “and may our words create ripples in the pond of the world.” Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come soar with us! Photo taken a number of years ago on our Baltic cruise.
Ring me a path round the sun,
rainbow filaments in cloud tulle veil
daffodil slippers, bluebelle gloves
and dew drop rouge.
Kaleidoscope living on a color wheel.
Storm-grey ombrés to brightest white
pale pink to fuscia bold,
my patina glows.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where it’s Quadrille Monday (poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title). De is hosting and prompts us with the word “storm.” Photos of yesterday’s amazing sky in Andover, MA. Artist’s palette is outside a studio in St George, Bermuda.
She stood at the abyss
stared straight ahead, contemplating.
To gaze down and succumb,
or look up and search the night sky,
seek one shooting star
one point of light, one gift her quest:
a day followed by tomorrows.
I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. The prompt for today is to write a poem using the word “gift.” Consider the many ways the word can be used: gift of gab, a special trait, a package wrapped in ribbons, gifting someone, etc. Photo: Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Gardeners sow seeds of hope,
and then their work begins.
They understand the maxim of love.
It is in the tending that beauty blooms.
Photo from the Village of Blarney gardens in Ireland.
Sow seeds of beauty as you travel earth.
Mirror the sun.
Shine kindness upon frozen souls,
splash colors brightly.
Climb as the ivy does,
each dawn higher,
each morn basking in hope.
Written for dVerse where Björn hosts, asking us to write about soil/earth. Photos: Norwegian fjords; gardens in Blarney Village (Ireland); house in Kinsale, Ireland; dawn from the deck of our cruise ship on our way to Dublin. Final photo taken in midst of Norwegian fjords fascinates me — note the shadow of mountains on the mountain — looks like a face!
Listen to the glisten,
can you hear it?
stars in scrim of night
luminous path upon the seas
smiling shining eyes
dancing sun in forest leaves
Gaze deeply and calm your soul.
Photo taken some years ago while camping in Mr. Rainier National Park.
and hummingbird wings.
Deluge of delights.
Photo taken in Provincetown some years ago.