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 leaned against the wall
sun beating down
sweat on her brow,
No doubt about it
a long hard fall
a catastrophe ’tis true,
but she’d landed on her feet.
She counted in her head
one . . .
two . . .
ah. . . . just three.
She arched her back
preened a bit
and catwalked down the lane.
Six more to go.
Includes July’s word prompt from my granddaughter, “catastrophe.”
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.
I take my walkabouts at the optimum time of day,
always with my shadow in the lead,
following her confident pace,
one step at a time into my future.
Sharing with dVerse, Open Link Night. Photo in public domain.
before the mirror of time,
body so different
from my youthful days.
Behold the origamic shapeshifter,
like that ancient Japanese artistic form.
I have been myriads of reiterations
sans pencil, paint and cutting board.
I see an intricacy of lines
deftly creased again and again
touched by life and love.
I am beauty within my folds.
Written for dVerse where today Kim asks us to write a poem to help someone facing a problem such as “finding your first wrinkle” or the “birthday blues.”
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.
Day of rest,
unplugged I shall be.
Sing in community,
skip down paths
by grandchildren giggles.
Pass out smiles,
celebrate blue skies
I choose simplicity,
to live in wonder
and believe in love.
Photo taken a number of years ago at the Trapp Lodge in Vermont.
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.
…thy voice speaks to me.
Rolling hills of green
ancient Celtic cross
sixth century monastic ruins.
Paths echo medieval prayer
parlay murmurs of buried souls
stones tipped and etched by time.
I tread lightly through hallowed ground
savor the quiet of this place.
Glendalough, thou art a soothing song.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Mish prompts us to write of an abstract thing (I chose serenity) using sensory description. Photos: Glendalough, Ireland, the valley of the two lakes renowned for its Early Medieval monastic settlement founded by St Kevin in the 6th century. We opted for an excursion that took us into the countryside, outside of Dublin, rather than a city or pub tour. This is a truly beautiful and mystical place.