For The Sunday Muse prompt #79 and Wordle 472
Sometimes beautiful things
can dance in the light –
the dainty and the dense
chiming together, their hum
heavy with intent as it probes
the edge between the steady
and the sublime.
In washing the raw hide of
of a dead gazelle with salt
there is a saving from its struggle
with putrefaction, a prayer
for forgiveness, for absolution
for the crime of taking by brute force.
Here on the edge
of the things we think we know
the dainty and the dense become as one,
both reduced to subsisting
at the mercy of the things which hold
For The Sunday Muse prompt #40 and The Sunday Whirl Wordle 388. In The Middle of Freedom, Image Source.
My fingers mould the pliant clay
beneath the surface of this puddle
into an image of a memory; each
mound of earth rubbed round between
my fingers a portion of a story emerging
like birds set free from a gilded cage.
The memory is a chain anchoring
the fluid present to the stable past.
It pulses like a thing that lives –
somehow more alive with freedom
than at first it would seem.
For The Sunday Muse #39 and Wordle 387 from The Sunday Whirl. Image Source.
Here in the shadow
Of despair, loneliness
Hangs in the air like
A wet coat, the silence
Like the weight of pebbles
Beneath which which one sags,
Broken at the knees.
Each step towards
The distant light is a prayer
Of repenting, for forgetting
What love in the wild
Step by step, walk after walk
We are making this world
Whole again, heeding the
Inner call to become
Wild and free again.
“Guardian” by Chie Yoshii, for The Sunday Muse #37 and The Sunday Whirl Wordle 385 prompts:
She perches on your shoulder
This invisible guardian of the night
Her voice a quiet word
Whispered in your ear
Barely heard above the din
The way text, lightly etched
On a slab of stone would look
In the shimmer of dusk.
A dream deferred cannot slip back
Into a sleepless mind.
Once a butterfly’s eyes
Have seen the light of freedom;
Once its kicks have set it free
From the caul of the caterpillar
It cannot become a larva again.
The prophecy is guidance promised;
That when, in the heat of the midday sun,
You beg a drink of clean water
From the store, you will return in peace
Because her word has gone before.
For Sunday Muse #36 and The Sunday Whirl Wordle 384
The call of the future
comes from across the border
bringing hope to this poor, tired pilgrim-
slouched beneath the weight of an open promise
and the remains of failures past.
Tomorrow is uncertain, not promised
but staying still wastes today
so with intent I risk safety to seek
the joy beyond the flood plains of seven rivers
and the welcome of a home where
hypocrisy is no more.
We brave the howling wind, wincing on the odd occasion when its icy fingers somehow reach within the folds of our coats to touch our necks. Along the snow covered streets, the children play, their shrieks of joy as they spin again and again piercing the air a hundred hundred times until they drop with exhaustion. From the coffee shop around the corner, different caramel drizzled drinks bring back their strength. This is the plan, to – with any luck – keep them so occupied that all they can do on the train home is sleep, so we get some peace and quiet.
For Wordle 381:
Last night they gathered with intent, forty-eight memos a lingering stench that could no longer be shrugged away. Behind the bluster of “doing the right thing” was the lure of the keys to Number 10.
When the frame is badly broken can the picture be restored? Is the crime of lying words so great that everything is irretrievably broken and no longer of use? Inside, the Wounded lived to fight another day; outside the circling hyenas beaten back for a season will return.
For Wordle 380:
This entity –
bare arms rippling with intent-
out of thin air.
Time and time again,
for losing one’s head
in a flurry of jabs
is overcome by the evidence
of winning, the one thing
missing in this me being
a fear that flinches
before the rolling fists land.
This is how it ends-
from the claws of loss
when we decide.
Photo by Hannah Olinger on Unsplash
One of my earliest memories of doing stuff with my mother is of a newspaper cutout, sheets of paper and her sitting beside me encouraging me to apply whatever iota of critical thinking I could summon to whatever was the task of the day, usually some Close Up essay competition or the other. I don’t recall us ever submitting any of those, the discipline of wrestling thoughts into semi-coherent arguments perhaps being the point of the entire exercise. That sense of writing as a vehicle for thinking aloud about a subject is one that has stayed with me over the years.
I would like to say that this search for (small t) truth at the nexus of a subject is what motivates me to write but that would be bending the truth somewhat. That is partly the truth of course, but it is the sense of being curator of my own little corner of the internet, and the probability – however increasingly minuscule in this world of SEO and algorithms – that makes me write publicly. I have known the delights of minds connecting over a turn of phrase deliciously delivered and also the angst from forlorn pages which have seemingly disappeared into the great void of the internet. Be that as it may, that is a drug, the lingering memories of a past hit drawing me to write again and again in hope.