For The Sunday Muse Prompt #84. Image Source.
Behind the grime,
and the ravages
of time the remains
of living now lie,
each layer of dirt
a sigh, a dirge
for the mystery
for how easy
it is for things
once woven into
the fabric of the
present to slip
beneath the shroud
of the memories
we lose. Maybe this
is what leaving is,
to the way they
For The Sunday Muse Prompt #83. Image “After The Rain” by Cyril Rolando
at the echo of
the booming thunder,
of its clap like
the roar of a lion
stirred, a brilliance
incandescent in its majesty
as it splits the night sky
like a warm knife
I have shivered
in the embrace
of a light rain
its fluid fingers,
by persistence finding
their way through
my garments till
they meet my
against the heat,
against the dust,
the wind and the
a raging river
After the rain
new life and
For The Sunday Muse Prompt #82.
in their noon day
repose, strength hides
within their supple limbs,
the power of the one –
unfettered in its reach –
melded to the quiet guile
of the other; together –
a Whole stronger than its parts –
freely, wildly going.
For The Sunday Muse Prompt #81. Photography by Sarolta Ban (Website HERE)
The lure of the lyre –
alive in its reverb – calls out,
inviting beauty and the beast
to dance, to yield to the rhythm
of the wind, as it rustles
in the leaves, swaying the trees.
We all – boar and deer-
of earth born and saved,
gather here, to dance
the gentle dance
of the dark.
For the Sunday Muse prompt #80 and Wordle 428. Image source.
I carry a heavy silence
in my missing parts, each breath
a prayer for resolve to fight
the desire to resign myself
to the ache of a festering disgust
spawned by the echoes of a lie
borne up on the winds from the hills
into the valley’s depths.
Outside a crisis looms –
our house of cards built
up brick by brick with the things
we want to believe slowly yields
to the probing of the truth,
until in the way things really are
I find myself covered, whole again.
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 #78. Image copyright Erik Johansson.
Stroke by stroke these
words, hewn by force, as though from
resistant rock are building a shelter,
each one a link to a thought and then
a world beating back the clouds which loom,
a slowly growing splash of colour
holding out against the ashen night without.
These words are calling the trees,
to stand in defiance against the howling wind
and the ground, now covered with frost, to cling
to life, through the night, because
tomorrow comes, and with beginning again.
For The Sunday Muse Prompt #75. Image Source.
A yellow orb,tethered
to the earth by slender strings
descends, its yellow light
a hue cast over this dream
in which I find myself looking
at my selves; the past and the future
holding the hands of the present,
tiny figures scurrying up
ladders which seem to reach
for the sky, reinventing
what is seen. Darkness lingers
in the corners of this vista
but stroke by stroke
pixel by pixel, the dream
and reality are slowly
melding into one.
Image source, for The Sunday Muse prompt #74
Like the slowly louder clunks
a train’s wheels send ahead,
as it wends its way along ancient tracks,
the old man’s memories float
slowly to the fore, the streaks
of dappled light dancing
on the walls behind his face
a spotlight, falling on him
the same way it falls on
a minstrel at a cabaret, drawing a hush
out of the muted mumblings of the gathered.
Though his wrinkled skin, once soft
now lies wrinkled, warped and folded
and his fingers once supple now lack dexterity,
like a seagull resplendent in its freedom
the memories of past songs return,
the track and the piano fusing in
a crescendo refusing to be silenced.
For the Sunday Muse prompt #73.
Beneath the garb of
Prudence and propriety
deep delight can lurk.