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.
Photography by Svetlana Belyaeva click HERE for website. For the Sunday Muse Prompt #71
Where fear once threaded
its tiny tendrils through our
feet, and captive hearts
We choose to fly free
leaving behind the safety
of this confined space.
Because though freedom
only is a promise, it
trumps certain defeat.
Gift, for The Sunday Muse prompt #68. Photography by Edouard Boubat.
Against the pressure of the sea
and the darkness of the depths,
the gift has been formed, layer by layer
each crystal a prayer offered up
for protection from the predation
of the boring sponge, the oyster worm
and the scurrying crab.
Each day that water has washed over it –
wearing tiny paths across its stubborn skin –
a battle has been won; of survival,
and quiet reassurance. And when someday,
bequeathed by the sea, it lies
in the hands of a grateful child,
its hardy brilliance will yet still speak,
more loudly in its silence than all the things
it has survived.
Photo by Thiago Matos from Pexels. For the Sunday Muse prompt #67
Even broken things can
sometimes find a use: jagged
edges catching light,
a half-face teasing
memory, and imagination.
For The Wednesday Muse Prompt, Summer Rain.
It hangs in the air like a shroud,
this heavy, brooding cloud of dust
through which the sun tries
to force its way; the same way
a frail old man, bent double at the waist,
tries to hack his way through dense undergrowth,
by dint of will power and persistence.
Suddenly, like a giant oak falling,
squashing dense foliage with its weight,
the heavens are torn by rain, and relief.
Peals of thunder, flashes of lightning birth
many miracles of tiny rivers suddenly sprung,
washing away the dust of earth baked dry,
after which comes the smell of new, clean things,
of rebirth and things made whole again.
One Day I’ll Fly Away. Photo by Hayley Roberts. For The Sunday Muse Prompt #66.
Waiting here before
this wall of burnt brick reaching
high above my head
freedom seems distant
a mirage shimmering in
the distance; promised.
Hope deferred makes sick
the longing heart, but in this
sliver of breaking light,
the echo of the
promise rings, one day I’ll spread
my wings and fly away.
For The Sunday Muse prompt #63. Image: the butterfly jar by lostinthisphotograph
The beauty of these golden wings
wrestled free, breath by breath,
from the confines of a cocoon,
finds itself entombed again,
the memory of its flitting
flight a distant echo now far
removed from the frozen present,
a life stilled.