Being Seen

For The Sunday Muse Prompt #175, and the shades of that garden it reminds me of:

I am dreaming again
of days gone by,
of nights  – heavy
with the weight
of solitude –  lightened
by the joy of discovery,
a light born of tumult
in an age of innocence.
This is what the
glow-worms in their
flitting feel,
each shimmer
of light a whisper
into the night
to see and be seen.


For The Sunday Muse prompt #123:


Even in the darkness
the beauty of lent light
shines through, the golden
petals of the sunflowers
magnificent as they follow
the sun. Beauty, hitherto
hidden, is called out
by the sharing of the light,
the sum of its parts
many times more brilliant
than when it hides alone.

A Prayer for Lost Loves

For The Sunday Muse prompt #114:

May the pains
of today’s desires
lose themselves in
the fragrance of
a love reborn,
the pained passion of
unrequited love find itself
returned in time
like a blossom that speaks,
a sacred whisper to the soul
colouring everything in
the light of a rose,
beautiful in its bleeding
yet whole, because the Lover
and the Loved like thorn and rose
find themselves entwined,
from past pain and tortured paths,
delirious joy arising.


For The Sunday Muse Prompt #82.

Though quiet
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.

Night Sky


night sky2

For The Sunday Muse prompt, Night Sky

The starlight sprinkled
like tiny slivers of silver
splashed against a dark canvas
peels back the curtain
on a tumultuous past-
birth, death, dust clouds swirling,
mists of primordial molecules
accreting, then Becoming –
a message to the future from the past
echoing down the aeons like a strummed string.
I was here before you were; before
your father was, and his father’s father too
Now you see me as I was. Ponder.

Wordle 381: Half Dead



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.