Weight

For The Sunday Muse prompt #120,  and B who in (wo)manfully wrestling pain to a standstill reminds us to hope again…

**
Remember, in
the failing light
of falling night,
when the weight
of the world feels
like a thing around
your neck, that
we see you, proud
against the night-
feet planted firmly
in the mushy earth,
unflinching
in the maelstrom.
Like the North Star
sometimes hidden,
sometimes peering out
from behind the clouds,
a beacon showing home
we see you and believe
again.

One

For The Sunday Muse Prompt #119, Artistic Photography Dreamlike Portrait Photography by Damien Casals:

**
You and I
are becoming one,
our unspoken words
a voice, mellow
in its timbre,
its echo light
like a soft hand
yet firm, kneading out
the noise from
the silence that we share.
In that silence
of being and being present,
of returning and reforming,
of holding out against
the pressure of the world,
are broken things
becoming whole again,
each breath a small victory
won by persistence,
a fresh shoot
pushing its way
through the things
that rage has razed.

Silence, For C…

For C, and the others 2020 has taken. A response to the Poetic Asides prompt, Pandemic. Photo by Marina Reich on Unsplash
**
Where the patter
of your footsteps
once roamed
silence reigns,
the joy of breath
and thought
and sonorous song
subsumed by the
frailty of things.

Death lingered
at your door, too long
and then snatched you.
In the silence that you leave
we remember the things
we planned tomorrow.

Wafting

For The Sunday Muse Prompt #95.

***
It thunders,
and then it wafts,
its wispy tendrils
slowly rising like
the white smoke
of incense from a censer,
held aloft by a priest
intoning a muttered
prayer. Behind,
a bridge to the past
hides, disappearing,
as it were, into
the haze of memory;
ahead, the future –
not yet glimpsed
but in the moment
frozen – and enjoyed.

Abandonment

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
of abandonment,
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,
things returning
to the way they
always were.

Gift

 

sea shell for post

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.