For The Sunday Muse prompt #180:
We come to water
to be washed and be reborn,
this hand cupping the curvature
of the face, the other dipped,
drenched in the very fluid
from which we come, the space
between the fingers of that hand
filled with the water, straining
against the strictures
of the hand.
We come to water
to lose ourselves in the beauty
of the simple things, to see
the dirt of our days and the detritus
of the night loosen, dissolving
until we see ourselves pristine
whole again, the way we
have imagined in our dreams
a lip, an eye, lingering still
in the mirror of still water.
For The Sunday Muse Prompt #179:
The scent of life and of living
hangs heavy on this place,
Here, where the weight
of memory and first things
lose themselves in the labyrinth
of the mind.
First step, first walk, first smile.
First words – garbled beyond
recognition but finding
the connection between
the proffered body
First leaving, first returning
then leaving – the first steps
of a lonesome journey
to a far country, of seeking
the wily welcome of the open world
calling – siren-like – from beyond
the walls that time has built.
The days have their dangers
and the nights their flights of fancy
but in moments of respite and clarity
I find myself here. Home.
For The Sunday Muse #178:
In the wisps
of the smoke blown
in a moment
he might yet be
lurks. The man
he now is
and the one
he once was
yielding in the moment
to the future
For The Sunday Muse Prompt #176:
When in the stillness
of the night, sleep
slips away, slowly –
my eyes heavy
with the weariness
of deferred respite –
I remember the road
from there to here,
how it turns
upon itself, snaking
this way and then that
and then disappears.
I remember that leaving
is for the living –
those who have learned
to gift the blessing
to the past.
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
of light a whisper
into the night
to see and be seen.
For The Sunday Muse Prompt #174:
The empty glass
catches the fading light,
its pale blandness
turned in an instant
into a merry band of colours
wending their way
around its rim.
In the still moments
of yielding to the night
we see, through heavy eyes
that in the brilliance of
the radiant light, and the shadows too
there is beauty, everywhere
For The Sunday Muse Prompt # 173: Self Portrait with Accordion, (original image by Guido Vedovato) and How To Paint A Self Portrait by Nicole Tinkham.
First form the silhouette,
press the mound of wet earth thin
till it yields, pliant, to the probing
of the finger and the thumb.
Place the eyes, in the space
between the first and the middle third,
let the ears and the eyes align:
two eyes, two ears, one mouth
Because Light must fill the inward parts,
and breath is the flimsy thing
that turns earth to feeling flesh;
and the shadows too can be beautiful
in their strange, shifting symmetry
For the Sunday Muse prompt #172:
When the rain comes
breathe in the clarity it brings-
savour the stillness you remember
from the times it came before,
the delights the memories of
past days and gone weeks
and seasons long disappeared,
bring you. Cherish the muscle memory
of the steps that draw you along this path
to the days of innocence, because
drop by drop, the sorrows
of the far country are dissolving
in the rain.
“Roots” 1943 by Frida Kahlo, for the Sunday Muse prompt 171:
They say that fiery flames
beget cold ash, the certainty of beliefs
passed down petering out into the lukewarm
ambivalence of doubt and questioning.
These roots are the things that hold us still
each tendril like a link tethering us
to the ones who went before.
For H, and The Sunday Muse prompt #170:
She lingers like a ghost in the night,
this memory of my mother, framed
by a distant light: the stately stillness
of her furrowed brow, the slight tilt
of her chin catching the light, defiant.
The moment when the lone tear hangs –
perched impossibly as though straining
against the world – comes to me
again and again in a vision of the night,
its lingering like a thread tethering me
in my seasons of incertitude.