Disappearing


For The Sunday Muse Prompt #116. Image “Seeing Black & White” photography by  Susie Clevenger

**
Yesterday’s ghouls
are slowly disappearing,
fading like the night light
once bright but now dappled,
wisps of grey carried away
in our slipstream,
lingering like the dust
a knight’s steed leaves
in the frenzy of flight.

But the promise is a mirage,
objects in a mirror
are closer than they appear
and though we run
as though the wind bears us,
yesterday’s shadow lurks
in the space between
the things we leave
and the things that
disappear

How To Taste Wine

For The Sunday Muse prompt #115:

**
Let the first sniff 
hit you, let the faint
hint of the juice pressed
and aged be like incense
wafting up, a prayer
to Dionysius for a blessing
on this rich red liquid,
chilled, swirled and sipped.

Let the low heat
linger, let its essence
slowly spread, warming
the insides of your mouth
let its heft spread
like a warm embrace
across your tongue.
Let it rise
Let it rise.

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.

Summertime, for G

For The Sunday Muse prompt #113:
***
The light in her eyes
mirrors the mirth,
in the wry smile
that still, some days,
wraps itself
around her lips,
a bird, free,
born of the wild
borne by the wind.

The heavy scent of summer,
of flowers blooming and
of squirrels flitting
between the trees,
reaches down into
the depth of the memories
she bears within, the
delight of summers past
simmering, then bubbling
to the fore though
her fingers can no longer
coax life from the dry earth
or press pleasure
into a cone.

Ignition…


For the Sunday Muse prompt # 112:
***
Sometimes I carry
the weight of the world
upon my head, its heft
held between the twin peaks
of forgotten and accepted things,
a history curated not
by those who waver
at the threat of war
but those who embrace
its vagaries, who daily
pour out a libation
to destruction.

What seems like
the stillness of a boat
in quiet waters only hides
the furious paddling
of a mind being torn apart
as it wrestles with the tension
between conforming and desire.

This is how one keeps
dismay at bay, until
someday in a moment,
unexpected in its coming
and ferocity, it ignites.

Half Remembered

For The Sunday Muse prompt #111:

***
what we remember
of the past are the things
the mind allows, the
harshness of being hacked
into a thousand tiny pieces
assuaged by the desire
to forget, to not let
the horror of the past
hold the present hostage,
to find a path that winds
through the remains
of pillage to
a coherent whole.

what we learn
in the end is that
skirting the hole where
our kin should be is akin
to yielding to the
pressure of a hand pressed
against our throat, to feed
the pleasure of the ghouls
hovering over our history.

to begin afresh
we must yield to the call
of the things we half-remember
and wander into light.

Quest

For The Sunday Muse Prompt #110,

***
The heart ponders
what lies beyond
the realm of sight,
what hides in the place
where dreams come from,
where the beauty
of a still night
twinkles in the
soft light.
From afar it tugs
at the strings
of the curious heart,
in its distance,
a promise of salvation
from the fires below.

When A Deed Returns

For The Sunday Muse Prompt #109, Image “Snow White & Rose Red” by Kerry Darlington

***
The kind hearts
of the shy
and the cheerful
make space
for the stranger,
a traveller quivering
in the winter wind,
lost, for a moment.

What lies hidden
in the dream
is that sometimes
a good deed
travels the world
for a season
and then returns
twice revived,
the shy
and the cheerful ones
saved in return
by the stranger
who once wandered by.

Place

For The Sunday Muse prompt #108:

***
Bound up
in its faux pillars
and its dangling
chandeliers are
the memories
of stolen things,
the tears shed
here by the lost ones
reverberating in our ears.
Time disappears here,
subsumed by the delight
of truly feeling
and of seeing,
the art of each act
a tribute to the
ones who’ve come
before.

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.