For the Sunday Muse prompt #80 and Wordle 428. Image source.
I carry a heavy silence
in my missing parts, each breath
a prayer for resolve to fight
the desire to resign myself
to the ache of a festering disgust
spawned by the echoes of a lie
borne up on the winds from the hills
into the valley’s depths.
Outside a crisis looms –
our house of cards built
up brick by brick with the things
we want to believe slowly yields
to the probing of the truth,
until in the way things really are
I find myself covered, whole again.
For The Sunday Muse prompt #79 and Wordle 472
Sometimes beautiful things
can dance in the light –
the dainty and the dense
chiming together, their hum
heavy with intent as it probes
the edge between the steady
and the sublime.
In washing the raw hide of
of a dead gazelle with salt
there is a saving from its struggle
with putrefaction, a prayer
for forgiveness, for absolution
for the crime of taking by brute force.
Here on the edge
of the things we think we know
the dainty and the dense become as one,
both reduced to subsisting
at the mercy of the things which hold
For The Sunday Muse Prompt #44 and some words from The Sunday Whirl Wordle #392. Image “Ireland” by Emily Soto, fashion photographer
Maybe it was the scent
of roses- freshly cut,
wafting in on the evening breeze
that stole my attention;
the jolt intruding the same way
the reverb of a gentle tap
interrupts a deep reverie,
a dream receding as though
it were a distant vista seen
through the lens
of a collapsing wormhole.
Where cold, hard, and grey
once reigned, a wreath
of red leaves begins to spring,
its colours a bright tide
more alive now than it ever was.
For The Sunday Muse prompt #41 and The Sunday Whirl Wordle 388. Image Source.
Green with a hint of yellow,
the tender tendril pushes past
the strictures of an empty bottle.
Outside, the chill from snow piled high
smothers everything, its weight
like a bland, white blanket
The shy and the retiring
do not inherit the delights
of this benighted world, only
the tough who blithely swipe
away civility appear to win
the trial of perception.
But always after night
the day comes; and with it
life reborn, somehow staying whole
in the face of relentless pressure
For The Sunday Muse prompt #40 and The Sunday Whirl Wordle 388. In The Middle of Freedom, Image Source.
My fingers mould the pliant clay
beneath the surface of this puddle
into an image of a memory; each
mound of earth rubbed round between
my fingers a portion of a story emerging
like birds set free from a gilded cage.
The memory is a chain anchoring
the fluid present to the stable past.
It pulses like a thing that lives –
somehow more alive with freedom
than at first it would seem.
For The Sunday Muse #39 and Wordle 387 from The Sunday Whirl. Image Source.
Here in the shadow
Of despair, loneliness
Hangs in the air like
A wet coat, the silence
Like the weight of pebbles
Beneath which which one sags,
Broken at the knees.
Each step towards
The distant light is a prayer
Of repenting, for forgetting
What love in the wild
Step by step, walk after walk
We are making this world
Whole again, heeding the
Inner call to become
Wild and free again.
“Guardian” by Chie Yoshii, for The Sunday Muse #37 and The Sunday Whirl Wordle 385 prompts:
She perches on your shoulder
This invisible guardian of the night
Her voice a quiet word
Whispered in your ear
Barely heard above the din
The way text, lightly etched
On a slab of stone would look
In the shimmer of dusk.
A dream deferred cannot slip back
Into a sleepless mind.
Once a butterfly’s eyes
Have seen the light of freedom;
Once its kicks have set it free
From the caul of the caterpillar
It cannot become a larva again.
The prophecy is guidance promised;
That when, in the heat of the midday sun,
You beg a drink of clean water
From the store, you will return in peace
Because her word has gone before.
We brave the howling wind, wincing on the odd occasion when its icy fingers somehow reach within the folds of our coats to touch our necks. Along the snow covered streets, the children play, their shrieks of joy as they spin again and again piercing the air a hundred hundred times until they drop with exhaustion. From the coffee shop around the corner, different caramel drizzled drinks bring back their strength. This is the plan, to – with any luck – keep them so occupied that all they can do on the train home is sleep, so we get some peace and quiet.
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.
For Wordle 380:
This entity –
bare arms rippling with intent-
out of thin air.
Time and time again,
for losing one’s head
in a flurry of jabs
is overcome by the evidence
of winning, the one thing
missing in this me being
a fear that flinches
before the rolling fists land.
This is how it ends-
from the claws of loss
when we decide.