Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev
In the depths of the city
Where new rubs shoulders
With old,
Uncounted passes of prayers
And woven statements
Enfold,
Fates and faiths of what’s been
And may yet find
Better ways
To be told.
For Wits-End Weekend Photo Challenge: repeating patterns
Photo: Chagit Moriah-Gibor
“What did this?”
Calvin gulped.
“What?!” Eric insisted. “A jeep?”
“Not a car.”
“What then?”
“We better turn back.”
Eric squinted at the muddy furrows.
“Nothing you want to meet in the dark,” Calvin shuddered and revved the motorcycle’s engine.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Furrowed in 40 words
Photo: Ofir Asif
At the vanishing point
They have passed
To be gassed,
Leaving us
To a world
That forever now must,
Not forget
How the place
Of no return
Has been crossed,
And we none are
The same
For hate’s shadow’s
Been cast.
In the name of those
Vanished
Who shall not be forgot,
We can vow to hold hope,
And let compassion
Outlast.
For Nancy Merrill’s A Photo a Week Challenge: Vanishing Point
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
There’s little possible
Perspective
For how to scale
The size of feet
That for so many
Will not fit
In anyone’s shoes
Ever
Not before
Not since.
Trivia note: The photo above is a detail of the Reclining Buddha in Wat Pho Temple in Bangkok, Thailand (also known as “Temple of the Reclining Buddha” or Wat Phra Chetuphon). The giant Buddha measures 46 meters (over 150 feet) long, 15 meters (almost 50 feet) high, and is covered in gold leaf. The soles of the feet (depicted in the photo above) and the eyes are intricately carved with mother of pearl. The soles of the feet inscribe the 108 holy characteristics of the true Buddha, in both Chinese and Indian styles. The 20 acres of the temple complex also contains over a 1000 Buddha images, many tracing back centuries.
For Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge: Unusual perspective
They didn’t mean to.
They had to think fast.
“What in God’s married name is that?!”
Gary glanced at Gloria. Mom only used the expression when the you-know-what was about to hit the fan.
“I told you this was stupid,” Gloria hissed as they ran to the door. “It only made it look worse!”
Gary shot her a “shut-up-and-let-me-handle-it” look.
“Hi Mom,” he announced and swung the door open so that (hopefully) only the taped side was visible. “Do you like it? It’s a Christmas tree duct tape art. To remind you of the holidays!”
For Rochelle’s FridayFictioneers
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Ripples speed
With the breeze
Whipping small waves
With ease
On the surface
Of these
Waters guarded
By trees.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Breeze
Photo: Karen Forte
In middle school the uniforms
Were yellow tops and blue skirts
For the girls,
Yellow tops and blue slacks
For the boys.
The hue of yellow
In the official
Button downs,
Was a pale shade that made
Even the ruddy
Cheeks of children
Wash out
In the sun.
I used to think perhaps
This was the only color
Merchants had on overstock
When the school had first opened:
A fabric rescued
After years of fade brought on
By being forgotten
By everyone.
Oh, it was a decent enough school,
With friends I have kept
In touch with since the
Beginning of Sixth Grade.
It was the yellow hue
That had me blue.
Decades passed
And while
The beauty and the range
Of it in nature
Does indeed move me to tears,
I’m yet to own
A yellow garment
Even after
All these years.
For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Blue and Yellow
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
For those whose backyards
Exist
In novels, history
And lore,
Central Park is a
Greatly
Essential
Outdoors.
For Nancy Merrill’s Photo A Week challenge: The great outdoors
Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein
Roofed in green
Curves of foliage
They stand chiseled
And skilled,
Each a niche
Dedicated
To the men of
The guild.
For the Lens-Artist Challenge: curves
Photo: Simon on Pixabay
“This is too much.” Prama frowned at the heaped cart. “I don’t know how he’ll manage.”
“He will,” Abhi responded. He did not like the meddling of women in his business. Never had. But now that one of his eyes rested in a trash heap, he knew that customers found the presence of his wife reassuring. Better they talk to her than stare into his eye-patch and worry about the evil crouched behind it.
“Gaju is no longer a young man,” Prama insisted.
“Do not try my patience, woman!” Abhi growled. “Gaju feeds his family by the kilo-carried. Let a man earn a wage.”
“You could pay him more per kilo,” she shook her head at him, unimpressed. “You know he is too old to be hired by someone else and cannot lose this job. You overload his cart. Take care you aren’t also overloading your Karma in the process.”
For What Pegman Saw: Mumbai, India
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Na'ama Yehuda 
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