(Photo: Na’ama Yehuda)
The light spun silent waves
Of day
Into her heart,
Her chambers slowly opening
Their delicate petals
To sing
The morning’s chant.
There is a hope,
She knows,
In every dawn.
Its breath imparting
An oasis
And a coming home.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Oasis in 40 words
(Red Cardinal in Central Park – Photo: Na’ama Yehuda)
There was naught
That she needed
But a path
And some green
And a burbling stream
And wide sky
Overhead.
So she felt deeply nourished
By the flowers,
And the gift of bird
Who landed by her feet
To share
Her burden
And bread.
For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: stream
(Photo: Pop & Zebra on Unsplash)
They were going to hem and haw and huff and pout and stare.
She knew, already, from little-disguised cold shoulders
And from frowns
And neighbors’ glare,
That there will be no escaping their displeasure,
Anyway.
Even though they did not explicitly say,
Or outright forbid
Or demand that she
Obey,
She had no doubt that there will nonetheless be some community hell
To pay.
So might as well she do things as her heart designed,
And let her spirit play.
The vivid laughter of her soul
On full display.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: vivid in 89 words
“Tomorrow, God willing and the creek don’t rise!” Mama smacked the rug one last time, stepped back to admire her handiwork, nodded to herself, and shouldered the beater.
“But Mama,” Marlee whined, “everyone else is going!”
I watched the exchange from the safety of a leafy fork on the big tree. If Mama didn’t see me, she could not call on me for chores.
Mama stopped. “Everyone?”
Marlee straightened. Hopeful and suspicious.
“Every. Single. Person?”
Marlee’s shoulders dropped.
“Thought so.” Mama’s dress swirled prettily as she turned toward the cabin, and for a moment I could see the lass she’d been before Bobby and I and Marlee came and brought with us gray hairs and wrinkles.
“But …”
“But nothing. The creek is swelled with rain and more may be coming. No swimming. And,” she added, “You come down from that tree. I need help with the washing.”
For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
They passed through the neighborhood with trucks and flags and camouflage uniforms.
Clean-up crews. Of sorts.
Sterilizers, they called themselves.
They traveled under the cover of night, removing festivities, restoring streets to what they saw as law and order and conformity.
They gave no warning.
“Better,” they were told, “to ask forgiveness than to get permission.”
It also prevented protests, dodged chaos, and avoided the otherwise inevitable secreting.
They were ordered to “take everything.” To make it fact.
And they did.
To the last one.
Or almost.
Because walking the dreary city after the Holiday Decorations Ban.
She saw.
One.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers. Also, thank you for using my photo for this week’s prompt. Curious to see where people will take it!
A girl’s voice protested. A cackle followed.
Leah kept her head down and her eyes on the task before her. There was a quota to complete if she wanted anything in her stomach, and she could make her body dead to wandering fingers. She’d learned how. The hard way. The only way.
When the foreman finally moved on, she gritted her teeth and tried to not compare slime to slime.
Not that she would ever touch the stuff. And not only because it was forbidden.
Beside her, Mandy sniffled. “How can you stand it?”
“Perhaps she doesn’t mind him,” Becca hissed. “Seeing how she never cries.”
Leah clenched her teeth, locked her knees, and steadied her breath. She focused on the fading light glinting on the blade. “No, I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.”
For the dVerse Prosery writing prompt
Prosery prompt quote: “No, I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.” (Zora Neale Hurston, from “How Does it Feel to be Colored Me” in World Tomorrow, 1928)
Photo: Hine Lewis Wickes, The Library Of Congress https://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/nclc.00919/
(Photo: Anant Chandra on Unsplash)
As Sun rose
In the east
It darned
A web of light upon
The leaves,
And sprinkled gold on
Spiders’ orbs
That dangled from
The eaves.
The artist watched the dawn
And breathed.
For though her heart
Believed,
She knew her fingers
Do not have the skill
To tessellate this wonder
Into the mosaic that
Her soul
Perceived.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Tessellate in 58 words
It only took him 300 years. A breeze, considering.
Many took longer. Some – like Olives and Redwoods – required a millennium to achieve Elder. No fault of theirs, of course, but still … many times longer than he’d had to.
His from-seedling brother had thought him nuts. Literally. “Wait and wait to reach Elder and all you get for your trouble is being bent out of shape, your roots hanging out, and critters crawling in your innards.”
His brother had other aspirations. “Sail the world, I would. Ride the ocean. Move on the wind.”
Elder hadn’t had the heart to tell him that he’d be just as likely to end up planked as some dark closet, with no fresh air or birdsong or butterfly-kisses. Or worse, chopped to burn.
It’s been centuries since lumberjacks carted his brother away.
He was Elder now. Guardian of the path. Home of many.
For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
“I found it!”
Minerva sighed. She never did do well on conveyances. “Found what?” she mouthed, careful to not move her head.
“The perfect place!”
Minerva attempted to open her eyes, but the world whizzing by, combined with her daughter’s bouncing on the seat while turned in the opposite direction to the train’s travel, was too much. She clamped her eyes shut and groaned.
“Mom! Just look! We’ll pass it!”
One eye. A blur. Space under an overhang. Speeding rails.
“For what?”
“For the ball!” Swinging arms. “Can’t you just see us waltzing?!”
The bag! Where was the barf bag?!!!
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: © J Hardy Carroll
(Photo: Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash)
He wasn’t going to win this game.
He learned that much from many
That he had
Lost.
And he did not care
To have his face made pie
Against another Juke
Box.
So he played along,
As if it was all
A big
Joke.
For the dVerse 10th Anniversary (!!) poetry quadrille challenge: Juke
Dedicated to all who had to play along, because that was the safer – if fake – choice.
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