They rose in steady hum of
Motors aiming to break
Clouds
And dispersed the waves upon the
Sand as life skittered
Aground.
They pointed nose into the
Sky with souls holding on well
And fast
As engines revved anew
And headed home
At last.
For the dVerse quadrille challenge: sky
It seems as though you are still summer:
The leaves still green atop your trees
Waves still warm inside your eyes
Sunrise haze in your sky
Sunset late to bed
As sleep lights in
Your soft breath
Upon
Mine.
NONET prompt: “It seems as though you are still summer” (Merwin)
For dVerse poetic 9
During the days there was glare and heat and baking sand and the parched tongue hoping for good water.
But at night, when they made camp, and the chill spooled at their feet and the camels chewed their cud and the humans picked the last crumbs of quick bread off their lap and the blankets were unrolled and small sounds of conversation carried on the breeze; there was ease, and sweetened tea, and the slowing beats of hearts ready for sleep.
And the sky, a dome of diamonds, flowing over them, the old and young and man and beast, as in their dreams they sleep with the moon and swim in the waters soon to ripple under the sun to the east.
Prosery prompt: “In their dreams they sleep with the moon.”–From Mary Oliver, “Death at Wind River”
A silver light,
In blue
It was.
A glimmer on
Still
Water.
A place of dream
Of home
It was.
A hope for
Time’s lost
Daughter.
Photo by Paolo Nicolello on Unsplash
Candle lighting
The edge
Of the world
And the margins
Of time
To the endless
Flicker
Of loss.
[For Kathryn: you became light eight years ago today. We all loved you. We all love you more.]
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Endless in 18 words
Photo: Andrew Buchanan on Unsplash
Where the green grass ends
And the ocean grows
Is where she lies
And listens
To the crabs
As they crawl
And the fish
As they flutter
And the wind
As it lifts the
Wings of
Sandpipers
And spins
Seashells
On the sand.
For RDP Friday: Lies
(and for Kathryn, in my mind’s eye)
Photo: Tyler Lastovich on Unsplash
They never did make it back from their destination. Not for lack of trying. Not for lack of plans. Not even for lack of courage or stamina or all the things that make a journey circular. There and back again. Like Bilbo Baggins looking for an adventure and finding more than he had bargained for (or perhaps precisely what he needed); they, too, found more along the way than they had intended.
The path slowed everything. Time turned to stone.
And when it was over, said and done, it was a time and there was never enough of it.
They took too long.
So much that life passed by before it could lead them back to where they had come from.
Perhaps where they ended was precisely where they needed to go.
Only that unlike Bilbo, they did not return to their Bag End.
(Prompt: from “A Time” by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke)
For the dVerse Prosery Challenge: A Time
Photo by Aditya Wardhana on Unsplash
Perhaps it is, really,
By design
Where we are born
And how we live
And how and when and why
We die.
Perhaps it is
By fate,
That we can love
And we can laugh
And dream
And struggle to let go
Of hate.
Perhaps we’re each
A stitch
In the tapestry
Of an overarching
Plan,
(That we do
Or do not
Understand).
Yet still the truth
Remains,
That our strength is
Bound to fail at
The weakest
Thread.
And that we each have a
Part in
Whether we
Mend
Or shred
The possibilities
Ahead.
And just for fun, also for Terri’s Sunday Stills: Yellow
Photo: Niklas Priddat on Unsplash
She let the shudder travel from the roots of her hair to the nape of her neck and down her spine to the place where the calving of her body started. The skin on the small of her back awoke. She sighed.
It wasn’t the chill in the air that had her trembling, even though the breeze could explain the raised goosebumps on her skin. It was the vista that had shaken her. And the memories it sought.
Oh, this was a different place. A different time. Yet somehow these still were the same sky where a red moon rides on the humps of the low river hills spreading below it. Transporting her. The earth roiled under a tapestry of dark and starlight, of shade and voids and hidden stars. Her breath drowned in wonder and sorrow: for lost beginnings, for hopes come dawn.
Prosery Prompt: “a red moon rides on the humps of the low river hills” (Carl Sandburg’s Jazz Fantasia)
For the dVerse Prosery challenge
Photo: Sue Vincent
They were literally walking on the bones of ancient past.
The bones of actual ancients, too, if you want to be exact about it.
He contemplated telling Liz then decided she was more likely to be spooked than awed by the notion. So he let the soles of his trekking boots crunch wordless greetings with each step, and he set his mind to wonder, radar-style, about the centuries he could not see and so few even knew about, yet lay here for every person to experience. Literally. Through the mounds. These monuments to earlier.
It was an odd thing. History.
Will others one day tread upon the remnants of his, and will any ever stop to wonder about the life he’d lived, the vistas his eyes had feasted on, the memories he’d placed into the air with every exhalation?
If so, what would they think, and how did he feel about the possibility?
Not great, he realized. Especially if those future humans would by then have skills for viewing molecules of thoughts or the equivalent … His mind, unearthed, would be a bit like having archeologists come across a buried midden: plenty of data, but far from being the end one would wish presented for scrutiny.
He shuddered. More from shame than worry.
“These are man-made,” Liz noted from behind. The path was narrow and they could only walk single-file.
He nodded, unsure whether she had misinterpreted his reaction or — as she sometimes could be — was eerily on point.
“I wonder if they had intended for anyone to walk on these,” Liz added.
He stopped. There was something in her voice. A fullness.
He turned to her. Her cheeks were wet. Her eyes were red. How long has she been crying?
Her lips turned up at what she must have seen in his expression. “I’m fine, Shawn,” she breathed. “It is just that there’s a sense of spirit pushing like a memory-foam against my feet …”
His own eyes filled and he shook his head, surprised at the emotion.
“See?”
“I do,” he nodded, reached for her hand.
The fields below them stretched wide and green to the horizon. The air sighed with the scents of grass and rain and years and sun.
“This place,” he braved, “it makes me want to be a better man.”
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