(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: 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
(Photo: Erol Ahmed on Unsplash)
She did not require much notice for her travels.
Her bags were packed. All papers drawn. There was enough of any currency she needed.
More than enough of
All the hopes.
Distance was not an issue. Time, however, sometimes was. And space.
There wasn’t always sufficient space.
To take the journey.
From here.
To as much as a step
Beyond.
Still, the need persisted.
It had to. For she was, in many ways,
Displaced.
In her own mind.
From the galaxy of dreams,
That could in a drop of a hat,
Respond.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Galaxy in 92 words
(Photo: Na’ama Yehuda)
If he could make it there, he’d make it anywhere.
It was the axiom he had placed everything on.
He held on to the promise when his body hurt from beatings. He played the image of it in his mind when emptiness of heart and stomach kept him from shut-eye. He whispered small encouragements to himself to drown the insults that insisted he was nothing.
For he was. Someone.
He had to believe.
The words she said.
About where he could be.
Himself.
If he lived.
So he did.
And lit beneath storm clouds, she stood, waiting.
For the day.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers (Thank you for using my photo as a prompt this week!)
She shifted her weight and sand squeezed warm between her toes. Heated not by sun – the orb still far too distant in such early spring – but because she’s been standing still so long that the permeating chill under her soles relented to the constant pulse of lifeblood in her veins.
A bird called. Another bird returned. An insect buzzed a disharmonious song. It will be summer soon.
She felt her chest rise in a breath and her eyes skimmed the expanse of shimmering ground, patient, waiting for the tide.
Today, perhaps, he’ll come.
Today, maybe, he will return home from the wild, where waves rose high and ships dipped low to the ocean’s floor.
There was a writing in the sand. A code left by the crabs. The gulls. The seaweed.
She waited. Wavelets licked her feet.
Perhaps today something of him will wash ashore.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
“Close your eyes. Feel the levers of the earth move with you,” Moria deposited the words like diamonds lined on velvet cloth.
Lianne obeyed the first. Tried hard for the second. But all she felt were the tremors in her body, bare skin shuddering against penetrating morning chill. And the fear.
“Breathe in the cold, breathe out the worry.” The old woman’s voice affected little compassion, yet there was no shaming in it. Just instruction.
Lianne tried, but her shaking only intensified. Perhaps I am not ready, she fretted.
“You are ready,” Moria stated.
Lianne gasped. Could her mentor read her mind?
“No, but I’ve seen enough initiates.”
The elder’s chuckle, puncturing the solemn task, somehow eased Lianne’s mind. Her body calmed. Her eyes relaxed behind the wrap. Her toes curled around the softness of the mossy ground. The bottom step offered a damp welcome.
“Better. Now climb.”
For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
There was a mystery
To their madness.
An uncanny sense of
Doom.
But she did not flail
Afraid
In darkness,
Whilst she could spot a petal
Bloom.
Instead, she watched
With rapt intention
As life suffused
Their eerie
Gloom.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Uncanny in 39 words
(Photo: Inbar Asif)
It was everything
To her
To tend the naked vines that sprawled
Across her soul,
And through the long cold
Winter
To let the sun pour
Over
The sprawling expanse of not-yet-sweetness,
As she hoped
And prayed
For fruit
Ripening amidst abundance
Into wine.
For the dVerse poetry quadrille challenge: Wine
(Photo: Na’ama Yehuda)
Look yonder and you may see
What has, perhaps, become
Of me.
The good, the bad, we could
Agree,
Had gone to bed and woke up
Free.
Look yonder
And you will find
A key,
To what helps us
Grow
From one, to we.
For Sammi‘s Weekend Writing Prompt: Yonder in 44 words
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