Her Heart Be Known

alexandra-lammerink-7KIIe6ska9M-unsplash

Photo: alexandra lammerink on Unsplash

 

She did not know how

To have her heart

Be known,

Other than to

Let her spirit

Be flush with

Hope,

And to allow her

Soul to

Blush bright

With the

Intent,

Even if

Her words paused,

Timid,

From the moment

She’d left

Home.

 

 

For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: flush

 

 

Bauble Bob

tolhouse CrispinaKemp

 

His father declared him hopeless. His mother bemoaned his daydreaming. His brother called the boy a fool. His teachers rapped his knuckles, dressed him in the dunce’s cap, slapped his head. Nothing helped. His mind continued meandering and his pockets remained filled with bauble nonsense.

By the time Bob turned sixteen, the village elders had resigned themselves to him becoming one who loitered by the stream, carried water for the old, and attracted the cruelties of the young.

The last thing anyone expected was that Lord Bailey’s new wife, who hired the young man for the price of bread and ale to repair some fallen stone in her abode, would so enjoy the river rocks and pebbles utilized as repairs by Bauble Bob, that she’d have him adorn her gate, her walls, even her door.

Soon enough there wasn’t a manor around he hadn’t been called to restore.

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge #66

 

 

One With The Herd

wildebeesta KreativeKue249

Photo: Keith Kreates

 

It was never about the things he wanted to do.

It was never about where he wanted to go, what pasture he preferred, which direction he wished to head.

Conformity. Yeah, he knew all about it. How it was the only way to herd.

Still he found small ways to rebel: He’d lie down when others were grazing, chew his cud while the Head Honcho was patrolling, turn his backside to the wind when it went against every custom to do so.

“You will get yourself kicked,” his mother, who has long given up on instructing him but still couldn’t help herself from trying, lowed in his ear.

“Or eaten,” his sister, grown and soon to mother her own, added.

Their mother’s eyes were sharp horns of disgust at the sacrilege. One did not talk about becoming prey where one was already primed to be the hunted.

He shrugged and refused to turn his nose into the wind, though he could not control the small twitch of his ears, flattening to try and discern danger.

The cows, one young, one old, left to graze at the edge of the parched field.

He remained with his head petulantly bowed, feigning disinterest in any thing ahead. He’d been born to the herd. Without it, he’d be dead.

But it did not mean he had to be one with the herd.

 

 

 

For Kreative Kue #249

 

 

Have Your Say

WriteTime NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

Make time to write.

A moment. A minute. An hour. A day.

Whatever you can find.

Make it yours.

Have your say.

 

 

 

On Delicate Wings

On delicate wings NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

What had happened to you

In the short life

You knew?

Your wings’ rhythm

Aflutter

To a drum

Gone

Askew?

Your beauty imbued

By what could life

Subdue,

You flit on right

Through,

Gloriously determined,

To be you,

To be you.

 

 

 

 

For the Sunday Stills challenge: A bug’s life

 

 

Feasible Focus

In Focus NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

Some jump out,

Intent on being

Captured

By the lens,

The center

Of focused

Attention,

While others

Fade delicately

Into the blurry

Background

To observe,

Potentially

Just as content.

 

 

 

For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Focus

 

The Fifth

Me-age10mos-story telling

Me, telling stories at 10 months

 

Fifth of seven, all girls, I was born

Telling tales.

Far enough to duck rules

For first, middle, or last,

I grabbed place

To be me

And held on

Talking fast.

 

As what shouldn’t be

Grew

And real life wove

Impossible,

Words remained

Nonetheless

In my soul

In my brain,

To be clasped

And sustain

Life and joy

Times again.

 

 

For Terri’s Sunday Stills Challenge: Fifth

 

Uniquely Rolled

handmade ChagitMoriahGibor

Photo: Chagit Moriah-Gibor

 

Roll the dough

And aim to shape it.

Press chocolate pieces

One by one.

‘Tis no product of

Machine identical,

But cookies proud

Of a child’s hand.

 

 

For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Roll