(Photo: Inbar Asif)
‘Tis the season for
Reason.
Time for soul to be
Bold.
Time to oust stale perceptions
And to justice
Uphold.
‘Tis the season for
Reason.
To let true heart
Take root
And dishonesty
Doom,
So the summers of
Tomorrow
May
Sing sunflowers to
Bloom.
For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: Season
“This is not what we invested all that tuition money for, Robert.”
His mother’s voice remained soft, even pleasant. One may think she was but mildly annoyed.
Rob knew better.
It was the same voice that had sent his boyhood self to the attic without dinner for the slightest infraction. That left a small child to shiver there through endless winter nights. That told his father to retrieve the paddle and “do what needed to be done to make a man of an ungrateful son.”
“I am sorry, Mother,” Rob bowed politely in her direction. Bowed just enough to let her know that he no longer cared nor feared her. “I had made it clear that your plans did not fit mine.”
“Your father expects a partner,” she stated. Ordered.
“That ship had sailed, Mother,” he replied. “I bought the farm. I’ll be my own man. Chart my own course.”
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
She always knew the road could end.
Rickety throughout, it got almost impassable in places. It was a folly, she’d been told. A fool’s errand. Doomed to fail.
The way had never been fully completed, quite possibly never fully traversed. So many had abandoned it that there would be no rest stops, no soft places to lay one’s head.
Indeed, each step confirmed the lack of maintenance.
Still, it was her path to take, her journey to attempt.
And when she faced the maw, the utter void of all support, she knew.
She could turn back.
Or she could leap.
For Rochelle‘s Friday Fictioneers
Photo Prompt: © Alicia Jamtaas
It was going to be a stretch, but the alternative was silence.
And they could not. Not with the possibility that someplace, someone, was still listening.
After all, you never knew what people managed behind closed doors with all kinds of inventions that obscured their virtual footprints from those who’d mine their minds for false and profit.
Hadn’t there been exploitation in them, too? In their own broadcasts?
“We hold to truth,” Boss said.
And fastened onto truth, they nodded.
“Good evening, folks,” they said with tight smiles flickering. “We have the news. After which we will bid you goodbye.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Photo: Andrey Grinkevich on Unsplash
There would be no smooth solutions
No easy way to extract
Themselves
From the tangle
They had let grow
All around them.
Only one way out was left:
Through the bramble,
Through the sorrow
Through the scars that would
Need nursing
Back to truth.
For the dVerse quadrille challenge: Bramble
Enslaved persons cutting sugar cane on the Island of Antigua, 1823, (The British Library)
She fed them well so
They would
Sleep,
And silently
She gave the slip,
To all she knew
Yet did not sweep
Away the bite
Of whip.
She fled,
So the child in
Her belly’s keep,
Would not writhe, helpless,
In another person’s
Grip.
For the dVerse quadrille challenge: slip
(Note: Dedicated to all who suffered and still suffer under the yoke of injustice, discrimination, racism, and pretense. We can do better than this. We must do better than this.)
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
Photo: Linn W on Unsplash
She’ll refuse, for she must,
The order
To adjust.
She will hold up the laws
And go forth
Just because.
She will not, not today,
Bow to cults
Or obey.
She’ll refuse, for she must,
In her own heart
Have trust.
For the dVerse poetry challenge: Order
Photo: Ofir Asif
Twixt the tethers of Heaven
And Earth,
Swings the trust
In the ropes
That you’d learned but
Perhaps
Did not quite
Yet test out.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Action
“I will not have everyone out in the cold!” Mrs. M’s hands were planted firmly on her hips, and when Mrs. M’s hands were firmly on her hips, any who knew what was good for them knew to nod submissively, back up slowly, and give up.
Not Tim.
Sometimes I wondered if he had no survival reflexes or if he confronted the headmistress exactly because he didn’t care to survive.
“We don’t have to be out, out,” he argued.
Mrs. M’s cheek twitched. Oh-oh.
I backed up just in case. If she reached for the switch it would be best to not remain within wingspan.
“We can use the hot-house,” he pressed. “Sunlight and no wind. We’ll be fine.”
The twitch stopped. I held my breath.
“Most panes are intact.”
Mrs. M nodded.
I gaped.
Tim won.
Cramped orphanage or not, he found a way for outdoor play in wintertime!
For Crispina’s Crimsons Creative Challenge #61
tucked away in the mountains
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