Photo: Amit Jain on Unsplash
She could not have guessed
What is right
What is wrong
So she just muddled
On.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Muddle in 16 words
Muddle On
Creative writing
Night Walker
Photo: Martin Adams on Unsplash
She’d appear out of her bed
As if in dream.
An apparition in their kitchen.
A small figure levitating up the stairs
From the nursery,
A flannel nightgown sweeping over the cold floor
And her bare feet.
They might’ve wondered
Why she had become
A somnambulist,
Had they not needed to keep
Any odd thing
Completely clandestine.
So they latched the front door
High,
And kept the very secret
Of her night-walking
Under the covers
Of unspoken sleep.
For the Weekend Writing Prompt: Somnambulist in 78 words
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A Bit Of Stir
Photo: Mads Schmidt Rasmussen on Unsplash
She was always one to cause
Quite a bit of stir
In every entrance,
In the very way the air around
Her every move
Would shift
To agitated waiting,
For something breathless
That was not easily worded
Yet nonetheless remained
Indelibly perceived as
Inescapable.
For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: stir
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Them Poor Bushes
Photo: Burst on Unsplash
She figures it would be okay.
She figures it would do.
She’ll find her schedule and get back,
Within a month or two.
She figures she could do the task.
She figures it is fine.
She’d done a thing like that before,
Not quite, but in outline.
Still, she figures it a breeze.
She figures she’d succeed.
Even when history, at best,
Is wondering if indeed.
She figures this, she figures that
In neutral all her wheels,
And it becomes impossible
To not begin to feel,
That maybe it’d be easier
To let them bushes be
They’re beat from hedging here and there
And wishing they could flee!
Note: This was really just for fun and isn’t about (ahem) anyone … So similarity to any individual is (sort of) coincidental … 😉 Dedicated to all the ‘he’ and ‘she’ and ‘you’ and ‘they,’ who won’t say yea and won’t say nay, and leave us all in limbo every day …
For Linda Hill’s SoCS challenge: figure
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I Will Wait
Photo by Jorge Flores via Unsplash
“I will wait for you,” she said. “Even in cold ruined places where wind blows in the refuse of the city and where more is broken than is whole. I’ll wait, so you can know I’m here when you are finally permitted to come home.”
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Readied
Photo: Nicolas Lobos on Unsplash
They donned the new suits
Of exploration
White and fluid for
The deep cold of space
And the vast darkness
Of the Universe.
They filed into the
Craft readied to blast
Toward a red Mars
Carrying hope for
Yet another home
In which to draw breath.
For the dVerse Haibun poetry challenge: Mars
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Epoch’s End
Photo: Amitai Asif
As her eyes finally
Closed
And her breath
Not returned,
She knew
What awaited her
Just
‘Round the bend:
A new journey
Ascends
Life beyond
Epoch’s end.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Epoch in 27 words
Note: Dedicated to all who face the final journey … and thus to all … for we all would. May we walk life’s path the way we can and should.
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Aftereffect
Photo: Arnaud Jaegers on Unsplash
It does not do to elect
Only those who self-select.
Because it is best to object
To any who hold no respect
For others’ ability to reflect
On the facts in each subject.
For if we fail now to protect
The need of everyone to connect
And the necessity to detect
Those who humanity eject,
We might injustice reinfect
And cement moral defect
As the greedy now expect
Blind loyalty by genuflect.
For Linda Hill’s SoCS writing prompt: “ect”
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Underneath
Photo: Morgan Petroski on Unsplash
She peeled away the stale layers
Of sorrow,
The sheets that wrapped around the core
Of what had once held
Grins.
And underneath the soot of tears
And grit
And grief
She found the gold that had been
Hidden
Soft against reality’s biting teeth.
For the dVerse quadrille challenge: Peel
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Tacked On
The house was there first. Small and determined, it huddled against constant winds, braved the sun, stood fast through raging dust-storms and the terror of lightning.
Years passed. The land yielded. The silo was built. A practical thing, meant to store the grain in. However, tacked on as it was, snug into the back wall of the cabin with nary a breath of space between, it also contained hope. It held the promise for winter stews and for bread rising in the oven even long after the growing months had gone and there was little sign of nascent greening, let alone of next harvest’s ripening.
The silo became another sturdy thing to be led home by. There when ice rode in and clouds breathed snow and the cabin was too lonely in the vastness of being. Together they formed a home. An oasis of nourishing.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
Na'ama Yehuda 
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