(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
They will not be coming home.
She paced the few steps from her door to the deck’s edge and back again. She gazed up at the washed out sky. Watched as the shadows encroached on the small lawn to blanket the rocks in the graying garden. Her breath was heavy in her chest.
They will not be coming home.
With every blink, the hues were fading. Taking with them memories of laughter, of pitter-patter, of wet wool and hot cocoa steaming by the fire.
The telegram emblazoned in her mind.
The boys will not be coming home.
All color gone.
Note: Dedicated to all those who knew and know such loss.
Photo prompt: © Sarah Potter
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Rene Bernal on Unsplash
We are,
All the colors
Of this earth,
Broken into
Pieces of
Humanity and
Mixed together
To make into
A kaleidoscope
Of hope.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Kaleidoscope in 23 words
Photo: Valario Davis on Unsplash
“So how do you,” he asked,
“Know good
From bad?”
“By the heart,” she replied.
“By the actions that
Build
And prop up,
And the words that
Support
And patch the
Cracked places
Inside broken parts.”
“And how,” he pressed,
“Do you know what
Just needs
Giving up?”
“By the soul,”
She patted the warm place
On her lap.
“For breath
Matters,
And hope
Matters,
And kindness
Is superior to any
Pass-by-night
Emperors
Full of promises
Of might,
Touted
For our good
But seeped in
Falsehood meant
To bring on
Plight.”
He shuddered
And she stroked his wet cheek
And held a cool
Palm to his brow.
“Now sleep,
And let spirits
Of light,
Hold back the bad
And
Fill your cup
With good
Till the world grows
Up.”
Photo: Free-to-use-sounds, on Unsplash
From the hollows of despair, they fled.
The shirts on their backs and the children
In their arms, all they could manage to
Take.
Even the abysmal shelters they had recently
Been made to call
Home,
No longer gave any protection or
A chance at repair or
Reform.
They left, dodging death and finding
Further fright to
Flee,
And in their hearts they held on
Tightly
To the slowly fraying
Memory,
Of days when life was softer
And beds were warm,
And babies slept
Well kept
Safe from war and hate and
Harm.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Abysmal in 93 words
Note: Dedicated to all displaced, terrorized, pressed, oppressed, persecuted persons everywhere, and to the many millions who had, throughout history and in recent memory and in today’s times, been forced to further risk their lives by leaving what had once been home and safety behind, for the unknown.
Photo: Max van den Oetelaar on Unsplash
“Oh, wow!”
“I know.”
“Did they really decide you were threatening violence against others?”
“Aha.”
“You!??”
Sigh.
“But you weren’t!”
‘I know.”
“And you’re the last person I can think of who’d do anything like that.”
“Thank you. Indeed I wouldn’t. I was speaking out against the threat of violence … and yet …”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah.”
“So now what?”
“I don’t know. As soon as I saw they suspended me, I’ve appealed. I pointed out I was protesting false-choice and threats of violence against the helpless. That I was absolutely not promoting violence. I pointed out that I’d placed any graphic words in quotes exactly because I wanted to make sure it was clear that this was an example of what someone like a Mafioso, in their false-choices, might say. I told them that this was an analogy. That that’s why I put it in quotes. I was certain they’ll reinstate my account. Instead, they wrote back to say that they’d reviewed my appeal and ‘found’ me to have been threatening violence and therefore they won’t restore my account.”
“I can’t believe this is the conclusion they’ve reached!”
“Me neither. It hurts my heart.”
“But you were doing the opposite of threatening people!”
“I know. I abhor violence. Against anyone. By anyone. In fact, this was why I was pointing out the wrong of using violence as a threat.”
“Can’t they see that for themselves? Also, all they need to do is read some of the stuff you write and do and stand for. I mean, this is ludicrous!”
Sigh.
“You of all people …”
Sigh.
“Sheesh! What’s wrong with them?”
“Actually, I’m not angry they wanted to take a look. If anything even appears to be threatening, it should be examined. I’m okay with that. What does upset me is that even after supposedly reviewing this, they say I was threatening violence, when I was absolutely not. I’m dismayed that in spite of me pointing out that this was a quote (and yes, it was in quotes!) of what a mafioso might say to gain compliance, they don’t see this for the analogy it was. I’m upset they don’t believe me I was protesting, via use of the mafia analogy, the untenable situation others are currently facing. I was protesting violence, not promoting it!”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I know.”
“So now what?”
“I’ve re-appealed. I hope they’ll reconsider.”
“Now you wait?”
“I guess so.”
“And in the meanwhile?”
“I write here. I continue speaking against violence and injustice. I continue to trust people will do the right thing. I breathe. I don’t know what more …”
“Can I help?”
“You already are.”
“I am?”
“Yes. It helps that you’re listening. It helps to have you validate that you know I would not threaten to do harm to anyone. It helps that you’re here. It helps that you’re kind. It helps that you’re you.”
“Oh.”
For Linda Hill’s SoCS challenge: Oh
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
The skies aren’t falling
About our ears
In a squall
Of rain,
Nor in white flakes
That slough off
Of clouds
Again.
These skies are falling,
Bit by bit,
In tears
Orphaned
By pain,
And lost in hollows
Fed by
Hate
That’s allowed to
Remain.
For Linda Hill’s SoCS prompt: Fall from the sky
“Be there in a moment, Aaron,” Miriam herded her family toward the synagogue across the street.
“Mom!” Ben protested. She drags him outta’ bed, then stays outside herself?
“It’s urgent,” Miriam apologized, eyes already on her phone.
Seven-year-old Jacob glanced at his dad. “Will the baby cry?”
“You screamed like a stuck pig at your Bris,” Ben offered.
Jacob froze. “I’ll stay with Mom.”
“Ben!” their dad scolded.
Staccato bangs echoed. Loud screams.
“The baby?!” Jacob clung to his father’s hand.
“Down! All of you!” Aaron shoved Jacob behind a car and raced to the synagogue. “Shots fired! Call 911!”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Monique Laats on Pexels.com
When a place of worship crumbles
Into hell of gore and pain,
And the sorrows of the many
Become what connects us all again,
Know that care can conquer ugly
And that compassion outdoes hate’s disdain,
As long as we eject terror
To heed the better, deeper call,
That anything that harms our kinship
Diminishes the very core of all,
Just as anything that builds it
Can lead humanity to standing tall.
For Debbie’s Six Word Saturday
“It’s an effing eyesore.”
“I don’t care.”
Martin balled his fists but Susan just gazed at him.
She said nothing but he knew: Raise a finger on me and off to jail you go. The judge was clear: Anger-Management or prison. Martin took the former but could swear Susan’s infuriating behavior intended to get him the latter.
He inhaled slowly before turning away. “When Sanitation fines us,” he growled, “it’s all yours to pay.”
“Fine,” she shrugged. “Though I think they won’t.”
He glared. “Why? Got connections?”
“Nope,” she patted the rotting piano. “I’ve registered it as street art.”
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