Pink Strong

Pink AtaraKatz

Photo: Atara Katz

 

Underneath the soft plumage

And pretty colors

Afield,

Resides a strength to protect

From those who violence

Wield.

Underneath the pink top

The hat of power

Revealed,

Live truths of how both

Softness and thorns

Are required

To be healed.

 

 

For the Sunday Stills Challenge: Make mine pink

 

 

Be Heartened

heartened NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

Take heart

Even when reality

Would bleed it dry

With injustice

And stale pride.

Be heartened

By the strength

Of those who wait out

The belligerent

And will not see

Truth and decency

Denied.

 

 

For Cee’s Black & White Photo challenge

 

Heart View

Belize4 InbarASif

Photo: Inbar Asif

 

As we hold endless heartache

Of scandal, war, crime, abuse

May we also remember

Gentler waves, kinder views;

So the holes rent by hardship

Will not make us refuse

To let pain become a window

To the good we can profuse.

 

 

For the Pink September Squares

 

 

Rawson Rise

Rawson Lake Photo by Jack Ng

Rawson Lake; photo: Jack Ng

 

It was their last day by the lake. The weather was perfect and the air was so crisp it squeaked. She inhaled deeply, savoring every moment. By that time tomorrow she’d be stuck in rush-hour traffic.

“See?” he pointed. “Even wood can’t keep its head above water at some point.”

She snuck a hand into his and squeezed. She wished she could give him sips of this place during what was to come. She wished she could tell him this round wouldn’t be as difficult as the ones before. That this one would work. She didn’t know if to hope or fear it being the last. It shattered her that she no longer knew what he hoped for.

She gathered the light around her, kissed his baldness, and rose to stand.

“For now, my love, let’s float.”

 

 

For What Pegman Saw: Rawson Lake Canada

 

Kind of Famous

Rose DvoraFreedman

Photo: Dvora Freedman

 

“I’ll be famous,” she said, twirling and eyeing her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a particularly twirl-worthy skirt and a shiny pair of sandals.

“Yep, famous,” she repeated with finality. She spun a few more times then stopped mid-turn to face me. “Do you know what famous means?”

I raised an eyebrow in half-query, half-invitation. Children’s explanations are immensely more informing than anything I might attempt to guess at.

“It means everybody knows you and everybody likes you a lot.”

“It does?” I lent a slight undulation to my voice in what I hoped was just a smidge of challenge for the second part.

She’s a perceptive little one. She caught it. Paused. Frowned. Pursed her lips and pursed them again in front of the mirror to inspect the effect. “Well, everybody knows famous people,” she countered and puckered her lips a few more times to make a point. “But … maybe not everybody likes them?”

I smiled and raised my eyebrow again.

She straightened and crossed the room to lean into me. “Because some famous people can be bad?”

I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Some. Sometimes people get famous but not for very good things.”

She nodded into my side. “Like Hitler and … you know?”

“Yes. Hitler … and some other people … are known for doing very very bad things.”

“I don’t want to be that kind of famous.”

I gave her a squeeze. “I understand. I wouldn’t worry … You are nothing like that … You have a beautiful, loving, caring heart. It’s not a bad thing to want to be famous. Most famous people aren’t bad. Most people in general aren’t bad. Famous and not famous ones.”

She leaned into me a moment longer. She knows hardship. Young as she is, the pain of cruel actions isn’t abstract to her.

I took a deep breath to remind her she was safe. She followed. Took another. Shook the pensive worry off and looked down into her magnificently twirl-worthy skirt.

“Well,” she stood and made a quick half-turn, watching the edges of the fabric lift and roil and dance and fly. “I’ll be the good kind of famous.” She walked back to the full-length mirror to reinspect her reflection. “The beautiful heart kind …”

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

For The Long Haul

Ethiopia6 DvoraFreedman

Photo: Dvora Freedman

 

In places too many

On this one blue-green ball,

Children haul

More than the weight of firewood

On their backs,

Big or small.

Sorrow, loss, illness, agony

Needs unmet

Unheard calls …

Yet they are all

Our children,

Their pain is our

Shortfall.

They are worthy of better:

In the now

For the future

For humanity’s long haul.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

The Lost Quartet

fishbowl

 

 

He reached into his pocket and rummaged around. “I’ve brought something to show you,” he said, eyes searching mine. “But it’s a secret …”

“Oh?” I offered.

“Well, sort of,” he shrugged as an uncertain smile worked its way into his cheeks. “I took them to school … but I didn’t tell anyone … because we’re not allowed to … The teacher woulda’ taken them away and other kids maybe woulda’ told her or asked to see them and then she’d know …”

I hiked my eyes up and nodded my expectation.

The grin grew but it still held a sheen of sad.

He pulled his fist out of his pocket and turned it so the back of his hand rested on the table, then ceremoniously uncurled his fingers.

Four grains of rice in tiny vials, strung onto a keychain ring.

“They have names on them,” he said reverently.

I squinted and reached for a magnifying glass. Handed him one.

Our heads met over the small nest of palm and he mouthed the words, more sigh than voice.  “Fee, Fi, Fo and Fum.”

A quartet recently eaten not by a giant smelling the blood of an English man but by a feline with a swishing tail who had knocked the fishbowl over and left not one golden scale behind.

 

 

For The Daily Post

In Your Grasp

Achziv Cave AmitaiAsif

Photo: Amitai Asif

 

It is in your grasp

To take hold

To absorb

Offered light

Life’s rewrite.

It’s within your soul

To recall

To be bold

In the hollowed out space

Of your mind

To breathe deep

To grow whole.

 

 

For The Daily Post

The Warp, The Woof

Guatemala AtaraKatz

Photo: Atara Katz

 

Weave the fabric

Of your life.

Reshape

Reuse

The warp,

The woof.

Line up

Soft hues

In the

Foundation

You call

Home.

 

 

For The Daily Post

Beauty From The Rough

carver OfirAsif

Photo: Ofir Asif

 

Carve beauty

Out of woe.

Hew purpose

From the rough.

Sculpt meaning

To make good enough

What wasn’t

And yet

Somehow was

All you could

Know.

Carve beauty

Out of woe.

Find you

Inside

The flow.

 

 

For The Daily Post