Salted

dead sea dry OsnatHalperinBarlev

Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev

 

In the cracked curl

Of earth

Baked in sun

And ancient salt,

The Dead Sea

Awaits a

Flawed flow of

Redemption,

Or a whitened end.

 

 

For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Texture

 

Zēngzǔfù’s Bridge

Image result for Jiangxi province China free

Photo: pngtree.com

 

He had made the pilgrimage as promised. He didn’t know if he believed the ancestors would know he’d kept his word, but life was complicated enough without angering spirits, ancestral or not.

And it would have made his mother happy to know he’d visited the bridge his great-great-great-great-grand (or however many generations it was) had helped build. She’d always longed to make the trip back herself, and couldn’t.

“The sweat of your ancestor dripped into the stones,” his mother had told him, “his blood and thus yours lives in them.”

He heard her voice in Jia’s when the child, sober in pigtails and pink frilly dress, studied the structure. “So this is where we came from?”

He nodded.

His daughter walked to the first pile and touched it reverently. “Zēngzǔfù built this one,” the six-year-old stated. “Nǎinai told me. She showed me in my dream last night.”

 

 

 

For What Pegman Saw: Jaingxi province of China

 

Flatiron Renaissance

FlatIronBuilding IngeVandormael

Photo: Inge Vandormael

 

Where Broadway

Meets fifth

In triangular happenstance,

Stands a Beaux-Arts building

That Flat-Ironed

A vertical Palazzo

Into a steel framed

Renaissance.

 

 

For Cee’s Black & White Photo: Made by humans

 

Frozen In Time

Old Poland OfirAsif

Photo: Ofir Asif

 

They stand frozen in time.

Carving long blunted by

Wind and the loss of names

No one is left

To own,

Decode,

Or understand.

 

They stand frozen in time.

The saplings reaching up

To the heavens

The only sign of what

Even death cannot

Disband.

 

 

For the Sunday Stills challenge: Frozen

 

Fates and Faiths

the old city osnathalperinbarlev

Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev

 

In the depths of the city

Where new rubs shoulders

With old,

Uncounted passes of prayers

And woven statements

Enfold,

Fates and faiths of what’s been

And may yet find

Better ways

To be told.

 

 

For Wits-End Weekend Photo Challenge: repeating patterns

 

The Vanishing Point

VanishingPoint ofirasif

Photo: Ofir Asif

 

 

At the vanishing point

They have passed

To be gassed,

Leaving us

To a world

That forever now must,

Not forget

How the place

Of no return

Has been crossed,

And we none are

The same

For hate’s shadow’s

Been cast.

In the name of those

Vanished

Who shall not be forgot,

We can vow to hold hope,

And let compassion

Outlast.

 

 

 

For Nancy Merrill’s A Photo a Week Challenge: Vanishing Point

 

Niche by Niche

guild niche smadarhalperinepshtein

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

Roofed in green

Curves of foliage

They stand chiseled

And skilled,

Each a niche

Dedicated

To the men of

The guild.

 

 

For the Lens-Artist Challenge: curves

 

Floored

paphos mosaic1 SmadarHalperinEpshtein

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

Not a rug

But a floor

You’ll be floored

To adore

As you find

Even more

To marvel

Galore.

 

paphos mosaic3 smadarhalperinepshtein

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

 

For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Floor

 

Not Yet History

gas-1639242_1920

Photo: Tomasz Mikolajczyk on Pexels

 

“Are these from olden times?” the boy’s eyes were round with wonder.

“Not so olden,” his mother sighed. “We have some in our bomb-shelter. Everyone was fitted with a gas mask during the Gulf War. We had to carry it everywhere. Even preschoolers like you.”

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Mask in 45 words

 

Tomorrow’s Memory

Photo: Adam Ickes

 

“They do not remember who they are.”

The old man’s voice was somber without judgment. A skill born of patience shaped by the combined weights of history and time.

“It is why I brought them here.”

The elder regarded his visitor. His dark eyes pools of wisdom deeper than the lines upon his skin.

A silence stretched.

“They will not find it in this place,” Sorrowful Skies said finally.

Disappointment filled the woman’s face.

“They will sleep in the lodge tonight,” he added. “Tomorrow, they will walk like their ancestors. In bare feet on breathing land. Then they will remember.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers