Echoes Of Before

Old door Turkey OsnatHalperinBarlev

Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev

 

Who had stepped through this door

Over thresholds

Before?

What words did old timber

Hear

In times gone but still near?

Do dormant secrets

Await

Behind a roped-to-close gate?

If you step close enough to

Go through

Will the past echo to you?

 

For the Wits End Photo Challenge: History

 

My Neighbor’s Bike

 

toddler s pink bike near wall

Photo by Afta Putta Gunawan on Pexels.com

 

My first bike

Was a neighbor’s bike.

“Too many hills,” my mom had said

As if topography in any way diminished

The accelerated thrill

Of legs off pedals

From the top of the rise

To our street.

There was no arguing

Or vowing to share and never fight.

We knew her words were code

For “we cannot afford.”

But my sister’s friend across the street

Did have a bike

And with it the absolute power to dispense

Rides, routes, direction, and duration.

There were no training wheels

To ease one in.

There was no question of admitting

Complete lack of experience

And risking an evaporated offer.

So it was guts and trepidation

A stranglehold on the handlebar

And the utter exhilaration

Of flying.

 

 

For Cee’s Share Your World Challenge

 

Mind Travel

LuckyCoffee InbarAsif

Photo: Inbar Asif

 

How does time spiral on itself

Even as it unfolds to expand

Outwards?

How do the faces that your mind recalls

Rekindle scenes that take you

Backwards?

And how do those refill your hand

With all of what you’re working

Towards?

Maybe it is all as it should

As long as tender hearts reflect their kindness

Onwards.

 

 

For Cee’s Share Your World Challenge

A Shared World

central park1 May2018 NaamaYehuda

Central Park, NYC; Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

In the midst of the bustle,

The hectic,

The cramped,

A shared world

Sprawls lush green:

Just a few steps

Within

A deep breath

And some peace

To partake in.

 

 

For Cee’s Share Your World Challenge

What’s a View?

ZYView

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

What’s a view

To you?

Memories of times

Long gone

Askew?

The roads since traveled

But still

Due?

The sights you did not know

You will one day reclaim

Anew?

What is a view

To you?

 

 

 

This post is dedicated to memories of all childhoods and sunsets, times gentle and not, and to Frank’s beloved pooch, Ransom.

The Tuesday Photo Challenge

 

Blink Of An Eye

Cuba12 InbarAsif

Photo: Inbar Asif

 

In the blink of an eye

Life shifts gears

Age speeds by

To leave tears

On a cheek

As in one glancing streak

Years flash

Full

Of mystique.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

Layer Not

never again9 OfirAsif

Photo: Ofir Asif

 

Some photos of a layered world aren’t pretty. Some are there to remind us of history that shouldn’t have happened yet did: People stacked in slave ships’ holds. People forced to march. People warehoused in concentration camps. People massacred. People just like us … stripped of dignity. Dehumanized.

And yet. People they each were. Each one a universe of thoughts and soul and feelings. Each one worthy. Each a human being.

Layered in the bowels of our collective histories are memories that hurt as the agony they resurrect is peeled away so they be seen. And yet they may be there exactly to remind us what we should know … and never repeat.

 

 

For The Photo Challenge

Journey Back, Journey On

 

As you travel paths of current days, new plans … remember times of past: The journeys never taken, the ones you had and wish you hadn’t, the ones you had and would again, the ones still left to seek and find.

Recall the feel of face against the window, the mist of breath on glass, the passing scenery, the whoosh of trucks, the sway of train, the rock of boat, the hum of plane.

Revisit muted conversations, real or invented, arguments and whining, complains and “I spy” games, “she’s touching me” and “99 bottles” songs.

Sensations, shared or private. Fall-asleep-legs, sticky vinyl against summer skin, hair in eyes, road grit, sweet treats, cold drinks. The heaviness of someone’s slumber on your shoulder, the lull of road weighing your own lids down.

And music. Radioed or piped through earphones. Sang loudly, hummed, internally known, ignored. The way the beat or words or both matched blur of blacktop under wheels or rain on windshield; the way it sometimes did not match at all.

Be still. Be rocked. Be moved. Be carried.

Allow yourself to be transported, taken back, imagined forward.

On this journey, your commute through life.

 

For The Daily Post

A Coil of Time

from wakingtimes.com

Life will loop back

Onto itself

A coil of time,

A wreath of memories

Unwound,

Revisiting.

Hold tight. Ride on.

A curve will come.

A turn to grow.

Till the next loop

Flows back

Contracting

Time.

 

 

For The Daily Post

Writing Voyage

writing voyage1

People ask me, “Why do you write?” and my inner retort often feels like: “Why do you not?”

I don’t usually reply this aloud, however. I realize that such deflection is far from giving an answer, and that there are probably as many reasons to write as there are not to. Belonging to the former group, I cannot imagine life without words put down on paper and/or screen, even if I know it is not the only way to live. So it stands to reason that there would be those from the latter group who find in quite confounding to imagine why one would want to type letters onto screens for recreation.

Why then, do I write?

Beyond the obvious to me “because I do …”, my answer varies, but it often returns to “because it feels as natural as breathing and just as necessary.” Writing is essential to me. It feels like home. It is the place of flow, even if not always of comfort. Writing takes me places that I never knew I would be visiting, into mind-nooks and crannies I’ve forgotten I had known and some that I never owned and yet somehow remember. Writing deepens how I think, what I comprehend, how I understand it. It plumbs my heart for meaning and compassion, it weaves my thoughts so that they make a tapestry from smallish bits of living. Words offer vistas that lie hidden under the everyday, patiently (and not so patiently) waiting to be breathed onto page and screen.

 To me writing is often fun. The best kind of delight, when I am immersed and floating down creative currents. Though some parts of writing can be tedious, they are to me never boring. Words paint pictures within me. They have me revisit. They bring alive people and places. They animate thoughts, realities, events, suspense and resolution. More than anything, writing surprises me. It is as if stories unfold and I am naught but the typist of their unveiling, a tool for their formation.

I write because I can, and because it seems impossible not to.

As Miller said, “writing is, like life, a voyage of discovery” and it is one to which I do not want to say good-bye.

If you, reading this, write: would you share why?