(Photo: Karen Forte)
At the very fringe
Of hope,
And even as embers
Of warmth
Barely flickered,
A marginal way
Lived on
In her heart,
Its waves crashing
Full of breath
Against
Life’s rocks.
For Sammi‘s Weekend Writing Prompt: Marginal in 31 words
A silver light,
In blue
It was.
A glimmer on
Still
Water.
A place of dream
Of home
It was.
A hope for
Time’s lost
Daughter.
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Of all scenes
And joys and sorrows,
Of all the steps
And breaths
And sense,
There is the ebb and flow
And stillness,
That makes this
Movement
My heart’s
Place.
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Still
The promise of day sweeps
Broad calm in its sway,
And the sun,
Rising gold
Lights new stories
Untold.
For the Sunday Stills Photo Challenge: Early
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
A moment
For the memory of
A different kind of home,
Where sun sparkles
On the water
And you feel your soul
Fold along the crease
Of rolling foam,
And where your spirit
Sings the song of places
It has long known
How to roam.
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
In the moment of the soft swell
Of a calm curl,
The gentle foam
Belays the power of
The waves that lift ocean liners
And cradle whales.
A breath
Before
Exhale.
Thank you, Terri, for this prompt. Perfect for today. For me, the shore is the ultimate calibrator. I took this photo in Ogonquit, Maine, quite too many years ago. Time to go back. Time to go to the beach. Any beach. For breath, for awe, for space, for zen.
For Sunday Stills: Essence of Zen
Photo: Inbar Asif
She could be
Truly carefree
When she strolls
The fine edge
Of the sea.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Challenge: Carefree in 14 words
Photo: S. Levenberg
At the edge of the
Down Under
Where water angles
Into sea,
There’s an old pool
Where you safely
Hold the sharks at bay,
And be.
For Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge: Lines and angles
She’d never have believed the vastness had she not been there to see it.
In person.
On the edge of endlessness.
The breath of eons crashing at her feet.
The spray of ancient rhythms that had been there
All along.
Through war and storm and hope and flood and cold and warm and days like this when no one but herself was there to witness it.
She’d never have believed the power that it held, contained within each curl of wave, in every roll of whitecap licking sand.
It filled her.
With awe and ache and gnawing yearning to something that went beyond her words and into thoughts unformed, or perhaps ones made of memories in utero: the hiss, the beat, the drums of hearts.
And this.
Another memory
To merge into
In endless harmony.
For Sue Vincent’s WritePhoto (2nd week)
He retreated to behind the fence during low tides and sharpened his claws on the aging timbers. He nursed his rage on fantasy and fed his fury on abandoned sea-foam. Some days the seething rose a hurricane that only freezing wind subdued into a smolder. He hissed. He breathed. He knew. He waited.
The time would come.
Waiting both allayed and fanned his urgency. He scraped his restless agony into the wood, that hewed abomination they’d forced onto his bay to tame it. As if it, he, could be. Tamed.
When time returned he’d vanquish them and show no remedy.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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