The Marshal

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(Photo: Lily on Unsplash)

 

The day rose bright but she knew better than to trust

Cornflower

Skies.

It will turn wet,

She knew,

As soon as her boots

Hit the ground.

The gift of rain

On golden epaulets

Glittering through muddy parade

Grounds.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Marshal in 39 words

 

In Every Dawn

New Dawn

(Photo: Na’ama Yehuda)

 

The light spun silent waves

Of day

Into her heart,

Her chambers slowly opening

Their delicate petals

To sing

The morning’s chant.

There is a hope,

She knows,

In every dawn.

Its breath imparting

An oasis

And a coming home.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Oasis in 40 words

 

Nourished

(Red Cardinal in Central Park – Photo: Na’ama Yehuda)

 

There was naught

That she needed

But a path

And some green

And a burbling stream

And wide sky

Overhead.

 

So she felt deeply nourished

By the flowers,

And the gift of bird

Who landed by her feet

To share

Her burden

And bread.

 

 

 

For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: stream

 

A Morning’s Weave

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(Photo: Anant Chandra on Unsplash)

 

As Sun rose

In the east

It darned

A web of light upon

The leaves,

And sprinkled gold on

Spiders’ orbs

That dangled from

The eaves.

 

The artist watched the dawn

And breathed.

For though her heart

Believed,

She knew her fingers

Do not have the skill

To tessellate this wonder

Into the mosaic that

Her soul

Perceived.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Tessellate in 58 words

 

Playing Along

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(Photo: Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash)

 

He wasn’t going to win this game.

He learned that much from many

That he had

Lost.

And he did not care

To have his face made pie

Against another Juke

Box.

So he played along,

As if it was all

A big

Joke.

 

 

 

For the dVerse 10th Anniversary (!!) poetry quadrille challenge: Juke

Dedicated to all who had to play along, because that was the safer – if fake – choice.

 

 

The Longest Walk

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The dappled path grew arms of shade to shackle her so that her legs refused to move.

Earth’s gravity cranked itself up and higher.

It needn’t be so hard, and yet each cell in her begged an excuse.

She couldn’t.

She had to.

She shouldn’t.

She must.

She wouldn’t.

She better.

Or else.

The tree-lined corridor – so outwardly calm, so beautifully straightforward – was but a hall of mirrors.

An amplifier of her agony.

For who would see it and believe her, when none had yet, and perhaps no one ever would?

The careful greenery imposed a form of blindness on others.

A willingness to only selectively see.

Appearances, she already knew, could become everything.

It made the manicured life into a wall beyond which no one saw. Or wouldn’t.

Leaving her to take.

Again.

As in every day.

The longest walk.

Home.

And its unspoken of.

Relentless,

Tortures.

 

 

 

For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

Dedicated to all who live behind the veils of appearances and are kept hidden in plain sight under a mirage of perceived privilege. Abuse knows no socioeconomic boundaries. Torment knows no race, no age, no god, no faith, no intellect, no education, no level of income. May you be heard. May you find a way to be safe.

 

 

The Underside of Recollection

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(Photo: Mick Haupt on Unsplash)

 

It was merely by a feather,

But nonetheless a

Tether

To a life before,

When friends were at the

Door,

And when she did not have to worry

About honor, trust, or

Glory.

She held on to the underside

Of recollection.

To the roots of love that

Promised a

Direction.

For there had been simplicity to life,

An implicit understanding

That words as given were meant

To keep,

And that the sun will rise in

The morn after a

Sleep.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Tether in 80 words

 

Inked

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(Photo: Pierre Bamin on Unsplash)

 

When voice failed and

She could no longer

Think

She turned to

Ink

For words on velum

Scribbled

Fast

Translated

Into heart.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Ink in 22 words

 

Arranged

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(Photo: Ben Rosett on Unsplash)

 

There was not much to do but wait.

And hope.

The lots were cast,

Though she had very little trust

In such.

It was not for her

To decide.

Now it was just,

The drip of minutes

Through childhood’s hourglass.

Dreams slowly fraying

Into dust,

While growing worries,

Poke trembling shoots

Into her heart.

Will this unknown,

Chosen for her

Husband,

Will he be

Kind?

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Challenge: unknown in 65 words

 

Crystal Clear

(Photo by De an Sun on Unsplash)

 

She would have gone to bed

And let the mess wait

For the morning,

Or the following

Millennia,

Had it not been for voices

That still

Echoed

From her past

To smudge shame

Onto her

Present.

She grabbed the mop

And filled the pail.

 

 

 

For the dVerse poetry quadrille challenge: smudge