(Photo: Angiola Harry on Unsplash)
It did not matter that
The evidence was there for all
To see.
The crumbs.
The chocolate stains.
The broken shards of Nana’s cookie
Jar with
That crack from when Pawpaw drank
Too much and thought he was a
Knife thrower
But missed
The block.
It didn’t matter she was
Caught.
The child was
Unrepentant.
“Cookies are for eatin’, Nana.
No good letting them go stale
In that
Pot!”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Unrepentant in 69 words
(Photo: Christian Bowen on Unsplash)
She strained
Against walls which
Heaved
About her.
She tensed limbs and
Tucked her
Chin
Fighting for a
Purchase
Around her.
And still the world
Convulsed.
Impossible in
Pressure.
Till sudden
Light.
A gasp of cold
As air
Rushed
Into lungs
To life her.
For dVerse quadrille poetry challenge of: gasp in 44 words
(Photo: Frank Eiffert on Unsplash)
Clear as daylight.
A cradle rocking
On a treetop.
No baby.
Thank God.
Or was there?
Was the movement the wind,
Or a small living thing?
She felt her heart flutter in
A memory
Of falling.
Heard a rustle and shuddered.
Ran for the
Ladder.
Climbed.
Swallows nesting
In the cradle.
Wide open mouths.
A child’s toy
Flown off a balcony.
Made home.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of Treetop in 63 words
(Photo: Laurenz Heymann on Unsplash)
They would have gladly helped.
If he had let them.
If only he had found
The key
To what his dreams
Put forth.
If only he had known
How to identify
What were so many
Opened doors.
Instead, they watched,
Helplessly muted
To his ears,
As he fumbled,
Lost,
Amidst a maze of what
Were to him
Opaque,
Endless,
Walls.
Their lifelines loose,
Adrift
In the current
Of his
Half-formed
Words.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Key in 71 words
(Photo: Susan Wilkinson on Unsplash)
She was up all night.
Words crowded her mind. Piled atop each other, they kept coming
Impatient. Wanting to be picked.
Even the discarded ones pressed behind closed lids, trying to repeat.
A few slipped, surprising and lubricated by unexpected tears.
Of worry.
Of hope.
Of fatigue.
She tossed and turned. She wrote. She paced.
And still words tumbled. Filling every space.
In the small hours she ran the tub.
Soaked.
Prayed to soften the callouses
And the rough edges
Snagging nonsense
In her mind.
As dawn rose, she was bare.
Exhausted.
Script mulled.
Not quite ready,
But word lulled.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Script in 100 words
(Photo: Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash)
Impressed, she was.
The image etched into her mind.
The angle of his neck,
Head bent over the
Guitar,
Engraved
Onto her heart.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of Engrave in 23 words
(Photo: Deann DaSilva on Unsplash)
She knew she never should have let it run
Amok.
Should have kept it
Always
Locked.
But she wobbled
At the sight of keys under the
Rock.
It ran,
Before she could even feign
Shock.
For Sammi’s weekend writing prompt of Amok in 35 words
(Photo: Ray Fragapane on Unsplash)
They didn’t know then
Or still
What track life will
Bring.
Yet they hold on,
By bootstraps
Hoping
For just enough breath with which to
Sing,
To the sun
That would rise,
To the hope
That would
Cling.
Till dawn will
Another story
String.
For dVerse Quadrille Poetry challenge
(Photo: Gabriel Jimenez on Unsplash)
She was almost there.
The core of her was almost
But perhaps not quite. Viable.
It took so much of her. To form. To build.
To be.
To sift the valued from the wreckage.
The meaning
From the hurt.
That there was little left.
Yet.
For viability.
Nonetheless it was still in there.
Nascent. Waiting.
For the rain.
For the sunlight.
For the nourishment.
For what had already sprouted and was on its way
To the life
She was.
And could
Sustain.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Viable in 82 words.
There was never enough time.
For that.
No time for the things that mattered but were not deemed essential.
No time for the space that was given no paths to traverse.
None for the slow breath that could have allowed a pause
In the constant
Race.
Because there was never time.
For that.
Too much buzzed already
From the break of dawn to the collapse of night.
No time for
Time.
And so, she stopped it.
Stopped time.
She let the hands rest.
Let the heart expand inside the fluttering confines of the
Chest.
She let the breeze
Set
The pace.
The leaves, believe.
The ground stretch long and wide beneath
The feet.
The skies expand across
The dawn.
To let
The space that had
Held on,
To finally
Allow itself to be
Redrawn.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
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