(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
(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
(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
(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
(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 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.
(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
(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
(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
(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
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