A poem using the word ‘groove’ for the dverse prompt.
Hawk drops from the branch,
fits into the groove of the air,
falls, buoyed up by the crisp
cold, slips with sleek feathered grace
along the furrowed field.
I wish I could fall with such ease,
slip into the stream of ice-blue breeze,
limber as hot-blooded hawk, not freeze,
tumble, rag-tag, with the hunched shoulders,
worry-burdened, of the clay-footed.
For the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt. The words to use are
WAR | LOUD | ESCAPE | RIGHT | JUMP
Far from the bloody, war-loud plain,
Beneath the hum-drum beat of rain
Or hail—nothing escapes the pain.
No pitch black wrong, no purest right,
Behind this leap into the night,
Or fall—the act’s rope slack, not tight.
A smothered squeal, a piercing cry,
A feathered bolt falls from the sky,
Or red-furred streak—all things must die.
For Colleen Chesebro’s poetry challenge. This week’s word prompts are Bells & Past.
Acorn cups empty,
oak mast fallen, carpeting
dry earth. No bells ring.
Once, this time was electric,
the past chimes with memories.
For the dverse prompt—pleasantly surprised.
Photo ©Jackie Proven
At this time of obligatory jollity, of purchasing of gifts that may or may not be mildly appreciated, of spending and consuming in a haze of glitter and light, I stand apart. Or sit, or walk, or simply watch, listening all the while to the sounds, the pixels that make up the silence.
Not since childhood have I found much pleasure in an object given. For too long have objects been either necessities or irrelevancies to spark more than a wistful sigh that the time spent searching for this irrelevancy would have been better spent otherwise. The customs of Christmas that used to be so important, without the wide-eyed wonder of children to give reflected glory to the baubles and the tinsel, seem tawdry and tired.
But always, at the bend of the path, in a copse of tangled branches, at the edge of a field or in a hedgerow, I am surprised and moved by beauty, ephemeral, untamed and uncaged.
The rosehip, red-blushed
and bright with cold rain trembles,
a drop of sunset.
For Ronovan’s weekly challenge.
Sun flare, golden drops
of molten heat, seaward fall—
an ocean of steam.
I’m going to post a lot today because it’s my birthday and I’ll post if I want to. First up, a couple of cold, cold haiku for Frank Tassone’s challenge, one I never seem to see.
First snow settles on
evergreen, everdark firs—
white colder than black.
In the dim dark woods,
first snow, cold ghost drifts, whisper,
pure white, nevergreen.
Stories, realities different to my own, run through my thoughts like the gold thread woven into an embroidered coat. Wind gusts and rumbles in the chimney and beyond the window streaked with rain, the brown stalks of last season’s hawkweed tremble. The field is like a crowd agitating tiny flags, silent and damp, but not cowed. Beneath the wind’s heavy hand the stalks of cat’s ear and hawkweed bend and spring back again. In the earth, beneath the rotting leaves, the new shoots lie curled, waiting for the spring.
Stories unfurl, hardy as hawkweed, waiting to be heard.
There were yellow blooms
in the bleak, rain-swept meadow—
the earth remembers.