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When all the colours of the world are grey

Another villanelle for the dverse prompt. I chose this painting by Yumeji Takehisa because the ambiguity seems to fit the sense of the poem. To me the hand is a barrier between the two, saying ‘That’s enough! No further.’

754px-TakehisaYumeji-1930-Seishun_Fu

When all the colours of the world are grey,

And stars fall thick as ash in deepest night,

Between us there is nothing more to say.

 

The moon has set, I could not make her stay,

She would not see my silver tears of slight,

When all the colours of the world are grey.

 

In silence of the dark, I hoped that day

Would dawn, at least, with rainbow-coloured sight,

Between us there is nothing more to say.

 

November, chill and drear, it seems, not May,

This cascade, cold and cheerless, of pale light

When all the colours of the world are grey.

 

So long ago, it seems, spring flew away,

With swallow’s dart, wild goose’s steady flight,

Between us there is nothing more to say.

 

When boundless joy plunges into dismay,

Handfuls of dust, what once was pure delight,

Our shining world is empty, dull and grey,

No love between us, nothing more to say

Those first times that we’d meet

This villanelle is for the dverse prompt.

Julian_Falat_0033

Light is harsh and hard in this dull heat,

The moon a pale reflection of the sun,

Reminds me of those first times that we’d meet.

 

Air so still I hear the slow wing beat

Of buzzards, drawn by sound of hunter’s gun,

Light is harsh and hard in this dull heat.

 

Afternoons, café terrace replete,

We’d saunter home already half-undone,

Reminds me of those first times that we’d meet.

 

Summer fruit is never half so sweet,

As those we tasted, our love just begun,

Light is harsh and hard in this dull heat.

 

Looking back, a cynic, I’d delete

Your promises, just so much hollow fun—

Reminds me of those first times that we’d meet.

 

Wiser now, I fly on nimble feet,

Mellow dusk’s hues bathe me as I run,

Away from all the pain of this dull heat,

That recalls those first times that we’d meet.

Microfiction #writephoto: Waving

This is for Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo Prompt.

apparition

 

I can see him at the end of the tunnel, gesticulating, but he is too far away to hear. Part of me wants to run back, ready to forgive. Perhaps he’s changed his mind. Perhaps he’s in trouble. It’s crazy. I know what’s back there, and the only possible escape is down here, deep inside the dark earth. He told me himself, before he threw his fist at me again for something unimportant I’d forgotten to do.

I hesitate, running over in my mind the countless times I have run from him and his anger, yet knowing that he hates himself for it, says it’s like being stuck down a well and nobody can hear him to help him out. I take a step back to the entrance. He’s waving his arms wildly now. His voice is rising—he’s calling my name!

I make up my mind. I’m going back. I shout too, his name, putting into it that one word all the words I want to say, want him to hear. I scream, but nothing hits my ears, deafened by the screech of death. In the blinding light of the explosion, I see him one last time, his arms waving, in farewell.

Microfiction #Three Line Tales: Run!

For Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.

photo by Christian Widell via Unsplash

tltweek73

Green evening falls on the field, tempting, full of cool grass smells, short, sweet grass, the best kind.

Hiding in the long stalks, I watch and sniff the smells, waiting for the last two-legs to go and the grass to be empty, hunger pinching belly, ears listening, this way, that.

I slip through the dry stalks onto the fresh green nibbling grass, even though ears hear the two-legs shout, because hunger is strong, then ears scream—dog!

A good name

For the dverse prompt—my sign, my name, my house.

Tambarlan

Not all place names go back to the Romans, or the Celts with their spirits of place. History is a stream, un long fleuve tranquille, it delves banks and builds ramparts, and it drops names here and there wherever someone needs one. A place name by the roadside stands proudly, arbitrary spelling because farmers didn’t go to school much. But someone had heard of a Mogul emperor and gave his name to a small farm. Perhaps a daughter, who read novels or poetry, an exotic name that caught her fancy. Her father, to indulge her, in his slow, clumsy hand wrote it as she said it, onto the title deeds, and claimed a bit of history for his own.

 

Home in the meadows,

still as stone in the stream,

basks in ancient splendour.

Sun-charred laughter

Photo©Arun Kulshreshtha.

1024px-The_Sun

Sunlight roars with a fiery voice,

Beneath its claws red stone flakes fall,

Your laughter breaks like charred black twigs.

 

As summer crawls from beneath the shade

Of spreading trees, silent and grave,

Sunlight roars with a fiery voice.

 

Harsh, it tears the walls, the heat

That pours from roof tiles, dripping gold—

Beneath its claws red stone flakes fall.

 

Limp the poplars, their voices hushed,

Where birds in thoughtful silence perch,

Your laughter breaks like charred black twigs.