I have a dream

The Daily Inkling prompt is to imagine a future with a tech device that we think of as impossible. I can’t get my head around technology, so here’s a future without it.

 

I have a dream (don’t we all?),

they call an impossible dream,

of a future cleansed of obscurantism,

when we will believe in ourselves,

and ourselves alone,

when we shoulder our responsibilities

to the here and now,

and scrape away the putrid sacred vestments

that have befouled our humanity.

Ni dieu, ni maître,

ourselves alone.

The stars wheeling above my head,

the sands of a long white strand beneath my feet,

I take my place in the universe.

I have a dream,

only a dream.

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On the edge

This haibun is for Colleen Chesebro’s Tanka Tuesday.

Photo ©Wouter Hagens

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Only at this moment

and this and this

can I write of past and future, each moment ticking by, another grain of sand in the glass, adding to the past and taking from the future. I sit or stand or take a step

this way or that, back again

in that infinitely narrow strait, where all futures, all pasts, slide and pass, reach out a hand, catch a grain

and another and another

and by the light of a star already dead, imprint its shape. Memory stored, I keep it polished and bright, as long as I can see its trajectory downward, behind, stroke the memory of its fiery tail as it falls. This sun, with rays so much younger than the fiery mass, flickers in the facets before they are lost, poured through the straits into the pile of the past. So many grains, falling in a brilliant cascade. How many more are left to come?

 

Each moment glitters,

dark or light, by sun or moon,

a glimpse of heaven.

I taste my childhood, the scent,

floral, pungent of privet.

The skies are changing

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The skies are changing, wild cloud streaking

In and out of sunbeams, veils of grey.

Roses heavy bowed with bee-loud scent

Strain against the wind, stain pink the day.

I hear your words again against the howl

Of crow-black branches, twisted by the gale,

They lie as dull as water in the ditch,

Their echoes faded like a distant wail.

Roses fall, wind bears all trace away,

The sky has changed, in stormlight shadows play.

Microfiction: The Custom of the country

This is for Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.

photo by Adi Ulici via Unsplash

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Since they were small they’d know not to fool around with the portals, that parallel universes weren’t always fun and sometimes the curious never came back, so they only had themselves to blame when the new people they visited turned out to be less than friendly and marched them in chains to their sacred place.

“It’s only an electricity pylon,” he said to his friend, nodding scornfully at the gaunt metallic structure that held out its arms against the evening sky. “Are these people really so backward they worship our antiquated junk?”

But in parallel worlds with no electricity, pylons have another use, and when the next dawn broke, the morning sky had soaked up the flames and the screams from the indestructible wicker man, leaving just a pile of smoking bones at its foot.

 

Birthday: One

Photo©Jean-Luc Ourlin

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This day, a symbol, a turning of the path,

is more, an aging, a dimming of the light.

So easy at the dark time of the year,

when nature sleeps and the stars weigh down

with such heavy, insupportable glitter,

to feel the end in the endlessness,

the slipping from warm closeness

into the cold nothingness beyond.

She gives me a card, the child, on this day,

a message of special words

that bring the sun a little closer,

the spring a little nearer.

‘We could be heroes’

and this is the day.

Pebbles in the stream

 

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The pebble dropped into the stream

may roll down to the ocean vast and blue,

or, like your love, sink forgotten

into weed-choked mud.

 

Rain on stone,

pattering cold from stony sky,

washes the dust and the clinging grime,

washes clean

for memories to build anew.

 

No light in this air,

this day of damp and dinge,

cold clings like a second skin,

fish-tight,

and relentless as the mud-gorged river.

 

Once so clear, the future,

decked with diamonds bright as stars,

dense and dull now as the river,

swollen with sorrowing rain

and the debris of broken things.