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,
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.
This haibun is for Colleen Chesebro’s Tanka Tuesday.
Photo ©Wouter Hagens
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, 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.
This is for Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.
photo by Adi Ulici via Unsplash
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.
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.
A poem from the oracle of the fridge magnets since it’s Saturday.
Quiet as stone,
light falls cold and blue,
covering the world
in clouds of frost.
Listen to the grass rustle
at darkest dusk,
wander with the wind,
as if Eden
was but a song from here.
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,
for memories to build anew.
No light in this air,
this day of damp and dinge,
cold clings like a second skin,
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.