I found a truth today

 

I found a truth today,

hiding in a pool of yellow sunlight,

where a red leaf curled

and in the tree above, a robin sang.

I found a truth today,

racing in the stream

with the yellow poplar leaves,

where lords and ladies unfurl their new green banners,

for beneath the rustling brown carpet

life is stirring.

I found a truth today

that explains the emptiness,

the mist that hangs on every bough,

in every longed-for sight and song.

Happiness is the two wings of a bird,

the hand that holds, the hand that is held,

it is the giving and the given,

the walking in step.

The truth I found—

happiness is not,

unless it is shared.

Moon-feathered song

A tritina for a wonderful day!

 

On the right side of the moon the darkness falls,

the left, a goddess smile of echoed light

born on wings of owl and fluted song.

 

Starlight glitters, night leaves, while the song

of brown birds charms, whatever else befalls

this world of feathers soft and silver light.

 

Morning fills the sky with golden light,

sunrise whispers silver streams of song,

winding twisted tresses where it falls.

 

Feathered moon falls, light and gentle as a whispered song.

Haibun: Erased = happiness

 

The song goes on, night and day while flowers grow and seed. Sun rises, sets, and the moon swells and scatters stars. There were swallows in the sky, but will they stay? Nothing is attainable, fixable in the hand or in the heart. All is drift and chance except what is preordained in sap and cell. I drift, open my hand to the air and try to catch the sundrops falling on elm leaves. Nothing sticks, the music winds on and on even when the stream runs too low to speak. Standing beneath this wide sky full of leaves and wind, or hiding behind a wall of tired stone, I grasp the trailing silver gossamer of good news, a chance, a sundrop falling into the open palm of my hand.

 

Happiness

the white flower

opening with the sun.

 

Song flowers grow

moon swallows stay

I catch sundrops

grasp gossamer

happiness opening.

Touch the misty breath of morning

The dverse prompt, is to play with the senses.

Franz_Marc_Deer_in_the_Forest

Touch the misty breath of morning,

tangy with the steely taste of dew,

and stroke the back of river flowing,

curling ’neath the bridge piers striding.

Draw me a cloudburst drenched in rainbow darts,

and I’ll blow you kisses through the slate grey shade.

Sing me all the blackbird’s songs,

if you dare!

and I’ll reply with moonlight tangos,

strummed on a hazel branch.

Pluck me an apple with skin as smooth as oceans,

and I’ll breathe you mint and rosemary,

rock you in the scent of roses,

until the evening falls, soft as moth wings,

bee-humming with the joy of young things,

in a cascade of heavenly blue.

Happiness in ripples

Photo©W. carter

800px-Ripples_dispersing_sunlight_into_underwater_rainbows_in_Brofjorden

When grasped too hard, joy like a nettle stings,

Peer too long into lake waters clear,

Happiness escapes in widening rings.

 

A dream achieved, and still the yearning clings,

Though we have touched the green light on the pier—

When grasped too hard, joy like a nettle stings.

 

The dawn breaks harsh that no desire brings,

Dream horses bolt and shy away in fear,

Happiness escapes in widening rings.

 

The way is strewn with arrows spent and slings,

The longed-for prize eludes, a leaping deer,

When grasped too hard, joy like a nettle stings.

 

In this bright world of myriad splendid things,

To choose one star and try to keep it near,

Happiness escapes in widening rings.

 

Be like the gull, content with his broad wings,

Bask in the golden light of this blue sphere,

For rose has thorns, joy like a nettle stings,

And ripples out of sight in widening rings.

Is there happiness?

Painting ©Bernardien Sternhelm

1021px-wlanl_-_marcel_oosterwijk_-_de_kus

Is there happiness to be found,

to be picked up for the asking,

plucked from random moments

and the bustle of other people’s lives?

It used to be there,

I remember,

packed in books and chocolate,

and sauced with the scent of Christmas pine and pudding,

or filling the hours spent sifting pebbles and pond life,

while the world stood still and held its breath.

What remains of that wonderment

that filled to the brim the vessel of content?

Cloud hangs now on the horizon,

fear of tomorrow at every fiery sunset.

Grains of sand in the machine

grind and grumble through the blackbird’s song,

once beauty pure enough to stop the sun in its course.

The world is full of shadow,

and the limpid mornings,

the golden afternoons,

the birdsong of another time,

an echo growing fainter by the year.

When the darkness gathers

and the ricochets of broken dreams

fall thick and fast as bullets,

and the veil of fog on the river will not lift,

I reach out and touch your hand,

the pivot, the centre that must hold,

however thick the darkness grows

and the sunlight cold.

Microfiction challenge #15: Freedom

The painting is by a Russian painter I am getting quite fond of, Ilya Repin. There is always a lot of colour and movement in his work, and this one is filled with such a joie de vivre, I thought it would make a nice antidote to last week’s rather sad painting.

The couple in the painting are having such fun and in such an unlikely setting! The title of the painting is ‘What freedom!’ and I’m wondering at all the different kinds of freedom we can infer. The waves pouring around them seem to be submerging a building? a promenade? The sea is wild and deep, no beach in sight. Where exactly are they going?

Write your thoughts in a short story and post them in the comments box before next Thursday. I’m looking forward to reading a lot of happy stories this week 🙂

 

1024px-ilya_repin-what_freedom