Purblind

Night_by_Edward_Burne-Jones_(1870)

Tonight it seems as though the sky,

the heavy drapery diamond-stitched,

waveless, waterless ocean where ice

is formed and falls in flakes

of chiselled chaff, is blue as day,

the light turned off and curtains drawn.

The light turned off and curtains drawn,

purblind we cower beneath

the trembling shadow-wings

of its monumental dark majesty.

 

Microfiction Three Line Tales: Wisdom

This short story is for Sonya’s Three Line Tales writing prompt.

photo by Clay Knight via Unsplash

tltweek65

 

He released the salmon from the net and eyed it curiously as it lay exhausted on the bank.

It looked for all the world just like a fish, big and silver, but a fish nonetheless, and his mouth watered at the thought of the taste of it, even if it imparted nothing else.

“You may eat all of my flesh, but you will never be a whit the wiser for it. Your kind live in darkness and no light of mine could ever pierce it,” the salmon of knowledge said in the instants before the club fell and snuffed out its light forever.

Bloody black kite

The Daily Post prompt is: rebuild. Thinking about what happened yesterday I’m finding it difficult to imagine rebuilding. How to rebuild a shattered life? And on what? Armed men have been following senseless bloody orders for thousands of years. What exactly is wrong with humanity?

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More blood on the streets tonight,

And more will flow tomorrow,

The sharp-beaked hawks find easy prey,

When the bloody black kite passes.

 

Blood and guns and not a rose,

Just lives snuffed out without a cause,

Black flags drape the path to death,

More blood on the streets tonight.

 

Still, you are, or broken-winged,

There is no love can bring you back,

No lesson learned just prayers and tears,

And more will flow tomorrow.

 

Words have weight in empty minds,

Where ignorance takes the place of thought,

No need to ponder right or wrong,

The sharp-beaked hawks find easy prey.

 

Black flag pledges eternity,

Though others pray to other colours,

We have not enough love to blind its eyes,

When the bloody black kite passes.

Lime tree kaddish

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Beneath the lime trees in the park,

I hear the whispered music play,

That never changes night or day,

As long as there’s a wind to hark,

As long as there are leaves to sing.

On the corner soldiers stand,

Their rifles pointed at the foe

That they can never understand,

As there’s no rhyme or reason to

The blackness in the heart of man,

For men have not the hearts of trees.

More’s the pity, says the breeze.

Blackbird on her nest

 

 

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Blackbird on her nest,

bright eye watching.

Cat in the sun basks,

nonchalant.

Sun splashing anemones,

paper pink,

the air, a spring symphony,

breeze singing

to the rhythm of the rolling clouds.

Sweetness falls,

caught in gentle hands,

turned this way and that

to catch the light

and the first notes of the robin’s song.

And somewhere,

a hand,

driven by the sterile mutterings,

the dark promises

of a calculating brain,

drained of the least shred of humanity,

flips the switch.

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