Could you sing a song,
of how day is long
and the night so sweet?
Could you take me where
the golden air
and the breakers meet?
Say you can, you will,
and I’ll love you still,
though you’re far away.
Say, one day of mist,
with the dawnlight kissed,
you’ll be back to stay.
I relented. Today’s prompt was going to be something in keeping with yesterday’s mood—funereal. I’ll keep that for another time. This painting, by Caspar David Friedrich, is a pretty strange one so it will do very nicely for a prompt. Who is this woman in her gown and hairdo that make me think of a fantasy queen? What is she doing? Invoking the sun or some other deity? Grieving for someone, something? Is it dawn or sunset?
The theme words are:
Dawn sunset worship magic power regal
Write a short story with your interpretation and post the link in the comments before next Thursday.
Four short poems on a common theme.
Sorrow empties the world
of the vibrancy of colour,
dousing the sun’s fire,
washing greens and blues,
with an eternity of rain.
Once the earth moved for us,
the sun stood still,
and the moon and stars
swam in our eyes.
Now the ground trembles
with the violence
of the slamming door.
You made a vow beneath the stars,
That you would never leave.
Now I hold out empty hands,
To catch those stars and grieve.
Falling, they fade and die,
Falling, I wish that I could fly.
the moon spins,
the sun cools,
the earth dies,
and in the cradle of the universe,
new galaxies are rocked
by soothing cosmic winds.
Five short poems on a theme.
There are many shades of darkness
but the darkest
is the glitter in your eyes.
Hold back the waves of sleep,
wash away the falling veil,
for in the shadows, I still want to see
the empty space once filled with you.
Ash from the last fire
blows in dark, cosmic winds
with the glint of silver stardust
and the moon’s tears
mingled with my own.
Last sorrows fading with the light,
In the tree a blackbird sings,
Leaves blow in any wind.
One foot at a time,
One breath on another,
The hand reaches for the cup,
Life goes on.
Last dry leaf rustles,
crisp cold crackling,
a summer memory clinging,
till winter storm strips,
spring buds swelling,
life always and ever,
just beneath the skin.
This one is for Ali Isaac who was asking for purple prose
The photo is by Nell. The bridge is by some engineer or other.
Dawn breaks with vibrating motors,
Shattering the smooth, dark softness
Where the moon and fading night stars lie,
Pouring pink paint across the canvas of the sky.
Bridge straddles, unsupple,
Bare concrete, po-faced piers
Smudged by the kindly half-light.
Beneath, water laps,
Crows flap, waddle, ungainly and bleak,
Paddling in the tide-washed mud,
And somewhere among the rustling shadows of the bank,
Soar the first bold notes of the robin’s song,
Making half-formed apprentice-work,
Of all the worthy bridges of the world.
Painting by Tomilovsky. I know, I’ve used it before, but it fits.
Haunted, the ocean waves,
With the souls that no one saves,
Carried on the swell to the promised land,
And laid with tenderness on the gentle sand.
In the broken spaces,
The lonely, empty places,
The sad and desperate faces,
Watch the breaking dawn.
While we wake in wonder,
Pools of moon pearls round our bed,
And the sky seems palely empty,
When the bright stars all have fled.
No fear for us on waking,
Night shadows behind the light,
We listen in peace to the blackbird’s song,
As dawn rolls back the night.
Ronovan’s haiku prompt this week is Rise & Save. I spent a while working out a few poems, much of it trying to blot out the idea of Rise & Shine. Again, I’ve taken slight liberties with the two words. I call it poetic licence. If you trot over to Ronovan’s blog, you can read the other entries.
Rise sun, dawn break soft,
spare the tender night shadows,
leave us our secrets.
Dawn breaks, lark rises,
sings his songs of sunlight saved
from night’s dark shadows.
Sunrise, shadows fade,
golden beams light all darkness,
save your frowning face.
There were these beautiful clouds this evening. Unfortunately by the time I unearthed the camera the light had started to fade.
Where do the clouds go when they sail out the west
Their sails on fire with the dying sun?
Do they regret their flaming glory when the darkness falls
And turns their burning orange to soft blue grey,
Pale smudges against the velvet night?
Do they wait for the morning, the silent flotilla,
Riding at anchor with the rising moon
Or taking their bearings from the stars above?
They are always there, massed along the sky’s paling rim
Where night ends and the morning begins,
Waiting to hoist their golden sails of sunlight
And sail beyond the dawn, beyond the night
Where dreams are born in the crucible of light.