Moonset sunset

Sun sets
on trees
resigned to darkness

moon follows pale
breathless
to drop
into the still-glowing
crucible

Light of the world

And what if a hand

five-clawed, red and bloody,
scratched open the veil of the sky?

We could we see an omen, a portent,
or we could trace the streams of drifting sky,
running through its glorious fingers.

Blush

This is for the Daily Post prompt—infuse.

 

Dusky sun, dropping

beneath horizon’s rim,

death throes of a day now spent,

infuses the light with pink:

final flush

of the mortician’s brush.

Tanka: Over the world’s end

Blood red sky of dreams

drips into a purple sea

so far, too far you went

for snow white wings to bear me

to the place where our world ends.

Tanka: Sunset

Photo©Aaron Logan

Gold tinted, the shores

washed in the colours of love.

Ebbed now, that high tide,

night falls and there is no moon

to silver your parting steps.

Microfiction challenge #13: Woman in the sun

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.

Illusions

A cascade poem for the Secret Keeper’s writing prompt. The words to use are:

PRIDE | KEEP | CLOSE | SLOW | TENDER

At the close of day,

tender pigments tint

the canvas of the sky.

 

Your face in darkness lies,

pale where shadows fall,

at the close of day.

 

Day’s illusions fade,

monochrome revealed, that

tender pigments tint.

 

Pride keeps pain at bay,

as slowly night bestars

the canvas of the sky.

Dust of ages

Feet drag through the dust of ages,

Gutters filled with greasy ash,

Scribbled verse on yellowed pages,

Grave spot-speckled, rusty rash.

 

Gutters filled with greasy ash,

When sun sets on the final day,

Grave spot-speckled, rusty rash,

A white gull calls to lead the way.

 

When sun sets on the final day,

There’s no more moon to light the night,

A white gull calls to lead the way,

Beyond the doorway bathed in light.

 

There’s no more moon to light the night,

Concrete dust and crumbled stone,

Beyond the doorway bathed in light,

Left behind when gull has flown.

 

Concrete dust and crumbled stone,

Like sands washed on the farthest shore,

Left behind when gull has flown,

I vow that I’ll see you once more.

 

Like sands washed on the farthest shore,

My heart in fragments longs to follow,

I vow that I’ll see you once more,

Borne on the swift wings of the swallow.

 

My heart in fragments longs to follow,

Golden light falls, beckons onward,

Borne on the swift wings of the swallow,

I’ll leave behind life’s treasure hoard.

 

Golden light falls, beckons onward,

Feet drag through the dust of ages,

I’ll leave behind life’s treasure hoard,

Scribbled verse on yellowed pages.

Storms and sunsets

 

That was the other speaking, not me,

not the one you know.

The one you know would never dare

look you in the eye,

tell you unpleasant home truths,

ruffle peacock feathers.

Why? For fear of this—

the slamming door.

 

In the sunset of your leaving,

even the cherry blossom drips scarlet,

and the sky bleeds with my heart,

black swallows dart,

filling the hollows

with their strident laughter.

 

Hands and heart tied to you,

I follow, a limping bird,

but would I take the right path,

would I even know it,

had I the choice?

 

Bright night-velvet fades to grey,

I cringe from the uncompromising light

that floods the empty white space

with cold tomorrows.

Last sunset

In the west the sun is sinking,

Turquoise sky soaks up the light,

In the east first stars are blinking.

 

Red cloud billows, day’s blood drinking,

Smothered by the creeping night,

In the west the sun is sinking.

 

Flying home, their safe world shrinking,

Mirror lake reflecting bird flight,

In the east first stars are blinking.

 

Shutters barred and door chains clinking,

The shadows banned by candle bright,

In the west the sun is sinking.

 

The dead are still, they have no inkling,

Lay their ghosts with murmured rite,

In the east first stars are blinking.

 

In the vaults dark coins are chinking,

Buying blindness to our plight,

In the west the sun is sinking,

In the east first stars are blinking.