Sun sets
on trees
resigned to darkness
moon follows pale
breathless
to drop
into the still-glowing
crucible
Sun sets
on trees
resigned to darkness
moon follows pale
breathless
to drop
into the still-glowing
crucible
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Mad woman from mediocrity, muses.
Writer & Photographer
of a son
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Inspiring others through the written word, fictional blurbs & documenting my writing process from scratch.
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offbeat words for you...
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AS HUMILDES OPINIÕES DE UMA MULHER DE CORAGEM QUE DIZ SIM À VIDA!
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Inspiration and Spirituality **Award Free**
≈ fictionalpaper / piccoloscissors / creativeglue ≈
Philosophy is all about being curious, asking basic questions. And it can be fun!
Not a literary magazine for ordinary times, but a journal for an exceptional one. Writing the pandemic, together. Image, Somewhere in Time by Hengki Lee: Instagram @hengki_lee
Running in the slow lane
It started as a 366 - now a regular Photoblog- just for the love of taking photos and sharing them.
I'll talk you'll talk we'll talk
Promoting mindful living
A r t w o r k . . . f r o m . . . . . . H a m b u r g . . . . . . . . . . . . . G e r m a n y
October and November 2019
"Words are all we have" Samuel Beckett.
sharing the stories of interconnection
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Anita Dawes & Jaye Marie