In mid tumble it swayed sideways. It looked like a butterfly, but there betrayal came in the landing. A falling yellow leaf is what it was. But, for a moment, it was pure joy to watch. At least I could see it. It’s better than chasing a memory that remains illusive. One that I still haven’t been able to bring into full focus.
Now, through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings..I listen closely. Along with the voice were melancholy strains from a horn played by the likes of Miles or Coletrane.
I should know this, I do know this. I close my eyes and surf the notes, willing and carefree. It’s laced with a hint of the blues. Maybe not remembering this title is a gift. Because I would just play it over, and over again, to what end?
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:— –by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., from The Chambered Nautilus.
This line is to be incorporated into a piece of prose over at dVerse Poets Pub. The deadline to submit to the prompt has come and gone. But I’m now posting it to OLN ( open link night) To check out what’s going on over there go to the link above. A good weekend to all.
Another one! We are, yet again, undone. The only thing that seems to come out of these tragedies are the usual talking heads pretentiously wallowing in their fifteen minutes of fame.
The hands deep in their pockets also move the trap between their beady little eyes as they mouth platitudes and lamentations in the form of thoughts and prayers. All of which has become white noise because power takes precedent.
So, we continue to live under sinister skies raining death with nowhere to hide. Hoards of lost souls that will never again see morning. They will never again set eyes on arcs of grass bejeweled by dew reflecting twilight.
It is up to us to erase the platitudes and become a part of the solution. The way we do this is with our vote! These are the things they don’t tell us often enough.
For dVerse Poets Pub being hosted by Msjadeli where the topic is “How many will it take” as it relates to gun violence and mass shootings. To participate or just read go here.
Like most homes with kids, bedtime meant stories. In our house, it was tall tales and ghost stories told by my dad.
Learning how to cast shadow puppets against the wall, and tales of shooting and twinkling stars were my favorites. Especially if we had just seen it from the varandah before bedtime. Then, there were the magical tales of the moon. Always the moon.
Ellie and Portia always wanted to know why did the cow jump over the moon? Also, what was the man in the moon doing while this was happening? To this my dad always had an answer, a different one everytime, and more fantastical than the last. Ellie and Portia would get really quiet. Those two – “…In their dreams they sleep with the moon… “
For Prosery Monday over at dVerse Poets Pub hosted by Merril where the rule is to use this line in your prose, no alterations, in no more that 144 words.
The pear tree in the front yard is pretty close to the second floor porch. So we get to witness a bit of nature up close. The pace at which nubby buds change to to delicate blossoms is so interesting to watch. So we are blessed with having blooms, and pears within arms length.
An even more fun bonus of this proximity is being able to keep company with the visiting birds, bees and butterflies. So amidst this upheaval nature marches on, creating this space of respite.
in search of renewal
I bury my head
in the captivating blooms
of the pear tree –
a lone sparrow joins me
She is not one to say it often. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe she doesn’t know how, never learned how. Maybe she’s just not good at it.
My mom has been on her own, for the most part since she was thirteen. Her mom died one morning as she was readying her daughters for school.
I’m thinking since then, she has had issues with god / creator for letting such a catastrope befall her and her younger sister.
Some things trickle down, whether it was meant to or not.
I am no good at love. Most times leave me feeling like a lunatic, if not acting like one.
But, I keep an open heart. Even so, “I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended.” I guess in a cock-eyed sorta of way, I believe in love.
Over at dVerse Poets Pub the prompt is to write prose (keeping it tight at no more than 144 words) and to include the line below:-
“I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended.”