Centuries of chiseled sharp perfection, Carving out dramatic walls of shear chalk and stone, yet native soil between, To harbor verdant vegetation.
An ancient sheet of ice, sat, eons, on the shelf, Creating walled enclosure in its melt the ice-blue thaw, to rest for ages more, Refilling clear with mountain water floe.
Behind these walls are hidden caverns deep, With echo chambers dark, circuitous, Where hikers and spelunkers wander in to lose their way, perhaps to ne’er come back.
As night falls fast, the denizens crescendo, One can listen close to hear the sounds of cave explorers, who dallied much to long, And now must feel their way to moonlight.
A special place, for brave hearts and for meek, To venture forth or merely to inhale the mountain air, sensing pulsing life, Within this blue-green bowl of clarity.
His self-absorbed complacence was pierced by the whack of the slamming door.
The swish of her departure created a backdraft, as the loose-swinging portal was flung back on its own hinges into the jamb. Just as she’d been swinging aimlessly in the breeze when the primeval gust that was him, flung her hard into his existence. Surrendering, she’d been drawn down into the deep to become one with him. She’d been lost with no desire to be saved. But in her moment of surrender, he had become ensnared.
Her promise broken now, her leaving left him eternally imprisoned.
This is my response to Lance’s 100 Word Song. It’s my first attempt to join in on this writing challenge which is to write exactly 100 words that are inspired by a song. This week, the song is Deep As You Go, by October Project.
My garden grows with little help from me,
Displaying twenty shades of verdant hue,
In awe, I bow to beauty, simplicity,
That a “Kiss of the Sun” can do.
The daffodils and lilies get their clue,
From nature’s thawing earth and sunlit days,
To pop, precision-like, gay impromptu,
A feast for humble eyes on which to gaze.
Each spring the orchestration tunes to play
its symphony, profound, for human hearts,
To feel, to hear, to see the vast display,
Nature’s palette, infinitesimal art.
A patchwork quilt of lushness now unfolds,
Creation’s beauteous blanket for the soul.
Sharply cold, his foot pads on the grass,
He scurries frantically to beat the crowd,
They, the better vantage point from which
to spy and seize the trinkets locked inside.
But he with savvy nose and limber bones,
Discovers those that hide from humankind,
He cracks upon the ovate center ridge,
To open up the yummy treats he finds.
His suffers though, because he dallies twice,
While boys just plop their eggs in baskets deep,
This his only chance to gobble up his treats,
Lest mistress take away what he can’t keep.
Like Davy Jones on choppy waters, with
a stolen cache to save, into each shell
he sinks his teeth, to crack the rainbow pieces,
Swizzle-sticks and smarties serve him well.
I sit in rocking chair and sway,
the aches away, just capturing the scene,
I care not ’bout the mess they’ll leave behind,
to dream of colored eggs on sea of green.
And he, our loyal “Bandit”, will be spent
from chasing boys and eggs and bunny beans,
They’ve worn him out, with frolic and cavort,
He’ll sleep, perchance to dream a doggie dream.
As schoolyard beaus they shared a trance-like smile,
‘cross the expanse, mere sight lines through the fence,
Her goal; to reach his heart-space without guile,
To share a glance of innocence (impulsive child)!
By time they reached the ripe, old age of ten they knew,
That friends and soul-mates they would ever be,
In years that followed on those years, they grew
apart, but only geographically.
She chose to travel far abroad and overseas,
He chose the classroom, teaching here in town,
Their letters kept them close, that’d never cease
‘Til she came home, and donned her wedding gown.
Fortuity bestowed a wondrous love to last forever days,
“The rightness eclipsed every mistake made along the way.”
August 26, 1967
Written for the Speakeasy #158, making reference to the Video / Preview for the film Love in the Time of Cholera, which is based on Gabriel Garcia Márquez’s novel of the same name, and using Janna T’s beautiful words as the last line: “The rightness eclipsed every mistake made along the way.”
Brightly colored, named and set aside,
For Easter bunny pranks and searching fun,
Each year the giggling chorus starts outside,
Cacophony of happiness, boys undone.
I spy with my sharp eye an aqua orb,
Nestled on a tree trunk, perched just so,
I’ll leave the lower reaches for the tots,
But higher up I’m able and I’ll go.
I’ll gather all my treasures, toys and sweets
And sometimes I’ll discover coins to boot,
But filling up my basket is the goal,
This springtime free-for-all is now afoot.
This silly rhyme is nearly at an end,
The squirrels are on the ready for the game,
I dally not a moment or they’ll win
the battle, for the Easter Eggs – again!
Images conflate, though tossed and torn, Long since forgotten, left on hooks, Wrenched away from neural nooks of memory, hanging bare, forlorn.
Which rested dormant through the years, Outliving weddings, day-to-days of married bliss, They hid, obscured, through nights and years of tears, Outliving schooldays, puberty, and sweet, first kiss.
Outlasting holidays and trips to foreign lands, Surviving through the winters, falls and springs, Outlasting pregnancies and graduations grand, Surviving, too, youth’s carefree summer flings.
In technicolor detail, sharp! Pronounced! I question why, at this ripe age, it should replay. Why, on this unmarked day, it should pounce upon my psyche, as a panther seizes prey.
We come into this world with slate wiped clean, Past lives erased, though I suspect sneak through, From whence these dream-like images are gleaned I know not, but I’m grateful for the view.
This was written in response to Studio30+ prompt asking that we employ the phrase: ” It should pounce.”
Media.prompt is a drawing by Leonardo da Vinci, who also celebrated his birthday in April, entitled “Study of a Womb.”
“Winter seemed reluctant to release its hold”, and yet his sister, Spring, crept near, A quickening within, imbued a calming peace, I teetered on the brink; embraced my fear.
Months of wafting breezes through the sheers, Unfolding rainbows, blinking on the billows, Nestled soft within by cushioned cashmere, Even as I lazed beneath the willows.
Ticking tocks grow louder on my pillows, I blindly, bravely, pierce the dark unknown, to hold on fast, for faith to ride crescendos of the final wave, to take us home.
I sing with joy, with happiness I weep, I sing my swaddled, newborn-babe to sleep.
Written for Speakeasy 157. Entries must make some reference to the media prompt above, and begin the piece with the following quote: “Winter seemed reluctant to release it’s hold.”
Sharply cold, his foot pads on the grass,
Opal Reflections 