Opal Reflections
Perspectives through Prose, Poetry and Photography
Warbling Underdog
Today, for the first time, I am entering The Sunday Whirl, a challenge that puts forth a Group of unconnected words, and ask that the writer pull them together into a cohesive piece.
For years, I’m witness to a sacred scene:
I watch her humming,
Flitting, hitting stride
To navigate bramble branches.
First a miss, then settling softly,
With guile and grace
On talon
Perch.
She knows and I can clearly see
Danger lurks nearby;
Forager; hidden, stealthy,
Preparing to pounce in an instant,
As snapping twigs and sticks
Buckle under paws,
Sounding a subtle
Siren.
I drill down deeply, try to understand
My heart’s desire, my visions:
She finds her seeds,
Returns to nest to share with hungry mouths.
And yet, both predator and prey
Seek their righteous gain,
With dignity:
Survival!
Survival!
Weekly Photo Challenge: Habit “My Dwindling Woodpile”
This post is a “three-fer”:
WeeklyPhoto Challege: Habit
Studio 30+: Locked
Trifextra Weekend Challenge: Buddhist cosmology tells of Trāyastriṃśa, or the Heaven of Thirty-Three gods, which rule over the human realm. This weekend we’re asking for exactly 33 of your own words about a god of your own devising that shares heaven with the other thirty-two gods.
As fall settles in, the daily routine of going out to the woodpile to retrieve logs for a much-needed, house-warming fire, becomes a habit. Each morning, in slippers and bathrobe, I brave the cold morning mist to replenish the hearth-side log bin. After locking the door behind me, I settle in to kindle a fire from the smoldering ashes of last night’s blaze. It seems that the god of the woodpile has made an agreement with the goddess of the hearth, as each log changes hands, becoming the fire bed, sending woodsy fragrance into the clear blue sky. The gods smile, as Mother Nature breathes a contented sigh. I hope you enjoy my triple-purposed poem.
“Dwindling Woodpile”
Predawn chill seeps in,
Slippered soles slip out,
Log-laden limbs return,
Locked door behind,
Kindling warmth within.Gods of ‘woodpile’ and ‘hearth’
Content, as booty
(lichened logs)
Changes hands:
Nature’s balance, intact.
Photo Friday: High Tech
This gallery speaks to me of the technical sophistication that drives so many of the featured attractions at DisneyWorld. These photos illustrate the convincing illusion that one is a participant in some of the most memorable moments captured on film:
The atmosphere of adventure is kindled as we approach the booby-trapped, reptile-protected treasure in Raiders of the Lost Ark. We foolish and fearless raiders begin to squirm, imagining squirming snakes nearby…too close for comfort.
Suddenly we’re whisked through a swirling tornado that lands us on the yellow-brick road, amid the munchkins; conspiring against the Wicked Witch of the West, who appears from nowhere, in a puff of sulphur smoke. Were happy to tag along with Dorothy, Tin Man, Scarecrow, and Lion, on their pilgrimage to Oz. Oh no….we are feeling a little drowsy, I fear.
But wait! No time to sleep, as the Alien springs forth from its hidden lair in the entrails of our spaceship.
Danger past, for the moment, we take out our hankies and shed a tear for Ilsa and Rick as they separate for the greater good, on a foggy airstrip in Casablanca. The propellers whir, as the pilot revs his engines, reminding us that we must leave.
So ends our brief but sensory and realistic escape to fantasy, courtesy of the Disney Imagineers, and their HighTech capabilities, and little help from our own fantastic imaginations.
Of Rime and Reason
Written for Write at the Merge, Week 45, using the following prompt:
“The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.” William Shakespeare
❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️
And for Trifecta: to use the third definition of CRAFT (noun)
1 : skill in planning, making, or executing : dexterity
2 a : an occupation or trade requiring manual dexterity or artistic skill <the carpenter’s craft> <the craft of writing plays> <crafts such as pottery, carpentry, and sewing>
b plural : articles made by craftspeople
3 : skill in deceiving to gain an end <used craft and guile to close the deal>❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️
Autumn’s on my stoop,
I brush the golden leaves aside, clearing
Pathways – unencumbered egress
To steps and yard beyond;
While barometric bones bode ill
Of coming chill.
Swishing, sloshing, crunching
Though crimson tapestry-covered grass.
Seemingly ungrateful steps,
(erasing verdant vibes of
Well-tended, summer carpet),
Stomping on my frisbee field.
Sweeping, raking, blowing;
Finally, giving in
To burgeoning, blustering onslaught:
A thousand once-green leaves,
now falling, vibrant (though near their end),
‘neath maple, oak, and elm bared branches.
Sensing, hearing, feeling
The under-crunch of hardening blades.
Sun-grilled days dissolve
Fade to black-chilled nights,
That taunt and tease
At nature’s wintry door.
A lone, ice crystal finds a fragile blade,
With craft, the killing frost runs
Rampant o’er the rosebuds
Rime reposing thin as icy dew,
Strewing far and wide,
Its frigid sheet.
Though baby grass can thrive
Beneath the freeze. Yet flowers wilt,
Surrendering their bloom and blush;
Hanging limp and lifeless,
Drooping low on sun-spent boughs;
Fallen victims.
Autumn’s on my stoop,
I brush the golden leaves aside, clearing
Pathways – unencumbered egress
To steps and yard beyond;
While barometric bones bode ill
Of coming chill.
Execution Day
This was written in response to the Trifextra Challenge:
In The Scorpio Races, author Maggie Stiefvater writes, “It is the first day of November and so, today, someone will die.” Give us the next thirty-three words of this story, as you imagine it. Take it wherever you like, but make it original and make it 33 wordsexactly. – See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com
Carefully snapping the tip of the disposable applicator, I seize Bandit, take deadly aim, and act swiftly to dispense the poison squarely between his shoulder blades, triumphantly exclaiming:
“Begone, tics and fleas! Begone!”
Eileen’s Journal: All Saint’s Day
This is the first entry in a new series, “Eileen’s Journal”, where my sister, Eileen, shares her thoughts and insights. This is her first post…Welcome to the blogosphere, dear Sister! Note: Eileen has set up her own blog. You will find this post and her future work at http://www.MemesMemos.wordpress.com.
Today is “All Saint’s Day”, a ‘holy day of obligation’.
Being raised a (somewhat) strict Catholic, it has been ingrained in me and I remember these things about my upbringing, including that we knew we had to go to mass on these days and pay respect to all the saints.
But today, as I was making breakfast for my 11yr old granddaughter, I shared with her that today was “All Saint’s Day“.
” What is “All Saint’s Day”?”
“Honey, it’s a holy day of obligation.”
“What’s that?
How do I explain a holy day of obligation? As I commenced to try, I was saddened when she said:” I thought you only go to church on Sundays.”
(I was lost!)
“First of all, it’s not just church… it’s mass.”She didn’t get it, but to my pleasant surprise, she did want to know all about it, and why did I know so much about religion and mass and holy days. I explained that I had been a catholic school girl, and that religion was my life.
I’m sad that my grandchildren do not say the rosary or pray on a daily basis. But that is up to their parents. Rest assured that I will teach them whenever I can., especially since they seem to genuinely like my stories and life truths.
Tomorrow is “All Soul’s Day” – another day that we go to mass and pray.Eileen Gail
Follow me at:
http://www.MemesMemos.wordpress.com
Happy Hippie-hugging Halloween!
Today is October 31, 2013.
Today, I:
…met a Ninja!
…talked football with the Manning brothers!
…kissed a witch and hugged a butterfly!.
…bumped into several Minecraft characters and a few zombies!
…gawked at a bloody-faced ghoul, who followed a line of brides, princesses and pirates!
…embraced a piece of my past,- a hippie wanna-be, sporting psychedelic tinted glasses, tie-dyed, oversized shirt and an afro wig!Today, I rejoice because all the candy I purchased is gone, my lawn has been stomped on by hundreds of kids, and the candles inside my stoop-side pumpkins are burnt down and melted away to smithereens.
Today, I realize that I am happy because, in spite of Sandy, we are living another scream-filled, child-chilled, pumpkin-smashing, pirate-sabering, cotton-candy walking, medusa-stalking, hippie-hugging, super Mario-playing, Halloween!
Today is October 31, 2013.
Happy Halloween!
Only a Game
I was home on that fateful night in April, 1989.
My teenage daughter had given up on trying to stay awake to watch the championship game, broadcast “Live” from Seattle; so armed with my Pirate gear, a huge bowl of popcorn and a bottle of wine, I perched alone, in front of the tv, waiting for the big game!
We had decided (sadly) that we could only send the distaff half of the family cross-country to the once-in-a-lifetime game. The Pirates of Seton Hall had clawed their way through the regionals into the finals, and tonight they were matched against a rallying Michigan team in the NCAA Championship Game.
To say that this was an exciting game (even for those of us back home), would be an understatement; a game that would culminate in a nail-biting, blink-of-an-eye overtime, the first ‘Final’ in 26 years to reach overtime.
With a one point lead, and only three seconds left on the OT clock, SHU’s Gerald Greene was called on a “questionable [I have another word for it] hand-check foul” against Michigan’s Rumeal Robinson. The Superdome erupted with cheers, matched only by cries of outrage.
Flushed with anger and frustration, I screamed helplessly at the official, through my TV screen, knowing that somewhere, amid the throng in Seattle, my husband and son were echoing my outrage:
“That wasn’t a foul! No! Boo! Boo! Boooooooooo!”
Unbelievably, outrageously, Robinson, a 64% shooter from the line, knocked down both shots, handing the Wolverines a one-point victory!
I was suddenly and dramatically silenced. I stood and stared, aghast, as a shiver ran up my spine. I saw the agony of defeat on the faces of our Cinderella team. I was speechless – as if in a trance, until I realized that the phone was ringing. Mom was calling to ‘chat’.
“No, Mom…I’m not OK…Seton Hall just lost the NCAA Championship!”
She paused, and in true ‘Mom’ fashion, quipped:
“Don’t be upset, Honey…it’s only a game”.
Extra-Terrestrials
She came in with a flurry, arms wrapped around a large, open box. It’s seems that she’d been the recipient of a weekly box of farm produce, heaped graciously on her by a friend who was out of town for the week. Our, otherwise serene, Sunday morning had dissolved into a cacophony of dog barks, and human utterances, as we gathered around to explore the contents of the box.
Almost immediately, Grandpa and Aidan lost interest and resumed their, far more engrossing, game of chess. The dogs, on the other hand, sniffed around, waiting for a tasty morsel to be flung their way (they could smell those carrots a mile away); as we divided the spoils.
It was all very logical; Steph claimed the kale, eggplant, lettuce, broccoli, tomatoes, and the normal-looking carrots, while I volunteered to take the beets (promising to share the resultant pickled beet and onion salad), the funky carrots, the spinach (at least I think it’s spinach) and the unidentified, less common veggies. Fifteen minutes later, having split up the booty, she left as quickly as she had arrived, this time taking her golden and our grandson home with her.
This morning I surveyed the harvest basket, wondering what those strange root veggies were. I researched, googled, compared and labeled until, finally, everything fell into place: The unusual veggies joined the funky carrots in a spectacular soup, the rustic, red beets were slow roasted in the oven, the spinach (sautéed with olive oil and garlic) landed on my dinner table, and the purple beauty (which I now know is Kohlrabi) sits in the fridge, awaiting tomorrow’s starring role in a fabulous slaw.
Fall delivers to us a wonderful, wondrous bounty; colorful, vibrant, flavorful, and mysterious.
Weekly Photo Challenge: Horizon
Standing on the brink,
Face turned heavenward,
Momentary musings launch my spirit
towards distant, mystical, mountain mists,
leaving Fall’s ephemeral foreground
behind.Suddenly,
sensing a glimmer,
A hint of hope piercing through
the otherwise luster-less, limitless sky;
Suddenly, clouds clearing, I understand
Salvation
Lighthouse in the Mist, Cape May, NJ
Bandit
Festive View from the Pub, Peddler’s Village – Lahaska, PA.
Home Sweet Home
Opal Reflections 