For dverse poets this week’s prompt: blame and forgiveness. Either one. Or both. There are no other constraints.
You messed up, bad and now you’re sorry I get that, and I forgave you a long time ago not for your sake, but for mine your being sorry and my forgiving you doesn’t change what you did it doesn’t change the way I see you now the way I feel about you now or what I think of you nowContinue reading “Away”→
She always came out in the late morning. Bathing in the little creek that ran near her cottage. They said she was a witch, but the animals didn’t care, a few of them came every morning to listen as she played her flute. Her song lilted through the crisp morning air, then turning to a slightly mournful score filled with quiet solitude and, perhaps, just a touch of loneliness. It was her offering to the day, a wild lament of the beauty and loneliness of a girl alone with nature. The littlest deer came closer and closer gazing up at her with brown eyes filled with adoration.Continue reading “A Wild Lament”→
here are the words: From the moment we saw him most of us lived in dread of him
Here is the photo:
He was tall and lean with the ropy strength of tendon, muscle and bone, his hands calloused from years of genuine, hard, work. He demanded nothing of his employees that he did not demand of himself. He was a hard man, but a fair man. Yet from the moment we saw him, most of us lived in dread of him. Perhaps it was his ice blue eyes that could see straight through any lie. Or the piercing pain and sorrow that lay hidden beneath those icy depths even when his face held a smile. But I think it was the statue at his office that we dreaded most. The woman astride a wave, friend to bird and fish and all things of the sea. She held a construction pylon in one hand, a constant, silent reminder of the tragic traffic accident that had taken his wife all those years ago.
Another example of Found Poetry is poetry you find in unexpected places. The following is from the quay along the Queenstown docks, bits of engraved brass worked into the stone. The words are from the travel journal of one of the early explorers of Queenstown, NZ and they ramble along the wall in a ribbon of poetry. I have condensed three panels into this picture. For the purposes of this exercise, I’m making a new poem out of them by deconstructing. All words of the new poem are contained in the original script but may be out of order.Continue reading “Found Poetry February day 4 – Spring Sky – deconstructed poem”→
I watched her roll out the dough. Her hands were worn and gnarled with age but strong and gentle still. The cookies would soon fill her kitchen with the heady scent of sugar and flour, and love. Her secret ingredient remains a secret to this day. I think it was love.
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Queenstown is the Extreme Sports capital of New Zealand, probably of the world. Name an extreme sport and chances are if it’s not readily available, they can arrange it for you. So what do two, non-sports (much less extreme sports) oriented older people do in Queenstown? We’ve taken the bus into “The Remarkables” shopping area, wandered the town’s back streets and lakeside neighborhoods. We’ve walked along the lake and stopped for tea and scones at a wonderful little coffee shop or two. Been revitalized at the Hilton’s wonderful spa. For our final day of wanderings, we set back across Lake Wakatipu to the Queenstown docks and the Queenstown Gardens.Continue reading “Wide Eyed Wanderings — Queenstown Gardens, New Zealand”→