“But the button fell off, I’ll have to replace it.” Mary whined.
“Why didn’t you just sew the button back on?” Grandma asked with exagerated patience.
Mary looked baffled.
“Child, we didn’t always have machines to do our chores. Once we did things for ourselves.” With that Grandmother pulled a triangular frame from her desk and began pointing out the ancient tools, telling the story of each, the fish-hook carved from bone, the stone adze, awls. All valuable tools made from gifts of the earth.
Mary smiled “but why work that hard when I can just have a replicator create another coat?”
Grandmother sighed as Mary darted out the door. How long she wondered before Mary’s generation would forget not only the old ways but even how to repair the machines they themselves had created.
The wolf eyed her suspiciously, his black fur matted from a dozen or more wounds. The girl fought fiercely, wielding her two small tomahawk blades with the controlled power of a master. Daerwyn watched her with burning eyes, what was she waiting for? She must know he was spent, why not finish him?
Daerwyn flinched as the girl drew back her arm and flipped the tomahawks in rapid succession. They somersaulted through the air before striking the trunk of a tree. He cocked his head in confusion. The girl sank to her knees, lifted her face to the sky and cried “NO MORE!” She knelt on the leaf strewn forest floor, head bowed. Daerwyn saw she was as weary as he.
She spoke softly “Kill me if you must Wolf, but your death will not come by my hand. I have seen enough blood spilled to last many lifetimes.”
Thoughts go racing wildly around my brain nameless horrors that painfully sear into my memory so filled with pain heart fluttering with anxiety and fear loneliness aches, cry a single tear. I must somehow carry on, be brave find the sun and from darkness I must save joy that was mine before the nights grew cold merry songs not dirges sung before the grave evenings warm and gay, stars bright and bold.
Life can be messy, so have the courage to be vulnerable. Let your soul talk and listen to the stories of struggle and success. Remember to live and not merely exist. Lean on your friends sometimes. Go out of your way to be kind. Let this be you mantra: “Those who do not believe in magic will never find it.”
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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