Merril is our host at dVerse Poets Pub for prosery.
Prosery is a piece of short prose that includes a line from a poem. I will give you the line, and then you incorporate it into your prose piece. It can be either flash fiction, nonfiction, or creative nonfiction, but it must be prose, not a poem. And it must be no longer than 144 words, not including the title. It does not have to be exactly 144 words. Our prompt is:
“there is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles” from “Drawings By Children” by Lisel Mueller
She could still feel the ugly red pressure of the day it happened. The dull grey and orange of the sky, the torrent of air rupturing the early morning stillness like a sonic boom. The day the light died in his steel-grey eyes while he spoke the words that shattered her heart, her world, her soul.
It should have killed her. Pain like that should kill you instantly, like an arrow to the heart. But, alas, it did not. She pulled together the fragments of her shattered self and put them back together. Differently this time. Never again know the pain of love. She built a wall around her heart and to all who knew her, she seemed whole. But there is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles in hollow agony.
Your voice reached my ears and drew my eyes to you with all the force of an electro-magnet my heart followed the way a compass points north and then my mind with unerring precision I know in a manner unknowing precisely where you are
Kim from Writing in North Norfolk is hosting at dVerse today and would like for us to write a bit of prosery including the following line from D.H. Lawrence’s poem “Hummingbird:”
‘We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time’.
For an added challenge, we are limited to 144 words.
I take his gnarled hand in mine. Papery skin seeming somehow fragile. Hands that gently bottle fed a newborn kitten also struck fearsome taekwondo punches. Big hands, strong hands that made a little girl feel safe, that wiped away the tears and lifted the child back onto the bicycle. Hands that were meant for delicate technical work, not to be the home for needles and tubes. Brothers are weeping. We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time. Somehow the giant of a man appears reduced by the ravages of years. In my mind, I turn the telescope and see the young man diving from high cliffs into the surf far below. His hand caresses my cheek, wiping away one last tear. He whispers “don’t weep for me my angel” as I watch the light fade from his eyes.
The quadrille over at dVerse Poets Pub this week is hosted by merrildsmith who asks us to use “blanket” in our poem of 44 words.
Bland tans and shades of faded ocher blanket the hills, setting the scene with splashes of brilliant canary and saffron Autumn comes to lay her cloak of colored leaves upon the fertile soil, shielding tender seeds from Winter’s chill rich beauty, gone too soon
Kim881 from Writing in North Norfolk, is our host for this week’s Haibun Monday
“For this challenge, I ask you to think about your own birthdays, ones from the past, one that is coming up, a memorable one, or one you are dreading. Whether it’s birthday cake and balloons, a quiet glass of wine on your own that turned into something memorable, or a complete disaster, I’d like you to share a birthday with us.”
Born on a cusp with an aura of blue, a child between signs. Always looking for where she fit in. Black and orange confetti, fairy costumes and pumpkins as happy children dance around the cake table. A birthday wish for magic and a pony.
Birthdays come and birthdays go. Her aura darkens as does the world. No dinner, no parties, nowhere that she fits in. No need to hide her blackened eye. Alone, she makes her birthday wish for magic and love.
Moons wax and wane as life goes on. She finds love again, and trust. Purple and black decorations, a pointy hat adorned with flowers, love and laughter. Amber eyes twinkle with merriment. No need for birthday wishes, she has all she needs, she IS magic.
Candle burning bright years come and go by too fast blow the candle out
Our host a dVerse Poets Pub Tuesday Poetics is Laura Bloomsbury, who asks us for our flights of fancy. The following is based on a real life observation of a nesting pair of Great Horned Owls who were being tormented by a scold of very noisy jays. One of the adult owls defiantly lured the jays away and suddenly turned on them, snatching one unwitting fellow right out of the air.
Flight of Fancy/Dance of Death
Whump, whump, whump the air throbs under the assault of massive wings three powerful strokes and he is aloft master of the thermals
He dips one wing in silent condolence to the pitiful flightless things below while defiantly flying straight into the scold of jays, and through
He climbs ever higher, taunting inconsequential forms of lesser birds that fall behind in the chase still jeering they cluster … until
Pivoting on one wing, he falls with sharp talons and flared wings like an avenging angel set to smite their relentless taunting
A silent cloud of black feathers announces his success
For dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night. This has been a crazy summer, from pandemics to devastating hail storms. There is a moment before the storm hits when you can almost feel the sky holding her breath … waiting. This summer feels like that to me, as we deal with rising death rates, more lock downs; I’m holding my breath, waiting. The air is moist and oppressive, lightning startling in it’s beauty and power. I don’t know how this will all turn out, but I know this; the sky is always clearer after the storm.
July came marching in sultry cadence as heat rises and skies darken for a moment all is still a breeze caresses my cheek scented with lingering traces of bar-b-que, sunscreen and sweat heavy with petrichor and promise
The wind begins to sing through high tension wires trees sway in a frantic dance holding fast to precious leaves cloth billows and strains in air heavy with moisture the scent of roses … and magic
Black cloud castles
remain still and unmoved anchored to the blue sky and the lightning begins I wonder what the storm will leave in it’s wake but for now, I watch and wait
I bounce along the clouds as they form a path before me like cobbled stepping stones solid and multi-hued but translucent to the light that pours from the sky through me, through the clouds through the stones reaching down I pluck a yellow daffodil as the clouds begin to whirl and shift beneath my feet until they part, leaving me standing in clear air