Yellow tears glow tall, wavering with the shift and creak of flaking wood, the slow beat steps, the silken rustle and gauzen sweep.
Stroking shadows flutter, fissures reach along each chapel wall and sprawl, pastel fades from chic to chic.
Shush, no clamour here for refuge, but soft spoke vows and ancient promises. Custom-made, we smile, to always and forever.
Inspired by Susie Clevenger’s picture prompt at The Sunday Muse Blogspot(http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/) and a wedding I attended at the Asylum Chapel in Peckham. The venue was bombed in WW II and its distressed appearance gives it a gothic romanticism.
He was my patient gardener Easing away the scratchy barbs And soothing the stings like a dock leaf, Relieving their insistent Taunt of shame.
He spied me amongst the weeds, The nightshade and the amaranth. Dimmed by the opulent magnolia. I puzzled as I saw him stoop And tenderly with love and care A heart was shaped.
This poem began with Dee’s prompt on d’Verse Poets to write a heart-inspired poem, but time got away from me and so I have adapted it to meet Lilian’s challenge to write an Acrostic Plus or puzzle-inspired poem (See details at:https://dversepoets.com/2021/08/24/poetics-for-the-love-of-puzzles/). It’s a bit clunky, where the form took over. I may have bitten off more than I could chew!
Rachel was an experienced meteorologist, but her tv career was hampered by her eccentric style of dressing. She sat on the confusing designer sofa, unsure if she was sitting on the seat or the arm, waiting to be called in for interview. Her mouth felt as dry and gritty as last week’s treacle sponge which she had found lurking at the back of her fridge the evening before. She took a few more nips from a hip flask in her bag to calm her nerves, wishing she had eaten before leaving home, and disappointed to find she had emptied the flask. She tottered into the studio, her mind suddenly blank of all meteorological terms. She wasn’t ready, she looked at her favourite skirt as if for inspiration: ‘But …these clouds are clearly foreign, such an exotic clutter, against the blue cloth of the sky’.
We have become a negative equation, subtraction multiplied from year to year. Our grieving mother’s broken and bereft – there’s nothing left to save, no living here.
Always taking, never once replacing, a horizontal line is all we’ve left. There’s nothing more to save, no living here – our grieving mother’s broken and bereft.
She’d weep her rivers and her glorious oceans, but the air’s so hot it dries her silver tears – our grieving mother’s broken and bereft. There’s nothing more to save, no living here.
No phoenix moment, no, that’s just a child’s myth, rebirthing from the scorched and molten depths. There’s nothing more to save, no living here. Our grieving mother’s broken and bereft.
Grace at d’Verse Poets has asked us to write a Mirrored Refrain (see the link for details of this poetry form and examples, plus the amazing responses from the poets in the d’Verse community at :https://dversepoets.com/2021/08/12/poetry-form-mirrorred-refrain/). We have very patchy internet access where we are at the moment, but can still view live TV – the BBC world news highlights continue with their coverage of the wild fires. Impossible to shake away the images.
I woke up this morning to burning toes. I wriggled my charred nails, and as I tried to stand I felt a crumbling beneath the scorched skin of my heels. There was no plush, soft carpet to meet my feet, but a smoking chasm.
Driving rain slapped my skin, demonstrating the indifference of nature.
My wet hands empty, save for two small shining puddles, blinking like his brown eyes.
As I let the water trickle from my palms, I realised I had nothing left to hold.
I was taken aback with the memories that surfaced when I considered Carrie’s prompt on The Sunday Muse Blogspot today: http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/. It is the first time I have shared any words about this devastating time in my life. Apologies to any readers if this seems self-indulgent or maudlin.
It’s still there, the plaintiff croak of the nocturnal love-sick toad, gently hopping on the membrane of my memory.
It joins the grenade cracks of plosive cones, the pompom swish of olive trees, the gentle splash as feet and hands made waves.
And, etched deep, too deep to see, into the dry cracks of my skin, red rusty stains mark the times we crumbled soil around the sunflowers and the beans.
And though, in truth, we never were a real part of it, but breathed outside the core, the real heart, we felt it more to be a part of we.
On wet, cooler days like today, when summer does not deliver holiday weather, and my phone sends me photo reminders of hot sunny days in Puglia, it is oh so easy to miss Italy. Where did those twelve years go? Linking this poem to the Open Link Night at dVerse Poets where Mish invites us to share a poem with our friends.
Unlike last year, there have been few evenings we have felt a desire to sit outside. Tonight I sit huddled under a fleecy blanket as the ‘On’ button for the central heating taunts me. Summer heat has been a reluctant visitor to Sussex. That languid July evening we relished a few weeks ago, now begins to dim into memory so I try to resuscitate it. I remember a black speck had issued a plaintive ‘kaak’ in the sky, skimming clouds which hung hot and sultry, the wheeling dot developing into a drumbeat of flapping rooks, pulling in crowds from their burring rookery. We had watched in awe at the freckled waves which had pulsated across the dusk. But not tonight. No synchronised troupes performing their cartwheels, dives and rolls. Tonight August has refused to play the game and sulks under grey covers, blowing its cheeks out in huffs of disappointment.
Petulant August Throw off these dull winter clothes My skin aches for sun.
Behind closed lids, as I shallow breathe my day into meaning, I am green and glossy growth, smoothly snaking on the grass around your feet, tickling a laugh, beautifying into love.
Is there anything to tether me to this world? A tendril of my being which will remain? I cannot leave what was never there.
Carrie at The Sunday Muse Blogspot (http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/) has posted this painting by Frida Kahlo, ‘Roots’, to prompt our creative juices. Go visit the site to join in and read what this prompt has inspired 😊.