It was a slap, more than a punch. A Spanish back of the hand, more than a puñetazo. No warning. No leading up to the main course with some pequeños platos to help acclimatise, to give one a taste of what was to come.
Coming to the end of our visit to Cordoba, in Andalusia, South Spain, where it has been scorching. The heat really hits you! Linking this to d’Verse poets and this week’s Monday Quadrille which is brought to us by Whimsygizmo aka De Jackson who asks us to write 44 words of poetry which include the word ‘punch’ or variation thereof. https://dversepoets.com/2022/09/19/quadrille-160-poems-that-pack-a-punch/
Work complete as day turns night, Deities play with giant dice, Rumble rock cubes in the sky, Clash their jugs of mythic wine, Sparking jolts of metalled white, Whilst mothers bolt the windows tight, Worried bairns would wake affright As the thunderous clouds ignite.
Linking this to d’Verse Poets where Lisa was serving at the bar last night, inviting us to write a Quadrille using the word ‘work’ . (We had a hum-dinger of a thunder storm last night. Awesome lightning illuminated the garden as the thunder clashed above the house. )
Morning tugs at the fog, like a child tugging at its mother’s sheets. Hills, shoulders, emerge from the night, blinking in virgin light, unsullied with the day. Gulls and shrill voices fill the air, whirling dervishes of energy, looking for scraps, fingers of toast.
A silver tongue tarnished. Promises scuffed where a clumsy hand Has wiped over half-truths. At times, perhaps, a case of over exposure. Popularity short-lived, Usurped by a public that preferred transparency, And a less polished performance. Less elaborate. Less acid. Less of a daguerreotype.
Lustred jewels and promises draw our eye, Halt us in our tracks. Spellstopt by words we foolishly took for wisdom. They’re no more than paste baubles. A cheap trick. Yank on the fraying string and watch them skittering down the path one by one.
Spring steps forward plucking dead leaves from her arms, flashing colours from beneath the grey coat she has hunkered under, waiting for her season. As we reach in for a kiss, her warm breath on our skin, she scatters flakes of ice and vanishes.
Shadow lashes flutter on steam drip tiles, born from hemispheres of gutting light. As soft lavender soaks the air, white salt water clouds my neck to my toes and I sink lower until I am just nail and hair in a fog of thought
This is a very late response to Monday’s quadrille prompt from De Jackson at d’Verse to write a 44 word poem including the word ‘salt’, or some form thereof. I have used the reversed etheree (again – I must like this form!). A bit late to link it to d’Verse, so I’ll just post it here.