Photo by Liam McGarry, Unsplash.
Aisle, after aisle,
row upon row of stacked shelves. Artistic crosses, and the barest of limbs.
No Yorick here.
No soliloquy opportunity. We knew them not, either in jest or fancy.
Why did we come?
Did it scare you son to walk among the long gone, the hollowed heads?
Just a lark,
to traipse along the labyrinth, impress our friends and pass six million souls.
Peut-être, one could say,
tourism makes voyeurs of us all, n’est-ce pas?
Written for the Weekend Writing Prompt, which this week is to use the word ‘Catacomb’, using exactly 77 words, either in prose or a poem. See the link at:
Image from Pixabay
So many words that rhyme this week
with Sammi’s weekend prompt, purportedly a bit of fun, write what the deuce you want.
I thought of this, I fought with that,
a sport of words laid claim, specious in their word combat, caught in this wordplay game.
I ducked from all the clamouring
of desperate contenders. Eventually I raised my flag and signalled my surrender.
This weekend’s prompt from Sammi (
https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2022/03/12/weekend-writing-prompt-252-purport/) is to write a piece of prose or poetry using the word ‘purport’ using exactly 64 words. Great fun as always. Thank you Sammi and fellow scribblers.
Photo courtesy of British Museum.
One lone red glassy eye remains,
seeing nothing much has changed from when an Anglo-Saxon hand shaped silver rock into this band.
The sounds of war were just the same,
with Aethelred and Charlemagne, when kings of Essex, kings of Kent, would fight until their men were spent.
And ancient though this ring may be,
buried deep for centuries, resist the urge to thus assume it’s just a scrappy old heirloom.
On the back, archaic runes,
etched from over countless moons, gave it life, a voice to sing, the letters read: ‘I am called ring’.
I am linking this to Sammi Cox’s Saturday word prompt ( https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2022/03/05/weekend-writing-prompt-251-rune/) . This week the word is ‘rune’ and the word count is 96 (I have to admit this is 95!). This poem is about the Wheatley Hill Finger-Ring, which is dated to the 8th Century and bears Anglo-Saxon runes which have been translated to read ‘I am called ring’.
Photo by Jeremy Bezanger, Unsplash.
Capricious comes, capricious goes,
Its elemental, I suppose. One day its high, it hits the roof, The next it signals cold, aloof. I tried to trap it, like a fool, To think it would obey my rule. But off the handle it did fly In a most precocious style. Unpredictable, but wait, It’ll surely remigrate.
Linked to Sammi’s Scribbles Word Prompt, ( https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2022/02/12/weekend-writing-prompt-248-capricious/), which this week is ‘Capricious’ using exactly 55 words.
Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann, Unsplash.
Daisy chewed contentedly
and filled her bovine stomachs, was unaware of all the fuss, her farmer in a flummox.
If only she were more agile,
could raise her cloven hoof, and hold it to her belching mouth, thus making her gas proof.
Linking this to the weekend word prompt from SammiScribbles (see link above). This week’s word is ‘flummox’ and the word count is 42.