#Writephoto ~ Rift #Poetry

Thursday photo prompt: Rift #writephoto

 

Image by scvincent.com

 

Torn

Torn apart, my best piece of writing,

or so I thought by a cruel comment.

Like the backwash of a wave broken on our beach

The many rocks worn, cracked across their middle

still able to give a warm seat when I tire.

I have my favourites, where I can

run my hand across the small scars.

Straight lines, cruel whip marks

we all age and crack given enough time

The road marks on our faces as we age

The map of time passing,

the rift that marks all things.

The land falls away leaving a hollow

for the unknown traveller to fall int

A large cloud falls apart as if someone

had pulled a cotton ball in two.

It drifts on by, to be swallowed

by the other waiting clouds.

Whole again, as we too will be

when one puts a hand out to the other.

The rift is repaired. Would that everything

could be so easily mended

as a cloud drifting by.

With time and water, the force of the oceans,

the cracks in the rocks will be smooth again,

 their story untold. As if age had not touched them.

How do we mend a rift in time itself?

What falls between the space where

time has moved away from itself?

Like the wish written on paper as a child,

folded so many times

hidden in the crack of a rock on the beach.

My own wailing wall.

I have no recollection of the wish coming true

It may have done. Time has taken the memory

As I am sure the sea has taken my piece of paper

Smooth or cracked, a boulder

will tell its own story if you sit awhile…

AAAAA

 

Nine Gates… #Poetry

 

angel-1802589_960_720 (1).jpg

Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

The door is open, do not enter

should you be foolish enough to step within

remember these three things

don’t lose the keys as you cannot turn back.

Love all things

Most of all, remember your name

It will carry you through the nine gates of hell.

The first is a three-mile swim

to the island, find the key to gate two

where time slows.

You must keep the same pace as before

think not of what is within, nor touch his skin.

Gate 3 is not so tough

pay no heed to what you hear.

Gate 4 is a bit sticky

Push hard, you will fall right in.

Pick not the flowers nor smell their sweetness.

Gate 5 will tell you lies about the ones you love

Gate six, time will tick louder in here

Do not let it make you rush.

Gate 7 will turn your mind around

do not lose direction.

Gate eight, no matter how you thirst

do not drink from the well of forgetfulness.

Gate nine stands the gatekeeper

He will ask you for the eight keys.

Do not worry that he is blind, he sees you

He will hand you the ninth key

here you must speak your name.

Let not all else be lost in flame

Remember the path behind you

for you will walk its length again…

AAAAA

Another memory of the Falls…

 

St. Nectan’s Falls

 

On one of our trips to Cornwall, we decided to seek out St Nectan’s Glen.

Not realising there was a short cut, we took the long walk through the fields along a small path to get to the Falls.  Single file small!

There were cliffs to one side, the other a sheer drop that was full of trees, nothing soft to break a fall. I moaned all the way there, to find the waterfall at the end, the most wonderful sight.

Jaye had stepped into her own paradise, her love of water. It was plain to see, her face lit up as if the sun shone where there was none.

We noticed people high on a ridge, at the top of the waterfall.

Jaye has a fear of heights, but that day she conquered it, to get as close as she could to the top of the Falls. I am not kidding when I say that there was barely room for a pigeon on this ridge. There we were, my entire family, along with any future grandchildren I might have, vanished in fear.

Squeezing past people coming down was the moment I realised just how dangerous this was. Even now, when I think about it, I remember the nightmares I suffered. I still believe we were fools to have climbed up there.

We found our way to the small hut where St Nectan lived out his days. We signed the visitor book. Back on the flat ground, I gave a sigh of relief. Never again, I said, more times than I can count.

The thing I remember most was the deafening sound of the water and how cold it felt. Would I go again?

Maybe, but taking the shortcut, and no climbing high…

 

 

(This was Anita’s memory of the day I posted about HERE  )

The Wager…

 

gambling-2001078__340.jpg

Image by Pixabay.com

 

The wager

I cannot wake from this nightmare

voices screaming below my floating body.

I dwell in darkness.

The devil takes what belongs

he gives no tomorrows.

I bet my life for one more day

place my coin on red for life.

Black would see me taken back

my seat still warm from the time before.

White lights, masked faces,

my spirit slammed back into place.

I hear one voice above the other

“We have a pulse, we’ve got him back!”

The devil lost.

I have one more tomorrow…

AAAAA

Returning Time… #Poetry

 

New_1_DSCF3003.JPG

Image by jenanita01.com

 

Returning Time

The dead do not lie still.

Their long shadows

search those secret places, pulling your mind apart.

They hide behind damp patches on the wall

waiting for you to scrape through the layers of time.

Old newspapers beneath carpets

Lost photographs at the back of the drawer

A box full of records you can no longer play

Love letters you find.

That distant whisper lets you know

they have come back…

AAAAA

#The Sunday Whirl ~ Wordle 359

banner.jpg

Wordle 395.png

 

Windblown

 

Rain-washed along our street in a wave, pushed by the wind.

Half-formed bubbles floated on top as if someone was blowing through a straw trying to amuse unseen children.

It has been this way for the past three weeks, helpful for my writing, my desk in front of the large bay window.

Early one morning, I noticed a yellow garment drifting by. A small jacket, possibly a child’s. A beam of light broke through the clouds, illuminating the jacket as it passed. It caught on the corner of the street.

I decided to retrieve it, not knowing why and as I stepped outside, the rain stopped and the silence felt like a soothing balm.

Inside the pocket, I found one large marble, a whistle and a very old tin soldier.

The jacket must belong to a boy. I doubt it would be a girl.

I placed a card in the corner shop, hoping the owner of the jacket would want it back. I wanted the story of my find, a child’s treasure. I remembered my own, long ago squirrelled under my bed. The fires of yesterday blown out now.

Saturday morning, I answered the doorbell to a beautiful young woman holding the hand of a young girl of about five years old. I asked them in and went to get the jacket.

As I handed it to the woman, the child snatched it from her and checked the pockets, smiling at her treasures.

“Jessica, what do you say?”

Thanks received, I asked if they would like tea, that I had cake.

A ploy, giving her mother that look that only a child can, without saying please.

I served the tea with a small glass of orange for Jessica.

I asked Jessica’s mother if I could talk about the three objects I found in the pocket.

“The marble was the first time Jess won a game, I told her to keep it for luck to remind her she is a winner. The whistle is for unwanted attention, should she feel uncomfortable. It has a very loud sound and scares of dogs and other nuisances.”

Her look told me I was supposed to know what she meant, and of course, I did.

The tin soldier was the last gift from her father. He told her it would remind her that he would always be by her side, fighting in her corner. The Gulf War I understood.

I thought the mother to be in her late twenties, too young to be alone with a child. The Gulf War ended a year ago. I couldn’t bring myself to believe she wouldn’t have found someone yet. I hoped not, because I intended to be that someone …

AAAAA

Moon Dust… #Poetry

 

moon-26619__340.png

Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

Moon Dust

Angry voices fill the air

Lonely souls

a broken chair.

House standing in despair

One voice calling

what if you could

walk on the moon?

Would you bury

the two souls lying there?

Left behind on mission lost

time and space shall not erase

the memory of lessons learned.

Send a ship, bring them home

The moon is no place to be left alone…

AAAAA

Thoughts…

 

gothic-2910057__340.jpg

Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

Jaye said I should think of something different to write about.

Short stories or romance, ghosts, hauntings, all of which I think I do.

Unlike Jaye, I am only good at one thing. The work I put out, good or bad, I can’t always tell until there is feedback.

I know that sometimes the pieces I put in front of Jaye have moved her to tears. So maybe there is something to them. Either that or she is just a soft Nellie. Who knows?

I can only do what comes from the pen. Good or bad, it is for others to judge.

I guess I can tell when the web is silent, the likes low.

Maybe Jaye is right, the pen has had its day.

Then again, we don’t always agree from one second to the next.

Unless there is a blue moon, and they don’t come around very often.

AAAAA

#Writephoto ~ Sign #Poetry

Thursday photo prompt: Sign #writephoto

 

Featured Image -- 45847

 

Endless

 

Another mindless Christ, preaching endless syllables of nothingness.

Whose soul does he think he can save with words that have no meaning?

There are no signs, no road to redemption.

Let me start my life over without the broken pieces behind me.

Let the ocean swallow my useless life.

My life did not flash before me.

All I could see, the full moon above dancing fingers of light through water.

That pub sign I passed, The Green Wizards Hat swung in front of my eyes

Misshapen, like the crazy mirrors at the carnival.

My air seems seemed endless, I should be drowning by now

no more than a body to be found on some shore by a passing stranger.

Others gather, looking down,  voices…

“How sad, she is so young, what drove her to this?”

Among the crowd, someone stepped forward to close my eyes.

He could not hear me screaming, “Please don’t. Let me see the wizard in the green hat.”

My eyes closed, my hearing gone, how will I know what he had to say to me?

I awake in hospital, had he closed my eyes too soon, thinking me dead?

Did some strange pub sign save me?

Flowers by my bedside, a card, a small green wizard hat in the corner.

Inside I read, “Now you can start your life over…”

There was no signature.

Did an ancient wizard step through time?

AAAAA