#Colleen’s Weekly #Poetry Challenge…

Colleen’s 2019 Weekly #Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge No. 147, #Poet’sChoice

WELCOME TO TANKA TUESDAY!

It’s the first of the month and you know what that means! Poets choose your own words.

It’s my favorite month of the year! HAPPY OCTOBER!

PLEASE support the other poets by visiting their blogs and leaving comments. Sharing each other’s work on social media is always nice too.

This challenge is for Haiku, Senryu, Haiga, Tanka, Haibun, Etheree, Nonet, Shadorma, and Cinquain poetry forms. Freestyle rhyming poetry is not part of this challenge. Thank you!

LcdjR55xi.pngThis is our choice of words this week in an #etheree poem…

 

MAGIC & LOVE

Stand

Beneath

The north star

Feel the magic

Calling for more time

Bring back yesterday’s glow

The one who made life worthwhile

When love is kissed the morning sun

Hear music carried by the sea breeze

Stay, feel the rhythm of the universe…

©anitadawes

#ThursdayBookBlog ~ an excerpt from Out of Time… #MysteryThriller

 Kate Devereau wakes up in a hospital, unable to speak or move. Her brain has shut down, refusing to acknowledge her dark and disturbing past, concealing a web of painful secrets.

Michael Barratt brought her to the hospital, insisting that her ex-husband had tried to kill her. And from the state of him, had tried to kill him too. He had been searching for Kate for years, ever since their doomed love affair, only to discover someone else had been hunting her too.

With the help of the DI David Snow, Kate will gradually piece her life back together, only to discover the nightmare is far from over.

Her first instinct is to run, but David Snow convinces her to stay and help him put an end to the nightmare. A nightmare that will get progressively worse before it gets better.

Haunted by his own demons, will the Snowman manage to catch the twisted killer?

Evil lurks in this story and people die, but amidst the tears and heartache, a lost love struggles to survive…

 

Excerpt from Out of Time

 Detective Inspector David Snow looked down at the unconscious woman on the hospital bed in front of him, remembering the state of her when she had arrived, a few hours ago. They had done a good job of cleaning her up. She lay still, like a religious statue in a church, her pale skin the colour of finest marble. The gentle rise and fall of her breasts the only indication life still clung to her body.

So different to the wrinkled, dirt-ingrained body he had looked at earlier, of an old tramp, found dead in the hospital car park, bundled into a moth-eaten army coat and wedged under a car. What was originally thought to be a simple case of neglect, had taken on a more sinister tone when they discovered the tramps head had been cut off and shoved down the back of the old boy’s trousers.

Snow wondered what an old tramp could possibly have done to warrant such treatment, being well known around the hospital and described as a harmless old soul. The tenuous link to the woman in front of him indicated she might not be safe and would need his protection.

They knew very little about her, and he wondered again what kind of woman she was.  Now the dirt had been removed, she looked healthy and well cared for, which ruled out homelessness. A reasonably attractive, middle-aged woman, bordering on the ordinary, apart from her curly hair which would appear to have a life of its own, as even now it crept across the pillow like the roots of a willow.

Alone with the unconscious woman, Snow had an excellent opportunity to study her without feeling self-conscious about doing it. In all the years since his wife’s death, he missed looking intimately at a woman. He usually tried to do it surreptitiously to avoid the risk of being branded a pervert, or worse. He liked to imagine what kind of person they were, if they were kind or cruel, bossy or timid, but for once, there were no clues on this woman’s face. A slight determination in the set of her jaw gave him pause for thought.

According to Michael Barratt, the man who brought her here, her name was Kate Devereau, an artist, none of which gave him any clues as to her character. In the beginning, Snow had instinctively thought she might be the murderer in this case, due to the amount of blood found in the cottage.  Michael Barratt had found her unconscious in this cottage on the outskirts of Guildford. He said he knew her, but had no idea why she had found it necessary to be there. As an estate agent, he had been arranging to have the cottage ready for Miss Devereau to rent.

It was all a little mysterious, compounded by the fact Michael Barratt looked as if he had been barbecued. His clothes were burned black in places, apart from his jacket, which was clean and several sizes too small and obviously didn’t belong to him. The back of his head and hands were raw and blistered, suggesting there were probably more extensive burns to his body.

The estate agent had offered no explanation for his own condition but stubbornly kept asking after Kate, which might possibly indicate an emotional involvement. He had no answer for what had happened to her, except to say her health had not been good for a while. If it hadn’t been for all the blood, it would have seemed innocent enough.

So why didn’t Snow believe him?

 

 

 

 

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The Train… #Poetry

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Image by Pixabay.com

I forgot to move; my limbs frozen

The level crossing was up

Clear for all to reach the other side

Yet a train was speeding towards me

I could hear people screaming

For God’s sake, run!

I thought I must be dreaming

As the sound drew nearer

Suddenly I felt my body crashing to the floor

Somebody’s arms around my waist

I looked into his blue eyes

A hero I knew I would marry…

                                ©anitadawes

#Writephoto ~ Murmur #Poetry

Thursday photo prompt: Murmur #writephoto

 

murmuration

Image by scvincent.com

 

Red sky, flames from a hidden fire

Illuminates the dark barren land

Black clouds tendrils reaching

Searching the darkness for something lost

The sheer weight of it pushing me down

Slowing my footsteps

I longed for the murmur of waves along the shore

Where I paddled as a child

Somehow, I have been dropped into this wasteland

An unwanted morsel of humanity

No sign of life save for the starlings

Swaying, painting their patterns across the dark grey

Their sky murmur, a last dance before sleep

Reminding me of many a last dance

Played out over time

Do those lost lovers touch in sweet refrain?

Does our world echo a continuous murmur of love?

Do we feed from this almost silent murmur?

Like hungry children

I think it must be so, for we are still here

Swaying, dancing our own murmur in silence…

©Anita Dawes

Longing… #Poetry

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

Longing

I search distant lands for beauty

Sacred sites fill my eyes

Yet none remain in beauty

My feet cannot find

The image held in mind

I have no words to tell

From whence it comes

To haunt me

My heart so filled with longing

For beauty’s eyes to see me

When darkness comes

Her light surrounds me

I sleep in the arms of beauty

Morning light steals her from me

With hollow heart I continue

Must I die in search of beauty?

©Anita Dawes

One Moment… #Poetry

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

One magic moment

To recapture a lifetime

Hidden in my memory box

To relive when needed

A pick and mix of moments

Best loved

People you can meet again

For the first time

Your first kiss, the thrill of the chase

The moment of capture

Waking together that first morning

Not wanting to leave the bed

Would you sell your soul for such a device?

At the age of 73, I would answer yes

Let me relive those moments one last time

Before I meet my maker

I can tell Him where he went wrong

Give me one more spin on earth

Fate written by my own hand this time

That way, if there are mistakes

they will be my own

which maybe easier to get around

rather than a cosmic cock up…

©AnitaDawes

At Last… #Poetry

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

At Last

I found myself leaning against the gates of heaven

As if they were no more than the local pub doors

If I push them open, would I find a pint waiting?

I doubt it. Then again, God has been known

To surprise and devastate. With the speed of lightning

Taking my soul. She was the summer rain

I prayed that dry weather should never come

That my arms would hold her for eternity

Now I care not if storms rage for ever.

The air shimmered with star dust; the gates opened

As I fell, I heard her whisper

You’re home at last…

©AnitaDawes