#Writephoto ~ Calling

Thursday photo prompt: Calling #writephoto

 

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Image by scvincent.com

For visually challenged writers, the image shows  a snowstorm with the silhouette of a stag watching between two trees.

 

 

Calling…

 

Snow had been forecast, but Janet had promised to visit old Mrs Robson, to make sure she was warm enough and had enough to eat.

On her way home, the first flakes of snow were drifting down, gradually covering the road with a thin white blanket that softly crunched under her feet.

She wondered if it was a good idea to take the shortcut across the fields, and stood and looked around, weighing up the risk of the snow getting worse.

The snow was thicker now, reducing the visibility, but if she took the shortcut, she would be home and safe before it got any worse.

Approaching the edge of the field, a large stag appeared and stood as if barring her way between the trees. He stood motionless, a look of determination in his eyes and the tilt of his head.

Not wanting to be chased, Janet turned away and looked for another way to cross the field.

Further along the road was another opening, but the stag was there before her. It was becoming obvious that he didn’t want her to cross the field. Or was he trying to stop her from going home?

The snow was now falling in a thick curtain and it had turned bitterly cold. It probably would be safer to stay on the road, but Mrs Robson’s cottage was nearer than her house, so the decision made, she trudged along in the blinding snow. Before long, she heard someone breathing on the road behind her. She stopped and turned her head, barely making out who was following her. The stag stared back at her; his breath visible in the freezing air.

She increased her speed, almost running to the cottage.

The front door was wide open, snow already piling up inside but there was no sign of Mrs Robson. The stag made his way around the cottage to the back garden, and Janet followed him. They found Mrs Robson sitting on the ground, her leg at an angle underneath her. She looked like a pixie, covered in snow.

She smiled in welcome, but not at Janet…

©jayemarie

 

 

My Knight… #Poetry

 

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

My Knight

My seven-year-old son informed me

 he would like a knight’s outfit,

with a sword for Halloween.

I thought it odd at the time

For he likes clowns

I managed to find one his size

He looked the very inch of a Knight

in shining armour. No face paint, he said.

He needed to be seen.

After two hours of walking around

I could see my tiny knight tiring

Time for tea, bath and bed, or so I thought.

No amount of persuasion could remove the outfit

He refused to go to bed,

so, I let him fall asleep on the sofa

Carrying him to his bed, he woke

Telling me he had to stay awake until midnight

“If Gran comes back, I have to save her…”

The gifting hour, when the dead can walk among us

Oh God, why had I explained this to him

I should have known he was too young.

He slept with the sword for two weeks

Before leaving it under his bed

Clearing his room, picking stray toys from the floor

I asked if we could put the sword in the toy box

He said he didn’t need it anymore.

“Gran kissed me goodnight, so I know she is all right.”

It seems my tiny knight was happy again…

©anitadawes

Fragmented Time… #Poetry

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

I am resurrected from dying dreams

 

From the ash that surrounds your world.

Like your Frankenstein, I am made from many parts

In my hand I hold the glowing fragments of time

Dark clouds hide me from the sun

Nothing works the same where I am

Rain flows upwards, the stars shine in circles

Wind blows only from the north

The moon rises when and where it pleases

Day is night, night is day

Things change in the blink of an eye

Our numbers are few, our world is fading

In order for me to remain in the universe

I must steal one fragment of time

Hide the remaining parts for humanity to find…

©anitadawes

 

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Pixabay.com

 

The Others… #Poetry

 

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

The Others

When you leave your bed in the morning

Be sure to smooth out the line

Your body left behind

For there are others who wait

To steal the warmth from your soul

Should they manage to occupy

The space you vacated

Your soul turns cold, a shard of ice

Stealing the warmth from your heart

Turning your footsteps from the path

You were meant to tread

Strange winds blow through your life

While others slowly take form

Until there is another lying

In the line where you once slept…

©anitadawes

#Writephoto ~ Stillness #Poetry

Thursday photo prompt: Stillness #writephoto

 

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image by scvincent.com

The image shows the dark silhouette of a cliff and against a calm sea and a sun-gold horizon.

 

 

#writephoto

 

Rock, sea and sky, what more could I ask for

The stillness, oh, the stillness

Where birds dare not fly, the air undisturbed

My heart slows in memory of a time unspoken

The quickening begins as I step into the salt sea

My mind invaded with primitive thoughts

An old-time movie, how long has it played there

How many minds have changed, standing here?

Did they notice time playing before their eyes?

Am I the only fool to stand wrapped in stillness?

My mind damaged by no sound entering

No help to rearrange my thoughts

What do I take back from this strange place?

Will it be renewed stillness of mind to carry me

through the remainder of my life…

©anitadawes

#Jaye’s Journal ~ Week 40

Jaye's Journal x12

 

In many ways, this week was the worst yet for me.

 

I soldiered on, trying to accomplish something towards my impending book launch, but everything I touched turned to rubbish in my hands. I managed to reach Thursday without shooting myself, but it grew steadily worse. I knew if there was one more insurmountable difficulty, there was a danger of me running for the hills. I tried everything I could think of to escape the feeling of doom that was gradually seeping into everything I touched, but it wasn’t having a bar of it. Looked like I had found a branch of doom that was far more stubborn than I was!

I checked the weather again and although the entire week looked just as glum, with rain everywhere, that day seemed brighter, or was I just hoping for a little sunshine?

We hadn’t walked to our local lake in ages, having almost resigned into believing we couldn’t walk that far anymore. It was only about a mile and a half and quite a pleasant walk through town, but it was the return journey that always had us crawling home, groaning with aching joints. Desperation made me determined to dispel that idea and we set off, walking slowly and enjoying the fresh air. The sun was trying to make an appearance and I could feel the doom dropping away from me the further I walked.

We sat by the water, watching the assortment of ducks, geese and swans, going about their business. Most were busy hunting for food, while others were bossing each other about, causing short-lived arguments and noisy wing flapping that had the local children laughing. The sun sparkled on the water, the light breeze rippling the surface and for the first time in ages, I felt myself relaxing.

Anita was watching something on the far side of the lake, and I tried to see for myself. They looked like ducks, but something kept me watching, willing them to come closer. They took their sweet time but eventually they came close enough to see they were a pair of black swans.

I have had this thing about black swans ever since I worked near the River Thames, some forty years ago. My office window looked out over the water and I confess I spent more time than I should watching what went on out there. I hadn’t been in the job long before my new workmates introduced me to Smudge, a lone black swan who seemed to like that part of the river and could be seen every day. He once had a mate, but something had happened, leaving him alone. I knew that swans mate for life, and that Smudge would have to live the rest of his life alone. I was alone at that time too, so in a way we shared our loneliness. At least that ‘s how it felt back then.

The new arrivals made it to our side of the lake, and I watched them gliding about, completely engrossed in what they were doing. They ignored the other wildlife and seemed to be searching for more than food, or was I endowing them with the sadness I felt for Smudge all those years ago?

I took loads of photographs and tried to capture them both on video too, but either my camera malfunctioned or I didn’t press the right sequence of buttons. It seemed doom hadn’t quite disappeared after all, but at least the photos weren’t bad.

If the weather doesn’t improve, we may not walk all that way again until Spring and maybe we will see the black swans again. Now that is something to look forward to!

 

Thank you for reading – please feel free to comment or share for I would love to hear from you!   Best wishes from Jaye Marie

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jaye-Marie/e/B00O2ZUFOK/

The Tower… #Poetry

 

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

Somehow, I found myself inside the Tower of London

There I was, prancing around, wearing the Queen’s crown

So splendid, magnificent, it felt like wearing new clothes

I could hear the ravens in their cages

They knew I was here. I wondered if the noise

Would alert the guards on their night patrol

I didn’t care. I felt dazzled by the beauty of her jewels

The security lights made each jewel dance

The colours jumping along with their own beauty

Why must such treasures be locked away?

The Hope diamond, rubies, sapphires

I wanted to take them all home with me

Knowing full well, I could never get inside the cabinet

Alarms would ring, I would be locked inside the Tower

A traitor to the Crown, yet here I am, wearing it

Looking at it at the same time.

I woke clutching a small sapphire

Had I brought something back from a dream?

I scanned the newspapers, not a mention of someone

Invading the Tower. No sapphire reported missing.

Somehow my love of splendid jewels had transferred one

Into my hand. Should I return it, risk being branded a criminal?

I think not, for it was a gift from the dream world…

©anitadawes

#Wordle ~ 423 #Poetry

 

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We bought the house for a reason

No noisy neighbours as we back on to a graveyard

From my bedroom window, I imagine all sorts

At night, with a half-moon hanging low

Shadows shifting under a pale light

How many stroke victims lie beneath the cold earth?

What of murderers shot by the police

Some nights I hear the grunt of wild animals

Most likely hedgehogs

The wind carries the distant wail of someone in trouble

Too far away for me to be of help

Some nights I stand there too long

I need to stamp my feet to get the blood flowing

I often wish I had the courage to jump a train

At our local rail line, walk the streets of London.

I hear there will be much to feed my imagination

I don’t have time; it is my turn to help with the flowers

For midnight mass

I put the keys on the bedside dresser to remind me

Before I leave my window, I notice a flash of light

Level with the large grey stone that stands alone

Next morning with the keys in my pocket

I decided to have a look before flower arranging

I stood in front of a black marble headstone

The date read 1809 Margaret Stone, died aged 49

I felt sorry for her short life

Nothing strange here, where had the light come from?

Maybe the vicar, checking all’s well

As I turn my head to walk away

I noticed the words had changed

It now read, here lies James Young, died aged nine

This happened three more times before I could move away

Finally, my imagination hit a wall, it was something

I cannot explain or talk about

They would think me mad, call for the men in white jackets

As I was arranging the flowers

I wondered why they had all died so young

Was the gravesite like a multi-story building?

Occupants on top of each other

Did I have a glimpse of those who had been buried before?

I knew I couldn’t ask anyone

With all that running through my mind

I managed to do a good job with the flowers…

©anitadawes

#FlashFiction Challenge for Carrot Ranch Literary Community #Poetry

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September 26: Flash Fiction Challenge

Prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about someone unremembered. Is it a momentary lapse or a loss in time? Play with the tone — make it funny, moving, or eerie. Go where the prompt leads you!

 

I cannot think of anyone forgotten to me

I am sure if I walk around my local graveyard

There would be so many forgotten souls

With no living relatives to lay flowers

I will lay a flower on a few bare graves

as I pass through to show they’re remembered

I asked a Jewish neighbour years ago

Why no flowers on their graves?

They don’t like to kill anything

They leave a stone to say someone has visited

I thought I might like to do that

Find a bare headstone, take a small pebble

Place it there with love…

©anitadawes

The Flower Child… #Poetry

 

 

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Image by Pixabay.com

 

 

The same little girl stood on the corner

of Swan street selling her flowers

A carnation for your lady, she called.

I guessed her age to be about nine

Her clothes shabby yet clean.

Someone must care for her

I feel she should be at home.

The weather had turned bitter

Her face and hands the colour of a red rose

I could do little to help

but buy the carnation offered.

This I did, two or three times a week

Hoping I was helping.

For a week now I have not seen her

I asked the man selling newspapers

He told me she had succumbed to the cold.

I had not given her enough help after all

I should have provided her with a warm blanket

Warm boots. I knew she had to stand there

To help her family to survive.

I hope she has all the flowers she wants

In heaven…

©anitadawes