April 18, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about gender. It can be fixed or fluid. Explore the topic on your own terms and open your mind to possibilities and understanding. Go where the prompt leads!
Boys and girls
My mother’s despair plain to see
At my unladylike behaviour
As I climb the conker tree
With my dress tucked inside my underwear
To beat the boys was my game
I take my brother’s double cap gun holster
Make my own bow and arrow
Dolls and frills were not for me
Until a daughter came to me
I dress her in silks and frills
As my mother would have liked to see
Quite the woman I turned out to be
My daughter never climbed a tree
No guns, no bows and arrows
Today’s boys and girls play the same…
His newborn wings formed by ancient light
Lift him high above England green and pleasant land
Yet bittersweet the sight below
Broken monuments where stained glass no longer glows
No limit to pilgrim’s footfall
Still, they come to climb the ridge where the tower stands
Soothe worn out feet in water that ever flows
Quench their thirst from the White Spring spray
Where no salt lies within
Joseph’s blossom tree has stood the test of time
Offers shade, rest awhile
Hear the whispered songs of old
Feel the beat of ancient wings where power still remains…
Use the image below as inspiration to create a post on your own blog… poetry, prose, humour… light or dark, whatever you choose, by noon (GMT) Wednesday 24th April and link back to this post with a pingback to be included in the round-up. There is no word limit and no style requirements, except to keep it fairly family friendly.
Sunlight beauty beyond the trees
Pyramid doorway beckons
Ode to Pythagoras
I stand safe in shadows
This sunlit vale hides what my eyes cannot see
My heart weeps for want
A distant cry, drums beating
Loves memory written in smoke
A call borne from pain
How can I reach where my feet will not go?
A singularity of knowing holds me fast
Two hearts beat beyond the branches entwined
In triangular splendour they wait for me
Take time to feel their welcome
Reach out, take hold of safe hands
To hold under sunlight’s warm embrace…
April 11, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story using the phrase “beggars can’t be choosers.” You can play with the words, alter them or interpret them without using the phrase. Give it any slant you want — show what it means or add to its meaning. Go where the prompt leads!
And this is our contribution…
Years ago when I wore second- hand clothes
Worn out shoes
Sleeping in a room with no heat
Blankets as thin as rice paper
I made my way long ago,
I am happy
Some I know are still searching
Most days, he sits at the corner of Waitrose
Playing his clarinet
I hear the coins drop into his open case
At his feet as I pass
Today, I would give him a choice
Between a sandwich and coffee or a two- pound scratch card
I walked home eating the sandwich
Without waiting. I hoped he made the right choice.
Daylight bleeds into night,
the sound of guns firing in battle
men falling, fireflies dancing above their heads
Ghostly glow for the dead, now fear is alive
The class ring on blackened burned out hands
shines the way, starlight bouncing on gold
They no longer want, they hear no chatter
No sweet smells of honey where they lie
There is a special room put aside
Where their names chime through eternity…
Prometheus stole fire to give to mankind.
For this the great Titan was punished by Zeus
tied to a rock so an eagle would eat his liver
which would heal overnight
to be eaten again the next day.
Until a hero comes. Hercules to the rescue.
I have thought of Prometheus as my hero
his punishment did not fit the crime.
Now he is mostly forgotten,
we sit on the beach, toast our marshmallows
the fire taken for granted.
Fire can take a forest, leaving burnt ash
yet it will grow again like Prometheus liver,
magic in the flame…
One forgotten spirit walks
beneath yesterday’s cloudy moon.
Searching for alchemy, transformation
old age magic to remove the sting of memory.
The song remembered under dark skies
to have a voice, to sing again.
The pull, the swell of life below,
a mix of bittersweet memory.
Chill thoughts of a life wasted
the need to be born again.
Haunted by the scarred face of the moon.
Would that a strong wind could blow
his spirit newborn,
beneath tomorrow’s full moon...
Sacred water, the giver of life
we do everything with it
bathe, clean windows, wash cars
Leave a bowl out for the birds
Christen our new borns
As children, we splash in it
laughing and screaming getting soaking wet
We go boating on a summer afternoon
hand held over the side
Gentle water slipping through our fingers
Hidden trails of water beneath our feet
The Hindu God of Oceans, Varuna
Salty water, secret life below
Water is calm and violent
we cannot do without it
It sustains all life, take time
to bless the magic that falls on us…
Clearing out the attic
I found Grandads chisels
carefully wrapped in cloth.
He is no longer with us
But I remember him telling me
Always look after your tools.
He was the same with all his tools
Paintbrushes must be thoroughly cleaned.
Unwrapping the cloth, five chisels
as good as the day he bought them
Rosewood handles, each blade sharp
as the last time he held them.
I could feel him beside me
nudging me to find the wooden train set
he made for my twelfth birthday.
I found so much more, I rediscovered
My grandfather, his lost wisdom…
Colleen’s 2019 Weekly #Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge No. 127 #SynonymsOnly
my soul transcend
the walls run thick with tears
heads bowed in silent prayer
seeking forgiveness given here
candle lit, penance paid, sins vanish
I chase my shadow across the Rubicon
The die is cast, whose favour will it fall
my soul hangs in balance of payment
I track the desert wilderness
I seek the one who can help
to return me from hell
call me from exile
the hunt over
my own guide