The Sunday Whirl ~ Wordle 580 ~ #Poetry

Image by Jan Mallander from Pixabay 

The dead don’t talk, they don’t play games
They walk through doors
Somewhere a chain to bind them to time
Over time the stories have grown 
To keep the local boys from playing in the old mill House
Many have entered and never returned
The towns folk say it should be pulled down
The sea has tried to reclaim the old mill house
It stands perilously at the edge of the land
If you visit the grave of Tommy Wilson
You lose the power of free will
To plead with your mind would be useless
You enter the old mill house, never to be seen again…


©AnitaDawes2022


The Rising Moon… #Poetry #Wordle 572 ~ TheSundayWhirl

©AnitaDawes2022

We made love under the shadow of the rising moon
The ghosts of our ancestors danced in celebration
Nothing between us but time and space
Angels watching in mute silence
There is no way to break the spell
To throw away our souls
No way to give words to the moment…

©AnitaDawes2022

White Ghosts… #Poetry

 

Image by Ashish Bogawat from Pixabay

Grey clouds on white candy
Black clouds carrying heavy rain
Lovers kiss beneath outstretched umbrellas
Rain splashed pavements wait for blue skies
White prisms of light shine on polished leaves
Trees sway, shedding their last teardrops
The earth greedy with thirst
Eagerly swallows each tear
White ghosts painted on blue skies
Light souls shining through
Touching those below, covering
The earth with memory
Waiting to be remembered
Grey clouds dropping rain
Showering the earth with secrets
Children splash in puddles
As other feet did years ago
Lift your face to the clouds
Taste the rain upon your lips
Do you remember?
Does the taste of something lost come to mind?
Clouds will bring the rain again.
Teasing you, daring you to remember
Secrets of the past hidden in each drop
Clouds pass, unseen by many below
Tilt your head, see the magic they make
The shapes and wonder of sky art…
White bleached clouds sail across blue skies
The day is washed clean as if by magic
Pink clouds hiding behind pillars of white
The day sails through to the purple hue of evening
All is well with my world…

© Anita Dawes 2021

 

#Writephoto ~ Antique ~ #Poetry

#WRITEPHOTO – Antique

#WRITEPHOTO – Antique
Antique – Image by KL Caley

For visually challenged writers, the image shows a collection of tables, chairs, lamps, baskets, teddies and other objects in quite a busy space.

How do we mark the passing of time?
Is it memory alone?
Do the visual prompts take us back?
Bring the past to life
At 75, am I considered an antique?
I certainly feel like one some days
With so many antique thoughts popping in mind
Wanting to live alongside me
Is it a reminder that the time I have left is too short?
So many empty chairs that were once loved
Put in pride of place
So many ghosts that have now gone
Do we still feel them when we sit in an antique chair?
Looking through the window
At once cherished items
I wonder, as I walk home carrying a small red vase
How will it speak to me?

© Anita Dawes 2022

Eugi’s Weekly Prompt ~ A Halloween Horror

Image by Gerhard G. from Pixabay

Eugi’s Weekly Prompt – Halloween – October 28, 2021

Image by Jazella from Pixabay

It was the night after Halloween and I imagined that all the ghosts, spirits and ghouls would be safely back where they belong.

The moon shone clear and bright and there were no bats or beasties to be seen. So why had I just spotted the face of a skeleton peering through my window?

I dismissed the accompanying chill, thinking it must be one of the neighbour’s children, unwilling to bin their costume and smiled at the thought.

Later that evening there was a knock on the door. I decided to ignore it, thinking the child was pushing his luck.

When they knocked again, I felt a pang of guilt, wondering if there really was a small child standing on my doorstep in the middle of the night. I peeked through the curtains but saw nothing but the tendrils of mist gently swirling through the streets.

The next morning, I opened the front door on my way to work to find a strange pumpkin on the step. As I stooped to pick it up, I saw the blood still dripping from the corners of the curved mouth…

© JayeMarie 2021

Bittersweet…

Image by (El Caminante) from Pixabay

I swallow my words, a slow-moving bitter taste.
Full of broken glass that burns my veins.
A storm raging inside, a fire that cannot be quenched.
Fuelled by anger, disappointment, loss,
a life lived too long.
The past doing what it does best,
haunting, stirring the mind to self-destruct.
Ghosts of those once loved smooth the sharp edges
of the hills and troughs dug by bitter memories.
It is better to have loved.
A life lived without is a hollow bubble.
The space inside too hard to handle.
So my friend if love is offered,
Take it, keep it safe.
Don’t live life in an empty bubble…

© Anita Dawes 2021