Pixabay image
Steeped in tea and reads
Hard soles unshod for lamb’s wool
Evening breathes a sigh
My tattered slippers shuffle
To the coziness of dreams
**
A tanka in response to Colleen’s Synonyms-only #Tanka Tuesday prompts “worn” and “comfort.”
Worn = Tattered
Comfort = Coziness
Pixabay image by Michael Seibt
“Cross the bridge.” The crone points her staff to a log spanning a luminous pool.
I squint at the strange collection of creatures impeding my way. I’ve been lost for days in the swamp’s wet greenness, breathing the emerald dew. So many moons that knobby horns sprout from my skull. Vines weave through the fibers of my clothes, and my skin grows iridescent scales in myriad hues of moss. I am hungry despite a bellyful of beetles.
Upon the bridge, a naiad plays her flute, the sound hypnotic though the melody unfurls backward. “Wayward magic,” mutter I, one wary soul who’s encountered these tricksters before. Does this one revel in opposites, mirrored reflections? Which is real, the opposite of whom? Is there any way to know what’s true? My ears droop at the bothersome riddle.
The pipe’s dulcet sound charms a viper, its crescent fangs smiling. Safeguarding or warning? Did the sprite awaken the snake, or does she lull it to sleep? Beneficent or Mischievous? I wrinkle my snout in study. And which of the two covet the poppy? All three could be lethal to me. Beautiful peril, perilous beauty. Or simply a flower?
“How am I to cross?” ask I, my jade whiskers twitching.
The faceless hag shrugs.
choose your poison, child
life implies no guarantees
forsake illusive
dreams of immortality
perception decides the truth
**
I had the privilege in September of choosing October’s mid-month photo image for Colleen’s #Tanka Tuesday. What fun to finally write for this fairytale image. If you enjoy syllabic poetry, visit her site and check out her fun prompts. Thanks, Colleen.
Rail against despair
When deceit inters the truth
When corruption shrieks
And Narcissus chokes the void
With yowls from a vacant heart
For Colleen’s #Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge. We had to use synonyms for empty (vacant) and space (void).
Sorry about the politics. I couldn’t help it with those prompts.
Pixabay image by Susan Cipriano
A double Etheree for Colleen’s mid-month poetry photo challenge. This month’s photo was selected by Jane Dougherty.
white
ice melts
in trickles
etching gullies
calving blue glaciers
until oceans submerge
gray ashes of field and farm
when birds and butterflies succumb
will we bray for justice, thoughts and prayers
proclaim false innocence, righteous despair
or rue our excuses and pay our debts
spill tears for an absent tomorrow
bewildered as our children drown
between islands of lost trees
rooted in salt waters
among dying leaves
a wasted world
of green life
fades to
black
copyright – Sue Vincent
My mother’s home
bows to the leaden clouds
through withering years
her gravity weights us
frail fingers of need
suspended from my shoulders
She clutches my arm
like a worn-out child
I bear without bending
but why do I feel
my feet have grown tap roots
and I cannot extract them
They are declining together
that house and she
sagging and creaking
water-marked and fractured
fragile veins of rusted pipes
crumbling the foundation of bones
Beauty requires altered eyes
the blurred half-distance of memory
a chorus of overlapping echoes
in party dresses and baby’s breath
when the decay of age was nothing
a coat of paint couldn’t hide
She has lost the sharp-edged borders
scarlet tulips and peach-rimmed roses
glories of the morning in royal blue
black-eyed Susans and apricot orchids
mums in the amber blaze of twilight
winter’s bittersweet
I will remember
her spring blossoms
ceding to blood red chrysanthemums
and garlands of evergreen
until the day I too fade
into monochrome
**
I just got home from another visit to my parents. They’re doing fine but declining, especially my mother. This poem is bleaker than the real situation. It’s just the muse and image tugging me along. Thanks to Sue Vincent for another Thursday #Writephoto prompt. (I missed the deadline, but happily post this anyway.)
copyright Sue Vincent
On my last day, the impenetrable rain finally clears, and my hostess suggests a walk. I’d rather stare out the window and wallow in my disappointment. But her enthusiasm won’t be thwarted, and I can’t very well blame her for the weather.
We venture through her back gate. A gray mist stalls between the trees’ black silhouettes, robbing me of a mere glimpse of blue sky. Spring has dawdled, and leafless twigs knit a dark filigree above the crooked boles. Only the mottled grass seems to have noticed the changing season, but it squishes beneath my feet and soaks my shoes.
I shove my hands in my pockets against the chill. “Is spring always this… dreary?”
My hostess chuckles. “It depends on your perspective.” She steps aside and beckons me to stand in her place.
I smile at her attempt at humor and comply. The morning sun casts rainbows in my eyes.
Gift my gloomy heart
Solace from expectations
Where darkness shelters
A new perspective beckons
In dawn’s awakening light
A haibun/tanka combo.
Thanks to Sue Vincent for the inspiring #Writephoto prompt.
I was browsing the beautiful site Short-Prose-Fiction and stumbled upon this gorgeous poem (one of many). I hope you enjoy it.
by Short Prose Fiction
In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.
Federico García Lorca
open your veins Andalusia
let him drink from your lynx blood
inject the rhythms of the flamenco
under the coldness of his eyes
tattoo his flesh with tiles of azurite
pour the sounds of castanets
into his arms
my fingers swirl
the flesh of ripened olives
covers the old shroud
the flow of blood from the white shirt…
(Continue Reading via Andalusian Resurrection)
