At the Mirror: Timeless Echoes

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I’m a little under the weather this week and happily invited Balroop Singh to the Mirror today. She’s sharing a poem from her new book Timeless Echoes, a collection that invites you to hear the echoes that reverberate around you, reminding you of lost opportunities, repressed desires, cherished moments, and hope that shimmers through clouds.”

Echoes Of Life

Solace sailed away with you
Sinking hit me much later.
Love buried within my entrails
I swam to safety…
Shores don’t ditch!
Tongue is sharper than a thousand knives
Wisdom of the ages warned.
But your sagacity surpassed eons
Your simplicity – a façade…
Only I couldn’t fathom!
What next? I ask myself
Life echoes…no complaints.
I choose life…I love its echoes
Hope mentors my path
Happiness would follow.
The dew on my dreams is still fresh
Sunbeams add a sparkle
Prickly path shines with primroses
A new self is beckoning,
Smiling at my strengths.

***

Balroop’s website Emotional Shadows has a wealth of poetry. If you have a chance stop by and say hello.

Amazon Global Link: Timeless Echoes

At the Mirror: Tide-Pool

If you love poetry and poetic prose and haven’t found Holly’s blog, you are in for a delight.  This exquisite piece of writing is swoon-worthy. Enjoy!

Tide Pool

by Holly of House of Heart

In that hour before dawn when the stars still hold on to the velveteen sky,  stealthy specters rose, pulled on layers of clothes and quietly slipped into the low lying fog.  Silently father let the car roll down the driveway signalling me with a fingertip to his lips to not make a sound for fear we would wake the sleeping who might want to intrude on an adventure for two…

(continue reading:  Tide Pool)

At the Mirror: Out in the Cold

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Eli Kyoko and I began following each other this spring. I’m so pleased to share a poet of immense talent with anyone who hasn’t discovered MoonLit Pieces.

Out in the Cold

by Eli Kyoko

I wore your hat to protect my head
from the debris falling from our family tree
but the spilling blues and red,
lumps the purple on my skin
The invisible scars, the indelible tints
Throbs and thumps within
‘Cause father, when you left
I saw how mother went out in the cold
gasping for life, bereft
She wore my hug to warm her skin, to endure your sin
I caught the cerulean falling stars from her cheeks
and wished for …

 

(Continue Reading: Out in the Cold)

At the Mirror: Stranger in a Strange Land

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Marietta Rodgers has a funny, quirky, oft times political blog:
The Mordant Scribe.
This piece of writing is plain and simple fun, and not what you think.
If you need a laugh, read on.
Comments are closed here. Click on over and enjoy.

Stranger in a Strange Land

by Marietta Rodgers

“You’re here,” I say, a bit frazzled because I had not finished dusting my collection of  Gothic ashtrays.

“Yes, I realize I’m a bit early,” the stranger says uneasily. “I’m a little nervous; I haven’t done this in a long time.

“Well, I’ve never done this before. Do you want to do it right here on the table,” I ask, pointing to my kitchen table with a rotting fruit bowl as its centerpiece.

“Anywhere is fine,” he says, looking down at his feet embarrassed.

I nod and make my way to the hall closet. Immediately when I open the door, a broom falls out and the handle hits me square in the forehead with an audible, whack.  I shove the broom into the very back of the closet so it won’t assault me the next time I open it. A lone Members Only Jacket is hanging up, just hoping and waiting for the day that epaulets are in vogue again. My eyes scan the contents on the shelf. I see the box that I want underneath an old blanket. As I make my way back to the table, with the box in hand, I hear my tea kettle singing.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I was going to make myself a cup of tea.”

“I’ll have one as well.” I sit the box on the table and empty the contents of the fruit bowl, where I notice several fruit flies had died.

The stranger adds a little milk to his tea. The milk was already expired by at least three days; I had forgotten to dump it out. I debate on whether I should tell him or not. I finally decide that I will not.

Mom always said to check the date on the milkShe probably meant before you buy it though, not if you’re at a random stranger’s house.  

I pour my tea and politely refuse the three-day-old milk, when the stranger offers it. Instead, I open my cookie jar and take out a flask containing whiskey and pour a little into my cup.  I don’t like how the stranger is judging me with his eyes…

(continue reading: Stranger in a Strange Land)

At The Mirror: Their Whiteness

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At the Mirror today: an exquisite piece of flash fiction by Kelvin Knight.

Please click through to comment ❤

Their Whiteness

by Kelvin M. Knight

He pirouetted through oceanic whiteness, leaving ripples of himself. Drifting through these, she gasped at the softness of his touch. A touch bursting with promise: that dance he’d promised her but she’d always been too busy to accept. Back then. Back there. Where cares were weighty. Where duty outweighed sin. Where their love went unrecognised. Because of him. Because…

Continue Reading: Their Whiteness

At the Mirror: The Quill’s Magic

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I only connected with D. Avery a couple months ago. I loved this story and the beautiful fairy tale quality. I think it would make a beautiful children’s book (hint hint). I hope you enjoy.

The Quill’s Magic

by D. Avery

Once upon a time there was a king who had everything necessary and much that was imaginable and who always wanted more. He had a great many servants, among them a girl who tended to the horses in the royal stable.

One day she was surprised to find that the king’s men had captured a large bird, which was kept in a locked stall in the stable. It fell to her to look after this strange creature.

She observed that every day it pulled its own feathers to make a writing quill, and every day drew its own blood to use as ink, that every day it might write its own story.

“Oh, Bird, doesn’t that hurt?”

“Yes, it hurts.”

“Then, why?”

“Because”, the bird squawked, “At this time, in this place, I have no song.”

And the girl could not get the bird to eat or drink and could not get it to stop pulling its own feathers and drawing its own blood. She could not get it to stop writing. And she could not bear the pain of its silence. She stole the king’s key and unlocked the stall door. “Go”, she urged it, “While you still have feathers enough to escape.” The bird thanked her and took flight and as it did, its written words took feathered form, and took flight, and became a great wheeling flock of birds, each one a purposeful song that filled the sky and filled the girl’s heart with joy.

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The great bird circled back and landed in front of the girl. Already, with its words singing in the treetops it looked replenished, its feathers grown back in. “You did a brave thing, for the king will be very angry with you. How can I repay you? Name it.”

“Oh no”, said the girl. “You have brought birdsong back to the kingdom. That is all I need.”

“Take this.” The bird pulled a white feather and handed it to the girl. “With this quill your words will sing and your spirit will soar. And yes”, the bird said as it flew away, “There will be pain.” The girl held the quill like a white flower; she held it like a sword; she held it as the key to her own escape.

The king was angry, very angry with the sorrel-maned girl who had freed the great bird. The king was quite unused to being defied, of having anything taken from him, even things he had no right to.

“Throw her into the bird’s stall”, he commanded. “Melt the key in the forge.”

The thin morning light that slanted through the barred window illuminated her tear as it dropped. Remembering the bird, the brave and stoic bird, she reached for the white quill pinned in her hair. Her tears would be her ink. No sooner had she dipped the nib into her own teardrop than she was transformed. As a small white bird she was able to flit through the window of the stall door. Unsteady with her wings, she perched on a shelf in the stable, uncertain of what to do next.

“The spell will wear off soon. Fly down from the shelf.”

She fluttered to the straw strewn floor and sure enough, as soon as she did, she was herself again, a girl holding a white feather, facing a sorrel horse that spoke to her over the half door of his stall. “Good timing”, he said.

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“But shouldn’t the magic of the quill last forever?”

“The magic does last forever”, replied the horse, “but do you really want to be a bird forever? You’re too young yet. You don’t get out so easily. But I can help you with the next part of your journey.”

As the kingdom was just beginning to rouse and attend each to their roles, the horse carried the girl rapidly away, she clinging to his mane, her own sorrel hair winging behind her. Finally the horse stopped in a wooded glade and they rested. Only now did the girl ask how it was that a horse could speak.

 

Continue Reading: The Quill’s Magic