Faded Valentines #Tanka Tuesday

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Faded Valentines

glued
glittered
valentines
gifts for mommy
scribbled words of love
fly from children’s fingers
to rest in attic boxes
while affections stray to others
and in the dawn of a winter’s day
she unfolds her faded hearts, loved anew

**

In honor of Valentine’s Day, an etheree for
Colleen’s #tanka Tuesday.
No prompt words this week.

**

And a bonus!
My Grandson’s Valentine’s Day Poem
(age 5)

Love is red
Love makes me happy
Love is connected to peace
Love is about Martin Luther King
I love my family
more than infinity

 

Give and Receive #Tanka

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The Bargain

My heart will tender

white-winged dreams on the morrow

if you gift this soul

in the mottled hush of dusk

remembrances of the past

This tanka, my first ever, is in response to Colleen’s Tuesday #Tanka Challenge. The prompts are Give & Receive, (but we can only use synonyms).

Sunday Blog Share: Shaded Memories of Moonlight


A beautiful wistful poem I saved for months to share today.
Comments are closed, please click through and Enjoy.

Shaded Memories of Moonlight

by  J.C Watkins Peace 

Do you remember the room? I do,
Sitcoms would titter on the old television,
the three of us on my old springy bed,
only one of us was paying attention,
I had thoughts of you instead.
In these shaded memories of moonlight,
your skin was warm and soft,
paying no mind to the comedy,
as life’s tragic drama unfolded before me.
Our hands would touch and
separate; almost like they were dancing,
entities other than our own,
flirting for us, deliberately glancing.

Do you remember the house? I do,
big and old and cheap, but real.
An unused living room as we’d live,
we’d live our lives in bedrooms,
only leaving to corner one another,
in that kitchen with the broken window.
In these shaded memories of moonlight,
the dance would continue, to and fro,…

 

Source: Shaded Memories of Moonlight at Mistakes & Adventures

Sunday Blog Share: A Grain of Dust

A poignant journey through life’s memories. I can’t do justice to this gorgeous post here, to the way the memories and images are delicately woven together. Please head over and enjoy from the start.

A Grain of Dust

By Cloud Walker

Youth!  It is a magical word, a word that evokes, awakens, arouse all of our memories of days long gone and wishing we were still there.

(Continue Reading: A Grain of Dust)

Sunday Blog Share: Photograph

Photograph

by Michelle Cook
Putting my Feet in the Dirt

Hidden away

In the recesses

Of a forgotten room

There lies a young

Misplaced soul

Fair and bright-eyed

With an angelic smile

She awaits

An unexpected admirer

Sheer panels

Of wispy white fabric

Flow fluidly

From a bare window

Gently reassuring her

That the breeze

Has not abandoned her

Tiny elbows rest firmly 

(Continue Reading: Photograph)

Sunday Blog Share: The Garage

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Note from Louise: I wrote this after my beloved grandfather passed away last year.  He had a high-grade glioma (brain tumour) and died peacefully at home after being nursed by my mum for several weeks.  After writing about him a little yesterday, I wanted to share. 

The Garage

by Louise at Minimal Belle

I cleaned out my grandparents’ garage today,
to make room
for my mother’s things–
two double beds, bluish-black sofas,
antique dresser units,
all of the cumbersome kitchen essentials.

I tried to be ruthless, without throwing away anything of importance.

But is an old red petrol can not important,
given the circumstances?

Seven months ago he left,
never seeing the temperate last few days
of September.
His navy-handled shears still hang on the wall,
beside the old club cricket bat
and the Christmas wreath that my mother
crafted from his coffin flowers.

The garage was cold and blowing dust
this afternoon, on account of
the last gasps of the Atlantic storm.

Life and death cannot, by wishing,
nor by the desperate wrenching
of the galaxies, be separated.

They are strangers inhabiting the same house…

The once-gleaming fountain in the middle of the yellowed lawn
is grey and stained. The garden is not large,
but she doesn’t walk that far anymore. The shallow steps are too much to manage.

In the rusted rainwater of his fountain there are brown leaves, curled
like arthritic fingers or tiny, sunken pirate ships
in a long-abandoned game….

(Continue reading: Minimal Belle)

Sunday Blog Share: The Days of Wine and Roses

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Days of Wine and Roses

by Pamela Wight

I’m on my way to see my mom this weekend, and taking little with me except some old albums.

When I visit her in late summer, she seems so less of what she used to be. Because of dementia, she can’t remember what I told her five minutes earlier, like “your clean clothes are in the drawer” or “dinner is in 45 minutes.”

Seconds after the conversation, my once bright, quick mom asks: “where are my clean socks?” and then “isn’t it time to walk down to the dining room?”

But when I direct mom to her floral comfy couch and open up the big battered black album, the one that sat in the bottom of her hope chest for decades, her dulled eyes brighten, and she sits up straighter.

Continue Reading: The Days of Wine and Roses