Sunday Blog Share: Consumed

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Consumed

by Aakriti Kuntal

When I was naive, I took words out of books
Carved them on my hands and blinked
( ink wandering between palm lines
notions settling in my vertebrae )
‘ All Indians are my brothers and sisters ‘
It said in those patchy hardcover books
that smelled of promise and goodness

As I started to grow, my limbs defying gravity,
my voice gathering like splinters,
Fingers tingling
As I started to grow, I also began to shed
HEAVILY
My bosom somehow began to offend, by mere existence,
the existence of some fellow brothers
My voice split like cracks in white ceilings
where the spider crawled and chose to mock…

Continue Reading: Consumed

Sunday Blog Share: Clasp

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Clasp

by Candice of The Feathered Sleep

I miss intimacy

not the kind that comes with notches

but holding back her hair

spooning her smiles

into my lap

she claims my whole in little hands

where I see the flush of cheekbone

eclipsing against wool

if leaves fall outside we do not

clear them from dry grass…

(Continue Reading: Clasp)

Sunday Blog Share: expiration date

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expiration date

by Julia Penner-Zook

there is no place
where love is unwelcome
– not the vision-clouding nor
the conscience-assuaging variety –
but rather
love that embodies sacrifice
bold engagement
grit
grace
groundedness

there is no end
no boundary
no roadblock
prohibiting ample hope
copious amounts of laughter…

(Continue Reading: expiration date)

Cracked Ice #writephoto

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Flight of Faith

When I was a child, I could fly
you and I hopped in dirt-road afternoons
faithful
and the dust-wind flung us over seas of wheat
scuffed shoes skimming the feathered awns
we whipped around the corners of the barn
in a home-sewn world of farm-hewn hands
our secret futures soared

In the veins of my hands
the blue brooks of time stream by
Somewhere on the way, I unlearned how to fly
and trod worn paths through autumn’s lea
snapped night’s brittle ice
shards of fractured faith
glinting in my wake

Today’s morning purls in plumrose
cast on a withering season’s stark debris
spangled with winter’s gilded rime
a new path of violet ice wends to the horizon
fragile, fissured, a wish yet unbroken
my secret future soars
faithful
and I wonder if I might fly
one last time

 

This attempt at poetry was in response to Sue Vincent’s weekly photo prompt. Check out other submissions on The Daily Echo and maybe try the next one! Thank you, Sue. ❤

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 Visiting Room – Halloween Fare

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The Visiting Room

By Holly Rene Hunter

Released from my nightmare I follow the long corridor of doors to the landing, rattling keys lock the rooms as I pass by. A tipsy ballerina, my bare feet float above the heavy carpeting that covers the oak stairway.  At the end,  I find my myself embalmed in the dark  parlor of the once opulent mansion . Nothing has changed, high back chairs and Toscano settees beneath dull white sheeting over-fill the room.  Dusty paintings of daffodils and brocade vases of still life line the burgundy walls. Above the mahogany fireplace a portrait…

(Continue Reading: The Visiting Room – Halloween Fare)