A Given Testimony

 

Is it possible from this rank earth for such flowers to grow?
Yet here they are, positing their glory for the world to see
A speculative assumption uncertain of its predication
That out of this sodden ground, mulched by weather
The boggy stink of which permeates the air
Blooms would appear from unseen dimensions
To cluster in diamond silk, emitting starry transactions
Their thrusting ebullience beyond science, even wonder
Simple testimony of leaf, stalk and flower, to primum movens*
Of power ingrained elementally to be, just be
And being, yearn hungrily for the Light that clothes it.


*primum movens (Latin): Aristotelian term for the “unmoved mover”

Flower of the Day, for Cee Neuner's FOTD, January 21, 2021
Writing prompt: Paula Light's Thursday Inspo 92 theme "flowers"

An Incident

“Tweet me not weary in this whirligig of time.” She stabbed the Styrofoam cup with the stick end of a small American flag. “I’m homeless by design unmet by need. You need not apply.”

The politician’s flunkie grimaced. “Ma’am, we’ve been told to clear the area.”

“Nobody’s here. Starbucks brothers in the Amazon, sister’s Facebooking. Red Zone, Blue Zone, Ozone. Google it.”

“They’re armed,” he warned.

“Say, Moby Dick’s back from the dead. ‘Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy.’ Tell them Ambergris is worth a fortune.”

“Ma’am?”

“Eyes and pearls. My home’s on my back. Your bones are too light. ‘From hell’s heart, I stab . . . .’”

A shot rang out. The bag lady crumpled, fell.

“’Ye damned whale’,” said the flunkie, winking at the FBI agent. “’I don’t give reasons. I give orders!’”

Written for dVerse's Prosery: Bone Weary -- 144 words utilizing 
the line: "Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy."
All other quotes are from Moby Dick by Herman Melville.

When Dreams Come True

Genre: Fiction/ Word Count: 100

When Dreams Come True

     Holding tightly to her mother’s hand, the little girl looked upon the figure in the casket.
     “Did Appappan* really die preaching?” she whispered.
     Her mother nodded. “He always said he would.”
     Behind them hundreds had gathered to pay their respects.
     Later, the girl sat in her granddad’s study, thumbing through his notes, tracing the leather cracks on his Bible.
     A favorite hymn bubbled up from within her. She started to sing, feeling as if a choir of angels were joining her.
     That night she announced, “I want to die singing, Mummy, like Appappan died preaching!”
     Many years later, she did.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

*”Appappan” is southern Indian for grandfather

Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields' Friday Fictioneers
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Not a Mirror

Photo by Drigo Diniz from Pexels

This is not a mirror
Ground silica back-silvered
A labyrinth to unravel your soul
But splintered fragmentation
Of all your expectations
A story to re-glue and emboss.

This is not a mirror
Portal to another world
Left-handed universe
Turnabouts of phantoms
A touch on your shoulder
That welt on your cheek.

This is not a mirror
It is an owl’s feather
A rat’s tail, a torn page
Blood of jilted lover
The sigh of an empress
Dethroned by endless war.

This is not a mirror, a mirror, a mirror.

For Dverse, Mish's Poetics: Object Poems "This is not ..."
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Reverie

Seated Woman, 1915 by Rik Wouters (1882-1916)

Time rebounds in dabs of paint
Watery sun soaks through space
Sensations blur
Colors seep
Diminishing lines
Reflections slur
Your hands, your face
Gaze untendered
Unbristled, still
A warm attention
Encompassing all
Formidable will
Probing memory
Dark sublime
Time rebounds in dabs of paint.


Written for D'verse, WhimsyGizmo's Quadrille (44 words)
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Phantasm

What cloistered walls ruminate upon
stirring phantasms where shadows abound
impaled upon pitchforks wrought
by their own sentimental celebrations.

So one shadow lingers restlessly
beyond a lichen-covered gate,
a dewy-eyed dreamer planning her escape
lured by a letter found in a copse.

“Nothing bad but what you make of it,
nothing good but what you sing of it;
from your secluded rooms now venture,
meet me beyond the trees and by water.”

Picking it up, she had clutched the letter
fondly to her breast as if from a lover
that in her mind’s eye she could clearly see,
a handsome Lothario, her knight in armor.

Photo by Timur Kozmenko from Pexels (for Sadje’s #WDYS)

So she skipped lightly down the dark lane
spinning castles-in-air to sounds melodious
and as she emerged from beyond the trees
her Lothario she spied in his dungarees.

artbyrandy at Morguefile (Fandango’s #FFC 100)

From reality she spun about and fled
back to her haunt, her daydreams to recover
and in her hands lay flowers he proffered
a lesson learned from a fanciful endeavor.

Linda's #JusJoJan "letter"; Di's #TTC "planning, sing, bad";
Kristian's #WOTD "picking"; Michelle's #WritingPrompts, "sentimental celebrations" 

“She said if a red fox had crossed somewhere, that area was safe”

When I left her yesterday
the black was in her hair
the gold was in her eyes
and she spoke of fathers
and unmourned sons
but now she freezes the air
like a stray from bygone forests
and primordial paths
looking at me like a traveler
she’d warned before
of hazardous roads
and one in particular
where red foxes
appear to startle the unwary
from perilous paths
and slipping slopes of memory
but for the shibboleth:
Mother?
You’re safe.

I somehow missed posting on this prompt from Sarah of dVerse who chose quotes from a book for us to use as poem titles.
"She said if a red fox had crossed somewhere, that area was safe" was the one I chose. 
Click on Mr. Linky for more.
Image credit: https://www.pexels.com/photo/mother-and-daughter-on-grass-1683975/

End-of-the Year Two-fer

What can I say? The creative juices, they were a’flowin! So depending on whether you like verse or story or naught, read either or neither, with many thanks to our Friday Fictioneer hostess, Rochelle, who has kept us as a band of brothers and sisters in service to the muse the outgoing year through. Happy New Year and blessings to all! ❤️

Written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers   
Genre: Dystopic Fiction and Poetry
Word count: 100 words 
PHOTO PROMPT © Na’ama Yehuda  
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The Dais of Gadolfo

When Ella awoke, she found herself lying full-length staring upwards at a fleecy caravan of clouds.

How had she gotten here?

“You have offended the Great Ones,” a voice intoned from the tower above her.

“Great Ones?”

“Citibank. Chase. Goldman Sachs. Amazon. Facebook. Twitter. Google. Netflix. Must I go on?”

“No. Please. I’ll reopen my accounts!”

She attempted to rise but found herself tied to stakes on a stone table.

The Dais of Gadolfo!

The Great Ones were making an example of her like the others for the world to see.

Above her, Gadolfo, a surgically-armed camera drone, slowly descended.


PHOTO PROMPT © Na’ama Yehuda

Out of the Curse, a Promise

The old year’s streaking past us
Her tattered skirts raised high
There’s a trail of desolation
She’s in a hurry to get by.

Shops closed never to reopen
Livelihoods destroyed
Hosts of unsavory creatures
Circle over what’s bespoiled.

You can’t blame it all on Covid
But the contagion in human hearts
Stirring greed, cowardice, hatred
Like a cesspool of primeval rot.

This year’s humbling lesson
Shows how little we’ve progressed
The world still needs a Savior
And the heart his cleansing blood.

Looking up at clouds unfettered
High above Babel’s towers
A glimpse of lovingkindness
A promise of healing showers.

A Whale of a Dream

Lisa of Tao Talk asks: In the shadows, did you ever secretly wish you were someone else, either as a child or an adult? My answer? I can’t say that I have but like so many children, I’ve often wondered what it was like to be the big creatures of the earth, including the now extinct dinosaurs. Many of them seem like gentle giants, elephants for example. Others strike terrors, like lions and tigers and bears, oh my! But it’s the fantasy creatures that overtake a child’s imagination, like unicorns and griffins and flying horses and magical birds, like the phoenix. Underwater, it’s the music of the whales which seem to have dominion over most of the vast recesses of the world. They live in a universe of their own, unfettered and majestic.

Orca, 2020 by Angela Gram (b. 1985)

There’s an ocean of energy in swelling tides
dancing in atoms and planets and stars
but most of it’s not in the surface above
it rides in the universe of the heart’s designs
wanting the freedom of the sea’s vast lands
where Atlantis lies buried and canyons unfold
and gravity means little to eyes that glow.

Something is missing in the world above,
something that my mind’s eye sinks below
where dreams turn to dust and songs to wails
and gates are just openings to walls within walls.
So give me the sea and the skin of a whale
and tumble me down to the music below.

Spatial Encounter

Hubble Telescope Image

I am not averse to reimaginations
Given you walked out of my conversation
As a noetic effect of its distillation

I am not chained to inharmonious juxtapositions
When salubrious angels gather in celebration
Of a desire prayed and given manifestation

I am simply thankful for your gravitation
Towards me, bindingly, irradiate sub-atomic fusion
Where once I envisioned only solitary annihilation

Yet this I wonder, and this in never-ending fascination
How in moments your eyes gray meet my brown it’s recreation
Of a space-time-matter continuum of conflagration

For dVerse's "Poetics:Look into my Eyes"
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