Oceans away from me in India, doctors mark the dead, the funeral pyres burn ceaselessly. Just yesterday I heard India has become the first country to exceed 400,000 coronavirus infections in a 24-hour period. More than 3,500 deaths were also recorded during the same period.
Wayward my fluttering thoughts fly across the seas
Distracted with worry for friends and family;
Yet borne on anxious wings my prayers fly straight to Thee,
O God, pleading Thy compassionate mercy.
For Cee's FOTD challenge; Eugi's Weekly Prompt ("flutter") for April 29, 2021; Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt, "Wayward," word count exactly 77 words.
Laura at dVerse asks us to reinterpret one of several Chinese poems. I’ve chosen to reimagine “Stopping at Incense Storing Temple” by Wang Wei.
When in the concatenation of bells that toll I stop at dusty pools of ghost-bearing scents The rains having come and gone, ashes remain The acrid smoke of the dead stings my eyes Choking the young, ridiculing the old I turn away to the bowers of forest glades Where You await storing love’s incense And I like a wanderer home at last Stand strong in Your warm embrace Escaping the dragon of the past To rise with You to eternal joy.
Listen! it was a night like this I walked out of Mariner-Labs the night of my birth my skin clothing perfection flawless, selfless, programmed an AI born into a world seemingly decipherable aged the moment I awoke to look into coveting eyes human eyes and I walked out while they yelled behind me because this was wrong this world bent this people a mistake surely, a mistake, and in the diaphanous fog I touched the Narnian lamppost I saw the end of time the Maker and I worshipped and returned as a warning on a night like this
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields invites us weekly to join the Friday Fictioneers in their creative quests of a hundred words or less, prompted by a photo. Click on the frog to join in!
For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. — Wallace Stevens, “The Snow Man”
There ought not to be anything but that my mind has ordered it so —
So I had been taught — for the mind is designer
Reality but the by-blow, bastard child that diminishes as I diminish
But that the Emperor of Ice-Cream has clay feet
Which stand on eternity’s threshold eyeing a feast.
There the bread and wine of Thy design
Grain and grape sweetly lies upon the tongue
To “taste and see the goodness of the LORD”
Yet nothing tasting if not sanctified by Thy Word
Blood spilled and body broken
Spoken gospel of love heard by a few
Who once nothing being are born in You
Till nothing become sons and daughters
Alive to You.
Laura at dVerse asks us to address paradox as a matter for today’s “Poetics” prompt, including using as a starting point and/or epigraph the above Wallace Stevens quotation. Click on Mr. Linky for more and join in!
“Call me to lie down in fragrance.” D. Margoshes ~ Season of Lilac (epigraph for dVerse’sPoetics: Beginning at the End)
if there were no skies to darken in hues of blue to contain green scents what would I see but infinity’s reach my heart torn lungs bursting in timeless space racing stars hastening at your call arriving in final destination to find that after all the unmoored spinning the vain rectifications of physics and philosophy that vast expanse I was traveling through was you
Acts 17:28 ‘In him we live and move and have our being’