Category: blogging

Malevolent

Sensing foulness of mood
they slither out from dark places –
whirling wisps of putrid insinuation

Clever they are, and almost imperceptible
but I am clever also, have succumbed
one too many times to the deceit

will not be played by the mutterings
prodding me to find fault with others
to claim myself unjustly wronged.

With the force of a mountain
I stand fast, repel the daemons,
command uncompromising clarity.

Hissing with disappointment,
the spineless creatures retreat,
disappear to plot their next attack.

(Tonight’s prompt at dVerse comes from Jilly who challenges us to write about the unseen.  I am also including this post in Ragtag Community’s challenge: play.)

The History Lesson

“Why do we have to learn about something that doesn’t effect us?” the small, blonde student asked me. “I mean, it was ages ago, and not even in our country.”

She might as well have run me through the heart with a stake, the pain of her words struck me so deeply.  I considered her:  an average student, indulged, youngest child, modestly dressed, like many of her age. Disinterested.

Because without our awareness, and interference, history repeats itself, I wanted to say.  Because nothing that happens in the world happens in isolation; we are not immune. Because ignorance makes victims of us all.

Instead, I sent the class home with an assignment:  ask questions, call your grandparents, find someone who remembers, and be prepared to share what you have discovered.

***

History foretells –
casts eerie shadows over
disregard’s future.

(dVerse’s Haibun Monday is hosted by Frank J. Tassone, who challenges us to write a piece for Hiroshima Day.)

 

A Tragic Flaw

Was it real,
or a dream?

Flash of brown eyes..
that smile –
just for him –
inviting…

Consumed was he

raced everyday
to that place
in the square

hoping…
to catch her…
to know her name…
something…

Tragic, really,
his inability to separate
dream from reality

How fantasy
kept him single.

(Every Thursday, Deb Whittam at Twenty Four offers a photo and quotation prompt for 50 Word Thursday.  Drop by her site and join in.)

Re-Settling

Front porch –
a balcony view –
retirement’s play.

Novel – this place –
silence stretches,
pauses briefly –

a car creeps by,
or a dog barks –
my heart beats…

inside – commotion –
pounding hammers,
swoosh of legs in motion –

not mine – body bankrupt –
mind impoverished –
no – not that – just struggling.

empty boxes pile up,
others – contents lingering,
unresolved – call my name,

but the front porch
makes promises –
there is time…

(I am a day late for dVerse, but intrigued by the challenge, decided to join in anyway.  Today’s prompts are: commotion (Fandango), novel (Ragtag Community), poverty (Daily Addictions). Photo is front porch view – our first sunset.)

 

Moving Day

A single, blow-up bed
claims my stake
on this house

mostly empty –
dust remnants
of former occupants
rise at my passage –
I chase them

Renovation
will precede
settling in

yet, I will not leave
wrapping myself
in these walls

waiting for
the revelation
that this is home.

(Linked to V.J.’s weekly challenge: home.)

Solitudes

Solitude.
I dream
of expansive landscapes,
crave your panoramic
silence, thrill to the ideal
of your boundless sanctity.

Solitude.
You wrap me
in separateness, strip away
my cardboard walls, tear
at the corners of my instability;
no refuge from the stillness.

Solitude.
I am smothered
by your starkness, by my
starkness, cries of madness
reverberating through vast
canyons of aloneness.

(Solitudes first appeared here in May 2017.  From 2014 to 2017, I lived in isolation and silence due to ME/CFS.  I examined the phenomena often through poetic expression. This edition has been altered from the original.  I submit it here for dVerse’s “Sounds of Silence” challenge.  Thank you Dwight Roth for hosting.)

Storing Energy

Comfortable is the state
I aspire to today –
lounging pants,
a weathered tee,
and a pace to match.

Tomorrow, we prepare:
finish up packing,
load the vehicle,
await the signal –
the house is ours!

Small town living
is the setting of choice –
Stonetown – quaint
shops, cottages of lime,
a river running through it

We’ll settle in amongst
other seniors, register
for local activities, walk
along the trails, and
visit nearby theaters

take the grandchildren
swimming in the quarry,
blue as it is deep –
water trampolines
and kayaks ready for fun.

Yet another adventure,
in our life of many –
so today, I rest, make plans,
nap – save my energy
for busy tomorrows.

(Thanks to Fandango for the daily prompt: comfortable, and to the Ragtag community for quarry.  The focus of my weekly challenge is home. Love it if you’d join me.)

The Character of Old Houses

Old houses exude charm:
walls whispering nostalgic
wonder, eliciting yearnings
buried deep within the soul.

Purchasers are spellbound,
transported to simpler times,
read mystical forecasts in
archways and carved nooks.

Committed, they settle in,
noting too late cosmetic
fixes, startled to uncover
structural faults, despair

to learn that the dreams
which built this place have
now crumbled and cracked,
repairs needed extensive.

Overhauling beyond means –
physically and financially –
old houses not only offer,
but test, character – beware.

(Originally posted July 2016.)

Early (Hidden) Roots

The house is brand new and we move in without our mother, who is in the hospital getting our new baby.  There are three floors of living space, but I am most interested in the room in the basement – the one that no one else knows exists (except my dad, of course, ’cause he built the house.)  You have to go through the rec room, past the door to the bar,  into the laundry room, and then squeeze past the furnace. There’s a long narrow hallway that leads to a secret room behind the bookcase.  The walls here are concrete, but there is a rug on the floor, and some of those fold-up chairs.  There are boxes too, and it smells kind of bad, but the best part is a hole in the wall, just large enough to peek through, and if  I come down here before anyone else, I can spy on them.  Mostly, it’s my oldest sister and her icky boyfriends – boy are there things I could tell Mom and Dad, except I’m not supposed to be here, and if Dad knew, he’d kill me, so I have to keep it quiet.  Why do we need a secret room anyway?

Frosty panes glisten,
while innocence bears witness –
mysteries rampant.

(Lillian at dVerse invites us to delve into the traditional with a halibun examining a room from our early childhood. )