Undoubtedly You

I often wonder if there’s anything more left to express. If the sighs emanating from my chest are validation enough.  Decades to decades, mankind continues to make the same mistakes; strewing salt on the ebony night sky when in truth it is the sun that’s all deserving: of mindfulness, of ardor, of all things constant.

Like hydrangea on a wedgewood plate I offer love; I knew, from the moment I set eyes upon that you are mine. I want you, of course! How could I not? One cannot help but glow knowing someone, somewhere smiles tenderly. February has commenced with the wisdom of rolling clouds, a thousand greys from deep to pale. The kind of preamble where a kiss could linger.

I went out to the hazel wood because a fire was in my head, approached it like topiary and clipped it into art.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Red and blue hydrangea, Unsplash

Kim is our hostess at dVerse where she invites us to write
using
a line from a poem by William Butler Yeats. I chose
to be in sync
with Valentine’s Day. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Prosery: ‘The Song of Wandering Aengus,’ @ dVerse Poets Pub

Leaning atop the graceful balustrade

One cube of sugar and a mug full of likelihood as the sun upon
the horizon sets; why is it that we taste every detail of ongoing
life twice? Everything has meaning, even silence that glows in
the pupils of those who have understood;  I am slightly hesitant
owing to the direction of the wind, its sting outweighs buoyancy
dark amber; rejection is all but unimaginable, we seldom think
of it.

Being humble is just that, being humble.  It’s neither a weapon
nor a strategy nor a mask, only a virtue.  I reminisce about the
days when I was younger and everything seemed hypnagogic,
rosy. Could it be that we never truly change but merely learn to
outmanoeuvre it all? The sparkle in my matured hazel flows in
return.

And though, sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy;
I keep going.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Linda hosts at dVerse and asks to write inspired by a line from “Spring azures,” from the book ‘Wild Geese,’ by Mary Oliver. 💝

Posted for Prosery Monday: Bone Weary @ dVerse Poets Pub

Untitled (You say that trees bring their art to the world)

Delirious, dauntless and dissolute – this Autumn breeze, brilliant petals
of pink and gold that serve as a backdrop to tousled hair and reddening
contour; reading what I have just written, I now believe that the season
is synonymous, the growing cycle gifts with both ripeness and maturity;
it’s no less than a step towards realizing, recognizing and reclaiming
true self.

I am what I have always been – fiery, determined with a purpose of
fulfilling my life’s direction. You say that trees bring their art to the world,
their branches
taking root in the sky— but tell me for I understand not, I
have lived so long with rough-barked beauties, so long that I’d hug them
had there not been people flitting around. Do they feel the way we do?
And when the season wraps them in scarlet, do they carry on with hope?

 

 

 

Photo credits: “Traces,” by Mara Light, Pinterest

Lillian hosts at dVerse and asks to write inspired by a line from
“Afterword” by Louise Gluck. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Prosery Monday @ dVerse Poets Pub

As darkness surrenders

The darkest hour of dawn and its hum, November clouds drifting
ever so slowly despite everything that surrounds; can I wake and
keep my dreams with me?

As darkness surrenders, every colour, every shade changes from
sable to a vibrancy; there are days when I wonder about the way
the universe runs, would we be the same if limbs impassioned
lost their magic, if they felt otherwise? The lake-side air is pungent
with the fragrance of jasmine, its surface as smooth as glass –
radiating ripples which, if one is lucky, are caught by twilight; can
you hear the gulls overhead?

What I can do, you can do, you don’t see it yet but believe me when
I say it’s true; we need only have conviction, the heart understands
truths dark, unintelligible—there is nothing behind the wall except
a space where the wind whistles.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Merril hosts at dVerse and asks to write inspired by a line from
“Drawings by Children” by Lisel Mueller. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Prosery Monday @ dVerse Poets Pub

The strangeness of it all

Do you remember? Remember, the time we went to the
moor? Barefoot round a turning in the path— in the 
darkness an unexpected scent touched us, of honey,
heather and gorse bush which seems to be embroidered
into the very landscape.

Tell me how do you feel?  Sleeplessness unveiling itself from
the bitter blue sky; if only we could paint choices on its walls
wouldn’t need to then endure all that follows. I am slightly
damp,  for romance of melancholy found within the classics
refuse to leave me; is this what it means to be an old soul?

We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope
of time, mortality, my dear, is a flavor long attached with the
moors. And I wonder if expansiveness, if mere concept that
tugs needs to be explored more often? Do we cry or rest?

 

 

 

Photo credits: Mira Nedyalkova, Stockholm Syndrome

Kim hosts at dVerse and asks to write inspired by a line from “Hummingbird,” by D.H. Lawrence 💝

Posted for Prosery Monday: Telescope of Time @ dVerse Poets Pub

October beckons

Watery-white, the moon casts its glow onto the city, the sycamore
maple silhouetted, in the distance, against the obsidian sky. Have you
ever wondered how the moon could be bringing heightened emotions
to surface? Like the sudden blooming of colour that sears through
one’s cheeks, the tide with its waves rolling in and out, its rhythm
as steady as our own— have you noticed how similar the magnetic
effect?

I am lonesome, the light from my iPhone much like absent rain not
beating down; slender fingers scrolling through and replying to
misunderstood syllables. Honestly speaking, I find that the moon
senses a tinge of sweetness behind my eyes and in turn lends to fiery
spirit. I am hardly one to pout while seated upon plush furniture; it’s
too much work in my opinion. I’d rather smile my way through the
floodwaters of relating myself to the world.

 Sanguine moon observes,
the rush of blood during a full phase—
heron calls.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Green Bedroom by Richard Tuschman

Frank hosts at dVerse tonight and the word is ‘Moon.’
Come join us! ❤️

Posted for Haibun Monday: To the Moon @ dVerse Poets Pub