The ephemeral beauty of both youth and cherry blossoms. This young woman wears a kimono with a pattern of raging waves. Fragile cherry blossoms and raging water patterns are a traditionally pairing. The combination expresses the Japanese perception of nature and enhances one’s enjoyment of the season.
North cherry blossom blooms soft. Here chill mist begins bone cold.
Northern hemisphere hearts welcome the unfurling cherry blossoms. Pretty fleeting beauty gladdens souls tired of grim winter. My cherries glow autumn bronze, golden through misty rain. Another flood on the way. Nearby, Emergency Service volunteer’s wives pack sandwiches. Calls for help will take the men away soon.
He describes haibun: ‘The form consists of one to a few paragraphs of prose—usually written in the present tense—that evoke an experience and are often non-fictional/autobiographical. They may be preceded or followed by one or more haiku—nature-based, using a seasonal image—that complement without directly repeating what the prose stated.’
Griswold found in a poetry task. Who is that long haired man? Does he wear a special Griswold mask too?
I am also called a Griswold, Hair long too, once Viking red now silver. I know my Griswold mask is forever firmly on.
To be a Griswold Is a curious thing. I was named such long ago.
By a jocular friend. And saying ‘Griswold’ he laughed. His ridicule kept me at ever so slight a distance.
Dignity slightly offended. I thought Griswold sounded at best grey, At worst a grim green forest teaming with wolves teeth.
Comforting to think a strange new Griswold now walks the Griswold path with me. Does his shadow also fall dark in that gloaming forest?
Has this other Griswold taken my green eyes too, Now ghost white, lost in pearly old light? And does this Griswald now take my fading world for himself?
Has he drunk all my bitter knowledge, All my joy now flown, lost and forgotten memory? I wish him well of them, this new Griswold.
Grace at dVerse has set the task of writing a synchronicity. She say that this is a poetic form created by Debra Gundy. Another new form for me! Gotta love dVerse. https://dversepoets.com/
Grace says: “The definition of synchronicity is the state or fact of being synchronous or simultaneous; synchronism. Coincidence of events that seem to be meaningfully related. As a poetry form, this consists of eight three-line stanzas in a syllable pattern of 8/8/2. This poetry type has no rhyme and is written in the first person with a twist. The twist is to be revealed within the last two stanzas.
Eyes meet. So simple thinks the hunter at the bar. Into pretty sweet eyes shrewd eyes gaze hard. Eyes that know the score. Painted eyes, Eyes that blink to mask the truly wild eye inside Ferocious hungry eyes smell him and the predator leaps.
Shiver Shiver soft in the dark Shiver cold in the light Shiver hard in the paling When the dawn holds it’s might. Shiver Shiver blue when I kiss you Shiver green when you might Shiver quiet when the darkling Of your timid heart’s right.
‘You brought the books.’ He eyed her bulgy bag. His mind saw them in there. Tattier than when he first met her. Even their name, penguins, after some mythical beast, annoyed his prosaic soul. When they were first assigned he had been shocked at her offhand stance. Wearing them away molecule by molecule. They wanted such costly precious rarities safe in The Vault. ‘It’s what they’re for.’ Turning a page. Quick recovery. He’d been taught the correct romantic tone. ‘And bring no book, for this one day we’ll give to idleness.’ Woo her. Keep this Queen so rich, from such ancient bloodlines. ‘Love, now an universal birth.’ Ironic. She couldn’t see why the geneticists valued him. She buttoned her travelling coat over her bulging stomach. A Queen’s firstborn belonged to Them. The next one would be hers. But not his. ‘I’m taking the books.’
Today at dVerse https://dversepoets.com/2022/01/17/prosery-bring-no-book/ Ingid has set a Prosery. That’s a ‘prompt where we write prose based on some given lines of poetry. This can be flash-fiction or creative non-fiction, but it cannot exceed 144 words.’ Todays quote is from Lines Written at a small distance from my House by William Wordsworth.
When I remembered seeing a pretty, colourful vintage French paintbox this collage and haiku sprang almost fully formed. Despite having promised not to waste time with words and pictures I once again have stolen time to share this with you.
So many of you on wordpress are inspirational. The French paintbox in the picture belongs to Miss Mustard Seed, Marion Parsons. Her charming blog is one that gives me courage to continue. https://missmustardseed.com/about/. It is so soothing to see a life being lived with such grace.
‘I, Miss Mustard Seed, write this blog so that those who read it will feel braver and more inspired when they finish a post and close the browser.’
I stole this time to be with you from those more worthy of it Frowning they warned me That poetry rubbish is so pointless I promised I’d stop I did I really did for a while But I snuck just one quick look and you pulled me tight to you again.
“Reading what I have just written I now believe …” Louise stopped there. It sounded like an acceptance speech. She paused. Uncertain. Indecisive. Isn’t that line one of those clichés that the creative writing class teacher tells their student to avoid? “Yes, I think it might be.” She answered herself. It takes confidence to write. They say that too. But Louse wasn’t confident. She wavered. Anxious. Alone. She thought so long and hard about it all that her eyes got too misty to see the page she was reading. Chaotic. Confusing. “Don’t listen to me; my heart’s been broken. I don’t see anything objectively.” She paused again. “When I speak passionately, that’s when I’m least to be trusted.” “My strengths?” Intelligence. Powers of language. Insight. Louise, skeptical outsider, knows they are valueless. She doesn’t want to be an untrustworthy speaker. She knows she is invisible.
Young hearts burn like a ruby held up to the sunrise. Is it still a stone, or a world made of redness? Each glittering ruby soul knows only their own dark heart holds that true fire. Even so pretenders circle in brightening dawn’s warmth. Basking far below those glinting ruby beams aspirants borrow that rosy glow for their own. Pale garnet, shadowed fire purpled soft, can hold no candle to such passionate flame. Florid carnelian blushes then quails and dare not approach such ruddy beauty. So Ruby find no match to light anew such blazing boundless passion. Sunrise follows sunrise, each fades into bright blue day. Relentless brightness sears away the flushed pale pretenders. Alone, ever glowing, unquenchable. Each lone red ruby heart remains an immutable scarlet stone.
Laura at dVerse https://dversepoets.com/ has set a real challenge to engage with the mystic. As usual the prompts are inspirational. I chose Rumi’s line because I love sparkly gemstones. But I struggled with the poetic form she suggested. I just couldn’t achieve the eight line octave form.
The king of Pegu wears more rubies on him than the value of a very large city, and he wears them on all his toes … he shines so much that he appears to be a sun. Luigi Barthema 16th Century traveller to Burma
Pegu is an ancient Burmese capitol. Mokok in Burma was the legendary source for the coveted Pigeon blood rubies.
Frank at Dverse https://dversepoets.com is hosting a Jisei (Japanese death poem) challenge. He asks us to ‘Write a haikai (haiku, senryu, tanka, kyoka, Gogyohka) or haikai-esque poem that reflects on imminent death—and the significance of life in light of it. If you are going for the haikai-esque, keep the lines brief (no more than 10) and use the aesthetics of haikai (simplicity, heartfulness, and pathos)
Bitter Antarctic star blanket above. Five men stoic at the end of the earth. Time, food, water, sanity all gone. Screaming blizzard snow blanket. Frozen corpses yellow waxen taut. Scott’s diary, blanket marketed, has never been out of print. Undying Glory blankets any error.
So cold in the ground. She never feels it though. Bright sky dreams to pass the long eternity under the earth. Conjured worlds turn their seasons round and back again to bloom and die in their natural order. Deep time flows relentless. A billion starry wheels blaze luminous then fade. The Goddess in her radiant perfection dreams on.
Lillian is behind the bar at the dVerse pub https://dversepoets.com. Lillian has a knack for choosing inspirational poetic prompts. Today she has teamed up with artist Catrin Welz-Stein. Catrin has selected four of her works as visual inspiration. The work I chose to collaborate with had for me an ethereal earthyness along with an eternal quality. It was a pleasure to write to her lovely work. You can see more of Catrin’s work here. http://catrin-stein.imagekind.com/store/