What to do on a special day, when clouds and rain try to make it anything but special? And so, a drive to St. Louis, the rain no more of an annoyance than those who don’t know how to drive in it, and an afternoon spent indoors among some of nature’s most beautiful creatures. Butterflies crossing our path with their dance, lending an air of magic to our anniversary.
oasis of green
outdoors, inside house of glass
I stop for a moment,
even as I begin, fingers pressing
strings, and fret over the possibilities,
take note of the heartbeat sounding
through the delicate wood
pressed closely against me.
What better music could come
from a beginner with a life already lived?
This is a response to Quadrille #82 – Fretboard of Poetry, the prompt from Kim at dVerse, which is to use the word fret in a 44-word poem that does not require meter or rhyme.
I paddle along a river on a quiet morning. Except for the hoarse “kee-eeeee-arr” of a hawk high overhead, the air is as still as the water. Drifting between the shadow of overhanging trees and the light of open air, I see a lone Mourning Dove on a branch of a dead oak at the edge of a small bluff. The silence is broken as it seems to address me with its lamenting call. As plaintive as it sounds, there is a comforting tone to it, perfect for the serenity of the morning.
I drift past, leaving it well behind me, when, far away, an interrupted cry reaches me. Dragging my paddle to the side of my kayak, I swing around to see the hawk dropping to the ground beneath the oak, dove tightly clutched, reminding me of the fragile nature of my surroundings.
This bit of flash fiction is my response to Prosery #1, presented by Björn at dVerse. With Prosery, the challenge is to write a piece of flash fiction with a 144-word limit. Included in the bit of prose is to be a complete line from a poem. For Prosery #1, the line to be included is “When far away an interrupted cry” from Robert Frost’s “Acquainted with the Night.” My flash fiction also meets the additional challenge of hitting the 144-word mark, exactly.
yet feels as though it has stopped,
knowing that mourning
has the power to be endless.
Time passes, and a life follows
its course, its pulse subject
to random intrusions.
Music will play the strings
of a heart, so that it seems
as if it will never heal.
A memory, no true intrusion,
may become a knife, turning,
tracing old scars.
Yet it’s the brilliance of that music
and the beauty of those memories
that have the power to sustain.
And a heart continues to beat.
This is a response to Poetics: Cry Me a River, the prompt from Amaya at dVerse, which is to write a poem about a piece of music that has the power to bring a listener to tears. That would be Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings.
Image source: Curtis Institute of Music – Samuel Barber
I once thought it was the separation
of distance that magnifies
this richness I find in family.
Now I understand it is age,
with reflections on the past
replaced by a wistfulness
for future lives I will never know,
as they continue without me.
This is my response for Quadrille #80 – Eat the Rich, the prompt from Kim at dVerse, which is to use the word rich in a 44-word poem that does not require meter or rhyme.