Do you still keep those memories
we once held dear, now that we have
nothing else to share? The one thing
we could not divide between us
dwindled away for me, once we went
our separate ways, leaving nothing
but faint memories of memories.
This is my response to Quadrille #91 – Keep — the prompt from Kim at dVerse, which is to use the word keep in a 44-word poem that does not require meter or rhyme.
On Visiting Lost Waters
It was his heart that took him away, but his heart still missed the waters flowing through a canyon of green that would explode with color when the first frost found its home in leaves that could bring light to the grayest day.
Trails that bordered the rim of the majestic gorge and paths that descended to follow the shore of the winding river had called to him often over the years, and many were the times he had answered that call.
But love had taken him to a distant place, and years had passed since last his footsteps had fallen in this forest, since his eyes had seen the splendor of the river’s descent, and his face had felt the mist rising from the falls.
Sadly, with these thoughts on this brief visit, he knew these memories were left here with the trees.
Prosery is a form devised at dVerse, and the challenge is to write a piece of flash fiction with a 144-word limit (144 words, here). Included in the bit of prose is to be a complete line from a poem. With Prosery: Memories with the Trees from Merril, the line to be included is “These memories were left here with the trees” from Joy Harjo’s “How to Write a Poem in a Time of War.” While that poem speaks of the lost or stolen beauty of a homeland, my piece describes Letchworth State Park, a place I often visited when I lived in Western New York (revisited this past week).
Middle and Upper Falls – Genesee River at Letchworth State Park, Portageville, New York
~ left: 09 Sept 2019 & right: 19 Oct 2010 (note the old train bridge in 2010 photo) ~
(click image for larger view in new tab)
As the Pale Moon Rises
An autumn night, and the pale moon rises.
My mind goes back as the pale moon rises,
To a man in the autumn of his life,
In autumn days as the pale moon rises.
With talk of work that’s done and left to do.
A day well spent as the pale moon rises.
Having no regrets, taking stock of life
And what’s in store as the pale moon rises.
In quiet moments under the stars,
Stirring embers as the pale moon rises.
Seasons, people, and places fade away.
I miss those talks as the pale moon rises.
There are lessons held in these memories,
If I may ken, when the pale moon rises.
My father retired early due to health issues. As I wrote this ghazal for the dVerse prompt, my thoughts turned to him and time spent with my parents in the Eighties, during weekend visits to their home in the country.
Ghazal ~ five or more couplets, lines the same length, meter not required
~ first couplet same end words; 1 to 3 words in 2nd lines repeated; rhyme – aA bA cA dA eA
~ (optional) internal rhyme in second lines, preceding repeated rhyme
~ possible naming or reference to author in last couplet
~ traditionally invoking melancholy, love, longing, and metaphysical questions, ghazals are often sung by Iranian, Indian, and Pakistani musicians
and you are with us.
A valley cannot remain long in mist,
before light touches the farthest reaches.
The photo is provided in Thursday photo prompt – Twilight #writephoto at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo.
My parents had a home in the country. It was in a narrow valley that had a stream running through it, and fog at sunrise was a common autumn occurrence. When visiting my parents, I enjoyed morning walks with my father on those foggy days, in spite of the cool air.
misty morning walk
grass in the valley is wet
exploring with dogs
bacon and eggs afterwards
more wood added to the fire
Carpe Diem Special #222 Candy’s second – morning walk
Haibun ~ prose, often about a journey and in the first person
~ followed by a haiku or tanka
Image source: wpnature.com
Rage Against the Dying of the Light
It was the day we said “goodbye”
that I remember,
not the day you left us, forever,
although the news from that early,
early morning phone call
three days prior
will always stay with me.
I prefer to think of it as
a farewell gathering.
Your friends. Your family.
All of them mine.
Composure isn’t really important
in a situation like that, is it?
Yet, it is, in order to get through it,
and it was hard to maintain
after reading a moving poem
written for you by your grandson.
My own words, written
nine months earlier on a premonition,
long before any indication of
your pending departure,
sounded to me like the voice of
someone else, as I looked into the eyes of
your brother, your friend,
and saw your own looking back at me.
I imagine those eyes, still,
seeing me each step of the way, since then.
My years are now longer,
but will they ever be as full as yours?
While your last six months seemed like a lifetime,
you had not yet reached old age as you
raged, so long, against the dying of the light.
…with a respectful nod to Dylan Thomas.
Voices Can Return
but not without a trace
you live on in
they stir memories that
insist you are still here
I sense your presence
but what of your voice
I hear it, still
yet wonder at that memory
I watch flickering images
fifties’, sixties’ movies
smile at your youth
yet find no answers
where all sounds are silenced
one trove not mined in years
memories stored magnetically
stowed in obsolescence
a component now archaic
you smile, shrug
raise an eyebrow
my memory may take
but this time it’s confirmed
The five word prompts for The Secret Keeper’s Weekly Writing Prompt #59 are gone, sense, trace, voice and path.