On Visiting Lost Waters ~ prosery

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

The Dark of December

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

misty morning walk ~ haibun

misty morning walk.jpg

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

The Dark of December

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

Voices Can Return

but not without a trace
you live on in
photographs, possessions
gatherings, pastimes

they stir memories that
insist you are still here
I sense your presence
approving, reminding

but what of your voice
that pitch
that inflection
I hear it, still
yet wonder at that memory

I watch flickering images
fifties’, sixties’ movies
smile at your youth
my innocence
yet find no answers
where all sounds are silenced

but then
one trove not mined in years
memories stored magnetically
stowed in obsolescence
translated with
a component now archaic

you smile, shrug
raise an eyebrow
and speak

my memory may take
twisted paths
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.

Secret Keeper Prompt

Snow Globe Memory – #writephoto


Snow Globe Memory

Snow globe scene of a distant past
With brilliant lights that seem to cast
A pleasant air of joy on a time long gone

Looking back on what might have been
Not even remorse could begin
To erase the sadness of a time long gone

The snowflakes fall within my mind
And I find myself now resigned
To the fate delivered in a time long gone

This is my response to Sue Vincent’s  (Daily Echo) Thursday Photo Prompt – Lights #writephoto, with her photo. This rhyme scheme may have a name. Maybe not.

Roll the Bones

I remember when I was thirty-five,
sliding down the road on my side,
headfirst, at fifty mph,
my motorcycle next to me.

I remember thinking,
“This is not going to end well.”

I remember road rash,
a knee that kept me out of work for a month
and a concussion.
I think.

I remember wearing that denim jacket as a badge,
buying a new helmet
and feeling luckier than hell.

I remember waiting another twenty years
before I broke my first bone.

They say I screamed like a girl when
the forklift ran over,
then stopped on,
my leg.

I don’t remember it quite that way,
but I know I was thinking about that motorcycle
as it happened.

Roll the Bones

Pre-collision (1978), although all damage was on the right side and minor


Day Twenty-Nine of 2016 NaPoWriMo.
The prompt from napowrimo.net:
Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on things you remember. Try to focus on specific details, and don’t worry about whether the memories are of important events, or are connected to each other.  You could start by adopting Brainard’s uniform habit of starting every line with “I remember,” and then you could either cut all the instances of “I remember,” or leave just a few in.  At any rate, hopefully you’ll wind up with a poem that is heavy on concrete detail, and which uses that detail as its connective tissue.  Happy writing!