1605 - The Walker

 

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  
This weeks words are:

draw cracks sly sliver sleepy footprints stories moon outskirts wispy sky sea

The Walker

Narrator

It is twilight, faint moonlight shows the way

Movement! Noise! Mew. All cats are grey.

Steps of a lone walker, crunch the track.

The Walker

I know not where I am going, how can I go back?

Narrator

We are on the outskirts of the town, the sea below

Down the cliff, washes the sand with salt and foam.

The Walker

The stars fill the sky above me, a few wispy clouds drifting by,

Behind pulled curtains people get sleepy, by and by,

Cracks, mere slivers of light, escape the curtains,

Living their lives, oblivious to me.  Of that I’m certain.

Narrator

He leaves neither footprints nor other signs

The Walker

I am passing through with no designs

There are no conclusions to discuss or draw

I just am.  An innocent bystander passing by.

Narrator

In the dark, the cat watches: cautious, still, sly.

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1604 - The Crystal Ball

 

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  
This weeks words are:

twigs, divine, wake, blood, wallow, cell, memory, 

ancestors, crystal, creation, ledge, unbroken

The Crystal Ball

As twigs sprout where old leaves once lay,  

Through divine breath, life finds its way.

In its wake, a memory of ancestors past,

A blood-line that will likely outlast

Those who would destroy this creation,

Ignoring its causation,

Destroying its foundation,

Oblivious to implied probation,

Teetering on the ledge of annihilation,

It is our home, it is our cell,

What the future offers is not hard to tell,

As we wallow in our self-made residue

Unbroken, the cycle spins anew,  

We crew are just superfluous—

The planet has no need for us.

◊

1603 - The Chief

 

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece:
Nibbles, slithers, spoon, platform, shards, root, constellations, limbs, dreary, spell, shake, wet

I confess I didn't use them all

The Chief.

It was a high-class affair where every day he’d prepare
Extraordinary culinary thrills.
This was no “Eat at Joe’s”. No, not even close
T’was platform to showcase his skills.
He used spoons in a way that the experts would say
Was surely poetry in motion, (they’d know).
His root veg were fine diced, then pureed and spiced
But it was all a bit of a show
A show,
A show,
It was all a bit of a show.

Each day was a quest to better the best,
What joys would he next unleash?
He used shards of toffee to sweeten black coffee
And slivers of truffle in the quiche
It had to be seen what he did with green beans
And his souffles invariably thrilled.
His batters were beery but never thought dreary
And the fish queued up to be grilled.
To be grilled
To be grilled
The fish queued up to be grilled.

Michellin said ‘Huzzah!’, we’ve found a new star
A constellation to rival Orion.
This chef is so swell, we are all in his spell
And he does it with out even tryin’.
But never let it said that it went to his head
The staff, he considered them blood-line.
At the end of the night, they dimmed all the lights 
And nibbled on cheese and red wine,
Red wine,
Red wine,
They nibbled on cheese and red wine.

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1602 - Memento mori

 

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece:

creation seeds waters blood breathe turtle sacred bones curve sky pray heal

Memento mori

From that moment of creation,

That bloody, noisy show,

We wish to find causation,

The reason for our woe.

We know it must be there, hiding,

Like some turtle in the weeds.

Why can’t it be confiding,

And fill our basic needs?

There’s little sacred about our life,

Just bones and mostly water

Existence pivots on a knife:

Long for some, too often shorter.

That’s not to say life’s profane,

We cherish and adore,

There is so much we’d do again,

And again, as we often have before.

We look and pray towards the sky 

But pass from and to the soil,

Like seeds that think and try

To comprehend their mortal coil.

Time heals all wounds they say,

But time is curved, not straight.

How can we know from day to day

What lands upon our plate?

Is there a reason for this life?

To breathe and love and die?

To bid farewell to a loving wife

But to never know just why?

Yet, as we lament those now past

The same fate waits us all.

Nothing good is sure to last

And we all will get the call.

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1601 - Chambers of Amber

 

                                The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use:

amber rumpled holiness skin ancient bones invisible weep chambers three seeds spiral

Chambers of Amber

No rumpled memories of you for me,

They are sharp and crystal clear.

I daily miss you desperately

And most readily shed a tear.

When I look at what life gave to you

And took you early from this place

I struggle with those fine purveyors 

Of holiness, divinity and grace.

I miss the contact, intimate, of skin

On willing skin; a spoon affair.

Holding you in that warm embrace,

Flesh on flesh, the odour of your hair.

I wept for you but weep for me

As I wander through this land

A stranger now set free (an odd idea)

With no-one here to hold my hand.

We are a bag of meat and bones

A thinking pot roast, presented lightly,

So what is that unseen essence, 

That holds my heart so tightly?

Ancient wisdom, Seneca of course, says

Be strong, love what is,  just be.

It is the seed of a future that is to come.

But how can I release the past when it is me?

What’s past is past and cannot change

Like amber that entombs a gnat or three

It just remains suspended tightly there 

As a loving, cherished memory.

◊

1600 - Patchwork

 

The Sunday Whirl presents the following words for us to use:

flesh sand clay scarce drifted pearl page split pick veil rose gem

I opted for a medley of Senryu.

The touch of warm flesh—

A very human pleasure;

I miss that contact.

The relentless sand.

The hourglass drains

And life flows away.

Life can be mucky:

Surrounded by swamps and clay.

A trap for your feet.

True friends are quite scarce.

Promises are made and kept

By those you can trust.

How did I come here?

What was I even thinking?

In truth, I drifted.

It’s a metaphor:

Layers upon more layers—

My life as a pearl.

The pages will turn

But what we write upon them?

That is the question.

Opinions are split.

The conundrum of our time.

Add milk first? Or tea?

So much to choose from—

What is good and what is bad?

You can take your pick.

An erotic show:

The dance of the seven veils.

Or so I am told.

I planted a rose

On the day she became ill.

Just the rose remains.

Life can seem dirty

But beneath the dust and filth

The gems are still there.

1599 - Whispers in the Gloaming

 

The Sunday Whirl presents the following words for us to use:

Wonder, stained, gloaming, emerge, prayer, hours, grateful,
seeds, chances, whispered, smudge, conjuring

Whispers in the Gloaming

In the twilight hours that end the day

My loss, most sharp, appears.

Demons emerge in shades of grey

And conjure heartfelt tears.

I miss you so, you filled my space,

More than I thought you could,

Your love, your laugh, your warm embrace,

Your sense of right and good.

You added wonder to my life,

Tempered my prosaic bent,

I’m so glad you chanced to be my wife,

An adventure, with consent.

What does the future hold for me?

The crystal ball is smudged.

What seeds will now unfold for me?

How will my prayers be judged?

I have so much to be grateful for,

That I had you for so long.

I thought I would cope that fateful hour,

Clearly, I was wrong.

◊

1598 - The Reset

 

The Sunday Whirl presents the following words for us to use:
sober bees urgent lunges angel swirls water mind frenzied scream light sunset

The Reset

I

The sun went through its cycle: from sunrise to sunset, warming the earth.
Bees went soberly about their business in the gentle morning light.
Moths and butterflies too, though more haphazard, less sober.
Birds flitted, animals grazed, the jungles and savannahs grew.
The waters burbled and swirled.  Fish did what fishes do.
There was no urgency to the world.

II

Somewhere, on the savannah, an ape stood erect.
Other apes too.  Confrontation.  Battle.
A rock crushed a skull.  A stick pierced skin.
Frenzied fighting.  Lunges.  Screams.
Tribal cries of triumph reverberated.
Technology.  Better weapons.
Arrows.
Swords.
Guns.
Cannons.
Rockets.
Missiles.
Slaughter and mayhem.
Greed and Envy.
A world had lost its mind.


III

ENOUGH! Impatience echoed through the clouds.
Birds took to the air, animals looked up.  Time stood still.
The angels screamed.


IV

The sun went through its cycle: from sunrise to sunset, warming the earth.
Bees went soberly about their business in the gentle morning light.
Moths and butterflies too, though more haphazard, less sober.
Birds flitted, animals grazed, the jungles and savannahs grew.
The waters burbled and swirled.  Fish did what fishes do.
There was no urgency to the world.