1861 - The Third Room

 

 Image: ChatGPT but with a little human intervention

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

skin once third room swallows blink kindling secrets starless conjures dragon demons

The Third Room

“Try to learn to love what is simply there, without explanation.”

-- Rainer Maria Rilke

The first is public, open, visible.

The second is private, even to you.

The third?  Well, that is a mystery.

Usually entered by accident,

Usually left with relief.

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That third room is dim, indistinct.

Not gloomy but dark nonetheless,

Like a starless night, without form.

Secrets live here—

Things forgotten, swallowed, stored.

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Demons and dragons reside here

Beside angels, imps and unicorns.

They are conjured, not summoned,

By occasional flashed glimpses,

Seen and unseen in the blink of an eye.

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The glimpses, caught in the moment,

Go far more than skin deep,

Touching long buried nerves,

Rekindling fires of the past,

Which flare brightly then fade again.

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It is a room you visit accidentally,

Incidentally, not led astray but blindly.

It is unfurnished but heavily populated—

Like a video store of the mind:

Row upon row of old memories.

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The visits are always unexpected,

Like a walk in a house of mirrors,

Totally beyond your control—

In a blink you have entered,

Another blink—and you are gone.

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1860 - Stripping Away Innocence

 

 Image: ChatGPT but with a little human intervention

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

hook sway hearts strip chain dizzy sweep you stick swell steam shock

Stripping Away Innocence

They are friends, right?

You go out with your friends, right?

Well, not my best decision.

I was expecting a stage show

(The place was called “The Hook”)

And, certainly, it did have a stage—

But free entry struck me as unusual.

Chains and poles were curious, too,

But modern staging can be a bit edgy.

The music began to swell,

The audience, all male I noticed,

Was clapping and swaying to the music.

You, and I mean me here, were swept along

Heavy thumping base—a clapped heart-beat.

Hypnotic, rhythmic, expectant…

I was a bit shocked when a lady appeared

And wrapped herself around a pole,

Moving like an oiled anaconda.  

You could tell she was a lady

As, anatomically, little was covered

By anything other than the pole.

But “Lady” implies a class I’m not sure applies.

Let’s say female —even that, I’m told, is fluid.

Eventually I left that testosterone filled steam room

Eventually.  

I was there with my friends, right?

Friends stick it out to the end, right?

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1859 - Stop the Presses!

 

 Image: ChatGPT but with a little human intervention

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

rinse days still thicket bomb fake criminal imagine foster lies sky sink

Stop The Presses!

Fear.

Anger.

Rinse.

Repeat.

The urgent thicket of breathless lies

Bomb threats! Bomb threats! – all supposed.

Criminal gangs, they’re black, case is closed

Questions are asked but no answers posed

Sources are quoted but not disclosed

Nothing they say is ever opposed

All seemingly pulled from cloudless skies.

Fear.

Anger.

Rinse.

Repeat.

No time is given to digest it

No chance to see it is empty swill,

No chance to process and distill

No time to reflect while sitting still

They urge you to take the offered pill

Fake news gives the greatest thrill—

They’ll destroy you if you contest it.

Fear.

Anger.

Rinse.

Repeat.

The cycles of the daily news

Spins around, ever and ever faster

But power and money are its master

They pretend to be a fair broadcaster

But dance the tune of their paymaster

Use a young and well-dressed newscaster

But replace the facts with slanted views

Fear.

Anger.

Rinse.

Repeat.

It’s hard to imagine they could sink down

To levels below where they currently sit.

But the moguls don’t care one little bit

If they fill the arena with mindless shit

Or foster hatred where no facts fit

It’s all too lucrative for them to quit

Ethics will never turn them around.

Fear.

Anger.

Rinse.

Repeat.

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1858 - The Surfacing

 

Image by ChatGPT with human post-editing.

Curiously two prompt sites had Kraken themes:

Poets and Storytellers and dVerse Poets

The Surfacing

(Subtitle: The Kraken wakes)

Fear.

Dread.

Anxiety.

The emotional ambush

By monsters—

Long stored,

Deep harboured.

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An awakening

That pulls you under,

Attempts to drown you

In a sea

Of thoughts,

Of imaginations,

Of reimagined past.

Sharpened,

Brighter,

Repolished,

Relived again,

In the fresh waters

Of now.

◊

But here is the catch:

The monster is not the problem.

It is the ship that matters—

A good ship—strong hulled, well crewed—

Will passage safely.

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1857 - Fair Weather and Fowl

 

 Image: ChatGPT but with human intervention

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

thistles horns stiff treat wee chirping fit down stick blushing out moment

A secondary prompt by Poets and Storytellers write about “food as ritual”.

Fair Weather and Fowl

The first light is blushing 

the scattered clouds.

It is perfect—mild and still.  

The birds have long risen

And chatter in the trees.

The hens, wings clipped,

View them with envy.

The hens like thistles—

Milk ones at any rate.

They rush out and about

The moment you appear

With this sappy treat.

Each to their own, I guess.

The small hatchlings,

“The wee chicks” 

the Scot used to call them,

Stick close to mum,

Chirping, trying to fit

Beneath her wings.

Beyond the yard,

The day unfolds, indifferent.

Traffic noises, planes,

The needless, urgent horns

Of needlessly impatient drivers.

They have evolved 

From dinosaurs they say.

The chickens, I mean—

(Although maybe both.)

Bonsai velociraptors.

They stalk, stiff-legged,

Through the garden,

Relocating the mulch

Out onto the lawn,

Bringing terror to the 

Now exposed insect life.

Secretly, I suspect they,

These fowl on the prowl,

Are looking for a librarian to eat

Trying to lure one into the open

With a gentle coaxing call:

“Book!  Book!  Book!”

The day draws to a close.

The birds quieten,

The chooks are asleep,

The stars appear,

Life continues—

But quietly.

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1856 - The Watcher

 

 Image: ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

greed tragedy despair presence walk calm strings earth all spirit vibrating heart 

Poets and Storytellers gave the following prompt: 

We will invite you to find inspiration in this quote: 

“The most expensive garment you’ll ever own is your own flesh.”

The Watcher

I am watching you—

Watching you as you walk

Upon the soil, upon the land,

Upon my earth, whose spirit

Once gave birth to you.

Your presence is my gift

Of life to the Universe.

You arose from my waters,

But never grasped your inheritance.

Now my heart despairs 

For what your future holds.

Your future, my children,

Hangs by a thread, precariously.

A thread thinned by the tragedies

Of war and greed, frayed 

By senseless intolerance,

Vibrating discordantly

Due to the disharmony

That mars the calm lands

That you were given.

I do not threaten you.

I can pull no strings,

Create no changes.

I am just watching you.

Waiting.

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1855 - Pivot Point

 Image: ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

rooted years footsteps creaks look stir hour loop clock echo before slips

dVersepoets has the prompt "Pivot".

Pivot Point

You have to leave something behind 

to move forward.

– Bikey Thapa

Thirty-nine years—

It is time to go.

The frame creaks,

The clocks chime slowly,

They know all too well

How relentlessly time slips by.

In a daze, I walk around—

The house is partially empty now,

Old memories loop around me.

My footsteps echo too.

Boxes are filled, stacked, waiting.

The longest hour, the hardest hour, 

Is the one just before leaving.

But one must look to the future,

Take chances—if not now, when?

To be rooted to one spot is comfortable,

But comfort is where dreams go to die.

I open the door 

and step out...

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1854 - The Manifesto

 

 Image by ChatGPT (and a bit from me!)

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

ideas remember words plague escape faith strength unity through arrest cruelty injustice

Poets & Storytellers suggest writing about the dark

dVerse Poets Open Link

The Manifesto

 

The Student (despondent)

These are dark times!

The Teacher

Yes.  This is why we need writers.

The Student

What power do they have?

The Teacher

Have you forgotten the manifesto?

Can you recite it?

The Student

Words are our tools—

Our salves, our prods, and our weapons.

They display our strength.

they define our faith.

They carry us on and through.

Once released, they resist arrest,

They answer cruelty and injustice

With the cold finger of scorn.

They help us escape the plague

Of indifference and despondency.

To write is to remember.

To write is to make ideas solid.

To write is to create unity

In a fragmented world.

The Teacher

Do not forget the power that you have.

Remember the pen and the sword.

And write.  

The Student

Yes. Even in the dark.

The Teacher

Especially in the dark.

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1853 - The Hallowed Evening

 

  Image by ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

magic back broken nest seems drag news breeze life ghost need tell

Poets and storytellers invited us to build on Halloween.

I also draw inspiration from dVerse - Poet's Pub

The Hallowed Evening

“There is no death, daughter. 

People die only when we forget them.” 

— Isabel Allende

I The Ritual

A candle burns,

Setting the scene.

Magic in a way—but solemn too.

Not to recall ghosts,

Not to roughly drag up the past—

To remember.

To remember,

In silence.

II The Remembrance

To look back

Is not a reversal—

The timeline is eternal,

Recall is intermittent—

Not broken, just granular.

No need to force it,

Just a need to sit there.

To remember.

To remember,

In silence.

III The Renewal

Life, or lives, long past.

Vespers. Just a breeze in time.  Of time.

They bring no news,

Tell no secrets,

All seems ephemeral

But, bidden, the love comes to nest,

To settle gently upon me.

To remember.

To remember,

In silence.

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