1869 - Two Loves

 

Image: Grace and me.  Apologies to Banksie.

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

split cringe breathe pieces wings cracks beneath hesitates stretch ship spin chaos

Poets and Storytellers had the prompt "A love story" - I merged the two prompts.

Two Loves 

Margaret Kennedy: 05/02/1952 – 11/02/2024

Laurel Kennedy: 05/07/1933 – 11/02/2024

One day, two deaths.

A chaos, half expected.

I hesitate to draw meaning—

I could spin it many ways:

My world cracking, splitting…

But also a release,

In a dark sense, a freedom.

I have moved from being harbour master

To being an unmoored ship.

I resist the urge to cringe away,

To withdraw from a hostile world,

A world that shook beneath me,

A world that stretched 

Beyond my vision on that day.

A world that lay in pieces.

Like a new born chick,

I stood on the pieces,

Breathed deeply

And tested my wings.

◊

1868 - A Shared Shelter

 

Image: ChatGPT with a little human intervention.

What's Going On invites us to write on the topic "Shelter".

A Shared Shelter

If you really want to escape the things that harass you, 

what you're needing is not to be in a different place 

but to be a different person".  Seneca (c. 4 BC – AD 65)

Refrain

You can run but never hide

For the demons live inside.

You must endeavour to restrict them

Consciously constrict them,

Best of all, evict them

For they love to hitch a ride.

I

You know the story—

The darkened path at night,

Did you hear footsteps? Not sure…

Your pace and pulse increase,

Home is in sight, you hurry,

You fumble but manage the door,

Inside!  You lock the door.  Safe!

Behind you, in the room, in the dark,

You hear someone clear their throat.

Refrain

You can run but never hide

For the demons live inside.

You must endeavour to restrict them

Consciously constrict them,

Best of all, evict them

For they love to hitch a ride.

II

A new partner, the last one never explored you

A new house, the old one simply bored you

A new job, the company openly ignored you

But the new now fills the spaces just now gone.

Has it occurred to you

That the song has a common chord, too?

New words, yes, but the malady lingers on.

Refrain

You can run but never hide

For the demons live inside.

You must endeavour to restrict them

Consciously constrict them,

Best of all, evict them

For they love to hitch a ride.

◊

1867 - The Renewal

 

 Image: ChatGPT but with a little human intervention

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

below renew weaves through cloaks holy untethered tendrils gods spark ash wonder

Poets and Storytellers had the prompt words "flesh" and "spirit" - I merged the two prompts.

The Renewal

Whether you believe

In the gods above

(And in worse below),

Or in the spark of fate

Or in holy interventions,

The tendrils of life

Are largely untethered

And extremely tenacious—

Nothing can cloak or diminish

The wonder of it.

◊

And, without doubt,

There is wonder—

Wonder at how 

Life weaves its cloth;

How flesh becomes spirit,

Passes through ash

Returning once more as flesh.

Continuum.

◊

1866 - The Madness

 What's Going On invites us to reflect on the current madness going on.

The Madness

Is it happening?

The dogs of war are baying—

Have they forgotten?

◊

What are they thinking?

The message is quite simple—

No-one wins a war.

◊

They glorify it—

The have never been to war.

It is not Hollywood.

◊

Old men sit at home

Nursing bone spurs in their feet,

Send others to die.

◊

No goal in sight—

What do they hope to achieve?

Hard to fathom it.

◊

Home front is a mess—

Distraction is the idea:

Go bomb someone else.

◊

1865 - Luxurious

 

 Image: ChatGPT but with a little human intervention

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

wonderland bound morning ice knees hope cross wheel three cape head 

Poets and Storytellers had the prompt "Luxurious" - I merged the two.

Luxurious

Go with the feeling.

What is luxurious?

It’s a slippery sort of notion.

It is not built on hope

But on quality, on the feeling,

On things bound to please,

But more than "just enough".

It is a step beyond the normal.

But it is also a frame of mind,

Things are luxurious if you think them so.

◊

Luxury wears a warm, fleecy cape

On a chilly winter morning.

It can be as simple as the pleasure

Of ice in your end of day drink.

It can be looking at a winter wonderland—

From the log fire side of the window.

It can be laying your head

On a freshly washed pillowcase

That someone else has ironed.

It can be having three morning coffees

Where one is normal and two is indulgent.

When your knees ache from a cross-country hike,

Luxury is that long soak in a hot bath.

◊

But this is where it gets awkward:

If these things are your normal life,

If the wheel of fortune smiled on you

And you live a life of ease,

Then they may not register as a luxury.

Do the ultra-rich experience luxury

If there is no step higher for them?

I this regard, I claim the luxury

Of ignorance.

◊

1864 - When The Brain Runs Free

 Image: a Photoshop fiddle of an image found in an 

Angela Weston's post to AI Art Image Hub on Facebook.

dVerse has the prompt "Dream Interpretations".

My first rondeau for a while but seemed the ideal form for a dream.

When Brains Run Free

When brains run free strange things occur

I watch them pass, as a flaneur,

Marvelling at all the things I see—

Butterflies who are sipping tea,

A camel dressed as a chauffeur,

Buildings that melt and socks that purr,

An elephant climbing up a fir…

Things appear that should not really be

When brains run free.

Whistling past in a phantom blur;

Some just once while others recur:

My brain doodles with wicked glee—

What it means is lost on me.

What’s real, or not, rarely concur

When brains run free.

◊

1863 - The Enigma

  Image: ChatGPT but with a little human intervention

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

robes exposed bind beads fabric form harmony chaos cave enigma dwells well

Poets and Storytellers has the prompt "the time of day you like best and why."

Well, time to sit and think, so anytime really.

What's Going On had the prompt "Peace"

Everything sort of overlapped.

The Enigma

“Silence is a source of great strength.” 

— Lao Tzu

No beads,

No robes of fine fabric

Or flimsy cloth.

No long hair or matted beard.

Dwelling in neither a cave 

Nor mountain cabin,

He sits on a park bench.

Alone.  Ignored.

Around him, chaos,

People hurry past

Impatiently, urgently.

The world is in turmoil,

Few recognise it as it is—

A house of cards,

A shared delusion

That binds us,

Draws us inwards

And downwards.

All is not well 

With this world.

But—there he sits.  

Still. Alone. Ignored.

Focussed inwards.

Finding harmony and peace

When around him there is none.

A lone sparrow stops

And watches him.

◊

1862 - To Himself

 

 Image: ChatGPT but with a little human intervention

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

beam blunt works moment own shape ancient envy truth scroll shift fluid

To Himself

During a rare moment,

Sitting on his own, 

Possibly in a campaign tent,

Likely at a battle front,

The most powerful man

Of his day sits to write.

Not on a royal papyrus scroll,

On a wax tablet with a stylus.

Does he, like Sun Tzu, write works

Of battle strategy and planning?

Of court politics and intrigue?

Of future empire building?

To put the truth bluntly: No.

He works to shape himself,

To build an ethical inner citadel,

Where self-control is the walls,

Compassion and kindness the beams.

A structure to counter envy, sloth, and pride,

To shift focus from without to within.

This ancient scribe, an emperor,

The wearer of the royal purple,

Is writing to himself, directly.

And, unknowingly, indirectly to us.

Time and events are fluid, shifting,

But his wisdom is eternal.

◊

Posted to dVerse Open Night

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.

◊

That third room is dim, indistinct.

Not gloomy but dark nonetheless,

Like a starless night, without form.

Secrets live here—

Things forgotten, swallowed, stored.

◊

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.

◊

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.

◊

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.

◊

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.

◊

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?

◊

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.

◊

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.

◊

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.

◊

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.

◊

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.

◊

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...

◊