1319 - Marrakesh

 

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

This weeks words are:

Sing, trembling, zigzag, connected, mind, silk, dreams, moon, prayers, crow, road, prophets

Marrakesh

Forget Rome.

Here, at sunset,

All roads 

Lead to the market.

An explosion

Of light and noise.

The smells,

Spices, warm,

Rich, beguiling.

Perfumes hint 

Of the harem.

Leathers and silks,

Food, aromatic,

Sweet, luscious.

Brassware. Stoneware.

Everywhere.

The noise,

Oh, the noise.

The call to prayers,

The call to buy.

Different gods.

The people,

Connected 

But disconnected.

Someone sings,

Some tout dreams,

Promise the moon.

Some are prophets,

Trembling in fervor,

The curious wander,

Zig-zag in wonder.

Crowds flow 

Or not.  Mesmerised.

No-one minds.

Time is not important.

It is an assault

On the senses,

While

On the roofs

Pied Crows watch,

Silent prophets,

Bemused.

◊

1318 - An Electrician named Roy

 

There was an electrician named Roy
Who was clearly a girl, not a boy.
There was some distrust
About the size of her bust
But her skills were the real McCoy.

◊

Written following a discussion about the possible gender 

of an electrician named Roy, coming to certify some work in my home.

The photo is AI generated.  No electricians were harmed

in the writing of this limerick.

1317 - Travelling Flat Out

 

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

This weeks words are:

air, embraced, pearls, perfection, turtle, altar, garlands, reveries, vanish, name, built, mist

Travelling Flat Out

The place where the story happened was a world on the back 

of four elephants perched on the shell of a giant turtle. 

– Terry Pratchett

From their expressions, you’d never have guessed

But the elephants were far from impressed.

While their air was of calmness and grace

As they surfboarded their turtle through space.

Their inner thoughts were contained and not spilt

About the awkward lifestyle they’d built.

But on the flat earth that balanced above 

The occupants showerd them with love.

They built sacred altars to adore them

Made flower garlands and then actually wore them,

And then danced naked in the light of the moon

Such reveries usually finished at noon.

They viewed the elephants with loving affection

And, with the turtle, considered perfection

To be clearly outlined, for everyone to see.

The universe was defined by what needed to be:

Celestial transport, willingly embraced—

A beast, twenty limbed and five faced.

But the reason for being of this craft

Vanished in the far mists of time, probably graft.

Someone received pearls, gold and myrrh,

To win a contract, lucrative you can infer,

To provide a cheap spacial transport

And the fine print didn’t name the sort.

So, this menagerie sails on through space—

Two creatures not known for their grace

And the flat earth above them, so supported,

Is right royally, and galactically, transported,

No matter what the physicists implore

Existence is nine tenths of the law.

◊

1316 - The Galaxy

 

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

This weeks words are:

jerk, void, breath, gap, vast, blinked, curling, sky, wish, wrap, edge, ever

The Galaxy

"The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. 

We are a way for the universe to know itself.”

-- Carl Sagan

The Milky Way.

Four billion stars.

As you lie on the grass,

Looking up at the sky,

Consider just how vast

Our curling, swirling galaxy is.

You can, if you wish, ponder why

Our curling, swirling galaxy is.

The answer is elusive if you try.

No answer satisfies.

To wrap your mind around

A problem that has no edge,

No sensible beginning.

Be it found in a Big Bang

Or a diety’s breath,

A blink of creation

A jerk of the time-space fabric,

Filling the void—

Both have a credibility gap.

Will we ever know?

Does it really matter?

Theoretical physics 

Is trumped by physical theories.

Live local.  Hold what you know.

Hugs are real.

◊

1315 - The Consequence

 

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

This weeks words are:

riddle, hunt, barren, bits, ominous, thud, grave, keys, box, drop, temper, secrets

They took me down a dark rabbit hole.

The Consequence

“How much more grievous 

are the consequences of anger 

than the causes of it.”

– Marcus Aurelius

The consequences of anger

Are so disproportionate to the causes.

That ominous rush of blood,

That fatal burst of temper.

He looked at the city before him

Hardly worthy of the name.

Burnt, broken, barren.

Scared, furtive animals hunt for food,

Finding bits here and there 

And defending them from the jealous.

Snarl.  Teeth bared.  The new world.

He walked slowly through the wreckage

A city that was no more.  A grave.

The drop saw to that.  Dropped in anger.

It did not fall with a thud. 

It did not even fall really. Delivered.

It delivered light.  

And wind. 

And heat.

And death.

How many died? he wondered.

Pointless speculation really.

That is the secret of the drop.

He knew it had dropped.  The riddle—

The riddle was why.  

Why was the genii released from the box?

Did it solve anything? he pondered.

The keys to the city

Have little value now.

◊

1314 - The Ephemeral

 

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

This weeks words are:

holy plains waters beats travel weeping veins cradle rained taste brief glorious

The Ephemeral

Those glorious moments,

Those brief and fleeting moments

They only last a second 

But travel with you forever.

A brief play of the sun on waters,

A taste of a sweet Moroccan tea,

A mother cradling her young infant

The sanctity of the Holy See,

The long and sweeping shadows

Of the camels on the plains,

The drums, beating in the jungles,

The scent that follows rains,

The junkie weeping with frustration

Searching for her veins,

The mosque, so intensely blue,

You could cut it with a knife.

The tear shed at that ancient cove,

To mention but a few.

Those glorious moments,

Those brief and fleeting moments

They only last a second 

But travel with you forever.

◊

1313 - The Oasis

 

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

This weeks words are:

Spark, languid, opening, magic, hope, cross, clear, cloud, holy, birds, water, shadows

The Oasis

Happiness should be like an oasis, 

the greener for the desert that surrounds it.

- Rachel Field

A fenced garden.

There is magic here.

Spiritual, holy, hopeful.

Life is languid here, calm.

Trees, flowers, weeds.

A floral democracy.

Birds come.  And feed.

They are messy bathers,

But happy in the water.

Minor disagreements.

Lorikeets always win.  

Sparky bullies 

In rainbow jumpers.

Magpies at the back door,

Their beaks look mean 

But the eyes are pleading.

Noisy miners, commandos,

They take any opening

To dart in, dart out, 

Snatch and run.

Magpies protest too late.

Possums come too, 

Shadows in the night.

I hear them cross the roof.

The days can be clear.  Or not.

Clouds are there.  Or not.

It doesn’t really matter.

Nothing really matters here.

◊

1312 - The Biggest Adventure

 

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

This weeks (very awkward) words are:

Strategy, enemy, thieves, red, dragon, air, hint, water, rock, nest, face, channel

The Biggest Adventure

We travel not for trafficking alone: 

By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned: 

For lust of knowing what should not be known 

We take the golden road to Samarkand.

- James Elroy Flecker

The Punter

I’m planning a trip to who knows where,

To kingdoms across the sands.

Where the food is rich and the women fair,

Where philosophers learn and understand.

Who will join me on this escapade?

Who will come to see what there is to see?

Life is too often a great charade,

Pack your bags and come with me!

A Man in the Crowd

How do we know that we won’t be killed?

The hills are full of brigands and thieves.

You hint of excitement, but I’d not be thrilled

To die in the desert while my woman grieves.

The Man’s Wife

Yes, how do I know that my man would return

And not be buried beneath a pile of rocks

On the plain where water’s scarce and air can burn.

At least here, if he dies, he gets a box.

The Punter

Surely you don’t guess that I want to die?

Your fears understandable, are unfounded.

‘There are no demons or dragon’s nests’ is my reply,

The trip’s well planned, the strategy’s grounded.

A Young Man

So what’s the point of this expedition?

Where do you go and what’s there for us?

The Punter

Life in a rut is a most deadly condition

Escaping from boredom is a definite plus.

The world is an exciting place, so come explore,

Who knows what delights are there, to see

To face, to marvel on some foreign shore?

Don’t rust your life away, come! Come with me!

Another Young Man

I take the point you so forcibly make,

Habit is the enemy of an interesting life.

We’ll all die sometime for heaven’s sake,

Who knows, perhaps I’ll find an exotic wife!

The Punter

Fine words, well said.  Welcome to our band!

Who else will channel their courageous bent,

To see red sunsets in some foreign land?

To sleep beneath the stars in a communal tent? 

A Third Young Man

I’ll throw my hat.  What will my parents say?

This is a chance to explore foreign lands

And I’m going to die some day anyway,

So why not trust in kind fortune’s hands?

The Punter

It is well.  We will make a fine team

As we venture forth into the unknown.

Most will just stay here and sadly dream

We brave few head off; the dice is thrown.

Epilogue

Out in the desert, where no-one goes,

Where all is bleak, just sand and stones,

And the wind moves the sand in rippled rows,

You’ll find a pile of sun bleached bones.

◊

1311 - The Cafe

 

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

This weeks words are:

clicking, whimsical, leap, poetry, songs, be, whirring, dangling, fates, talk, grant, storm

The Cafe

Cold, shivering, dripping wet.

The door clicks shut behind you,

Leaving the storm outside.

Coats are put to dry, dangling on hooks.

The room embraces you, warmly.

Behind the counter, within sight,

There is clatter and bustle, 

Orders shouted, in and out.

Bells ting, wait staff flit to and fro.

The whirring of the engine house,

This is what it is all about.  

The feeders and the fed.

Symbotic.

The smells of coffee and raisin toast,

Vanilla and cinnamon permeate—

Grant the room a separate warmth,

A thick poetry of the senses.

People sit, talking.  Conversations 

Leap haphazardly, fates are discussed,

The whimsical and the serious.

Songs and great novels are typed to life,

And some just sit and be.

◊

1610 - Call of the Wild

 

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

This weeks words are:

trample crack swept untethered hum urge scrawled bees sky ritual leap brambles

Call of the Wild

“People from a planet without flowers would think 

we must be mad with joy the whole time 

to have such things about us.” 

― Iris Murdoch

Hollyhocks, foxgloves, 

Daisies and delphiniums.

I do so love that word.

Phlox are there too,

Both the plant and as a collective noun 

For the floral herd.

Brambles too, of course.

The polite term 

For this feral floral fantasy

Would be untethered.

Untrampled, unswept, unleashed.

Bees, butterflies and other insects

Hum and buzz, crawl, climb and nibble.

Mother nature sees an opportunity,

A crack in the restraints, 

In the desire to impose order and ritual,

And leaps at the chance to run wild.

No need to urge her on,

The sky is calling.

◊

1609 - The Temple

 

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

This weeks words are:

Forget, church, dancers, tea, robes, weed, sing, exultation, hope, squirrel, nuts, amen

The Temple

Forget the bricks and mortar,  

Forget the incense and incantations,  

Forget the pious gentlemen in crimson robes,  

Forget the singing and lamentations  

That fill these cavernous halls  

With exultation and misplaced hope.  

Step away from the pomp and ceremony,  

Step outside, into the real world,  

Into the forest, among the trees.  

Smell the eucalyptus, just be there.  

Even the weeds have flowers.  

Smoke drifts through the trees,  

Someone is boiling a billy, making tea.  

Possums, once thought to be squirrels,  

Timid dancers in the twilight, frolic. 

 

Nuts to the bricks and mortar.  

This is a church to embrace.  

Amen.

◊

1608 - Pythia

 

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

This weeks words are:

waves, slip, void, soul, restless, dark, chanting, flickering, pulse, chance, marble, fan

Pythia

The language of excitement is at best picturesque merely.

You must be calm before you can utter oracles.

-- Henry David Thoreau

The fumes come in waves

From cracks in the rock.

Attendant priestesses chant,

Hypnotic, rhythmic, throbbing—

In time with the pulse of the oracle.

There, seated on a tripod,

In the moonlight, flickering,

The petitioners, restless, wait

For their answer. Is it war?

Do we chance our arm? Or not?

Lives are at stake. Fortunes.

She sits quietly, surrounded

By the protective and the anxious,

A reflective soul in a trance,

Her mind mingling with the divine.

Oblivious to those around her,

She slips in and out of their world,

Their concerns, the dark voids

Of their fears and ambitions.

Cloistered in her marble temple,

Where flickering torches dance on stone,

Her answers ripple through the empire,

Like shadows cast and then gone.

And so she sits. And thinks.

Surety brings ruin.

◊

1607 - The Journey of a River Stone

 

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

This weeks words are:

pebble, shiny, laden, ghost, mingled, blisters, gasping, vanishing, empty, scatter, forest, shadows

The Journey of a River Stone

In matters of style, swim with the current; 

in matters of principle, stand like a rock.

--Thomas Jefferson

Forged by the earth,

My start did not direct my end.

I was bigger then, rougher,

Laden with hope, perhaps,

Hope mingled with expectation.

I am bold and boulder. 

Weather played with me,

Bits blistered off, scree, pebbles,

Slowly parting, vanishing.

Cracks formed in me, I broke,

I parted with myself.

All families disperse, scatter.

No time to feel empty.

A river embraces me, rushes me,

Tumbling, gasping through rapids,

Tough times polish us.

I become smooth and shiny.

Eventually the river calms

I too calm, shallow waters

Beneath a forest canopy.

Sunlight and shadows flicker.

They say I have spirits, spirituality

Possibly even ghosts.

◊

1606 - The Forest

 

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

vast salty simmering habits mind trickle secretive brim axe roots shadows stones

The Forest

“If you go off into a far, far forest and get very quiet, 

you’ll come to understand that you’re connected with everything.”

― Alan Watts

Beneath the vast canopy, 

Encased in green velvet,

The forest embraces us.

Roots and branches mesh

Shadows and clearings

Animals, secretive, furtive,

Captives of their own habits.

Birds heard, seldom seen.

An axe, leans agains a tree,

Rusty, abandoned but for the moss,

Moss shared by the stones, logs.

A creek trickles and tinkles,

Fresh, clear, not salty

Part of the orchestra of the forest.

Brim full of sounds, adagio

Simmering, interlaced.

If you have a mind to listen,

A mind to connect.

-x-

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've never been in this place before—

I just am.  An innocent bystander passing by.

Narrator

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

◊

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.

◊

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.

◊

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.