Saturday, April 27, 2024

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

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?

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.

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.

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

Friday, April 19, 2024

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.

Wednesday, April 10, 2024

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.

Monday, April 01, 2024

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.