Just Reading

Most people saw images. People, animals, objects and then they made stories about them.

Not Papa. Papa only saw words among the luminaries once the skies grew the dark.

She walks in the street of the sky, Night walks scattering poems, calligraphy in the stars.

That is what Papa told me when I was young.That above our heads are words among the stars.

Reams of poems of Night.

Shooting stars? Line breaks. Comets? An exclamation.

Pictures were for those too young to read. He taught me how to read them as well.

To read the sonnets, couplets, quatrains and meter that falls from Night’s fingers to the firmament she treads giving Luna teasing nudges to see who notices her offerings.

It is why when you ask me what in doing as I gaze into the diamond dotted indigo skies I answer, just reading. 

Street of the Night Sky Goddess
— Raivenne

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Prosery: Tulips & Chimneys

dVerse Poets Pub graphic
dVerse ~ Poets Pub

Tonight at dVerse we’re challenged to write a prose piece of no more than 144 words including the prompt.

Today’s prompt which comes from Tulips & Chimneys, by e. e. cummings and is the last line of IX- Impressions:

In the street of the sky night walks scattering poems..”

We may alter the punctuation, but we must use the line in its entirety without inserting any other words. 

L’amour Mort

Photo of woman at a grave in autumn

Autumn leaves in warm earth tones vale upon the new mound of soil. The leaves appear demur on the soil adorned with fresh florals. She who has spent nearly three score with in life until a year ago, has now joined the he in afterlife. Most have begun to mill away, eager to start the slow shedding of bereavement that begins with the repast, but she lingers a spell.

I watch her eyes, both mournful and misty.

And I watch as she, a morbid Noah, mentally gathers the dates of the ancestral pairings interned. I know she sees in the family line none have gone more than two years without their hearts in life beside them. The dichotomy of such beauty in sadness. She fears it, yet, I see she embraces the seemingly inevitable as we finally leave.

To her, death is quite romantic.


dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Prosery – Bob Dylan

dVerse Poets Pub graphic
dVerse ~ Poets Pub

Tonight at dVerse, Björn Rudberg (brudberg) hosts and would like for us to write a Prosery piece which includes the line:

To her, death is quite romantic

It is from “Desolation Row” by Bob Dylan, from his 1965 record “Highway 61 Revisited”.

Write a piece of flash fiction or other prose up of up to or exactly 144 words,
Including the given line from the poem.

Falling into Spring

Fall comes fast and furious in ochre and goldenrod jewels that seeming shoved aside the abundant verdant hues of summer. For all its warm beauty I am cognizant of the oncoming days when grayed twisted bodies, shrouded in mounds of white fluff, exchange its colorful jewels for icy diamonds that drip from limbs that will scratch at the too cold skies of winter.

As I kneel in one of the garden beds, the loss of warmth and color sadden me. It’s peaty scent, petrichor after the last thunderstorm momentarily bely the seasons in my mind. I am reminded after winter comes spring and the better days that then follow. Pruning, turning over earth in preparation I remind myself I’d like, too, to plant the sweet alyssum that smells like honey and peace. Thus I bury my autumn doldrums in thoughts of spring for now.


dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Prosery: When it comes to Katherine Riegel

dVerse Poets Pub graphic
dVerse ~ Poets Pub

Sanaa (aka adashofsunny) would like for us to write a Prose piece which includes the line:

“I’d like, too, to plant the sweet alyssum that smells like honey and peace.” from the poem, “What I would like to grow in my Garden.” by Katherine Riegel.

Write a piece of flash fiction or other prose up of up to or exactly 144 words,
Including the given line from the poem.

Was It Worth It?

The prince sighed at the tragic tableau before him.

Two mothers sobbed against their husbands whose own tears fell in silent grief. All bemoaned their part played in what has come to pass. The two men glanced at one another, but neither could sustain the visual contact. Their hate too old. Their pain too fresh.

“What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?” he looked to each of the four red rimmed eyes, but none could return his stare.

“It could have begun here. Grown into something beautiful had you let it. Instead, it ends with them and with you, now the last of your line.”  

“Was it worth it?” He spread his arms to the ones before him, but each knew the gesture encompassed several others no longer there to speak. “Capulet. Montague. Go bury your children.”


dVerse Poets Pub graphic

dVerse Poets Pub | Prosery: The Waste Land

At dVerse Mish tends bar and welcomes us to another round of Prosery where we are asked to write a very short piece of prose that tells a story, with a beginning, a middle and an end, in any genre of our choice.

Since it is a kind of Flash Fiction, there is a limit of 144 words. It must include a complete line from a poem in the story, within the word limit.

Punctuation can be changed, but it is not allowed to subtract or insert words in between parts of the original quotation.

Today quote is from T.S. Eliiott’s The Wasteland “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?”

In my mind Romeo and Juliet are the branches that would have grown from the stony rubbish of their families’ hate had it been allowed to take root.

The Day She Rises

shnikt, shnikt

Metal strikes mineral in rhythmic space.

shnikt, shnikt

She is a lean shadow, sat alone. Silent tears shed blending into the briny tide that approach and recede her salt licked feet. Only saline tracks that frame her cheeks tell tale they existed.

Dawn chains to dusk, none saw her arrive, nor leave.

shnikt,

She has just been… there…

shnikt, shnikt,

Stone in one hand, blade in the other is no game or dream for her

shnikt,

We watch and wonder what on Earth caused this refrain

I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.

Words unspoken yet heard by all nonetheless

Not what they seem, the tears screen not her melancholy, but her rage

shnikt, shnikt

And all we know is: the day she rises will lead to the night someone falls

shnikt, shnikt


dVerse Poets Pub graphic

dVerse Poets Pub | Prosery: Finding Ms. Zora Neale Hurston

Today Lisa introduces the pub to one of my favorite writers, Zora Neale Hurston and challenges us to write a piece of prose that is no longer than 144 words, sans title, and must include the line “I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.” from Hurston’s “How Does it Feel to be Colored Me” in World Tomorrow (1928). This can be flash fiction, nonfiction, or creative nonfiction, but it must be prose!

The Sunday Whirl | Wordle 510

refrain, lead, shed, dream, frame, space, recede, seem, screen, game, lean, chain

MLMM Sunday Writing Prompt, July 18/21 – The Quiet One

The Beginning of The End

She sat among her own.

Around her were other historians of the old, the ancient, in spoken word alone. Some old, some young, all in awe of the hoarfrost woman, the eldest of the griots.

Eyes of stone that easily flashed in compliments or condemnations, were a study in consternation as she gazed among those gathered. Especially the young who dared challenge their way.

“Only mouths are we who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things!”

Bent and cane dependent, she moved boldly nonetheless to the youngest among them and held out a gnarled, aged hand.  He had tried to hide the offending item he carried, but as always, she knew.  

He handed her the scroll. Their history on vellum.

He saw it as the beginning.

She knew it for what it was: the beginning…

…of their end.


dVerse Poets Pub graphic

dVerse Poets Pub | Prosery: Here’s the thing about existing

At dVerse Sanaa tends bar and welcomes us to another round of Prosery where we are asked to write a very short piece of prose that tells a story, with a beginning, a middle and an end, in any genre of our choice.

Since it is a kind of Flash Fiction, there is a limit of 144 words. It must include a complete line from a poem in the story, within the word limit.

Punctuation can be changed, but it is not allowed to subract or insert words in between parts of the original quotation.

This week’s quote:

“Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things?” – from Rainer Maria Rilke, “Heartbeat.”