Forage – Weekend Writing Prompt #204

In the spring of April

On a Sunday afternoon

Bathed in petrichor

After the clouds had emptied themselves

In the wordless language

Of souls blooming

In a timeless forage

To find belonging

The world seemed perfect

Resplendently refreshed

In the golden flush

Of the sun after the rain

And she soaked in the moment

Reclined in a rocking chair

Frail hands wrapped

Around a warm cup of cocoa

While the orphan boy

She had often fed

Told her of his new home

I really like the keyword for this weekend’s prompt and this is how the words flowed for me. Thanks SammiCox and happy Sunday everyone.✨

All That’s Left

Sometimes it’s all too quick
The way life whirls in a blur
A kaleidoscope spinning out of control
Carried on a cheetah’s back
In bursts of chaotic speed
Only winding down
For a gasp of calm
Rattled by frenetic gales
Shoving the world back into a frenzy;
Earthquakes
Riots
Carnage
Frustration and grief
Rent the air
Shattering the sun
In splinters of red
We’ve had enough!
We want it to end!
When will it end?
Our throats bled raw
Chords snapped and frayed
In sorrow and despair
Until there are no more tears
Left to cry
The doves
Are nowhere to be found
The olive branches
Have withered to brittle twigs
And all that’s left
Are the carcasses of hope
Rotting at our feet

Open Wounds

Chipped fingernails
Polished in coats of blue
Hooked under healing scabs
Picking wounds
Better left alone
Until the protective layers
Fall away
Reopening trauma;
The night his gentle hands
Morphed into a beast’s
Full of primal rage
Crudely choking her trust
Frissons of palpable terror
Left behind
And as if nothing had happened
The morning after
His kisses erased her fear
Cushioning her pain
In velvety petals
The color of her bruises
That he paid a pretty penny for
And all she could do
Was pluck at the memories
Fingers pierced on its barbs
Tearing open the scabs;
Destructive habits
That left her
In a perpetual state
Of hating her scars
And herself

Finding A New Home

For how long
Will I keep looking back?
Neck straining
Chin stabbing stubbornly
Into the dip of my clavicle
To keep that elusive ingress;
A lambent cocoon
That once held my body
In sight

My mind had found its idyll
Beneath lavender skies and pastel clouds
Where the sun had talked with me
Through jasmine mists
Flowers pressing bashful kisses
Against my ankles
While I picked words like persimmons
In abundance from the gardens
Hedging the brook
That rushed in pellucid streams;
An era of mellifluous equilibrium

I know there is no point
In being so stiff-necked
When I still pocket the seeds
From which a similar halcyon
Could germinate
Yet all around me
Is this dried earth
Infertile paths
That can offer nothing more
Than a mossy grove
To nurture my thoughts

A Glimpse of Cherry Blossoms

The cherry blossoms went as quickly as they came. An ephemeral wink of beauty; as if they had bloomed and taken a singular breath in the delicate flutter of a child’s lashes. The streets were awash in their petals, like neglected wishes that had spilled through the split seams of the air’s thin pockets.

She plucked as many as she could from the ground, imagining clipped moth wings within her cold palms. Fragile and translucent; evidence of hindered flight that had never reached its zenith. And it scared her to think that she could end up like these fallen blossoms. Because life always happened so quickly, its threads weaving and unraveling in patterns no-one could control. But she’d determined some time ago not to let her steps dwell too long in the mire of pessimistic thought.

Her heart was still warm with optimism, though the clouds gathered with a solemn murmur promising rain. She blew the petals on the wind, watched them swirl in a final dance that pushed her wishes upward to find a place – some day – in the tapestry constantly being woven by fate’s deft hands. And she prayed that next Spring, the wind would be a bit kinder and not so brusquely whisk away the serene blossoms that often carried her deepest dreams.

***

An Unexpected Discovery

Made by vintage hands;
Skin as rough
As papyrus
Yet delicate
Like an ancient whisper –
Its secrets crushed
By a sudden noise –
With lavender petals
Pressed between its coarse layers
He finds glimpses of nostalgia
Through blurs of monochrome
Memories captured
In polaroid frames
To which he is not connected
Yet feels he knows deeply;
Almost as if
He’d lived as candidly
As these unknown people
Bearing reflections
Of untrammeled freedom
Reminding him
Of wild, teenaged summers
And he is almost sure
This unintended discovery
Among the old things in his attic
Tethers him
To a forgotten time
Bound in bamboo and dust

Absurd – Weekend Writing Prompt #203

Amy squinted at the mirror, fingers pressed to its cold surface framed in mahogany. Her expression twisted, confused at the empty space that should’ve shown her reflection. Everything else in her bedroom had one, so where was hers? She yelled out as her mother entered her room, gasping when she saw herself…in bed?

But…that’s absurd! I’m standing right here!

…Aren’t I?

I’m a little sad since I broke my writing streak (unintentionally). However, SammiCox’s Weekend Writing Prompts still help me to stay on track.

I rewrote this entry a number of times, but I think this was the best way I could end it for a story in 61 words. I hope you’re all doing well! ✨

A Proper Goodbye

You will find me
In shreds of pencil shavings
Skin smudged
In the clumsy graphite
Of uncertain prose
Rewritten over and over
Until I can taste its dust –
Like charcoal –
In my mouth
Prickling down my throat
To cluster within my veins
Rushing with anxious vanity
To write one final piece
In the fashion
Of a proper goodbye
To these last few pages
Marking the end
Of another precious journal—

Another fragment of me.

With Eyes Wide Shut

Reclusive minds 
Joined together 
Sheltered within twin coves – 
Eyes fashioned  
In the delicacy of stained glass 
To embellish the world in reflections  
Of a sun-drenched halcyon  
Wrought from desperation 
That bends and fractures 
Bleeding through  
With a raw, unrelenting light 
Burning
At their thin pupils 
Irises fogged  
Against the true colors  
Of the world 
So they remain 
Doggedly blind  
To preserve the fragile vestiges 
Of their broken sanity