Share Your GloPoWriMo 2024 Poems

My last for the month. Fell behind due to school holidays and my daughter but finishing on a nice note. Like a song that fails to find the tonic this feels like it does not resolve, but I kind of like that. As yet untitled.

The storm unleashes its sorrows.

Arduous the struggle to hold fast.

Bait no longer secure wharf side

finds its way in pocket.

The season, dry and fruitless.

Following in Ahabs footsteps,

this peir has become my bowsprit

and my final stand.

My whale, the kahiwai.

Few else brave these waves.

Farming carrots not an option,

cod south for the cold,

too shallow for kingi,

and snapper, no shelter.

I feel the contempt as I'm spat on.

Tangaroa warning I don't belong.

But to leave now, to give up,

without tribute.

To return with a slack line

would be condemnation,

a messure of my worth

and stubbeness.

Finished?

the dawn's light yet to break,

the edge of thirty nights and thirty wakes.

Each morning the empty page waited

each evening we desire to be sated,

with the inspiration of the muse's day

to scribble a verse from my mind's fray.

The pen—my wand, my axe, my plow,

carved paths in fields where words allow.

Some nights I left fallow fields behind

others, a harvest with line after line.

Anticipation curls a fog around my feet,

the challenge’s end tastes bitter and sweet.

Will the muse walk the meadow at my side

finding a home to console the tired-eyed?

Though the clock beats in my mind,

each moment stretches to a mountain climb,

I peer over the edge with trepidation,

will I tumble down the path to damnation?

The cycle closing with the journey as friend,

together we explored with paper and pen.

We have much to do before the end,

in the face of the challenge, we will not bend.

I pause, gasping before crossing the line

I run through heartache and thrill in my mind

each verse... a memory from a battle plan,

each rhyme... steps with shifting sand.

Shall I set down the quill, let the inkwell dry,

or find new quests after the victory lap's cry,

To climb another mountain's ledge,

and gaze at another tomorrow's edge?

I’ll find my answer in silent night's eve

the dreams I dare to chase and believe?

30 owl and the kitten

on a holiday morn

owl starts a poetic journey

'I will try, nothing lost

kitten arrives on the doorstep

I'm here, what's to eat

owl writes a poem

already sketched

the first of thirty

kitten patiently waits

then accepts sleeping

owl and the kitten

both on curve of growth

for owl cerebral, emotional

for kitten physical

eating, sleeping, gaining strength

owl pensively looking

for depth in the everyday

writing worked lines and move on

kitten intrigued

wants to play, with the pen

twelve hours, thirty days are over

writing flows easier

owl with this poem, at quest's end

kitten has doubled in size

but wanting to play with that pen

Victim to survivor

return of devilish demons

well trod path, facing crisis

wanting a change, assistance

sought from a practiced other

with indifference crisis disected

tasks given for confidence

establishing trust, 'I believe you'

'you have done nothing wrong'

tasks designed to challenge mindset

accomplishing, moves the soul

loosening bricks in ego wall

'fault' obscures, 'blame' destructive

each week goes past, work

to unseat deep belief

tasks dig deep, exposing

demons cementing bricks

they work, awaiting a chance

a moment of revelation

keystone belief, shifts

change this belief to

'you are good'

pool within the rock

centuries of molecular change

and movement of tide

residue settles enough

hold fast of Neptune's necklace

attaches and thrives

tidal brings fresh salt water

rejuvenating this microsystem

as the fronds of the necklace wave

27 Ravens (or call me what you like, just don't call me late for dinner)

this pair of ravens

perched on a low branch

near these picnic tables

stare with beady white eyes

as we prepare the luncheon

with loud and joyous laughs we cry

I used to call these birds, crows

but the ruffle on the throat

means they are ravens

these ravens continue to stare

with raising expectation

unconcerned with any noise we make

because they want our sandwich

Ashes

the house burned

from the cold ashes

i pulled a miracle...

my prized quill

surviving the flames

unlike the many words

perished in the blaze

the feather just singed

but unable to fly

like my wings clipped

placed in a hallowed shelf

above my writing desk

there to taunt me

as inspired words

abandoned my pen

a candle fell over

in haste to prevent

another inferno

the quill fell to my page

the hot nib burned

a hole on the paper

igniting my muse.

Another tough one to write... perhaps i have flaws. Maybe we shouldn't go there.

Imperfections

In the Garden of Eden,

where flaws ran wild,

each blemish, a seed,

the weed's own child.

the imperfections

in the residents

for they were different

than the other scents.

rooted in cracks,

these new creatures

whispered secrets

from flawed features.

These imperfections,

rough edges of stone,

carved by the wind,

through tears alone.

from these scars,

a unique force awakened,

driven with spirit

forged and mistaken.

the stuttering tongue

forked in its cadence,

breathes the rhythm of words,

showing through a new lens.

their minds wander,

living in dreams,

discovering new worlds

beyond Eden's scenes.

from trembling hands

with lacking skill,

they draft beauty

from the empty till.

the treasure of gems

who inhabit the earth

flawed from inception,

each one of worth.

thus the nature of flaws,

a mutation of new,

through millennia

the jumble, from two.

we've marked our journey,

for better or worse,

on a future day, we'll know

blessing or curse.

26 Celebrity status

any sport any game

you play the ball, not the player

play the player; foul, .penalty

music, film, modelling

games requiring talent

develop skill for public audience

industries grow around

egos abound, sharks swim

within this abstract market

summit; celebrity status

an individual with talent

skill that expand their soul

no claim to 'godlike' status

joy to share, embarks upon

a career within the industry

survives the troughs and crests

to arrive at summit of celebrity

Abstract market of high finance

sales the driving factor

this world of celebrity

gossip columnists, critics, photoghers

all convinced of their own importance

entourage and celebrity

set sail upon this foreign sea

a sea laden with pirates

gossip columnists with their barbs.

and fabricated tales

threaten lack of exposure

and then the fall

human frailties

blown out of all proportion

accusations of assault

a tango danced by only one

media editors attracted to the slaughter

usual propriety, morality,

does not apply in this sea

they wanted celebrity status

this is price that they should pay

only the guilty can escape hatchet

25 Live drama performance

time and space entwined

thought defies these limits

thought as dramatic words

words for others to enact

reinvoke the limits of time and spare

an idea too big

for drama time allotted

short sequence blocks

not quite syncopated

the play: testing robots

human character automated

tests are meant for AI character

believability slips between gaps

confusion and reasoning lost

within the moment of the play

dramatic finale

this audience, next model of robot

disconnected moment in time

24. Inner development

ego walls, like egg shells

solid but fragile

semi-permeable

ego walls grow from

baby's wanting cries

nurturing strokes or lack of

strokes manufacture

emotional threads

grow with baby to child

other senses develop, augment

twist these threads

into a shell of faith

a shell encasing

inner motives and drives

as we develop into adulthood

Sonnet 001: The Lake Beyond Reach

Across the woods, white birches lightly sway,

a hidden lake lies warm beneath the sun;

my canoe darts, but can no longer run

towards the soft shore where I found my way.

The water gleams like dreams I chase in vain,

each paddle stroke, fathoms from freedom's air.

I halt my craft, resigned to cold despair,

for all that's chased is but a distant bane.

To those who seek this warm and gentle wave,

beware the heart's deceitful siren call.

You'll find the quest a shadow, ever more,

For round its edge, where silent willows slave

their sign proclaims, "No step shall breach this law"—

the magistrate’s decree; my heart, its shore.

Mount Chincogun, Murwillumbah NSW

to Edwin Wilson

Mount Chincogun

towers over local terrain

guardian of play

symbol of stability

poetic expectations met

locals view it as a mountain

30 centimetres short

not listed as a mountain

by overseas measure

a fact, a symbol of Australia

almost but not quite

Day 24 Prompt: "Beyond Boundaries"

I don't remember not having the fear of heights. Sometimes, I could overcome my phobia to finish a task. Other times, it would be a different... and terrifying experience. This is Part 1 of many Falling Feeling

i

i remember falling

from the wooden rack

my father built to house

his aluminum boat.

trauma persisted

since that fateful day

when i uncovered

the fear of heights.

as creative children

we wandered the wood

building cabins

and waging wars.

the tree towered

at the edge of a glade

formed when the giant's

canopy spread wide.

the kids all clambered

up an improvised ladder,

slats nailed to the trunk,

all, except for me.

ten feet from the ground

my breathing racked,

a cautious retreat

to firmness under my feet.

my friends cajoled

from the lofty lodging

pressing me to act

without regard.

i again began my ascent

sweat on my brow

as I passed the mark,

with clenched jaw.

i continued, pausing

at a higher slat

unable to look down,

pressed to the trunk.

with weakened legs

and chattering knees,

my primal brain shook

I could only take flight.

i scampered thru the hatch

greeted by smiles

and the valley's broad vista,

with the ground far below.

even at a tender age,

the breath-taking view

felt awe-inspiring

until nausea breached,

the retching continued

until I shut my eyes

under the pressure

between my ears.

Poem 22

Reading

reading well-crafted prose

natural seamless narration

envelops me into another's story

intellectual enjoyment

another well-crafted book:

'Women choosing childlessness'

text reads;

'I didn't enjoy playing with dolls,

I preferred plush animals'

the arrow is slung

finds my mark, piercing

through my ego defences

words and emotions unite

thrown into a spiral

unable to read further

savouring these words

childhood memories emerge

rereading, then stalling

cycle repeated, until

my mind's spider has woven

a web, securing my emotion

emotions disected

disarmed, made safe

I continue to read the rest

becomes another's story, comfortable

Poem 21

Victim

a person in a

spider's web

of personal intrigue

web woven from

threads, memory of

unsatisfied wants

a person feeling

like a captured fly

in a spider's eye

a person bound by

belief, attitude

powerlessness

victim's attitude

bricks of emotion

baked in a 'wanting oven'

victim passively

creating persecutor

creating rescuer

victim wishes for

new life, achievement

knowing fulfilment

victim grasps at assistance

sabotages this rescue

sinks into self pity

cries 'you are not here'

'you did this' 'your fault'

you just don't feel

unfulfillment

fulfills expectations

and cycle begins anew

Poem number 25(Perhaps) based on the struggle of feeling the self-imposed pressure Inspiration Lost

questing for the spark

of Muse's inspiration

forcing the Devil's mark

upon lack of reception

in the languid lark

of misconception

thus the villain of ink

lays low from the volley

of bolts that sink

the belief in the calling

of what the quill thinks

will move the tasked trolley

they judge poorly of words

cast upon the board

in haste to sling swords

at slicing coarse cords

hung by eye-picking birds

for the dullard's ward

I think this is number 24 and I struggled with this poem.

Arthur's Atonement

Stopping in woods where two roads diverged,

to follow the lesser, my intuition urged

but in a fit of unease, I chose the higher,

following the steps of crimson sunset's fire.

The easy road to the city of dreams

where I hoped to find a viable scheme

to work hard and make a favorable name

yet, what transpired was hardly my blame.

An arrow in the trunk of a sturdy oak,

and on the ground, I found a bloody cloak,

my empty dream again delayed by intrigue,

short of the city by a mere two leagues.

I sought the source of this woodland's bleed,

o'er a faint path obscured by thorn and weed.

A whisper on the wind, a lament so stark,

the story of betrayal, etched in black bark.

A mystery unfolded under twilight's hue,

I followed the signs as the cold wind blew.

Deep into the forest, shadows danced with fate,

in the heart of silence, I pondered at the gate.

The city's lights lost in the distant gloom,

yet here I stood, where secrets loomed,

with every step, my chest's breath grew tight,

whispering tales of wanderers lost to the night.

With lantern in hand and a bold resolve,

deeper, I prayed my skeletons would absolve

me amid ancient, silent and grim guardians,

their twisted branches tracing tales so dim.

Suspense heightened with each step I took,

beneath the moon's pale, watchful look.

The wind whispered in a language of old,

of a knight betrayed for silver and gold.

In a clearing’s center under starry vault,

I found a grave, the betrayal's final halt,

where etched in stone, a name and a date,

a reminder that acquittal can come too late.

But the ghostly echoes wouldn’t let me rest,

seeking a champion to continue its quest...

to right the wrongs of a forgotten day,

and lift the shades darkening their way.

Compelled by the spirits, led by flighty fates,

I took up this charge, before it was too late

for me, the city of dreams no longer called,

the path of justice felt righteous and entralled.

Thus, in the heart of the woods, I swore,

to guard the forgotten, and explore

the horrors hidden by the veil of night,

to bring them to light, to set this land right.

I drew the secrets of the betrayal's sword,

I found my purpose, my destiny forward.

In the woodland's embrace, I stood stretching

as a Guardian of truths in that etching.

For this was my forgotten path to atone,

the blade grated from rock, the sword singing:

Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone

and anvil, is rightwise declared king.

This is from a prompt from NaPoWriMo Day 22.

The Cow ran Away with the Spoon

The cow and the spoon had leapt

in the light of the moon, a romance kept

from the haystack and the barn,

under star-speckled heavens, the yarn

unfolds after through the velvet night.

The cow dreamed of fields beyond sight,

of wildflowers. "Let's roam," she swooned

with a gleeful moo, "by the light of the moon!"

But the spoon longed for a quieter life,

away from the clatter, with fork and knife.

"A cozy drawer’s the place for a spoon,"

he sighed, reflecting the silvery moon.

The cow, with dreams of endless green,

couldn’t grasp Spoon’s quiet scene.

"Why linger in shadows, confined and tight,

when open fields offer endless delight?"

The clinking spoon declared his need,

"For order and calm and rest, I plead.

for the drawer’s embrace feels secure,

a perfect polish and clean I can endure."

Hearts once aligned under twilight's bloom,

their discordant fell into gloom.

For what one cherished, the other spurned,

and neither knew which way to turn.

Would they part ways, one wild, one tame?

Or find a path both could claim?

In the tales that follow, under moon’s soft light,

May they forge a dream to share each night.

The Day 23 prompt leads me to take up a recurring dream into a poem. of sorts. I've worked on this story for a long time, taking the prose into free verse. This is a work-in-progress (but aren't they all)

Dreamscape

i

In the velvet cloak of a dream,

cast deep in the heart

of a seventeenth-century Europe,

an inn murmurs with the echoes of time.

Its sturdy balcony rings the room

like a crown of royal thorns,

watches over the unfolding

of lives lurching below.

The torchlit tavern writhes

in an amber glow, humming

the melodies of old secrets

and new conspiracies.

ii

In the midst of jangling jugs

and low laughter and grunts,

I find myself draped

in the simple garb of a swordsman...

a yellowed tunic, gray wool trousers,

and a sword resting quietly by my side,

its presence as understated as my attire.

Seated alone with my back to the wall,

I keep a silent vigil of the room,

my eyes scanning the ebb and flow

of its collection of miscreants.

iii

A young couple descends

from the mysteries of the upper chambers,

their steps quiet against the wooden stairs.

Their proximity suggests intimacy,

yet their auras tell tales not of lovers,

but perhaps of companions

bound by different threads.

She, with her hair wound tightly,

shields her face from view,

while he, with eyes like autumn storms...

soft yet piercing like lightning...

acknowledges me with a nod

so slight it might have been imagined.

They sit near the door,

as if ready to escape.

iv

Trouble, as it is wont to do,

slinks silently into the tavern.

Two rough-hewn men,

faces set with ill intent,

converge upon the young man.

The woman rises, a prelude to panic,

but her companion gently stays her.

in a silent ballet of glances

and gestures, and in his eyes,

I recognize an unspoken request.

The decision to intervene

hangs heavy in the air, a question

poised at the edge of my mind

as much as the edge of my sword.

v

As the assailants grasp her brother,

chaos blooms like a cruel flower.

Her sharp scream... a summons

in the tavern's murky symphony...

cues my entrance to the foray.

Chair crashing, I surge forward,

my blade forgotten from my side,

as brute force becomes my ally.

The skirmish is brief but fierce,

a storm of limbs and shouts, and through it,

her companion thrusts her toward me

with a desperate plea: "Get Elena out of here!"

vi

Elena's hand in mine,

we weave through the chaos

of tables and brutal battles,

to the cool night outside,

where the promise of escape

waits in the silent stables.

My horse, a loyal shadow

stands ready at my approach.

With no time for saddles,

I lift her upon his back,

the urgent press of her lips

against mine a fleeting balm

laced with lavender and promise.

"Help my brother," she breathes,

a plea wrapped in a kiss.

vii

I whisper to my mount's ears,

as they vanish into the night,

the surreal becomes real,

wings unfurl from the horse,

lifting them into the starlit

escape of myth and dream.

Day 22 Prompt:

Nightmare's Echoes

Echoes of a past so bleak,

call us back to what they seek.

as adults, we tread the haunted mist,

to end the curse of terror's twists.

Upon the streets of my home town,

the whispers creep, of dread renown,

shadows lurk where light grows dim,

drains echo with a haunting hymn.

"Come play," it sings, a siren's call,

where laughter danced before our fall.

dragon's breath, with eyes of fire,

feeding on fear where the dark conspires.

Our band of the lost, whose fates twined,

in childhood games 'neath towering pines,

our innocence was soon betrayed,

By the clown whose smile’s a blade.

Taken by the grim, the meek and the bold,

faced horrors in the dark and cold.

Together in strength, yet each alone,

the past crushes what’s sewn in bone.

Each step a beat in a deadly dance,

in terror’s grip, we took our chance,

to kill the fear, to end its reign,

feasting on our childhood's pain.

Yet what awaits in the shadow’s heart,

rules terror tearing the soul apart,

in that dread holding our secrets deep,

where memories' lines and nightmares weep.

Echoes of a past so bleak,

call us back to what they seek.

as adults, we tread the haunted mist,

to end the curse with the knife's twists.

Time in a Box If I could write a poem in a box

for the future, I'd like to say

cherish every day,

don't let them take it away,

know... you can't turn back the clocks.

No one thought they would last forever,

and these words are all that I got,

like a treasure lot,

found buried in this spot,

long after I sailed down the river.

Live, love, and laugh for the moments,

do the things important to you,

show your gratitude

for lessons from old and from new,

avoid going in whimsical tangents.

If I could write a poem in a box

know... you can't turn back the clocks.

She, a little grey kitten

severed from protection

six weeks old, eyes open

senses alert for survival

she found her way to my gate

emaciated, fungi ridden

driven by life's purpose

'to live'

couple 2001

right side. shadow

spotlight

elongated image

reflected figures

narrative suggestion

tension.of relationship

as shadow twirls

one side longer

becoming equal

one side longer again

around through this cycle

evoking feelings of

emotional ebb and flow

couple 2001

left side shadow

spotlight

defined image

appears as a sensual heart

shadow shape prone

with rotation, light gaps

two parts appear

as if with the motion

one part slides along the other

in mutual sensuality

Couple 2001

story of figures

flesh coloured figures

liberated from statis

rotate through light beams

two figures melded

inseparable

permanent embrace

one, burgeoning breasts

other, beefy buttocks

symbols of softness and strength

she standing on his feet

arms wrapped around

he as erect as a plinth

spinning through 360 degrees

90 second rotation

equality, dependency need

To Loise Bourgeois (1911 - 2010)

Couple 2001

figures

flesh-coloured

furry fabric

spinning

suspended

sculpture in motion

clockwise

anti-clockwise

perpetual rotation

spot lights

opposing two

sides and angles

shadows

two, separate

synchronised

three stories

figures embrace, dance

sensuous left shadow

narrative right shadow

From the Day 19 Prompt.. I've always been taken into Van Gogh's Starry Night. The swirls, the flow inspired this poem, first created in 2007... and tweaked many times.

Life, Light, and Creation An energy flows within all

that is the Universe.

Connect your being to that flow,

the pulse, with your soul.

Life fills creation, 

flowing in and through all.  

No place, nor time exists, 

where life is not.  

Consider that Creation's Light 

lives in the many layers 

of our consciousness. 

Life expresses on all dimensions, 

in all planes of Creation.  

Light sustains Life with Love 

all from the Creator.  

We find Life everywhere, 

for Life expresses Love and Light.  

The three, the Trinity, 

of Creation. 

As you progress into the 

many layers of the Sight, 

Life, Light, and Love

sustain your soul. 

Day 18 prompt (Hey, I used one) Random tidbits of Earth Day thoughts

Why Not Every Day?

Why can't every day be Earth Day,

When I can play in mud and clay?

The grass whispers beneath my feet,

"Come dance with me, the day is sweet!"

In fields where daisies form a sea,

I sail my ship from a trusty tree.

I captain clouds from dawn till noon,

Turning cumulus into cartoons.

The beach's treasure chest opens wide,

With shells and rocks the waves can't hide.

I build sandcastles with moats dug deep,

Then guard them from the sea's sweep.

Why do grown-ups drive around,

When bicycles make a merry sound?

Could we swap cars for carts that fly,

Pedaled by feet under the sky?

At the zoo, the monkeys wink,

Do they know more than we think?

I'd ask them to join our Earth Day feast,

With bamboo shoots and berry treats.

Why not turn every fence or wall,

Into a canvas with paint for all?

We'd paint the world in greens and blues,

A masterpiece of bright, bold hues.

If ice cream solved the biggest fights,

We'd have peace and sweet delights.

Leaders laughing, sharing scoops,

No more troops in grumpy groups.

Trees are the best at keeping secrets,

Under leaves with whispered eaglets.

They clean our air with every breath,

And hug the Earth for life and death.

Why can't I play every day, when

We care for Earth in our many ways,

And learn from clouds, trees, and seas,

That being kind is the simple key.

Forgotten Postcard

Riffling through the old untouched books, 

acrid dust finds home on my tongue. 

A postcard flitters to the floor, 

It’s scent still sweet of your perfume. 

Words of a journey long ago. 

Passions of pen and ink to page. 

Memories renewed from beyond. 

How many years since your passing.

If you were here, would you be proud.

My child, smart, sweet, an artist too.

My job, I’m a manager now.

Yes I own my own home, a flat.

So much you chose to miss out on.

So much I want to share with you.

Memories flood and fill the mind.

A tear slips like you slipped away.

To the books I return your love.

I'll come back to these thoughts at a later time, but for now... Crave

hard work in the background

to ensure project success

and yearned to be recognized

for my sleep-deprived efforts

only to shrink when highlighted

at the project meeting

hours away from family

wore into their patience

and they met my desire

for approval as a hard worker,

with an indifference born

from the absence of my voice

where years whittled away

carving a masterpiece

chasing financial stability

only to arrive at the finish

to discover the anguish

of chipped decisions.

thinking an idea quickly is easy

thinking in rythym, not so easy

thinking so you understand

thinking so I touch your fantasy

thinking so I can make you care

now there is the rub

without you in mind

there is no intended message

words ramble, esoteric meanings

arbitrary scribblings on a page

words for words sake with nothing to say

dissolve into conceit

words create beliefs

that no one ever believes

thoughts with no purpose

can tie you in knots

'others' become charactitures

a narcisstic mirror difficult to break

Day 18: Maybe tongue breaker On the wooden swing

while on the swing

sky—grass—sky—grass—ska

the wee girl sings

la—dee—la—dee—da

proud fae listening

ha—hum—ha—hum—haha

fairies dance dew glistening

tap—toes—tap—toes—ta

song birds swirl cheerily

flip—flap—flip—flap—fla

fox sings along eerily

howl—bark—howl—bark--ba

lighting bugs zoom along

zip—zap—zip—zap—za

cricket contributes to song

zirp—chirp—zirp—chirp—cha

lady bugs a circle dance

tam—dee—tam—dee—ta

even the grumpy toad chants

oak—croak—oak—croak—cra

while the wee girl sings

la—dee—la—dee—da

sitting on the wooden swing

sky—grass—sky—grass—ska

Line

a crack crosses the road

like the change

from one world to the next

forming a barrier

to move from bleakness

to the uncharted depths

of transformation.

I crossed the line.

To bb

this person, soft-spoken

feminine appearance

gender identification unknown

wrote love poems afresh

words given a novel twist

touching my soul like no other

it was an experiment

a public moniker not

an individual's name

a moniker turned of in April

she said her good byes,

now she is gone

I feel cast adrift

a boat that's lost its rudder

yet as I pen these words

I remember a song

(and after I am gone, you'll say 'we sang in the sunshine')

I have grown

the oak's testament

the vigil

for centuries i stood guard,

preserving like a stoic bard,

my broad arms shield and shade,

in whispered winds my words played.

my stout trunk held nature's stage

but lately i've felt advancing age.

the surrender

i cried out when steel bit deep,

my towering form felled to sleep.

amongst the ferns, i laid to rest,

a titan downed, yet unbowed my chest.

my winged friends, like garden gnomes

stared, though no longer at home. 

the lament

along my own leaf-strewn floor,

i mourned the heights i'd soar no more.

my crown would never serve the sun

as my broken branches' death had begun.

yet in my heart, the sap still stirred,

hope sighed in each song unheard.

the second life

a craftsman arrived with gentle hand,

caressed my bark with practiced band.

i saw my future in his cheerful eyes,

where he carved beauty from my demise

with caring touch and each blade's cut,

he carried my pain to his work hut.

the rebirth

new forms took shape from my rugged trunk,

a table’s smile brought me from my funk,

with purposeful poise and gentle grace

in a chair's curve and cradle's embrace,

he gave me rebirth in polished grains,

to live in the home, a guardian again.

the continuance

now in the quiet of cozy rooms,

my spirit soars as my legacy blooms.

not merely wood, but crafted art,

in each new piece, he shares my heart.

from leafy giant to cherished friend,

my life transformed and without end.

In the mystical city of Luminara, reality blends with magic. Eliana, a gifted young woman plagued by self-doubt and haunted by unseen barriers, possesses the rare ability to see the true essence of the universe, but a thick, impenetrable fog clouds her vision—a fog born of her own fears and insecurities.

Beyond the Veil

1

The City of Mists

I walk through a malcontent of mist,

shadows merge and twist around me.

Brushing oppression from my eyes,

I shake dullness from my mind,

a sun-dimmed, sealed chamber,

choking whispers beneath

muted gaslamps' glare.

Half-seen streets, a dream

within a nightmare's scream,

where light and dark entwine

 in endless, eerie mockery.

The cobbled streets

swallow my foot falls,

weaving tangled thoughts,

each a foggy alleyway,

a mind maze without escape.

I find a hidden beauty plays

in the pallid haze of obscurity,

a cityscape concealed in hide-and-seek,

where secrets remain unrevealed,

calling to my weary hunch

to search beyond the gray dark.

Ensnared by doubts and fears,

I yearn for the clouds to clear,

to find the clarity and conviction

to lighten shadowed skies.

Time

time is dark changing into light

light changing into dark

I imagine Louise Bourgois as I write

and I think of First Nation People *

belittled for not knowing what time of the day it was

here is the portal into our attitude, what is a minute or hour

why is 9am important, why do we need to know what time it is

our notion of time, time as independent of any event

comes from a moment when Society extended beyond

local groups, brought into a communal relation with each other

time needs to be captured and tied down

first sundials and waterclocks create time's cell

mechanical clocks dissect, determine

a minute separated by an abstract notion

independent of any event

and now we live with arbitrary breaks

our work life Driven by abstract time

and we forget that minute isn't necessarily a moment

and a moment can be lost if you think of minutes

First Nation People understood more about time than us

*First Nation People is the modern address for those who were called Australian Aboriginals.

Day 17 prompt Paradoxically me Punchbag underneath

a pink blossomed tree

flowery dress with a bow

and boots with steel capped toes

half the alphabet behind my name

accidentally wearing two different shoes—the shame!

hot headed anger about your greed

never ending patience with one in need

dancing all night all heat and sweat

being antisocial staying in bed

dirt from the garden underneath fingernails

before opera visit sipping cocktails

making my own dresses from the remnant bin

and designer blouse soft silk on skin

mountain biking on muddy paths

two daily showers and sometimes a bath

all light and warmth

or lightning and storm

creative writing, drawing, painting, making, baking

staring into space for hours without breaking

I am who I need to be

moment, by moment, by moment

Day 16 Prompt Coming Home Homo Faber

Loathed the book

Like most High-School reads

Feelings too relatable

Like a film character

Placed into the wrong movie set Nothing ever quiet right

Until

One day

The backseat of a postie’s car

Functioning as local cab

Driving over a pass

Somewhere in the Northwest Highlands

Unstoppable tears

Words on repeat

I am home

I am home

I am home

It's another catchup day. I think this makes 13. It would have been far better to have numbered the posts. :D

Bog Orchid

On the Cabot Trail

at the top of French Mountain,

in the bog,

a delicate flower

blooming alone

in the pink of June.

with the serenity

of a princess' slipper.

Amid whispering moss

and mysterious mist,

guarded by the stoic spruce,

subtle style resists

the harsh winds

rugged, untouched clime

a lone treasure,

nature's swaying rhyme.

I read a prompt to examine the world around you. This is an adventure in the backyard at dawn.

Backyard

the darkest of the night,

with stars like scattered seeds,

across the velvet darkness.

The moon, its guardian,

silver and serene,

watches with gentle pull

over this tranquility.

an owl hoots,

calling to the moon,

wings beat over my ears.

creeks like silver threads

meander through landscapes weave,

their murmurs a song at dawn.