Does hope really
have feathers?
Or is it green
and vulnerable
springing
up from the ground?
Or is it a tiny speck of light
like the occasional spot
appearing
in a photograph
not visible
through the lens
but there on the image
Or is hope a dark
insubstantial thing
following like a shadow
hunting you down
55 words for Hedgewitch who carries on the proud tradition at Verse Escape.
I have two responses to this wonderful image by by Sarolta Ban posted on The Sunday Muse a weekly photo prompt site for writers, poets, and blogging enthusiasts.
#1
Women Who Run with the Wolves, the Later Years
#2
The woodsman did not
save Grandmother
from the wolf
Crones and wolves
have always been
confederates
When you think
of treachery and carnage
remember who wields the ax
and who tells the tale
Histories written by victors
always require scrutiny.
Ask around, look beyond
peek behind the curtain
see the other side
What you find
might well surprise you
Ghosts document my misery
as I stare, unblinking
into the next ring
fumbling for my ticket
I’m caught in ropes of smoke
trapped by the cyclops,
for the image of a thing is the thing
and the image of a soul,
well, you know…
Mirror, mirror on the wall
the next train to Hell
is now boarding
at gate seven.
Please watch your step.
I’m really rusty at this, but I loved the picture, so figured, meh – let’s give it a try. This is for The Sunday Muse , a weekly photo prompt site for writers, poets, and blogging enthusiasts. Follow the link and check it out.
I imagined
communicating with the dead
was shrouded
in mystery
But it’s not
It’s a note
in his handwriting
tucked into a favorite book
it’s the smell of
his closet
it’s the work gloves
still stiff with
the shape of his hands
Communication with the dead
is small, common
everyday
and
pretty much
one way
This is a 55 word version of a longer piece I’ve been noodling with for FF 55 hosted by Hedgewitch, with a tip of the hat to Galen. Click on the link to go to her blog, Verse Escape, and join the fun!
I used to imagine
communicating with the dead
was a wispy, fine-spun thing
shrouded in mists and veils.
There must be darkness
and hands held around a table
and maybe chanting…
My eyes would most likely
roll back in my head
my body go rigid,
a voice would whisper
from somewhere beyond,
and we would all be left in a stupor
filled with awe and wonder.
But it’s not like that at all.
It’s a note
in his handwriting
tucked into a favorite book.
It’s someone mentioning her name;
maybe a story
you hadn’t heard before.
Or a story you’ve heard
a thousand times.
It’s junk mail
addressed to him,
asking for money or a vote
he can no longer give.
It’s the smell of her closet
for awhile.
It’s the work gloves you find
still stiff with the shape of his hands.
Communicating
with the dead
is small, common, everyday.
It can be soft and comfortable
or piercing.
It can come at any time.
The one drawback
to communicating with the dead
is that it’s pretty much
one way.
I stand
at the cross roads
where the rose blooms
With no path chosen
I live
in limbo
and the rose
drops her petals
I read somewhere
that today is cardigan day
in honor of Mr. Rogers.
This is not a poem,
really,
but I adore Mr. Rogers –
with his cardigans and his sneakers
puppets and fish,
his opera and jazz,
his kindness,
and his radical message
of love of neighbor,
even neighbors with different
colors, nationalities, abilities.
That soft-spoken,
ungainly man
is my hero
and today I will wear a cardigan.
*Note: Image from Smithsonian Magazine
