Caught in the Wind

leaves blown

Caught in the wind
like lonely crow’s caw of despair.
Caught in the wind
words spilled, lost to the world, then pinned
against a branch – a scrap of prayer,
tattered and flapping, yet still there,
caught in the wind.

This is a Rondelet (see below for sepcifics)  written in response to “Fussy Little Forms” at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

I couldn’t find who took the photo.  If it’s yours let me know and I’ll either credit you, or remove it, as you choose.

The Rondelet is a seven line French poetry from with the following rhyme and meter:

Line 1 :: A—four syllables
Line 2 :: b—eight syllables
Line 3 :: A—repeat of line one
Line 4 :: a—eight syllables
Line 5 :: b—eight syllables
Line 6 :: b—eight syllables
Line 7 :: A—repeat of line one

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Woman with Long Hair

woman-with-long-hair-1929.jpg!Large
Woman with Long – Hair, Man Ray, 1929

I am the woman with the long hair
grown through years of want
and waiting

I am the woman with the stillborn dreams
feeling them dry up within me
throughout my gestation

I am the woman with the red shoes
dancing for my life
as the crowd looks on

I am the woman with the arching back
bent to your will
always aching

I am the woman with the bloody hands
reaching for a cigarette
sick of all the bullshit sacrifice

This is for the November Photographic Challenge at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

Half Life

As I drift off to sleep I hear voices
like a radio playing, softly
in another room
just below
the threshold of understanding

In the morning
the voices are gone.
There is no radio
playing anywhere in the house
and so I go
about my day

Each night I listen
but I can never, quite hear
enough
to understand
and I cannot remember my dreams

 

This is written for the Sunday mini-prompt at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, where we have been asked to think and write about hearing voices.

 

Loss

Loss curls around him
rubbing against his stubbled cheek
he turns his face to it
and swallows it whole

he feels it circle then settle, heavy
and smooth in his belly
like a stray cat
coming home

inside he is windswept
flapping around the dark pit of absence
bleak as the moors in November
and falling
always falling

 

This started out as a quadrille (44 words) but I came back to it, fiddled, and added a few more.  Now it’s linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads where they are hosting an open forum.

Brownian Motion

ropollen
Red Oak pollen from the Department of Environmental Conservation

Organisms move
in a seemingly random dance
and people in our lives
enter and leave
at unknown intervals

There is a day
when leaves begin to turn
and geese fill the sky
with their southerly dance
and the sun bows down
ever earlier

Blind and deaf,
we do not see
the pattern of the steps
or hear the music
but only feel its beat
reverberating through our bodies

This is for the Imaginary Garden, where Bjorn asked us to write something about Brownian Motion, which he explained  as, “which is the random motion of particles suspended in a fluid that can be observed through a microscope.”

Our Costumes were a Big Bang, in Theory

I pulled on opaque tights
with sensible shoes
denim skirt
mismatched blouse and sweater
thick glasses
and the tiara of
Amy Farrah-Fowler.

Then colored the bald head
of my husband
with a brown grease pencil,
while he sported his Flash tee-shirt
and khaki slacks
ala Sheldon Cooper.

It might have been more fun
had I not replied,
when asked what I wanted to drink,
“Tepid water, please.”

img_0852

Photo by Mary Bach’s phone

Nerd Alert!  When Mama Zen asked for 65 words about Halloween costumes over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads I decided to show and tell what the hubs and I did last year.  You might just want to click on the link and check out the rest of the toads in the garden.  :o)