Gestation

 

From some inner dark,

glimmer seeds of love and light;

a mother gives birth.

From emotion's well,

once-silent words are drawn forth;

a poet writes.

With thanks to The Sunday Muse for their inspiration.

Too hot to handle?

Heat-wave shimmer over an arc of sky

is echoed above the crowded cities;

houses huddle together, whispering

desperate pleas to an uncaring World

where selfishness rules. Natural order

is out of balance, and pollution reigns.

Blinkered by dark glasses, humanity

throws back its head, howls at this injustice

without admitting the part they had played

in its creation. A radical change

of consciousness is imperative, now.

Only Time's future seeds will be able

to witness final success or failure;

whom will History blame for either end?

Thanks to the Sunday Muse for the inspiration

Internalisation

 

The artist's model sat as though entranced by some secret known only to herself, calm and detached from the real world; an ideal subject for any painter.  
Faced with a blank, white canvas, palette and brushes poised for action, he sensed this air of secrecy, and knew he must be the one to capture it in the portrait already taking shape in his mind's eye. 
As the image began to emerge, the very air thrummed with a mysterious energy, joining the painter with his subject in a dance of inspirational delight. A masterpiece was about to be born...

Thanks to Carrie at the Sunday Muse for another image destined to spark a Blogger's imagination. :-)

Time to Muse?

   

Sea Dreams

Carried on the rising tide of night, flotillas of persistent dreams set sail, while whirlpools circumnavigate my mind - attempt to drown it.

I pray for quiet sleep to steer a course towards a harbour's calm waters. But all the while I hear the cries of ancient nightmares sinking down towards night's ocean bed, biding time to resurface... 

Thanks once again to Carrie at The Sunday Muse, where a time warp happens to allow me to post an offering on a Saturday. Ain't time and technology wonderful? 

All in the mind...

 On a dull, damp weekend, what better than to visit Carrie, to see what is afoot... And the prompt picture subject is a four-footed being, just waiting for me to come out of retirement to play! With apologies for seeing (and capturing) the unexpected angle...

The Shaman

In dreamtime, he enters a Sacred Space, 

far from the baying hounds of whirling Dark.  

He summons forth great Spirit Energies; 

"Come, instil in us the Hunter's Power -

give us silent, padding feet as we stalk,

ever cautious, towards our wary prey.

Let our arrows fly true, kill with mercy

the wild beasts on whom our survival rests."

With his ancestral gods, his mind entwines

and travels far beyond those realms in which 

the anxious hunters wait for his return...

Cause and effect

 

Out of nowhere, the snow-blizzard hit. It whipped my wrap-around skirt into a frenzy, then whisked it away. Up, up it billowed skywards, baring my fishnet-clad legs to the raging elements... I screamed curses towards the leaden clouds... 

But the winds retaliated, blinded me with my own hair, which snaked across my face, stinging, like the locks of Medusa.

Why did I storm out of that party just because I saw them kissing?

Unusual, for me, to have a flight of fancy that doesn't land on the page as a poem. But thanks to the Sunday Muse for galvanising me into action!

Game for a Laugh?

 I guess any Bloglanders who happen to read this post, may identify with at least part of it - i.e. us Oldies do tend to harp back to the past, occasionally - if not a lot.

Today, while searching for something I know is tucked away on some blog page of mine, I happened to go here, and ended up laughing like a loon. It's not normally a good sign if one laughs at one's own jokes.  But I put it to you, that in view of the time lag between 2009 and 2021, it's almost as though I'm laughing at somebody else. Who is/was this odd person willing to share proof of idiocy with all and sundry?

And a not-only-but-also here.  And if neither of these links let you have a good giggle, then Jinksy's lost the plot...

Like the White Rabbit, I'm late, I'm late!

 But on discovering this photo on Sunday Musing's blog. I had an urge to let the words flow, so read on below:-

Poppy fields and paper planes? They shoot thoughts back to a war, when planes were metal and poppy fields ran with blood.

But now, any mention of poppies catapult thoughts spinning to the drug barons, who have succeeded in making red poppies more deadly than silver bullets, and our whole world a battlefield...

Four more lines and a title!

 OK, there may be a few days gap in real life, but in BlogTime, this is in direct response to my long-time Blogpal RWP's suggestion for making my last post's offering into a 'proper' Petrarchan sonnet.

Ever one to rise to a challenge, I've attempted to comply with the rules, and here goes, title and all!

April’s Plea

Without a sunbeam's brush to gild her frame,

brave April's countenance betrays her plight.

She calls her hero, 'Helios!' in vain.

Then, crestfallen, she cowers out of sight...

Capricious forces conjure sun and rain 

into eternal conflict. Dark lords and bright

wage their wars, as moon-tides wax and wane

throughout the universe's star-drenched night,

until, by morning, rotund Earth's revolved

in deference to laws decreed long since.

Then sun-flamed beams put shadow-clouds to flight,

their unshed tears like morning mists dissolved,

as Helios, our hero, on his plinth 

stands proud, the great defender of the light.

And the year rolls on -

 From December to April, this blog and I have remained silent, whilst all around the pandemic has raged , regardless.

Perhaps it was the sunshine that prompted me to post today. Who knows? But rather than creating something new, I'm copying a few lines I originally wrote on Alias Jinksy, but they are missing a title. Perhaps any Napple Notes reader who may wander by, could supply one for me? But I shan't be holding my breath, for wanderers may be scarce, hehehe...

 Capricious forces conjure sun and rain 

into eternal conflict. Dark lords and bright

wage their wars, as moon-tides wax and wane

throughout the universe's star-drenched night,

until, by morning, rotund Earth's revolved

in deference to laws decreed long since.

Then sun-flamed beams put shadow-clouds to flight,

their unshed tears like morning mists dissolved,

as Helios, our hero, on his plinth 

stands proud, the great defender of the light.