Summer rain

Tiny crystal ball

Reflecting petal, leaf, grass,

Clear kaleidoscope

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Cluttered desk – a pantoum for Jane Dougherty

Here among these rags and tatters,
Scraps of paper, scribbled lines,
I keep some things that really matter –
Images of older times

Scraps of paper, scribbled lines,
Crayoned letters, drawn with care,
Images of older times,
As if I could hold you there,

Crayoned letters, drawn with care,
A flower you drew, a finger print,
As if I could hold you there,
But years pass faster than a blink.

A flower you drew, a finger print,
So tiny, when I see it now,
But years past faster than a blink
And you are so much older now.

So tiny, when I see it now,
The past, compressed into a jewel,
And you are so much older now,
My treasure; shining, sunlit pool:

The past compressed into a jewel,
In all the chaos of my life,
My treasure – shining sunlit pool,
Warming my soul with quiet delight.

In all the chaos of my life,
I keep some things that really matter,
Warming my soul with quiet delight,
Here among these rags and tatters.

Jane gives us a picture of her writing space as a quirky prompt. As Jane is the Queen of Forms, I felt it was appropriate to attempt one. This is a pantoum, which I find strangely soothing.

Ghosts at my table

there are ghosts at my table tonight
I write, not mentioning that
my table is a pale rectangle
of wood, so that perhaps
you picture your own table,
round, white, plastic –
or a dark mahogany oval,
and your ghosts are
the dark ring left by
a wine bottle, the last time
you had dinner with
a long lost lover,
or the scorched place
where you set down a pan
too quickly, the day
you heard that news
about your sister, while mine
are the assorted stains
and scratches left by my
children as they leave their
childhood, not quite ghosts,
waiting to fade.

Metafictionfor the Toads

Kintsugi.

I have been considering
kintsugi, and how
we heal ourselves,
we who are no longer whole,
and if we can
be beautiful
and flawed
and flawed
and beautiful.

I have considered
my scars, not golden,
not joyful,
not thoughtful, but
silver pale, glistening,
secret lines,
hidden from view,
and wondering
if I can be beautiful
even though
I can never be
mended, not entirely.

I am broken,
re-made,
broken again,
mended. I am
burnt, cut,
poisoned,
damaged.
I am not
who I was,
and yet I am
still here,
beautiful
and flawed
and flawed
and beautiful.

Midnight Villanelle

Some of us cannot resist
The haunting owl’s cry:
Maybe we are midnight-kissed.
Soft twilight soothes us,
Moonlight makes us sigh,
Some of us cannot resist,
Fire burning in the darkness,
Watching the sparks fly –
Maybe we are midnight-kissed.
The bat’s swift darting thrills us,
And the fox creeping by,
Some of us cannot resist
A pale moon, dripping stardust,
Dark clouds rolling by.
Maybe we are midnight kissed.
The night world is our play place
I’ll tell you why
Some of us cannot resist –
It’s because we’re midnight-kissed.

I might be too late with this villanelle. It’s for Mindlovemisery’s menagerie. I think I could do better…need to try again at some point. Maybe not today. 

Night creature

In the night hedge
Where shadows cluster
And weave their midnight webs
I heard a sound
As if something moved there
And caught a flash
Perhaps of eyes
Perhaps of teeth
Or maybe nothing,
Just the dark moving
Of leaf and branch
A flame of light
Caught in a raindrop
Or perhaps eyes
Perhaps teeth.

This is not an official challenge, but Jane Dougherty posted this picture, and I got caught up in it. the_story_of_the_sun_moon_and_stars_1898_14778865395