There is in the air
the risk of rain that makes me second guess my intentions and turn over my passions in the palm of my hand to see what demons lie hidden behind them Rain drops find my fingertips and linger between my umbrella and me reminding my dry hair of the way the elements feel washing over my exposed shoulders Rain wash me clean and hold me in a blanket of sorrow so that I learn to linger and not be drowned by life Soothe my shoulders so I can risk raising my lips to the sky to drink the rain as it falls and nourish myself with the sweetness of the clouds while they cleanse me with melancholy
Photo by Matteo Catanese on Unsplash
Tonight on DVerse, we are exploring the theme of risk.
Those fingers in my hair,
that sly come hither stare that strips my conscience bare – it’s Witchcraft
– Frank Sinatra, Witchcraft
She must have seen me first
through a thousand years of history, for when she came to my door she wore the exact name of my future. She gazed through me with eyes a thousand years long, until I felt I belonged there, trapped behind her pupils. Her fingers passed the universe through my callused palms while she read my fate in a calm voice I could not understand. With molten lead she cleansed my eyes of all evil until she became my sight and I could see nothing but her. With a thousand spells, she reversed the moon and became my night sky and when I tried to question her and I, she made me forget all of my why’s.
Written based on
Eugi’s Weekly Prompt – Magic – May 20, 2021:
the night glows lively
I feel the magic don’t you
moments to cherish
Photo by Rowan Heuvel on Unsplash
By destiny bound,
two men stood side by side, surrounded by sound pouring from cheering human tides. The day was set for future to dawn, there on the White House lawn, under a noon-time sun. The light was blinding, the old man finding it hard, to read the words he wrote, forced to speak from his heart a truth at once brighter, stronger, surer, than when last he spoke it when his intentions were purer. For he came this day, to join hand in hand, with the political future of a much younger man. They stood and smiled and waved, til the crowd had gone home, neither knowing that before long, they both would be gone.
DVerse, the prompt today calls for us to write about a famous poet. Your title must include the poet’s name and you should try and employ something of the poet’s style.
The words bleed through the page like open wounds
sewn shut with scratch-marks, dried into imitations of themselves. I had to gouge the falseness from the spaces between each letter so when I wound a thick gauze around my wounded words they would heal.
Photo by Peter Chiykowski on Unsplash
DVerse, the prompt today is to write a Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title, that includes today’s prompt word, “wound” in the body of the poem. We can use the word “wound” or a form of the word – not a synonym for the word.
I, in my mirror’s image,
am inverted and yet to my imperfect eyes I see myself whole in that reflection. I, in time, refine my methods of seeing to find only what that false reflection already so cruelly defined. Who am I to read my mind? All I do is think thoughts others have already rhymed and internalize the false reflections I see mimed in other’s eyes. Under those eyes, mine, the lines stretch long as I try to re-invert that mirror image to show myself a reflection that is truly mine.
Photo by ali syaaban on Unsplash
Eugi’s Weekly Prompt, we are asked to craft a poem from the following prompt:
viewpoint from within
heightened thoughts emerging soon
She was sitting quietly at roadside with the body of a lion and the wings of an eagle when I chanced upon her.
So silent was her repose that I had no warning of her presence until it was too late to turn back. Without even a hello she gazed through my eyes and said: “Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things?” I wondered what gods she believed in. I knew that no matter the answer I gave, I would be wrong. My answer was silence. The space between us echoed with my answer’s absence. “What a disappointing answer,” she muttered, almost to herself, grabbing and devouring me in one bite. I never got the chance to gloat when a second later I realized that my answer had been correct.
Photo by Karen Khafagy on Unsplash
DVerse, the prompt today is to write a piece of flash fiction or other prose up of up to or exactly 144 words, including the given line of poetry:
“Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart
which safely exists in the center of all things? – Rainer Maria Rilke
“I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library”
– Jorge Luis Borges
Shards of light
through dust particles flicker like fireflies dancing through dim-lit rooms in unpredictable flight patterns. The yellow sun of noontime shakes off its rays across the spines of yellowed and crackling books, abandoned to time’s hands. The air is stale-sweet, the musty heaviness of sweating books mixing with the scents of vanilla and tobacco that linger among the pages like memories. Shelves born mahogany have washed themselves pale-brown with the soft-bleaching sunshine of many forgotten years and lines of paleness have been etched across shelf and book alike at the angle of sunlight through windows to mark time’s passing. My fingers trace this discoloration from book to book towards the small window as my eyes slow-adjust to the dim light and the ghosts that float around me. I must be the first visitor in ages, my mere presence mixing up the dust as I crack open a random book to its first page. There is no one here but me and all of human history, bound in fraying spines and crackling covers. The solitude feels almost like how I would imagine paradise.
Photo by 🇸🇮 Janko Ferlič on Unsplash
Eugi’s Weekly Prompt, we are asked to craft a poem from the following prompt:
sun kissed paradise
ours is a world of our own
like a blanket stretched over the sky making heavy the world’s eyes and drawing the lighthouse keeper from the comfort of his bed. Though it was said that he never slept, in truth, the lighthouse keeper laid in darkness through sunshine days so that he was accustomed at all times to the night and its horrors. If you ever chanced upon him by day he might say what he said to me on that otherwise unremarkable midsummer day: “My eyes can see beyond the horizon in those first minutes of the night – In the air I can smell danger and see ships devoured by the rocks. I can feel the souls of sailors scattered all along this shore. … The more I see of the night the more I fear. Nowhere is how little we truly are more clear. Let it be said that fear was my first friend here and she shall be my last. She will have my back to my dying day.” He spoke no more and was gone and though I saw him no more, I have heard it said that though his light was never extinguished and no ship perished on his shores he died young with grey hair and skin-spots and the same weary eyes I saw all those years before because that fear and the ghosts only he could see slowly consumed his life out in that lonely lighthouse.
Photo by Danish Prakash on Unsplash
DVerse today, the challenge is to write a poem in the voice of a fictional character. It can be any character you like, and you can introduce it in your own voice if you choose (à la Coleridge, though I certainly wouldn’t insist on this) but the main body of the poem must be in the voice of your character.
Like a seed
the thought arrived on westward winds blown from foreign fields beyond comprehension It laid roots and rainwater rivers ran through sprouting flowers into sun-dashed days Suddenly it fled on an eastern wind leaving me distracted by the beauty of its blooming
Photo by Barna Kovács on Unsplash
DVerse, the Quadrille prompt asks that we write poem must be exactly 44 words and include the word seed.
Her glasses sit lightly
across the bridge of her nose, reflecting early autumn sunlight so that to my unaccustomed eyes < She is blinding > even after the sunlight recedes and I close my eyes to sunset hues, sun-spots bleed deep blue across my vision in the shape of her name.
Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash
DVerse this Tuesday, the challenge is to write a poem about bridges OR write a Puente (Spanish for “bridge”), which is a poem that uses a line with a tilde (~) to connect two stanzas.