leaves leaving ~autumn calls loud and clear let go - fall
floating free one by one yellow flakes have some fun
the wind says ride on me I'll take you down gently
I’m trying this poetry form I met on Val’s blog Murisopsis. It’s a Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire, an Irish poetical form that is composed of one or more quatrains where all lines are limited to 3 syllables. The 2nd and 4th lines rhyme. A poetic form I can’t pronounce 😀
scent of ash sneaking out of a memory locked in time warped by moments and madness whose embers never died or so it seems as the magic of our last kiss wafts at my cold feet willing me to gather the remnants of yesterday
evening unfurls parasol striped pink and orange mountain looks up adoring opening his arms letting swathes of dusk's desires splay and play his slopes ~ what colours the night may bring can just wait awhile
Mindfills of s.s. for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesdays synonyms only – twilight (evening, dusk) and hue (colour) , word choice by Willow, in imayo – a Japanese Poetry form of four lines of 7/5 syllables each.
He sat on an ancient block of granite. The symmetrical serpents carved on it had collected some of the recent rain and his pants soaked in some of it. He gingerly turned another page of his grandfather’s brittle notebook, cursive writing recording a day at this very place, a day perhaps quite like this one.
His eyes swept the expanse of the Angkor ruins, peeling off layers of time. He let his mind drift along the network of the banyan roots that soaked up human history, mixed up in mystical mythology of the temples, lifting ever-living, never-living spirits to blue skies that didn’t seem to care at all. People lived here once, people with dreams and gods and laughter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish? Why was this great city built? Why was it abandoned?
Mindfills for dVerse’s prosery monday hosted by Mish – “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?” TS Eliot
I rest my head on my desk. My just woken-up eyes sweep the knicks and knacks of decades, centuries even, strewn as if time doesn’t matter. My mug is still warmed by morning tea. A bubble of ear pods blink red. An armband that keeps my phone safe from the Indian monsoon while I run regardless, needs replacement. Remind me to order on amazon.
Inches away is a white tile with my name emblazoned on it – a gift proffered to me by tiny hands of my children a decade ago. Just above, perched on an heirloom, passed on daughter to daughter, stands a picture of my father, my miracle deliverer, from somewhere beyond my sight, from somewhere within me.
clutter on my desk tethering my DNA ~ ancestors approve