leaves leaving ~ a cethramtu rannaigechta moire

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 😀

ash ~ a free verse

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









***

Mindfills of s.s. for d’Verse quadrille hosted by Sarah Southwest- ash, and d’Verse Poetics hosted by Ingrid – ‘from a place of pain’

evening ~ an imayo

The Himalaya ~ Dec 2020
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.

Thank you Colleen for selecting me for the photo promt for this week. I am including a link to the image here. https://mindfills.wordpress.com/2021/10/18/tilini/

Angkor ~ prosery

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

desk ~ a haibun

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



***

Mindfills in gratitude to Miriam Sagan of Miriam’s Well who conducted a Haibun workshop and I signed up and wrote this. 🙏

And the image is for Cee’s FOTD – marigold from my garden