Amber buries time.
Warm-touch fire shadows flame
in eternal light.
No spider could ever weave
a tomb to endure so long.
120 Socks, driver of the Poetry Bus for 21st February, suggested the word 'Amber' for aspiring Ticket Holders, and I wrote this Tanka - a poetic form using 5-7-5-7-7 syllables in its five short lines.
The last line started life as "a web which would last so long." Then I changed it to 'a web of such brilliance', as it was the eternal light-flames that I had in my mind. But my dear mentor suggested the above amendment, 'a tomb to endure so long', as it re-inforces the 'tomb' aspect of amber for the spider, as well as web for a fly! I can see his point, and thank him for the idea and the words with which he expressed it. If we change our collective mind again, there will be further edits!
He must be hallucinating. The chill had seeped through his clothing, as though the fabric was blotting paper, soaking up liquid cold.
The abandon chair had seemed like a refuge, when he first noticed it across the field. Surely, there would be habitation, human company and help nearby, or how would the chair have come to be there?
He struggled through deep drifts, squinting into the sun as he tried to make out signs of a settlement or buildings. No such luck. The chair was plumb in the middle of nowhere. But as he grew closer, he saw a vague outine of a body - surely a judge in robes and wig? The tapestry figure became more solid until his feverish mind saw it in 3D Technicolor, and he heard it speak! "How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?"
A very late ticket for the 14th February Poetry Bus, with apologies to Dana Bug for nearly missing the bus.
And if you still can't see my 'Judge' - here he is, in silhouette for you!
The alien creature gazed at me through slanting eyes, black beady almond shaped things, with a blank and menacing stare that added nothing to its charm. It was impossible to tell whether the crinkled surface of its face was its own skin, or that of some breathing-apparatus-cum-hood, designed to keep it alive in our polluted atmosphere.
Its features reminded me of an owl, for the outer tips of its eye sockets resembled the ears of one of those majestic birds, and the white triangle of its forehead ended in a rounded snout, or possibly, beak, although it gave no sign of incorporating a mouth.
Atop its head, a short, cylindrical dome might have been either headgear, or part of its strange anatomy, and from time to time, laser beams spiralled upwards from the small openings in the domed apex. The lower part of its body disappeared into the blackness which surrounded it...
I stood still and waited for it to make the first move.
Thus goes my offering for this week's Magpie Tales, thanks to Willow.
Mind and memory intermingle. Some
scenes are sharply etched upon a screen
stored within the confines of our brain.
But when the camera rolled to capture shots,
as we, the actors, played our chosen parts,
it may have picked a random point of view
unlike own. And so, the action replay
which we look at to remember, may not
be exactly as we hoped. In retrospect,
the shifting scenes may give us pause for thought.
Remembrances could prove to be but lies,
if wishful thinking added overlays
of meaning. In colour pictures that our eyes
thought fact, fiction may have intervened.
An arrow points the mind in one direction,
but eyes will focus on their own choice of subject...
One portion of the larger whole, captures
my imagination. A giraffe spirit stands
poised between the winter tree trunks,
it's white and black form out of place
amongst the snow in an alien landscape.
Once interpreted this way, my brain refuses
to let it fade into the background, despite
logical intervention of thoughts roaming inside
my head. Perhaps the animal spirit needed
me, as writer, to birth it into eternal life...
Willow, your unusual picture this week lead me down a strange path, but isn't that what prompts are all about?Exploration!Many thanks to your all seeing eye that captured the original image...
Bat Man and Robin were set to go; but what if their wet weather gear
hampered their flying skills?
Perhaps they should pull a sickie?!
Susan at Stony River has to be thanked for this rainy day romp. May the sun shine on her and all other MFM participants this Monday. And now for the other half of the picture...for it's two for the price of one today, folks!
A grey day is transformed to blue
when you find what a computer can do!
The mind reflects the stillness of calm water,
as it contemplates this mirrored image.
But this land is barren, and will give no quarter
to wildlife. Man made skylines will not damage
the artist's vision. Forever it will remain
ideal, a proud example of an island state
rising like a mirage from some domain
which paints itself upon our screen. Fate
will deal with it kindly. It will never age,
captured as it is in pixels. Machine and man
have created a Nirvana of the Space Age
which exists in no-mans-land. It can
however, be a stepping stone between
our world and another, which waits unseen...
From Rallentanda in Australia comes another POW prompt for us to write about, and I have penned a somewhat tongue in cheek haiku for her, in view of recent happenings in that far off land!
I wish all the best to the many people whose lives have been affected by their country's flood disasters. May they find the help they need to rebuild their lives as quickly as possible.
On a night when the snow whispers at the windows and the wind wanders in the wildwood, we huddle round our fires, and listen to the Story Teller. This is one of his tales...
"Many years ago, people were used to travelling long distances on foot, no matter how bad the weather. So one wintry afternoon, when three young women from hereabouts set out to walk to the next village, nobody thought it strange.
By early evening, the wind gained in strength and the cold grew in intensity and a veritable blizzard blanketed the countryside. Everyone assumed the girls would stay with kinsfolk overnight, or until the storm had abated.
When peace descended on the land, and folk once more went about their daily business, half way between our settlement and the next, as if by magic, they found three fir trees had appeared, full-grown overnight. But of the three girls, nothing was ever heard again..."
Thanks to Willow for her Magpie Tales #49, which inspired this flight of fancy, as well as another one, over on Napple Notes!
Music notes? Are they a dream?
"Mere dots on lines" are what they seem
to unaccustomed eyes.
Some join with tails that fall or rise.
But some blobs sit, round and alone
in a space they call their own,
until we learn of the secret code's F, A, C, E, music names. A toad,
hopping in between those lines
might search for reason or for rhyme,
but find none.
But one
who understands tonic sol-fa
soon finds there are
corresponding sounds, which,
to one with perfect pitch,
may be translated into song,
before very long. "Do re mi
fa so la ti
do"
gives us an octave, don't you know?
Once a composer writes a score,
it's there to share for ever more,
thanks to musicians who translate
what he first heard inside his pate!
Magpie Tales #48 photo prompt supplied by Willow, as seen through the eyes of Jinksy!
Thanks to a comment from Catifsh Tales, I discovered today this delightful piece of music played on an Erhu, which I share with you here..
Blue black sheen
glints on curves seen
to represent arms and legs.
It then begs
the question why
three bodies would try
to hold such a pose.
Who knows?
But wait - can I see
four heads, not three?
Now I yearn
to be able to turn
the object ninety degrees.
Please?
My hands wish to explore
more
of its intertwined form,
so unlike the norm-
al shape bodies take. Such tension
in suspension
makes my muscles feel
this strain, as if it were real
and part of my being,
not simply my seeing
it caught in stone,
in ebony monotone.
Or Weaver'sPoetry Bus for the week? For a ticket, passengers were asked to take the word 'STAR' for their inspiration. I'm cheating. Many years ago, I was walking home after a long drawn out, quartet singing session at a neighbour's house, and the following lines were the result, so my ticket is well thumbed already!
2 a.m.
Clear night sky;
frost filled moonlight
cutting cold across the land.
Sounds are honed
to a knife-sharp fineness
by the icy, silent air. Stars,
bright as polished steel,
blaze white hot
through light year distances,
linking Earth to Infinity.
The sudden, brilliant arc
of a falling meteorite
underlines their beauty
and marks a point of no return.
One door closes, and another one opens.
