Cry for the riven country.
For the ones for whom doom
descended from the skies in Douma,
spreading death in the wake
of its yellow green tendrils.
Cry for the dead and the dying.
For the ones culled from the living,
whose blood, like a libation rejected
pools at the altar of the sixth fleet.
The whine of drones,
swish of tomahawks and boom of hellfires
pounding earth into tired dust
assail their ears, lighting up
the night sky.
Cry for the four horsemen loosed,
for the quickly forgotten
and the lost ones.
A Haibun, for the Day Twelve prompt.
The greyness subsumes everything, water filled skies allied to grey granite blocks defining the sky line. Sometimes, a mist will drift in from the sea, shrouding the city in a gloomy pall. The winds howl incessantly, its fingers reaching through every gap and every crack spreading chill and forcing a quickening of the footstep of all who brave the elements. The defining characteristic though is one of just getting on with it. Sometimes – for two days of summer as we say – the sun comes out.
rain, sometimes the sun does shine
Image source: Huffington Post. For the Day 11 prompt.
Time tinges the
Future with death and demise
Each day is
A war won by birthing the
The claws of
Time etch themselves in our skin
Response,bending will to
The world ends
Not with a bang but with a
* T.S Elliot, The Hollow Men.
Photo by Josh Applegate on Unsplash, for the Day 8 prompt, revisited.
my body as I pray;
with clasped hands,
bowed head, kneeling
here, before this altar
for the broken bread,
shredded body. And wine
in urn, become blood,
spilt forty times
beneath the surface
of this body, this flesh
from earth descended,
unravelling like a thread
roughly yanked from
Verbum caro, panem verum
I seek the redemption
in your flayed flesh.
Sanctify this body
As I pray.
For the ones the genes took. Photo by Wendy Scofield on Unsplash.
We prayed the Jinns would not take you
That when the dust from your fighting feet, and the chill of the terror of the night would lift
you would return in peace.
With our knees we ground a hole
into the ground from constant supplication, in hope that you would be whole again
but the genes would not let up
And like a sapling cut down in its prime
you are becoming a fading memory.
Image from Great Inspire, for the Day 5 prompt, only partially fulfilled.
Come let us dance
our discordant thoughts
to calmness, joined by the rhythm
of our joyful hearts,
and a song welling up
from deep within.
Like a bird
loosed from the tenuous
grasp of gravity’s hold,
let us float away.
With the spring of defiant
Freedom in our steps.
For the Day 4 Prompt, a challenge to describe an abstraction with concrete nouns. Photo by Steve Halama on Unsplash
What it is is something smouldering
A tiny reed, slowly taking flame
That perchance with time might
Burst into a raging flame
What it is is a call and response
A place remembered and returned to
In a season of despair
In its light one sees
the self in all its glory
warts and all,
and learns the painful truth
that one is human too
For the Day 3 prompt, A list poem of band names. I fear my choices betray my age (and my penchant for Christian Contemporary Music). Photo by frankie cordoba on Unsplash.
Six Pence None The Richer
for you corrodes my conformity
into discordant notes.
On Black Streets,
six degrees north of Building 429
a Rush Of Fools Switches foot
and stops to breathe again.
DC Talks to the Newsboys
Ignoring Caedmon’s Call
Until the Third Day
when the Second Chapter Of Acts
Snowed in, somewhat. For the Day 2 prompt.
in the winter when it rains.
When the wind, like the fingers
of a malevolent one probe beneath.
in a place sometimes lost
where memories once lived,
lies the linger of disquiet.For forgetting.
the smell of fresh wood wafts in,
borne as though on wings of the wind.
Then, these bones – aching in the cold – rejoice.
Off prompt for Day 1, Photo by Francesco Gallarotti on Unsplash
Let us begin again
at dawn. With the stirring songs
of the Skylarks ringing in our ears,
the dappled light of the rising sun,
smell of moist earth and the distant lap
of a gentle wave calling us.
In the shadows of the stations,
along this winding tortuous path
we have climbed this mount,
where like a seed once dead
is reborn, we arise again.