No Words

« Darkness came, full of moths and beetles.  I was oppressed by the velvety emptiness of the word and swathes of soft grass.  Then the fumes of the night put me to sleep. ».  Laurie Lee

 

in the dark no words

moths and beetles take to air

I sleep night’s fragrance

 

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dVerse prompt to change Laurie Lee’s prose to poetry.  Thanks for some great prose to work with. #4

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No Words

Imperfection

« White elder blossom and dog roses hug in the hedges, blank as unwritten paper, and the hot empty road reflected Sunday’s waste and indifference.  High sulky summer sucked me towards it. »  Laurie Lee


dogwood blossoms near

line road to imperfection

I walk in that heat
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dVerse prompt to take prose writing of Laurie Lee and make it a poem.

Four choices and I want to do all four in haiku.

Imperfection

When Far Away

A haloed sun and an eagle flying over, just two signs she thought, as the parked car beeped with the opening of the lock. She didn’t get in but stood there looking at the sky, the signs she was sure were a prophetic vision of what God was doing in her life. I’m going for greater heights, bigger skies, with a sun more radiant she thought, as she slipped into the driver’s seat. There is nothing ordinary about me. I am extraordinary. I will do extraordinary things.
When far away an interrupted cry of the eagle. The car alarm sounded like a freight train crossing into her imaginations and realities. What the hell?  She fumbles with the keys and finds the red alarm button. New silence. In the distance the sound of the eagle.
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dVerse prompt to write prosery and must use “when far away an interrupted cry”

When Far Away

Cloth

I gave my sewing machines away. Now there is only cloth here; corduroy, tweeds, raw silks and purple satin. Someday the needle will rise and fall again, guiding thread into fabric, connecting pieces together with looping threads.

creating stitches 
holding tight this creation
magnificent cloth

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dVerse quadrille prompt with the word rise and form of a haibun

Cloth

More

Small stack of books not yet read. Their titles draw me in.

Virgil, the poet who died of a fever; poet to emperors and Rome. 

His poetry of the land, Georgics. Kenneth Rexroth translations

of Japanese poetry, one hundred of them. The Grandview Hotel 

poets from Peoria, Illinois, write together about the weather, 

changing of seasons, bluffs and bridges. My friend hands me another 

for the stack. She knows my heart. “You can borrow this if you take 

really good care, no coffee stains.” It is the Peoria writers’ work in 

letterpress, fine paper, portfolioed, each piece a work of art.

I am afraid to open it. A delicate thread creates a closure on the front.

It is the opening. Are my hands clean enough? I ask myself.  

I imagine myself enmeshed in reading each line, those words 

embedded into the paper, an art of poetry. A drop of blood falls

from my nose and I am horrified. How can this happen? How 

can I tell my friend that a spot of blood is there. I could hide it, 

hope she never goes back to the page where the stain was spilled.

I could remove the blighted piece and hope she does not miss it.

My remorse that I could not write this, could not design this, could

not print this. My drop of blood the revealer of my lust and

inadequacy. I bleed for more than what I am.  

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