From my window, I watched a
man in pressed pinstripes approach another,
without a home, wearing filth-stiffened fatigues.
At the intersection of Desperation and
Doing Fine, they chatted, laughed, shook
hands. Charmed by the soulful exchange
of these faceless fellows, I wondered
how often tenderness goes unnoticed. I
closed the curtain. The day was
resplendent.

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For G-Man and Melissa (prompt: CHARMED)

image

Standing at attention
like the yogic mountain pose
spine straight, almost defiant.
Front and back cover
holding together
pages pressed firmly,
bound at the seams,
curbing lurking disarray from
free-floating in the wind.

On the outside, solid and steady,
a sliver of statistics
fitting in a curve, drawing in, pushing off.
Eliciting intrigue or a scoff.
On the inside, fever and frenzy,
a spectrum of spirits, a salmagundi of stories,
triggering memories,
storming hearts, drawing tears,
stretching minds, igniting souls.

Are we not all a little bit like a book?
Pining for perusal
coveting connection
craving to be cradled
aching for acceptance.
Each, a volume speaking volumes,
resonating and falling flat,
sacred and banned,
prized and junk,
truth and fiction,
humor and tragedy,
neither but both,
dog-eared and pristine
and everything in between.

Every last one, a limited edition.

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Linking to Magpie Tales for the first time
and to One Shot Wednesday.

Circles break and squares loosen up.
Stars fade and stripes get spotty.
Yin is black; yang is white,
yet much in between is grey.

Dear Abby, Savage Love, I’m not.
I have neither perspicacity nor panache
pouring forth in an effortless way.

Any hint of wisdom that’s stuck
comes from the fine art of
regretting.

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I’ve been reading poetry by a very interesting Jesuit priest whom I knew for much of my adult life. I perceived him as an intimidatingly professorial scholar with a microscopic sense of humor. He was always around. I took him for granted. He passed away before I had any interest in reading his writings. Now, I find myself repeatedly reaching for his books, re-reading pages and verses, smiling at his wit, and being moved to tears by his honesty. I regret missing the boat on discussing his words, his thoughts, his life. I regret not being able to tell him how much I love his work. The piece I wrote above is what I imagine his response would’ve been if I’d asked him to define wisdom.
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In 55 words, this is for Melissa’s Six Word Friday topic: wisdom.

Dazzle me.
Sizzle your spark. Beam
a light for
all to see
all that is good in this world,
dying and reborn.

.

For imperfect prose.

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This is a shadorma, a six-line poetry form with the following number of syllables per line: 3-5-3-3-7-5.

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Image by Muffet

The havoc you wreak in her
mind
body
marrow
being
(Circadian rhythm,
not to mention)
couldn’t compete with the
joy
pride
honor
blessing
fulfillment
she receives
to tuck you everlasting
in her heart
and call
you
unabashedly
unreservedly
(possibly undeservedly)
definitely irrevocably
her
beloved
child.

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Image by Pierre Omidyar

Sun-glossed palm fronds no parasol-wearing drink
can keep from bearing brittle browning

Glory days — daze of lingering glow –
blurring name and face, stealing grace

Jade and grey, far and away
springing back, sneak attack upon today

Operation in action; smooth, stealth infiltration
glides like appetite on buttered confection

Deadlocked chase, nothing crowds space like
yesterday.

The past is a guidepost, not a hitching post. ~L. Thomas Holdcroft

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Want to read more 55-word posts? Go here.
Want to read more 6-word posts about YESTERDAY? Go here.
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Image by Claudio deste

i know not peace
from the evening news
bearing tidings ambiguous
denoting a future perilous

i know not peace
by a fallen enemy
slipping out of memory
like a drunken man’s misery

i know not peace
as a status symbol
or a stamp of approval
bought-my-way-in label

I know not peace
as i witness surrender
from a downtrodden warrior
a misstep away from savior

i know not peace
though it must exist
as i’ve glimpsed its passing
in the kindness of a stranger,
in the slumber of a dreamer,
in the shadow of a dancer,
in the devotion of a lover,
in the echo of a singer,
in the smile of another,
in the love of a mother…

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for one shot wednesday

image by Katrina Nicole

Stacks of diaries, ink on pulp
Sheets tearing, spine crumbling, facts fading

Pages of photographs, colors and greys
Two dimensional faces, places and things

Boxes of meaning, diamonds in dust
Preserved in storage, sealed with cobwebs

Freeze frame.  Hold still.  Stay awhile.
Embrace the moment tighter, longer, closer.

Seeking permanence…
Finding temporary…
Moving on…

eventually.

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For #sixwordfridays (prompt: Last) and for G-Man’s #fridayflash55.

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image by Bob AuBuchon

Some hurts are not
meant to throb and bleed
in the merciless glare
of the sun.

Instead,
they are harvested –
the choicest plucked from the vine –
for a bit of cathartic crushing.

Wrung of its juice
then stored in barrels
hidden in caves,
left to process, ferment and age,
like a secret
tucked in the deep where
only the winged or the wise can reach.

Many moons pass and even
the reddest, bitterest
blood fades.
What remains,
bottled or spilled,
is intoxicating remembrance.

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for One Shot Wednesday

image by Zest-pk

Tinted windows and dust caked blinds
can’t obscure the tug of uncertainty.
Neither loud noise nor ear plugs
can drown out the mind’s chatter.

In meditation, worry sometimes creeps in.

Not induced trance nor wanton revelry,
rather,
in tenuous times of invisible light,
when choices are unappealing or non-existent,
chance comforts while counting one’s blessings.

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This is a Friday Flash 55 for G-Man and a Six Word Friday post for Melissa (prompt: count one’s blessings).

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Image by The Big Quack