across an infinite distance
I hear the rhythm
of invisible fists beating the air
I hear the call of a thousand voices
whispering incessantly
across an infinite distance
I know each hit, each stroke
must be precise
I know the cries
that calamity emits
across an infinite distance
I feel the burden of creation
and kneel beneath its weight
I feel myself grow tense
as every impulse goes awry
Written in response to this morning’s Wordle 133at The Sunday Whirl
Morning breaks after a rain-soaked night
the sun rises over the peak of a nearby house
beginning to warm the day.
Petals scattered by the storm lie drifted
strewn across stone walkways
reminders of recent sorrows.
She awakens and begins her life anew
does not read the words written
instead sets them aside.
Sitting in the sunlight she sips coffee
feeling her spirit renewed
her passion for living ignited.
Upon a hill crowned by ancient stones
a gathering of teachers and students
opens a circle.
Earth and sky as their stage
Bards tell heroic tales
stealing moments of time
both past and future.
Some strive to bring tears, others laughter
still more to draw a hushed silence
to the gathered crowd
gazing awestruck upon their number.
Prophets spill words upon the masses
sublime secrets
uttered in a metrical melange;
proverbs in pieces.
Ovates sit gazing into flickering flames
and open pools
offering glimpses of the possible.
As the hilltop sparkles
with the light of fireflies
Druids gather to speak
not of limits but of discipline.
They lead discussions
asking the people to become caretakers
not keepers.
Upon a hill crowned by ancient stones
a gathering of teachers and students
closes a circle
but leaves behind a force stronger than humanity.
Written as a response to this week’s Sunday Wordle.
words are sticky
they can hurt, despite the rhyme’s insistence
beware therefore
those who hurl them carelessly
as pearls before swine
for their voices will carve your skin
and break your bones
This little piece is inspired by the words given to us at this week’s Sunday Whirl.
a bitter wind blows impatiently
a voice I listen to
while I sit quietly
warming myself not with a fire
but with words
approaching clarity without never truly reaching it
demon metal
forged in hate and fear
across time and space running rampant
this drive to exterminate relentless
no spectrum of passions
only mindless obedience
an innate drive to destroy all life
Quietly they wander the woods
straying from the rocky shore
where majestic eagles stand watch
to explore deeper within.
Although the season sings of death
all around them is new
they are reborn to their natural souls
together.
Fallen trunks and trickling brooks
do not speak of loss
to these wanderers
but of renewal and hope.
Together they travel
ignoring walls of logic
instead allowing knowing to bloom
listening to the voice of nature.
