NaPoWriMo 7 – The Lord calls to me

For Day 7, a hymn –

My Lord calls to me
in the early morning light
‘kuhu-kuhu’ she sings
in joyous dulcet tones.


My Lord enfolds me
in the early morning mist,
ethereal and uplifting
like mother’s love.


My Lord sings to me
from the violin’s bow,
gliding on the strings
in heartrending melody.


My Lord looks at me
from beggar-child eyes
in desperate hope,
for alms, for love.


My Lord comes to me
in hands that help,
voices that comfort,
and hearts that hug.


My Lord whispers to me
amid the clamour of worship,
“Be still. Just be. ”
“I am in the silence”.

~~~

It rains inside me

(100 word flash fiction)

It had been raining that day when you ran from my arms and down the driveway to the waiting school bus. So eager you had been to show off your new raincoat, you had not even turned back to wave goodbye.

Every year, I bought new clothes for you just a little bit bigger. Added one more candle to your birthday cake. Redecorated your room, changed the posters. I hope you like Jennifer Lawrence.

They said you’re dead. But they didn’t find your body, did they?

Today, there are 21 candles. Who could be at the door in this downpour?

~~~

It is spring here and we are tired of the rain, wanting only fine, sunny days, but Rochelle has to post a rainy night photo just so that we don’t forget to feel grateful for the rain 🙂 The weekly party just started over at Friday Fictioneers with this photo prompt –

PHOTO PROMPT -© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

Suspended

(100-word flash fiction)

 

The chair topples on the first kick. As if on cue, she steps outside herself.

 

She is amazed at how the body is wired for survival, as she watches the legs, puppet-like, kick into thin air. Chest straining, by habit, trying to suck in air, so abundant outside. Face crimsoning as blood rushes to her brain. Bells going on inside, screaming ‘Mayhem!’ ‘Mayhem!’

 

She loses all sense of time. And that dreary greyness that had festered inside her like a light-sucking ghost. She crackles with an aliveness her body had never felt. Unimaginable lightness fills her being.

 

The door opens.

 

~~~

Rochelle has posted a lovely image for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt.

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

Photo  © Ted Strutz

Death poems

On dVerse Poets Pub Gayle sets the challenge :  To write in haiku or tanka style, to the theme of Jisei (Japanese death poems).

Gayle also says, “In ancient Japanese, Chinese and Korean cultures, a practice was used at the time of death to capture the last words spoken. This practice was called jisei (in Japan) or death poem and is the “farewell poem to life.” Jisei was written by monks, samurai, the literate and poets of these cultures. One of the earliest recorded jisei dates to 686 C.E. (Common Era) or in Christian terms, B.C. (before Christ) with the death of Prince Otsu who was the son of Emperor Temmu of Japan.”

 

JAPANESE DEATH POEMS – tanka

 

I hear the sea sing

in my veins, of homecoming.

Save your salty tears

 

for life and its sorry tales,

not me. I am going home.

 

~~~

 

This vain, heavy shell

I no longer need, fading

softly like daylight

 

surrenders to night, sighing

soft promises of return.

 

~~~

 

This shell will return

to its womb. My sinews will

turn into roots, limbs

 

into tree-trunks. And my song

will trill out from the tree tops.

 

~~~

 

Soon, I will be rain,

falling on seeds, springing them

into life. Lusty,

 

fecund, virile, alive. Death

is a mere wisp of a veil.

 

~~~

The thief

(100 word flash fiction)

He pushed open the rusty gate and walked calmly to the crumbling house.

He planned to overpower her when she opened the door, force her to open the safe and decamp with the loot.

But, the door was open. She was lying on the floor. Her breaths long and laboured. Each one like it was the last.

Should he run, or call for help?  

‘Who are you?” asked the emergency call operator.

The woman in an old photo on the wall looked just like the one in a photo he had carried in his wallet for 20 years.

“Her son.”

~~~

The fiction high I get with Friday Fictioneers hosted by the lovely Rochelle, for the photo prompt below-

PHOTO PROMPT © David Stewart

PHOTO PROMPT © David Stewart

The froggy button will take you to the links of the Fictioneering peeps 🙂

An Old Woman

by Arun Kolatkar

An old woman grabs
hold of your sleeve
and tags along.

She wants a fifty paise coin.
She says she will take you
to the horseshoe shrine.

You’ve seen it already.
She hobbles along anyway
and tightens her grip on your shirt.

She won’t let you go.
You know how old women are.
They stick to you like a burr.

You turn around and face her
with an air of finality.
You want to end the farce.

When you hear her say,
‘What else can an old woman do
on hills as wretched as these?’

You look right at the sky.
Clear through the bullet holes
she has for her eyes.

And as you look on
the cracks that begin around her eyes
spread beyond her skin.

And the hills crack.
And the temples crack.
And the sky falls

with a plateglass clatter
around the shatter proof crone
who stands alone.

And you are reduced
to so much small change
in her hand.

~~~

Dawn breaking

~~~

She looked at herself in the mirror
and shimmied a little, smiling at her
wan face, saying, “you look lovely!”
As though in apology to her own
reflection that didn’t smile back.
But replied in her head, “you liar!”
Her heart dropped into her belly,
that sea of tremulousness. “I love you,”
she cried in desperate defiance.

“You sentimental fool!” Old, hazy
voices rose from forgotten graves.
“You are not real.” She railed at
their fuzzy persistence. “Who do
you think you are?” Old shame
surfaced like dirty foam. “You’re
lies I believed for far too long.”
“Don’t delude yourself.” “I am
truth. I am light. I am pure love.”

She leaned toward her reflection
blurred through the tears, kissed
it. Her lover, her eternal friend.
It glowed and grew. It smiled back
through the misty glass. The sun
rose from the sea of grey, lifted
her heart, gave it wings. Light
pulsated through her veins, “Hello
Sunshine!” Her eyes twinkled back.

~~~

dVerse Poets Pub hosted by Victoria this week asks us to write a poem in conversation style.