Last Wednesday’s writing prompt, May 31, 2017: Tell us in prose or poem and in terms of the seasons where you used to be in life and where you are now.

Thanks to those intrepid poets who came out to play. Enjoy the seasons everyone … Read on …

Static Cycles

Summer is my favorite
I can’t wait for Fall
Something ’bout Winter magic
Spring is best of all

Summer is my favorite
I can’t wait for Fall
Something ’bout Winter magic
Spring is best of all

Summer is my favorite
I can’t wait for Fall
Something ’bout Winter m

© 2017, Christopher Troy

(c) Christopher Troy

This is Christopher’s debut with us, so … introducing CHRISTOPHER TROY: Born in Chicago, Illinois in 1978 to a middle class family in an immigrant neighborhood on the city’s north side, Christopher Troy left for Paris in 1996 to study philosophy and political science at the Sorbonne. He spent the next nine years living there, where he was introduced to the arts and Paris’ infamous nightlife. He returned to America after his studies and began a successful decade-long career in politics, until deciding to walk away from it and become a writer. “I’d rather have people applaud me for my lies than be appalled by them,” he said to a friend on the day he left Washington, D.C. He is currently living in Greece and working on his first novel. Examples of his prose and poetry can be found at Christopher Troy Stories.

Four Haiku

Spring

anguish of sunlight
when the people you wait for
don’t turn up on time

Summer

the train stops nowhere
under clear blue morning skies
in total silence

Autumn

yesterdays’ bonfire
drifts into my dreams
– woodpigeon dawn

Winter

plane leaf & puddle
at the grey end of the year
puddle & plane leaf

© 2017, Colin Blundell (Colin Blundell, All and Everything)

Born Old

coddled in wool blanket drifts
Sun sears baby eyes through bright windows,
hospital paths cleared tall walls
of snow either side. I howled

a gust down shop aisles, on street
to the dentists. Crowds frowned.
Summer bike rides in country lanes
Spring divorced winter.

Summer was another dialect. Coarser,
to play was to laik, sweets were spice.
Wide games in a silver wood, ventured
into cold huts. Fun with sausages and custard.

Hull hunkered in Christian winter, relieved by Summer gamelan and hope for a vocation
to last manual work and taking the pillock.
It didn’t. Winter of closing pits.

Bristol summered in performance
Classes on interview technique, teach
Teenagers how to think into a job.
beyond unemployment benefit office screens

Spout words over dripped lager louts,
Back in summered day buzz of words clapped,
then winter cancered into debt
and prodigal return. No fatted calf

only steroid fatted bald mam and chores
in garden until I met my future wife
for a bet in breaks between admin.
Summered teach adults write and history.

A winter that lasted twelve years headset
yoked ears bent to abuse from wronged
Customers and peddled official lines.
Summer came with an unwanted death,

A years enjoyment of travel and delight.
Summer comes in to autumn with cash gone.
Life a priority. Bills must be paid. Work
only part time, buzz when I help customers.

© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)

The Season of Becoming

Is this the Winter of her discontent as with
Shakespeare the world around might seem one
that is indifferent to her sadness that age
has besieged her but no it is not so harsh
as the icy cold winds and snow harboring
a breath that will not seek to warm her skin
for it has become like the Season of Summer
where the warming rays of the sun stretches wide
to cover the new growth from Spring that offers
new bright green leaves that will be transformed
into variations of darker greens providing shade
to all of nature’s life beneath boughs of trees
who watch as life is born from tiny tadpoles
becoming frogs to the larvae of dragonflies to
a multitude of birds peering from the safety of eggs
to all beginning a journey of grand proportions
where Fall will see a quiet settling in to harvest
and rest amidst the beauty of all that has become
for stepping into the Winter of her life she now sees
her discontent not as a sadness but as one of observing
all that has come before, all that has become who she is
for it is another beginning and one of transformations
that will show her all the brilliance of her colors
enabling doors to naught hidden as opening to reveal

© 2017 Renee Espriu (reneejustturtleflight)

. for seasons .

frozen, the code will not work, nor will the counting with interruptions, all things moved about. there is a discount, on top the discount, so a discussion ensued on buttons.

now there is an understanding. the season of it all fits, the picture is made the pieces are in place. left on the tray, photographed for all to see.

talked in numbers and rhythms. a train passed, gulls flew the heat haze. on return, no one spoke.

i have written of them before, now in sign and symbol, i regard, that ‘again’ brings a sense of permanence, that familiarity does not always mean contempt , yet continuity.

spring comes round, and we keep the little things, again.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher RCA

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4 Comments

Thank you!