I’m delighted to host Kakali Dos Ghosh, Renee Espiru, Paul Brookes and Sonia Benskin Mesher today. Between them they have almost covered a year in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Portrait in February, September 6. Read . . . enjoy . . . and please join in tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are welcome.
#Autumn’s blaze in September #
Ablaze is my hamlet ,
Sheeny it is with autumn ‘s color in September ,
Bounteous it is along azure blazing firmament
with dotted aerials ;
A ravishing secluded garden it is ,
with border less kash dandelions in skyline ‘s shine ;
A whisper -levitating through ravines and deep gorges ,
An inkling creeping through the cerulean kiss -curls of the deep bay ,
smearing the mysterious realm of twilight and moonbeam ,
casting a gentle kiss to a conch -cell in dormancy ,
on the glittering sand chest fondling a golden rivulet ,
enunciates the inhalant of Devi Durga ;
Ample shiulis loving the hardes ,
The goggle of the stubborn kingfisher in the Eastern hills ,
The red specked butterflies ,
Clink of anklets of a maiden solitary ,
Everything -everything is just to light up ,
Its a durbar to love ,
to kiss ,
to thrill ,
and to worship the Goddess the mother .
© 2017, Kakali Das Ghosh
the Fall brought her to me warm and soft
with dark brown eyes and tiniest hands
reminding me nine months prior to the
month of December when passion ignited
fervor between cotton sheets and darkness
transforming cold into heated pleasure
where in the aftermath holidays came
filling the kitchen with baking of pies,
sweet sugary cookies warm from the oven
& the promise of love lasting a lifetime
© 2017, Renee Espriu (Just Turtle Flight and Inspiration, Imagination & Creativity with Wings, Haibun, ART & Haiku)
1. Flo’s Day
Perhaps thas a thought I’m boss
only of fragile bunches, cocker;
but I also overlook tilled fields.
If crops have flowered well,
threshing-floor is stacked;
if the vines flowered well,
there’ll be wine; and fruit.
Once blossom nipped,
vetches and beans wither,
and thy lentils. Wines also bloom,
stored in great cellars in jars
a scum covers their surface.
Honey is my gift. I call bees,
to the violet, and clover,
and grey thyme.
I charge youthful years
to run riot with robust bodies.
Tha wears colourful togs, mucker, walk around with flower bouquets in thee fist,
your neck or hair wreathed in flowers. Tha scatter lupines, bean and vetch. Homes
scented by large purple Lilacs.
Go to races, or hunt deer, goats
and hare, enjoy bawdy plays and mimes.
Tha dance, sup and eat a feast
of roasted Lamb, homemade breads, fresh
and roasted spring vegetables, fruits, nuts, pastries. Give fresh cut flowers to tha neighbours, lay them on tha closest’s grave.
2. Victory’s Sacrifice
These are victories
fresh green shoots, leaves and flowers,
woodlands heady scent of wild garlic ,
bird song and bleating lambs
wild daffodils appear alongside the river
smaller and more delicate,
trumpet shaped flower a paler yellow.
kittiwakes, guillemots, razorbills, gannets, fulmar, shag and puffin return to seacliffs
blackthorn blossom a froth
of clustered white flowers
on thorny branches
before the leaves burst bud.
curlew’s soft, bubbling call,
Ring Ouzel’s a blackbird
with white bib blasting
out of the heather
emperor’s, orange and yellow
day-flying moths, eyespot patterns
on their four wings, struggle
from cocoons on the moors.
I sit and down a sacrifice of golden ale
sunglint on pint glass, a fine sup,
thankful another winter’s
deaths and distress worked through.
3. White Lady
Crowned white lady with flowing hair,
and fiery shoes, carries a spindle
and a three-cornered mirror
that foretells the future.
For nine nights before May Day,
chased by Wild Hunt Winter,
hounded from place to place,
she seeks refuge among villagers.
Folk leave their windows open
so she can find safety
behind cross-shaped panes.
Implores a farmer she meets to hide her
in a shock of grain. He does.
next morning his rye crop
is sprinkled with grains of gold.
© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow, Inspiration, History, Imagination)
describe the moment when walking
through the garden wind whips by.
look up the sky is full of leaves flying.
wonder and be joyful at all that there
do wet leaves blow as good as dry?
i did not want to get involved, nor be noticed.
particularly, nor impress.
yet you said you loved me, never mind the diagnosis,
so that was done.
they came in differing aspects, by now I did not
want to get involved, nor did i.
remember I told you that I do not fall
we were in the garden.
this is not a mystery, just reality.
. while in october .
stand back to spite the craving,
look on as from afar.
people, some write hymns & mantra
others watch tv, not the news.
oh no not the news, the truth is too
depressing, a bit near the mark.
good to live gentle, bites of reality
to flavour your safeness.
with gratitude. the bakers has
closed as has the dress shop.
a side table will be convenient.
while children are in hell , Aleppo.
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