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#WritePhoto Melting Mask
July 20, 2017
— 11 Comments
mask
The door was blocked by a large figure standing next to the fire
His face obscured by smoke, his identity concealed from us,
He moved with deliberate intent so swift and sure he seemed a ghost,
A phantom memory of the times when this place served as the center
Of a large and looming ogre with scary tendrils reaching into every nook
We were not sure if he entered the flames on purpose or was pulled
By fate or backdraft into the inferno that had started so suddenly
The night exploded as the bright red fire consumed the mask of power
Some rejoiced as the melting symbol of the past became a molten puddle
Most of us wondered how long it would be before the area would be safe
We all believed the melting mask was telling us to take great precaution
#writephoto
This poem is a response to this week’s photo prompt from Sue Vincent’s Echo. Each Thursday she posts a photo. She is a very good sport to post for us this week since her own computer exploded and has made access to her photo collection tedious. Thank you Sue. We appreciate your generosity. Please join other writers here to read, write, comment on last week’s prompt.
Cabbage Rolls Again?
July 14, 2017
— 1 Comment
Audrey
She knew from the smell when she opened the front door that her mother was cooking cabbage rolls again. The hallway and the stairwell smelled heavily of cabbage when she came home from school. For her it was the reassurance of a meal to eat, but for others who visited her after school it was foreign. They always asked when they arrived at the landing in front of her upstairs apartment, “What is that smell?” Her parents were both from Poland, and her mother was an excellent cook. She used cabbage almost every day because it was cheap and healthy. Audrey was both proud and ashamed of her heritage and her ethnic diet at home. She wanted to blend in with kids at school who ate much differently than her family. Her mom was really the one with the mad chef skills, but she was ashamed of that cuciferous odor coming from the kitchen all the time.
Her home and the family income were average for the time and the place. Audrey felt that she and almost everyone she knew in school would be classified as “middle class”. There were fewer class distinctions in elementary school than there would be later in life. She had friends, boyfriends, and was popular. In the 1950’s in our tiny town the children were given relative freedom to do as we pleased until dinner time. Friendships that began on the whiffle ball field or in a snow fort would often conclude with an invitation to eat dinner at another kid’s home. Most mothers would consent if an extra child was brought home, but permission had to be granted from the visitor’s parents. In this way we checked out each other’s family dining habits and parental norms. It was a very common practice. She held back from accepting invitations because she did not want to reciprocate. This was the beginning of her social withdrawal.
Now that she is back at home taking care of her parents in their home she wishes she had learned to make stuffed cabbage the way her mom did. She is an adequate cook, but does not know any of her grandparents’ traditional recipes from the old country. She buys frozen foods and prepared packaged meals. A certain amount of guilt consumes her as she spoon feeds frozen corndogs to her mom. She does not understand what her mother is telling her in Polish, and she feels a loss that cannot be recovered.
#WritePhoto Peace Trance
July 6, 2017
— 8 Comments
peaceful paradise
At the most stressful times she could remove herself from the action by calling on her ability to go into a trance. She had been a captive since her early childhood. She can barely remember her own abduction and the long ride down the mountain out of the forrest. They crossed barren plains scarred with the remnants of war to the camp where she remained. She never saw her family again, and was taught a new language, full of harsh sounds and concepts. In her few hours of rest she remained faithful to her tribe’s values, trying to keep the few sacred words of her mother tongue alive in her mind. There was no speaking around in that forbidden language, for the camp was used to erase culture and tribal belief. The process was a special kind of stripping of confidence that left them all exhausted.
Her skill to call down the moon was still in tact. She spent the full moon nights in reverie, practicing the trances and the dances she had been taught as a little girl. She felt her own power grow as her values changed. She knew the secret of taking responsibility. The people brought to the camp were stripped of their identity and culture, then programmed for menial and dehumanizing work. They were hoodwinked into thinking they had no choices in life, that this awful slavery was a punishment for something they had done.
In her meditation she saw the logs in the forest that her grandmother used for an altar. She could pull in every detail of that scene, and even hear the voices of her people chanting to bring her back home. Finally one night in her dream the path to return to her village was revealed. A strong bold figure opened the gates and brought all the people into freedom. She ran quickly up the hill with an unlimited energy she had never had. Her steps were swift and sure as she climbed the last hill. She saw her whole family gathered around the altar, dancing slowly, chanting sweetly. When she awoke and found herself safely snuggled in her own hammock she knew she had been taken on a special dream journey. She ran to her grandmother for an explanation. All her grandmother would say was, “You have been chosen. Now you must choose which path you will use.” She was not sure which one, if any, was real.
#writephoto
This story is a response to the Thursday photo prompt on Sue Vincent’s Echo. Please join each week for poems and stories on a photo theme. It is fascinating to read the different ways writers interpret the picture.
#WritePhoto Twilight Enchantment
June 15, 2017
— 3 Comments
twilight
Day slips silently into night under a blanket of secrecy
Vallies obscured by clouds are inhabited by shadow creatures
Existing as foggy, sketchy, floating colors and shapes
Without a grounding influence or organizing principle
When the sun sets they arise to do emotional damage
To the unsuspecting addicted souls who hover just above
In hypnotic trances induced by the pressure of life and love
Don’t stare into the sunset, or let your mind drift and shift
If you seek perspective and wisdom stay alert until the fog lifts.
#writephoto
This poem is written in response to this week’s photo prompt on Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo. She shares an excellent photo each Thursday for interpretation by anyone who cares to write a pice of fiction of poetry. Please join us to read, write, or comment.
#WritePhoto Birds Of A Feather
June 8, 2017
— 10 Comments
The Flock
We sat on the hill above the flooded river
Watching as towns and farms washed away
Floating downstream on the big cresting waves
Water overflowed the banks and destroyed trees
That had stood on the shore for centuries
Their roots were severed by the current rushing
Swelling, moving the earth beneath their giant limbs
That crashed into the water with furious destructive
Sounds of nature taking her revenge on civilization
The only hopeful sign we could see from our perch
Was the flock of birds flying over their former homes
Taking to the sky to look for a new place to build nests
We envy them their ability to keep the flock together
They fly in tight formation, in search of fairer weather
#writephoto
This poem was written in response to this weeks photo prompt by Sue Vincent on her blog , The Echo. Join bloggers from around the globe for more stories about this photo and last week’s.
#Writephoto Knock
June 1, 2017
— 9 Comments
knock knock
This is inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt
Knock knock, Who’s there? I don’t want to get up from my chair
If you have come to beg for candy I can tell you that the cupboard is bare
If you wanted entertainment you can pass through to the cellar room
Where dangerous characters sit around and complain about the gloom
We have no happy servant to greet you, seat you and serve champagne
These days we are lucky to find a few morsels of food to feed the pain
We brought it all upon ourselves, never caring about the fate of others
Sinister side effects of concentrated self delusion eventually smother
The life out of the privileged and those forced into perpetual service
The end of the road comes to everyone, which makes us all very nervous
#writephoto
Please join writers around the world on Thursdays to read, comment, or submit your own post based on these photos.
The Week Ahead In Astrology
May 25, 2017
— 3 Comments
On the 26th, Love is Wise. It’s the answer for everything. Oh, and ignore the darkness, your fear of change, and the Powers-That-Be; just for today, they can’t touch you. And you’re welcome. (That’s my answer to you thanking me for not posting an MC Hammer video). Instead we’ve got Today’s word image:a Tarot card […]
via Your Week 26 May-1 June 2017 A Thousand Suns — Julie Demboski’s ASTROLOGY
#WritePhoto Abandoned
May 25, 2017
— 10 Comments
This is inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt
ruin
The building bitterly fell down around them in the end. They refused to move when the epidemic wiped out the neighbors and all the businesses. They decided to stay since they were the sole surviving members of the cult. The bishops foretold of a great sickness, and built shelters to hide from the inevitable. The underground bunkers that had been designed to save the people from harm turned out to be the source of the deadly mold that infected their lungs and spread like wild fire. After almost a year of suffering and loss the difficult decision was made to seal the enclosures with the infected population trapped inside.
Very few of the elders knew about the plan to bury those who were carrying the mold in order to save the few who remained healthy. The stone house was the headquarters of the operation. The six members of the board carried out their plan with precision and cold blooded planning. While the people in the bunkers slept they set off canisters of poison gas and closed the entrances. They were all killed as they dreamed. Those in charge knew they had murdered their own believers in what they decided was self defense. There was no excuse, and there would be no remorse from these reprobates. They only cared for their own survival at any cost.
Although they had years of food stored for the future of the community, when they opened the storehouse they found it swarming with all kinds of bugs. The seeds had been devoured by the hungry insects who now jumped out and started to eat the rest of the humans. They took refuge back in the stone house until the building itself heaved and crumbled to the ground. There was no earthquake or storm. The stones of the walls and the clay tiles on the roof rebelled against giving shelter to these selfish plotting fools. In an act of revenge they crushed the elders as they slept. Nature had the last word. Only a ruin stands now as a reminder of human greed and folly gone awry.
Please visit the photo prompt round up to read the entires from last week. Read, write, comment, contribute!
#writephoto
#WritePhoto Haunted Quarters
May 18, 2017
— 5 Comments
weeping window
The tower had been built in the time of the beheadings
Torture and murder were the order of the day
They wiped out knights and murdered the queens
Who did not please the monarch by giving him a male heir
Some of my ancestors lost their heads, fortunes, and means
As players in the center of the Tudor dynasty reign of terror
Some spent their last night in confinement writing poetry
To leave a written legacy to the future subjects of the crown
The sorrow and the suffering of every tortured soul is evident
The stones are carved with the names of the doomed who have past
While the window weeps tears of the ghosts who haunt the present
With their unresolved memories of cruel and heartless treatment
Looking from this point of view we can see the harm done by violence
#writephoto
This poem is in response to this week’s photo prompt from Sue Vincent’s Echo. Join writers from around the globe each week to read, comment, or write your own story for #writephoto.
Newsflash Fever
May 15, 2017
— 5 Comments
thorny
What is the hurry to rush to judgement before the truth is known?
Where is the discernment needed to tell fact from fiction?
Confusion reigns while some are making a living making up news
And others are taking it all in from morning until night every day
Is there a limit to the shadow nonsense information we consume?
We need an intervention from a natural reality with perspective
These newsflashes and their associated contempt and contention
Are fast occurring, tiny openings into the dystopian future we create
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