Keeping current in wellness, in and out of the water
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Wilderness holds secrets known only to the creatures who inhabit the place
Our visiting feet pass by too quickly to feel the rhythm underground
We keep the earbuds on and miss the harmonic symphony of nature’s sound
Our vision is impaired by limits we accepted without thinking for ourselves
After this picnic comes and goes this will always belong to fairies and elves
To find our place in this puzzle we must look at the world we think we rule
With respect for all sentient beings, every wizard, clown, teacher, and fool
This is a response to Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, and it is also the 5th day of #NaPoWriMo2018. This post is killing two poetry birds with one stone. Enjoy the other writers who create responses to this photo on Sue’s Echo. Read, write, and comment on the poets by following the hashtag #NaPoWriMo. It is all poetry all the time in April!! Enjoy!
We walked slowly and quietly around the long corridors of the old cloister. The long deserted places of worship and daily devotion were kept in order by the town council. Tourists and visitors climbed the winding drive from the village to see the remains of the famous monastery. Religious ceremonies had gone underground in the last decade of the cultural revival. New discoveries by researchers indicate that the last group of secret priests had gathered in this place to say the last rites for their church. It was said they had burned all the literature in a great bonfire to keep it out of the hands of the invaders. They held a great ceremonial funeral march under a full moon, then disbanded for their own safety. Scattering to the four winds, the former religious leaders infiltrated society and took on new occupations in new parts of the region.
They took with them only personal amulets which they kept on their bodies, hidden from public view. Any evidence that they had been part of any religion might have placed them in great danger, so they were cautious. They never spoke to anyone about the past or their former associates. They slowly drifted apart and forgot the importance of the rituals they had performed in the past. They found new interests and new ways of seeing the universe. They started to feel connected to new families and communities, forgetting the ideas they had held closely in the past.
As politics thaw and people once again look to find hope and unity, some say that visiting these old places of worship can bring peace and enlightenment. We feel cool and calm as we drift down the hall, imagining what this must have been like when it was full of monks. There is something about the light that feels serene. The arches that open to the orchard frame trees in blossom, surrounded by wildflowers carpeting the ground. Enchanted beings are said to have taken over the spot after the invaders withdrew. Some say you will observe trolls and wizards if you linger on the grounds after dark. We are enchanted enough for one day, and take our questions with us back down the hill. We wonder what religion really was, and how it has changed history.
This short story is inspired by this week’s photo prompt on Sue Vincent’s Echo. Each week she publishes a new photo on Thursday. Join the group to read, comment, or contribute your own poem, story, or essay. The variety to be found in the responses is amazing.
Rolling hills in memory’s vault of treasure
Go on forever, leading to paths of pleasure
That end on the shores of the deepest sea
Surrounded by deserts without a single tree
The wasteland is dark with shadows of dread
No fauna, no flora, are found as we are lead
Closer to the truth , to the peace of the dead
This dark little poem was written in response to this week’s photo prompt in Sue Vincent’s Echo. Join us every Thursday for a new photo to inspire prose, poetry, or reading pleasure. It is fun to see all the different responses.
Dancing while the sun disappeared, under a cloudy sky
We never saw it coming, and were shocked as it went by
Some thought it was a dragon, some saw a giant fox
At first we thought it was a trick of the light, a mirage
The silence covered us like a heavy hanging mystery
We stood on the shore expecting a character from history
To descend on our party to pardon our sins and omissions
To make it all better, to save us, to improve our conditions
We waited in vain for prophecy or guidance to appear
As darkness fell on the crowd, desperation became fear
Down the road in pitch black night the footsteps returned
To home, the safety of the hearth, where fire still burned
This is a response to this week’s photo prompt by Sue Vincent on the Echo. Please join us each Thursday for a new prompt and the opportunity to read or submit your own piece inspired by her intriguing photography.
The path leads through the mustard fields
Breathtaking golden flowers shelter magical beings
Scattering spells, casting dream bait, with tiny seeds
Windy wandering predictions past what we are seeing
Into a future of bold, unprecedented expansion
Followed by a contraction that will teach a new lesson
Mountains may move, and hearts may fill with faith
Still every new sprout must be tended and shaped by nature
This short poem has been inspired by this week’s photo prompt in Sue Vincent’s Echo. Please join Sue each Thursday for a new photo, and the poems and stories from the previous week’s prompt. Read, comment, or submit your own story this week. It is fun to see all the variety in the responses.
In deepest slumber on the coldest night of my life
I was shown a vision with no explanation or key
A window appeared to float above my dreaming soul
It beckoned me to gaze into the unknown to learn
Why our daily lives now are so deeply troubled
Roses, symbols of love and sainthood, bloomed
Still somehow danger and decay very closely loomed
I woke in a cold sweat without a clue to what it all meant
This short poem is a response to the photo prompt this week on Sue Vincent’s Echo. Every week Sue post a new image to inspire writing. Please join us to read, comment, or write your own interpretation.
After work we walked down to the shore to watch the sun set on the shortest day of the year. We were looking for comfort as the calendar told us to begin a new year. The resolutions we made in the past have been leading us to this point. Our point had no point, our days had no joy, and our business had lost a reason to be of service. We had become the victims of habit, impulse, drudgery and slothful thinking. Time had become flat and meaningless.
My sister asked me if I thought we would survive the winter. I answered honestly that I was not so sure we could. When she trembled and asked if I believed in luck and fate I told her I did not put much stock in luck. Fate is another matter, because we can not know our fate. We do fashion our own good fortune or lack thereof when we create our self image. We waited by the water and watched the light of the sun sink into the horizon while I wondered how I could change our luck, in which I had just claimed to have no belief. After dark I whispered to her, “All our needs are easily met.” The moon rose, shining brightly on the path to our home. Our spirits lifted and we felt a surge of bliss. We harvested hope in the night that would last all year. We floated home on a cloud of new optimism.
This short story is based on the photo prompt on this weeks’ Echo by Sue Vincent. She inspires us every Thursday with a new photo to which we respond with poetry or prose, comedy or dark dystopian drama. This group is diverse, bringing a talented response to the snapshot of the moment. Join us to read, comment, or submit your own response here. Thanks for stopping by today.
Crimson mittens kept our fingers warm as we marched up the hill in the forrest. Our lunch was still heavy in our systems while we trudged through the snow on the icy path looking for firewood. The night before we had slept at our grandparents’ cabin, full of memories, old books, letters, and games. We sifted through the boxes of photos, finding some that had been taken of our childhood visits. Those black and white images of our grandparents before their hair turned white flooded us with sentimentality.
We sat next to the fireplace telling stories and laughing about our youth until we had consumed all the dry wood. Watching the embers die and darkness descend was like witnessing the energy drained from those gentle ancestors who left us this cabin. They spent their lives in remote isolation, content with nature’s schedule. The grandchildren came for a month every summer, but returned to the city for the rest of the year. Now that they were gone we came out on winter holiday to take care of the place and decide what to do with it. It was the first time we had seen the place in winter. It was the only time we had been there without our grandparents.
We found a few pieces of dry wood tucked into a cranny in the rocks. We carried enough back to the house to make one more fire. This time the stories turned solemn, and spirits joined together in a mutual sadness and loss. We had busy lives, rarely stopping to reflect. None of us gathered our own firewood or even cleaned our own houses in the city. Our family was warmed in the glow of the fire, and let go of the daily grind. We recognized the loss of our grandparents was also the loss of a way of life none of us had embraced. The cabin contained traditions and memories that were melting like the snow, dissolving into the earth. This year the thaw will wash away most of our family’s connection to this place. It is possible to gain a fortune and lose it again many times. Once time is gone, it will never return.
The Roman army built the arches, aqueducts, and city streets
Then conscripted the local constabulary, farmers and priests
They marched off to conquer and manage all humans and beasts
The emperor demanded tribute in service, and taxes paid in gold.
The able bodied were enslaved and abducted to serve the will of Rome
It is hard to say which one issue caused the empire to crumble and fall
Maybe that imperial power concentrated in one place was never real at all
The ruins of foundations laid down long ago are remnants from the past
Mighty political forces appear and disappear, never meant to last
This poem is in response to this week’s photo prompt on Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo. Join us each week to read, comment, or submit your own take on the photo. I think this poem is also inspired by today’s political climate.
They slipped away during the end of the ceremony to look outside
When they saw the movement on the forrest floor little sister cried
Where is father now that his soul has gone to heaven and his body has died?
The strong scent of cedar and pine, paternal memories in gusts of wind
The light shot down from a hazy sky with a spiritual message to send
Everything that is the father’s is mine, the connection will never end
The poem this week is a response to Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt on her Daily Echo. Join us each week to be inspired by her images to read, write, and comment. Check out the hashtag #writephoto on twitter.