Let the breeze billow the curtains,
Let the light and warmth favour us,
Let the joy tickle our bare skin.
We may doubt this glorious constant,
But nature’s life cycle, renewing possibilities, revisiting brief serenity,
Repeats until we are no more. Then repeats again.
Many’s the night you’ve walked these same miles, without ever lifting from your chair.
Dreams like loosed cobblestones, a path crumbling underneath your worn, hobo shoes.
Brief solace sometimes sought, diversions for your wearied soul.
Slippery side streets and names you no longer remember.
This week, dVerse Poets provided the Quadrille (44 words) prompt word: cobble.
We huddle cuddle close in the peeling-paint-framed-storefront,
Sheltered briefly, only briefly, from the sideways stares of passersby.
Safe from showers, drip drip rain that stains the sidewalk,
And washes away the pastel chalky hopscotch
We drew to decorate our unfeathered nest.
44 words for this week’s d’Verse prompt: rain.
Photo taken by Reza Shayestehpour.
Zippo snaps, sparks the flame,
Essential for this daily tinder routine.
Zig zags contain dusty, seedy remains of
His birthday stash from Lex and Jean.
Dad’s lighter, used over years
Engraving’s worn off and disappeared.
What a crazy old ride from cigar to spliff.
Photo by Evan Phillip on Unsplash
Written for this week’s quadrille prompt on d’Verse: use some form of the word ‘zip’.
My days as dangerous and echoing as a tin with razor sharp edges thrown into the bin.
Then summer. You.
Your free spirit like birdsong, trilled,
Found me, loved me, filled my world to bursting.
Egg shells cracked mosaic-like,
Fledgling life peaked through.
For Monday’s d’Verse Quadrille prompt: Egg
Sinewed hands grab my shoulders, shove me sideways down unfamiliar streets.
Glowing in the distant dark there shimmers a landed mermaid, enchanting, enticing,
Melting in the tarnished silver spoon I wasn’t born with.
Burns my hands. Burns my veins.
Soundless, the world is ash.
44 words (quadrille) for d’Verse. Prompt word: burn
When he speaks plain truth to himself, not often that is,
He whisper-tells that when he twists door handles, enters,
Rooms chill into icy, stony-silent, thin air.
But his deliberate shuffle awakens low-register murmurs,
Piercing, hot hissed hums.
Air full, no, fat.
44 word quadrille for today’s dVerse Pub