Listening to the sound of rain
Busy minds tune into the lull.
A provoked tranquility:
Calm enough to ease,
Loud enough to dispel
Wish them farewell.
A raindrop is silent,
Until it splashes.
Like his internal plight,
Before he turns to ashes.
Image credit: Pixabay.com
In response to dVerse’s Rain Poetry Prompt found here
The cheetah perched by the lake,
Cleansing her paws.
She scowled at the water,
For reflecting her flaws.
She rubbed at her spots,
But they wouldn’t disappear.
She loathed her matted coat,
And she shed a sullen tear.
An elephant came along,
And sat by her side.
“Just look at my wrinkles,
I wear them with pride!”
“How do you find the strength?”
The cheetah enquired.
“I found more to life than beauty,
And that’s all it required!”
Image Credit: Pixabay.com
In response to Wrinkle Writing Prompt: Sunday Scribblings #3 found here
You took a second glance. I could
Forgive you for a wand’ring eye.
As long as you do not deny,
And just assume I’ve understood,
Given a choice, I know you would
Allow that longing, leering stare
To ricochet back to me where
It will be reciprocated.
Besides, I’ve often debated
To gaze, myself. It’s only fair.
In response to Ronovan Writes Décima Poetry Challenge Prompt No. 6 found here
There is no need to sever the atmosphere,
Which lingers like smog, between you.
Instead, swallow the bitter taste of fury,
Or let it lie stagnant in your heart, festering.
It will only grow tough, unshakable layers,
As it will not disintegrate.
Is anything better left unsaid?
Why don’t you put these fumes to bed?
My puppet master let go of the strings.
My eyes absorbed the world with a fresh perspective. Everything seemed so unusual; less enticing and seeped in danger. I didn’t know where to run, or whether to run at all.
I tried tying knots in the strings, praying my puppet master would guide me once again.
The knots only frayed…
I cowered in a corner, until I could muster up enough strength to breathe steadily. Exploring had once been a dream of mine, but in my mind, it had been safe and wonderful.
I must now become my own puppet master, but I will always clutch the strings tight.
You weren’t the first. Perhaps if you were, it wouldn’t have cut me so deep. I wouldn’t have become so numb. I may have even found forgiveness.
So unexpectedly, you cut me out of your life, as though I was a jagged edge on a piece of paper. Something so easily discarded without a second thought.
For a while, I wondered, perhaps I did something wrong? I tried to make amends, but I meant so little to you that I wasn’t even worthy of a response. It dawned on me that I held no value in your eyes.
So when you walked back into my life, did you really expect me to have left that space inside my heart all warm, cosy, and welcoming?
I have grieved, I have found acceptance, and to save myself, I have lost my respect for you.
You weren’t the first.
You won’t be the last.
I’m not in love with you.
Paths may cross,
They may run parallel,
But eventually they part.
I’m not in love with you.
Although we collided,
We will be divided.
Its just that we are both heading South.
If we join forces, maybe we can find North.
Okay, so I’m in love with you.
I will crumble. Won’t quite catch
My breath. Console me.
Every morning, Eleanor would ride the bus to the beach. Something about the narrow aisle, uncomfortable chairs, and window seat would act as a social catalyst.
She would always use the journey as an opportunity to make connections with the other passengers. She would delve into their past, ask them questions about who they are, and where their ambitions would take them. She would always remember to ask for their birthday.
When she arrived at the beach, she would scribble everything down, under the headings of star signs. She would try to find matches, and make links… Where there weren’t any.
It took years to gather enough information to realise that everyone is unique, and all those years of chasing after her own horoscope had only led to loneliness.
Eleanor did not dwell on this for too long. Instead, she developed a whole new system to match people, and by the end of the week, she had set up her own dating site. She could make some strong conclusions about lifestyle choices, complimenting personality traits, and love.
Her most successful match was her own. Eleanor managed to find her own love story within the pages of her website. As soon as he appeared on the list, she knew their paths would cross and connect.
When things are not going to plan, be flexible. Adapt.
Her hands tremble as she traces the spiralling ridges of my fingertips with her delicate fingers. I try to catch her eye but she is avoidant. I pull my hand away and she stares into the space where my palm had been.
“What is it?” I ask, hesitantly.
She gathers herself together, wiping her hands on her robes. She clears her throat, but continues to avoid my gaze.
It then became imminently clear that my palms did not narrate tales of good fortune. No, that look was unequivocal. Only tragedy; a succession of disappointing events lay ahead, steeped in loss, fear, and grief.
It was too late to consider whether there is any truth hidden behind the creases on your hands. Continuing to walk the same paths with the same attitude became a risk. It was from this day that I carried gratitude with me wherever I went.
Gratitude reminds me that beneath the pressure of life lives a dormant element of peace. She had failed to find resilience at my fingertips.
An old post, rejigged for MindLoveMisery’s Fortune Teller Prompt found here