Taken on a walk in Parry Sound, Ontario.
Chilly winds under an overcast day
Chase the sprouting hopes of spring away
But the rain bearers they shall also blow by
There is another sky
As obstacle shadows into vision set
By failing light, don’t you forget
Dawn after dusk follow in line
There is another sunshine
Endless silent fields across the horizon
On walks beside the restless waves of Poseidon
The uncertainty makes the heart sorest
Yet here is a little forest
Its leaves are ever green,though frost it has seen
Within faded forests are unfading flowers
Tended by bright bee hum and a patient some
One just like you. Into the garden, come!
This is based on Emily Dickinson’s poem “There is Another Sky,” which contains so many beautiful phrases, I was moved to write with it instead of Cesar Vallejo’s rather sombre poem in the official prompt. I stayed with the theme of optimism in this version, and have a feeling I will be reading this as food for the soul in the future. Thank you Ms Dickinson.
And thanks for reading,
Water lapped my waist as I stood, heels sucked into the sand, sandpaper hair swiftly blown over sandpaper skin. Water is everywhere, gently rocking me like a piece of kelp – the waves are quiet for now, as if they were waiting, like me, but I know they could swallow me up in their swirling depths if they wanted to. A rippling surface stretches forever, past the drop at the end of the world, where a giant red disk slowly descends, inching closer and closer for a dip in Earth’s pool. Salty eyes squint at burning fire as it grows still, its radiance too intense to see and too magnificent to glance away from. And then, it finally happens. The brilliance extends its tendrils across the vastness of the sky, illuminating the canvas with brushes of orange and gold, splashes of rose and magenta, dashes here and there of deep blue and violet. The symphony of an entire spectrum makes my heart race and my breath silent, and I close my eyes, trying to absorb, to capture and embed the vivid scene into my memory in a way no camera can. When I open them, it has all started to soften; bright colours mellow into a blend and the light fades as evening floats down, like a blanket folding over the planet. A glowing arc peeks over the horizon, where waves continue to stir restlessly, transforming into a sea of dark goo with the disappearing light. A chill runs through my bones as suddenly cold water sprays into my face and I lift my ankles from the unseen floor, a speck in the endless swells of liquid drifting slowly back to shore.
Sunset at the Island of Kanawa, Indonesia
Credit: Richard Susanto (500px.com/ChenHauHau)
Wrote this for school. Seems I’m excited for summer already.
Thanks for reading,
There was a smell of Regret in the air tonight. She (Rebecca) smiled and turned the fancy in her mind. There was a thought. What did Regret smell like? Like smoke and rust and cobwebs. And if you wondered what Regret sounded like it sounded like the airy whispers of forgotten ghosts, and crushed bone, and a mirror shattering into a thousand tiny slivers, and silent screams. And, going further, what did Regret look like? Regret looked like dead flies trapped between the glasses of a windowsill or it looked like invisible splinters in the tip of a finger, or a burning piece of crumpled paper slowly engulfed by flames, slowly crumbling into nothing but withered ashes. That was how Regret smelled and looked and sounded. And tonight – Rebecca shoved a hand into the pack of cigarettes – tonight you could almost touch Regret.
(The Streetlight Chronicles)
This was a fill-in-the-blank-type assignment entitled “Is Characterizing Abstract Nouns Personification?” written in 2009. We were inspired to write our own version of the following paragraph written by Ray Bradbury:
There was a smell of Time in the air tonight. He (Tomas) smiled and turned the fancy in his mind. There was a thought. What did Time smell like? Like dust and clocks and people. And if you wondered what Time sounded like it sounded like water running in a dark cave and voices crying and dirt dropping down upon hollow box lids, and rain. And, going further, what did Time look like? Time looked like snow dropping silently into a black room or it looked like a silent film in an ancient theatre, or one hundred billion faces falling like those New Year balloons, down and down into nothing. That was how Time smelled and looked and sounded. And tonight – Tomas shoved his hand into the wind outside the truck – tonight you could almost touch Time.
(Ray Bradbury, The Martian Chronicles)
Thanks for reading,