This week we are invited to be innovative. Instead of completing our prose with a haiku, we can choose an alternative style of oh-so-brief poetry. I have selected the Cambodian pathya vat style – four lines of poetry where the second and third lines must rhyme.
This week is also prompt week, and i have chosen the Mexican proverb ‘It is not enough to know how to ride – you must also know how to fall’ as my inspiration.
Please do go and check out the other entries by visiting the co-hosts’ blogs and finding the InLinkz linky thing! There are some very talented writers out there…
– One Wild Song –
The weather yesterday was what I told myself to be the winter version of the day of my dad’s funeral – blue skies, here and there the odd wisp of teased, cotton wool clouds, everywhere crisp and bright.
It was a fitting day for us all to gather for his memorial service. A man who loved colour in his clothing as well as in his art, he would have delighted in such a day to celebrate his life, his achievements, his work.
Throughout the service – a mixture of classical music, hymns, choral works, poetry and other readings – I kept on thinking that I wouldn’t have been surprised if the man himself had arrived, charging down the aisle in a puff of cigar smoke, rainbow-hued tie flailing. It was all so ‘him’. The stunning surroundings, the atmosphere, the sheer grandeur of it all, yet wrapped in an intimacy so tangible it could almost be touched and held close.
So many amazing sentiments were expressed. They were touching, even humorous at times, topped off by a huge round of applause fit to lift St Paul’s Cathedral from its foundations and expose the OBE Chapel to the world outside.
It could have been no better.
clapping of hands stings in echoes for life that flows – sorrow no more
Here’s my latest entry into the dVerse Open Link– why not take a look at all of the other wonderful responses?
Last night I woke at 2am – and that was the end of my sleep for the night. I was in a strange hotel room (strange to me, that is, not bizarre!), in an unfamiliar bed, anticipating an out of the ordinary day ahead. Today, I attended the memorial service for my dad in the OBE Chapel at St Paul’s Cathedral. I read one of his poems in the most beautiful of surroundings, watched over by Nelson’s tomb and the gravestone of William Blake. It was a stunning experience and extremely humbling.
Here are some of the thoughts that were running through my head in the depths of last night.
I suspect I’ll sleep well tonight, back in my own bed.
Let me know what you think…
– Insomnia –
Celebrating the life of… In the wee small hours A good night’s sleep, guaranteed Taxi at 9am Twenty minutes’ walk to St Paul’s Don’t forget the map, the poem No, remember them, not don’t forget What’s that light? Just the smoke alarm, guarding me It’s so quiet here, on the edge of The City I ought to – I should – My eyes are so tired I wish I was in my own bed I wonder if I’ll sleep before the alarm goes off? I hope it all goes OK I need a holiday Sunshine, a beach Space in my head Celebrating the life of…
Seraphine is bursting with joy. She is surrounded by the other Chosen, each adorned with their tribal headdresses and familial tattoos.
She thinks of butterfly season, when her forest home is filled with the delicate creatures, when the air is rainbow-hued. The rustle of silk reminds her of the sibilant fluttering of thousands of wings as the creatures take flight, seeking their freedom. She too is taking flight. Searching for new air, endless sky in which to spread her wings.
The room falls silent. The Arbiter is here.
Two doors open – one is flanked by two beautiful women, the other by two guards. A small tug of foreboding pulls at Seraphine’s core. Something is not right. The sibilance of butterflies transforms to the urgent flapping of crows’ wings – dark and discordant.
The selection is quick and efficient, brutal even. The Arbiter points, flicks her head towards the door of her choosing, a girl’s fate decided in an instant. Delight awaits the girl guided towards the women, despair if a guard grasps her by the shoulders and pushes her through his door, now yawning like an entrance to Hell.
Seraphine knows that there is no hiding place. As she feels a rough hand land on the back of her neck, she understands that her coin has flipped and landed on the dark side. She now knows why her mother waved her off with so many tears. Yet she also realises why she was not warned of the consequences. Better to have a dream, to aim high and burn bright on your way down, than to remain in the mud below for all time.
Whatever fate has in store for her now, she can always remember her moments as a butterfly, searching for her own patch of sky.