[image Frederick Carl Frieseke (American, 1874 – 1939), The Bird Cage courtesy dVerse Poets Pub]
A Bird In A Cage
That song, that mesmerising song. Some things are just not good for an unsober head, carrying a mind of non direction, crazed in booze, and too bold women, and the faint perfume.
From its chalice steals, the sacred blend of dignity, divinity, deep serious contemplation and remorse, by morning glare. When did it occur to them to look for him, to ask about him.
Weren't they drinking buddies? Weren't buddies supposed to look after one another? It is a sad day went a friend goes missing, like a phantom, out of the night. When a friend's wife is left alone; to listen to the song of a bird in a cage.
Was it yesterday? No, not yesterday. I learned to know the love of bare November days, before the coming of the snow, from letters.
Letters written in beautiful cursive hand, telling bleak tales, written when long nights, stretched to insomnia.
Insomnia, was never the writer's pleasure, rather instead, the stretch of words penned across oceans in relative conversation, with the art of anticipation to receive reciprocal replies, these were her November guests.
Those answers which warm the heart, like hot chocolate in which tiny mashmallows surf, on nights chilly like blizzard winds.
Here in Trinidad and Tobago🇹🇹 we celebrate 100 days of Christmas starting 23rd Sepember to 25th December; hosted by Sweet 101.1 FM Radio, where our local Christmas music is featured
There’s a lullaby for suffering; words so sweet, a pot of gold nods, showering its coins in a melodious rhythm over every rainbow colour.
There’s a lullaby for suffering; in a sharing of music so captivating, the most ragged man woman or child, can hear it, can understand it, can stretch out a wanting hand and receive its melody.
There’s a lullaby for suffering. It's the smell of a beautiful charm on the wind. A refrain, so enchanting, the greediest man, woman or child will wither under its spell: transforming to a thunderous sound of - love is the chorus.
She never liked Port of Spain. She lived in the central Trinidad an area called Warrenville. The bus route meandered through cane fields on those dusty afternoons she travelled home ftom work tired, but happy the weekend was hers to return home to her own five children left in the care of her mother and father
Such was her plight, an absconding husband, who deceided to go live with a woman who sang at calypso tents during the Carnival season. Her father had stretched out his arms to her. "Come back home, he said"
"Aye Mr Marvelous, warp speed!, The Perseid meteor shower is on the rise and her glistening shafts will pierce the galactic bed in a matter of mere nanoseconds."
"It is what it is captain; everyday unfurls as it must; here we go then, to warp speed. Then we can all have a cup of tea"
Don't want to have us falling out of the sky like birds chased by Zeus."
Though all of the names swallowed up by the cold left a bitter taste on her freezing lips; still, she remained adamant. She was not leaving without her best bud her friend of first school days.
She was determined to search this wretched unknown territory; alone if she must, unshod if she had to. She would find him.
Her backpack felt even heavier than when she had zeroed in from earth with all of its wars and changes in climate. She didn't know what season she had reached in this unknown star. There was no inkling in this wasteland of emerald sky, yellow dust and red rocks.
She had never thought to pack a paint brush or colours.
She; across the seas, had heard about this relative since she was knee high. They said he was a tyrant and a boisterious no good fellow. He valued only his opinions and thought that he alone should have a voice.
She left him high and dry. Search high search low, he couldn't find her - his wife of three years. Three years was more than enough time for her to admit she had made a huge mistake. She made good trusted friends, saved some money and found herself somewhere else to live.
Here she was in the big apple for the first time. It was November. And her curiosity proded, to see this creature everyone wanted to stay away from. One of his wife's friends reluctantly agreed to take her there; but in her mind she was thinking, snow would be the easy way out.
They were both country folk, Anslem and Gillian. Evening shadows and tree sillhouettes accompanied them as they walked the paths holding hands under moon bright nights.
He was never tired of their moon. However he craved city lights. His friends had written letters about street lights and neon lights and storefront lights. They had escaped the bush and they were working in government offices in town.
Anslem wanted a slice of that life. He had sent in numerous applications and was at the verge of dissapointment. Gillian though was a trooper. She told him "Don't give up Anslem; we will get a favourable reply soon; exactly when the time is right.
And so it was on this moon bright night they walked on the pavement; traffic holding its breath, sky a tense diaphragm in the city street, with workers returning home.
given a complete line from a poem, which must be included somewhere in your story, in the same order and with no words in between, within the 144-word limit. You are, however, allowed to play with the punctuation.
‘Traffic holding its breath,
Sky a tense diaphragm’
from Twice Shy Poem by Seamus Heaney
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THIS IS MONDAY WRITES 407
A HAPPY AUGUST TO ALL
You've heard about the Monday Blues
well this is Monday WRites (musing on the definition here of rite, as any customary observance for eg the rite of afternoon tea).
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Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven byW. B. Yeats 1865 –1939
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
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For every Monday in August the Word is CLOTH Link up with one of your posts where the word CLOTH is present or the theme CLOTH is presented
You've heard about the Monday Blues well this is Monday WRites (musing on the definition here of rite, as any customary observance for eg the rite of afternoon tea).
Welcome to Monday WRites #293: A Happy Monday to all. Be Safe.
The road ends here, there is a hole in the mud a few paces away. Don't be too serious about the pavement ending. Don't overthink it. If you are a dreamer come in for the curious falling. You might trample over a few rabbits scurrying out their warren, after eggs, the Season of Easter being all of this and more.
The Red Queen? Oh no, she will not be showing her face here. She has had enough of that Alice girl, with all of her growing and shrinking; her eating and drinking.
Ah, but The Hatter, for sure he will made an appearance, to quell the ostentations of those big-hat ladies, wearing what they insist on calling Easter Bonnets, but you and I know, they are outrageously anything else but a bonnet.
He will be there to judge and prize the merriest or the maddest.
It's Carnival Monday here in Trinidad and Tobago, jouvert (dirty mas) starts the adult street parades, however this pandemic year 2021 was quiet compared. The Carnival Season ends tomorrow. Though the spirit and vibe is present, the pandemic prevents crowd activities. The music did keep us in the mood and the new normal fostered all sorts of creatives: virtuals fetes, workshops, and talk shops and look backs through the carnival archives and virtual competitions.
You've heard about the Monday Blues well this is Monday WRites (musing on the definition here of rite, as any customary observance for eg the rite of afternoon tea).
Welcome to Monday WRites #285: A Happy Monday to all. Be Safe.
Prompted to use the Lines, in a prose not more than 144 words long.
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head
A FAIRY AFIRE
Nine hazel trees waved in the sun hot breeze. Fish in the pond jumped and frolicked below, in the shade of windswept boughs.
Who knows whether they were Salmon or Tilapia, as the report goes, they were fish. Fish who thought their sanctuary sacred. So much so, they lived peacefully among lazy caiman which ate their weight of water hyacinths in said dreamy haven.
Till one day, a fire fairy wandered in from the next glen. She was so broken, her whole being ached from the longing for her unfaithful lover.
She sat under one hazel, head bowed, wings drooping, cradling sorrow. This was too much for her to bear. Before she exploded into a million tiny fiery bits headed toward the sun, she heard her own heart speak:"I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head"
You've heard about the Monday Blues well this is Monday WRites (musing on the definition here of rite, as any customary observance or
eg the rite of afternoon tea). Welcome to Monday WRites #255: A Happy Monday to all ❧✿❧
Copy this code, pin my button to your blog
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Blog hopping today with Mosaic Monday
# 89: A-campin' We Did Go
[ in today's Inspiration Mosaic all photos mine, edits done in PicsArt]
DAYS OF QUARANTINE.
The open air concert planned for The Promenade, would be the first 'Bandleaders Thank You' to mas players, costume designers and onlookers.
Persons could stream in and stay the length or take in the day's event in parts, choosing what time and which singer they desired to hear.
The days were still sunny and the age old tree branches spread, some in inflorescence. Surely no one would want to sit in this fete. Benches would be empty of those old geysers who came to play draughts for coins, even though they couldn't spend the coins,
not in today's high cost of living. One had better have some dollar notes if needed to buy a loaf.
Wishing all A Happy Season of Easter
You've heard about the Monday Blues well this is Monday WRites (musing on the definition here of rite, as any customary observance or practice eg the rite of afternoon tea). Welcome to Monday WRites #241: A Happy Monday to all ❧✿❧
Copy this code, pin my button to your blog
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Blog hopping today with Mosaic Monday
#75: Let's Go to the Beach!
AND
Prosery: Edward Thomas Prompted to use the lines no one left and no one came on the bare platform, from the poem Adlestrop in a flash fiction of no more than 144 words
