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 Oh! Where Are you Going?

He was barefooted, leaving no footprints

Barechested, without a belly

Standing erect, yet without a spine

Is your name worthless?

I asked as i passed him in the corridor

Your facelessness looked familiar

I stated firmly, peering into his demeanor

 Like a poem, without words

No he retorted; my name is love

You must be joking, i said exicitedly!

Love? Love?

And where are you off to?

But at that point, i didn't really want to know

The bougainvillea i planted, are so lovely

 I mused in a whisper,  to myself.

©  gillena cox 2026

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH

  Poetics: Where does love go? 

REVIST
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[image coutersy, dVerse poets pub)

 Contradicting Emily

Why write if not to free thought from its incarceration of mind's cell, if not to converse, to share and expect retort in the bargain.

Appreciation can be free, many will agree, but when a reader, dips into her purse to show the worth of a poet's thought, that narrative is special; that's applauding publication.

Is the 'auction of the mind', still considered a seeming truism, in today's effortless - share, follow and add.

©  gillena cox 2026

NOTE: I opted not to do flash fuction.

To understand  the line fully; i googled. This is what i got

Publication — is the Auction" by Emily Dickinson (c. 1863) argues that publishing one's work ("the mind") is a "foul" act of selling one's inner thoughts for public consumption, akin to a market auction. The poem suggests that turning intellectual and spiritual creation into a commercial product "reduces" the human spirit to a market price.

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH

  Prosery: Publication 

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[ Kay Sage, I Saw Three Cities, 1944 from google]

Eternal Day

Sun and moon destined to shine, in azure or obsidian skies. They know their times and stations. Whether super, full, or black, eclipse or otherwise. Tides and moods stringed to their events helplessly flow in following. 

What of wars are they chimed in here too. Is war always inevitable? Must they always be at their appointed times. And what of peace, why can't we all, everyone, enjoy peace simultaneously.

It all belies, our existence; we wait, and are still denied. Or maybe, it is like day and night? Hours of light and hours of darkness? In one whole and eternal day.

©  gillena cox 2026

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH 

  

 Prosery: Winter Lull 

Challenge: to use in a prose 

“It all belies

Our existence; we wait, and are still denied.”

From
“Winter-Lull” by D.H. Lawrence
https://poets.org/poem/winter-lull

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Vasily Kandinsky - The Great Masters of Art - Bauhaus Movement ...from google

Eleventh Day

 If i should die, before you should sleep, you should bury me. With the lies I told, you can carve a monument to debate about abstractionism. 

With my truths, knit together a stone tablet of love. Remember to pen in my good deeds in a tabular form. Numbers one to eleven should suffice. Remember, i was born on an eleventh day. Shalom!

© gillena cox 2026

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH 

  Dverse Prosery Monday — Bury Me 

Challenge: to use the line 'Bury me with the lies I told' from Alejandro Escovedo's - 'Bury Me'

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REVIST
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SONG CHOICE FOR TODAY

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[image courtesy dVerse Poets Pub]

It would be my first voyage to outerspace. Will it be cold, will it be hot? At this point, i didn't really care. I just wanted some peace in my life

When i looked up to the sky, where birds sing and sail, and aeroplanes glided. I knew i didn't see far enough above me.

The granites and schists of my dark and stubborn country led me to the idea of moving, somewhere far away, somewhere where light filters through every crevasse, somewhere bright where rainbows are picked, like ripe mangos, off trees.

© gillena cox 2025

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH 

   Prosery: Dark and Stubborn Country 

To use the lines in a prose piece

“The granites and schists Of my dark and stubborn country.” –Nan Shepherd, “The Hill Burns” from In the Cairngorms (Edinburgh: The Moray Press, 1934) https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/hill-burns/

REVISIT TO READ

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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

ENJOY THE MUSIC

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  [image from google]

 November Letters

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.

© gillena cox 2025

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH 

  Prosery: My November Guest 

NOTE: Todays poem is a proseey including lines given from 'My November Guest' by Robert Frost

REVISIT TO READ

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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

ENJOY THE MUSIC

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[AI generated imagel

 Would i have owned, the wisdom of maturity “I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones.”

But no, my childish tantrums, prevented me from hearing the thunder and loving it.  Seeing the lightning and being awed by the spontaneous brightness of a dull sky.

This is how betrayal, fools the unassumming, the naive, the young and unspoilt.

© gillena cox 2025

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH 

Prosery: Walcott’s Dark August 

     

REVISIT TO READ

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[image made with Bing AI generator]

 “Calling Things What They Are.”

If you are sad say so. If you are happy let it show. Being straight saves a world of misconceptions, lots of time wasted, and more best results.

Don't call tears raindrop, or smiles up side down frowns. Calling things what they are, is the best way forward. Leave poetry to the poets.

Life gets real when you face it head on. I have no skills for flight or wings to skim the waves effortlessly, like the wind itself. A balloon is a balloon. A spade is a spade.

© gillena cox 2025

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH 

Prosery: Ada Limón

Challenge: To include the line

“I have no skills for flight or wings

to skim the waves effortlessly, like the wind itself.”

REVISIT TO READ

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[bird pepper image from google]

 Mango Chow

When i was a child i knew of a tiny tubular pepper we called bird pepper.  These plants no one planted, they just popped up from nowhere, but did not remain in the size of a weed. They grew to well sized shrubs.

Maybe it was as Lisa Bellamy thought, “as a seed, I was shot out the back end of a blue jay when, heedless, she flew over the meadow.” 

In those my youthful days. I used to add bird peppers to chow. Chow was any green fruit available peeled, with salt, garlic and peppers, added. In my area the favoured choice was mango chow. It was something as children we made, we relished we shared.

© gillena cox 2025

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH 

Prosery: In the words of Lisa Bellamy

Write a piece of flash fiction or other prose up of up to or exactly 144 words, Including the given line from a poem. “As a seed, I was shot out the back end of a blue jay when, heedless, she flew over the meadow.” From the poem, Wild Pansy. by Lisa Bellamy

REVISIT TO READ

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Love Is The Chorus

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. 

HAPPY SAINT PATRICK'S DAY

© gillena cox 2025

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH 

Prosery Leonard Cohen

Using a line from Leonard Cohem, in a prose not more than 144 words
REVISIT TO READ

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The aesthetic that is dance: lights, music, energy, colour, stretching to the heights of a discipline to

be shared  and appreciated, all of this goes into the buildup we appraise as the performance.

What of the players on stage? How many delicious fried meals did they have to refuse, How many hours of sleep did they abstain from to get the movements right to sync with their partners.

We the audience leave the hall in applause mode, but if you really ponder the performance in terms of its background efforts and  disciplines the words of Rilke echo thoughts: "For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror.” 

Attended the matinee performance of  'metamorphosis takes flight' at NAPA (National Academy for the Performing Arts)yesterday afternoon, so response to today's challenge is inspired thus.

 

✿

“Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.”

― Voltaire

 

REVISIT TO READ

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Mosaic Monday#40

 Prosery: Rainer Maria Rilke

challenge to include the line  from The First Elegy by  Rainer Maria Rilke -"For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror.” in a short prose

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THIS IS MONDAY WRITES 403

 Happy Month of July

Lets dance in the month of July

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). 

 

❧✿❧

For every Monday this July the Word is 'DANCE' Link up with one of your  posts where the word 'dance' is present or the theme dance is presented

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BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH

Prosery: Breathing and Moons

“An early moon is just a piece of change in the softening sky. “ 

is the prompt line given from

James Masao Mitsui, “Spring Poem for the Sake of Breathing, Written After a Walk to Foster Island”

AN EARLY MOON

Sometimes it is clear, exercising in the mornings, is sheer punishment. So she relents; tucking herself under her blanket for at least a half an hour more. Aging she muses is no sin.

The birds know their songs, the dew when to fall and the worms their wiggle. All of the above will happen even though she is not yet awake.  

Oh but the moon, she will miss this lingering beauty in the silent drama of colours and palettes from above, weaving their silvery pinks and greys to azure. She had always thought " An early moon is just a piece of change in the softening sky" 

AN EARLY MOON © gillena cox 2023

AND

Mosaic Monday #34

REVISIT

05 June 2017

05 June 2017(2)

05 June 2015

THIS IS MONDAY WRITES 398
Wishing You: A Happy Month of June; Stay Creative

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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Wishing all a Happy Season of Easter

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH

Prosery: Valsa George-“The Accidental Poet”

Given the line The seed of a poem lay dormant in my heart.  to use in a prose not more than 144 words

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THE VERY RIGHT MOMENT

The seed of a poem lay dormant in my heart. I always wanted to hear those enduring words spoken softly like the twilight. 

And here were we; candlelight and wine. And we eye to eye, misting up the moment.

This is when the words whirrled  around in my head. He was swirling his wine, sniffing it before he drank I held my glass, watching him.

THE VERY RIGHT MOMENT#flash fiction

© gillena cox 2023

Mosaic Monday 26

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REVISIT
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This is Monday WRites 3902

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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January: the Christmas joy morphs into a celebration of sun. Reflecting, dazzling, amazing, awe inspiring. Tinsel and baubles go into hiding as boldfaced razzle dazzle takes over. Sequins rule. The band leaders are in their glory. The costumes on the wall must come alive for Carnival Monday and Tuesday. The stitchers work, day into evening into night. I know what they must be thinking "Everything i do is stitched with its colour" Such is the hype of the Season of Carnival. Where fun frolic colour and dazzle call the tempo of the day.

© gillena cox 2023

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH

Asked to write a piece of flash fiction or other prose up of up to or exactly 144 words, including the given line Everything I do is stitched with its color. from the poem Separation by W.S.Merwin.

dVerse — Prosery – Everything is Stitched

Blue Monday & Ruby Tuesday Too: Silhouette

BEST WISHES FOR 2023

This is Monday WRites 379

You've heard about the Monday Blues 

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well this is Monday WRites  (musing on the definition here of rite, as any customary observance for eg the rite of afternoon tea). 

REVISIT
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Monday WRites 378

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[image courtesy dVerse]

Stars never it seems stay still. All their twinkling are for nursery rhymes and astronauts

She liked the months of October and November. The brilliant reds oranges and yellows and then the decaying browns

All of this was to her a statement of skeletons; the caw of blackbirds and the future of red cardinals against snow

Colour held its theater of life and death by the throat and its choreography of light and darkness in  nimble piroettes

‘In the street of the sky night walks scattering poems.’

© gillena cox 2022

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH

Prosery: Tulips & Chimneys   

Using the given  line ‘In the street of the sky night walks scattering poems.’from Tulips & Chimneys, by E. E. Cummings and is the last line of  IX- Impressions:

REVISIT

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This was Monday WRites # 370

A HAPPY NOVEMBER 

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). 

Copy this code, pin my button to your blog
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THERE BY THE LAKE

   She was reading about him. They had labelled him egotist. So wrapped up in himself they said. He didn't stand a chance. They all lambasted him. All of them.

   Were there mirrors about in that time. Did they have  to coin a metaphor naming his plight? Was it not the first time he had seen this fair face? The face of his beloved? The face that spurned him so, to pine for love until he withered and died right there by the lake?

   Are we on reflection being fair to Narcissus?  Did he know that the face in the water was his? Wasn't there the underlying factor of rejection and curse?

   She read on questioning the norm. And all she would conclude after contemplation was, how romantic! 

   Are we now to conclude that to her death is quite romantic?

THERE BY THE LAKE © gillena cox 2016

Welcome to Monday WRites # 366

A happy OCTOBER 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). 

Copy this code, pin my button to your blog
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BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH
Prosery – Bob Dylan 

challenged to use the line "To her, death is quite romantic" in a piece of prose not more than 144 words 

REVISIT

20161010

stories of Narcissus

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image credit

May brings flowers after April's rain. That line i have read and heard many times. But it is not quite applicable to my clime. The truth is in May the shrubs, in the gardens may carry more blooms than they did before. They are always flowering. Then comes the June rains. The true rains of the Rainy Season. Floods in some areas with loss of roof and furniture. I feel certain in such areas residents will question the fates -For how can I be sure I shall see again the world on the first of May 

© gillena cox 2022

Welcome to Monday WRites # 348

Happy Easter. tis the season of joy in renewal

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). 

A Blessed Season of Easter to all

Copy this code, pin my button to your blog
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BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH

Prosery: Sara Teasdale and May

❧✿❧

Using the line “For how can I be sure I shall see again The world on the first of May” –From “May Day” by Sara Teasdale Prosery is a dVerse term for prose incorporating a given line of poetry. This can be either flash fiction, nonfiction, or creative nonfiction, but it must be prose! Not prose poetry, and not a poem. And it must be no longer than 144 words, not including the title. (It does not have to be exactly 144 words, but it can’t exceed 144 words.)

REVISIT 

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