The Pope & His Son #poetry #dreams

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Photo Credit: Pixabay

The Pope & His Son

I dreamt of the pope and his son

nonsensical except with eyes closed

Italy, untamed and free. A sea on the rise

reclaiming what was always hers. She

whipped blue waves to release structure

mighty fortresses vanishing in one breath

as the pope and his son washed

naked in her womb

and I, above the horizon

watching in awe this wild fresco

of rebirth

 

Winter’s Light #WritePhoto

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Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

The breath of winter spreads a filigree of ice

upon the hands of trees. She whispers the promise

of eternal love in white. Forget the sun, she tells you

I am here to stay. Lover to darkness, she holds

the power of warmth, forcing the shivering limbs

to layer or retreat. Yet the tree remembers life

a sentinel to time, enduring elements

and the knowing that the light will melt

beauty’s truth

 

For Sue Vincent’s weekly #writephoto prompt

writephoto

 

 

The Copper Doorway #WritePhoto

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Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

The Copper Doorway

If you think death waits

for you at the end

of the long road

oh weary traveler, turn

back into the tunnel of darkness

to sweep the membrane clean

 In the black space hear the symphony

of life surrounding you and the Mother’s

breath singing the leaves

back into her body

 

For Sue Vincent’s weekly #writephoto prompt. To participate, click here

 

writephoto

 

#Bright Light #SueVincent #WritePhoto

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Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

Blue

Beyond

Take me through

The well of the throat

So that I might drink full

The waters of life. Replenish light

Bright. Oh, so bright. The brilliance of

A supernova exploding the universe inside

Of me. To know love again, beyond the

Depths of pain. To know the fingers

Of joy’s dance in every cell. This

Is life. Full. Complete in itself

It finds home in the green

Heart where unfettered

Filaments weave

Truth

 

For Sue Vincent’s Weekly #WritePhoto prompt. Please click here to participate. 

#writephoto

 

The Beckoning of Ginger #poetry

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I opened the cabinet looking for inspiration as the oats

softened in a boil of water. My eyes drawn

below to where the gnarled fingers of ginger reached

in beckoning.  Why not try it? I thought. It might be good

for the cold inside your chest.  Ginger with a bit of honey

and a sprinkle of cinnamon. And so I broke away a tip

an easy snap of the joint, and took blade

in hand to peel away the leathery skin

pungent yellow flesh perfumed the airways

and I breathed deep in gratitude for the juice

dripping through the grater. Finishing with a sharp

tap of the soft fibers that clung to the teeth

nothing would be wasted. The peel soon buried

to feed the children of earth