7 Word Sunday – We Are…

Nonchalant sunlight sprinkles handfuls of cosmic dustImage

photo credit:https: http://ak8.picdn.net/shutterstock/videos/2607977/preview/stock-footage-specks-of-dust-floating-a-beam-of-light.jpg

All to Dust

What price memories?
All are felled with the vast claw
of progress.

and a boulder (sorry)

From the newly revealed houses opposite, one of the residents takes a photo of the dust-blanketed Mercedes that sits huddled on his driveway. He gets in his car and dulled rear headlights emerge through the fog of disinterest that permeates the site. Our teacher comments that her car is over there somewhere too. With a rising sense of foreboding, I realise where my own is…directly behind the man-made mountain that now fills the space before our eyes.

Gleeful at having found such a handy parking space, one of many in a usually packed street, I dashed in to work without coming to a logical explanation for this unexpected bounty.

The children’s faces mirror my look of horror when I blurt out this realisation and they turn to me with round eyes and open mouths.
Thoughts of volcanic ash clouds and what happens to plane engines flit through my increasingly irrational mind as I go to collect my car. It has almost completely changed colour from a usual metallic green to a greying beige, glowering sullenly to me as I approach. I offer a few words to any kind spirit that might be listening before turning the key in the key in the ignition.

It is only us who are choked by the destruction of this place so filled with memories. The engine flares to life.

Passing On

As we sit around the table for my Dad’s birthday my Mum says quietly, “See this ruby ring that I had for my 40th wedding anniversary? I want Florrie to have it when I’m gone.” I look at her.
“You are having my engagement ring and I want Florrie to have this one.” The ring moves a little on her knuckle as she touches it. She seems determined that I will agree to do this for her. “Okay.” I say after a moment.
Florrie, who is deep in conversation with my Dad, looks over at me and says, “Are you ok? You look a bit sad.” I realise that this is supposed to be a joyful birthday celebration for my Dad. He is seventy eight today and my Mum was eighty in the summer. Yes I’m sad.
I smile, as expected, but it doesn’t reach my eyes.

Changing Roles


my place.

Like a seesaw –

perpetual motion…mother…daughter…


‘Til the end of time (Ghazal)

The essence of waiting is to quietly be
Patient, not distract, just quietly be.

Be still as the dawn and open to change,
To have courage to act on what will be.

And what if that time should still its face?
Future, no longer fact, can cease to be.

The sands will run out and the tide will turn
To make no pact – all will simply not be.

I am Helen, yet not, and one day hence
A final redact, then all I will be…

Six words for Sunday – Limbo

Ever feel you are just waiting…?

Six Word Saturday – New Term


Holiday end – where has it gone?

Previous Older Entries

Fatgirlskinny.net | Slimming World Recipes & More

Weight Loss, Slimming World And My Life

I didn't have my glasses on....

A trip through life with fingers crossed and eternal optimism.

Prattle & Snap

photography, craft, nature

creativity in motion

Blog of Registered Board Certified Art Therapist Gretchen Miller, MA, ATR-BC


Tabby Cats Are The New Black

Bob Israel Photography: Blog

Fleeting impressions seared into my soul...tiny pebbles tossed into the surge


Short stories by Emma Brown

Inion N. Mathair


Kindness Blog

Kindness Images, Videos, True Life Stories, Quotes, Personal Reflections and Meditations.

Wuji Seshat

Selected Poems

poetry by skull

The Musings of N. E. Skull


the epic blog of a father of twins

Pennsylvania Alliance for Clean Water and Air

Dedicated citizens fighting to protect our most valuable resources.

ann johnson-murphree

Artist, Writer of Confessional Free Verse Poetry and Fiction

Being Margaret

A lighthearted look at life on any given day


Art is our home. This door is open, always, to all, and yet permits not the entry of draft or rain. The doused may find solace, and repose, in the warmth of this hearth. For the sparks of these words - the spectres conjured by its incandescence - are a family whose love is unconditional, and will ever blaze, kindling within us the faith to weather these tempests. The ashes may then be scattered upon the winds - to ignite the lost, and unify our souls as one, in unquenched illumination; to be the light which guides us home, through the darkest of eclipse.


a day in the life of my sketchbook...

Mister G Kids

A daily comic about real stuff little kids say in school. By Matt Gajdoš