Authenticity

This poem is linked to Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday. I used 3 words that contain the letters “ght.” This post doesn’t look like a stream-of-consciousness, but I wrote this pretty quickly and did not edit it at all. 


Authenticity is a bright light

In a world littered with black and gray,

A beacon beckoning to those lost

In rolling seas, somewhere along the way,

A life-preserver for those drowning

In interminable lists of shoulds and oughts:

Authenticity is a once-sunken treasure

That can never be completely forgot.

 

red and black wooden chest on white sand
Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

Voice of the Future

I am a little too late for this prompt at DVerse, about telling a story through the senses, but here is my poem. It also fits with this (I think).


She heard laughter.

Through the tears

She heard laughter.

She felt dreams solidifying.

She felt a smile

Curl her lips upwards.

She felt fingers

Clacking on a computer keyboard

Posting a poem

(Was she a writer?)

Sometime in the future.

The future wasn’t nothing.

She heard the voice

Of a poet, leader,

Whispering — encouraging.

 

Hunter’s Moon

illustration of moon showing during sunset
Photo by David Besh on Pexels.com

Waiting for nighttime

To reveal a companion

On this search for love

For Frank J. Tassone’s haikai prompt this week. Click here for more info. It turns out that this month’s full moon was last night, and I didn’t realize it, though I did look at the moon. I wrote the above haiku yesterday. Then, this morning, upon reading that the “Hunter’s Moon” was actually yesterday, I wrote this:

I saw you last night

My desired companion,

Sans recognition

Continuation

This is for Sanaa’s newest challenge over at Poets United. For this “wild Friday,” we are writing an ending to one of the poet Sappho’s unfinished pieces. This was intimidating to even consider, but my response is below. Please follow the link to read the original poem. 


But all must be endured,

Since even a poor

Sparrow yearns for a home —

My feathers are ruffled

But yours are, as always,

Magnificently dazzling —

This I must admit though I’d

Love, if it were different.

 

Painted Face

1a8f86bdc5d8329ff0047f0768628e89 (1)

The image above, from The Sunday Muse, inspired this poem. 


Greyness permeates, but there’s one stripe where color shines across her face, and people see signs of life.

Maybe they don’t see anything,

But a red smile, to beguile them.

Is a painted face enough to distract them from her pain, to fool them when she lies, that she is fine?

Miss Paint-Face

Misses happiness,

No one notices.