Voila, your first picture prompt from the new camera:
Mine:
Down this street
That's oh so still,
Lovers meet
Against their will.
Know they're wrong,
But can't choose right;
Lust too strong,
Why even fight?
Time ticks on,
Soon he must go;
Best be gone
'fore husband shows.
But one day
Their game will end
When she says:
Let's just be friends.
3 comments:
Is that the street you live on then, or just one in the neighbourhood? It looks nice, quiet, and rather pretty dressed in its autumn splendour!
And I like the poem and its hint at things going on behind closed doors :)
The street
Shadows cast by the trees
Fall across quiet asphalt;
No-one moves, clouds drift
Silently by, holding a vigil
For one whose presence lingers
Though their body is long gone.
An accident, of time, of space,
Of people being here and a car,
A bright and shiny car being there.
No fault accrues, no blame
Accumulates, but nonetheless
Where many met, one less walked away.
On this street, the silence holds,
A reverence pervades behind the curtains,
Hidden people bow their heads
And hide their faces,
Remembering a time when childish laughter
Rang about the houses, filled with joy.
Marc: When I walk my dog at night, I always wonder what people are doing in their homes. You've answered my question. :O)
Greg: So heartwrenching. What a sadly beautiful piece.
Suburban Warfare
Birds trill well wishes to one another, leaves rustle as they tumble down the street—a Saturday morning symphony. It is a peaceful prelude to the battle that will soon begin.
The atmosphere shifts as warriors begin to gather at the battleground. Each one is filled with anticipation, charging the air with energy. They appear in twos and threes—some arrive alone.
The difference in class is apparent: those with means are outfitted with the best protection; some wear second-hand pieces, weathered by countless others in this age-old dance; a few wear nothing but the simple clothes they own, prepared to risk flesh and bone.
But it is not about the gear or the equipment; it is not about wealth. This ancient tradition transcends all classes, all ages, all boundaries. Singing to the passionate spirit, it equalizes the masses to build a cohesive unit and forge alliances that will survive evermore.
As the bright orange ball is dropped and L-shaped sticks slap in combat, a young voice peals the battle cry:
“Game on!”
And the war begins.
Greg - ah, I had meant to mention: I stopped on my bike ride home from work to take that picture. It's about... eight blocks or so from where I live.
And that is a terribly sad poem you've crafted there. So very poignant.
Monica - hah, you're welcome!
And I figured out what you were doing pretty early on there, but that just made it even more enjoyable as I watched it unfold.
Very nicely done.
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