The exercise:
Write about: the stranger on the wall.
My take on the prompt (and the prompt itself!) was inspired by Greg's comment on Monday's post. You do with it as you will, though. As always.
Spent most of the morning taking the last of the tomato stakes out of the garden. Then I started in on removing the row of black plastic that some of them resided in this summer. What a pain in the bum.
Anyway, hoping to finish that off tomorrow morning and then do whatever else needs to be done so that everything is ready to be plowed in to (almost) finish off the season.
Almost?
Yeah, still need to get the garlic planted. Give me just a few more days, frost. Just a few more days.
Mine:
The man in the picture
Gives me pause.
I study his eyes, clothes,
And his flaws,
But still recognition
Escapes me;
Dancing beyond my reach,
Mockingly.
I should know this person,
I'm certain.
It's like he hides behind
A curtain,
Or just lurks in shadow
With that smile
That proclaims his wholly
Naked guile.
It's moments like this one,
I can't lie,
That leave me yearning with
A sad sigh
For a life where the blow
To my head
Was kind enough to leave
Me for dead.
3 comments:
I had to go back and see what my comment was before I worked out what had inspired you! I think you've taken that idea and run with it really well; the punchline at the end is rather elegantly done as well, neatly explaining the source of confusion and adding a hint of pathos to it all. And the rhythm and style carry the reader along quite jauntily, which juxtaposes really well with the unfolding story. Great work!
The stranger on the wall
Petals fall from the bowl of a rose
Like blood-red tears from the Madonna's eyes.
Scattered on the ground,
Red against brown,
They bring the stranger to the wall.
Autumn winds smell of fresh frost,
And the ground hardens like sinews.
Still the petals hold,
Inviting punishing cold,
Fixing the stranger against the wall.
Freezing rain reminds me of a mother's tears,
Unspent love washed down a domestic drain
Storms break, hail falls and snow whirls,
Elusive fog ties people up in damp curls.
Petals rot away,
Fade to dusty grey,
And the stranger is freed from the wall.
She wore a painted on smile. A da Vinci creation that, at first glance, could have passed off as real. As I admired the craftsmanship behind the straight patches of white and the soft canvas lips, I noticed her eyes were that of a doll’s. They were bright and light from the light of the bathroom. But as with many of the great painters, those eyes were lifeless. They only appeared to be real. No one could instil a soul into a vessel incapable of nurturing it.
Looking into the mirror, I knew that the woman looking back was me but the artfully crafted semblance of normalcy that was her face told an entirely different story.
Greg - thank you, for both the inspiration and the kind words on the writing you inspired :)
Love the format of yours, with the final stanza wrapping things up beautifully.
Ivybennet - that's a well executed and unexpected twist you pulled off in your final line. Very nicely done!
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