Mag 207 — the old building

They lived there young in the old building. The sun was old but seemed new then too. It clearly knew the morning, dearly warmed the day, nearly broke their hearts while surrendering to gloaming. The building was made of brick and the walls were thick enough to work with the steam heater that stood under the window by the rusting balcony. Single window panes smelled lightly of vinegar but never quite gave up their dried specks of turquoise paint along the borders. The couple could smell neighbors' meals up and down the street: cabbage and pork and rich sauces and fried potatoes and curry and meatloaf and baked desserts, and they heard the chorus of those daily lives like sounds on the wing. In summer, during heatwaves, thin mattresses covered the balconies and excited children climbed fire escapes and swore they would not sleep but the cool of the night won, and dreams went deep. Once, when they lived there young in the old building and lounged atop a mattress on the rusting balcony in a moonlit heatwave, they locked in passion and went deep in the cool of night and escaped to a dreamworld as hot as the sun.


Written for The Mag: Mag 207 that inspired with the above image prompt
(Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien).
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Form for All: Prose/Poetry—Farewells

When I first saw my mother's ashes in a gray, shiny plastic container, and noticed the squared edges, I knew that angst lay ahead — not from the emotion of the soon-to-be scattering-at-sea, as that would provide a release for me as well as for those dry crumbled pieces of her — but from the realization that there would be remains remaining in the edges and corners inside, clinging statically (as she had clung to life), quietly expecting my solution.

After her wishes were honored and most of the last of her joined the gray whale that breached nearby our boat rocking on the wildest of November coastal swells I returned with the container to the town she loved, the charming village on Silver Creek, where, in another time, a robust flour mill busily hummed near its banks. And I squatted beside the clear running waters and swished and dunked the plastic box until all powder was freed and swirling away from me. Then I walked on through the old town park, satisfied.

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Written for dVerse Poets Pub Form for All, where host Samuel Peralta's beautiful (as ever) prompt discusses Prose/Poetry and ask us to contribute our own prose poem. This is Sam's farewell as a regular writer at dVerse, as he will be devoting his time to completing his book, Labyrinth Man. Sam is one of my favorite writers and I so look forward to reading more of his work in the future.

Best wishes and thank you for your perfect prompts and your kind and encouraging words, Sam!

Samuel Peralta – on Twitter as @Semaphore – is the award-winning author of five titles in The Semaphore Collection – Sonata Vampirica, Sonnets from the Labrador, How More Beautiful You Are, Tango Desolado and War and Ablution – all Amazon Kindle #1 Hot New Releases, and best sellers, in poetry. 

To be placed on his free list, The Writing Life, click here.

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Note: HD Image of Silver Creek by Thom R, My Oregon Photography Blog

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Poetics: prism light

It is simply an old cut-glass lamp that has been a light in my life for as long as I can remember (and may be why the first word I spoke—according to my mother, the original owner of the lamp—was "light").

It gives light when its plug is pushed into a silly face on the wall. The new plug and cord were installed after the old rayon fabric-covered cord split and frayed, exposing arteries and veins where currents traveled for decades.

It receives light when the sacred sun of light spies it in mid-winter meditation on the kitchen counter.

It uses light to display colors and has never needed a plug to create such bright magic.

An immobile object, it can change the speed of light. It is straight and solid but a light beam may use it as a conduit for bending its path.

Manmade, it makes what man cannot. For such a little thing, only ten inches tall, it is the height of composure, clarity, and cleverness. This is one dignified show-off.

Silently, it resonates with the songs of the rainbow, if only for flashes in time—eons of neon.

When the moments of my life fade to dark, smash this prism and scatter its shards with my ashes to ashes, dust to light.

Submitted for Poetics at dVerse Poets. This week we are prompted by Mark Kerstetter to consider the form of poetic expression best expressed in the works of the great French writer Francis Ponge (see examples at the link):

 . . .  focus on an object in your environment, preferably an object from the natural world, to really examine it, to try and see it with utmost clarity, and to wait for the word, that first word or phrase that seems to capture, for you, the essence, in language, of that object. Then use that word or phrase to construct a poem that gives a voice to that thing.

[Photos in this post taken in my kitchen and office today while I was pondering what object I might try to describe.........]

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