At DVerse, the prompt today is to write a Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title, that includes today’s prompt word, “wound” in the body of the poem. We can use the word “wound” or a form of the word – not a synonym for the word.
that glow green-radiant in unkempt spring breezes and rustle across the un-tuned strings of my weary heart in the most sweet-melancholic melody
Like the ghost of a memory, that melody stirs something somewhere in the deep recesses amid the vines, the phantom limbs of the breeze hugging my heart in the wailing and whistling vocals of my ancestors.
The vines wrap around my heart tightly against the dusk and the promise of cold, their old and reborn roots anchoring me as the blue-frost edges of sunset take hold.
Blanketed by ghosts and memories, my heart aches as I recall amid the piercing notes of my Blue Tuesday heart-string blues how many vines I tore up, expecting to remain rooted.
Dusk like a blanket stretched over the sky making heavy the world’s eyes and drawing the lighthouse keeper from the comfort of his bed.
Though it was said that he never slept, in truth, the lighthouse keeper laid in darkness through sunshine days so that he was accustomed at all times to the night and its horrors.
If you ever chanced upon him by day he might say what he said to me on that otherwise unremarkable midsummer day:
“My eyes can see beyond the horizon in those first minutes of the night – In the air I can smell danger and see ships devoured by the rocks.
I can feel the souls of sailors scattered all along this shore.
The more I see of the night the more I fear. Nowhere is how little we truly are more clear. Let it be said that fear was my first friend here and she shall be my last. She will have my back to my dying day.”
He spoke no more and was gone and though I saw him no more, I have heard it said that though his light was never extinguished and no ship perished on his shores he died young with grey hair and skin-spots and the same weary eyes I saw all those years before because that fear and the ghosts only he could see slowly consumed his life out in that lonely lighthouse.
On DVerse today, the challenge is to write a poem in the voice of a fictional character. It can be any character you like, and you can introduce it in your own voice if you choose (à la Coleridge, though I certainly wouldn’t insist on this) but the main body of the poem must be in the voice of your character.
a passing through point on the road to somewhere else
or else a place to drop off bags and lighten the load for a short time during one night stays and brief layovers.
The only signs there was every anything there at all are ruffled sheets, indented pillows, the odd forgotten sock or sweater, a short letter, scrawled on hotel stationary, hidden in the drawer of my mind.
My arteries are clogged with the mass of small trinkets and memories left behind by people who have long-since forgotten staying the weekend within my walls.
When I met you, my hotel heart did not know what it felt like to feel like home, which may be why we began in stops and starts, departures and returns, each return uncertain.
When we would fall into a comfortable silence, each on our own phones, in our own worlds, connected by nothing but your head on my shoulder, I would fear we were falling apart and wait for the comfortable feeling to leave,
but it never did.
In those silences, we no longer felt the distance of being two people, no longer needed words to convey our thoughts –
just being together was enough.
In those silences that we shared my hotel heart began to feel more like a home.