Tag: sunday whirl

Sunday Whirl 690 – The Missing Wings Poem

Some time has passed since I wrote my latest poem. But, hey, yesterday’s Sunday Whirl #690 just didn’t allow me to pass silently by. With a great wordle provided by Brenda I simply couldn’t help it.

Missing wings hurt much,
as though some cartilage is latched fast
to limit movement, and with that – freedom.

A catastrophe, indeed,
albeit often do we feel as if
we play some part in a fairy tale
where enchantment turns to being doomed
to live and walk our time in gloom.

A bird will crave its sky-bound soar,
the loss will be a catalyst for
it to sing and chatter even more.
© 2025, soulmary

The Ghost of New Returns – Sunday Whirl 688

So, here is the first Whirl for 2025, and I find the words really inspiring. And, so, I wrote this poem!

The Ghosts of New Returns
Like a morning without a yawn,
The steaming cup of coffee mirrors
My own gaze.
I start gathering random splinters
In my garden.
The path to the house is
Covered with stones, white and shining.
A crow croaks in the branches of the old rose bush –
The sound is a shadow of a ghost.
I am back again; this is home, and
I will stay.

© 2025, soulmary

On this link, you can check the wordle and also read some more great offerings – Sunday Whirl 688

Shall We Call The Cleaner In?

Today my poem is an offering for the Sunday Whirl #675 and today’s 3TC #M849. As the season calls for it, I welcomed the mystic magical tones to help me put this fantasy together. I remembered my late teenage and university years when autumn would push my friends and me to telling horror stories and pretending we participated in summoning rituals. I’m glad none of us actually had the nerve to complete any of those because we would get really frightened just before the rite would yield its result. So, we never saw any proof of the otherworldly. I’m glad, oh yes, I am. Right now, I’m also greatly amused. Ah, youth! Priceless and heart-warming.

So, Shall We Call The Cleaner In, Please?

Do we expect the woods to be silent,
Or our coffee brought by a waiter in deference
as the yellow leaves whirl?

Should a siren answer our call?
Or a maid take care of all?

Can we fly around the garden short for breath,
and read the mystic signs of runes set in stone?

Let’s do a circle dance where we expect
at least a magical metamorphosis.

Then, please, let’s call the cleaner in.

© 2024, soulmary

In order to read more, you may visit the prompt web sites and enjoy, enjoy, and then some!

Am I Confused, Or What?

I love the worlde prompts, so today I wrote a poem in answer to the latest Sunday Whirl post, appearing as Wordle 673. Because I also love following the pensitivity101’s blog, I included the three words prompted at their site and called TTC #M833. When writing to wordles, I usually start with one or two of the given words and then simply try to follow wherever they take me. With most wordles, I can see a pattern and closeness in the words’ semantics, but at times I attempt a different angle. That is why these poems are not always my best. Still, I love the process of letting your key words do the lead. The result is below, and I see this as a mightily confused narration.

Am I Confused?

the lates wordle prompt from 29 sept 2024
“It’s always unwise to jump
to conclusions,” she pushed the door.
“It’s also bad to spit lies like fire,” I pulled
away from her.
A plague that lashes every time her
secret arrows at me.
Closing my eyes, my head in a wet towel,
I shoved the empty plate to the corner
of my dream.
Glimpses of my past flickered,
while I caught my breath.
Who was she? I was alone.
Myself, the towel and the plate.
No door, no bed and no one else.

© 2024, soulmary

Invisible Holiness – Wordle #647

My holiness is ancient.
Trying to grasp its invisible nature,
I weep
and strive to imagine its spiral streams.
Swirling into the air, it’s leaving
the amber earth below my feet.

How ancient? How holy?
Rumpled in its chambers,
my vigour shows its bones.
Three times it trembles
before its skin is shed,
and seeds secretly betray
the future.

©2024, soulmary

The Chained Bird – Sunday Whirl 637

The ribbon goes well on the neck
of the chained bird,
radiating a shaft of blessing
despite the key and the veil
drawn on the cage.

The ribbon is like a mantra –
studded with beads like wisdom.
Looking like scars,
they are simply garnish
bound to make the chain speak beauty
instead of scream slavery.

Breaking free will leave scars
that will need snitches.
But shall we care
if that’s the price for leaving
the grounds of despair?

(c) soulmary, 2024

Written for one of my favourite prompt sites – the Sunday Whirl and you can check some great poetry at their site, too.

Summer in the Forest

Summer filters subtly through the mist
Our forest whispers in its shadows
The creek is like a sentinel belt, circling
The happiness we immerse ourselves in.
Crows, branches, herbs, bugs –
All in bliss.
All is still.
All is rising.
(c) 2023, soulmary

It’s a wonderful day and an even more wonderful prompt – the Sunday Whirl is here to remind us it’s summer! And they lived happily ever after ?

Waiting in the Line

I’m Waiting in A Tiresome Line
Looking down at my shoes
with their fine lace of cool design
(Which are not actually mine, but that’s a matter of another story)
While at the same time
A young and no-doubt-sweet-for-his-mother child
Dressed in cute green overalls,
A cruel spear in his right hand, which I hear is tenderly called ‘magic wand’,
Takes a bite into a sandwich much relished,
Mumbling crumbs and vegetable pieces through
His tirelessly prattling mouth.
A moment later, crumbs and spit are on my shiny shoes.
Trying to wipe them away tangles the mixture deeper in the lace
(not mine, remember?)
On which I decide to chase
The poor mother to a bitter end for why she didn’t mind her beast.

Looking at her face,
Takes my anger off the messy trace.
And I wave off her distressed question if she should pay
For cleaning of the lace,
As I continue waiting in the line
So fine.

(c) 2020 soulmary

Written for the Sunday Whirl #444. There are some great pieces shared there, check them out.

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Of Course, the Water Is Still – Sunday Whirl 411

Of course, the water is still.
By the shores of that lovely lake,
I find only ruins of my own oath
melted down to a puddle –
no shimmer, no chime in it.

Short of breath, it’s just a sorry sign
beaten down,
groaning with the low ripple of the lake.

© MK, 2019

Written for Brenda’s Sunday Whirl where many great fellows contribute words of poetry.

Tough Elements, Sunday Whirl #389

Tough elements inhibit my judgement.
Sitting on trial, the night denies its chill.
Is it shy?

A file will help me do the bars.
I signal my help on the street.
Although, the prison’s all mine,
they still come to rescue.

Tough elements swipe through the colony.
The night hints at the approaching dawn.

(c) 2018 MK