Sweet and Bitter Stuff of Wonder
Brought to you by Mary K
Sunday is funday and time for poetry. Here is the Sunday Whirl pool of words and below is my offering.
Friends burn down all locks,
Echoes fade away with time.
Out there, voices show power.
The second we know brilliance as we see it,
Is the one we live for.
© 2025, soulmary
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
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.
“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
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 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.
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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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
The matches light the room
at least a tiny portion where I can use my bruised vision
I love my nails although my hand is numb and aches
A match goes off and I strike another one
There is a rusty mail close to the door
Like a knight, a guard of honour to secure the place
and make sure all splendour is safe – princes, princesses and all
That reminds me
of my blossomed rich garden, where every flower is caged in safety
surrounded by metal edges and love.
The door is unhinged and falls on my aching hand
raising stars before my eyes and voices in my head
I listen close and savour the voices.
I exert my eyes and savour the gleams.
I think all I can and savour the ideas rumbling in my brain.
~~~
Amazed with my soul
that sighs in silent music tones
and busts in awful failures.
The system needs restart
to the level of awesomeness
it enjoyed a while ago.
My head’s a mess,
even more so than my verse.
If there exists a visit
of reason and rhyme,
trump me with it.
The CD spins its endless tune.
I get off, all dressed up for party –
a kick-ass princess with a headache.
© 2015, MK
Long time no see, ha 😉 Here I am, with Sunday Whirl #170, a full 70 weeks after the last time I participated. This time, I decided to go about it in a different way. The funny thing is, I got to the same place as always.
Here is my Passions poem:
***
Passions hum, Storming
the forest of my poems.
Without words,
magic cannot thrive
while all eyes are fixed
on a creature that hangs
her shabby clothes outside
a wooden shack,
deep in my thought,
so far that no one can see her.
Jump to the music
of wordless forest magic.
© 2014, mariya koleva
