The train squeezed listless along the platform, as if a game for happy children: their January holiday, with a completed list of gifts – the sane apathy of parents reluctant to question superstitions.
The train – a figure of shady authority puffed towards the winter shelter where grain is stored for hungry throats where chickens are cuddled to sleep before they are taken to our feast table, realistically rising to the occasion – the gravity of holiday matters.
(c) 2018, mk
This is my weekly wordle poem in answer to Sunday Whirl #334.
The spy whistled – the still water denied the staccato existence of Colorado rapids. He sat down with a jar of thinner – maybe diluting it would make it faster.
His sidekick resented the whistling – he took it for a stupid habit you should kick clean of. Instead he binge-watched Sabrina, the Teenage Witch for hours while sprinkling their home with gas until all was slick as sin and wishing for death.
Who will approach the spare star and wonder at its glitter? Maybe the one who walks among the fields without despising the gutter or the lane, the split honour of being second best.
Roll like thunder, release its lights – the flashy line of godly might!
When all is dead and over, you’ll pin the star to the museum wall for visitors to stare bluntly into it.
(c) 2017, MK
Always enjoying the wordle poems. This one was written for the #331 Wordle Prompt on Brenda’s blog. I guess that’s the case with everybody, because you never know where words can take you in their whim.
This is my Sunday Whirl participation this week. Rather surprisingly, on time. It’s been a terrible beginning of March in this part of the woods, to be honest. No more waiting, here is the pool of words and here is the poem, too.
The spring makes snowy attempts to be delivered, tearing cables and posts down like blasphemy of weather.
A whole landplagued by blizzards, born to be tossed in disasters.
We are dreaming of the rustling trees, of dry grass and sweet air, that will keep on like that and yield photos to be envied.
So far, “All hands on deck!” is the summon spring has for us.