Tag: writingchallenge


Poetry & Prose July 13, 2017

Conceived to dust! the fleet angel yells,
you buried my trust in a hand-written sonnet
Eastern promises mild enough to keep me wandering,
yet left me dry,
lapping at the river of dilapidated structures you called home

Print by Hiroshi Hamaya Snow Land

– , Netherlandish Execution / Nikódimos

Poetry & Prose June 21, 2017

The gulch of the gods who had once painted time
Now settle in dust to abstain from the climb

The glory of man left in pious refrain
Sincerity won in the god he had slain

The robin sewn sackcloth turned grey from his youth
‘Neath the bark of his zeal lays the onus to truth

Oh, God of our fathers, I’m playing the part
yet seeking for something as great as thou art

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Younger The Procession to Calvary

álas Blood, –

Poetry & Prose June 20, 2017

Humanity purged by a lack of belief
Through gnashing red wine and the grinding of teeth

Drunkards assailed by the conflict of wheat
Their mothers who kissed salt blood from his feet

Comparing the oil on the fringe of her shawl
A proportionate sin for the sons of the fall

The march of god-men past the bride of divine
Who pray to the soil of a fear-laden shrine

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder Procession to Calvary

Drought of Man / Diarkí̱s

Poetry & Prose June 14, 2017

Unabridged fields of green, the work of he who has counted his seed. Against the rail of a piling line a cascade of sand greets he who had first walked the shore. From earth begat in some semblance of man. Among him the triumph of the grey cliffs of Galilee once spoken in such clarity no longer a remanent. Deep sea of ivory laced in golden shadow, a truth unforgotten and passed on by the vigilance of rampart sun. Upon the signal of his arrival, an unbridled crowd, the peasant who came for the sake of her daughter. The fore thrust widows and fathers. In a breath he called to the man who had left his servant to tend the field he called his own. Scattered are those who have caused this land to quench. Like the seed they have sown they have rejected living water. Abandoned on a hill by the unassuming, he who had counted his tithe.

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder The Parable of the Sower


Poetry & Prose June 7, 2017

The belting harmony of gradually building strings layered in practice and ill-composed restraint. A leader, a follower, and the muse. Gentle at the arrival of fresh blood yet an awakened power of infinite depth. Crushing foam leaving remnants of the air she kissed. An unfeeling balanced and emotional maelstrom of activity with unbridled grace. It all began on the Second of May. A soft but persistent trickle to break the sleep of the hibernating wave. A second nature, the only force that could manipulate the Lord of the Desert. A necessary ruse to confuse the seasoned sailor. The rippling resonance of a plucked string not yet a chord sailing across a facade. The balance of wind, the bellow of E-Minor. All at once the great abyss seeks refuge with the gale. A palpitating heart that only the force of water, a rush of blood, overflows at the strike of baton lightning. A response so magnificently controlled. Tenacity sparks. This symphony said sonnet of prose and restricted feeling in unbridled grace. The orchestrated loss of control in the melodic structure of fear. Gripping wave after wave of E-Minor and G. Pounding and exploding sea. All is left unsaid as this.

Print by Hiroshi Hamaya Eroded Sea Cliff at Tōjinbō (edited by Sean Pecknold)