Like Normandy, she thought. So many graves. The sadness she felt at the enormity of the loss. Only now the loss was her own. The heavy mist burying the moored boats; the lowering of the tiny casket into the ground. Surrounded by spirits of those who fought valiantly, as did her baby fight to live in the incubator. If only she'd been able to touch her before her death.
long days of warm sun setting sun signals lighting of lanterns holding hands during sundown holding hands during sundown grateful for the light of lanterns silhouettes on the porch swing silhouettes on the porch swing her head on his shoulder moonlight and lanterns
Grateful for a red light, and first to the intersection to boot, Cassie quickly lowered her visor. A hurried makeup check and a touch of lipstick, something she would never do while driving. As she returned her visor, she saw a car head on only inches in front of her. Disoriented, she tried to assess her situation. From the look of terror on the driver's face, Cassie knew there had been an almost head-on collision while she was obliviously shielded by her visor. Cassie watched in slow motion as the other car carefully backed into the intersection to redirect towards the correct lane. All traffic had come to a halt in that moment and all eyes seemed to be on her. Years later, learning of the word synchronicity and the concepts of fate and destiny, she would recall that single moment. Had it been, as she originally thought, just a lucky moment that might have shielded her from seeing possibly the last moment of life, or had it been synchronicity that protected her from certain terror?
My first attempt at a Trifecta using the words: remember, rain, and rebellion in a 36-word story.
Surely, she would remember such horrific acts had they occurred. Yet tears fell like rain onto the book she held with the foreboding word "incest". Returning it to the shelf, she fled the store in rebellion.
Leaking through my art another story puzzle piece A connection to a puzzle from years ago It feels familiar and frightening Too tired to create more art I give in and allow my subconscious time to rest or process Perhaps in dreams an answer revealed
Spring hangs in the air The bells of the temple vibrate into my heart
(Yesterday, I had my first massage in ages. Weary bones and aches in body. I turned myself over to my masseuse and let my mind go into the spa music. The bells (singing bowls likely) seemed to reach my heart and I wanted to write of it before reading the background for this haiku. I referred to the spa as a temple because it felt like a sacred place at the time.)
The sun hitting my face felt like Spring nearby Driving to the spa memories I thought long forgotten gurgled up Good memories My utter devotion to Rod McKuen in the 60s A line from Cyrano that I'd coveted Were they hiding beneath the rubble? Have I cleared enough rubble to see not all was tragic? Perhaps my mind clung to what I perceived as great beauty to balance what had been the rest of my life.