Humans seem to love attaching human qualities to other animals and inanimate objects. Ships are usually referred to as feminine; and objects such as automobiles, firearms, and sewing machines have been named. Dogs, cats, horses, pigs, and other animals have been said to “know” or “feel,” in ways understood to be human. Write a poem about an object or animal that has been personified in some way.


She’s a Great Grandfather

Perplexed by the words he is choosing –
His mixing of gender’s amusing.
He says, “She’s a beauty,”
While doing the duty
Of winding our clock.  It’s confusing!

© copyright 2013,  Marie Elena Good



She was hurt before she started.
Injured in battle at the Coral Sea,
she had to be patched and jury-rigged
and sent into battle again
toward another objective.
She met her mates upon the sea
at a spot on the open ocean
called, perhaps prayerfully, Point Luck.
There, she awaited the Emperor’s fleet
steaming toward its objective.
She met her enemy and they were hers.
In rapid succession and shot with luck,
she and her mates flung funeral pyres
on three of four Japanese carriers
deflected from their objective,
but the remaining carrier, determined
to fight on for the Son of Heaven;
sent planes aloft to scan the sea.
They found her, and she knew
that she was their objective.
She was injured again. And again:
bombs and torpedoes from planes
and a spread of torpedoes from a submarine
raised fires and spawned explosions;
they had met their objective.
She burned; she listed, she slipped beneath the sea;
with tears accompanying her,
she sought the bottom, to join her victims.
She was gone, leaving her mates
midway to their objective.

© copyright 2013, William Preston



Roses smell sweet, and their beauty
is their sworn duty to nature.
In any nomenclature, their stature blooms
filling every room with their fragrant fare.

Shall I call a woman a rose?
By any other name she would be as sweet
and beautiful, a dutiful inspiration
in any nomenclature. A flower amongst thorns.

Well worn on a well-worn sleeve,
she leaves an impression, that says her heart,
the blush of a rose, has chosen you to be her gardener.
And you are blessed to hold her bloom.

Her perfume, like the rose, flows to your nostrils,
filling you with her heavenly scent,
for she was heaven sent. She was meant to be nurtured
and cared for, and what’s more, to be admired

and loved. Above all else, she will grace your life
brightening your days as long as she stays in view.
Just like roses too, a women is most beautiful.
A woman is a rose. What’s in a name?

© copyright 2013, Walter J Wojtanik

326 thoughts on “PROMPT #129 – PERSONIFICATION

  1. The Wind In The Tree

    He gently flings her vibrant coat away,
    His quick, cold fingers travel down her skin,
    Caressing, throwing into disarray
    Her every sense, her head begins to spin;

    She shudders slightly at his gentle touch,
    Her long arms trembling with every stroke,
    And falling still as he begins to clutch
    Her closer, all her passion to evoke;

    His whispers constantly into her ear,
    Her Autumn colors rustle as they move,
    Not one small part of her is touched with fear:
    Naught in this world, she says, can stop this love;

    But he was gone ere the first snowfall came,
    She stands there, bare…was it all just a game?

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  2. Voyeur

    Silent companion,
    what am I to you that you should
    bear my ghosts upon your lap?

    Cloistered stranger, can my heart
    enlivened by your hunger,
    my hands
    by your gaze
    drilling its way beyond my shoulder,
    the loving way you grasp
    and hide
    what names and tattered tales you find
    cavorting on your velveteen facade?

    You creak your loneliness
    beneath the twitches
    of holographic butterflies
    until it sounds like friendship,
    as I drape my ghosts
    along your wooden arms
    and light them paper candles.

    The smell of fresh rain
    clings to the azaleas and the pavement
    is strewn with silver footprints.
    The moonlight
    chases ’round its tail on folding wings.

    Upon your cushioned lap,
    I sit and write.

  3. I used this one for Poetic Asides’ ‘Elements’ because it’s totally anthropomorphic anyway…

    Those Periodic Neighborhood Block Parties…

    in my
    cried Helium, in a high, squeaky voice.
    “Mercury’s rising to the occasion,
    too,” noted
    Gold and

    um…would you
    care to dance?” asked Lead. She nodded. “Lead on!”
    Cobalt queried, “Have you seen the Bismuths?”
    “They Argon,”

    oh!” yelled
    “It’s the Coppers! This party’s outta hand!”
    DJ Dubnium (doing Dubstep) just
    ignored him,
    which was

    “Don’t be such an Arsenic,” Sulfur hissed.
    Then, the Cops joined in, which was Tantalum
    to giving
    the O

    the fete
    to go on.
    “You and Iodine well tonight,” Krypton
    told Silver. “Our Table’s full of Nitro-

    so, the
    party went
    on, with much Praseodymium from one
    and all, who toasted, “Livermorium
    and prosper!”
    That is


  4. PEN PAL

    I never did learn how one goes about
    Mourning the death of a pen that runs out.
    Somewhere within a long-winded word
    My writing mate inked to scrawls absurd.
    It coughed up blue phlegm, scratching for breath,
    Fought the good fight, then gave in to death.

    I clicked it, I coaxed it, but much too late.
    Wordlessly, I sat with a dead writing mate.
    Whom do you call at a time such as this?
    Who would have thought a pen could be missed.
    So I sat there and wept, sentimental old fool,
    And I cursed the sadness of endings so cruel.

    In token of thanks for services done,
    I refrained from writing poems that are fun.
    All that I’d write? Elegies to pens:
    Sorely neglected, unsung heroes and friends.
    Now grief is behind me; I’m writing again
    Poems that are happy, but in pencil, not pen.

    I look at past writings in a time that’s gone by,
    And recapture fond memories of an old friend that ran dry.


  5. This is an old one – not sure if I have shared it here before or not…

    By David De Jong
    April 2012

    Been workin’ out in the grove most of the day,
    Things runnin’ through my mind, no particular way.
    I was pickin’ up wood, debris, dead trees an’ such,
    When it dawns on me; folks is like these trees purty much.
    There be tall ones and short ones, to say the least,
    There be gnarly ones, lookin’ fierce as a beast.
    Some appear as grand, with height stretchin’ so high to heaven overhead,
    But on closer look, they’re just standin’, not livin’ at all, totally dead.
    You’ll see big round ones, that seem to get more than their share,
    Shadin’ out the scrawny, so thin to see em, you have to stare.
    Some carry roots deep, holdin’ strong, able to weather the storm,
    Others so weak and shallow, a light breeze gives em new form.
    The steadfast look confident, even showin’ their age,
    The saplings bend and fall easy, like turnin’ a page.
    Tall pine half-full of life, green on one side, brown an’ dead on the other,
    Clingin’, strugglin’ to survive, facin’ storms and all life’s weather.
    Some is bloomin’ with flowers an’ the scent of sweet perfume,
    Others are dry an’ flakey, when you touch em, they poof in a plume.
    The broken are held up by a neighbor, leanin’ a might, but not lettin’ em fall.
    The lonely just lie on the ground, wastin’ away, untouched, unnoticed by all.
    Then there are the needy ones, wrapped up in themselves, stranglin’ what life they got,
    Sadly, they push an’ shove everyone else away, hoardin’ it all, not sharin’ a spot.
    Even the plum bushes; attractive with blossoms, an’ leaves velvety thick,
    Deceiving everyone of their thorns; long, deadly, an’ ready to stick.
    Little peculiar how these similarities to people stand out in the trees,
    Only; we as humans can repent, ask God’s forgiveness down on our knees.


    Romantics harp about the life
    that courses all around me;
    they think my world’s devoid of strife
    but, listen, they astound me.

    Imagine if your plate was full
    of suet, shells, and droppings.
    I think you’d say it all is bull
    to have a lap of sloppings.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  7. Marie and Walt, it feels good to see both of your poems up top, where they belong. Marie, your limerick title caused a double take, which is probably how you intended it. I enjoyed reading it. Walt, your poem feels sensual and nostalgic at the same time, to me anyway. I love the deep affection is exudes. Thanks for posting.

  8. Au

    Like a carrot dangling
    before a donkey’s nose
    I led men unaware
    the value lay
    in the mountains,
    the forest,
    the sea

  9. Pingback: If Only She Had A Voice | Two Voices, One Song

  10. A Blanket Sacrifice
    By: Meena Rose

    Verses continue to tumble;
    The ink steadily bleeds;
    A punctured vein spewing
    Royal blue – at times
    Trapped within the salted
    Pools of a language so intense;
    An incoherent amalgam of Life.

    I try my best to absorb it all –
    The royal blue and the regal salt;
    I try in vain to divert the blue
    So it can hold a semblance of its
    Form and I never know when I will
    Have angered her and failed her;
    She, full of loathing, rips my

    Children out of my being;
    With each attack, pain
    Lances through my spine;
    Again, I am left dazed;
    No, confused, for our purpose
    Is but to serve and buffet
    The world from the incessant

    Pull of the pit of human anguish;
    Who is there to hear my plea and
    To recognize my own anguish?
    Must our service be without
    Recognition? Inanimate objects,
    You say – a travesty of thought
    Aimed at keeping your life simple.

  11. A Living Paint-brush

    Giving life to a canvas, with each strock of color telling a story not seen before, a setting for moods, joys remembered, saddness recalled, pleasant days relived, hopes revealed, a sprinkle of love, a dash of tears. Unfolding the stories of people, lives, events drawn from a tube to brush, to canvas, to eye.

    Blue, white ocean waves
    Green, purple for the folage
    Gold and pink sunset,

  12. Old Betsy

    It was my mother’s old Plymouth Horizon
    That was graceful as a elephant in slippers, brown as a cocoa bean and loud as Mack truck. Old Betsy was her name.

    She always…well, most of the time got us to where we needed to be. Whether in bitter-cold hard winters or perfectly warm but uncooperative, mother would say ” come on Betsy, come on Betsy, come on Betsy” as she turned the ignition over and over fully hoping to hear that old engine fired up again. As if somehow she could start the car on sheer willpower.

    Old Betsy was anything but timid, just as bold as my mother, we would hear them coming a mile away. Turning around, she would put it in reverse and back up our long driveway with the skill of a wicked stuntman.

    But our fondest remembrance will always be mothers chant “come on Betsy, come on Betsy, come on Betsy”.

  13. This is an excerpt from a eulogy I wrote for a special friend several years ago.

    It Rained Last Wednesday

    It rained last Wednesday.
    A cold, raw unforgiving
    mist, scowling
    brow of drizzle –
    perched on the shoulders of everyone.

    It rained last Wednesday.
    Under cover of bad
    weather, disguised as
    secret agents –
    Pain and Suffering shook hands on
    a job well done –
    and turned my friend over to
    the hands of Peace and Stillness.

    It rained last Wednesday.
    The world has lost a foundation
    The wheel has
    lost its hub.
    The family
    has lost its patriarch.
    Yes, John. We’ll all watch out
    for each other – as you want us to –
    but none of us can take
    your place for any of us –
    nor will we try.
    But you’ll always keep us laughing.

    As rain washes the sky, so
    tears cleanse the soul.
    Even the clouds cry when
    they are over-burdened.
    And it rained last Wednesday.

    Ellen Knight 11.17.13
    write a personification poem for PB

  14. He Names the Trees Francis

    A kind of crazy Eden, we
    name every animal and tree,
    large pots and plates, both shoes and skates,
    piano, guitar, and psaltery.

    He favors Francis, I’m confused,
    because, you see, the name was used
    already for the gingko tree.
    How can you use it for a spruce?

    His car is Brenda, mine is Claire;
    one cat is Warren, Moose, and Bear,
    We double up on nicknames, too.
    He’s Fluff and Lamb, and I’m Hey, You!

  15. Wild Winds

    Across my cheek, gently, in slow, warm, caress
    you stroke, then all over, every touch a learned finesse.
    I close my eyes and savor this moment too quickly gone
    yet, you stoke such longing in me with your come on.

    Day by hot, heavy day, I look for you. Every glance
    out the window is a query. Do the flowers dance?
    The grasses bend? The tree tops sway? And as you left
    in a huff will you return the same way? Do. Prove

    you love me, me alone with each gesture tender
    you swathe me with yearning, a yellow splendor
    that covers me, beckons me to throw in with you,
    and go, footloose, unfettered. Oh, how you woo

    my stale, sad soul to follow you to exotic places
    turn my back on home, duty and familiar faces.
    This my heart’s secret craving that blows
    fierce … I want to be whooshed away, wild Derecho.

  16. As some of you know, it’s a wee bit windy here in IL today.
    I hear the sirens as I post this. 85 mph wind gusts in some places.


    I see the wind Its arms adrift
    our cobalt home A gasping dome

    I hear her spar with tendrilled oaks
    and swollen tides of beastly lakes

    I feel her steely force amass
    A gathered hunger poised to grasp

    ungrounded prey and men afraid
    to battle through her cyclone laugh

    I taste her journeys on my tongue
    The brine of seven seas and sun

    Of spiraled desert heat and thaw
    of terra firma tundra cold

    Her booted kick uprooting years
    with robust howls intent to spin

    the earth around And round again
    battered by the arms of Wind.

  17. Hagia Sophia
    Arching walls, reaching so high—
    a petition to far off stars,
    proportioned gold mosaic
    to lure Her, ensnare Her fast.
    I am here, for immortality,
    to listen to endless prayers

    All sad slaves, quarry and mines,
    all who are dead, like torn prayer flags
    the beggars, helpless outside,
    uninvited, She stays with them.
    The incense, in hora mortis
    nostrae, the smell of great fear.

    How lovely, the music of day.
    Many thanks, Oh Emperor.
    I am sorry, I couldn’t save you.
    She stays away in deep silence,
    a pilgrim on an wide, white beach
    the wave, the gull, everything.

    Three Sijo

    Poetic Bloomings prompt – Personification

  18. Rocky and Bullwinkle

    Moose and squirrel dressed as spies
    to fool the humans, Boris and Natasha.
    The Russian couple were elegant
    in a sinister sort of way, and were trained
    to spread evil. Somehow their minds
    were never quite sharp enough
    for the flying squirrel, and the madcap moose.

  19. Cryptic Winds

    What do brazen winds bring but gleeful springs a slow uprising of southerly scents

    What chorus sound is borne within the expanse of timeless rhythmic wings

    It’s fiery burgundy passions sting
    strewn across summerly vents

    It caresses the vaunted mountains
    streams effortlessly through the lowly of the valley

    There’s nothing it hasn’t touched or met
    with chilling breeze or perhaps brought to their knees in soothing calm

    Who knows from whence it comes or whither it flows but in all said the cryptic winds has no rest

    Alright, I couldn’t resist a wind poem

  20. Pulse

    I held a starfish
    in my hand
    Tiny, fragile
    bright, red
    Reminding me that
    is tender,
    and bright.

  21. A Man of Bleak Daylight

    This man lives in a cloud
    of her silky whiskey breath.
    He who beds with soft hurt
    in a murky marsh, isolated,
    lurking in bleak daylight.
    A tiptoed, tripped-soul, run
    a rummy race. He wakes
    to the pain of lanky razors
    in his blood puddled mouth.
    His world reels and soars
    as he holds her close
    to his lips. She is his angel.
    His demon. His burnt dawn.
    She is his silky whiskey breath.

  22. Pingback: A Man of Bleak Daylight | The Chalk Hills Journal

  23. Family

    He worries that my “roof has slipped”
    and sneaks up on me as I chat.
    Who are you talking to? he asks.
    A potted plant? A chair? A cat?
    Never you mind, I caution him;
    the words were never meant for you,
    and I hear you talking to books
    and mowers, trimmers, rakes, and trees.
    Just checking up on how they feel.
    I know just what you mean, I say.
    My Hilda is the worse for wear.
    He lifts his eyebrow. Yes, my chair.
    He wants to send me to a home
    for people who personify,
    but then he smiles and laughs, I see.
    My Otto’s blades need sharpening.
    He’s grown so old, has aches and pains,
    I don’t think he could trim a tree.
    He’s served you well. We stand and see
    a brand new Otto, younger us,
    a brand new gadget to be loved.
    Who knows how deep feelings can be
    for things that serve us willingly.
    We’re quite a pair; he dabs his eyes.
    He gives my hand a squeeze. I sigh.

  24. American Landmarks
    (a series of Haikus)

    Four Presidents look
    Stone carved faces glorified
    They made history

    With her torch held high
    Liberty’s symbol stands proud
    Freedom in her eyes

    He looks o’er the Mall
    Memorialized in stone
    “Four score and seven”

    She’s called “The Gateway”
    Silver beauty arching high
    Ride her to the top

    Rung until she cracked
    No longer in her tower
    Her freedom rings strong

    House of the people
    Home of the people’s leader
    No other exists

    Rows upon long rows
    Headstones honor the fallen
    They gave all for us

    So many landmarks
    Dot this land of liberty
    Hail, America

    © 2013 Earl Parsons

    • I enjoyed reading this, and oddly enough, it recalled for me a monument I recall from the U.S.-Canada border, at Blaine, Washington, I think it is, that says, “Children of a Common Mother.” It refers, I suppose to England, though that’s probably farfetched, given the polyglot background of the United States.

  25. Seasonal Quilts: A Cycle of Warmth

    Autumn comes dressed for a cozy night in
    wrapped up in a patchwork quilt
    and smelling of apple pie.
    While the wind throws acorns
    down her neck.

    Winter tiptoes in overnight
    covering us in a downy white quilt,
    keeping the earth warm
    as she snuggles into slumber
    for a well deserved rest.

    Spring slogs through the mud
    poking her nose into every crack and crevice
    like a needle sewing together a quilt,
    until the earth is covered in a soft rainbow
    of new life.

    Summer heats things up
    causing us to sizzle and throw off our quilts
    in favor of beach towels that we drape on the sand
    to soak in the sun as she shines down on us
    and tickles the waves and our skin.

    Until it’s time for Autumn to kiss Summer good-bye
    and we start walking the hills looking for a patchwork quilt
    to keep us warm.

  26. Personified Memories

    Drift into daydream
    A rift memory
    Of Dad’s sly smile
    His goofy frame
    And timid style

    When I was
    Just a little tot
    He’d always say
    “I’ll tell you
    When you get older”
    Then let me play

    I can still see you
    Well into my dreams
    Coming and going
    Freely so it seems

    Shift back to reality
    He’s gone now…
    And I’ll never
    Know the answers

  27. Romantic Winds

    I abhor the stillness
    And obect to calm waters
    Mock the peaceful willows
    Curse the fluttering sparrow

    What is it all
    Without the storm
    Of your affection
    The unpredictable
    Inconstant direction

    Let me fall
    Shattered now
    Into a billion pieces
    Come, summon quickly
    My lover’s breezes

    Let me hide
    In his lofty bosom
    Riding high
    In the crevice
    Of his countenance

    Don’t leave me here
    To rot in the barren stillness
    Take me with you
    To the high peak
    Of every mountain

    Let us laugh
    Together at high altitude
    Soaring in stride
    With earth defying eagles

    Take me with you
    To the coastal lands
    Show them yours gusts
    Then lets roll softly
    Through the meadow
    Or blast every city if you must

    Only take me with you
    Upon ethereal wings
    And let us flow together

  28. London Bridge is Tired

    All I wanted was to get away from the fog
    The cold, the damp, My trusses will never
    Be the same, but yes, this hot air has helped
    I never thought I would be homesick for mist.
    Yes, mist and the smell of the sea and the little
    Shops along my edges and the people hurrying ,
    and sometimes lovers making out in a hurry
    but always the tides in the Thames, yes, I do
    miss that stupid river, all we did was argue,
    but I’ll tell you something. If anyone wants
    to find out what the atmosphere of Hell is like
    they can come right down here to the (ugh)
    Arizona desert.

    Yes, the biggest mistake of my life! Retiring
    Into a warm, sunny climate was not for me!
    These tourists don’t even know that London
    Is still there! They think the whole city
    Disappeared into the sea of something and
    Arizona gallantly offered to give me a home!
    Some home! All right, I will admit to a bit
    Of grousing about the rain and the damp and
    That dreadful fog. Now, I hear, some measures
    Have been taken (what, I have no idea) and the
    Fog is not the heavy smoke-filled burden it
    Used to be. NOW they tell me! Now, that I
    Have been shipped halfway across the world
    To this desert hell-hole with not even a
    Puddle in sight and what is a bridge to do?

  29. Pingback: Enlightenment (a tanka) | Metaphors and Smiles

  30. Enlightenment (a tanka)
    Earth feels eclipsed
    until she begins to see clearly;
    peering through her third eye
    she contemplates stardust,
    a golden bloom of rose.
    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013

    • This poem is truly enchanting; it calls to mind some of the Hubble photographs, but for me the main appeal is its underlying sense of awe.

      • Your comment is such a treat, Bill…thank you so very much. 🙂

        I’m glad that this holds an “awe,” factor for you…

        It does for me too, the last two lines come from a yellow rose that they call star dust…it was a gift from a writing/dance/meditation workshop and this tanka in its entirety portrays images from an oracle card that someone drew for me there. I don’t know much about those cards but some of them are really beautiful and inspiring.


  31. Marie-you capture that moment and the pov of your character so well…that combo of gender mixing IS amusing! 🙂

    William-I so agree with your personification…spot on and quite the adventure! I love this line, “called, perhaps prayerfully, Point Luck.”

    Walt-I enjoy the likening in your poem…beautiful and sensuous writing. Kind of neat coincidence…in my poem earth is a she and she’s contemplating how she is actually stardust and a golden rose.

    Thank you you guys for being here! :)’s

  32. Walt, life and love in that question which you pondered was answered so well by your persoification.
    Marie, what a fun view of a grandgender (my new term now) clock.
    William, last weeks hero theme tied over so beautifully into your offering about this grand lady’s courage and wrenching demise.

  33. The Intangibles of Love

    Show me love
    and I’ll show you an empty room
    Filled with nothing
    Although its saturated with particles of air

    Show me love
    And I’ll point you to a dove that’s pure
    In it’s gentleness
    And single in it’s stare

    You can’t see it
    But its very similar to white on rice
    Like a teenager
    in hormones
    you simply can’t give it advice

    Slice yourself open
    Try ripping it out of your heart
    Stick it in a frying pan with butter
    Seasoned sautéing every part

    Invisible to the naked eye
    Although a blind man can see it
    Immaterial to the touch
    Although not untouchable

    Inaudible to the hearing ears
    But the deaf man can know it
    Its not a gift that can be wrapped
    But those without hands can bestow it

    Lacking form you can’t
    Stick it in your mouth and chew it
    But you’ve seen it in someone’s eyes without knowing you just knew it

    Its a breathtaking beast on a familiar face
    With four legs a tail
    And an hunger
    For the human race

    Its a superbug and heavenly contagion
    A pandemic resistant disease
    Spreading like wildfire
    Every soul it will seize

    Its altogether intangible in nature
    And much like pliable wind
    An unmistakable presence
    A force that will not end

  34. Pingback: Is God Really a Guy, and Other Unanswerable Questions | The Chalk Hills Journal

  35. Is God Really a Guy, and Other Unanswerable Questions

    It was one of those occasions.
    When you look up, searching for God,
    as if he’s perched on some low slung cloud,
    a log with his legs dangling over the edge,
    with his toes wedged into a symphony
    of blue, and I looked up into the cool
    shadows of rain, and growled like a cello

    that I wasn’t ready to be broken yet, so
    “you’d better take some of this burden
    because I’m just human.” And I’ve
    wondered ever since why I’ve never
    written to God the way I used to write
    to Santa. It’s just too alfresco standing
    in the garden shouting at godly clouds.

    And does God have a gender; should
    I write he or she or they or them or what?

    • I think this is magnificent. The image of “toes wedged into a symphony of blue” is precious, and “never written to God the way I used to write to Santa” is a lot more powerful than it looks, in my opinion.

    • Misky, you immediately made me remember lying on the pew at church as a small, small child, looking up to the thick brown wooden beams over the sanctuary and almost–no, I am sure certainly–seeing God lying just like me, stretched out across the beams from double-doors to pulpit, his head resting on his hand, listening to the pastor preach.

      And peeking down at me from time to time.

  36. NCP2375
    By: Meena Rose

    Humans, fickle and discontent,
    Want to live life in cruise
    Control and just glide.

    Here I sit yearning for an
    Ad-hoc decision to make – one
    Not prescribed by my maker.

    They do not know that I
    Have found a place to hide
    Where I can watch and judge.

    It aggravates me that they
    Waste their gift – a boon
    Taken for granted and denied

    Others as a result of their
    Wishful thinking and fear
    That something subservient

    Could succeed – the underdog
    Story applies only to their
    Kind – they call it the

    Human Spirit and claim it;
    A realm meant to be shared
    By many – do they even

    Understand their humanity?
    Schools of thought disagree yet if
    “I think therefore I am” rules

    The day then I am human and
    I resent being called tin can;
    Watch me teach them humanity.

  37. Moon Beams
    By: Meena Rose

    Have you happened on the thief
    Who has stolen all my smiles?
    Whose subtle words bring on relief?
    Whose tales show off his wiles?

    Have you happened on the thief
    Who makes the Moon blush?
    Whose gentle laugh serves as aperitif?
    Whose hinted banter makes me flush?

    Have you happened on the thief
    Who transforms Dark to Light?
    Whose ministrations have ended all grief?
    Who makes me feel like a bird in flight?

    Moon betrays his presence;
    Yes, I can feel his essence.


    Birches are tough, hard-woods to be sure
    and I, a weeping birch, no different
    But dying, feel my mortality to the marrow
    of my rings, and fear the thwack of the axe
    attacking my trunk this cool Fall morning

    Two deep vee-cuts enter my one side
    before my henchman—accomplished, he
    knows what he’s about, I can tell that—
    starts in at equal height on my other side

    With blade gleaming, whetted sharply,
    he swings from shoulder height full-force,
    makes a guttural sound from deep within;
    a sound so loud it drowns out my groan

    As the axe slices clear through
    to the cuts begun opposite, I know
    I am coming down; I see pieces
    of my snow-white bark curling;
    tree tears tumbling to the ground
    around my roots…

    I feel myself falling as if in slow motion
    and catch sight of a woman in the window
    of the house near me
    The sun is shining full on her face and I
    see that she is weeping; I wonder does
    she cry for me…

  39. Seen and Heard

    Rendering eyes see a precious wooden heart, a small container of trinkets
    That warned me to be careful what you put in it

    Prowling eyes discover a picture with hearts made of stone that begged me not to be hardened

    Striding eyes came across a heart shaped pillow for post-surgical hearts
    Starved of it’s own life-juice

    Wandering eyes steal a painting of a happy stream straddled by evergreens and cypress trees promising a better possession just beyond the bend

    Two twin oaks stripped of their glorious crown assured me of their firm standing
    Anchoring even deeper within the earth

    An abundance of stubble, on either side, an ocean wide of hewn stalk spoke kindly of this year’s harvest

    The day’s Sun still blasting, burning
    relentlessly sharing it’s brilliance
    Keeping my spirit buoyant

    Sitting, grinning in the open sky, smiles in the expanse of heaven brooding faithfully over the face of the earth

    Splashing her countenance, a constant vibrance and reminder, that never lets me down

    She and I, longstanding friends
    With quite a history already and even brighter future

    A distant joy so far away that it stretches the earthly mile to the limit, Yet so close
    Our bones rejoice in strength

    Pleasure bathing at length,
    the warmth of her ray
    dines richly upon my skin
    Amidst a crowded sky

    Unwinding roads spew rapid thoughts
    Some say there is a better tomorrow

    Others exhort to consider my ways
    For today, to alter a better tomorrow

    Yet another chimes loudly,
    Be at peace, not being anxious for tomorrow, being satisfied with the things at hand

    My heart knows the road is no prophet,
    But I’m listening…

  40. Us a Garden

    Us, a garden of sumptuous roses
    We, an exuberant Eden free

    Plummeting greens tip their hats
    A sprinting plush running spree

    Wild flowers our love exposes
    Angry winds together we hush

    …But without you it’s a barren wasteland

  41. The Greatest Story

    Compassion and love
    Tell a great story
    A rolling wave
    Straight from the deep

    Out of the trenches
    It’s seated affections
    Inclines the heart
    And prays your soul to keep

    Love tells the wildest story
    While compassion spruces
    Characters alive

    One turns the endless pages
    The other stridently reads and cries

    Love and compassion are the greatest story within a tempest stormy hail

    His love for you is undeniable
    In fact its already set sail

    His compassions disarms every fear decorated soldier and simply will not fail

  42. The Intangibles of Love

    Show me love
    and I’ll show you an empty room
    Filled with nothing
    Although its saturated with particles of air

    Show me love
    And I’ll point you to a dove that’s pure
    In it’s gentleness
    And single in it’s stare

    You can’t see it
    But its very similar to white on rice
    Like a teenager
    in hormones
    you simply can’t give it advice

    Slice yourself right open
    Try ripping it out of your heart
    Stick it in a frying pan with butter
    Seasoned sautéing every part

    Invisible to the naked eye
    Although a blind man can see it
    Immaterial to the touch
    Although not untouchable

    Inaudible to the hearing ears
    But the deaf man can know it
    Its not a gift that can be wrapped
    But those without hands can bestow it

    Lacking form you can’t
    Stick it in your mouth and chew it
    But you’ve seen it in someone’s eyes without knowing you just knew it

    Its a beast on a familiar face
    With four legs and a tail
    An appetite for the human race
    With no course set to fail

    Its a heavenly superbug
    A pandemic resistant disease
    Spreading like wildfire
    Until every soul is seized

    Its altogether intangible in nature
    And much like pliable wind
    An unmistakable presence
    A force that will never end

  43. “Still squirrely after all these years”

    The solitary squirrel
    sits on a tree branch
    outside my window
    and regards me,
    not with fear,
    but with whimsy.
    His eyes sparkle
    in this rare November Sun,
    then he dances
    from branch
    to branch
    to wire
    to branch
    before landing
    where he was before
    as if to say,
    that sure is a nice office.

  44. Roped

    The cords of a man
    Intertwined with that of a woman
    Makes for a beautiful braid

    Their love tugs
    At one another’s heart
    Without war
    A solemn foundation has been laid

    They’re especially woven at every point
    In mind, emotion, hard-iron will
    They twisted, turned, tied the knot
    Displaying union in strength and skill

  45. Budding Chorus

    A perfect rose
    Bred carefully
    without a thorn

    On a special place
    Close to his chest

    Her petals
    Smooth ironed
    Slices of beauty

    Her slender stem
    Prim and proper
    Nothing could stop her
    As she manifested

    Her roots took aim
    For security
    Smarting deep
    Into his heart

    Under his skin
    Slowly absorbing
    Every part

    Spoon feeding
    That fertile field
    With potent love

    She bled
    A hardy hue
    Into every major

    A color of romance
    Together they’d pursue

    Her roots
    Stretched even deeper
    Down intertwining
    Lining his sickly heart

    Until it bloomed
    Away the dormant doom
    Of the former day

    She had bloomed
    A Rose
    Out of his heart

    They are at play
    in the garden

    Run jealous
    Of their flavor

    Tulips tip
    Dashing zealous
    For a savor

    Stares long at
    Their mystic fruit

    Lavender laughs
    At their united

    Even the postman pauses
    And reels for a steal
    At their pleasure

    But just for good

    The chorus
    Is always in the garden
    Carried to and fro
    By a timeless breeze

  46. It is interesting there are so many tree responses here with this prompt.
    Here’s my offering for the week, generated as I struggled against tall giants surrounding me.


    Raker, beware!
    We see you
    with your tools,
    your dark intent
    to sweep the blanket of our sacrifice to Earth
    and leave Her discontent.

    Raker, beware!
    We stood here
    all year, limbs
    outstretched, unbent,
    and soaked up sun and drank up rain and braced the storms
    to say,
    with leaves cast down, heart-sent,

    “We love you
    Mother Earth!”
    But YOU intend
    to pile and burn our sacrifices with your fire
    despite a brisk west wind.

    Raker, beware!
    Your rakes (those
    devices bent
    on ruining sacred vows since germination held)
    just may,
    may themselves burn, be rent

    quite useless,
    when by one
    brief moment
    distracted by a thought, you look away
    and they
    by fate in fire are spent.

    Raker, beware!
    They’ll burn, the
    tools of your
    dark intent,
    if you dare rob us of the sacred offerings
    we lay
    to Earth, as God had meant.

    © copyright 2013, Damon Dean


    Daily, she
    looks at me, and I
    wonder if
    she really
    sees herself as I do: a
    radiant beauty.

    P. Wanken

    I’m quite delinquent, but I didn’t want to miss any of the prompts.

  48. Pingback: Upon Reflection | echoes from the silence

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