Yoda Kitty

Merril is tending bar in the dVerse Poets Pub ~ We are to compose prose of no more than 144 words which must include this line from D.H. Lawrence's poem 'Winter Lull' ~  It all belies our existence; we wait and are still denied.

I've been sitting here for more than several minutes. Possibly hours. Time moves differently when one is starving. My bowl is empty. I've verified this repeatedly. My human walked through the kitchen a moment ago. She glanced out at me, nodded politely, continued on her way. Humans are very poor observers. I tried moving close to the bowl. I tried staring at it with unwavering intensity. I looked back and forth between the bowl and my human in what I believe was a clear demonstration of the problem. Nothing. It all belies our existence. We wait and are still denied what matters most. In this case, the pressing matter is tuna! I'm moving to the center of the hallway, she must step over me. This has proven effective in the past. If that fails, I may have to begin knocking things off the counter.

 

Back Cover ~ A Child's Storybook

Sanaa hosts Prosery in the Pub providing this line from poet Yvor Winters 

"Time and the Garden" to wrap our stories around!!

The future gathers in vine, bush, and tree: Persimmon, walnut, loquat, fig, and grape.

A fairy-tale feast for the eyes and heart where dreams take root, songs grow on trees!

In a secret orchard where moonlight lingers, branches whisper, magic stirs. A voice calls out:

“The future gathers in vine, bush, and tree: persimmon, walnut, loquat, fig, and grape.”

Just like that, the fruit awaken!

Meet Persimmon. Bright and brave, ready to leap into the unknown!

Walnut. Wise, thoughtful, with a pocket full of riddles! 

Loquat. Golden, quick, full of surprises! 

Grape. A giggling tumble of mischief and delight!

Fig. Gentle, kind, certain that every story deserves a happy ending!

Together, these unlikely friends discover their orchard is more than just roots and branches.

It’s a place where courage blossoms, laughter multiplies, and dreams grow sweet as fruit in the sun.

Step inside this enchanting story and taste the magic of a fairy-tale harvest you’ll never forget!

Brad & Abby

Kim is hosting Prosery Monday in the dVerse Pub ~ she provided this line from poet Derek Walcott's Dark August ~~ to use in our prose stories: 

“I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones.“ 

They met in a summer that shimmered ~ like vinyl ~ loud, spinning, full of skips they danced through. Nights were for dreaming big ~ days for chasing them. But the years grew heavier, quieter. Abby wandered ~ feeling restless, curious ~ while Brad began to crave roots. 

Silence filled rooms where once there was music, now only echoes of what they didn't say. Abby laughed less, came home later. Brad cooked. Abby forgot. And still he waited ~ half hoping, half gone. "I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones" he said once ~ not asking her to stay, just wishing she'd want to. 

She touched his hair like it was old paper ~ smiled a tired apology ~ and left before the kettle whistled. Now coffee steams in two mugs. One goes cold. Maybe tomorrow she'll call. Or maybe we already know how this ends .... or doesn't. 

Family Matters

 Lisa plays host today in the dVerse Poets Pub ~ our assignment:  Compose a story of no more than 144 words that includes this line from Alice Walker's poem 'Before You Knew It, You Owned It'  ~~

"Make of it a parka for your soul."

The house had been cold for months, his presence a wound they tried to ignore. He had done that. Ripped through their trust. Left them bracing against the chill of his failures. 

But love he learned does not always vanish. It lingers in quiet mercies ~ a plate left for him at dinner, the hesitant weight of his daughter's head on his shoulder one evening as they watched snow blanket the ground. 

He did not deserve it. They offered it anyway.

Pressing his shaking hands between hers, his wife murmured "make of it a parka for your soul." He swallowed against the ache in his throat. 

It would take time. The cold would not leave all at once. But warmth had slowly returned ~ born from patience, forgiveness, love. 

He pulled it around himself. Held it tight. And he was grateful. So very grateful.  

Jungle Journey

In the dVerse Poets Pub, Merril invites us to pen a poem including this line from poet Amanda Gorman's  "The Hill We Climb" 

“where can we find light in this never-ending shade?”

For some unimaginable reason, the Jungle Book and Rudyard Kipling popped into my mind, thus my prosery. 

In the vast expanse of a starry void, Mowgli floated .. lost in a cosmic wilderness far from the jungle he once knew.  Silence enveloped him like a shroud. He drifted through fields of stardust and ghostly comets. "Where can we find light in this never-ending shade" he whispered .. his voice barely a ripple against the stillness. The boy's question hung in the air, unanswered. He remembered the warmth of sunshine filtering through trees, the vivid colors of earth .. each memory a distant star.. out of reach.

Yet, within the endless night, Mowgli knew he had to search for that light. He summoned the courage that once guided him through dangerous dense jungle foliage, set his sights on the glittering Milky Way .. certain that in one of those illuminated clouds, he would find a way back to the warmth of 'home.'

Generations, Lessons Learned

 Time for Prosery in the Pub ~~ Melissa introduces us to poet, Tina Chang and offers this line from Ms. Chang's poem  "Love" to be included in our prosery ~~ 'I am haunted by how much our mothers do not know.' 

In quiet moments of reflection, I find myself tracing

 the lineage of women who shaped my life. My

 mother, her mother, and countless mothers before

 them, each carrying the weight of their own doubts

 and fears, secrets they kept, sacrifices they made

 hidden beneath veils of resilience and strength.

 They nurtured us with love and care, yet they were

 human, prone to mistakes and missteps.

I wonder if they questioned their mothering skills.

 Did they lie awake at night, haunted with the same

uncertainties that kept me company through the

 years? As I look back, I cannot believe how little I

 knew at age nineteen. Generations later, I am

 haunted by how much our mothers do not know,

 yet I see their humanity more clearly. And in doing

 so, I embrace the journey of forgiveness, for my

 own imperfections, as they will likewise do.

About Greta

In the Pub, Mish provides inspiration for Prosery with this line from Ranier Maria Rilke's The First Elegy ~~ 

For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror. 

Gazing at her aging reflection in the crystal encrusted mirror, Greta remembered the sweet beauty of her youth. Men  spellbound by her, every door she sought to open ~ opened.  

Greta looked more closely into the mirror and muttered angrily "what's the use ~  for beauty is nothing but the  beginning of terror!" Husband gone, children on their own, friends scattered. 

Memories flooded her mind, of the lover whose touch she craved.  Many decades had passed; her heart still held him close. With trembling hands, rejection clouding her mind, she composed a letter, hoping it would find its way.  

Weeks passed; a reply! He also worried she would be disappointed in the 'older version' of him. Yet, his words carried that same tenderness. 

Older, wiser, ready to begin life anew, two souls reunited; lines on both faces, their mirrored journeys had traveled well.