A Kindly Hermit

This is my response to a challenge by the ever-challenging Kat Myrman. She gave us three options for answering this week. Figure out which option I chose. You will have to go to her site to do this. Check out my previous tweets to get to her website. It will make you happy.

Hobbes lived in a maze far north to avoid monsters living in the hollows. The middle Moffat in a family of Moffats, his heart was strangely warmed by books. Called to die, he left books to a doctor in rags. They were sold by the pound to buy clothes for the temple residents. (275 characters)

The picture credit is to MorninbirdPhoto at Pixabay.com

 

Land-Locked, City Dweller’s Lament

Three thoughts on this one. First, it is sad to hear that what started out as a lovely morning stroll provoked such a sense of sadness (see Kat’s comments as you scroll down). Second, those of us who live in the developing world are many times fortunate. We may not have all the conveniences of developed societies but I like my weekly visits to my nearby home village. The word “pristine” fits well as a description of my “desa.”. This is a bit of an alert to the “developing” world. Take it slow. Third, an alert (and a question) to my English as a Foreign Language students: Why is the last line of this poem so clever? There is more than one answer and I look forward to a discussion.

like mercury colliding...


‘I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!’
-W.B. Yeats

Land-Locked, City Dweller’s Lament

I mourn at dawn with ashen doves
rustling in nests of refuse
faggot butts and paper scrapping
littered amidst the fading leaves
roses singed by acid dewdrops
choke from mist infused with poison
vines erupting from concrete tombs
now cling to rain-swelled guttered eaves
may we rise from heavy slumber
remedy our careless keeping
see past gray horizons blighted
sprawling towers of brick and steel
beautiful dawn would I know you
wild, pristine, unobstructed
left untouched, nurtured, protected
would then, the mourning doves still grieve

~kat

What started as a lovely morning stroll, serenaded by doves coo-cooing took an unfortunate turn. I hadn’t set out to write this poem, but the muse insisted. For Jane Dougherty’s ‘A Month With Yeats’ – Day Twenty-Six with the verse above from…

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