Flash Fiction: Astute Art

http://flashyfiction.blogspot.com/2014/01/stargate.html

Stargate? Sculpter

Astute Art

Artemis would not wear a wreath upon her head.And yet she wanted to

respect all those who paid her homage. She took all the garlands left at

her temples and saved them, and gave them to one man - who then in

his dreams was instructed by soothing voice and creative vision the

wear-with-all to construct a lasting monument.

While some scoffed at the waste of what was thought valuable time and

resources - he swore everything was recycled material. After the installation,

the artist seemed to vanish. But Artemis had taken him by the hand and

set him free on a tropical island where he happily now carves coconut

shells for the children of his Polynesian wife.  

©JP/davh

Qweekly prompt: making an impression

http://imprompt.wordpress.com/2014/01/30/bonus/

Photo Carmen Garcia Soto

Child in a special snow sleigh/sled ‘Perception’

making an impression

perspective, the horizon

is always so far away...

the mountains in the distance

or the dunes of a huge desert...

wanting what is on the other side

we oft slip sometimes slide

are blinded by reflections

or others unnique perceptions

and then, how ever long the ride

years or just seconds - the coast is gone

the goal reached becomes an

accomplishment, and a new beginning

©JP/davh

Passing Fantasy

Passing Fantasy

There is a small tree

within the wood, along the rail line

which has not lost its’ golden coin leaves

even in the grey weather of this rainy day

Beckoning the fae - I’m sure

they are protected by some great magic;

the retirement accounts glitter for all to see

making me wonder about where they, the fae may go

Do they travel south, become snowbirds

like the swallows of Capistrano? Or do they crave

to be engulfed in Monarch wings in Mexico? Some might

choose cooler climes - investing in the crystal north

Even in the grey weather of this rainy day

golden coin leaves flutter - blink and the scene passes -

In the woods between the stations...

There is a small tree...

(c) JP/davh

We Write Poems 195: weather report prompt

http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2014/01/09/prompt-195-weather-report/

tropic of cancer or latitude in attitude

warmths stirs within the volcanic heart

sometimes the burnt ashes of memories

that should have remained settled mix

with the fluid pounding of emotional unrest

and even with attempted restraint there is

no stopping the natural course of what will be

and the sky is dulled with the words that could

not be choked back and swallowed yet again...

they just want to be heard - but when the other

mountains of cold stone refuse to listen

attention must be, should be, has to be drawn -

even if only with chalk that will once again be

erased with the tears of misunderstanding

so we can go back to our different coastlines

and mubble at how unfair the other is, was, can be.

how can two siblings be so different?

each at one point wanting what the other has -

and yet when stepping back are quite grateful

for who and what they have become...

no sense in pointing fingers unless you really

are ready, willing and able to actually bend

and lend that hand extended from your arm...

let the dragon sleep - that storm that will come

there will be no stopping it, nature only provides

the instruments it is the players who beat the drums,

blow the horns, and pluck all the strings so that the sky

is either clear with balmy and soothing goodness or

well we all know that or, the oar that thrashes in the

tumultuous sea that blinds common sense and leaves

us wanting what we could never have had...

or at least that is what we sometimes think.

©JP/davh