Stylish

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/stylish/

With a flick of your hair, you turn and face the camera.

Is she or isn’t she?

The whoosh of perfumed hairspray floats in front of you and, as you bob your head, the droplets of lacquer fall upon every follicle.  Then, with some amount of combing, of teasing into place, you smile.

So terribly cool, so terribly stylish.

Your face adorns each magazine; eyes wide open, twinkling, smiling at your unseen audience, each of which, even the men, would love to be you, the way you walk, the way you always smile no matter the news, the state of the nation.

Like a goddess, frozen , you remain stylishly timeless, forever beautiful.

 

 

Mark Her Passing

Mark her passing with tears.

A thin veil to cover weeping eyes

And a heart that cannot comprehend.

 

Mark her passing with questions.

Questions that earnestly seek to find a resolution

In a tarnished world.

 

Mark her passing with light.

Find the brightest light and focus its sharp beam

On the deep and dark recesses.

 

Mark her passing with hope.

In this fragile place, unite and work to demonstrate

With such passion that none can doubt your integrity and truth.

 

Mark her passing with love.

Dissipate and diffuse with everyday acts of kindness and humility.

 

And in our prayers, in our words

Mark each day as a day in which we can

Embrace, hold close, love strongly,

Work devotedly and live humbly.

 

Mark this day as the beginning, not the end.

Mark this day, walking forward, not divided

But drawn together

By that which unites us.

Blurred

Sometimes, when I look out of the corner of my eye,

I catch a glimpse of…something, though I’m not entirely sure of what it is.

The edges are blurred, merged into some obscure blob

Shapeless, yet defined by the round, curved edges

That bend and twist, catching the light,

And catching me unaware.

Dimensions pulse, their movements seen, as if brushstrokes

Painted across a blank canvas.

The picture begins, it’s outline vague, unattractive;

Water sprinkled on the surface, taking colour and spreading

A blue haze, mingled with yellow.

In the distance, an object, partially recognisable;

It’s form filled with deep, resonant burgundy, caught in shadow.

I squint my eyes and see the image of my parent’s home.

My first home, terraced, tall, red brick in a small off road street.

Walking through the door, I see through to the kitchen,

Long and narrow, seats where I would sit

And watch my mother.

Stepping away from the picture, I am left with a clear image of my childhood.

Forever held in memory of my youth.

Though the picture changed, sometimes beyond recognition

And in ways I now tremble at,

That image brings a smile,

Seen with clarity and love.