Crescent Moon Earring

For my neighbor, the late Daniel H. ~ “free at last…home”

Night’s crescent earring

Dangles against dark-skinned cheek

Sterling as her love

How still she wears his jewelry

Now that her man is dead, gone

©Jael Sook, 2017 All rights reserved.

Image credit: Pixabay

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To My Hearth Returned (#writephoto)

Thursday photo prompt – Messenger #writephoto

From Sue Vincent:  Use the image below as inspiration to create a post on your own blog… poetry, prose, humour… light or dark, whatever you choose, by noon (GMT)  Wednesday 19th July and link back to Sue’s post with a pingback. Please make sure that the pingback works and if not, copy and paste your link into the comments section of Sue’s post. Don’t forget to use the #writephoto hashtag in your title so your posts can be found.

Image:  Sue Vincent

Tender harbinger,

You winged across an ocean,

Untiring, faithful in your mission

To deliver me sorrow, news of

Heart’s worst loss… The world

Stopped turning—still, soundless—

Even my weeping, mute river.

You blotted tears with onyx pinions,

Sat near, promised to stay awhile…

As hours lengthened—dusk’s blue-gray

Chamois, to inky ebon-indigo—

I feared grief’s fatigue had

Unhinged mind from logic.

Avian voice had altered, become much

Familiar—precise pitch, timbre, tempo.

From youth I knew its reassurance,

Embrace—despite dreams, distant reality.

Wide warm wings wrapped ’round

Me, close—I startled, pulled back to

Peer deep into black pearl eyes;

Watched them change to sea glass hue,

Holding pensive sapphire’d miles—

And then I knew.

Finally in death, risen as raven-feathered

Phoenix, you’d chosen for your return, my hearth.

©Jael Sook, 2017 All rights reserved.

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No Summers Left

The cold snapped, overlapping summer’s season,

Seeped frigid blue into my limbs, made stiff—

Even as it crimped the garden grass

Where futile floral efforts lay brittle.

Chilled mist cracked voice each time

I breathed, breaking hymns to God in half;

As I skipped stones across the lake—

Now a mirror of ice which proved me old,

With no more summers left.

©Jael Sook, 2017 All rights reserved.

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Caravan Delirium

Just below the necklace of stars

I saw shimmering caravans, their

Mesmerizing rhythm coupled with

That of steam plumes rising from

Drenched chill sheets wrapped

Against my fevered form—or

So it seemed, in delirium…

That angelic caravan, and the

Accompanying psychedelic

Peacocks drowsily waving

Glorious fanned feathers, blue

Emerald gems shot through

With rays, metallic hues…

All this viewed from narrow

Vent in ivory bed curtains

As I picked at crumbs of

Communion wafers, offered

By itinerant prophet whose

Murmured prayers sounded

Foolish gibberish…maybe it was

Merely unfamiliar Hebrew, reverent

Plea for God’s mercy to spare me;

Or grant longed-for release, via

Caravan to Heaven…no febrile hallucination.

©Jael Sook, 2017 All rights reserved.

Image credit: Pixabay

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Buried Between Poem & Stone

They bury her between lines

Of poetry which will burst into

Flame on full moon nights,

Send up showered sparks;

Red-tipped stars like Pele’s

Fiery passion that melts

September’s sapphire fog,

Leaves salt pools, aloha tears…

They bury her ‘mid surrounding

Stones to protect her soul from

Wandering…flinty spirited rocks,

They sprout wildflower shoots

And bashful blue forget-me-nots.

When next brief summer storm

Breaks cerulean sky, those with

Ears attuned detect voice in

Heaven’s rain-soaked wind:

“Buried, but now she’s Home”.

©Jael Sook, 2017 All rights reserved.

Image:  Hawaiian Cemetery, Public Domain

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Silhouettes and Substance

Teresa’s Prompt:  Welcome back to Saturday’s Mix. This week, I thought we’d look at silhouettes…They have wonderful contrast of light and dark to reveal the outline of an object…I wondered how this would look in writing.  If you struggle with a silhouette poem/prose piece, you can also simply use the word in your writing.  Once you’ve written your piece please tag your work Mindlovesmisery’s Menagerie and Saturday Mix.

I could have been mere

Silhouette in your life—

Silent, slender shadow, me;

Soft floral scent wafted on breeze,

Slipped in through your window.

I would have been mere

Silhouette, gratefully…

Your silhouette entered

My heart-life fully,

No slim blur on wall or floor.

Yours was far more:

A broad shouldered superhero,

Suave silhouette of substance;

Pensive blue-gaze, palpable shadow—

Pulse vibrating ‘mid sunbeams silver,

As though you’d escaped Death’s

Pewter visage, his greedy winter eye.

Time has its subtle silhouette—

Whispered ticking, quickly by…

But Ghost-love, you shackled clock and

Calendar; cancelled our span of years

To give me dear companionship

Which lingers, dawn till dusky sky…

Silhouette rose-hip-tipped.

©Jael Sook, 2017 All rights reserved.

Image credit:

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Death Be Not Proud

Michael says: In this week’s tale weaver I’m asking you to consider the concept of death in a way that you relate to.  What does it mean to you?  Your experience could be the death of a family member, a loved one, a neighbour.  It could be a death as in the end of a relationship.  You could use it as my mother used to say: “You’ll be the death of me.”

In your writing explore your feelings towards whatever issue you explore… is not an easy topic for many to write about and there is a finality about it….not many return to tell us of their experiences…You could even explore the concept from death’s point of view.  Please TAG your post: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie and Tale Weaver.”

It occurred to her that there had been more deaths

In her life than she sometimes realized…

Perhaps because they all began with the premier

Mystery:  the presumed-death, lost-at-sea, no-body-

Recovered one; secretive circumstances and aftermath

Which impacted her like slow-metastasizing cancer for

The rest of her life—as He was her father, and her molester.


After her mother remarried and they moved

With equal haste and mystery to a new state,

A neighbor’s young child who’d succumbed to

Leukemia was the first dead body she viewed—

A beautiful angel, death’s image lovely and peaceful.


The most traumatic visitation by Death was a savage

Murder:  her teenage school friend, an innocent girl killed

By a classmate, no less.  Grief eclipsed by terror, it

Would follow her to another state and home as a

Pernicious breathing-dragon; fear that one day the

Guy would be out in the world again, and find her—

Slashing, stabbing, leaving her naked, the same as Kay.


Added to the chaotic, angry tumult of her brief marriage,

Was the death—in her presence—of an elderly neighbor she’d

Agreed to look in on each evening.  Though not unexpected,

The passing was sudden; frightening, to observe her facial

Rictus as Death seized the old woman.


Later, neither her step-father nor mother could

Out-run Death.  When they died, she would feel

Nothing—no sorrow, no loss—she missed them not

At all.  They were always strangers to her heart;

Their absence, freeing.


But when more years rolled on, relocating her again,

Yet another neighbor was spirited away by angels

In the night, and she knew the crashing devastation

Of Death as Thief.  Seeing the Christmas card and

Fruitcake she’d left at Tim’s door—tossed in the

Planter by authorities who came to remove his body—

She felt robbed of her purpose in the small courtyard.

And, too, the ache of gaping emptiness; with a piercing

Sharp envy that she didn’t die that same night, to savor

Release from life’s struggles.  She often imagined Tim

Healed and whole, smiling on her from Heaven.


Folded in with these deaths and others, was the passing of

The love of her life.  He’d never known her, really; they

Exchanged only a few brief notes across miles of ocean.

32 years her senior and long married, he was

The hero of her childhood—and forever. 

Love, even unrequited, has magical properties: 

Denying his death, she preserved him young

And virile in her heart…unencumbered…a

Ghost more true, romantic, attentive and fascinating,

Than any man she’d met face to face.


Death takes, and it gives; imprisons, and looses. 

It leaves us hanging…or provides a secure tether. 

Death is filled with neither more, nor less enigma than

Life with its tripping pulse-beat, and infinite peculiarities.

Death is not the “end”, merely the door to life Hereafter.


Bought by the shed Blood of Christ at Calvary,

My destined Home is sealed and certain

In the Presence of God’s eternal glory—

There, joyful hearts wait to welcome me.

©Jael Sook, 2017 All rights reserved.

Image credit: Pixabay

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