A narrative of hope

Dappled as the moods in a changing light/ while sunset drapes over old time/ a sordid year with shadows dancing on walls that held me like arms of a phantom lover/ captive within grave curtains and floors like sorrow/ weeping a seasonal melancholia as the earth averted her face from the winter sun/ Six blue coffee mugs under a long running faucet/ thinking in hue/ each taking turn, mulling over calendared time in the throes of it’s final gasp/

My bare feet seek comfort of the red kitchen rug/ as densely knotted as feelings per square inch of heart/ crimson wine waiting to reflect in a blank glass eyed stare/ the ways of the world crafting resolutions in sand/ The wind outside hoists old memories, regrets and lapsed time on branches/ as determinate as gangly coat racks on trees/

But here, in a warm kitchen/ a soft glow, melting wax, like candles at the wedding in Cana/ the present, the now, is what I draw into the resolve of dough/ as I knead for a bread of Tuscan imaginings/ Rosemary on the window sill generously awards me a sprig of peace/ while I rummage for olives in jars, salted in the manner of ancient brine/ A fragrant evening, suffused with a deep and abiding trust in me/ for the new year, like dough, will be a moulding of time/ as laughter ushers in the new numbers with raised flutes striking midnight in clinking delight/

Embodying ideals rooted in soil/ What does the Earth seek if not for poetry/ even if under the conceit of a burning sun on a continuum to self immolation/ yet how beautiful to be like the impassioned Earth/ orbiting a blaze of solar pessimism/ to abide in weaving springtime narratives of hope in a kaleidoscope/ bountiful summers in leaf and root/ autumnal gestations of unworldly ideas, woven in soulful labour or crocheted in complexity or unspooled in defeats/ everything and then nothing, to retreat once again into the bowels of winter/ She perseveres, knowing one day at the end of eternity all would be mist/ as the sun would consume her turgid waters/ but that day is not come and today is here/ and will be here, everyday/ to work time into the yielding of dough, the beginning of now/







This was birthed out of lovely prompts from my insta poets community. I thought to make them my own in weaving a narrative for the new year, a new mantra of sorts much like the old one but with fresh fervour and renewed intention.

Floors like sorrow, blank glass eyes, walls like arms, long running faucet, sunset drapes, red kitchen rug, candles from the wedding, six blue coffee mugs, coat rack like a tree came from one poet.

Another, deliberated on three words she wished to embody in the course of the year to inspire action, thought and intention, which include light, trust and perseverance. I have used the same and the entire poem should read as a new years resolution. Are we not all fond of making them.

Here’s to our new resolutions 🥂🍾
Happy New Year everyone ❤️

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