March’s Prescription
Monthly reminder to heal through poetry
Third month of this twenty-fifth year of a technology infested century. The rebirth of the blossom is a miracle of a season called Spring. Celebrations amidst protests, headlines of war crimes, the glimpse of the Holy Sepulchre and the Temple Mount with hundreds of jubilant bows of fasting men, women and children plunging a succulent date in their mouths. They find the breeze is cooler than usual in the oasis. Shrinking forests, plastic oceans and the rays of heat from a fiery atmosphere- pause this dictatorship of ruthless humans upon this green Earth. Let me cherish a tiny planet growing within each wild centre of thin-stemmed flowers and floating life encased in each globule of the sweet peas in my pots.
Beware the Ides of March. Men at some time are masters of their fates.But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Underlings we are, when literature is contorted, books banned and voices of reason and justice being murdered yet applauded by the craving for more red than black and white…
buttercups spread on leathery leaves. innocence broke away from a starry night.
words, birds and beads.
each woven into a prayer for peace.
Before the Sun rages,
she really wants Dawn to sleep with her
-just a little longer
arranging flowers; still life is a mess.
try, try, and try again.
my heart- a spider that trusts no more
circular stories
never ending from a land far away
—kishōtenketsu
white blossoms
a fading memory
every year
painting birds
hoping to find a way to fly
each cage was hard to forget
a woman’s love;
the sky looks different to his eyes
I hope you found these poetry pieces and sensory images a balm for your writing heart.
💔 Till April ends….
