Also look out for blog posts by our guest writers this month, on topics such as creativity, writing and mindfulness. Click here to view the guest posts.
Do leave your second small stone of the challenge in the comments below.
"Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass."
~ Anton Chekhov
159 comments:
The cold air crashes into the warmth at the junction of the open door.
wings
birds above
butterflies below
fanning a breeze
into hot summer air.
The gentle cooing of the doves on the roof;
The lorikeets crippling the unwary with scimitar nips;
The ravens’ mournful cawing, remotely aloof;
Wattlebirds tout “Hot pies, hot pies, chips, chips, chips”
out of time with the
dishwasher's two-tone samba
a lark is singing
Another language
In last night's puddles,
another language
has something to say.
fluffy make-believe mountain ranges, brown-grey wisps of smokey cigars
feathers of cotton candy, yesterday's leftover firework puffs and other phantasmagorical dragons, icebergs of snow to be, a globe of sci-fi continents
destination approaches
hugging the horizon are not clouds
but daggers of perfect white peaks not yet melted
cloudlike
[2012.2.1...a]
my resolve disolves on seeing the left overs of yesterday's good will. i will begin again tomorrow, though it causes me much sorrow to say farewell to nicotone hell
or nicotine even!
my slippers and i glide along
in the intimate simplicity
of our years together.
[I wrote this before I read Leonie's post.] The smear across the microwave door, a rainbow drained of colour.
Warm Winter Wonders.
Roses blooming in a mild winter garden
As a red squirrel skitters curiously
along a bare tree branch.
This rain is relentless
as I stumble over the sodden ground
to set down the plant I have brought.
Fitting weather for my birthday: it's never the same without you.
cumulus clouds ripe for imagination, white as a child's joke
New year's sun picks out bare branches; scatters bright kisses on their gnarled limbs...
monday rain: wind in the butterfly tree, yet no wings, no where – just the memory.
(i wrote this before reading any other stone - beautiful to find Kel's summer butterflies, like a counterpart).
Sunshine shadows,
dancing on bedroom drapes.
Diet focussed
Healthy eating a must
But tomorrow chocolate cake!
Amaryllis blooming in January
So open to possibilities
In its colorful coat
What about me?
Rose water, calendula cream, lavender lotion, rosemary shampoo.
Nature's bounty on my bathroom shelf.
In the border, a small tree, bent from the weight of a fallen fence panel, heavy with ivy. But upon the tree…catkins. A whisper of a promise from Springtime: 'I am coming…’
The gently moving puffs of white clouds drift casually over head.
Low sun,
long shadows stretch
along the line of trees --
touching, greeting, connecting.
Summer:
The eucalypt shimmers in the garden. What causes the shimmering - heat from the eye of the staring sun, or the breath of the 50 lorikeets sleeping beneath its leaves?
(This is funnnnn)
The day began full of beans, roaring, rearing up, raring to go - an infusion of excess energy which proved prey to thievery, stolen amid descent into the mundane and routine, to leave behind a rage at small things
A calico stray sleeping hard between drain pipes of a dirty block of flats on a cool evening in Singapore. Checkers, I call her.
The wind was wonderful.
She came slowly.
Brought down some leaves toward me. Cooling me down with her whisper.
And she taught me to share without asking payback.
Not even “thank you”
She taught me to share and go. To help and let go.
She just whispered and went away. Whispered and went away.
Lines and angles, criss crossing steel, seemingly disordered, going in all directions, and yet contained within a frame, bringing it all together, organized.
The full post at:
http://writtenbyim.blogspot.com/2011/12/day-2-lines-and-angles.html
The smell of woodsmoke drifts across the landscape, unseen. The sounds of chain passing smoothly over sprockets, and the miles passing by my wheels. Serenity, broken by the white-noise hiss of tyres over tarmac, approaching fast.
It's my birthday today so...
Birthday
One more year to denote who I'm supposed to be.
One more label to tuck into my collar.
One more reason to be just me.
Morning sun bathes sand in gentle amber. The shore is a slab of caramel, frosted in foam and dusted with the footprints of gulls.
Son went home
sun in hiding
rain never-ending
1.2.2012 ~ Anticipation and hope abounds within. Dreams to plan, plans to dream are about to begin…
I went to my friends' garden today to help pick lettuce for lunch. I brought her cucumbers and beets from my garden for a trade. There is no better lunch than fresh greens from a garden - fresh earth converted to fresh love in a bowl.
Keep your chin up! That way you can see the direction you're heading in, and what is coming your way :)
The Garfield Cat cloud
hung over the Sleeping Ute Mountain.
May they rest in peace.
a flash of crimson, glimpsed peripherally. the direct view concludes...yet another opportunity missed
The crust of new snow, the bite of a north wind, the sky turning to a deep blue. There is beauty to be seen, even as my feet slip on the ice and my eyes water from the cold. And I am mindful of the gift of mind peaceful enough to simply notice the sensory experience.
originally posted at http://mylifeincontradictions.blogspot.com/2012/01/river-writing-challenge-day-2.html
“Sun shining bright. Today combined with warmth. Driving brought peace to my heart. My face still feels itchy from the high-factor sunscreen.”
I dream of loss
and struggle to embrace
the promise of
the day before me
And I moved on
as if nothing happend
and nothing happend
as if I moved on.
But the tree knows me
and knows this will pass
as change is in the air.
There is a storm coming up.
Nothing will be the same
tomorrow.
And I moved on
as if nothing happend
and nothing happend
as if I moved on.
But the tree knows me
and knows this will pass
as change is in the air.
There is a storm coming up.
Nothing will be the same
tomorrow.
The new year is welcomed by cherry blossoms
barely even shivering.
Fat-fingered cumulus, dirty white gloves gently polishing the skyscrapers
(Stone #2 by Rhonda L. Johnson)
"The View From My Window"
Beyond my kitchen window
lies a silent, exquisitely still
slate of pale blue, interrupted only
by the occasional right angles of
glass and brick towers across the park,
and the lonely outline of a bird
(of anonymous species)
gliding and dipping in elegant arcs like a
diver through the waves of cold morning air
A small puff ball sitting on a branch,
a lone woodpecker greets the
arctic wind of the rising sun.
storm clouds appear like a troubled mind obscuring now.
violet bud dazzles
long virescent vines ascend
ivory trellis sleeps
I was standing on the backyard deck when I noticed something unexpected: under my kitchen’s bow window overhang, there were a number of green leaves and vines weaving and interweaving themselves across a small piece of cold ground until they reached the lower cement wall. At that point, they began climbing, as if to see how high they could go.
But two things really stood out for me in this tableau - partially for the bright hues and partially because it seemed like a statement by nature of some sort: a small purple-blue ivy flower was blooming alone amidst all the green – and a piece of a white trellis-work lay on the ground near it, as if paying homage to the startling colors of winter.
Pausing
a moment in
passing
the click of a brick
of lego
the smile of a boy
at
home.
Crumbs from cinnamon raisin toast, left a moment too long in the toaster, dot the small white plate. Black crumbs, brown crumbs. Big, tiny. Clumped, solo. But no Virgin Mary.
The gap
Between window and drape
Reveals grey sky amplifying silver light
And stillness
The bamboo stands upright
Stiff
And elongated leaves hang
Starched
The Narrows Brook riffles into white curls as it runs over rocks, ice-free except for a lace of crystals at the edges.
Into a bright blue january sky, I let the pale moon travel to its furthest extent. The wind zithers its strings.
twitter @forgottenworks
Each leaf decaying on it’s return to earth essence.
Each twig glistening with silver morning kisses.
Desires this of me:
Come closer.
Draw near.
she drags the engagement ring across her face; it leaves a black mark, soft like the closed eyelid of a newly-hatched bird. all the food is dipped in chocolate. a man on the radio has expressions he never gives.
I saw a tree against the orange stripey sky like a river gathering its tributaries across the desert before bedtime.
Small Stone: Ode to a Glue Stick
Low odor, washable, permanent, acid free, photo safe glue stick. A small, simple tube of connection, a bond forged between artist and material–literally the glue that keeps it all together. It helps realize vision, manifest magic, embody wishes–making them tangible and grounded. It’s a peacemaker between heart and paper, between dream and reality. It gets on your skin and you stick to everything you touch–paper, pen, table, door handle, hearts. (see picture: /http://thousandshadesofgray.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/small-stone-day-two/)
Here is my 2nd stone.
http://wp.me/p1bqY3-iX
Trees tease as breeze
ruffles through
makes all things new.
Spotted: The robin again, in the bare tree branches of the garden, trilling away.
Silos from the M5
Low sun partly-shadowing
pewter
against a hill of
stubbled bronze
The pink mole at the corner of the police officer's lip - a blemish any other day - is today the punctuation mark of his smile. He's happy to give only a warning and not a ticket to the driver who was only daydreaming, not defiant.
I saw the word numinous this morning and it made me stop...and I felt it, in the center of my being. The is an innate magic that arises when I recognize my own inner luminance.
Dreams of my mother
a child, a wisp of a thing
held in my arms
small measure of wistful comfort
My arms now cradle
the warmth of a feline rumble
I bury my face in soft grey fur
baptized by tears
Casting eyes 'cross garden,
Then looking b'yond I see
The desert, pure and natural
Greeting, inspiring me
I'm grateful for glittering eyes
Green ones
http://www.kimnelsonwrites.com/2012/01/02/with-glittering-eyes/
http://ceceliafutch.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/river-of-stones-day-2/
A cold January morning. Snow fills the air, swirling, dancing, at times pausing, moving to and fro as it drifts to the ground. Blanketing the earth in a white quilt of drifts forming hills and valleys, quietness descends and all watch in wonder and awe.
the querulous crow
http://mauvesea.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/harbinger/
Small Stones #2
In the space while I found the next page in my notebook, the sky through my rain-dropped window changed from leaden grey to polar white. Now it is broken and the white is stamped onto blue and cyan. Shiny for a moment, the puffs are blowing East. The birds at the tops of the stick stalks are blue tits and sparrows. I can’t see that they are – they are darkly silhouetted – but I know this.
Jaw still sore from dental work. Bruising has turned a sickening yellow-green on my still-swollen cheek.
Distant roar of rolling metal, screaming it's song of warning, it's coming thru with unbridled fury.
blue of the swimming pool
water crumpled with light
swimming through my reflection
Border Collies
in his winter coat pocket
an orange ball
greyness shimmers gold
clouds part as daybreak unfolds
this day begins, AHHH!
The fruit of conscience
sometimes takes a long,
long time to ripen.
Steam rises from my mug
Thee cups of hot green tea
Soothes and heals me today
Wrote a small stone about cooking pasta and posted it on my small stones blog http://jsosmallstones.blogspot.com/2012/01/watch-wait-watch-and-then-off.html
Bus full of glum faces
two men rise to their
feet, smiling, nodding
two women
laughing
take the seats
as the bus lurches
forward.
Linda
A two-week holiday, the kids rise early with anticipation;
back to school on Monday, the kids want to hibernate in bed.
Remember, all fruit lies
The orange may have thick skin
But inside it is eager to please as a Labrador puppy
The pear may have a delicate grandmother scent
But it’s core is hard and coarse
The banana that cracks open
Will crumble under slight pressure from your tongue
None of us are our first impressions
Absent-mindedly ruffling the soft flaxen hair of my youngest son, I realise suddenly how the gentle contours of that lovely head can no longer fit cosily into my hand. His childhood, like his growing bones, is slipping quietly through my fingers, expanding just as it should beyond the bounds of my hands' grasp but not my heart. To love without grasping, to be taught how to be a mother by my son.
The sun behind the fence stripes the grass with dark and light green. In the shadow by the fence, six light grey, round rocks wait for their turn in the sunlight. The rosemary reaches high and shines out with golden green, already spotlighted. I smell its aroma on the light breeze.
~Laura Hoopes
the meat falls from the drumstick
as it rises to his mouth
more than my food
is fed to him
at this table
Thanks to all the writers. I enjoy reading your small stones.
Splendidofsun, thanks for "share and let go."
VivinFrance, son/sun wonderful connection!
Laura Hoopes ("Lorelei")
Wind speaking through the lodgepoles
but no sound of the creaking tree
that held up its leaning brother--
just its crooked trunk rising to the sun
Winter Wonderland — a festival of food and frolic that could tongue-tie a translator from Tower of Babel.
Throughout the kingdom of bells and lights, one language reigns universal:
Tired
Toddlers
Throwing
Tantrums
Downstairs. My knee creaks. So does the step.
http://lisasownblog.blogspot.com/2012/01/small-stones-crunchy-munchee-salad.html
Carved leaves form the corners
An old door waits
The lock a new invention
A Chubb
Spirits locked in
Life locked out
I look for life in the barren cold, a pale yellow Frisbee forgotten in the leaves of coffee, mahogany, chocolate. A chain saw’s bite removes the last of the storm’s mangled limbs. Just the fresh green of pachysandra peeks through the decay. The cold of the stone bench seeps in and hurries me on my way.
A flash in the periphery of my eye,
A fluke breaks the calm ocean waters as a plume rises into the sky, glistening like a jeweled tower,
Welcome home Humpbacks, the cycle begins anew!
5.45am.
mother earth roars her welcome
the door knocker bangs in response
their bodies leap to the floor - they know the drill -
and rush through the creaking house to soothe
once sleeping children's cries.
Folding Laundry
Daddy longlegs
lurking in green
striped percale -
static spradled
fine brown hairs
and lint.
Late afternoon's long-slanting sun gilds the remaining hydrangea petals with golden light: winter's most precious currency.
Cold, unrelieved, gnaws at the spirit, swallows creativity, gulps down hope.
Today a hot water bottle stand between me and despair.
End of a Holiday
resetting my internal alarm
wake at 6:30 am-- still a musty darkness
the dogs yawn and stretch
apple pie cools
ham in the oven
the dogs sit-sentinel in the sun
reading, writing,
tv parade watching
and the day seeps by
Pamela Olson, 1/2/2012
Tears burn eyes suddenly,
Old disappointments of failure flow as they sting.
Numb .... Solar plexus hard .....
..... And for so little!?
Mine is at http://www.elizabethkateswitaj.net/2012/01/second-river-stone/.
Peeling the clementine, fingernails digging into the bumpy skin
Orange-y scent rises up
My body POPS! awake
Caffeine for the nose.
I place a segment into my mouth
and smile at the burst of citrus-y pleasure
that washes across my tongue.
The scent stays with me for hours
Released from my hands and into the air with a gesture.
I tilt my head back as the shower's hot water hits my hair. Thick and ropy, I lift the mass and let it all get good and wet. Shampoo once, twice, feeling the weight of my hair in my hands, the strands full in my fingers.
Today's small stone came from contemplating a simple glass of water, childhood memories, and the importance of hydration!
Carol
cool, clear water. fragment of song
over small pebbles, the devil
spills life on burning sand
inside this ribbed glass, light
stretches words beyond boundaries
parchment and skin wait to drink
http://pseu1.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/river-of-stones-ii-2nd-january-2012/
for today
My balled up hankie lands in Godfather Timothy's hand. He wipes our baby's nose and throws it back.
I hurry because it is cold, even though the sun is shining so brightly. The breeze is lightly touching my cheeks with icy fingers. My shadow goes before me, slightly to my right. I hear the newly fallen leaves crunching under my heavy shoes in the front yard but as I go through the gate into the back I notice the leaves have been mulched and there are no newly fallen leaves. The old trees there have already shed their gowns and lift their arms to the blue skies waiting for whatever the season might bring them.
http://genealogytraces.blogspot.com/2012/01/january-river-of-small-stones-jan-2.html
the dust
of yesterdays...
discarded hearing aids
collect weighted sighs and release
cloudbursts
memory is
a blank canvas
painted with emotion
Christmas tree dropping its needles
our white cat sprinkled green -
his curiosity a burning light.
January 2, 2012- Small Stone
you are my sunshine (and my small stone) by Teri H Hoover
A cold shadowless path, blooms benevolently with sunshine,
sharing one lone jogger
huffing resolutions.
Fox trails disappear, long shadows fall on rain drenched tracks. Along the crest, dark oaks range against the sky.
The sunshine tempts me, but the thermometer tells another story.
i did create a blog for my "River of stones" ...here's the connection
http://highlandview-barbielou.blogspot.com/
Dennis Severs house, Spitalfields
Three hundred years, the palimpsest of lives, voices off...
A thimble glass glows in the candlelight,
Amber in the chased vine leaves.
Quiet and solitude, sweeter when hard-earned: the hum of the PC's hard drive, bed linen rustles and dream sighs...
His voice like velvet enlightens my senses and clears my busy head.Namaste
I composed another one today while having the joy of a three-hour Thai massage.
skilled hands guide
my muscles into place
I feel my heartbeat again
I am chasing sunlight this winter, bundling myself like a mother might a small child and sending myself into the woods with mittens for these few hours when the sun deigns to shine.
Today, even at 11:30 a.m., the tree shadows falling across the path are long and thin, almost frail. (I do notice that my shadow isn’t quite as long and thin as I’d hoped. Oh, well.) The wind charges down the hill and forces whispers from the last few leaves clinging to bony branches. The sound of the water rushing in the gorge reminds me of a vast roomful of applause, just a sustained standing O.
I imagine Callas at La Scala, roses at her feet, tears in her eyes, her fingertips stained scarlet with lipstick. She’s blowing kisses, and they are blowing back.
miles between people
can disappear when you are
closerthanthisclose
New purple notebook from Christmas:
on the gold-highlighted cover,
a blue peacock fans his yellow and green tail
across lily blossoms and lace.
Inside, purple lines on crisp purple pages await fresh ink
and dog-eared wisdom.
white puppy
speeds over moonlit hills...
geese landing
Seclusion.
The anticipation of wrapping oneself in the cocoon of home and love.
Storm raging outside, snow building up around the home,
keeping husband and wife together in their own world.
Satisfaction.
The dream achieved and the world thus lived and love endures.
From:http://writerforgod.sobercatholic.com/2012/01/02/seclusion/
Although chilled by the feisty wind I marvel as the leaves dance...that's freedom.
The leaves were raked up not down, Jesus Christ you said, too early and angry I thought, too dry, too old, what's left.
Frost air bites through fleece,
denim, and twenty-five years.
I am five, on the steps,
looking at my breath.
The ice on the sidewalk is slick but lumpy, like the glaze on iced oatmeal cookies. On the way to my bus stop, I use the neighbors' fences, shrubbery and retaining walls to pull myself along, hand over hand, letting my boots slide.
Maple Tree
Leaves cling stubborn to bare limbs
veins trace like rivers in tea-stained parchment
translucent against the wan winter sun
beige ghosts of crimson glory
the furled fists rustle, chimes in the winter wind.
pouring rain
beating on skylights
cat purrs
Sinking into the warmth of tucked in blankets.
Swept out by the tide of her prose.
Cry Love
Locked inside my house, a hundred lemon blooms cry out with their sensual perfume for a love letter that will never come.
An evening walk with an old friend;
Discussing hopes and dreams,
Stepping on gravelly fears,
Dislodging them from our heels,
So that we could fly into the night sky
And tread upon the stars.
January 1
Explosion in the sky,
Iraq - it is gunfire -
Here - it is fireworks!
January 2
I was away for twenty years,
Now trees have grown, spread,
Rare plants have bloomed
And one strange, spiky bottle tree
Sprouts oleander flowers...
January 3
In heaven, it has dawned on me,
There is no loss -
Leaves never fall,
Flowers bloom and stay,
Seeds glow a life force
Perpetually
On the verge...
greeted by
the grey steel sky
of a coming storm~
dawn on day two
The TRUTH of the Matter is...Embracing yourself with Love all around and within you joins the Hearts of not just others, but the environment, land, and Nature in the Soul of one's true and unique individual being. Take precious time to Love ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING -- no matter how good or bad it may be, for.....
"The best gift ever is knowing you are going to spend the rest of your life with yourself, your Soul Mate, others, and the Earth around you...It's the Truth! And so many more happy days we will all live in Unity. Even if we do have many challenges in our lives, it's the 'getting through them together and not worrying how it all turns out' that makes our Lessons in life well-EARNED!!!"
)O( Indigenous Shamanic Winds
I begrudge them the time as though it were some tangible belonging of value they'd robbed me of, rather than mere minutes of thought.
In my red ceramic bowl:
1/3 cup steel cut oatmeal and a dash of salt
red plastic 1/3 cup with lightly scratched interior
aluminum handled
2 of water on the oats, poured from the old teakettle
banana sliced thin
while the microwave hums
brown sugar and canned milk - YUM!
Emotionally hung over, nature is my salve;
the calming effect of one flourishing plant in the garden;
the delicate white flowers glow as the sunlight hits them;
I am gratefully distracted, if only for a moment.
By the time I had on this fluffy robe over these fleecy pajamas, the astringent I'd dabbed on my nose and forehead still felt brisk, as though feeding as much off this night's cold air for as long as it could before (dying!) drying. I was wondering why it always feels cold air is also feeding off wet skin. All I want is to not be cold. ("It's okay now in that department.") Except the Department of Socks and Feet.
A dad and two young sons
digging out remains of fallen ash,
putting down roots together
Not quite a woman yet no longer a child. She moves like a muppet. Can you tell by looking she is touched by death too young? Can you tell her daddy has gone to heaven? A cloud of sadness dances with her. The wisdom in her eyes defies her silly youthfulness. Her voice is like an angel’s. She chooses just the right jewelry and clothes but neglects to brush her hair. She rages that her new teeth do not look perfect yet wears clothes too big or too small. What paves her path to happiness?
Listen. The post festivity quiet, a stillness unfolding into a new year.
Jsnuary 2 nd, 2012
In the mirror that was my grandmother's once the big marsh tree's thick bare branches wave in the wind against a clear blue cold sky - brown, blue, and piled on pleasant plumpness tower of bright white new shammed pillows that will crisply make my bed on this my father's birthday. The IPAD on my nightstand black against its clean white cord is freed and I write feeling him all around me, in and of everything, just as he always told me it would be.
Posted by Dr. Pearl Ketover Prilik (PKP) at 12:40 AM 0 comments
Labels: 1-2-12
Cold waves of wind brought out the squirrels to play among the streets, trees and us two legged folk.
taping off the parts I want to paint between and around is NOT easy though it makes painting easier.
And now I find myself, questioning, what, who, why? I have no answers, I only contemplate!
~FIRST LIGHTS~
Headlights slip past trees,
early morning travelers
as fireflys in field
busy about their day.
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/01/03/first-light/
© Hannah Gosselin and Metaphors and Smiles, 2011-12.
I gaze at the momentarily blue sky, into the ultra-violet infinity. Clouds, the only markers of now and then. A lone goose flaps frantically through the oblivious ether - reminding me of me.
On a distant hill,
chaparral painted gold
by the setting sun.
Sun and squelchiness
Birdsong from glistening twigs
Bracing New Year's walk.
Sunlight streaming in the landing window, perfectly highlighting the peaches-and-cream tiger cat who lies, sprawling, in the exact center of the sunpuddle.
A pigeon approaches my bird feeder - it's carefully wired to let only the little birds in. But the pigeon doesn't hesitate- he turns himself upside down and pries his beak in a crack to get a seed. OK, you win, I say begrudgingly But then a dove comes, sits on top and looks longingly at the seeds below. Finally,shaking her head in defeat, and with an agonized kind of sigh, she flies away, broken-hearted.
There are levels of bird brains??
My cat
purrs, yes
and makes these other sounds
not exactly meaows
something more unspellable
no name for it
and no way to onomatopize it
this is protection
for the cat
no witches
no wizards
are able to spell
the cat’s voca
bulary.
That is why
you so often see
a cat
willing to sit
on the stick of
the broom of
a witch.
http://offthepagepoetry.com/blog/
The starlings once again lay siege, plundering tiny berries from the old cedar tree.
white snow ~ shrouds a golden sun ~ a seeping darkness http://www.blipfoto.com/entry/1632651 #haiga #3lines #smallstone #2
teenagers
nearly noon
consciousness rising
stumbling down stairs
in order to direct Leif on
his travels to Skyrim.
Sweeping across rooves
The sheeting rain, howling wind:
Winter does drama.
White Christmas a week late,
no great feat for Buffalo.
Temperatures below twenty
with snow aplenty!
christmas packed in four boxes.
the tree as bare as it came.
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