Day 19: January Mindful Writing Challenge

autumn coloursThe cliff juts. Its rocks resemble a strong jaw with pursed lips beneath an unruly quiff of spent buddleia blooms.

*

Pauline Masurel

We’re on the nineteenth day of the January Mindful Writing Challenge - please post your small stone in the comments below.

If you’re not already signed up, our 31 Days of Waking Up daily email package was designed to accompany you during this (or any) month of mindful writing. Keep writing!

Image: Attribution Some rights reserved by [Duncan]

Comments & replies

61 thoughts on “Day 19: January Mindful Writing Challenge

  1. Susan Sleepwriter

    The heat from the ground lifts the scent of cut grass. The sea-breeze laps in waves at my skin, with cicadas and voices from across the bay.

    Reply
  2. Brinda

    *******

    in the comfort of silence
    when all the voices are hushed
    to a stillness more than skin-deep

    the taste of ginger tea awakens
    the wild of the mild senses
    that have been triggered

    raw edges point the peaks
    that hinder the smooth
    dance of communion

    within the realms of spirit
    with new stories that want
    to birth upon the surface

    of awareness to make
    amends with the natural
    aroma of these earthly spices….

    ******

    Reply
  3. Daphne Radenhurst

    Drawing the curtains,
    Three stark neon lights
    Burn buttery bright.
    High above.
    In the deep blue sky,
    Hangs the silver disc
    Of the moon.

    Reply
  4. H. V. Lehtinen

    Acts and Thoughts
    Up from the bed
    (Such a quilted nestle)
    Out go the dogs
    (Barkbarkbarklemme at ‘em! Do they sense snow demons in the dawn dark?)
    Fill their breakfast bowls
    (Glazed pottery dishes smooth and shining receive crisp kibble and heated water)
    Heat the coffee water
    (Clear water hauled from a country spring last weekend, a six mile jaunt)
    Down to the basement
    (Lino ages lumpily. A sooty cobweb in a cranny.)
    Lift the metal handle
    (Smooth coils)
    Open the iron door
    (Should be rechristened A Portcullis)
    Stack in the wood
    (Birch sacrifice)
    See and smell smoke
    (Old fashioned, our dampers and drafts)
    See and hear the flames
    (They lick and tease the logs like puppies)
    Feel the wash of heat
    (Dry. Dry.)
    Close the cast-iron door
    (Three millimeter lift)
    Eye the damper
    (The perfect slant)
    Up into the kitchen
    (How many such uplifting journeys in a lifetime?)
    In come the dogs
    (A gang of twelve legs moving in furry hungry rapid precision)
    January
    (Fire now imprisoned, dancing away its life story)

    Reply
  5. Paul L. White

    Wondering, pondering…where in life are You?
    Could it be, possibly, Thou wilt love me too?
    *
    How I long, ’tis my song, for your sweet Arrive.
    Grasp my hand, golden band–let’s true love contrive!

    Reply
  6. Angela

    the blackbird plays in the tree next to the house
    tugging at the berries and flapping his wings
    sensible enough not to land on the fence – black cat watching and waiting

    Reply
  7. Nerissa

    Amongst winter-tipped couch grass
    Frost-veined remains crisped with cold,
    The ice-jewelled bones of hedgerow litter.

    Reply
  8. Sharon Black

    Warm croissants, a jar of blueberry jam,
    a mug of my favourite tea
    on a painted wooden tray, the Sundays
    folded on the bedside table
    ¬
    while outside the rain still falls,
    the river bursts its banks
    and the donkeys stand sodden
    by their wind-shut stable.

    Reply
  9. sue

    dark crisp air
    carries lilting melody
    from a penny whistle
    calling the “king of the faeries”
    but only the dogs
    set dance in reply.

    January 19, 2014

    Reply
  10. JulesPaige

    a tanka:
    be prepared
    *
    neglected spirits
    conjure their sighs, carrying
    their trinkets, they curl
    *
    bend back night caps seeking to
    twist with twine your nest of dreams

    ©JP/davh

    Reply
  11. larry p

    Napping on the couch’s edge
    is not without its problems.
    My right arm keeps falling
    off the edge and into the abyss.
    Holding hands over my stomach,
    my left hand becomes an anchor,
    and thus, I can again settle back
    to resume my search for oblivion.

    Reply
  12. Kathy Nguyen

    The desire to heal others is stronger than ever. Even now, I just don’t know how to get there to do it. On days like this, there are no words, no direction.

    Reply
  13. Elizabeth Burns

    The normally drab rusty-green creosote bushes
    suddenly sparkle in the afternoon sun
    as light hits their resinous leaves
    dusting them with diamonds.

    Reply
  14. Satya Robyn

    old cat sits upright on my lap and puts a paw around my arms so he can be closer to me. the purring doesn’t stop. I can feel the bones in his back.

    Reply
  15. julie daigle

    the steady rhythm of heartbeat and breath, center and ground, dip and pull, like paddle strokes on an early morning river, and then the delicious wickedness of a moment stolen for planting wild winter weeds in the heart of it all

    Reply
  16. Linda

    This morning’s dawn chorus: warbling magpies; shrieking Rainbow Lorikeets; laughing kookaburras; so much better than traffic noises in the city!

    Reply
  17. Carol A. Stephen

    Jan. 19, 2014

    “…all that is finished
    falls home to the ancient source.

    Above the change and loss,
    farther and freer,
    your singing continues..”—Rilke

    Nothing that we are
    lasts forever unchanged.

    In winter, the earth
    gathers its strength for
    new growth to come in spring.

    Even as our bodies age,
    we may find growth of spirit.
    We too long for April rainsong and the sun.

    –CAS

    Reply
  

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