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Tag Archives: Theme
What can I do but follow? I’m an old dog now and they’re my home. Wherever they go, I go with them.
It’s been like this, since … Ceaselessly wandering, my humans. They have no choice, but that’s long forgotten, except for cellular memories, urging.
They call it many things, the restlessness. Career move. Downsizing. Looking for a better life. Continue reading
Every Friday writers worldwide gather round the virtual fireside of Rochelle Wisoff and share stories of 100 words, prompted by a common photograph, and exchange constructive criticism. You don’t have to write to read. Click on the blue frog at … Continue reading
His parents didn’t come to the wedding; their gift a garish orange dinner service – cheap fairground prize won long ago.
“Carnival glass is collectable these days,” Adi had said, generously, adding,“they’ll come round. Patience.” Continue reading
As my broken shoulder mends (and the rate is ‘amazing’ and ‘astonishing’ to my consultant and physio respectively) and I am able to do more and more with my left hand and arm. (I’m a leftie, so it’s quite important!) I’m bit by bit picking up my creative threads. Spiritually and mentally, there are some exciting developments brewing.
Nonetheless, I’ve been feeling down in the dumps about my creative hiatus. My hands fell this morning on a little book I have* of extracts from the love poems of Rumi, described on the cover as, “The great Sufi saint who embraced God through the path of love.” I opened it upon words which resonated strongly with my present state of spirit – and body. Continue reading
Every Friday authors worldwide gather around the virtual fireside of Rochelle Wisoff and share stories of 100 words, prompted by a common photograph, and exchange constructive criticism. Readers’ comments are also welcome. This week’s photo has been provided by Ted … Continue reading
They finished their cigarettes in silence, ground them underfoot and strolled off towards the car park. The stubs, still smoking, danced a cheery reel around their heels for a short while, uplifted by a merry breeze, then tumbled from the bridge into the water. Continue reading
The sun-bleached bunting rustles, brittle
as the bell of the abandoned village church.
Then, it recoiled rustling from the black-frocked
village tongues congregated to snip and snipe,
hang the flayed red tongues in honour
of the day of the saint. Continue reading
I jumped at the invective, glancing away from the dangling spaghetti of cables to the spaghetti of veins on the back of the hand that came gently down onto my shoulder. Continue reading
Dice was snickering at whatever he was skim-reading.
“Mornin’, Sgt. Hey – that photo somebody’s posting-in every day? Listen to this from the profiler,” he sneered.
“‘The strawberry represents love, also blood. Also symbolising The Virgin, it’s the holy blood of Christ. Strawberry flowers – white – … purity; …leaves – trifoliate – …Trinity. …glass of wine therefore represents The Eucharist, in which wine is tran…sub…st… ”
“Transubstantiated, sir.” Continue reading
“All the world’s a stage and men and women merely players upon it.”
The Hone Life word of the week is play, as in playfulness rather than stage play, but in letting this quote select me, I’m demonstrating playfulness in letting my right brain, intuition, serendipity, synchronicity, Higher Consciousness, whatever you want to call it, have dominion. I’m being playful in my contemplation of play. Continue reading