Monthly Archives: Feb 2018

Colleen’s #weekly poetry challenge #73 #Tanka


Perpetual scenes

The trail is buried
beneath the iron hard snow
through the pine forest
with stamina and instinct
the herd will make their way home




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Ronovan writes #190 #poetry prompt #Haiku

She liked to look nice

they said that she was a tart

people are so sweet

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Thursday photo prompt – Dusk #writephoto


Frankie turned to his father and in a low voice that reflected both their moods.

“It’s been a great day  out  in the boat Dad, but it’s starting to  get a bit dark, I think, Mum will be waiting. ”

“She’ll be fine, I’m sorry son, I don’t think I’ve ever had such a blank day, we didn’t even get the bait for the real fishing,” his father replied, trying to disguise his disappointment.

They started to reel in the lines with their unbaited hooks, each silver hook shining silver in it’s individual cape of brightly coloured feathers.

With a wry smile John started the small Seagull outboard and turning towards the harbour lights that were just beginning to glow he turned to his son and said. “You’d better just look up at the clouds for those are the only mackerel we’re going to see today.”

Laughing at his poor attempt at a joke, he twisted his wrist and engine whirring at full throttle, they set off for the harbour and home.



Filed under Flash fiction, Self compositions, Whimsical

Colleen’s Weekly #Poetry Challenge, No. 72: Breakthrough & Movement, #SynonymsOnly, #Haibun


Though the talks had stalled both sides of the table were eager to get a resolution. It was a tense situation but with use of common man to man language albeit in foreign tongues, the impasse was broken and there was seen to be leeway on both sides. Thus the deal was reached limiting the production of weapons of mass destruction.

Over polished tables

old enemies scowl and stare

settled with one smile


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Ronovan writes #189 #Haiku. Zen and noise

When practising Zen

the only noise I could hear

was colliding clouds


Filed under Haiku, Whimsical

homage to denizens of the dark


spirit of the night

sunspended on the dark skies’

invisible strands

though remembered for wisdom

it cannot dim your beauty


(photo courtesy of Pixabay)

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Sue Vincent’s #Write photo Sanctuary


“Hey, look at this, wow the sound will be great in here, just like St. Paul’s, you know the whispering gallery,” Jane the first violin exclaimed, the nervous excitement lending a sharpness to her voice that I had never heard before. We were all excited though, just beginning to make a name as an occasional string quartet and out of the blue an invitation from the bursar at St. Danae’s girls college. Although we had honed our collected skills on intimate evenings of chamber music in some of the swankiest  little cocktail bars this was big league. By the way I’m second violin, Allan is viola and Suzanne is cello. Jane is our leader in more ways than one.

We weren’t due to perform for another eight hours but as soon as our hosts had shown us the venue we knew that we had to get in and start warming  up. What an opportunity. Trouble was we had to lug our instruments from the van, through the tradesman’s entrance at the side of the stables and down through the gardens. At least it wasn’t an uphill pergola or whatever they’re called.

Passing between the columns  we entered a round dark-brown oak wainscoted chamber. There were a handful of upholstered high-backed chairs on one side and four wooden chairs sitting separately to one side. We assumed these to be ours. With our mouths open in wonder we must have looked like a group of schoolchildren meeting J K Rowling or her creation Harry Potter.

“Let’s give it a go.” Jane enthused, breaking the spell.  We laid our cases to one side and almost in a subdued manner extracted our instruments. With our music stands in front of the chairs it would have looked to anyone coming through the door as though we were playing to an empty hall.

We had decided on a mainly Bach evening so struck up for practise,”The art of fugue,” generally one of his most popular. We wanted to know the musical quality of the dome high above our heads. After a few bars I thought I could hear someone humming along but we were the only ones there and none of my companions would hum and play at the  same time. “Stop, stop a minute,” I said holding my bow in the air, “What is that strange noise, can any  of you hear it?” They all sheepishly nodded their heads, each admitting that they had thought it was one of us but not sure from which of us the sound was emanating. Before we could resume the humming started to get louder, increasing in volume and frequency. It sounded like the wind passing around the doorframe but it was copying the tune we had just been playing.   “It doesn’t do that in St. Pauls,” Suzanne whispered. Allan agreed stating that he was going to have a look round.

“But, there’s nothing to look  round,”I argued,”just bare wooden walls and a few plaster carvings on the ceiling.” I hadn’t taken any notice of the carvings when we entered but looking up we could see that the immaculately carved. figures were cherubs. All had instruments much as ours  forming a quartet and they surrounded a figure of a woman. She was wearing a long evening dress and with her hands clasped in front of her breast in typical singing pose. In our heightened state of mind we all agreed  that perhaps this was not the time to continue practising  until we had spoken to the Bursar and see if there was anything he could tell us about the chamber, perhaps even if it had a reputation for eerie events or characters.


Filed under As you read it, Flash fiction, Self compositions




the reputation

afforded the great white shark

inhibits fondness

in the minds of the bathers

danger exaggerated


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RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #188 Quick&Slip

A slip of the tongue

cut my lover to the quick

never forgotten



Filed under From the heart, Haiku, Self compositions

Sue Vincent’s #write photo.


Many people have admired the stone pillar at the side of the lane that leads to the medeival church of San Marco in Firsti but but it is only the locals who feel they know the true builders and the reason for it’s curious structure. I will tell you the story that I was told when I was just a boy.

Cardinal Cadenza smiled but it was a cold, humourless expression of his sadistic nature. Turning to the two black-robed, cringing priests he asked them to confirm that the nun Sister Dometia had really confessed to the heresy that appeared to afflict so many of the order known as the. “Poor Clares.” They showed him the scrap of parchment and pointed out the scrawl which was purported to be Sister Dometia’s mark. “That is all I need,” he thought. Pressing his fingers to his lips he thought for a moment and then the decision was made. He had been toying with a new punishment for heretics and this would be the ideal opportunity for him to show these heathen that the work of our Lord was just and transgressors could be shown mercy if they turned from their ways and repented their sins. He ordered the two priests to take the prisoner to the lower cell where the stonemason would be waiting for her. The priests left and descended to the lower dungeon where they found Sister Dometia kneeling in prayer in the corner of her cell. Clad only in a woollen blanket they led her down two flights of steps to the room where they saw the mason and his team waiting.  They stood around a wooden coffin  and stripping the nun naked they told her to lie down in the coffin.  All were impressed that even though she knew her probable fate Sister Dometia maintained her vow of silence and stoically lay on her back, arms folded across her breast, in the coffin. The masons then started to trowel cement into the coffin until only her face was showing. When the coffin was filled with the cold, hard, liquid stone the men all left her in this nightmare situation. In the morning when they returned the cement had set and there only remained a corpse in the coffin. They smashed the wood and stood the pillar upright with the nun’s dead face set in a rictus smile looking out. The pllar was then placed at the entrance to the church as a warning to all.


Filed under Alternative history, Flash fiction, Inspired by fable, Self compositions, Whimsical