The dust of ages
covers the petrified bones
in the sepulchre.
Memories of ancestors,
unknown but not forgotten.
written for https://colleenchesebro.com/2018/10/30/colleens-weekly-tanka-tuesday-poetry-challenge-no-108-afraid-grave-synonymsonly/
Category Archives: History
Colleen’s Weekly #Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge No. 108, “Afraid & Grave,” #SynonymsOnly
Filed under As you read it, From the heart, History, Inspired emotion, Self compositions, Tanka
Sue Vincent’s wonderful Thursday photo prompt #Writephoto #Haibun
Beautiful bower,
Stained marble stones hide bleached bones.
A place of sadness.
From his raised throne at the head of the hall, the Compte LaReine turned to his master chevalier.
“I’ll see them now, my three guests.”
The heavy oak doors at the end of the hall swung back and three white robed knights were invited into the long, wood-panelled hall. They had surrendered their swords and shields, distinctively marked with the red long-halted cross.
The three approached the dais and bowed low before the Count. Dubois, their spokesman started to introduce himself and his companions but was rudely interrupted by a loud, bellowing voice demanding the reason for their apparent desertion from the Templar order.
Unbeknown to them the Count was dismayed that they had not been willing to divulge the whereabouts of the legendary famed Templar treasure. He knew that the Order had lost favour and wished to curry favour with King Phillip. After secret negotiations he had agreed that the three, accused of heresy, although falsely, would be confined for two days and without trial, put to death as ordered by the King.
“Take them below,” he thundered and roughly, without ceremony, they were lead away. Two days later they were unceremoniously put to death and their bodies taken and placed in a shallow grave in the forest to be forgotten.
So they remained for the next two centuries until the Pope was persuaded to grant a pardon to all the French Templars and throughout the country, the bodies were exhumed where known and re-interred beneath marker stones in the territories where they were once revered for their piety and fighting prowess.
These stones remain a place of pilgrimage, although more often a destination for treasure hunters and the curious.
100 Word Wednesday: Week 94 #100WW
It was the first day of our guided tour. Myself and the other thirty passengers exited the luxury coach as we arrived at the forbidding wire mesh gates. I assumed that like me, all were on a personal pilgrimage.
i looked around at my fellow travellers, there was no look of expectant excitement on any of the faces. On the journey the atmosphere was subdued as everyone was visiting to bring closure to stories of their family’s fate.
Photography was allowed so I sent my drone up, instantly tears formed as it picked out the child’s toy on the roof.
Ronovan writes #Haiku 224
Art of the sailor,
with only stars and compass
the world made smaller.
Filed under Factual, From the heart, Haiku, History, Old knowledge, Self compositions
RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #223 Rise&Fall
As the waters rise.
the civilisations fall
fables of the Flood
.
T
Filed under As you read it, Factual, faith, Haiku, History, Inspired by fable, nature inspired, Old knowledge, Self compositions
RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #222 Breath&Unite
Do not waste your breath
asking peoples to unite
fear and conquest works
Filed under As you read it, Haiku, History, Self compositions
Sue Vincent’s #Thursday photo prompt: Pillars #writephoto, Pyroplastic surge
It was frustrating. For two days we had been sitting down in the hot, humid cellar. Our wine was warm, our food was cold. At least we could breathe down here, unlike in the street above. The choking fumes clogged our nostrils, the tiny wind-blown cinders got into our throats. Everyone was coughing and the stench was unbearable.
From what they said it seemed to be getting worse outside. Last night only a few of us had come down but today more and more people started arriving. Most had not brought anything down with them in their panic. They were just concerned with getting away from the ash cloud that sat like a dragon atop the hill. The very ground had started to groan and shudder as if all the denizens of the underworld were on the move.
My father had told us that we need not worry as this had happened many times before.He stayed in the villa thinking that it would soon pass but the Gods appeared to be really angry this time. No-one was sure how to placate them. Even the priests from the temple had decided to join us.
As the daylight, what there was of it, due to the sun having been smothered by the dark cloud, began to fade for the second day we heard a strange noise. It was like a low moaning and it seemed to be getting louder.
I shouted for everyone to be quiet and as our babble subsided we realised that the sound was coming from a great wind that was flowing through the passageways. Some of the women started to wail and before long both men and women started to sob as we realised something terrible was about to happen. Strangely there was no panic and I could hear my companions starting incantations. Before long even the chanting ceased.
Wrapping my cloak around my shoulders \I took my wife and daughter in my arms. We huddled against the wall and the stifling air grew steadily hotter. I can write no more. I will sleep and hopefully return to my beloved Pompeii home in the morning.
Filed under As you read it, Factual, Flash fiction, History, Self compositions, Temperatures rising
Sue Vincent’s #write photo, part the second
Atop the grassy mountain
stands a stark grey silent ruin
in clearer air black ravens soar
high above the mighty tor
below, the marshy vale sits
in a sea of swirling mist
clammy moss-lined battlements,
leaning, long forgotten remnants
no bright, wind-blown flags unfurling
beating drums or trumpets sounding
gone the soldiers, all their followers,
the tourney ring bedecked with flowers,
trapped in the stones just memories
fading over long centuries
Filed under Alternative history, History, Self compositions
Ronovan writes #Weekly Haiku #218
The steam underground
built using cut and cover
London pioneers
Filed under Factual, Haiku, History, Self compositions
Sue Vincent’s Thursday prompt #Writephoto The gleaming spires
After a walk of about thirty-five minutes we came to a clearing before the trees lost their erratic spacing and stretched out before us on either side of what appeared to be a green lane. My first thought was that it must have been an old Roman road as it looked so straight but Gerry told me that it was probably far older than that. It was one of Alfred Watkin’s possible ley lines. Probably the straighest one that could be traced on the ground as well as on the map. I realised that by looking back over the way we had come I would probably have been able to see the trilithon we had been admiring earlier that morning. I was curious as to what the next point may be on the line. The answer was the old Hemingford Grey church which was just visible at the end of the avenue, especially if I used his binoculars. I took them from his hand and sure enough in the distance was the tall, grey spire just visible on the horizon. The sun appeared to be shining brightly over there, glinting off what was probably a weather-vane or perhaps a lightning conductor. Even with the glasses it was too far to make out. Gerald then turned and told me that before the war the church tower was quite awe-inspiring but sadly a spitfire pilot had come to grief at the very spot. Curious as to the story I pressed him to tell me more. I knew that this part of Cambridgeshire had many airfields during the war and there were a lot of pilot training facilities. It transpired that after one sortie a young pilot on only his second mission had been returning to his base having only one engine serviceable. Being inexperienced and not inured to the trials of war he was still quite headstrong and was certain that he could make it back to his base only twelve miles further on. The aircrew’s usual landmark for return was the spire of the church but sadly this time his second engine failed as he was passing the spire at low altitude ready to turn for home. With an injury to one arm he was unable to slide the cockpit canopy back and eject. Through sheer bad luck the plane spiralled down with him still inside, demolishing the whole spire as he plummeted to the ground and his death in the ensuing blaze. In memory of this event the authorities had left the spire un-repaired leaving it as a rather lower square tower. But to me that was impossble for had I not just seen the spire through the binoculars. I raised them to my eyes again and this time I could see only the flat crenellated tower as described. This left me in quite a severe state as I knew that earlier I had seen the church as it was more than sixty years previously. A chill came over me probably brought on by the thought of that poor airman but also because I was worried that this ley line might have some more curious tricks up it’s sleeve.
Based on the true story of hemingford church
Filed under Factual, Flash fiction, History, Old knowledge, Self compositions
When the pen takes control. 