Category Archives: Old knowledge

Weekend Writing Prompt #122 – Museum

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On a visit to the local museum of antiquities today I passed by a glass casket and I heard the figure inside sing,

For me no stone at head or feet,
Buried ‘neath the sodden peat,
Full three times I died, at the hands
of former dwellers in this land,
messenger to the gods my fate,
my kinsmen’s problems to relate
our hunting failures, weather woes
humiliation by our foes,
my message to our Gods was clear
but they pretended not to hear,
With wrists behind me tightly bound,
A cord around my neck was wound,
a rock against my temple dashed
then with a knife, throat crudely slashed
my patriotic chore now done
in Eden’s glade my spirit runs,
though from the earth my body raised
my final bed a tomb full-glazed,
and as I lie in endless slumber
my name forgotten, now just a number.

 

 

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Filed under As you read it, History, Inspired by fable, Old knowledge, Otherworldly, Self compositions, Stirring the memories

Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille, September 4th 2019, Holy Isle or Holy Island

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In humble awe, we

gaze upon the sacred stones,

where Saints found solace.

 

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Filed under As you read it, Christian, Factual, Haiku, History, Inspired by fable, Old knowledge, On the lines of romance, Self compositions

COLLEEN’S 2019 WEEKLY #TANKA TUESDAY #POETRY CHALLENGE NO. 142 #SYNONYMS #Cinquain “A vessel gains her reputation ,”

1FC18AC1-FC35-4973-A8CF-18EEC7FFD143Fighting

the unruly  waves

will reveal the measure

of the craft and her persona

is forged.

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Sky writing #Tanka #Weatherwatchers #Cloudspotting

Pink flanked mackerel

in pursuit of silver shoals

across turquoise seas,

messages that all can read

etched above in Babel’s tongues.

 

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Thursday photo prompt: What lies Within #writephoto ~Of dreams and death

 

dolmen

A place to rest, asleep yet not,

while others come to gaze

and wonder, in their reverie

proud fathers calling, deep

from within these hollow hills

they lie serene beneath this

sedentary chamber.

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Celtic knot #Tanka

In spiral circles

no leader, no followers

all remain equal,

tracing each line with  finger

connection of the senses

 

 

 

 

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Filed under Alternative history, As you read it, Factual, Old knowledge, Self compositions, Tanka

First Line Friday: July 19th, 2019

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Picture from Bob Williams, Arx Cynuit

 They congregated up in the hills, far away from judging eyes.  This would be the last time that any of these people would see these Northern barbarians. Fight or die Cobanorum had said and they would follow this exhortation to the end. Far below  they could see the torches zigzagging up the heather-clad slope. The Norsemen had beached their boats at sunset and after making their usual offerings to their ineffective Gods had decided the auspices were right for an assault on the lonely village.

Toothless old men, young boys, women with babies at the breast, young girl, all were assembled at the call to repel this parasitic invader. Those who would take their women and children, mock their Christ, their priests, and without compassion, maim, disfigure and take the life of their brave fighting men.

Their weapons were the tools of the field but they had one advantage, they were fighting for their lives, their homes, all that was held dear. Death had no meaning, for life would never be the same if they were defeated. In their favour was the gift nature had bestowed upon them, the sheer sea cliff, the stone, turf-clad walls, built to protect them from this predicted onslaught. All they had to rely on was the knowledge and belief that their courage would be as strong as the mighty earthen banks built over time with the strength of theirs and their ancestor’s own arms.

The result of their struggle is well known and I am happy to tell you of their victory. Thus was the legend born we know as the battle of Arx Cynuit, the last attempt by the accursed Danes to subdue this island race.

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Filed under As you read it, Christian, Factual, From the heart, History, Inspired by fable, Old knowledge, Self compositions, Short story

Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt: Span #writephoto

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It was a long walk but it was worth it. I had followed the old drover’s road from the beach at Porlock Weir. In times past the only way that the necessities of life could be carried to the outlying small settlements on the moor was either by pack-horse or pulled on sledges, called truckles. Their way had for centuries been blocked by a fast-flowing stream which had it’s birth on the high moor till it finally plunged into the sea at Becky falls. A total length of over forty miles as the crow flies but much further with all the twists and turns as it followed the contours of the land. This old bridge was the only crossing point. Still standing after probably hundreds of years but virtually disused; having outlasted it’s reason for being, now only serving as a mystery to any hiker who happened to come upon it in their travels.

Surrounded by dappled sunlight, I decided to rest, breathe in the cool air and enjoy the idyllic scene. I stretched out, my back propped against my rucksack on the large granite rock which formed a firm foundation for the little archway, like the roof support of some parish church nave. The only sound was of the rushing stream, each ripple and wavelet jostling it’s neighbour in the race to pass through the  narrow channel. In my drowsy state I imagined I heard the sound of whinnying, snorting and shouting. The use of the whip being unnecessary as the proud little Exmoor ponies would have known the direction they were heading and the path they needed to take. Back up to their homeland to discharge the sand for the farmers to mix in with with their cloying, damp, peaty soil from which to try and wrest a few reluctant crops.

The names of those who built this stout bridge are long forgotten but the moss-lined, grass-topped, faced stones remain as testimony to their skill as they helped others to carve a life from the inhospitable region they were proud to call their home.

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Filed under Alternative history, Flash fiction, History, Inspired by fable, Old knowledge, On the lines of romance, Self compositions

Sammiscribbles Weekend Writing Prompt #111

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Brother Alphonso started to feel rather pleased with himself. Although it was considered a violation of the rules of the Order, a form of vanity. He found it very hard not to let a smile show on his face, just a slight upturn of the lips. He smoothed the parchment and prepared his writing tool ready to transcribe the last two lines. He had been working on the Ogham script for fourteen months. Now he was the first and only person able to read the legends as they were written. Sadly his excitement at the translation proved too much for his elderly body as he collapsed to the floor having suffered  a fatal heart attack.

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Filed under Alternative history, As you read it, faith, Flash fiction, No offence intended, Old knowledge, Self compositions

Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille, June 19th 2019, summer solstice

summer-solstice

The portal opens

released, golden dawn is freed

her bounty granted

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Filed under As you read it, faith, Haiku, nature inspired, Old knowledge, Seasons, Self compositions