Your prompt word this week is
ELEMENT/S
We often talk about the elements with reference to the weather and natural elements. It also means part of something – the elements of a good book, for example. Science also comes into it – chemical elements and we mustn’t forget their involvement in cooking – gas and electric elements. And, of course, there’s that wonderful phrase – being in your element. What does it mean to you?
Fact or fiction, prose or poetry, I would love to read your thoughts on this week’s prompt, but there’s no obligation to share your writing. Here is the work you shared on the last prompt STRIKE.
Strike while the iron’s hot… or before the workers go on strike, or when all ten pins are down… strike!!
.
“Strike a light!” he uttered, as she had a striking outfit, and was dressed to strike a pose. “Vogue!” (Which is Patagonian for ‘Strike!’)
as every striker knows.
.
Please strike that last comment from the records – it was neither struck by lightning, nor strictly true – starstruck as I often am, I am now struck for words.
strike –
with your sudden
slender thunder
jagged words
puncturing the air
corpse-like
yet alive and kicking
strike –
let the syllables
fracture my ears
where the absence
of noise
becomes music
earning new wings
strike –
and from the margins
I will rise
not trembling
but stronger
in the wake
of your sound
Strike and so obey
if the cause be right.
Seek and you shall find.
Let the way unwind
from the dark to light.
I have had two strikes of Breast Cancer, both of which have been documented here in my blog.
I know it’s the end of August, and next week will see us into September, but October is Breast Cancer Awareness month, and every year, I remind everyone, men and women, to check themselves for lumps and bumps that should not be there. It does not necessarily mean it’s cancer, but if it is, the sooner it’s detected the better your chances are of a full recovery.
“Strike!”
“Hey ump do you need glasses?”
“Careful, Eddie. I can toss you outta here.”
“Better than your injustice.”
“You are out of here.”
“Thanks dad.”
“Welcome son.”
Martha’s hand lashed out to strike her husband before she even thought. A flick, a slap, sometimes a closed fist, always followed by silence. Tom never raised his voice, never struck back. He would lower his head and slink away to what he perceived as a neutral corner of the house
To outsiders, Martha appeared charming. Her laughter carried through dinner parties, her hand clutched Tom’s arm in public. They saw a doting wife, a lucky husband. No one noticed how he flinched when she moved too quickly or how he lingered in the garage after work, reluctant to step inside his own home.
Each blow was wrapped in a justification: You’re too slow. You forgot again. You pissed me off. Late at night, in the hush of his bedroom — he and Martha slept in separate rooms because his snoring kept her up — he would trace the dark marks on his arms and whisper a truth that terrified him: this wasn’t love, and it wasn’t his fault.
One evening, as Martha’s hand lifted again, Tom caught her wrist. His grip was firm but trembling. Their eyes locked. For the first time, she looked uncertain. For the first time, he didn’t feel small.
Tom’s grip on Martha’s wrist lingered longer than he thought possible. His hand shook, but he didn’t let go. Her eyes widened, not in anger but in surprise, maybe fear. For once, she was the one frozen.
“I’m done,” he said, his voice breaking but steady enough. “No more.”
The words sounded strange in the air, as though someone else had spoken them. Martha jerked her arm back, her mouth curling into the familiar sneer. But he stood tall, shoulders squared, not shrinking into the wallpaper like before.
“You think you can talk to me like that?” she spat.
“Yes,” Tom answered, louder this time. His heart pounded, his palms were damp, yet a clarity he hadn’t felt in years coursed through him. “I’ve lived in fear of you, Martha, but that ends tonight. I won’t take it anymore. You strike me again, I’m walking out the door and I won’t be back.”
For a long moment, the room was still except for the ticking of the clock on the wall. Martha’s lips parted as though to reply, but no words came. Tom realized then that silence could be a powerful tool, especially when it was his.
My childhood was rough, as we were poor, and to make matters worse, my dad went on strike from his job every 2-3 years. We always knew when it was coming, as Mom would go to the grocery store and start stocking up on non-perishables a few months in advance.
It was always a rough time, with very little money, and my dad had to walk the strike line or lose out on the meager pay they offered.
He had no choice but to follow the union rules. I hate unions to this day.
Dimly lit distractions
When I’m feeling drain
You’re gone and have me shun
Message was in vain
When I’m feeling drain
Such a strike, such a blow
Climb and slide with strain
Stick to my line though
You’re gone and have me shun
Come rain, high water
You’re gone and my world’s none
Hazy as we were
Message was in vain
Scraps of memories
Lonely in the rain
Such a chill with the breeze
Moses’ Costly Strike
Strike cost him the Promised Land
who could blame Moses, really?
the people’s constant complaints
whining, wanting water right now!
fatigued, he let it get to him
frustrated, angry, lost his cool
and he struck the rock…water flowed–
but God had told him to “speak” to the rock
thereby reflecting the Lord’s holiness
and compassion, not His harshness…
Big Mistake ~
I’ve been there, Mo…so mad I couldn’t
think straight, forgot God’s directions
disobeyed…probably unintentionally
Israelites were driving you nuts
you needed a break, I know…
good news is, we’re truly repentant
God’s mercy and grace bring us
to His eternal Promised Land
where He reigns from The Throne ~
we’ll talk later, save me a seat
next to you at His table
we belong to Him
we’ll be okay ~
Positive Engagements
Last morning beach walk…heading home tomorrow.
Striking it rich with just a few things to add to my collection.
Another little shiny snail shell and its petrified ancestor.
Each could fit in the space of my thumb nail.
Last full day here with a plan to visit an Art museum.
Striking our ‘sights’ by experiencing some lovely visuals.
Another vacation soon comes to a close…
Each day was its own treasure to find and learn something new.
Last time, possibly to visit this location
Striking a balance of all the options yet to be…
As we are not really folks who soak up the sun
Nor are we shoppers or amusement park riders…
positive
my lucky strikes count
as blessings
The storm came sudden, fierce, and wild,
like a hungry beast with endless teeth.
It tore through silence, crushed the mild,
and left the earth in grief beneath.
The shadows whispered, dark and stark,
strike fear into my heart, they said.
But still I stumbled through the dark,
alive, though walking with the dead.
The ashes clung, the smoke did rise,
yet through the ruin, I could see—
a flicker small, a stubborn prize,
the ember of what’s left of me.
And though the night is long and deep,
and every breath a fragile art,
I learn the strength I swore to keep,
was buried waiting in my heart.
Strike a Pose
Hey, what are you looking at?
Yes, I’m a mannequin, a real live mann – e – quin. I’m real, and I see you.
Don’t believe me?
I used to be a real man, but I was down on my luck and looking for a job. They were hiring at this one place for a live statue, or mannequin, as you may call it.
Wonderful, I thought, getting a paycheck for just standing there for a few hours. So I applied, and got the job.
I had no problems the first few weeks, but then something weird happened. We had a power outage at the store. It was caused by a lightning strike, I think I heard them say.
But, when the power came back on, I was unable to move. I was frozen in place, and it was a bit embarrassing, being dressed in this outlandish steam punk outfit. People who used to glance my way on a normal day, would now stop and stare intently at me. And, I could do nothing about it. I couldn’t even speak. I could move my eyes, though, and I’d glare at them, hoping to cast an evil eye their way.
It’s been a week now, since the unthinkable happened. I’m still here, and there have been many doctors, scientists, and others who have come to try and fix me. I wish they’d hurry up with a cure.
Come on, come on, come on … I’m getting hungry, and my nose itches, but there’s no way to let them know. How much longer must this go on?
Match strike
to pile of wood
bonfire flares, bring me the
graham crackers, chocolate, marshmallows,
s’more time
The Muse’s Dance
What a glorious hot mess I am
A whirlwind of emotion
The verses swirl, they strike, they fall
But more than this
Above it all
My poetry speak of truths revealing
More than prose whose words concealing
Obscuring the harsh reality
Confounding the pragmatic mentality
I never worry if I will find the words
Or if they will come out a bit absurd
In rhyme I find my sanctuary
In flow I find my place
If you understand how this feels
Come and join the muses’ dance
“Unfair work hours!” “No vacation time!” “No pay increases!” “Too much sugar in the beans!” All valid complaints as the workers were on strike at the jellybean factory. “We want more flavors and more colors!” Even their children got involved, holding up their little crayon pictures of their favorite beans.
It’s us or them; the showdown’s coming.
I’m new to this game, adrenalin pumping.
Wobbling inside as we pile from the van,
supporting my colleagues as best I can.
I’ve practiced so hard not to look out of place.
Don’t want to look silly. Our side would lose face.
Up to the line now. It’s my turn to throw.
Draw my arm well back before letting go.
Straight down the alley, following through,
rolling, bowling, aiming true.
Ten pins fall for the final frame.
A perfect strike to win the game.
Pause Between
strike while the iron is hot
they used to say—
seize every flicker of chance,
for it may never come again,
nor burn with the same heat.
but what of the pause?
the breath before the leap?
the need to weigh
what lies beneath the flame?
now we are left
with a choice unspoken—
to grip the moment tight,
or let it linger,
unfold its mystery
in its own time.
The sky grew dark, a heavy gray,
The sun itself had run away.
A distant rumble, low and deep,
Woke the quiet world from sleep.
Then FLASH! A silver, winding line,
A strike so quick, a sudden sign.
Then BOOM! A mighty, rolling sound
That shook the trees and moved the ground
The rain came down, a pouring sheet,
Washing clean the dusty street.
Then quiet calmed, the storm went by,
A fresh, clean scent beneath the sky.
Looking In
I never remember my mother striking any of her children physically. There was only the one time when my two youngest sisters fought so long and hard over their woodland family animals and accessories, that mom jumped on one of the houses in a fit of anger. That was the end of the fighting and of the house.
My mother had a different way of disciplining her children. I was generally the receiver of the discipline as I was usually the ring leader of naughtiness like climbing up on top of the hen house and scaring all the chickens. The scaring was accidental as my mission was to scale the flat topped building and have a picnic up there, not to send the hens into fits.
When angered, Mom would lock me outside the house and I would be left to wander around our plot in disgrace. Usually, being outside was where I wanted to be, but being outside on your own was different from being outside with three live dolls to play with. I would wander around peering in the large windows and watching my three sisters having what appeared to be a wonderful time without me.
I particularly recall one afternoon, when my sisters had an indoor tea party with scones, raspberry jam, and tea served in Mom’s blue and yellow teacups. They didn’t save a single scone for me.
all alone
wandering garden
punishment
enough, Mom
no need to give sisters scones
with my favourite jam
Lilith
Lilith wasn’t exactly rolling in it, but she wasn’t hurting for it either. Gone were the days she had spent hungry and alone, in one furnished room after another, while her mother was perched on a bar stool somewhere, ‘interviewing’ yet another perspective ‘uncle’.
Much of her youth she had felt like a child even a mother couldn’t love. By the time she reached adolescents, those feelings of inadequacy had fermented into rage. She was angry at her mother for having all but abandoned her, and even angrier at the never-ending parade of ‘uncles’ that waltzed in and out of her life, taking what there was, of her mother’s love with them.
In her teens she learned to funnel that rage. To use the one weakness she found all of those ‘uncles’ had in common to strike back, to make them pay for the part she perceived they had played in robbing her of her mother’s love.
Today she lived in a luxurious penthouse apartment, bought and paid for with the monies of men very similar to all the ‘uncles’ she had seen come and go in her childhood. Men who would never know the contempt that drove her into their arms, as they couldn’t see past the few fleeting moments they spent in her bed.
By day, Lilith was grateful her early life had been an uphill path, as it made her success all that much sweeter. But each night, even the sweet smell of her own success was not enough to keep the memory of her own inadequacies from creeping into the empty bed beside her.
***
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