Your writing prompt this week is
EDGE
This week’s prompt word came to mind after hearing an old song on the radio – Wham! and their ‘The Edge of Heaven’. The word can be defined as the ‘outside limit of an object, area, or surface’. But it has many other meanings, such as having superiority over something or someone. It’s also a movement as you can edge closer to someone or something. And we can think of it in terms of a feeling – when you’re uncomfortable and ‘on edge’ for some reason. What does this week’s prompt word 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 LEAVE/S.
Falling Leaves
The leaves fall gently to the ground.
There is no wind to rush around.
When next spring comes then fresh leaves soar
to sing a song of love once more.
Love Bomb
the pressure is high—
i can’t take it up a notch,
not even to the ceiling
where my margin of understanding
thins like air
in a room too full of silence.
i’ve been influenced
by a long-standing culture
of loving and forgiving—
even when it leaves
me disrespected,
even when it bruises
with the same hands
that once held me
like something holy.
over and over,
i’ve turned the other cheek,
offered open arms
to closed fists,
until numbness
felt like peace.
and yet—
here i am,
free-falling,
like autumn leaves
unaware of how to fall
or if i ever will
catch the bottom
before it catches me.
maybe this is the trap—
your love bomb
dressed as shelter,
a blast disguised as
what i’ve been taught
to call
home.
Fifty-two Autumns Ago
I grew up in the north and loved fall. The leaves would all change color and fall to the ground, I would rake them up into a big pile and run/jump into that pile for hours. I met my best friend because of those leaves. He was walking by our house and saw me and my pile of leaves and asked if he could jump into them too. That was 52 years ago and we became friends for life.
leave or go
yes or no
just so!
“This leaves me no choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you took out a loan you put your soul up for collateral. I need to collect.”
“But the guy said I could renegotiate.”
“Who was the guy?”
“Lucifer.”
“Ha ha ha.”
A Tissue of Truths:
A falling flutter of white
reminds me that I failed
to check the pockets
in the laundry pile.
I’m a child in Sunday best,
my mother cleaning my face
with a powder scented
lipstick-tinted handkerchief.
Not so long ago I’d find
gum wrappers and coins,
barrettes and special
sticks and stones,
but that was someone else’s laundry
and this is another chance
to notice the tissue of truths
love leaves behind
we are all just leaves
eventually we fall
simply nature’s way
Card Sharp
There once was a card sharp whose pet peeve
Was being asked by sore losers to leave
He acted quite offended
‘Til his standoff was ended
When an ace fell to the floor from up his sleeve
Three haibun on ‘Leave’
They couldn’t see eye to eye, had a few cross words
Crossing the threshold, perhaps never to return
A few weak text, does not make and apology
leave
there’s the door
good-bye
(Personal note:)
Too much electronics causes the elimination
Of face to face confrontation. And unreliable
Reading of true emotions.
~
Each tree has identifying bark, and moss grows on the north side.
So if you are lost (especially in a good book) – make sure you
Have a warm jacket…
leaves
trees, books
bark, jackets
Note: Moss is most likely to grow on the north side of
trees in the Northern Hemisphere because this side is
typically shadier and retains more moisture.
However, moss doesn’t grow exclusively on this side
and can be found on any side where it’s shady and damp,
such as on rocks or other surfaces.
In the Southern Hemisphere, moss is more commonly
found on the south side of trees for the same reasons.
~
Being directionally challenged, it is good to know
That the sun rises in the east and sets in the west…
On a compass West and East spell WE, up is north.
Left
opposite
of right
(Personal note:)
Getting lost helps to discover new roads.
That left turn could be just the right move.
But then again… what was left behind?
Leaving
Does he ask where you’re going, and why, and who with?
Does he tell you you’re wrong, but not why?
Does he say that you don’t cook as well as Mum did?
Choose your clothes, scorning those that you buy?
And does he talk over you? mess with your mind?
Does he patronise as though you’re dim?
Does he criticise your friends? Threaten sometimes?
… Leave him!
You can kid yourself as much as you like, but when you no longer love, or even like, the person you are living with, they have no respect for you, and you are no more than a cash cow, it’s time to leave.
Rall:
no autumn leaves
of red and gold
drifting by my window
hey ring a ding a ding
tis all pink blooms
and purple jacaranda trees
in spring time down under
Autumn Leave
Today I bade my love goodbye
to board a plane and then to fly
far away, which is my job
“Come back soon safely,” she did sob
“I’ll be back in three months’ time
when every Christmas bell will chime,
I’ll greet you with a diamond ring
to stop your tears and make you sing!”
Autumn’s Leaves
When I was a wee lad, I loved the autumn leaves. Our backyard had a lot of trees, and my father used to rake up the fallen leaves into a huge pile in the middle of our backyard. He’d let me invite my friends over and we’d run and jump into the pile of fallen leaves. And we’d have a blast.
As I grew older and became a teenager, the chore of raking up the leaves in our yard and bagging them shifted from my father to me, and that made me see autumn’s leaves in a whole new light. And not a positive one.
That said, between mowing neighbors’ lawns in the summer, raking up and bagging their leaves in the fall, and shoveling snow off their sidewalks and driveways in the winter, I was able to make enough money to make a dent in my college tuition. And that was a good thing,
As a young man in my twenties, I once again fell back in love with the autumn leaves. Not because I would jump into big piles of them or make money from raking and bagging them, but because I would drive girls for the weekend up to New Hampshire and Vermont for fun weekends of viewing the symphony of magnificent reds, yellows, and oranges of autumn’s leaves during the day. And for exquisite sex at night.
Those wild twenties turned into lovely family vacations with my wife and kids as we followed the peak color weeks across New England, admiring Mother Nature at her most resplendent.
And now, in my old age and living in Northern California, known more for its evergreens than for the bounty of fall colors from back East, I search far and wide for autumn’s colors, and sometimes, like yesterday, all I have to do is look in my own backyard to see the beauty of autumn’s leaves breaking through the sea of evergreen.
The Fallen
The drift of leaves
In the autumn wind
The slow cadence through
Space that leaves no
Susseration of words unsaid
Yet the sky is fuddled by
A strange beckoning
A quiet whisper
Trills around
On trembling lips
To the callous breeze
To the broken trust
Of the barren twig
Just a harmless wish
A plaintive murmur
A stifled cry
Lost in the woods
By the roaring brook
Across the wild
It took the clouds
In shivering grip
A quivering plea,
“Just let us be by the
Blissful nest where
The mother bird feeds
The wailing chicks
Around the blushing
Blooms let’s rest
Hug us tight
Don’t let us go”
But the wind pays no
Heed but blows
Into their souls
Till no more
Remains to unfold
That sudden drop
On the face of earth
T’was destined though
Yet somewhere beyond
A little bird croons
A ditty so old
Echoes in the ruins
“Let us live…Let us live
In unshattered peace
Hug us tight…Take a vow to
Let us live…Let us live
Till eternity…Let not us go”
Dawgy Treats
As the leaves turn gold and split from the branches of fall I turn to the last section of my own cookbook recipes looking for my favorite food to prepare for Saturday football. I see at least three that sound so yummy my tummy grumbles just looking at the ingredients. On January 19th of next year I will be making my final dish for football season and hope it will be a success. What is it you ask? Well, let me explain…
Pizza bones are always a tasty treat
Brisket is something I love to eat
Cheese and crackers sometimes work
And fresh perch is always a good perk
Coney dogs and fries sound good too
But the one thing I’d love to make for you
Is not etouffee but another Cajun dish
Boudin balls with my special dawgy twist
New York City
Golden eyes in misty air,
Street lamps watch the city awake.
October breathes, a chilly sigh,
As darkness starts to gently break.
Leaves crunch softly underfoot,
The sky, a pale and watery blue.
The lamps still glow in Central Park
Await the coming day anew.
They stand like sentinels of night,
Their duty almost at an end.
Soon the sun will paint the scene,
And the lamplight will transcend.
I, the Leaf: A Meditation on Departure
I am a leaf, once green, now gold, and slowly learning the art of leaving. I began as a tender whisper on the branch, still moist with the memory of spring. Light filled me then, and I thought it would never end. The tree felt eternal, its roots singing songs of the underworld while its crown talked to clouds. I believed I was part of “forever”.
But “forever”, I’ve come to realize, is only the name we give to what we’re not ready to lose. Time is a gentle vandal; it doesn’t shatter, it softens. My green turned to burnished copper; my edges curled inward, a slow surrender. The other leaves and I exchanged glances in the wind, we knew what was coming, though none of us spoke it aloud.
When the first chill moved through us, I asked the tree if it feared our parting. The bark hummed back, “Everything that stays long enough must learn to leave, and everything that leaves eventually returns.” It wasn’t comfort, but it was truth.
The day I let go, I didn’t fall, I floated, carried by invisible hands I had never trusted before. The air, the same one that used to rattle me in storms, became soft, almost maternal. I saw the tree shrinking beneath me, and for the first time, I saw how vast the world was without roots to hold me back. Leaving wasn’t loss, it was expansion.
I rest among others like me, our colors fading into the earth that awaits us. We talk in silence about what we’ve become, fragments of the past, food for the future. Soon I’ll return to the soil, feed the roots that once held me, and rise again as something new.
Before I could join the soil, a small hand found me, a little girl, eyes bright with wonder, lifted me gently from the ground. She slipped me between the pages of her favorite book, pressing me flat inside a quiet world of words. Now I rest in stories, keeping her place as she returns each night, and though I no longer breathe the wind, I travel with her through the turning of each page.
In this cycle, I see the secret all living things spend their lives avoiding…to hold is to delay, to let go is to become. The tree taught me that growth is not in clinging to the branch, but in knowing when the wind is right to release.
So I leave, not with grief, but with gratitude. I was light, I was color, I was shelter. Now I am earth, yet for a while, I linger between pages, keeping someone else’s story safe. Even in stillness, I am part of the telling. In the end, nothing truly leaves; it only changes its way of staying.
Sun’s Psalm
Autumn’s hues
chanting the sun’s psalm
through the leaves
in the wind
yearningly keen to absorb
faith from the shadows
Brown Snake Eagle in a Tree
bone-like fingers spread
in earnest supplication
acknowledging power
of feathered predator
rising out of the leaves
a commanding king
beware all snakes
whether harmless or
venomous; large or small
this king is indiscriminate
views each and all as prey
biting and spitting
quite irrelevant
from boomslang to
adult black mambas
measuring up to 2.8 metres
in spectacular length
none are spared
this superb hunter’s
vicious talons and
ferocious beak which
decapitates its quarry
swiftly and mercilessly
before decimating the body
consuming its meal
in delicious, large chunks
Leave Me Alone
Markie knelt among the boxes, her fingers brushing lovingly over Kammie’s old baby clothes, her own high school yearbooks, invoices for things she no longer remembered.
Then she saw it- a small blue diary, spine cracked, corners worn soft. She opened it carefully, skimming a few pages until the words she was looking for rose up to meet her.
March 14th
I keep waiting for the day I’ll fit somewhere. I just feel like no one understands how hard it is to be me. To not be beautiful. To not be popular. To not be good at anything! Sometimes I wonder why I was even born if I was just going to end up so miserable. Ugh! I just wish everyone would leave me alone!!!
Her throat tightened. She sat with the ache of her words for a moment, then rose and carried the diary downstairs.
At her daughter’s door- for the third time today- Markie paused. Music throbbed through the wood, low and sad. She knocked softly.
“Sweetheart? Can we talk?”
The reply came quick and sharp, raw with hurt. “What part of leave me alone do you not understand?”
Marla stood there a heartbeat longer, then crouched and slid the diary under the door.
“Maybe this will help,” she whispered.
***
Esther Chilton 
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