Esther Chilton

Your writing prompt this week is

RED

I thought I’d add a splash of colour to your week. What comes to mind when you think of the word ‘red’? Seeing red? A dozen red roses? Blood? Red wine? Going red and feeling embarrassed? Red hair? I’d love to know what this week’s prompt word means 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 SNOW.

Help From Heaven:

I Love Snow: I Don’t Want to Drive in it!

I loved to be sitting near the great big front window,

Watching the snow fall and covering the gates and trees.

There was a peacefulness in it that healed my soul,

But I didn’t think of having to drive in it gleefully.

I knew that we had to go to work the next day in the snow,

So, I was empathetic to those who dreaded the morning ride.

It wasn’t so much dealing with the usual bad manners,

It was when I tried to brake, the car would continue to slide.

I perceived that I wasn’t alone in my fear of the other cars.

I could read in their faces that they were as scared as me.

When I would tally the number of cars in the ditches,

I knew that driving as slowly as responsibly was the key.   

Sillyfrog’s Blog:

A Divine Hush

I could not do well without snow.
A hush … a pause… a notice
Of my soul’s requirement for rest and introspection
Provided by its blanket of pure white enchantment
As evidence of Nature’s divinity.

Frank Hubeny:

White Snow

Ah! I know on white days there is snow.
It is bright in the light. I will go
out to play in the stuff
till enough is enough,
go inside where I’ll hide from the snow.

Kim Smyth:

I’m like you I guess, snow just makes so much of a mess! I like to watch from inside the house. Don’t ask me to go outside, I’m a big baby when it comes to cold!

Michnavs:

Snow Dreams and Ice Cream

ice cream for the indulgent,
ice scramble for the crowd,
and ice candy pops
when you’re keeping it light.
at least that’s how we get a taste of snow.
the tropics don’t know winter,
no snowflakes at our doorstep,
but we’ve got every snow-inspired sweet
chillin’ in our kitchen fridge.

Utahan15:

not to know snow

just so

as was in days of old

Ruth Blogs Here:

Aftermath

As I trudge through soft brown muddy slush
Slippy underfoot, try not to rush
All that pristine white snow
I would rather forgo
To avoid such a messy wet mush

Wilf Leahy:

now flakes all around in the air and on the ground,
Wonderful to see the children run around,
Its full of fun for everyone,
Snow ball fights, snowman to, sledge down a hill,
Then hot drinks or soup for the kiddies fill.

Rohini:

A Thousand Ways to be Gentle

I arrive without footsteps.
No knock, no announcement,
only a quiet unlearning
of how the world thought it had to be.

I fall the way thoughts do
when the mind finally loosens.
I rest on rooftops, on shoulders,
on old arguments the ground
has been holding for years.

People look up, always surprised,
as if beauty must be scheduled.
Children open their palms to me,
trusting without instructions.
Adults watch from behind glass,
measuring minutes, inconvenience, consequence.

I stay.

I learn the language of shapes.
I memorize branches, street curves,
the soft commas between breaths.
Edges relax. Fences lose their temper.
Scars forget how sharp they were.
The city lowers its voice.
Even noise learns how to listen.

For a while, everyone agrees
to walk gently,
as if the world itself were breakable.

And from me, wonders multiply.

I scatter into snowflakes,
no two agreeing on how to be beautiful.
I become snowmen,
borrowed bodies of laughter
smiling bravely into borrowed time.

I tap softly beneath the soil
until snowdrops answer,
small white bells daring winter to hear them.
I lift a snowy owl into the air,
a thought made of feathers,
gliding between night and knowing.

I am play.
I am pause.
I am the courage it takes
to bloom in the cold.

But I am not meant to stay the same.

I grow heavier.
I forget my lightness.
I turn into sleet,
my doubts made visible.
I slip where I once soothed.
I remind them
that even gentleness can become difficult
when clung to,
that grace, held too tightly,
turns into weight.

Then the sun notices me.

It touches me without demand.
Light passes through,
and suddenly I am not just white,
I am blue and gold and rose,
a thousand hidden colors
waiting for warmth to speak.

People stop again.
Not because they planned to,
but because wonder
interrupts them.

And so, I let go.

I loosen into puddles, into mirrors.
I carry pieces of sky
into the streets.
Some walk over me.
Some through me.
Some pause, long enough
to watch themselves ripple and change.

I am no longer admired,
but I am still useful.
I move things forward.
I make room.

By evening, I am almost gone.
But something in them remains.

They walk a little slower.
They listen a little deeper.
They remember, without knowing how,
that beauty can arrive unannounced,
that change is not betrayal,
and that what disappears
does not vanish without teaching.

I was snow.
I stayed.
I became light.
And then, gently,
I showed them how to melt
without losing
who they were.

Rall:

it is so lovely
watching christmas snow movies
sipping cool drinks
with the air conditioning on
in high summer

Lisa A Paul:

All the Weather

I complain about cold
and the ice and the snow,
but winter here is winter,
cold is all that it knows.
I’ve lived in sunny climes
with some warm Christmas days,
but they just felt so wrong
in so many ways.
I moved back to the corn belt
and I love the four seasons,
they keep life exciting
even while we are freezing.
There’s a richness to change,
a beauty only seasons bestow,
when you have all the weather
and a midwest Christmas with snow.

Mark Fraidenburg:

The heavens breathe a hush – soft flakes descend,
A whispered psalm the silent fields defend;
Earth veils her scars beneath their tender glow,
And man beholds his soul made pure in snow.

No trumpet sounds; no herald breaks the peace,
Yet every branch proclaims the heart’s release.
The weary mind, long bound by mortal care,
Finds truth and solace drifting through the air.

Each crystal speaks of order, calm, and grace,
The mirrored spark of God in time and space;
So fleeting bright, yet infinite in scheme,
The frozen breath of Nature’s boundless dream.

O pilgrim heart, stand still and humbly know
The world reborn within the falling snow.
Cast off your burdens; let your spirit rise,
There dwells one light in earth, and sea, and skies

Marsha Ingrao:

Gentle and silent

Pristine velvet flakes of snow

sparkling on lashes

The Bag Lady:

There’s more haters that I know

Who detest falling snow

They ski, snowboard and use it for fun

But asked if they like it? The answer is “some”.

If I met Mother Nature I’d try to thank it

Personally I love the soft white blanket

Living in a windy dry climate here

It’s rare to see any snow to cheer

“Once in a blue moon”, as my mom used to say

We are blessed with white flakes coming our way

It doesn’t last, and the wind blows it away!

John W. Howell:

I want you to know that at my age the only snow I want is in a cone.

Pensitivity101:

Yes, we have had the white stuff. It arrived Saturday and is now almost gone… just in time for a yellow weather warning for a new storm to hit us in the next couple of days.

We didn’t make a snowman this time, but our friends down the road did, two cute little figures on their front lawn.

I’ve had to drive in it and have to confess the roads had been treated, so once off our estate it wasn’t too bad. I much prefer to stay in and take photos through the window.

Maya’s had some fun though and not fazed by it at all.

Richmond Road:

I’m trying to keep it all together
In this crazy winter weather
Where if it rains it always pours
What’s the matter? What’s the cause?
If it blows it always snows
What’s the reason? No one knows
Fingers stiff, they feel like claws.
Shut the windows. Slam the doors
My toes! My toes! Already froze
Ice is forming on my nose
Which, with lies, just grows
And grows.

‘Cause here it is not cold at all
We have Autumn. Don’t have Fall
So Summer now (it’s Winter, not)
It’s not cold, it’s bloody hot
A fact. Quite simply just because
I’m hiding here down south. In Oz
So pack your bags, escape the snow
This is where you all should go
But get here fast, cause don’t you know?
Trump might soon choose to overthrow.

1994ever:

First Snowy Morning – 15th December 2024

Outside the window, I giggle in delight
The first feel of snow after a silent night
This day of love has already seen me grow
Because this feeling, I thought I’d never know

I found myself once finding my tribe
Along with a love I could only describe
Now felt without any suffocating
All this time patiently waiting

The love was always right under my nose
Because I could cry at heart-wrenching prose
Intoxicated walking along the city street
Even enthralled by the glass and concrete

I will sip this love through a golden straw
And take it home to the Eastern shore
Where the soft dusty snow ignites
A love for this garden of delights

Therapy Bits:

From Rain to Snow

The rain came down in iron sheets,
A steady drumming on the street,
It rattled roofs and blurred the day,
Turned all the world a shade of gray.

Then quietly, the sound grew thin,
Each drop rethought what it had been—
The rain let go, the cold crept in,
And feathers fell where tears had been.

The storm grew soft, the sky went still,
White hush upon the yard and hill,
The wind exhaled, the night grew slow,
And rain forgot itself as snow.

Inside, the lamps made amber pools,
The kettle sang its gentle rules,
Walls held the heat, the door kept guard,
While winter worked the outer yard.

Wrapped up in wool, the hours stayed,
A small, safe world the storm had made—
Snow writing quiet on the pane,
While I stayed warm, and let it rain.

Peter Bouchier:

Hat Trick

One stormy winter night I was working late to finish my annual report. My job done, I hurried home through the deserted streets in a storm that had come up during the evening.

Suddenly a faint voice called: “Sir! Can you help me, please?”

I looked around to see who was in need, but I could see nobody.

“Sir?” the voice repeated, apparently close but still I seemed to be completely alone.

“Who’s there?” I asked. “Where are you?”

“Right here!” the invisible man said, “Right in front of you!”

Only then did I notice the snowman in the garden of a house I had just passed. He had not been there when I went to work. The children, or whoever made him, had done quite a job: I had to look up to him, and I am six feet six, you know.

“Over here!” he called. I swear to you: this snowman was actually talking to me!

“How can I help you?” I asked, trying to act as normally as possible as I approached the fence he was standing behind.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, “My hat has been blown off in the storm, and I can’t move to pick it up. It’s over there in those bushes. Could you please put it back on?”

Now I may be quite straightforward, but I feel a bit awkward to trespass other people’s gardens late in the evening just to pick up a snowman’s stray hat. I hesitated.

“Come on! Don’t be afraid!” the snowman urged me on, “There’s nobody home! Your footprints will be wiped out soon enough!” So I stepped over the fence, picked up the hat and placed it on the snowman’s head after filling it up with snow to make sure it wouldn’t come off again.

“Ah, that’s better!” he said, “My head was freezing! Thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” I replied as I stepped over the fence. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, I’ll be OK,” he said. “Have a nice evening!”

“Thank you! You too!” I answered, and hurried home to get a drink. And another. And another.

grey-veiled icy docks
greeting a lonely snowman
towering eight bells

Susan Batten:

Under Attack

The carefree walker is undone,
she presses on, half-doubled.
No turning back
down slippery tracks.
Can’t help herself.
Defenceless.

This blizzard strikes
with shards like spears –
the snow globe world
surrounds her.
Snow masks the view –
one minute flat –
she can’t go on.
Despondent.

When all she wanted
was to post a card:
“Wish you were here,
beloved.”
Sharp javelins peck
her puckered cheeks.
He’ll never know.
Defeated.

Blind Wilderness:

It is always exciting to see the first flakes of snow fallin in the winter. Our dog goes outside and she is black, but comes back in white.

The snow looks so amazing and so beautiful when it first falls, and most people can appreciate its etheral beauty, but if you look at a huge expanse of it without sunglasses on, it can damage your eyes. Strange to think that something so beautiful can do that. It makes me think of how most things have their dark side, however beautiful they may seem at first. I think of rivers. They can be so beautiful, but if you fall into them they can drown you because of the falst flowing currents just beneath the surface.

Once snow has fallen, it doesn’t take it very long to become brown and slushy. I remember one year when several feet of snow fell ner to the village where I lived, it looked like a completely differnt land as you went along the roads. The farmers had cleared some of the snow with their implements, and it looked like lots of white statues on the side of the road. It looked almost loke a moonscape. Out of this world. However in time it did melt and all of its beauty had gone.

Children love the snow and I remember making snowmen. However, having said all of that, I hope we don’t get snow here any time soon.

Thomas Wikman:

Snow and Ice in Norrland

I grew up in northern Sweden (Norrland), which means that I saw a lot of snow. I loved playing in the snow, building snow castles, snow tunnels, throwing snowballs, building snowmen, going sledding and going cross country skiing. I don’t remember being cold. I had warm clothes on, and I often stayed out very late playing in the snow. Now I live in Texas where snow is very rare.

Later in life, maybe at the age of 12-13 I also started doing downhill skiing / slalom. We had four ski resorts close to my hometown Örnköldsvik. I can add that the snow packed northern forests can be very beautiful. Northern Sweden is also a very dark place in winter, being close to or above the arctic circle. Therefore, I also watched some spectacular night skies and auroras from my snow castles. The Milky Way and even the Andromeda Galaxy were visible. One time as I was sitting in the snow, I saw a very large meteor moving across the sky. It had a tail of fire and was not moving too fast. I believe I could see the piece of rock, but I am not sure. In any case, it put up a show.

To read more and for some stunning pictures, click here

Suzette Benjamin:

The Wait

the patience of snow

covered, frosted, the cold time—

its weight evergreen

yet still, the heart dreams rainbows,

desire builds spring a bridge

Jules Pens Some Gems:

Vanishing Greenbacks

Easy in, easy out
Extra funds from part time job
Go to car repairs

Cost of repairs
Still better than the cost of a
New used replacement

Not all tools on hand
So the 2017 model stays
Overnight at the shop

At least no snow
To snag the 2005 model
For family visit

Too warm for flakes
But a few hours of winter rain
Are on the way

panaecea:

Snowflakes On  Eyelashes

In this part of the globe we have extreme winter and extreme summer. Winter is freezing and summer is scorching.

At times the temperature is as high as forty five degrees and above and as low as 2 degrees. But it never snows. Many times we have wished and imagined that maybe one day we will open out our windows to a white street or snow laden parks. But that’s not happened so far.

In this biting cold I hear, from inside my quilt,  the streets being broomed by Ram Sharan, our street sweeper, as early in the morning as 7.00 AM , when it’s still dark outside. The sewers being cleaned by hunched up men , mufflers tied around their heads and bidis held in trembling fingers.

It’s the same time and even earlier that the cars are being cleaned by Suresh. I seldom see him during the day. He comes and leaves before the sun’s weak rays touch the asphalt. Somedays we have to do with a dull, overcast sky. 

At 9.00 AM my house help arrives with chapped lips, calloused hands and a grey face and pounces on the broom, mop and dust pan with an energy which I cannot muster even after a night spent in a well heated bed.

My other house help comes in the afternoon shivering in a bright yellow jacket. Her feet cracked at the heels. She tells me, ” Didi! Today is colder than yesterday.” I tell her not to work too long and leave before dark. The buses are late in winter. The bus stands are deserted by evening.

The guards at the entrance gate of the Block light up a bonfire of waste paper, twigs and sticks to warm their hands and feet. This year, due to hazardous weather, there is a ban on bonfire. Instead they have been given heaters. In the dead of the night, in this crippling climate, I don’t know how effective the heaters are. I hear them whistling past the streets guarding us from unwanted elements.

We do not have a system of central heating. We use heat convectors, oil and halogen heaters. But at times they too fall short. The air pricks the bones. The water cuts into the skin. On the pavement the huddle of homeless people. Outside the high tech jail (yes, we have one nearby) the family and friends of the inmates wait wrapped in course blankets.

I wish I hadn’t imagined snow in the streets, on trees, on the rooftops. I look at the vacant eyes, drawn faces, scrawny shapes , hardened hands … They who work on the ruins of civilization and rebuild it from shambles to castles…snow is an unaffordable luxury. The pale sheen of sunlight is an unheard prayer! The embarrassed heater is a crude joke!  They deserve more – warmer breath, bluer sky, greener hearth.

I wish one day they relish the snowflakes on their eyelashes. Their children sculpt a winking snowman and eagerly wait for Santa ploughing away a path through the white heap towards a promising horizon.

Till then the chill, the fog, the bitter smog remind us spring is far away….very , very far away.

Dawgy Daddy Responds:

It Just felt Right

The ‘Dawghouse’ started in the February snow
With no clear idea where this journey would go
It gathered momentum and it just felt right
A reversible inspiration for this evolving site.

As time slips into the future I work out the kinks
Trying to avoid any imaginary, superstitious jinx
Here is the one thing on which you can safely bet
The dawghouse will move forward like a blackbird jet

Robbie’s Inspiration:

fluffy snow

lies in glistening heaps

blue tinged toes

Sexagenarian Scribbler:

The only snow I want to see is on a pretty Christmas card!

Five years ago I fell and broke my wrist,  and have since  dreaded having to venture out in icy conditions.  Last week was the first time since then that  we’ve had proper snow that’s settled here in Cambridgeshire . .I did brave the elements once, only out of necessity, and thankfully managed to stay upright.

My ten year old grandson, meanwhile, was loving every minute, only having experienced snow a few times in his life. Why is it kids don’t feel the cold?

I’ve recently been watching ‘Call the Midwife’ for the first time, and am up to the winter of 62/63. 

It brought back memories for me of that time; we had come back from  three years in Singapore in the summer of 62, with  temperatures of high twenties/ low thirties all year round.

I fondly remember having Christmas  dinner in the garden, and Father Christmas arriving one year by boat.

That British winter was rather a shock!

So, in conclusion, please don’t ‘Let It Snow’!

Thru Violet’s Lentz:

Quiet Stitching

When my mother died- it comforted me greatly to know that she was soon to be reunited with the love of her life- as my father had preceded her in death by nearly 3 years. Theirs had been a fairytale romance that extended into a loving 52-year marriage- and with me- virtually the black sheep of the family- having been married twice- it was more than just a fairytale- it was proof of my own failure.

You see, there had not been a divorce on either side of my lineage in recorded history. I was the first- and if my parents would have lived long enough to see it- I was soon set to be the second one, too. We were an anomaly in this day and age- my family line- no divorce, no weird uncles, no odd maiden aunts- just generation after generation of happily wed pro-creationists living what may have once been referred to as the American Dream.

We were so normal it bordered on parody. I used to joke with my mother that if “vanilla” ever needed a poster family, we were available.

Which is why, when I received the original voicemail- a woman named Courtney something or other, saying she was looking for her father- I didn’t feel a flicker of alarm. I felt sorry for her. She had clearly dialed the wrong number. My father was the least mysterious man on earth. If he had ever harbored a secret, it would have died of loneliness.

I deleted the voicemail without a second thought.

It wasn’t until she called again and this time I picked up- that the first hairline crack appeared in the smooth, unblemished surface of my family’s history.

By the time I got off the phone with Courtney- the hairline crack had expanded into a vast chasm as everything she said- everything she knew about myself, my mother, the eventual birth of my baby brother Hal- was related to me in the context of her first person experience.

“And then, when Hal was born,” her voice beginning to quiver, “Daddy told Mama that although he loved us- he was still in love with your mother- that as much as it pained him to do so- that would be the last time we were to see him. And if daddy was nothing else- he was always a man of his word.”

I don’t think I really heard anything else she said. For in that instant, I knew- my father, the same man that ironed his jeans- who labeled leftovers- who kissed my mother’s cheek every morning, the same man that had made snow forts for Hal and me every winter and slip-n-slides every summer- was indeed Courtney’s father too.

I made an appointment to meet up with her the following Friday- tomorrow, now. In preparation I have been going through some of the paperwork Hal and I decided to save when our mother passed- not because I thought any of it held any sentimental value at the time- but simply because that was what one did– at least that was what Hal had said- he’s so like daddy.

While leafing through, I found this poem- a poem my father wrote ages ago, early on in their marriage- a poem I had heard both of my parents lovingly recite lines from many, many times over the course of my life- but never read in its entirety- 

We climb, one breath, one step at a time
not knowing if the summit is ours
by choice, by fate, or quiet design.
The path remembers what we forget:
why we began, and where we belong.

A part of me understands now, why they repeated these lines to each other so often- this poem had been their footpath home. 

I traced the words with my thumb- my parents had always seemed so effortless together, so natural. I had built my entire understanding of love on the foundation of their marriage- steady, unwavering, uncomplicated. And now, I was being forced to look deeper- into the quiet stitching that had held them together- through something only they- and now I know, Courtney and her mother ever knew existed.

***

Image credit: Quotesgram