Your new prompt word is
TABLET
This week’s prompt word came to mind when I was taking a tablet for a medical condition. But there are many other ways of looking at this word. You may have a tablet which you use as a computer. And, of course, they were used many years ago for carving instructions on. 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 EYES.
Eyes Or Mouth
Your eyes sometimes might say what’s true.
Your mouth confirms the final terms.
No matter what you’ve done or do
your mouth declares the truth for you.
Beth:
eyes
betray me
seem to have decided
to turn the lights down
test my mettle
Eyes are strange things.
They can smile before lips ever move.
They can harden like winter seas,or soften
at the sound of a familiar voice.
Some eyes carry storms.
Some carry galaxies.
Some hold grief so quietly you only notice it when they look away.
A child’s eyes search the world for wonder.
An old soul’s eyes search for truth.
And sometimes,
in one fleeting moment,
someone’s eyes meet yours
and you feel
seen —not
the version you show the world,
but the hidden self beneath all the noise.
That is the magic of eyes.
They speak
the language
the mouth is too afraid to say.
The Eyes Have It
I take his cold hands into mine and look into day-dreaming eyes
gazing on worlds that used to be, their rainbows and their stormy skies.
Remembering the life he knew, the promise of each new sunrise;
imagining worlds still to come, each new invention a surprise.
Absorbing changes as described he tries not to be left behind
but feels his way through life today
since fate and illness left him blind.
Just For Show
It shouldn’t come as any surprise
Why Lady Justice always covers her eyes.
To judge by appearances never gleans
What only “hard evidence” truly means.
Our eyesight tricks us often, this we should know.
Then, how has justice been replaced by “the show”?
Susan Batten:
You Are Being Watched
“The eye in the sky” is an ancient belief. In the days of the princes of the Church, the population was taught to fear an all-seeing deity who would record their misdeeds and punish them accordingly. The modern acolyte has gone a step further, turning us on each other by encouraging us to plunge into a mania for photographs. In a relatively short time we have passed from the “special event” photo – the annual school shot, the Kodak holiday snap, to the daily, persistent accumulation of photos on the phone. Who hasn’t got a masterly collection, mostly disregarded but not erased? Besides the selfie culture, we have become inured to constant surveillance in the streets. CCTV was first used in Britain in the sixties, but it was the tragic death of two-year-old James Bulger in 1993 and the subsequent identification of his tormentors thanks to camera footage which brought surveillance to our attention.
The matter didn’t stop there. With the excuse of crime fighting, cameras began to appear everywhere and dog our every step. From there it was just a short hop to constant scrutiny of our tastes, buying habits, hobbies and all our activities. Cookies or not, we are monitored, analysed and, dare I say it, exploited by the marketing gurus of today. Some people fear the photograph. They won’t permit the most innocent souvenir shot, as if their soul would be swallowed up by the camera. Certainly, the damage it can do, especially in its roving, viral form, is incalculable. The “eye” has become pervasive, divisive, intrusive – all in the name of public safety. The debate runs on. How much data-gathering is enough? What has happened to privacy and personal choice? Big Brother has stepped out of the pages of a 1930s novel to loom over our daily existence and the all-seeing eye, in the twenty-first century, is alive and well.
Lou by the Sea:
I See You
My hands are my eyes
Let me
Touch
You.
My ears are my eyes
Whisper
Softly.
My tongue is my eyes
I’m tasting you now.
Your aroma
Astounds me
I feel you
I see you now
Yes
You are the person
That
You used to be.
Our Hour by Hour
aye, aye, I
will use my eyes and
follow you
free postcards at the hotel front desk, what a bonus bonanza ‘find’.
morning to
rent some bikes, we two
‘mail’ too
an hour and a half; a stop at the post office for stamps, then boardwalk.
no beech trees
here at the beach dunes?
I don’t know…
After lunch, we’ll pitch the tent and listen to the Atlantic ocean
One of the questions I have often been asked is what do I notice first about a person. Usually it’s their eyes. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and I am grateful for my glasses as I feel somehow they protect me from people seeing too much!
When in conversation with someone, I always try to maintain eye contact as I think there is nothing worse than talking to someone whose eyes are everywhere but looking in your direction.
When out, both of us are surroundings aware. Our eyes are taking in a lot, sometimes picking up on ‘What’s wrong with this picture?’, sometimes aware of someone behind us who is ‘too close’, and on occasion noticing someone always seems to be in our line of vision which may not be coincidence. We change direction, go into cafes for coffee we don’t want, or stop and look in shop windows.
We have been approached by people in a major town warning us of gangs of 5 or 6 youths looking out for specific dogs, GSDs being one of the favoured breeds, therefore we are extremely vigilant and aware.
The sculptor finished the massive commission for the work called Eyes of Texas While descending the scaffold something went wrong and the entire work collapsed on top of the artist. His assistant rushed in to help and begged the artist to remain calm. “What happened? whispered the artist.
“We’ll get you out in a minute,” replied the assistant.
“It’s hard to breathe.”
“I know. The eyes of Texas are upon you.”
Love At First Sight
There once was a hoogilly-Boogilly grim,
With eyes like wet lanterns gone dim,
He skittered through trees,
On nightmare black knees,
Singing a high pitched bone-rattling hymn.
He whispered, 'Come closer, don't squirm...'
In a voice full of mildew and worm,
The he gnawed on the moon,
To a splintery tune,
Did I fall for him? - Yes, I confirm!
No wonder she cries
I have told her such lies
And now I agonise
With the truth
There are tears in her eyes
We will say our goodbyes
There’ll be no compromise
As in youth
I am much older now
Should know better somehow
This is no simple row
It’s the end
A submission to lust
I have broken her trust
That’s the message her eyes must
Be meaning to send
My Eyes
i could run away,
drift far beyond the reach of names,
lose myself in strange roads
where no one remembers
the sound of my breaking.
i could bury every ache
beneath thorns and trembling skin,
hold my bleeding heart
between shaking hands
and still force a smile
as if suffering were beautiful.
i could wear a mask so perfect
even i might believe it
paint laughter over bruised silence,
hide the ruin in my chest,
pretend i am untouched
by this vicious world
that keeps teaching me
how to survive by hurting quietly.
and so i smile.
i laugh when i should collapse.
i speak gently
while grief claws at my throat.
i tell everyone i’m fine
because the truth
would sound too heavy
for human ears.
but oh, dear heavens,
there is one thing
i have never learned to tame:
my eyes.
they betray me
every single time.
for no matter how soft my smile is,
my eyes still carry
the sleepless nights,
the lonely wars,
the prayers that went unanswered,
the heartbreak I swallowed whole
so no one else would taste it.
and people see it.
they always see it
that quiet sadness
floating behind my gaze,
like a soul begging to be held
while pretending not to need anyone at all.
Meditating
Singeing sage, consulting crystals,
And eyeing scrying,
I ask my questions.
Oscillating orbs, gauzy ghosts, and soundless spirits
Are my companions.
Slowly I spin 3 times…
I close my eyes to see.
Venom poured from his eyes, poisoned tears
Sitting beside the grave with the goat
Without a clue his love disappears
It’s toxic and without antidote
Sitting beside the grave with the goat
Under the shade of an old oak tree
It’s toxic and without antidote
She left him even with all his plea
Under the shade of an old oak tree
Where they had carved their initials
She left him even with all his plea
In sorrow with all the epistles
Where they had carved their initials
Without a clue his love disappears
In sorrow with all the epistles
Venom poured from his eyes, poisoned tears
The Evolution Of Eyes Is Convergent
First of all, eyes evolved. Creationists often say that eyes are too complex too have evolved. That is because the eye is composed of many interdependent, finely tuned parts, for example, the cornea, iris, retina and lens. And that it cannot function without all those components already evolved. This is referred to as the argument for irreducible complexity.
The problem with that argument is that evolution is not linear. The various intermediate steps may not have functioned as the final product but could still have provided evolutionary advantage. There are many intermediate “eyes” existing today in nature. As you can see in the picture below the evolution of the vertebra eye did not start with all the current parts.
To read on and for some informative diagrams, click here.
I think the meaning of life changes as we age
Evolving in time to what we accept to engage
Opening our eyes to what is exciting and new
Learning expressive ways to present them to you
I end this limerick offering you some Boz Scaggs
Ruth Blogs Here:
Eyes On The Prize
When the road ahead feels too obscure
And you’re wavering, quite insecure
Find an image to hold
In your mind, bright like gold
Keep your eyes on the prize and endure
Suzette's Blog:
Dissolve
Her gaze
azure deep tears,
ancient long-suffering
her eyes, dreamcatcher filters — pain
dissolves.
Therapy Bits:
Look into my eyes
and you may think
you have found a single weather—
one sky holding itself together
without question.
But there are rooms behind the glass,
soft-lit and storm-lit,
hallways that remember footsteps
I do not always hear.
Some mornings I wake
wearing certainty like borrowed clothes,
stitched by hands I cannot name,
already carrying conversations
I did not begin.
There are voices—
not the cruel mythology of cinema,
not monsters clawing at the walls—
but lives braided through survival,
keepers of fragments,
guardians of unbearable hours.
One remembers fear
like a match struck in the dark.
One folds grief into careful corners
and calls it functioning.
One still waits at a locked door
for kindness that arrived too late.
And I—
or the shape that answers to my name—
move among them
like tide through scattered stones,
learning that "I"
can be a gathering
instead of a border.
People ask for the original,
as though souls are paintings
with a single signature hidden beneath.
But survival is rarely so neat.
Sometimes the heart survives
by becoming an orchestra
instead of a solo.
There are missing hours,
yes—
blank pages where memory
turned its face away.
There is grief in that,
a mourning for continuity,
for the clean line
other people inherit without noticing.
Yet there is tenderness too.
Because inside this divided cathedral
I have found impossible devotion—
parts of me holding vigil
for parts of me,
passing pain hand to hand
until no one drowns beneath it.
So look into my eyes
and do not search
for which one is real.
We are.
A constellation is not a lie
because it is many stars.
And I have learned
that healing is not becoming one voice
through silence or erasure—
but learning, at last,
to let the chorus
Starry Steps:
eye of life
all springs contained in a breath
dancing on colors’ reel
flowers’ treading time
forever round
beyond real
Roberta Writes:
I spy with my little eye …
something …
but what is it?
“A hartebeest,” says TC
“I disagree. It’s a common tsessebe.”
“A tess… a … what?“
“A tsessebe.”
“There’s no such creature!
Check on your phone.“
“Hmmm! AI says … it’s an elk.”
“What! You don’t get elk in South Africa.“
“I know that. Let me try a different picture.
“Now AI says its a mammal.”
“What kind of mammal?“
“AI doesn’t go into details. It’s just a mammal.”
“Useless AI. It’s having illusions.“
“Not really. A tsessebe is a mammal.”
Thru Violet's Lentz:
Canasta
It had been one of those days that owed a guy an inch thick steak and a couple of ice-cold beers- and Steve was going to collect.
He sauntered into Hank’s Meat Market under the impression all that could possibly have gone wrong today already had- only to find himself at the end of a lengthy queue and directly behind Mrs. O’Flaherty- God love her- the neighborhood chatter box.
She turned, eyed him up and down- and then started in-
“Steven! Oh, Steven, look at you- you look like something the cat dragged in.” She patted his arm with a warm, soft hand. “Are you eating? You’re not eating.”
“I’m here to fix that, Mrs. O’Flaherty.”
“Smart boy. Smart boy.” She turned briefly back toward the counter, smiled at Gus who was currently ringing out a customer, and continued “You know I come here every Thursday. Every Thursday without fail, because- ” she dropped her voice to a stage whisper that carried to the cold cuts- “Gus has the best hands I’ve ever seen on a man. I mean that. I would watch those hands all day.”
Steve smiled politely but couldn’t think of a thing to say in response.
“It’s true- my canasta girls think I’m crazy, schlepping all the way over here. Helen Purcell uses that grocery chain on Delancey. So I says to her I says, Helen, you might as well be buying your meat from a vending machine.” She shuddered. “So last Thursday, we’re at the table- I’ve got a beautiful hand, by the way, just beautiful- and we’re talking about what everyone was making for Easter, and I said, out loud, right there over my cards- I said, I wish my Bernard could have tasted Gus’s lamb chops just once.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “He would have wept, Steven. The man wept at a good meal. It was one of the things I loved most about him.”
Steve nodded. “Sounds like a good man.”
“Oh, he was. He really- ” She paused. Seemed to consider something. Tilted her head in close and raised one finger to her lips as if she was shhhhing herself. “Well. He had his moments.” A small, private smile crossed her face, and Steve felt the first faint alarm. “You know that night- the very night I wished Bernard had been around to taste Gus’s lamb chops- I had a dream about him.” She raised her eyebrows and tilted in even closer.
“That’s nice.”
“Oh, it was very nice.” She said it slowly. Meaningfully. “Let me tell you, it had been a long time since I’d had a dream like, like- that.“
Steve looked at the ceiling.
She waved her hand as if to clear the air. “But I’ll tell you, I woke up feeling like a million bucks. Like a million bucks I tell you.” A pause. “I hadn’t felt that way since- well- you know- since Bernard.” She sighed, fond and faraway. “I’ve wished for him to visit me in my sleep a hundred times, you know. Over the years. A hundred times easy. And nothing. And then I make one little wish over the canasta table about lamb chops, and…” She spread her hands wide, as if the universe had finally come through on a technicality.
“So you think the canasta wish…”
“Oh definitely. It was definitely related.” She was utterly certain. “The mind works in mysterious ways, Steven. You wish for one thing and God gives you something better.” She patted his arm again. “You remember that.”
Steve tried. He genuinely tried. He pressed his lips together, studied the tile floor, thought about his terrible day, thought about washing his car, thought about…
And then he lost it and burst out in a loud, unguarded laugh- the kind that had nowhere to hide in the small butcher shop.
Every head in the queue turned.
Steve straightened up, cleared his throat, and gestured vaguely at Mrs. O’Flaherty.
“Canasta,” he announced to the room. “Very competitive sport.”
eyes i see
optic majority
majesty of the tour
d jour
is it
it is
gain loss
at a cost
tho
daily living
***
Image credit: Pinterest
Esther Chilton 
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