Painted #writephoto

May 23, 2020 / Sisyphus47 / 3 Comments

painted

He painted on the large canvasses we now see in the Orangery Museum. A quiet man, who took the time to look at the light, the pale greens, the tender colours of the young plants. His garden is a spot for dreaming, thinking back to a time of peace. And then there is the gateway, the little painted bridge, an enigma, a sign, a parabole perhaps?

Where does it lead? Could it lead to you, wherever you are, surely painting, deep in thoughts, wondering. Yes, I see you now, in a secret part of your garden, where even ghosts tread carefully.

Claude Monet by himself

Dance #writephoto

May 15, 2020 / Sisyphus47 / 3 Comments

Thursday photo prompt

dance

“Those stones don’t belong to our time, they exist here only in our minds…”

I hear the words, I see the mist, I wish I could go back.

“You don’t need to, just wait for this veil to be lifted in the sunshine, then you will see, the true spirits dancing, alive.”

But I know that the circle of stones is there, has been for millennia. Once upon a time, maybe, the spirits inhabited this land, and what I see now is the proof that they left, leaving us wondering, at a loss, longing for their magic world.

Causeway #writephoto

May 7, 2020 / Sisyphus47 / 3 Comments

Thursday writing prompt

causeway

This is where we started, in these shallow waters, that erased our steps:

the slippery seaweeds, the smooth rocks, where we dreamed of another shore,

by the violet sea, hidden by parsecs of space,

on the planet of the five stars.

We saw the small waves, at the feet of the goddess, we felt the warmth of the blue sun.

This is where we started, inspired, led by this causeway to the universe,

soon living our dream. So far away, from our world…

I came back, you stayed, and now,

I am forever searching for you, excluded from your paradise.

Cascade #writephoto

May 2, 2020 / Sisyphus47 / 6 Comments

Thursday photo prompt

cascade

I listen to the sound of the cascade, and to the birds and other creatures, deep in the woods. Time flows, as if diluted in the icy waters of the stream. Is it an illusion? Or the harsh reality of our impermanence? Will I remember this instant, on the other side, beyond time, when I myself have returned to the primordial dust? Or is there nothing, just the blank canvas of another story, as yet to be written?

Eve #writephoto

April 27, 2020 / Sisyphus47 / 3 Comments

Thursday prompt

imbolc-fox-weekend-130

“You people don’t know what you’re doing… You think it’s fun, brandishing torches, setting fire to the pyre, while He is looking at you from behind the mask. Idiots! Go on, carry on playing, lose yourself in these wild dances and the sound of the viola… You have no idea.”

They ignored the old man and continued playing, laughing, shouting, drunk on pot and cheap alcohol, well into the night. What or who they invoked no-one will ever know.

In the pale dawn, the following morning, some of them came back to the village, pale as death, shivering, covered with blistered. Some of the others never reappeared. A later search around the still smoking pyre merely showed lots of empty bottles, some old bones, and a weird mask, apparently made of leather, which seemed to be covered in dark congealed blood. There was a brief investigation, but the witnesses were incoherent. The case was quickly closed.

Otherworldly #writephoto

April 19, 2020 / Sisyphus47 / 3 Comments

Thursday photo prompt

beyond

Over the years I learned to love this place, its calm, the view over the plain, and the mesa. There is a roof above my head, not that I mind the rain, or the snow, mind you. I have no other visitors than birds and small rodents, the occasional fox. Once or twice a year, I guess, an eagle flies over, perhaps to check if anything alive lies here.

I sense the changing seasons here, by the scents in the air, the colour of the rocks, the way the mist lifts as the sun rises.

Silence reigns. Other ghosts prefer small inhabited villages, empty houses. I know the value of solitude, of peace, of the veiled, soft voices of those who, like me, took refuge here, from war, from the plague, for millennia.