New Girl

New to blogging and fairly new to writing. All thoughts, comments, and advice appreciated. Thank you.

Salad Days: Do They Exist?

Is there a period in your own personal life that you think of as the good old days? Tell us a story about those innocent and/or exciting times (or lack thereof).

Should I Tell Them
By emschierbeek

They ask me about the good old days
What should I tell them of you

Should I tell them of serenity
Or surrealism

Should I tell them of mistakes
Or acceptance

Should I tell them of joy
Or melancholy

Should I tell them of cynicism
Or despair

Should I tell them of bliss
Or rejection

Should I tell them of the wild
Or the wonder

Should I tell them of peaceful days
Or passionate nights

Should I tell them of your innocence and beauty
Or simply that you are gone

Should I tell them of my world
Or should I tell them nothing

_______________
THE DAILY POST
Nov 18, 2014
DAILY PROMPT
Salad Days
Is there a period in your own personal life that you think of as the good old days? Tell us a story about those innocent and/or exciting times (or lack thereof).

Golden Key or Skeleton Key

You’ve been given a key that can open one building, room, locker, or box to which you don’t normally have access. How do you use it, and why?

Skeleton Key
By emschierbeek

That black box you call a soul
Among the cobwebs and the dark
Hides not a treasure but a key
For that is the real treasure
A golden key
A skeleton key
For that is both its shape and purpose
Fitted specially to one lock
Ornate and unused
Bored it sits and waits
The time for collection has arrived
Always I feel its weight on my mind
Now time has come to feel it in my hand
Opening my own tortured soul
I seek its partner
Forged in the same vile mold
The one to free it from its cluttered tomb
But how can I get to your key
If I cannot get to mine?

_______________
THE DAILY POST
Nov 17, 2014
DAILY PROMPT

Golden Key
You’ve been given a key that can open one building, room, locker, or box to which you don’t normally have access. How do you use it, and why?

Beyond My Physical Awareness

Beyond My Physical Awareness
By emschierbeek

Take me beyond my awareness to the valley where the Wild flower grows
I want to lie there, I want to sigh there

Take me beyond my awareness to the forest where the peaceful River flows
I want to lie there, I want to sigh there

Take me beyond my awareness to the range where the mighty mountain Rose
I want to lie there, I want to sigh there

Take me beyond my awareness, but please, don’t be the one who goes
I will cry there, I will die there

Beyond My Awareness

Beyond My Awareness
By emschierbeek

Take me beyond my awareness to the valley where the wildflower grows
I want to lie there, I want to cry there

Take me beyond my awareness to the forest where the peaceful river flows
I want to lie there, I want to cry there

Take me beyond my awareness to the range where the mighty mountain rose
I want to lie there, I want to cry there

Eden

BY INA ROUSSEAU

Somewhere in Eden, after all this time,
does there still stand, abandoned, like
a ruined city, gates sealed with grisly nails,
the luckless garden?

Is sultry day still followed there
by sultry dusk, sultry night,
where on the branches sallow and purple
the fruit hangs rotting?

Is there still, underground,
spreading like lace among the rocks
a network of unexploited lodes,
onyx and gold?

Through the lush greenery
their wash echoing afar
do there still flow the four glassy streams
of which no mortal drinks?

Somewhere in Eden, after all this time,
does there still stand, like a city in ruins,
forsaken, doomed to slow decay,
the failed garden?

War Girls

BY JESSIE POPE

There’s the girl who clips your ticket for the train,
And the girl who speeds the lift from floor to floor,
There’s the girl who does a milk-round in the rain,
And the girl who calls for orders at your door.
Strong, sensible, and fit,
They’re out to show their grit,
And tackle jobs with energy and knack.
No longer caged and penned up,
They’re going to keep their end up
Till the khaki soldier boys come marching back.

There’s the motor girl who drives a heavy van,
There’s the butcher girl who brings your joint of meat,
There’s the girl who cries ‘All fares, please!’ like a man,
And the girl who whistles taxis up the street.
Beneath each uniform
Beats a heart that’s soft and warm,
Though of canny mother-wit they show no lack;
But a solemn statement this is,
They’ve no time for love and kisses
Till the khaki soldier boys come marching back.