Worn to clay, the story remains

Photo by Balazs Busznyak on Unsplash

Weathered, worn, this year has left you
Roughed, Old Man in the Mountain torn
From your footings, wondering whether to
Live free or die

I see the acid etchings across your granite jaw
And remember the radiant warmth of it before
The spreading frost, truncated days, brought
Autumn leaves to fall

Fire spalled, disjointed, the cracking spaces glide
Spoiling your visage with moss and lichen stain
Their pointillist impressions retain our last
Duet refrain

The golden glint of mica eyes tells me now to go My ferric heart unwanted, beaten down to clay, Washed fast by the undertow of mistakes…


An intentional transformation

Author’s own photo Aspen Blue

There is a version of me still
huddled beneath down-sheltered dreams
Safe in body, but wrought of mind

Swaddled, warm, she blinks
back a silent war waged between waking
Synapses snap in resistance

A crackle of guilt ripples
her spine electrified a Jacob’s ladder
Paying penance for insolence

It is the absence, undoing
of every promise made to the version of me
She fails daily to be

Yet, here is another version
dawn bright, yawn smile, wind-whipped and gay
Tackling the sodden trail

This me has overcome history,
habituation, resistance, and doubt doubt doubt
To walk alone into the woods

Ekphrastic Poem

03 March 2021 Wednesday Prose Poem Prompt: what wounds look like as they heal

Photo by Ivan Bandura on Unsplash

Landslide in this rubble heap, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, the rush and crush of body break, and if I die before I wake, sliding ground along the slope, I lay me down to sleep in hope, crashing course collision ache, I pray the Lord my pain to take…

Reconstructing a landscape, rock, dirt and dust, re-stacked to its former glory requires the patient tendings of a monk. Assess the damage, acknowledge the trauma, rebuild a sturdy foundation — brick, by brick, by brick. Return the worms and moles to their holes. Replant each blade of grass…

Prose Poem

From the refuse heap of first love, a story of truth

Photo by Mosa Moseneke on Unsplash

Broken before creation, we began on the precipice edge. Shards of unknowing slicing each tender step, building bloodied callousness — lo, we thought ourselves brave. Children toying with found pieces of adult games: infatuation, addiction, lust, death. Our only way out was through.

The spectre of ruin hung over-ripe heavy from your rotting vines, but all I could smell was the perfect perfume of a harvest waiting to be mine. Durian-sweet mystery, malicious to others, delicious to me. I drew a halo around all your darkness, called you an eclipse, and stared enraptured awaiting the burning of my eyes into…

Short Story

We never know what we will find in the empty unknown

Photo by HH E on Unsplash

Part I can be found here

“Now it’s my turn to ask,” Alastair levels her with a piercing look after they devour their hot meal in near silence, “aren’t you the least bit concerned about being out here on your own. I mean clearly,” he gestures around the hut, “you know how to look after yourself in the wilderness far better than this silly duffer, but aren’t you worried about, well, unsavoury fellows who might take advantage of an attractive young woman with no one about?”

“While I appreciate the misguided compliment, I’ll answer your question with two of my…

Short Story

We never know what we will find in the empty unknown

Photo by Dave Drury on Unsplash

The highlands shudder an untimely autumn chill. Within the groan and rumble of distant complaining lochs, she hears a human lament across the brae. She thought herself alone in this strange and ancient landscape, but this unexpected cry broadcasts the presence of an interloper. There is no chance to consider whether to surge forth to aid a fellow in need or to conceal herself off track before a hunkered figure weaves into view.

A tenor mutter of madness reaches her ears and she thinks to flee. She could shed her pack and outpace him, but that folly would leave her…


The edge of breath

Photo by Bankim Desai on Unsplash

This quiet edge
a chrysalis of anticipation
waiting — a quiver drawn
breath beset a hesitant

Succumbing snaps
the filament of reason
snatching — a season gone
exploring hesitant anguish

Piercing the black
expectation horizon-long
holding — a razored dawn
becoming a new age

© Aspen Blue 2021

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Prompt Poem

To celebrate the end of an era

Photo by Alice Alinari on Unsplash

Royalty frivolous frocked wheeling we
arriving by carriage in ones, twos and threes

Plattered desserts paint a sumptuous table
delighting a princess in daring deeds playful

Baked for her whimsy, shaped for her greed
lashing her tongue with a birthday’s great need

They danced and they frolicked under settling white
turning mirroring faces under strobing black lights

She was their raison d’être, rising a queen
they swarmed and they quivered, her hive-minded bees

Sharing her sweetness, she proclaimed a prize
a night in the castle for glory to rise

To a morning of waffle, indecision to play down a snow-covered…

Aspen Blue

Writer, poet, scientist, educator, humanist, autist; Published in: neuroclastic.com | follow @AspienBlue

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