The Geese Sense a Change

-
 Poets and Storytellers United 
Friday Writings #241: Change

Your optional prompt this week is to tell us about change, whatever it calls to mind for you just now.  Or serve us up something you’ve previously written on the subject.

©2026Lisa Smith Nelson

The geese sense the change.

Still August, yet they take flight.

Bleak winter ahead?


©2026 Lisa Smith Nelson. All Rights Reserved  


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

to be not a barnacle

-
Image
walking away down the dock I notice the barnacles clinging to the piles at low tide https://pxhere.com/en/photo/917607                 that’s their life clinging sending out little flowery legs to eat what floats by   never moving dependent on the tide the whims of storm and baking sun   I won't be a barnacle stuck on a dock accepting your lot as my life so I’m walking away   ©2020 Lisa Smith Nelson. All Rights Reserved Walking Away – Weekly Scribblings #40  https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/        
Read more

Where Are the Friends?

-
Image
dVerse   MTB: Ubi Sunt and that Where, Oh Where?   And our MTB prompt today is simply to use this Ubi Sunt motif in your poetry as such: title your poem with the question – where are the/they… use the questioning within your poem, even with repetition DO NOT ANSWER it though – the questioning is rhetorical employ concepts of mortality, the transience of life, a sense of nostalgia ubi sunt is a term meaning "where are they??" taken from the Latin phrase "ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt," or "where are those who were before us?"   Where are the friends who promised forever? Who vowed a cradle to grave? Where are the sisters who pricked their thumbs? Who undying kinship gave? Have they forgotten those carefree days? Broken our childhood pact? Have they forgotten we were as one? Ignoring our solemn act? Where are the friends we used to know? Those we held so dear? Where are the ones on whose sides we stood? W...
Read more

Ghost House

-
Image
The Sunday Muse #137 photo prompt        The sun set for the last time on the condemned farm house. I stand at a distance where I can see the golden horizon reflected in the glass windows.        I never knew this house when it was inhabited by anyone but ghosts.   Those specters are why its windows are still intact. No one has dared to break the glass for fear of opening the floodgates for spirits and ghouls.         Ghosts of the murdered…      …and murderers alike.           Something unholy, something unspeakable, occurred here.   Something no one talks about.   Those old enough to remember claim they don’t.   The local newspaper archives were lost to a mysterious fire.   Vague references to the murders exist only in faded, yellowed journals, dismissed as the rantings of paranoid farm-wives. No one questions. They’re af...
Read more