A contribution to this week’s Writing Workshop, by David, @theghostshirt
Escape
When I was six we ran away from home
my older brother and I, together defiant.
We ran, we walked fast, we escaped,
off to the duck pond, aggrieved and angry.
The duck pond was too far for me,
a place not on the list of those I was allowed to go.
I turned back alone, my brother older and braver,
he went on without me, as I slunk home
I managed to sneak in, the door was open,
quick to my bedroom, I hid under my bed.
My brother returned, I heard the commotion,
Where was I? My mother demanded as he cried.
I was lost to her, the pain rose in her voice,
taken, abducted. Where had I gone?
I heard it all from under the bed, listening and silent,
breathing and living and waiting to rise from the dead.
Forty years on, my mother lay, no pain left in her voice,
her last night with cancer, the flight, the final escape.
On top of the bed, breathing, silent and dying
I sang to her, held her hand, moistened her dry lips
That night she ran away from me, too far to follow
to be with my father, in places I am not yet allowed to go.
My brother came; we sat together, pain in our voices,
breathing, living, we watched as she escaped to the dead.
Read MoreHowdy lovely people, so sorry this is late up. Having a really rough few days (again, bleugh) so I’m going to have to post the linky and come back and add my own contribution later in the week.
Thanks for taking part!
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Leave your name and the URL to your post in the Linky below (the URL should be to your post not just to your blog) – it’ll be open til Sunday night so if you haven’t had chance to respond yet, then you’ve got plenty of time to join in. Don’t forget that anyone can take part! New prompts will be up this time next week, so I hope to see you back soon.
Read MoreA new writing prompt for you. Sorry I didn’t manage one last week. Ready?
For anyone unfamiliar with my Writing Workshop, you can have a read all about it and browse old workshops here, or if you’re an old hand at this you can started.
Prompt
Running away is our theme this week. You could tell me something you once ran away from, or find yourself often running from, or write about something you wish you could escape.
Or tell me what/where you wish you could run TO, what would be your sanctuary? Perhaps imagine yourself free of responsibility. Where would you go? What would you take? What would you do once you got there?
Make it about real life, or an alternative life, or make up a story, about yourself or an invented character. It’s completely up to you.
Read MoreA contribution to this week’s Writing Workshop, by David, @theghostshirt
Christ of Saint John of the Cross by Salvador Dali, 1951

His face, holds it a smile or frown?
What does he think as he looks down?
On fisher folk of old below
Their lives so simple, as we know
Perhaps a smile for plain sweat ‘n toil
Warm mirrored eyes for a mortal coil
*
But now, many torrid centuries on,
how does he feel as he looks on?
A frown, I reckon, these days he shows
As he looks down, on us below
We pollute the oceans and kill the fish
And those who profit are few, but rich
*
So, footstep followers or those who sneer
Love n’ compassion you must hold dear
Like fundamental scenes of fishing
A caring future needs more wishing
For if we lose the bonds that bind us
Then money and profit will only blind us
*
Perhaps his gaze pierces the dawn
A lost regard for days long gone.
Or perhaps he looks for a brighter future
where love and respect we all can nurture.
But whatever those sweeps of an artist’s brush
The simple bowed head brings a sense of hush.