Photograph by François DubeauFrançois' photos and a link for his art can be found at -
http://www.francoisdubeau.com/photos/
~
Suggested prompt...
~
_______________________________
Moss covered,
Overgrown,
Resting place,
Name unknown.
Crumbling marker
Of crumbling bone.
We are but actors in this place, a brief cameo before the curtain’s drawn;
It’s a sad truth we all must face, The end begins the day we’re born.
So while you’re here, your life embrace: Who will remember us once we’re gone?
Father, son,
Sister, brother;
Loyal friend,
Loving mother,
Neighbour, mate,
Secret lover.
Life is fun,
Life is toil.
Laughter, tears,
Midnight oil.
Sadly missed,
Sent to soil.
Moss covered,
Overgrown,
Resting place,
Name unknown.
Crumbling marker
Of crumbling bone.
One week after the photo or picture is posted I will pick one offering to put beneath the image. This is a way of celebrating exceptional creativity. Any and all posts are available for your creative mind to make an offering at any time (even ones where a writing has been placed on the front page like this one). If you are new here and want to offer to every image here, feel free. We are writers, WRITE!If this is your exceptional writing posted here on the Front Page Pictures, Poetry & Prose invites you to include the Exceptional Writing Award Button on your blog. Visit the Exceptional Writing Award post for the details and the button to download.
16 comments:
The body's gone;
But not forgotten.
Words are gone;
But not forgotten.
Somewhere,
In someone's heart,
The words live on.
Not forgotten.
Wow Scriptor S, this is wonderful.
The best epitaph I ever read was,
"SEE? I told you I was sick!"
How sad and coincidental that I was reading an HP Lovecraft tale of the undying artist speaking atop his gravestone.
--------------
Richard Upton Pickman,
a man driven by mad by art,
desired to paint the darkness.
no matter the unpleasantness
his brushstrokes remain true.
and he leaves us with this alone:
a name to our nightmares,
a face to our fears.
Very nicely put, Scriptor...very nice :o).
A last monument, a lasting memoir, an earthly anchor tied to a life who once connected to fellow travelers of this earthbound adventure. Of an entire life lived...how does one choose the final few words. Better left to loved ones to craft the final playbill.
Dan
Worn letters
Barely legible
Worn decor
Hardly pretty
But a marker, nonetheless, of one created to live...and die.
Grave warning
Moss covered,
Overgrown,
Resting place,
Name unknown.
Crumbling marker
Of crumbling bone.
We are but actors in this place, a brief cameo before the curtain’s drawn;
It’s a sad truth we all must face, The end begins the day we’re born.
So while you’re here, your life embrace: Who will remember us once we’re gone?
Father, son,
Sister, brother;
Loyal friend,
Loving mother,
Neighbour, mate,
Secret lover.
Life is fun,
Life is toil.
Laughter, tears,
Midnight oil.
Sadly missed,
Sent to soil.
Moss covered,
Overgrown,
Resting place,
Name unknown.
Crumbling marker
Of crumbling bone.
(Note: if viewed centre aligned, it shoould resemble a cross.)
You wore me down
As the letters on my tomb,
Faded by time,
Eroded by salt,
Dismissed their meaning
In place of false sentiment.
The present state
Of isolation
Is neither comfort nor toil.
I was the vowel to your harsh
Consonants.
They are lost.
@ scriptor senex: magnae res scribis. felix sis.
@ Dan. Another fine piece of writing.
A happy new year to all.
Sacha
i told you to not miss me when i'm gone
to not come visit me every day
i told you that life moves on
so why do you rub the words on my grave away?
Sorry if this is a day late, but I couldn't.really figure out what to say about the barn. This was on my mind.
Still a soldier,
still in lines and rows.
Still a soldier,
fighting weeds that threaten to overgrow.
Still a soldier,
not forgotten by comrades,
Still a soldier,
the visitors come in scads.
Still a soldier,
standing strong in rain or shine.
Still a soldier,
still worn out this uniform of mine.
INKwell,
This is wonderful. And please, there is no deadline, you may go back to older posts and write when ever you like. All prompts and pictures are waiting for you whenever you find that inspiration strikes.
While I love to see writing every day I know in life that isn't possible or practical.
Your words are treasured here, all the time and any time.
Laura Jayne
Thanks, I appreciate that. I'm never sure about comment etiquette.
"Hi, there!"
A worn, old voice woke him from deep reverie. It came from the old headstone behind him.
"Oh, hi!"
"That was quite a mourners, yesterday, huh?"
"Uhm, yeah. She was a lovely woman, and a doting mother. Everybody loves her."
"I feel sorry for her."
"Thanks. How long have you been here?"
"Thirty years."
"Wow. You must have lost count of the people who come visit him, or her?"
"Him. He was a writer. His words moved alot of lives in his years. And, I never lost count of those who pay a visit to him."
"And still counting?"
"I have nothing to count anymore since ten years ago."
"Huh? Why?"
"They began to thin and less frequent, and then they just stopped coming by."
"That's sad. But that's not gonna happen to her."
"You can't be sure. I've been here a long time. I've seen alot. Believe me, one day, all that's left to visit her all year round and beyond is just you."
Post a Comment