I’ve lived as a statue. (Prose)

I’ve lived as a statue, a quiet child. Overlooking the spume of glassy death—

in the winds I would imagine to be like virgin snow; and in the cobalt blue of my father’s eyes, it is a glimpse of the sky in the brimming of sea to sea, ocean to ocean.

Unsalted peanuts go to the blue peacock in his fence and I realize we are flesh and bone; we were like worms, father, eyeing the nature in its opus as “a red moon rides on the humps of the low river hills”; and the treetops glissade like a sea, the desolation in the white catalpas fall; we shall not give it any mind.

We keep walking. Poetic. Isn’t it? We suppress the lay of land as it is, to the screams of Earth alone as each leaf falls, and so let it fall.

© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.

I wrote this for today’s dverse prompt: “You must use one of these lines, word for word, in your prose piece of 144 words or less. Choose 1) “Moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops” OR choose 2) “a red moon rides on the humps of the low river hills”.  Be certain to give credit to Carl Sandburg’s Jazz Fantasia for the line, somewhere in your post.”

I’ve left a link to the poem in the line I utilized from “Jazz Fantasia” by Carl Sandburg.

This is my (poor) attempt at non-fiction prose. It reads as something… poetical when it shouldn’t. I use flowery imagery to merely convey a memory on a few walks with my father. We looked around at the nature and scenery. And there was a blue peacock too there; he liked peanuts, but we never gave him any.

But, we observed the trees and the leaves, the windy night as it passed to darker hours. Some nights, we would just sit outside and watch the sky. Others, we would go on walks whether it was cold or not.

I hope you enjoyed this piece. I thank you for reading it.

49 thoughts on “I’ve lived as a statue. (Prose)”

  1. I, too, once had a father,
    so long ago.
    His eyes also the colour of the sky.
    I see them in the searing sky
    that burns pale each summer afternoon.
    Pale cerulean,
    washed white round the edges
    by the blinding desserts of his youth.
    Do all daughters live like statues
    forever dark in the shadow
    of the bright moon?

    Liked by 4 people

    1. Oh my goodness, that is such a brilliant poem, Max. That is so utterly evocative and beautifully woven with assiduous imagery and verse. The final three lines are my favorite. Thank you for sharing this wonderful piece here.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Thank you, Lucy. Your lovely post really affected me. So much in it.
        I’m new to this writing stuff. Technical question: do you think it was OK to use sky twice?

        Liked by 1 person

  2. The opening line is a stunning image, Lucy, an instant hook for me – I’m a sucker for a quiet statue child ‘overlooking the spume of glassy death’. I also love the use of colour: the white of the virgin snow, the cobalt blue of her father’s eyes, the ‘glimpse of the sky in the brimming of sea to sea, ocean to ocean’, and the blue peacock – gorgeous!

    Liked by 3 people

  3. I am so glad you posted to the prompt, Lucy. Apologies for reading late this morning……I meant to get to all the posts earlier but woke up with a migraine at 6 AM so just now getting to all the wonderful responses to my prompt.
    And this is a wonderful one. I read through it…..loving the lines, the images, the choice of words. I agree with Kim that I was enthralled with that first line. I think you’ve expressed such a powerful image for those children who are more quiet….not boisterous….more thoughtful. When I read, at the end, we keep walking….I began to understand more clearly that this is a memory and you are writing about what you saw as you walked. And then, after you explained the prompt and explained your post….walking with your father and that this is a memory born from that, I went back and read it again and it was even more beautiful.
    I enjoyed this very much. I think it could be considered prose-poetry. Someone who writes amazing prose-poetry and has won awards is Joy Harjo. She has a small collection of her work called Secrets from the Center of the World. I think you would enjoy her prose-poetry. Perhaps you could Google her and look for some of her prose-poetry.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Thank you so very much and beyond for your lovely feedback, Lillian. I’m glad I ended up posting for the prompt too, but I was a little worried this classified more as poetry than prose, hence my piece is what I called a poor attempt at pure, utter prose. I just have to be poetic, I suppose. 😁

      I’m really glad you enjoyed reading this. Thank you so much. Your words touch my heart. I will also check out Joy Harjo soon—thank you for the recommendation. ❤️❤️

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so much, and we really did. ❤ ❤ We talked about all sorts of things. I remember when he made a fire for us with some firewood he bought and we sat outside in the cold just talking and listening to the nature. It was lovely.

      Liked by 2 people

  4. This is such a sweet, pretty poem. As I read it, it felt like I was viewing a painting of a little girl’s adventures with her father. The painting was in different shades of blue, maybe because your words felt poignant, and I felt sad, having lost my father many years ago. But that’s one beauty of poetry – transporting the reader into whatever memories, beliefs, dreams… that have perhaps been tucked away, but through the poets words, surface quietly, yet powerfully.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Aww, thank you very much for your thoughts and analysis. It was indeed an adventure, just spending time with him and hanging out together.

      I’m so sorry about the loss of your father. Hugs, friend. ❤ ❤


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