There.
In the darkness of our
buried dreams
and visions
The black of the
inner conscious
In our bones and
memories:
We find ways to
remember who
we are.
And we etch our names there.
#hbp67 #poetry #skypoets #poetrywriting #poetrycommunity
Lost romance
We once etched our names here
-3 years ago today-
But they have disappeared
Our cat scratched them away
#Poetry #hbp67 #hbp #Cats
Max and Lily sat on the bench, carving their initials with a spoon they found in the trash. “Perfect,” Max said, stepping back, “our legacy is immortal now.” Lily squinted. “You carved ‘Lily’ backwards and added a banana peel on top. We’re gonna need a lawyer and a cleaning crew.” #hbp67
A tree stump
#RavensWriting #hbp67
"We Etched our names there." He said, his gnarled hand Tenderly patting the freshly cut tree stump.
betexion pixabay.com
#writingprompt #lovestory
Hand in hand, they slowly approached the furthermost corner of the school library, where hours of endless studying, interspersed with school gossip, took place.
"I found them," his voice raspy from old age as he traced a shaky finger over the initials he carved what seemed only yesterday.
#hbp67
The two ballparks stood side-by-side, the old one to be demolished when the season ended.
But we were building for the future, making sure the new park would be ready.
They call Yankee Stadium the House That Ruth Built, but this was the house We built.
We etched our names on every column.
#hbp67
I watched her trace her fingers over the odd grooves in the wood. They looked different than the natural flow of the wood.
"We etched our names there the first trip...I was so naive."
It was only then the grooves resolved themselves into words. Wendy. John. Michael. 3 children, now long gone. #hbp67
My black tuxedo
your dress in glistening maroon
music hiding our lack of skill
behind frivolity
Twenty years ago
we'd have left halfway through
to dance at home
Tonight
we'll let the music fade
walk past our names
still vandalizing the park bench
memories etched
behind thick paint
#hbp67
#vssdaily
#hbp67
The spacewalk for immortality.
𝘞𝑎𝘭𝑘 𝑡𝘩𝑢𝘴, 𝐶𝘩𝑖𝘭𝑑–the Old One intoned. I followed meekly. In the void ahead, light suddenly encased a form.
Voice tremulous with hope: “Do I 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 you?”
A secret smile only I could know replied & pointed to the Great Stone: “We etched our names there.”
Nodding once, the Old One left.
#hbp67
Malcom reassured his brother as they left the broken basement window of Clemon’s Funeral Home. The darkness weighed a little less now. The beautiful woman followed, closely, but still out of sight.
3/3
#hbp67
“Now no one will ever find out what we did, how we put him here with his belly all sewn up and his blood switched with formaldehyde. It was an accident anyways. And that woman, that beautiful lady who found us when we needed Her, told us that secrets never crawl out of a corpse’s mouth.”
2/3
#hbp67
“We etched our names there, on his teeth, a letter to each tooth. You brought a nail to do it, we couldn’t find dad’s Leatherman. It did the trick. It stained our fingers a little as it was rusty… I think I may have cut myself, but it was all worth it. Mom made us get that shot, I’m good.
1/
#hbp67
In the house where they sold us there was a boy who'd hidden a pocket knife. After the night, once clients were gone, he'd go into the deepest coat closet and carve on the wall. I hid in there once, and I saw the initials. I knew they were the gone children. One set had a heart after.
#hbp67
Pals brigade.
Within 30 seconds of the sound of a whistle the streets around the factory were emptied of a generation of men. We were too old to be there, but our sons were not. They were our names etched there, but we wished it was us who died in that field, not them.
#hbp67
@halfbakedprompts.bsky.social #hbp67 The landmarks were gone, erased. I googled the little red school house trying to locate my street. Where was the white picket mess from my past? If only I could see the barn where my name was etched on the beams reinforced by my father when he felt like working.
We etched our names there, our soulful youths of words. One by one through four years of composition, our poets, our masters of prose, our learned speakers and debaters, actors and troubadours, thespians and quotables. Standing tall, eyebrows arched with earnest passion, we climbed the wall.
#hbp67
The two ghosts snickered, making this hard.
"We etched our names there." Jill began and Sam wiggled their fingers to summon the "blood" out of the names.
They waited a moment before Sam added, "get out," trying not to guffaw.
The high-pitched shriek of the man set them both off as he fled.
#hbp67
"We etched our names there," floated in a whispery, wavering voice as Peter stared at the wall in terror, watching blood ooze and stain the peeling wallpaper.
"Get out," wavered in another voice, Peter's hair standing on end as he scrambled. He tripped over himself, shrieking into the night.
#hbp67
#hbp67 Emily read the names treehouse wall, running a thumb over my name. She turned to me.
"Sounds like you had good friends," Emily said.
I smiled, recalling the faces of Ben and Jenny. "They were good friends," I replied, pain tugging at my heart, "thanks for coming with me to their funeral..."
The footbridge over the river was flocked in verdant moss. It had been left too long without varnish after people had stopped coming out this way, so now we were its only visitors. It was our bridge. This was where we could sneak away for kisses and sentiments which were meant earnestly — if not everlasting in their truth. The council or a farmer had mowed a path, cutting back ancient hedge to reveal a style. A public footpath was reborn. The other side of the bridge was a copse of trees, a tiny scab of a lost landscape cresting the low hill of fresh tillage. In the very centre, with a bramble and bracken understory to curtain it off, was a glade. We spent all summer there. We stopped visiting the bridge quite so much other than to get to the glade. We took picnics and music, we stayed all day on blankets and on the solstice, we stayed all night. It was warm enough to not need a fire, we were warmth enough, but still in the morning our heavy breathed passion had become a cold condensate on the inner tent. That was not the only cold splash we awoke to. Climbing out of the tent half-dressed we were dazed by the sunlight. It wasn’t enough to conceal the farmer, sat on one of the decaying trees, which had fallen to allow the glade to form. He had a walking staff over his knees and a working staff at his feet. He was kind enough, but we took it seriously and never returned to the glade. We still had out bridge. We etched our names there, through the lichen and moss and silvered wood to a soft yellow bellow. It didn’t last. The bridge soon collapsed, our fault, I guess. And with summer dying fast after that we drifted apart. Not all important things can go on forever.
"I broke the luck," Bailey mused to herself while she walked around San Antonio. She glanced at the names on the Riverwalk wall. "We etched our names there..." There faded said Bailey and Amarula. "This is what I get for taking the boatsman's words. Thought I did everything right." #hbp67
We etched our names there to be remembered. We came and fought, staying true to our cause. Freedom of expression, freedom of thought. Our hidden oasis of banned books and films. Come read, come watch. Enjoy this little tiny corner of free living.
#hbp67
Writing prompt #hbp67
#writers #writingcommunity #blueskywriters #writingprompt
#poetry #poem #apollo #moon #nasa #astronomy #space
“We etched our names there,” she said, her voice soft as the tide.
The cliff bore the scars, weathered by salt and wind.
“You think it’s still legible?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered, tracing the air where the stone once stood.
“It doesn’t have to be.”
#hbp67
Photo: Bromham, St. Nicholas Church: World War Two memorial with the names of the fallen carved onto the south door. Source: Bromham, St. Nicholas Church: World War Two memorial with the names of the fallen carved onto the south door by Michael Garlick, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons.
Prose/dialogue: “We etched our names there.” #hbp67
