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Four Seasons Ever-Revolving, One Heart Ever-Evolving
--- Creative Mood Writing ---
Mood writing is evocative of the great classical writers, the masters of yesteryear. In The Mood Book's pages we absorb their craft via creative prose examples. From the grace of Autumn's gentle fire-hues, to the crisp-cool of Winter's bite, to the sweet serenade of Spring's blossoms and the hearth-wind of Summer's peak, the seasons are essential to good writing. Each carries its own symbolism and we can run with it or against it. Yet, with awareness of how these powerful symbols weave with the words of emotion, future master wordsmiths are born.
Written by Angela Abraham in 2024
Oh wheel of time in hues sublime, let my mood learn to re-green and re-new.
--- Creative writing on the Four Seasons ---
Summer's Song & Scorch
Example One:
Summer is a song, a most hearty serenade. Its music is written in blossom quavers, in busy honey bees. Then, for joy, of blessings-sake, comes the sweet carol of the birds. How I love them, this winged choir, chirping their dreams to listening ears: be they yours, be they mine, be they rabbit, mouse or shrew. And, should a light rain per-chance come by with its hither and thither watering, all the better, all the greener, all the gayer still! When August yawns into September, and September bows to Autumn-tide, these memories I’ll treasure as God’s own poetry.
Example Two:
That summer began with the warmth of a deep-emotion smile, yet became an oppression that raged into an inferno, chaotic and wild. Always it stays, the memory of flames, the scorching scars... yet what was once charred and blistered has been soothed by seasonal rains and nature has rebounded. It's not that one forgets, but that life has a way of finding a pathway to healing, to a new way to thrive.
June 3, 2023.
Example Three:
Summer shivered beneath a storm, an errant storm, lost from winter’s flock. The land no longer was light-bathed, yet had to content itself with mean withering shafts. Perhaps the optimistic eye would see them as balustrades, a heavenly staircase beamed into warmer days. Yet goosebumps don’t lie. Birdsong was mute. Thunder defacto-deafened even the most open ear. Every bright hue washed dim. Every smile fell flat. It wasn’t supposed to be here, but it was, and that was that. Shutters closed. Doors met their catch, bolts and chains too. One cannot churlishly tell the sky to recheck the calendar. It does not know. It does not care. And, so we too took cover, what else was there to do?
Autumn's Hearth-Palette and Cooling Days
Rose and gold fluttered down amid eventide’s car glow, reflecting headlamps approach, reflecting in tail lights homeward bound. It was autumn in the city, when country pumpkins filled the stores, when cooler nights brought out woolen hats, and rain conjured umbrellas, such light rain as transitory freckle-stars painting puddles all around.
Example Four:
Example Five:
A grumble of cars plastered the crumbling street, rusting hulks steaming as angry beasts. Worn tyres spun on degraded leaves, pulping beauty to a polluted heap. Not a tuppence was tossed to caroling birds, a-busking with all their might. Not an eye was raised to a stranger’s smile, much to paranoia’s delight. Grim. Dank. Damp. Dark low hung storm clouds, threatening relentless sleet long into the darkest hours.
Cool days, fresh clean air, a breath of snow in fogless swirl - winter arrived as a snow-bird song. Robins a-dance on perfect brown wands, daffodils a-sleeping under earthen duvet, clouds a dilly-dally wandering in sugar-blue - ‘twas a storybook day. Cars, buses and trucks did pass, future hopes rained as grains in an hour-glass. Hat hugged faces braced and bright entered dayshine with childish delight, mittens a-clapping, feet a-stomping, breath a-rising in cotton-candy puffs.
Example Six:
Winter Wonderlands & Wintry Whipping Ice-Winds
Example Seven:
Bish, bosh, what utter tosh melancholy-grumbled the traffic jam. Glum. Hum-drum. Pish, posh, need that dosh, mumbled gaun white-knucledt drivers. Icy street, black ice slick. Pernicious wind of devilish lick, mugs trees to barren sticks that crack. So storm battered is the street. So fallen is the light, barred by the glower of ganged-up clouds. Skitter, scatter garbage moves as the only playful thing, the only mirth this desolate place can bring. Then slews the rain, merciless and fast, desperate hammers to each wiper-frenzied pane.
Cars were bright buds on Spring Street. Warmest birdsong hugged each listening ear. Sunlight rained as bright freckles, not as a trickle, yet a forest stream. Blossoms bloomed, grass grew tall, bees buzzed in laughing air. The bakery, diligent in the dawn, perfumed the street and parkland same, calling early risers as an aromatic lark.
Example Eight:
Spring Writes New Leaves into Gentle Air
Cold drizzle clung, a heavy mist that pooled in that low-land depression, a chill-drowing of the tender buds. Lambs shivered. Ducklings hid. Winter’s freezing fog persisted as embodiment of callous gossip, the sort that limps from envy’s lips. Yet that spring, that jaundiced sallow spring, persisted as a champion, pushing, determined. In time the icy air did warm and fog bowed to ambient clarity.
Example Nine:
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