Now I know that poetry is a razor blade slipped into a caramel dipped apple of eve’s desire sharp and tangy . . .
is as love’s wounding rigor mortis of bites ennui-soaked languid post-mortem of shamanic rites . . .
is a coroner’s tableau of victims bodies stretched out on gurneys for the inquest after the serial killer slips free of the electric chair because the judge knew his brother cain at harvard law . . .
is hummingbirds and bats dandelions, a lover’s hand broken stalks, memories . . .
is my heart laid out across the sky a constellation charted out of unknown algorithms multiplied to infinity dove’s wings rapidly beating now.
Today Victoria is guest-hosting at dVerse: Meeting the Bar and asks us to write a "Solilo-Quoi?", paying extra attention to form or other poetic devices in our self-talk. Click Mr. Linky for more and join in.
For Cee's FOTD, August 22, 2021: See the beautiful pink hibiscus on her site!
Flower of the Day Challenge (FOTD).
"Please feel free to post every day or when you you feel like it.
Don’t forget that my FOTD challenge accepts gardens, leaves and berries as well as flowers."
Dear Rochelle and fellow Friday Fictioneers, This is my second stab at writing for this week’s prompt. I guess I must be out of practice: instead of fictioneering I ranted for a hundred words, posted then banished from inlinkz when I realized a piece of fiction it was not.Back to the photo promptand finding my muse again. :>)
Genre: Fiction; Word count: 100
Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt and limit our words to 100 or less.
Click on the frog to read more stories.
Andrea gripped her husband’s hand tightly as Grace ripped open the letter. It was from her birth mother. The fifteen-year-old had made them promise to give it to Grace when she too reached fifteen.
You were loved every moment I carried you. Just wanted you to know that. There won’t be a moment when I don’t love you.
Sighing, Grace looked up from the blunt, childish scrawl, a smile on her face.
“I believe her. She could have thrown me away like a piece of garbage. Speaking of which, Dad, can we get back to fixing up my motorcycle?”
After an absence of weeks from your midst, my first return post is a rant. Forgive me. I’ve just been reading about the barbaric custom of bacha baziwhich is practiced in parts of the Mideast, northwestern Pakistan and most ubiquitously and flagrantly in Afghanistan. As a 2015 New York Times article reported and Tabletmagazine reminds us today, during their twenty-year tenure there, our soldiers were told by their “woke” military commanders to disregard the practice among their Afghan “allies” even as it occurred under their very noses. One Special Forces officer was fired for preventing the rape of an Afghani boy. What an amoral, self-serving, dictatorial sham is the leadership in our country and the world! Meanwhile, we pray for the 15,000 Americans who are trapped in Afghanistan right now. May God help them, and the Afghani women and children.~d
Patronized by our inferiors Elitists compromised by their behaviors Say don’t you know the bacha bazi “Dancing” little boys raped by Afghan “allies” So we could stay spending our dollars On defense contractors greasing legislators To turn a blind eye to “indigenous customs” Children enslaved to cowards “Allies” rebranded as refugees To soil the land with fresh blood of their victims Here in the streets where Harley-Davidsons Ride on the winds of freedom from oppression. Let the monsters stay with the warlords of Pakistan Or Qatar, or UAE with CCP camps of Uyghurs Don’t let the elitists tell you “better.”
The scirocco blew in our second day in Trieste. We sheltered from the blood rain in an old church. How long? Joan asked. ‘The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind.’ Not my favorite. Hurrah for May 17th, 1966! ‘Judas!’ a voice yelled from the crowd that day when Bob switched from folk songs to electric guitar. But that year, he wrote my favorite, today anyway. I watched her cradle her sleeping baby. He wrote it when his eldest son was born. It was released on June 22, 1979. A single. “Forever Young.” We looked out. The rain had stopped.
Lisa at dVerse Poetics: One True Sentence writes: “Your challenge today, should you choose to accept it, is to pick ONE of Hemingway’s quotes to be inspired by and write a poem. Do NOT use the quote in your poem, but please do include the quote on your post page somewhere, with Hemingway’s name as the source of inspiration. For bonus points, please say a few words about the experience of writing to an idea from the mind of Papa Hemingway.” Channeling Hemingway was a fun challenge for dVerse: his abbreviated diction, especially in dialogue, the unsaid reflected in the landscape as much as in the pools of silence surrounding a character. Click on Mr. Linky and join in!
‘It’s gone the way the mist is burned off the hollows in broken ground when the sun comes out,’ the Colonel said. ‘And you’re the sun.’ – Ernest Hemingway, Across the River and into the Trees (1950)