Canoop! the sound of your loop-tee-do Enough! the slough of your despondency Wooditch! the whinge of your panicky The meteor’s coming ‘ere election day!
Cannip the conniption fit, buddit the funk Swallow the glut of slubbish bilocracy Gnash, says the prophet Neal deGrasse Tyson, we’ll die in a blaze ‘ere election eve!
O Meteor of space! O Deliverer of grace! You’ll spare us, ‘ere you dare us, with crater Dustiferous, injurious, deleterious bringer Of sweltering doom ‘ere we galood election gloom!
Come the third of November, we’ll never remember Who’s Harris, Who’s Donald, What’s Joe Biden hidin’? We won’t know a thing when the meteor’s oncomin’ O’er helter-election-welter, combustin’ election eve!
I thought I’d write this quadrille (prompt word “magnet”) in anticipation of Halloween with its cornucopia of bat wings and eerie skeletal thrills. Quadrille Monday at dVerse limits each offering to 44 words, so be warned!
She walks in a drysalter’s den wearing death, her subfusc, scattering acedia’s magnetic coils, like iron filings shot hard against fate’s blind eyes, their littoral currents crashing against her noon day commerce of herbs, bone dust, pharmacopeia, against concinnity escaping fruitless desire, skulking caitiff.
When I saw the “a vendre” sign, I had to have it! Carolyn would have understood. Her pink Cadillac had been a hand-me down from her sister who’d made a name for herself in Mary Kay sales. Carolyn drove the flashy pink Cadillac just to shock her preacher and her co-parishioners. To them, being too enthusiastic about God was just as vulgar as driving a pink car! But people like me who looked like they didn’t belong in a Manhattan church understood. Now as a missionary, I knew I had to spend my last dime on this welcoming pink boat!
Word count: 100
written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers
click on the pink frog for more tales of a hundred words or less
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It’s “Meeting the Bar” at dVerse, where Bjorn asks us to use the autocomplete function in Google to generate lists that transport us to imaginative poetic heights. Check them out by clicking Mr. Linky and join in!
I began with typing in “Give me” as a search term which led me down rabbit holes ending with typing in “silence” midway, trying to find my way out of the dark wood in which I’d ended. Beware Google.
Give me one reason, sister silence,
give me directions home, oh sister do you hear?
give me the time of day a nightingale sings
Silent bays, skies, silent rage and silent lambsmust sit on silent hills, searching Google in ThraceSatyr Silenus, do you hear, your drunken nightsby Dionysus's side have all led you to make a kingturn a daughter's flesh to gold, oh, oh, oh!
Give me liberty sits enthroned, untutored,
give me love lyrics for dirty ears, Alexa!
ask tongueless Philomela, oh sister hear!
"inappropriate predictions" don't you think?
Google, show me the severed head of Itys unmourned
unseen, "I'm feeling lucky," tereu, tereu
Non, silento! Basta! Enough! Give me loveI don't need the win, just directionshome
from here to there. Give me Jesus. Please.
Today’s prompt on dVerse Poetics, “You Want It Darker,” is courtesy of Lucy who asks us to “write a poem about the transient notion of life to death, or topics germane to the theme. With a twist.” The twist is to write a ballad that “will/can include dark, gothic themes and imagery . . . . It’s October and we’re looking for some dark poetry, publies.”
I’ve taken as inspiration a painting by Polish artist Zdzisław Beksiński who once said, “What matters is what appears in your soul, not what your eyes see and what you can name.”
between October’s mists my ring on your finger your fingers in her hair my heart consumes fire
wonders casual causality between your white-rowed teeth her crimson, wet-bladed lips crimes hallowed like wine
when the moon fell from the sky on a common day of sepia-tints the ground bled red nightmares rode split tree trunks
into a necropolis of fears where decayed hope breeds madness the food of the gods
where desires feign love where mirrors that were eyes open silently bend inward and scream
till I wake
For more on Zdzisław Beksiński's paintings, click here.
Click Mr. Linky for more poems and join in.
She came sailing in — foxgloves in murder digitalis shape-shifters in book-covered heat an Austen novel in her head pharmacopœia of bottled lust in everyone else’s closet Gothic unholstered in a room of Macbeths unshriven, exhumed desire — sailing in, lighting torches blanketed fire, lavender swan.
The late heather blooms In wild array, scent chill fogs Fall’s breeze, through mists, bogs Take hold of moors, mount the heights, Stay, watch summer’s sweet demise.
Image attribution: wikipedia
Written for Jude's The Saturday Symphony #13:"Rhythm of Autumn"
-- Let us go retro this week and share a thought on the season, with rhyme and flow.Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt: Using the word "Heather" write prose or poem in exactly 27 words
When summer’s twilight warmed the Moongate Garden, soft breezes lit twin fires, feldspar and quartz, in rose granite, and my hand trembled as you entered through the gate of half-moons. Water circled, a calm pool, and the soft blush of the lotus laid bare my heart.
Nothing was yet forbidden. The trees shielded us even to their own gaze, their leafy whispers mingling with ours, their shadows lengthening over ours. Darkness, insatiate, spun round the breathless earth.
came the harvest moon trapped in the water’s cold eye ever by your tomb