In the Pink

Azalea

Profusion of pink

Distant memory of spring

As summer’s gold wanes

For Cee's FOTD, September 7, 2021:See the gorgeous red zinnias on Cee's 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."  

Now I Know

Photo by Merlin lightpainting from Pexels

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.

Letter from the Past

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 prompt and 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?”

PHOTO PROMPT© Lisa Fox

River’s Bend

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)

Continue reading “River’s Bend”

It’s Nothing (Trimeric)

wallpapersafari

the teapot boiled
the cat began to whistle
the man bolted out
the world began to tremble

the cat began to whistle
the pot was just a thought
it was never really there

the man bolted out
he was missing his body
he left his coat and hat

the world began to tremble
we turned the music up
nothing was hard to hear


I thought I’d try my hand at some absurdist poetry of the type popularized in the middle of the twentieth century as Grace at dVerse challenges us with a new poetry form: “Today’s poetry form is Trimeric (Trimeric \tri-(meh)-rik), which was invented by Charles A. Stone.

1. Trimeric has 4 stanzas
2. The first stanza has 4 lines
3. The other three stanzas have 3 lines each
4. The first line of each stanza is a refrain of the corresponding line in the first stanza (so 2nd stanza starts with the second line, third stanza starts with the third line, etc.).
5. The sequence of lines, then, is abcd, b – -, c – -, d – -.
Note: No other rules on line length, meter, or rhyme.
Click on Mr. Linky & join in!

Fear

Genre: Fiction
Word Count: 100

Fear

I’ve heard it said that a woman should never be afraid of her own life. Yet I am. Every day the crowd multiplies. I grow old. The room grows smaller. Am I to be buried alive? Not with grave dirt, but with ghosts. The more confined I, the more rampant they. What diabolical art is this, that the dead suck life out of those they abhor? My nights are theirs to engorge upon in hopeless pain, my days spit out remnants of their celebration. For as vines strangle and overgrown briars encroach, my ghosts encircle me. And I am afraid.


Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt. Eugi asks us to use any variation on the word prompt (“celebration”).

Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt (above, © Alicia Jamtaas) and limit our words to 100 or less. Click on the frog to read more stories and participate.

The Accidental Rose

Seeing a rose, I once said that we stand out like that, red on green, and you reply, tongue-in-cheek, you mean like an ambulance at 3 AM in a Mississippi swamp and I shut up, crushed, like you’d said we were an accident that had been waiting to happen, as if crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end, just a screeching of brakes, a clang of metal, the jolting of bones, and then the long drawn out police report and insurance claims, a ledger of rights and wrongs, and the spindrift pages in the moonlit night where my heart spills and the nightingale vies with a shrike impaled on a thorny bush that ought to have a bloom, a rose, while someone, no one, looks for a medic to resuscitate the dead in an ambulance at 3 AM.


For Cee's FOTD 
and dVerse's Prosery where Merril asks us to use a line from a Jo Harjo poem, “Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end,” to write a 144-word piece of prose. Click on Mr. Linky and join in!

Buggy Annals

image source – lovethispic.com

Nothing in you, nothing in me,
Nothing as far as eye can see
Nothing to say who made me,
Nothing makes itself plain to me
Nothing will be my guide and creed
No absolutes but what my thoughts decree
Ruler of my own destiny
Master of sky, land and sea
No limit to whatever desires mingle, set free
It’s all about me, from A to Z
I’m free to decide what’s best for me
What’s wrong for you may be right for me
Ask Mother Nature, what’s cruelty?
Evolution’s progress, look at me!
[SPLAT!]
– Last sounds of Nobigbug Butméé

PHOTO PROMPT © Miles Rost

Genre: Poetry
Word Count: 100

I’ve been rather under the weather lately but roused myself to participate in Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt. I’ve read many of the entries already and am inspired. Eugi asks us to use any variation on the top photo or the word prompt (“mingle”). Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt (above) and limit our words to 100 or less. Check them out!

Flower and Seed

flowers
from seeds, and seeds
from flowers, the ground tills
itself as the seasons
roll forward in
time’s span

the wind
cannot hold back
the changes, no matter
when changes make beauty
shine brighter in
being


Written in Badger Hexastitch (2-4-6-6-4-2) for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday (prompt: use synonyms for “life” and “move”);
photo challenge entry for Cee’s Flower of the Day (FOTD)

Hot Pursuit


Somewhere on this busy street the culprit Janus was hiding. The time of the assignation was near. If he didn’t show up with Janus in tow, he knew he was finished.

Suddenly a flash of orange streaked past the fish vendor. Diving through torsos and between legs, arms outstretched, crawling painfully on his knees, he caught the miscreant. The job was done.

****

He knocked on her door. When it opened, Janus leapt into her arms.

“Oh you darling!” She buried her face in the tabby’s fur. “He wasn’t any trouble, was he?”

Oh no!” he said, handing her the roses.

genre: fiction; word count: 100; Rochelle Wisoff-Fields kindly invites us to join the Friday Fictioneers in their weekly creative quests of a hundred words or less. Photo prompt © Roger Bultot. Click on the frog and join in!