(A doggerel in the voice of a cantankerous correspondent; Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt #197 using the word “call” in a prose or poem of exactly 41 words.)
I called, you missed it That’s just the short of it I won’t pitch a fit We’ll just call it quits Before another snit No love lost, not a bit Been looking for an exit ICYMI: in case you missed it.
I am not averse to reimaginations Given you walked out of my conversation As a noetic effect of its distillation
I am not chained to inharmonious juxtapositions When salubrious angels gather in celebration Of a desire prayed and given manifestation
I am simply thankful for your gravitation Towards me, bindingly, irradiate sub-atomic fusion Where once I envisioned only solitary annihilation
Yet this I wonder, and this in never-ending fascination How in moments your eyes gray meet my brown it’s recreation Of a space-time-matter continuum of conflagration
Please no histrionics at the dinner table Wait till we’re on a flight to Tahiti Maybe the opera house in Sydney, The Tower of London with Yeoman Warders, On River Street in Savannah, Georgia, Somewhere in Portland or Philadelphia, Just wait till I finish my dinner in peace.
Genre: Poetry
Word count: 100
written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers
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No Lycidas are you, my son, no watery bier nor desert grave holds you. But in the crisp of autumn air, your countenance lights a distant town, another’s home a place where you from me remain. Yet I wonder, pray one day I’ll see you striding back to see me here; that one day that old mailbox will find you on a daily chore or whether the woods beyond will gape to hear your lusty songs of praise to the God of miracles and a Son who freeing the soul from evil design heals faultless the sutures of the mind.
I could feel her soft, wrinkled hand tightening on mine. I don’t know how long we stood before she finally spoke.
“I was looking out that window over the sign. I saw your grandfather’s mother kill mine. Just because she wasn’t the same color. It’s been seventy years now. It feels like just yesterday.”
I got my tongue working. “Grandma, how could you marry him?”
She turned, soft brown eyes wet with tears. “It wasn’t easy but love won. Hate lost. You’ll be going off to college soon. You won’t forget that, will you?”
word count: 100
written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers
click on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields's hand-drawing of the frog
for more tales of a hundred words or less.
And join the fun!
Common-Place or “Locus Communis” — a place to remember
Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542) died before he reached forty: a man of double lives, he was an English courtier and diplomat during the reign of Henry VIII, by whom he was imprisoned twice in the Tower of London but managed to escape execution both times. He was infamous as a rumored lover of one of the king’s many wives (Anne Boleyn) but also famous for introducing the sonnet form into English literature.
The following sonnet could be interpreted in two different ways: either the speaker must renounce his love out of fealty to his wife (Wyatt was married) or he must flee his love out of fear of the king. Either way, unattainable love is the cause of the poet’s lasting pain and his heart must go into hiding.
Portrait of Sir Thomas Wyatt by Hans Holbein the Younger
The Long Love that in my Thought doth Harbour Sir Thomas Wyatt
The longë love that in my thought doth harbour And in mine hert doth keep his residence, Into my face presseth with bold pretence And therein campeth, spreading his banner. She that me learneth to love and suffer And will that my trust and lustës negligence Be rayned by reason, shame, and reverence, With his hardiness taketh displeasure. Wherewithall unto the hert’s forest he fleeth, Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry, And there him hideth and not appeareth. What may I do when my master feareth But in the field with him to live and die? For good is the life ending faithfully.
If in all the world I could trust just you
To forever keep a promise or two
I’d give my soul to you, my dear,
With many a kiss and nary a fear
Believing your promises were safe and true
And I had nothing to fear from you.
I’ve been on the edge of “original” all my life,
she said, reaching for the top shelf in the grocer’s aisle,
and teetering on her toes, tips of her fingers on the jam
she hoped to coax forward but pushed further back;
still probing, she continued to ruminate long-
windedly while His gaze receded farther from her
who held her origin in His heart which alone knew
who she was apart from the jam, the cart, the grocer’s
aisle while she strained in pursuit of a receding jar
leaving behind uniqueness in the receding Light.