(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
For dVerse's "Poetics:Look into my Eyes" Click on Mr. Linky and join in!
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.
Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt #181 word prompt: "histrionics"; word limit: 48
Genre: Poetry Word count: 100 written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers click on the friendly frog for more tales of a hundred words or less & join the fun!
Letter to No Lycidas
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?”
“Like the sign says, Grandma, ‘NOPE’!”
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!
I can’t see the stars
For too long.
They hurt my eyes with longing
For the unseen.
I can’t see the people
For too long.
They hurt my eyes with longing
For what could have been.
Long years built walls and ceilings
Dressed-up plaster neighbors
Who do not hurt or rob me
Arcana to surround me
Where blue skies cannot spurn.
But somewhere in the concrete
My hardened heart lies buried.
No tender arms will hold me
No twilight rays enfold me
In twinkling eyes of love
And I can’t see the stars.
word count: 94
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.
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.
DailyPostPrompt: original
Things can fall apart so fast
Entropy is the law of the land
But when you come and pick me up
I know I can rebuild.
Bits of life flake away
As I go through each day
Little deaths along the way
But with you, I can rebuild.
Eternal God, you never leave
Though willfully I’ve torn apart
The life that you have given me
In Christ you help me to rebuild.
Now with thankful hope I pray
And think upon that glorious day
When in heaven I’ll rejoice and say
O God, you helped me to rebuild.
DailyPostPrompt: Rebuild
