Writing 201 – Ballad/Assonance – Dog Man 

Ballad Meter – a  line of iambic tetrameter followed by a line iambic triameter with an abab rhyme scheme

The  door it creaks as it opens wide;

Come out, and leave, come out.

I hear him now, I see outside;

Behind you, peer, shout-out, he’s here.

He walks the halls, children forgot,

In derelict buildings;

His dogs’ follow him to the spot, 

His company, their thriving.

He has a scruffy beard and bag;

His dogs trail him content,

He gathers the bottles, while all tails wag;

Maybe a treat is sent;

He’s a curious gruff man, he gives,

What he can, and his dogs,

Are family, for them he lives,

And he walks through the fog,

It’s his favourite time of day,

When the suns early in sky,

And he can hardly see through grey,

He’s so happy, alive. 

And he’s giving little kisses,

To his valiant furry pets;

They return his love with wishes,

Of warmth, a place, no regrets;

This serene man just wants to live,

His day, let his dogs play, 

Providing for canines, he shouts. 

The walk is fin, away, 

A gentleman of a harsh life;

Not alone, known by all here,

He is content, with strife;

Afflicted by poverty’s sear, 

He is the man we all know well,

The one we’ll never know. 

Not content for our disdain, well, 

He leaves before it snows. 

Sunday Photo Fiction: Inside the Hill

There is this ugly hill that I peer out at whenever I look out my bedroom window. What tectonic activity put it there a millennia ago accidentally made this hill ghastly and abhorrent to my senses. 

The mountains and hills that are farther away, now they are something to look at. Gigantic rocks jutting out of the earth, elephant grey, white drifts of snow, pine trees, and treacherous cliffs where mountain goats cling to. There, I am free. 

I really don’t mind the hill itself.  I don’t hate it because it’s located where it is or because it’s boring to look at. I hate it for what’s buried in the hill – –  my husbands, numbers one, two, and three. Number four has it coming it’s only a matter of time. I look over at Charlie softly snoring away beside me on the bed. He’ll never see it before it’s too late. 

That loathsome hill, I can’t face what’s buried there. Their voices rise up to me when I sleep, condemning me, a black widow. But how can I disagree with the truth, I can only hate the hill. 

Thanks to  Alistair Forbes for hosting! 

Writing 201 – Found Poetry/Chaismus –  Saving Face 

(The following is taken from Facebook posts and my own words)

Hysatirical, I laughed out loud; this is what courage looks like, not this  face it. 

I was invigorated today as I seemed to fly over and down the mountain face, what a perfect time to stop and reflect on the gifts in my life.

Wearing the cosiest sweater, my pal Lemon stripes introduced me to it and I rub my skin softly against it, it whispers cashmere on my face. 

For safety’s sake, travel in pairs; when you’re stressed float awhile; it doesn’t make sense to hire smart people and tell them what to do; we hire smart people so they can tell us what to do (some face saving advice from Noah’s Ark and the late Steve Jobs!)

None of us is getting out of here alive, so please  stop treating yourself like an after thought; you are the beauty of your face and your face makes you beautiful; be silly, be kind, be weird. There’s no time for anything else.

I am stressing about saving face for absolutely no logical reason; the kids living in today’s world  will never know this struggle.

The weapons that make us super heroes, just when you thought you’d seen it all, you haven’t seen it all because we have to face facts — you can’t really have faced it all.

On Friday, the First Day of advanced pills, 850 000 people voted — that’s a 90 % increase from 2008; they did it so can you, show your face go out and vote!!

Some people create their own storms, we have too much to be thankful for; is your soap doing you more harm then good? Face every challenge with grace, grace will help you face every challenge. 

You felt he was better just because he gave you more. But he had two- hundred dollars, and all I had was ten. A river cuts through rock not because of it’s power but because of it’s persistence; when you go to face the world do not worry about how much power you have allotted be persistent and give generously. 

Writing 201 – Paradise Lost – The Fall of Man 

So saying, her rash hand in evil hour

Forth reaching to the Fruit, she pluck’d, she eat

Earth felt the wound; and Nature from her seat

Sighing through all her Works gave signs of woe,

That all was lost. Back to the Thicket slunk

The guiltie Serpent, and well might;for Eve

Intent now wholly on her taste, nought else

Regarded; such delight till then, as seemed

In fruit she never tasted, whether true

Or fancied so, through expectation high

Of knowledge; nor was Godhead from her thought

Greedily she ingorged without restraint

And knew not eating death: Satiate at length

And hight’nd as with wine, jocund and boon,

Thus to herself she pleasingly began,

When I first studied Paradise Lost by John Milton, I hated in first year university. But when I took a course on Renaissance literature in my fourth year, I loved it. It’s an amazing piece of work, an epic, but also with fantastic poetry. I love these lines where Eve plucked and ate the fruit off the forbidden tree in the garden of Edan. Adam later follows suite and eats the fruit as well. Did God create us knowing that man would fall? Yes, but he still created us, created us with free will. And even though Adam and Eve did the one thing God asked them not to do, he loved them enough to send a saviour one day. 

Literary Lion: Sun and Water

The sun is high in the sky when I awake. A summer sun that leaves you aching for days on the lake, houseboating, cabins, and beaches. I arise with tanned skin from my days vacationing here. Sylvan Lake is a wonderful little place in Alberta. It’s a place that crawls with locals and tourists when the sun first hits it and warms the temperature to a toasty twenty-six degrees celsius in June. The hotter it becomes the more people who roam here. They sit on the grass by the lake, young people in bikini’s and boarder shorts. Also, families with little kids running around and eating the famous ice cream. It melts down their bare torsos in rivulets of color, whatever crazy flavour the kid chose– tiger or bubblegum maybe.

I am neither those young people anymore, nor am I a family. I am somewhere in-between. Young but not college age anymore. I came with a couple of friends and we haven’t been here in years, since those days of campus shenanigans. We are lying on towels on the grass and the sun beats down on us, thirty-five degrees celsius. It’s a hot one today. My pale skin is red from the rays that beat down on me. I never notice sunburn until it is too late. But at least I noticed soon enough that I won’t have blisters or second degree burns such as I had as an eight-year–old in the Okanogan.

I put on my shirt so my shoulders won’t burn anymore and walk out into the lake water which is lukewarm. I walk until my hair goes under. Then  I float gently in the water as the sun hits the afternoon crowd with its rays. Kids are floating on little rafts and blow up crocodiles. I hate the lake but it is a balm to my sun burn. I hate the things that live beneath its watery veil. The fish and God knows what else.

I’m out pretty far out in the lake when something pulls on my leg. I swim towards shore but the thing keeps pulling at me. I am closer to shore and swimming faster than I’ve ever swum. My skins aches from the burn of the sun underneath my t-shirt. Then I’m pulled under the water, again, and again. I’m yelling and screaming, but my friends just wave. They cannot hear me. And then I’m pulled down to the depths of the lake. I’ll never see the sun again, the water was my fate.

Thanks to I Smith Words for the prompt sun.

Poem: You

Remember me? I haven’t gone much of anywhere.

I told you I was in my own world, I didn’t mean it.

The things we say that have no meaning, that are taken literally, too literally.

Remember me? You use to stare and we’d wave at each other.

I remember only liking you, no one else would ever do.

It took too long to get over you, and now you’re just a fragment;

Of those crazy years past by long ago, when we were young and barely adult.

When passing tests and writing papers were big deal breakers; 

And some student’s cried when they realized they couldn’t make the mark,

But that was not me or you, and I’m not writing this to moan about what could have been.

I knew you’d be great, find your niche, you are a charmer, that personality spreads like butter. 

Now, I am here and you would never recognize me, at least I hope you wouldn’t 

But I am me, no matter my size, and I live such a different life.

I don’t think we’ve ever connected, I was just a stopping place on your road of life.

Remember me? Never do. I am looking ahead; and I’ve brought with me all the past I need. 

They are here; not you. 

Writing 201 – Ode/Metaphor – Promised Land

To praise the softness of your skin would be a noble pleasure.

But the mounds of muscles that anchor on your chest are a struggle of roads and paths that make skin so soft, hard underneath.

You are a safety haven, a place that I call home, you are the soldier of the open road coming back to me.

And I travel down the pathway of your arms and pause a moment at the roads of muscle, my fingertips on your back.

I stop a moment at the nape of your neck and kiss a trail up to your earlobe and suck on it, an apple from the tree knowledge.

Running my fingers through your hair, the tug and pull is aimless, it smells like citrus, wood, and a place I call my own.

Your lips are a valley I often travel, the palace of a kingdom; a warm and wet holiday in a place of intense hot weather.

Your eyes are the blue that see through me, they reflect, and they are a mirror; they make me feel I am a jewel, the most precious of all stones.

But deep inside your heart beats and your soul is a hungry vessel; I know the dangers of this journey, of here there could be peril.

You are a map to the hidden kingdom, and I am the only one who knows the way – you are my soul and my heartbreaker, my own promised land.

Writing 201- Limerick/Enjambment – Judged Imperfect

Rhyme Scheme: aabba

If you tell me why people love 

Each other; You’d have to agree it’s a blessing from above 

Because people are imperfect and their flaws are

Visible enticements on why you should stay far

Away from them even if the gloves 

Are off; and you’ve seen someone for who they really appear to be. 

Because nothing is worse then knowing a person and then realizing there not who you see

They are a liar, a stealer of your time

And a cheater of your ideal, what a crime

That you shouldn’t be allowed to know someone and that they should be

See – through, completely visible to you and should inspire a thought

If they are imperfect and to be stripped of there shield then why not you – ought

You imperfect person, judging others

When you should act as brothers

And perfection should never be sought.

Writing 201 – prose/internal rhyme – Oranges and Napes

You love the smell of oranges. That sweet tangy delicious citrus flavour; it’s something to savour. You peel off an oranges thick pebbled skin and reveal the oval shaped raw fruit within; oranges remind you of summer scrapped  from spring’s cold paw. Summer is a season with no reason if you can believe. Sometimes it just rains and it’s a pain but the farmer’s need it for harvest. There are a variety of skins that fruit and vegetables hide in. Squash is orange with blemishes; and egg plant purple and posh;peaches have a fuzzy skin. You love eating peaches it’s such a sin. Or maybe it’s baking them into a crisp; there’s also cherries — black, dark red — swallowing their pits is a risk; and baby carrots that are nubby, you need to wash them with a little scrubbing. 

There are all kinds of skin, but the most delicate skin is human. Think of baby thighs and tummies – the most precious skin of all. Or the skin at the nape of your neck; that spot is hot, with a thousand sensory spots which a man can follow playing connect the dot and make a shape. But then you are reminded, you are in the kitchen peeling off orange skin while his lips graze your neck ending with a feeling filled peck. You’re at a loss  as you eat your orange slices thinking of vices and lips at your nape when he leaned over you whispering words you never suspected. 

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers  – The Opera House

Maggie was to attend her favourite singer in concert at the opera house. The old theatre was a bit of a frightening place.  The chairs were red, an aged patina, with stuffing falling out. Sound amplified in a strange way in the old opera house, and one could hear the whispers of voices, of bygone  performers whenever the crowd went quiet waiting for the modern day songstress to belt out her next song. At the end of the concert, the theatre emptied rapidly until Maggie found herself alone, drawn to the deserted stage. Maggie traced the edge of the stage and when she looked up the opera house had altered. 

Maggie opened her eyes to see the ancient theatre in all it’s splendid glory of luxurious newness. She was wearing a flapper dress and headband and the seats were filled with woman and men dressed in their best from the same 1920’s era. Maggie approached the stage, they were all clapping for her, the newest soul to be claimed by the haunted world of the old opera house. Doomed to spend eternity reliving the concerts that had taken place in this once opulent place. 

The police found her lying dead on the stage the next morning.

Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting!