Tale Weavers/Saturday Mix: Poem – Free Verse – “Snuffed Out” #amwriting #poetry #TaleWeavers #SaturdayMix


Thanks to Michael of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting TaleWeavers and a prompt/theme where light is the focus. Also, combining with Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie May 12, 2018 Double Take Saturday Mix Prompt on the homophone words: cedar – an evergreen tree with seeder – one who broadcasts seeds, and days – more than one day with daze – to bewilder.


Credit: Samantha Lynch via Unsplash


I’ll never trace the curve of your lips,

Where it dips, and lick my thumb;

Your nip, a playful bite.

Your brows wiggle; eyes sapphire.

While we slide past maybes,

Sleek condos and greenery;

Cedar trees that sway,

A seed in my heart nourished.

Sharp grass intoxicating —

You claiming my mouth;

Sweeping of lips,

Slow and exquisite.

Sweat makes us stick.

I ache as I’ve never.

Your hand rests ‘neath my throat,

My pulse rapid and wild.

You’ve etched my heart,

I’ll never forget.

The wind rustling, and the flapping of wings,

Our breath in syncopation.

Fighting for air against —

Little deaths.

In a moment, a few minutes,

On a train—

Where we two met.

Potential flared; I turned —

Flustered.

The pain in my chest,

Will it lessen?

Dazed as the days drift,

I didn’t know your name.

Know the flame you kindled,

Would burn me.

My hearts lit with your light,

But the mischief in me,

Craves you both in deepest night,

And the blinding day;

Beneath the Mexican sun,

On tequila beaches.

Daylight to overwhelm,

The throb of pain,

Of possibility snuffed out.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

Three Line Tales: Fiction – Alice the Ballerina #amwriting #fiction #3LineTales


Thanks to Sonya of Only 100 Words for hosting #3LineTales.


Credit: Kyle Head via Unsplash


Alone as daylight touches the morning sky, Alice escapes to her Wonderland — a private dance studio in the darkness; a dank car-pass off a dust-filled road where cars no longer drive. Now, it’s the place that stains her silken shoes with grime, and its musty interior makes her pulse skip and flutter. Alice’s limbs are fluid and precise as her body contorts, and her timing and rhythm are in-sync as the white-rabbit claps his paws; Alice bows.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Notable Quotes: May 2018 Part One – Alice in Wonderland Themed #pinterest #quotes #notablequotes


Welcome to Notable Quotes May 2018 Part One. Hope you all had a wonderful day with your mothers or honoring and remembering them and their influence in your life.


My family took my Grandma for an early lunch at a restaurant. Her seniors residence was close to it, and it was a beautiful day to wheel her out in the warm weather and to have us all to visit.

Even both my brothers made it. Grandma had a small pizza, salad, and a Diet Pepsi. To you and I this seems like a normal take-our or eat-in meal, but menus in seniors homes don’t vary, so regular fare such as this, is a treat for Grandma. We picked her out a new outfit too. She misses shopping, and such as the food, the same clothes each week, all the time, can become boring.

We try to buy and find her things that make her place more homey and comfortable. So, she can still be her and feel herself, even though she has lost a great deal of control in life.

After, we brought grandma back to for her nap, we all went home for cake. It was my Dad’s 61st bday yesterday, as well. My brother purchased the gift and presented it all balled-up to my Dad. He’s not much for wrapping but, he did buy the gift this round. So, it evens out.

Dad is a runner and N bought him some socks for that and other athletic pursuits, and a new run shirt. I did tell him to pick-up a gift bag, but I think he ignored that part of the conversation.

Enjoy the quotes! They’re Alice and Wonderland themed! I think last month I had a post of the same theme, but these quotes are different ones. Some with neat illustrations.


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©Mamdibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 21/Sunday Writing: Poem – Wrapped Refrain (1) – “The Unmaking of A Dream” #amwriting #poetry #mythology #MLMM


For Day 21 of NaPoWriMo the prompt is: “based on the myth of Narcissus. After reading the myth, try writing a poem that plays with the myth in some way.”

Combining with MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie’s Sunday Writing Prompt based on the title The Unmaking of A Dream.


Credit: MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie


Narcissist so loved himself first,

Blond hair, chiseled jaw, self-love burst.

Down by the pool, his special place —

He dreams of his attractive face.

He can’t find one person with grace–

Enough to see, they’re not on par.

He’s been granted magnificence; his looks they compel,

Admiration from men and women; he loves but himself.

*****

Liriope his mother so gorgeous,

Son of river god, Cephisesus.

Brave hunter disdainful of love,

To proud to care for anyone.

Such was his vainness, he upset —

Nemesis; doesn’t regret —

His reflection, his greatest lust; adrift selfish and vain,

He resents sweet Echo’s presence, her heart aching, her pain.

*****

Some say the nymph she dwindled,

Echo Narcisse’s swindled.

“Leave me alone,” his haughty —

Tone made her stomach squirm, distraught.

She begged, she blathered, she touched him;

But he threw off her hands, voice grim,

She echoed his words; he was entranced in his visage;

No mirror, but a pool’s reflection made Echo livid.

*****

No, the rude hunter did not fade,

Nor waste away with longing gaze.

Echo did not wander until her —

Melodic voice was gone — unheard.

Stomping her foot in anger’s blaze,

She clutched Narcisse’s Hair enraged;

Drowning him in love-lorn grief; a pool of dreams his final grave,

Nemesis concurred, the hunter was best dead; self-love decayed.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 22/Tale Weavers: Poem – Blitz – “The Thirteenth Hour (Dim of Chase)” #poetry #amwriting #TaleWeavers #MLMM


For NaPoWriMo Day 22 the Prompt is: ” to take one of the following statements of something impossible, and then write a poem in which the impossible thing happens: ‘The clock can’t strike thirteen.‘”

I’m combining with Michael from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver Prompt #166 on the theme of “exploring the sensations of being lost, not knowing where you are and realizing you are wandering aimlessly. How and/or who do you ask for help?”


Credit: Mara Eastern. Used with Permission for MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie.


The clock can’t strike thirteen

Thirteens the witching hour dim

Dim as the black soundless night

Dim as every street’s the same

Same as the last and same as the next

Same figures leering in an unfathomable maze

Maze where I don’t know where here is

Maze where each turn is the wrong way

Way down cobblestone paths

Way down roads with naught but silence

Silence without comfort

Silence that hastens quivering

Quivering and deciding to go back

Quivering as I wander in circles

Circles towards the same stuccoed shops

Circles to windows with signs reading, “Closed”

Closed as midnight has long passed chimed

Closed no matter my banging on houses

Houses red-bricked, idyllic in day

House white-fenced unhearing of strangers

Strangers as I, but I am no harm

Strangers as they who follow and whisper

Whisper that I’m lost and cannot escape

Whisper of this hours unholiness

Unholiness as the demons mock my steps

Unholiness as the graveyard headstones crack

Crack as stones splits with moaning

Crack as hands reach, bloodied and fragile

Fragile as my skin sweating and chilled

Fragile as heels broken — left in bare-feet

Bare-feet blackened from putrid streets

Bare-feet cut by pebbles with each step

Step here, step there, no where leads home

Step into the inescapable hour trapped

Trapped as the chants drew me far

Trapped as I bewitched scampered

Scampered away from the party’s delights

Scampered into the sudden mist further

Further into the labyrinth, a sweet dream in daylight

Further into the hour my grandmother warned

Warned of those of dark intent who wander

Warned of the hour so few remember

Remember the creatures who frighten

Remember the creatures who chase

Chase in the thirteenth hour’s delusions

Chase me, knowing I knew better

Better despite my heart’s rapid fluttering

Delusions fade, a light burns — the wicked-hour passes


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 20/Tale Weavers: Poem – Free Verse – “Ember of Glory” #amwriting #poetry #MLMM #TaleWeavers


For #NaPoWriMo Day 20 the Prompt is: ” to write a poem that involves rebellion in some way. The speaker or subject of the poem could defy a rule or structure that’s been placed on them, or the poem could begin by obeying a rule and then proceed to break it.

Also, combining with Michael from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie TaleWeavers Prompt “exploring the concept of longing. What is it you long for? Health, holiday, freedom, love, understanding, acceptance.”


Credit: Robert Lukeman via Unsplash


These cubicles, they’re full —

But outside there’s fresh -air and freedom.

A world to explore, to engage to the core,

Outside these thin walls is liberty.

No more work burdens to bear,

So, the mountains and city steps I’ll climb.

And these cubicles, I’ll slice them full of holes,

Tacking up scenic pictures to inspire my soul.

Nature’s vibrant purple-skies as storms roll in,

Waterfalls that crash, and streams that gurgle.

Cars that absorb the grind of the rocky-road,

Spring zipping through the highways on four-wheels.

All in all, I’m forlorn, for the wide-great outdoors,

Scented pine-needles and decaying earth.

Wings of bubble-bees as they hit the breeze,

And flutter into pale-pink roses.

I’ll knock down these walls with hammers and saws,

Because no architect supposed workers crave sunlight.

No builder thought windows were essential to breathe,

That these gray walls, dense recycled air —

Aren’t places for humans to exist;

To flourish and grow, to be creative and problem-solve.

They’re the prisons where we labor to earn —

The visage of sunlight on rippling waters.

Oceans crashing against rocks —

The flow of rivers down the banks,

And the hustle of people as they swarm live-festivals,

Scamper for cool beer and watermelon.

When we peer to the ceiling, we’re searching for the sky,

So, you can call security, but either way, I’m escaping.

The green-grass is sweet and calling to me;

My heart beats for the tides’ ankle-deep caress.

And a tangerine sunset, it lives inside me,

The ember of glory that leads the way,

Through the dull-dread of each dreary workday.


©Mandibelle16. (2018).All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 16/ Tale Weavers: Poem – Bop – “Snake Oil Please” #poetry #amwriting #taleweavers #MLMM


For NaPoWriMo Day 16 the Prompt is: “to write a poem that prominently features the idea of play.” I’m combining with Michael from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver Prompt about Making Sense of Nonsense in which Adder’s Milk Snake Oil is the focus.

—–

Credit: MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie

—-

Genuine Snake oil

Guaranteed Cure-All

Rub it in, take a spoonful each morning,

Infuse it in your tea.

Guaranteed Success and Instant Relief of all and any disease you might have.

——

Snake oil how absurd; think it will me cure?

Ma, can I go outside, do you concur?

Must I remain in bed? Same old card games;

I’ve played Spades each day, now I long for rain.

To jump in puddles, to soak myself wet,

Not to cough, wheeze — I hear snake oil’s the best.

It can heal the deepest wounds and relieve —

My greatest foes, both my lungs that less breathe;

Each and every day, my breath it thickens,

Other cures you give, they’re all pain ridden.

I want to go outside, play marbles and run,

Fast and hard, race the other boys for fun.

Let me free to shoot cans, snake oil can do that;

It will let me live my dreams at last.

Mom, do you hear me? Boil it in my tea.

Rub it on my chest, the soles of my feet.

I’ll no longer cough-up red, then I’ll soar;

My devotions are all read, so I implore.

Just pour it down my throat, then I’ll breathe,

Fresh spearmint air; snake oil for me, please.

—-

©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Day 15 #NaPoWriMo/ Saturday Mix: Poem – Triquin Chain – “She’s A Witch” #amwriting #SaturdayMix #poetry


For Day 15 NaPoWriMo the Prompt is: “writing a poem in which a villain faces an unfortunate situation, and is revealed to be human (but still evil).” I’m combining with Sarah of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie ‘s Saturday Mix Prompt on Triquains.

Triquain Chain

A string of 2 to 4 Triquains, a space between each triquain.

2 stanzas – 3, 6, 9, 12, 9, 6, 3 3, 6, 9, 12, 9, 6, 3

3 stanzas – 3, 6, 9, 12, 9, 6, 3 3, 6, 9, 12, 9, 6, 3 3, 6, 9, 12, 9, 6, 3

4 stanzas – 3, 6, 9, 12, 9, 6, 3 3, 6, 9, 12, 9, 6, 3 3, 6, 9, 12, 9, 6, 3 3, 6, 9, 12, 9, 6, 3

—-

Credit:Lucas Sanky via Unsplash

—-

She’s a witch,

She burns and she twitches.

Fire glows, sparks raise, burn high into morn.

She doesn’t feel, because she’s real; she burns all day.

Clergy stoke fire, she doesn’t expire;

The rabble wish her pain —

She’s a witch.

But not finished her time,

For real spell-casters can’t be murdered.

They drowned her, she floated; they hung her, her neck snapped.

Then, when they untied her, she laughed;

Her neck clicked in place, her spine healed fast.

She’s a witch.

*****

She burns fields.

She’s not kind, far too real.

She misled children, gave everyone pox.

It wasn’t her plan, to be mean and vile –to kill;

But those ‘Holier-Than-Thou’ tortured —

Dismembered her family —

Powerless.

They untouched with dark arts.

And all those woman not real villains,

Masked in their veins wasn’t witchcraft or evil brews.

Perhaps, they were too pretty, too —

Wealthy; had much power.

Then, she flipped.

***

She’s truly —

A witch; they made her one.

They buried her alive, let her sink,

Chocking in the putrid river with their repulsive waste.

She’s seen the flesh on innocents burn crisp;

The crackle of their hair.

Tied as she,

On a pier, with hellfire;

To destroy her vengeance, her wrathful ways.

She’s evil, sins with peasants, priests, their hateful hearts.

Cursing their Lords, besieging her home;

Survives fire, lives to smite,

Twisted witch.

****

——–

©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 14/Sunday Photo Fiction: Poem – Italian – Sonnet – “Dream Wisps” #amwriting #poetry


For NaPoWriMo Day 14 the Prompt is: “to write entries for an imaginary dream dictionary. Pick one (or more) of the following words, and write about what it means to dream of these things: Teacup, Hammer, Seagull, Ballet slipper, Shark, Wobbly table, Dentist, and Rowboat. I’m combining with SPF hosted by Alistair Forbes.

—–

Credit: Alistair Forbes

—-

Teacup held in hand, she murmurs vespers,

Ballet slippers lifted, a child’s fond hopes —

A tutu twirled, spun, clouds that gleam and float.

She dreams of diving seagulls, their whispers,

Voices, sharp tongues drill; sharks with winged-flippers,

Sailors, those unafraid steering rowboats.

Hammerheads drift, they alter in remote,

Albatross’ signs of woe, slight wisps;

Reality and memories weave lost thoughts.

Wants, needs, and everything time forgotten,

Awaking to find the Albatross cawing.

As ethereal moments wake, warble —

Albatross unblinking, sailor he shoots;

He quakes and trembles within blackened boots.

—-

©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 12/Poet’s Pub: Poem – Haibun – “The Battle” #dVerse #poetry #amwriting


For NaPoWriMo Day 12, the Prompt is: to “write a haibun that takes in the natural landscape of the place you live. I have to my surprise, never written in this form, so here’s a definition from Haibun– Poets.org:


“Haibun is a poetic form that allows one to answer some of these questions while providing a fresh perspective through a lens that focuses on nature and landscape. Haibun combines a prose poem with a haiku. The haiku usually ends the poem as a sort of whispery and insightful postscript to the prose of the beginning of the poem. Another way of looking at the form is thinking of haibun as . . . a prose poem ending with a meaningful murmur of sorts: a haiku.”


Also, I’m combining with Paul Scribble’s #dVerse Poet’s Pub, poetic prompt on a quote about poetic arts. The two prompts fit together well.


To write about poetry is to believe that there are answers to some of the questions poets ask of their art, or at least that there are reasons for writing it, writes Michael Weigers, editor of the anthology This Art: Poems about Poetry (Copper Canyon Press, 2003).


Credit: FreeStocks.org via Unsplash


Past the ravine, the North Saskatchewan flows; ice on her surface where Spring’s murmuring waters compose. The snow floats, sheets of ice crack, confused, the rivers pull bursts through. Amidst howling winds and bitter nights of chill, Spring waltzes in with lilacs. But old-man winter berates with frost, slippery roads, broken sidewalks. Spring blossoms and explodes, to weave the buds that summon bees. Springs drugged words ignored, no lush greenery bursts. Leaves rot, the ice, the snow, the muck, the refuse mushed, derelict without Spring’s blossoms. She hums her tune, an heals Winter’s hacking cough; she pleads her assurance of poppy fields. The old-man shakes his fist with cantankerous growl — another ‘last’ snowstorm grits. The poet composes in metaphorical bliss, avoiding morn’s beams. The question of, “Why?” No matter. The question of, “How can I not?” Words that enthral.

*****

Sleep in poppy’s opium kiss,

Revel in sunlight’s verdant bliss;

Spring’s song; poet’s light.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.