#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.

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.

#NaPoWriMo Day 10/Photo Challenge: “Rabbit’s Play” #amwriting #poetry #photochallenge #MLMM


For Day 10 NaPoWriMo the Prompt is: to ” write a poem of simultaneity – in which multiple things are happing at once.” Also, thanks to NEKNEERAJ from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie.


Credit: Alpha Coders


You locked the door shut;

I threw away the key.

Door slamming, the house shook,

It wasn’t rejection —

Claws of tiger digging,

It wasn’t the ache spiralling,

A corkscrew in my clavicle.

It wasn’t fatigue,

The floating leaves crackling,

Fall’s sudden chill,

Winter’s stark sting.

Words uninviting,

But a spade is a spade;

Your kindness a shark,

Large teeth, tail flicking.

Lies the black stripes,

Safari orange fur —

Mangled with spite,

Hidden behind decency.

The beast maimed;

Honesty infringed.

No intelligible motives,

As teeth rip to shreds.

But she set herself up,

And a spade is a spade.

The true queen reigns,

Not in dungeon’s keep.

The lady in red,

On her pedestal;

Floats and crackles,

Autumn’s crisp maple leaves,

Ragged and torn.

You’re better than that?

But he’s not.

Obese — vile words,

A tiger disgusted.

A question —

I crept into the den,

He was offended,

And I was prey,

Amusing —

With no matter.

His last words, claw cuts–

Sinking inside deep,

Where my stomach turns.

The ruby sun rose,

Blood flowed and flowed.

All because I have no control —

Because I was not born,

Demure and petite;

He spurned my art,

Thus, spurned my chest.

Three-years younger,

He’s thirteen years too young —

Inside.

But I bated the beast,

Naturally, his teeth revealed.

Tiger perplexed,

Slinking back to the den.

His side gapes,

Licking his wounds;

No winning against him,

In this game —

Not his type.

Inside his ribs,

Fat where is soul should be —

Deceit.

He thinks he knows,

But he can’t envision.

He has judged,

Growling a retort.

She laughs,

The rabbit slips away.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 9/Saturday Mix: Poem – Free Verse – “Montage” #amwriting #SaturdayMix #poetry #MLMM


For NaPoWriMo Day 9 the Prompt is: “to write a poem in which something big and something small come together.” Also thanks to Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Saturday Mix March 24, 2018, with her Same but Different Theme,to take the five challengewords and NOT use them in your writing; to find a synonym for each word instead.” The words are: 1) Lie, 2) Dive, 3) Realize, 4) Pass, 5) Red.


Credit: Catherine McMahon


Falseness of sound,

Tears glisten as —

Mermaids parade into ocean’s curve.

Waves echoing, golden sand glints;

Resolve to know.

Deliberate without inhibition,

Sweep the sands, as tears forge waters;

A crimson sky blossoms,

The rose thorn drawing blood.

Recognize I not,

The void of your eyes glistening;

Hollowness resides.

Simmers through flesh;

Leaping through dawn,

As sailors are warned.

Salt water incites —

Saline tears, as the sea’s violent waves.

Tiny droplets recognize,

Pain doesn’t end.

Drops of wine,

Mineral lakes where all do float;

Nothing dissolves,

Fear of the giant montage.

A glistening gate —

A screenshot of life.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 8/100 Word Wednesdays: Poem – Quadrille – “The Apple Tree” #amwriting #poetry #100WordWednesdays


For Day 8 NaPoWriMo the prompt is: “write poems in which mysterious and magical things occur. Feel free to incorporate crystal balls, fauns, lightning storms, or whatever seems fierce and free and strange. Also, thanks to Bikurgurl for hosting #100WordWednesdays from March 14, 2018.


Credit: Annie Sprat via Unsplash


In our yard,

An apple tree,

Not forbidden.

Branches grafted,

Enchanted apples.

Not with poisons;

But, healing charm.

Our family left,

Apple’s retreated.

The new owner,

Destroyed innocent magic.

Now I know,

Why he’s cursed;

While in our garden

Nature’s verdant.

In haste,

Self-imposed drought,

His yard —

A desert weeping.


©Mandibelle16.(2017) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 5/ Three Line Tales: Poem – Haikus – “Garden Faeries Direct”#amwriting #poetry #3LineTales


For Day 5 NaPoWriMo, the Prompt is: “to write a poem beginning with a photo, and find a poem in a language you don’t know (here’s a good place to look!) Ignore any accompanying English and translate the poem into English, with the idea that the poem is “about” your photograph. Also, thanks to Sonya of Only 100 Words for hosting #3LineTales.


Credit: Vek Labs via Unsplash


“The Hand Writes on the Mind: An Arrow ” By Manuel Gusmão

*****

a mão escreve na mente: a flecha

que viaja no papel a rosa dos ventos:

a clave do sol; la clef des jardins;

a chave como um comboio de criança

passando num pátio com palmeira, entre

o crepúsculo branco e a manhã vermelha;

a cidade crescera como os arcos das ondas

ao encontro das aéreas construções das nuvens;

a meio caminho triângulos acesos ondeavam

e a terra recordava-se murmurante

das raízes das árvores eléctricas

em cujos ramos brilhavam os peixes

profundos.

Nem com setas habitarias tal pátria

e por isso as pões na pintura que delira

e desenhas uma fairy queen: um canto

árabe uma princesa árabe escrita em sarapilheira

e aureolada pelo napalm; a floresta em construção

multiplica a lua cheia pelas paliçadas lacustres;

os barcos navegam uma noite branca

que se ergue como um monte iluminado

por monstruosas flores irregulares

em cruz e em espiral à tua espera


Arrow tattooed, handwritten —

Indelible; fay unseen, these —

Wide-eyed pixies.

*****

Sun crests, arises while we —

Recline in the garden,

Crystal fleurs flourish. *****

Vermilion twilight’s spell cast,

Faeries amidst foliage dance,

Directions unknown.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 4/Tale Weavers: Poem – Free – Verse – “Infinite Fallibility”#amwriting #poetry #TaleWeavers


For Day 4 of NaPoWriMo the prompt is: “to write a poem that is about something abstract – perhaps an ideal like “beauty” or “justice,” but which discusses or describes that abstraction in the form of relentlessly concrete nouns. Adjectives are fine too!

I’m combining with Michael from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver #162 about an item of magic. To me, something that is ‘ideal,’ has a kind of magic.


Credit: Yuiizaa September via Unsplash


Helen of Troy,

Fairest woman.

The ideal as —

The poet Homer,

The Philosopher Plato’s ‘just’ society;

Yet, the word means,

Not enough;

Not,

Mr. Hawkins’ anomalies,

Nor Virgil’s Aeneid,

Leading Dante on the path —

Purgatory, Hades, and Paradiso.

Yet both were ideal teachers,

For Milton’s Paradise Lost.

Or, consider Coco Channel,

Sewing pockets,

In women’s suits,

Not for decoration,

A utility, women of old —

Weren’t given.

Or Cleopatra the seductress,

Survives Caesar and Marc Anthony;

Her beauty, their destruction; her death.

Or, Shakespeare’s plays,

Ideal comedies, with —

Brilliant histories and tragedies;

Satisfying Queen Elizabeth I’s whims.

And Beowulf’s writer,

Binding the need,

For heroic deeds, boasting —

Revenge and deeds as immortality.

Clashing with,

Holy Scriptures;

And the lone ideal, one man,

From Bethlehem.

Who many still claim,

“He’s a fraud — for freeing me.”

Forgiveness, with heroism,

We have the modern Ulysses;

James Bond, Jason Bourne.

Disney Princesses,

Merida, Elsa and Moana;

Yet, there is no ideal,

On earth we can prefect.

It’s inherit in our existence,

Ideals are lost.

Twisting Milton’s truth,

To Pandemonium.

While Helen’s stare,

Perceives angel- skeletons,

Blaspheming prisoners;

Jews worked, starved to death;

Their figure’s the epitome,

Of models,

Even, ‘Twiggy’s’ bones rattle, and rage.

Yet, Helen smiles,

With visions of new ideals,

Yet, no ideal,

Is ever ideal;

For, to be ideal is to be in paradise.

Not, alive as we are now —

Imperfect as we are.

Our flaws bind us,

In fallibility.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

Photo/Music Challenge: Poem – Octain Refrain – “My Thigh High Boots” #amwriting #poetry #MLMM


Thanks to NEKNEERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this Photo Challenge. Also, thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Music Challenge #23, “These Boots Are Made for Walkin” by Nancy Sinatra.


Credit: Google


“These Boots are Made for Walkin'” by Nancy Sinatra


My thigh-high boots they walk on everything,

You know I’ve matches, and I’m not afraid —

To burn us all down because you’re in my way.

Breathe from your lips nip, sultry I sing,

I know things you ain’t the time to learn; my sleek —

Legs long, lashes fluttered, make you weak,

All these men want their way, without listening,

Spurning my mind; my Go-Go girl sweet sway.

My thigh-high boots they walk on everything.


My thigh-high boots they walk on everything.

I’m tired of lies, begin your truthin’,

Stop drinking scotch in disturbed aloofness.

I’ve found new matches, a lighter that’ll singe,

No more playing the mouse, no more tricks played.

Breathe into me, the man I know, who craves —

My sleek-black thigh-high boot’s, their little sting.

Step up to the bar, buy me a drink; let’s groove.

My thigh-high boots they walk on everything.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.