NaPoWriMo Day 28/ Photo Challenge: “Blazed Flowers” #amwritingpoetry


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Photo Challenge. For NaPoWriMo as like the last few, it’s my own poems.



Drama, flashy scarlet blazed flowers;

Smeared paint exposed,

But, their witherings coming soon.

*****

Imagination is everywhere, flourishing in —

Whatever time lives;

In the humid horizon’s pull.

*****

In secrets, great mischief before,

Moves past brilliance —

Glittering, sky drops ambient stars.

*****

And white-noise dulls senses;

Wasp-words, tales,

Tones, of misunderstanding– play.

*****

Wilting begins, scarlet blooms remember,

Not the hurting,

Just words unsaid; say it.

*****

Inane games, rolling eyes; chatter —

Time fades so,

Say what you mean — say.

*****

Let the petals of yesterday,

Blow listless away;

Today’s a new dawn lit.

*****

Forget the yesterday’s —

No one knows,

The truth of each other.

*****

Next Spring we all re-blossom,

Poets words, views,

Are never what you’d think.

*****

People aren’t poetry, symbols are —

Obvious or not;

Red of blazed flower’s laugh.


©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.

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Sunday Writing Prompt: Poem – Prose-Poetry – “Orreries and Moonscapes” #amwritingprosepoetry #SundayWritingPrompt #MLMM


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting the Sunday Writing Prompt. From the choice of terms I’ve chosen the words: orrery (solar system model) & Divan (sofa without end), Alice blue (color), Eucalyptus (scent), circle (shape), photograph (item in purse/wallet).


Credit: MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie


“Hope in the Air”


She traced the gold paint bitter,

It gleamed as didn’t dirty pennies.

Her measly sum was but a crumb,

And she had risked it for a piece of man-scum.

She returned, here, always — never too far;

Her childhood land of faeries; her home.

She approached the library orrery,

Spinning the sun’s gleaming gold orb.

A sigh escaped her diva-dream lips; she bit them.

Don’t let a woman fool you,

Scarlet lips, they never stay put,

The lipstick travels, blips.

But, masks blood if you chew them;

If you forget the earth’s relation to the sun,

Your relation to reality.

So, she dreamed adrift,

In knotted flannel shirt and skinnies;

Stroking grandma’s velvet Divan,

As if she could fashionably faint.

As if she could divine meaning, stroking Alice-Blue upholstery;

In cup of tea tumbled, crushed nearby;

China splinters dust, fancy tea spilled.

Some relief in eucalyptus leafs soothing;

She can, finally, breathe in her favorite tea;

Nose no longer useless.

She flips off patined-ruby shoes;

Kitten heals meowing, released.

Wiggling her toes painted with satin-ribbon;

Bemoaning her lost love, traitor, worthless, and without guile.

“I never would have done what you did to me,

To anyone, not ever.”

Last words she thinks, but never hurled.

Her Alice-Blue eyes darken,

Trace the doors golden pattern;

Images she modernized, decor, and memory intertwined.

Turquoise-tranquil dreams as her head burrows in velvet;

Arm thrust over head, maiden helpless — but she’s not.

The Orrery still twirling in a circle as —

Red-herring anger flashes.

Red-lips torn, pain to forget frustration,

Tears as a Phoenix waiting to burn, to discover renewal.

And not enough fresh air in the room,

Library dust, mildew, overpower eucalyptus.

She peers at her gram’s patined heals cherished,

They’ve escaped bone-China chips;

Their antiquity safe on Robin’s-egg plush carpet.

A peculiar aroma, dust, eucalyptus, book spines, horse-glue;

Ancient editions, thrown away,

In her family the women restored; she does to this day.

Yet, the photographs of history split her childhood dreams,

Summers here, years of tea parties, and creamy-egg-salad sandwiches.

Wuthering Heights, The Moonstone,

Peter Pan, and The Sun Also Rises;

Scattered between old-editions, photo-albums,

Pictures, preserved photographs; her addition to family history.

Saving literature, pictures, from sunlight, and tears;

She lies back, stretches and dreams,

Alice in Wonderland, Anne of Green Gables,

The Yearling, and Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes.

She’s humming a tune,

“There’s hope in the air,

There’s hope it the water,

Not even for me. . .”

Until she yanks out her wallet,

Throws out two twenties;

Penniless, but beyond rich with orreries and moonscapes.


©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.

Three Line Tales: Poems – Lunes – “Untamed Reality” #amwritingpoetry #3LineTales


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


Credit: Joshua Coleman via Unsplash.


Streetlights, sunshine succulent Daisy’s swim,

Beneath backsplash hues,

Blends rainbow-blues; happiness mellow.

*****

Smiley-face smirks, sunflower haze,

Artificial artifice; installation,

Pales before dawn’s authentic azure.

*****

Happiness hides, sunshine succumbs —

Night she divides;

Darkness delights, oozes untamed reality .

*****


©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Friday Fictioneers/ Three Things: Fiction – “Even the Small” #amwriting #FridayFictioneers #fiction


Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff for hosting the Friday FictioneersFlash Fiction of only 100Words. I’ve combined with the 3ThingsChallenge and the words: mattress, golf ball, and green.


Credit: Ted Strutz

We stroll as winds of cooled-heat kiss our skin. The scorch of daylight has faded and twilight means relief, a chance to escape the apartment. Even with a fan, the heat stifles me above my mattress.

I hurry, trying to match the boys’ strides, as mint chocolate chip dribbles down my chin. In the harbor, fishing boats and small yachts reside. To our right is the country club, and an immaculate golf course with greens.

Come dusk, the club turns into the local bar. Sleek design, can’t hide embellished tales, years of laughter and midnights carousing. At night, the patrons care not for decor or social status, but to forget. At night everyone has a story worth telling — even the small.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: A Gory Death Becomes #amwriting #fiction #SPF


Thanks to Susan for hosting SPF.


Credit: C.E.Ayer


Dust rose thick in the air, and the August sun scorched. The foreman and his workmen dripped sweat, and Natasha Roberts supervised her redesign.

The home’s white-washed stucco matched an aqua-tiled and white kitchen with ice-blue tones carrying into the great room. Glints of multi-colored metal, and a 1920’s inspired bar created a unique entertaining space.

The master-bedroom’s giant windows combined with simplified Art-Decl luxury. In contrast, original barn-doors with glass panes to the balcony, matched the ones downstairs that opened to an outdoor living space.

Natasha admired her creation; she was excited to make the house stylish, and to skim extra profit unbeknown to her clients.

The foreman yelled to her and she scoffed. “I’m coming.” What a hick.

She turned in red stilettos, her ruby dress swirling with its bell-sleeves. She teetered, and her heel caught on the sand-stone patio. Natasha screeched and her body lunged; her ankle and heel snapped. She crushed into white-washed walls, raven hair fanning as she fell.

The foreman witnessed Natasha’s death. He swore as her blood gushed, and crossed himself when he perceived she had no pulse.

Years later, he dreamed of Natasha’s mouth in a daily spitting-rage towards his skilled-workers. He remembered her scream as her ankle twisted at the same awkward angle as her neck. Nightmares haunted him; he believed Natasha deserved her gory end.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: Der deutsche Holzschnitzer (The German Woodcarver) #amwriting #flashfiction


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting this week’s SPF.


Credit: © C.E. Ayer


Jacobus was a talented Holtzschnitzer (woodcarver) as his Papa and Opa had been before him. He gazed at the fine ritter (knight) he had geschnitzt (carved) on the remaining panel of set of doors in the St. Mary Magdalene’s Kathedralen (cathedral). He was greatly pleased by his relief die Schnitzereit (carvings) and the subject matter. His Opa would have been proud, he had been the most exceptional Holtzschnitzer of his time.

When Jacobus was four, his Papa taught him everything he knew then, sent him around Europe to train under Meister der Holzschnitzerei (woodcarving masters). At the prime of life, Jacobus was in Paris working on Holzschnitzereien (woodcarvings) for the king of France, schnitzen (carving) reliefs and figures for a generous wage.

Jacobus was even more talented than his Opa had been and enjoyed that the subject matter in many French Kathedralen weren’t so limited due to the Renaissance influence in art. His next project was a die Schnitzereit of Mary Magdalene. Not a relief but a carefully schnitzen (carved) contrapposto* figure with a rounded body, full breasts, and hips.

These were the Holzschnitzereien found in Italian churches and not the old Gothic churches of his homeland in Deutschland. Jacobus grinned as plans for the Mary Magdalene took shape. He grabbed etwas Pergament (some parchment) off a table nearby and began to sketch.


*Contrappasto – “Is an Italian term that means counterpoise. It is used in the visual arts to describe a human figure standing with most of its weight on one foot so that its shoulders and arms twist off-axis from the hips and legs (Wikipedia.com).”


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Three Line Tales: A Fading Welcome #3LineTales #fiction #amwriting


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


Credit: Bogdan Dada via Unsplash


I love turquoise and I wonder where these vivid doors lead to and if inside the home the family’s living space is as vibrant and flamboyant as their doors; but then, I also see the lock across the door and it puzzles me. I wonder why someone whose doorway had such architectural character, would make such an effort to keep people out. Perhaps, as the paint peeling off the doors’ bottom, the family’s cheer and welcome has peeled away to worn fatigue and age.


©Mandibelle16 (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Three Line Tales: Poem – Senyru – “At Home” #amwriting #poetry #3LineTales


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

——

Credit: Niv Rozenberg via Unsplash

——-

Tiny houses they’re —

Everywhere cause bigger —

Places cost too much.

—-

Because you cannot —

Tow your mansion off to,

Beaches or camping.

——-

Because you can go,

Anywhere, being comfortable —

When feeling at home.

——

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

100 Word Wednesday: Poem – Free Verse – “Sing me a Melody” #amwriting #100WordWednesday #poetry 


Thanks to Bikurgurl for hosting #100WordWednesday’s on August 16, 2017. Poem for Oneta Hayes of the blog: Sweet Aroma

——-

Credit: Bikurgurl

——–

Sing me a melody, 

Write me a song.

Songs of celestial glory. 

Of love that’s deep sweet. 

Save me from the dark, 

Inner demons disguised. 

Write for me, 

Crystal clear notes,

Ones angels simply respire. 

Sing me a melody, 

Calm and serene. 

Of the cereulan blue sky, 

Of hope in eternal life, 

And time past misery. 

Sing notes cascading, 

Sung lentement with —

Unbending trust; 

That those in “[D]arkness

Have seen a Great Light.” 

Sing me a melody, 

Tear drops on cheeks. 

Of joy, deliverance —

Of liberty, and grace. 

Sing harmoniously, 

Or in a caphella. 

With light’s pure —

Luminescent brilliance —

Never snuffing out. 

Sing me a melody, 

As light as air that trills. 

Glimmering with sunbeams, 

Ringing with care for hope. 

Simg of vivacity, 

Surpassing the dark of night. 

Sing me a melody, 

Of healing that restores. 

Sing songs of bravery, 

Of endurance. 

Songs overcoming shadows, 

And landing in the dawn.

Sing me a melody, 

Bring me sweet relief. 

Among beauteous architecture, 

For all those times gone by. 

Sing me a melody;

Surrounded by the skills, 

Of artists and writers 

So profound there work, 

Sings me alive. 

Sing me a melody, 

For all I wish for is peace. 

In sleep to hear, 

Sonorous songs. 

Transcendent, complex, 

Yet, utterly simple as —

Those words that say, 

“Be still.” 

——-

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.