100 Word Wednesdays, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Free Verse, History, My Thoughts, NaPoWriMo, Nature, Photography/Visual Art, Poetry, Quotes, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

 Day 24 – NaPoWriMo/A to Z Challenge/100 Word Wednesday: Poem – Free Verse – “Art of a Story and Death” #NaPoWriMo #AtoZChallenge #100WordWednesday #poetry


Thanks to Bikurgurl for hosting last week’s #100WordWednesday flashfiction prompt. Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is “to write a poem of ekphrasis — that is, a poem inspired by a work of art.” The A to Z Challenge GoodRead’s Prompt begins with the letter U. 

———

Credit: Bikurgurl – Her Photograph and work of art for the prompt 🙂

———

To write is to forget. Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life. Music soothes, the visual arts exhilarates, the performing arts (such as acting and dance) entertain. Literature, however, retreats from life by turning in into slumber. The other arts make no such retreat— some because they use visible and hence vital formulas, others because they live from human life itself. 

― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet”

(Sorry finding a Q name for this piece impossible but there is Q in Disquiet!)

———

The photograph is lovely at first, 

A brilliant blue sky, soft winds of cool breezes, 

The Atlantic still icy, but forgiving. 

Trees rise and guard the home, the lighthouse, 

Ancient ones in slumber as spring yet approaches. 

Rock walls prevent a fall below, to the unforgiving chill. 

Hypothermia comes quickly here, 

But the scenery makes up for the inherent danger. 

Bright pink of the house stands out and the tower above matches, 

Glows in the night when the boats pass by, 

Protecting and guiding ships. 

The long grass still waiting to be verdent, 

Not dry crumpled straw. 

And the owners of the house are silent, keeping to themselves, 

Their only sense of existing, is the light that glares, when outside the tower is dark. 

Spring is slowly birthing, but the ocean’s still freezing, 

And the danger is too real for ships too close.  

And a stranger walking watches from the dim, 

Holding back a dog barking in madness. 

The bulb has burnt out, now disaster is unhinged, 

The ship clips the cliff, the house crumbles and the ship sinks, 

Screams in the night, in the Atlantic’ waters cold numbness. 

And when all is said and done, only the lighthouse stands, 

With a burnt out bulb of fault. 

How can this photograph be a work of art? 

Is there art in dying? 

Or is art and death as a perception, to ambigious to be real? 

———



——–

©Mandibelle16. 2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Clerihew- aabb, Fiction, Flash Fiction, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, Music and Performers, My Thoughts, NaPoWriMo, Nonfiction, Photography/Visual Art, Quotes, Writing, Writing Challenges

Day 13 – NaPoWriMo/A to Z Challenge/ Photo Challenge: Clairhews – “Stairway to Earth” #poetry #NaPoWriMo #AtoZchallenge 


Thanks to NEEKEREJ from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s photo challenge. Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write ” a clerihew. This is a four line poem biographical poem satirizes famous people.” As well, for A to Z Challenge, the GoodRead’s quote is from an author with a name beginning with the letter M (first or last name). 

——–

Credit: Julian Majin

———

” I don’t wonder anymore what I’ll tell God when I go to heaven when we sit in the chairs under the tree, outside the city……..I’ll tell these things to God, and he’ll laugh, I think and he’ll remind me of the parts I forgot, the parts that were his favorite. We’ll sit and remember my story together, and then he’ll stand and put his arms around me and say, “well done,” and that he liked my story. And my soul won’t be thirsty anymore. Finally he’ll turn and we’ll walk toward the city, a city he will have spoken into existence a city built in a place where once there’d been nothing. ”  ― Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life

———–

She’s brilliantly famous you know, 

The lady of who Led Zeppelin sings of so;

Buying the stairway to Heaven, sighing, 
When the stores are all closed, surprised. 

——-

And though she makes me wonder much, 

What she so badly needed to buy such —

 Treasure; I was shocked when she was hurled, 

Descending the stairway to Heaven, to the world. 

——–

Heart’s Tribute to Led Zeplin – “Stairway to Heaven” 

———



———

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Fairy Tale Themed, Fiction, Free Verse, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, My Thoughts, NaPoWriMo, Nonfiction, Photography/Visual Art, Poetry, Quotes, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

Day 10 – NaPoWriMo/A to Z Challenge/ Photo Challenge: Poem – Free Verse -“The Swan” #amwriting #poetry #AtoZchallenge #NaPoWriMo


Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to “write a poem that is a portrait of someone important to you. It doesn’t need to focus so much on what a person looks (or looked) like, as what they are or were.” The corresponding GoodRead’s Author’s Quote for the A to Z Challenge, begins with the letter I. Thanks to NEEKNERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie who provided the wonderfully creepy photograph.


Credit: saccstry.deviantart.com
———

If I’d been born a ghoul, I think I would’ve killed people. I just happened to be born a human. That’s the only reason why I’m allowed to live a moral life.” ― Sui Ishida

———

I knew her as a little girl,

Though others thought her odd.

She had that “something” about her,

People either loved or abhorred.

At first, I thought, she was enormously strange,

But her quirks endeared me to her.

She protected me from those cruel girls,

One smile from her, they stumbled away on their heels.

She had shocking violet hair on one side,

She was never quite a blond. 

Always experimenting with new looks,

Trying to glean from her appearance,

Who she was inside herself.

Her eyes a brilliant cornflower blue glimmered,

When some person made her enraged.

Her friends all knew some stupid student,

Would soon regret their actions;

She only had to smile.

And some bullies face turned violet, rouge, or primrose.

My friend was odd but lively,

Never afraid to do anything. 

Dragging me along, to be a part of her drama.

Of her wicked practical jokes,

Others whispered she was a bit ‘Tim Burton,’

Calling her the ‘corpse bride.’

But she would always smile,

In a way that scared many,

Who never knew the truth about her —

She was passionate, kind, and loyal.

If you could get past her walls, her insecurities,

She was most lovely and grew to be a beauty.

Her hair still half-purple — it was her thing.

How we knew her for her. 

Her terrifying smile gleamed, 

She could now afford braces,

For teeth that had scared everyone.

And when the braces disappeared,

Her teeth stood in straight white rows.

Her grim frown had turned forever upside down,

She was no longer that weird girl.

Though there was still ‘something’ about her;

Strange became a talent, something sought after,

When she transformed into a swan.

She became a cut diamond, no longer rough, she was —

Perfectly odd. 

——–



———

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Animals/Pets, Books, Children/YA/Family, Fiction, Memories/Childhood, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, My Thoughts, Nature, Photography/Visual Art, Poetry, Quotes, Relationship, Religion/Morality, Rictameter – 2,4,6,8,10,8,6,4,2 – beg/end same, Travel, Writing, Writing Challenges

Collage Prompt: Poem – Rictameter – “Books and Cherries” #amwriting #poetry #collage


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s Collage Prompt.


Collage MLMM
Credit: Shawn Van Deale the woman on the left: Johnny Palacois the woman/aloe vera plant on the right.

Humming,

As the bird who’s —

Thrumming in the air,

Struggling for each flutter so

Rapid; so utterly fast it’s blurring.

My wings in flight are haze to you,

You don’t see underneath;

Desperation,

Humming.

——

Darkness,

Arising in —

My stomach, spiraling,

To the surface out of my —

Broken soul that I mend in those worlds found,

In each and every story, novels —

Ending hiding; I’m no —

Crab in my shell’s —

Darkness.

——-

In dreams,

I writhe, I twist,

Tales of old and new —

Follow me when enters Sandman,

To calm adventures stripping me of sleep.

But just as I live in my books,

I live in nightmarish —

Tales at midnight,

In dreams.

——-

Awake,

Oh, sheltered one.

Let the black smoke rise, cleanse

Your body from your shattered self,

Set free your mind, let your spirit live,

Life’s the greatest adventure,

Stories read fill gaps;

Burst forth spirit,

Awake.

———

Cherries,

You’re sexy  as,

Women who curl cherry —

Stems into knots with skillful tongues.

Unafraid to bare your body,

When it’s appreciated.

With love, you expose your —

Soul; All for ripe

Cherries.

—-

As books,

Sweet red cherries,

From the Okanagan,

A valley of delicacies.

Driving through B.C. in summer, you —

Stop at every fruit stand,

Selling juicy fruit — truths;

Cherries savored,

As books.

—–

Smokescreen,

Floats up swirls as —

Papal smoke; the blackness,

Forgiven reading thousands

Of tales, every genre, every language.

Devouring ‘reads’ as cherries,

Demons gone; living with —

Wisdom taught, no —

Smokescreen.

——

Light’s glow,

In each tale read.

Nourishes souls; keeps me —

Aching to learn, wanting to know,

Of worlds, fantastic characters —

With hubris, compelling charm.

While some characters are —

Searching hard for,

Light’s glow.

—–

Writing,

It filled holes,

Torn in souls, in hearts wrecked,

The reader became author,

Discovering within her fingers lies a —

Haven, a solace of peace, rest;

Because the story grows —

In her, exposing —

Writing.


©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved

Animals/Pets, Fiction, Finish Off Fridays/Saturday Mix FlashFiction, Flash Fiction, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, My Thoughts, Nature, Photography/Visual Art, Religion/Morality

Saturday Mix Flash Fiction – The Impressionist Sunrise#amwriting #saturdaymix #flashfiction 


Thanks to Bastet at MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie  for hosting Saturday Mix this week. Today’s prompt is a 100 Word story on a spring photograph using descriptive writing.


Spring Image MLMM
Credit: Edgewood Garden, Washington State; MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie -Bastet

At this early hour the sky is grey and misty. Fog creeps across the water hiding its blue-green brilliance. The mist veils all, yet in the distance, luminous rays of sunlight glance across the sky. I can see the mist disappate as the eastern sunlight envelopes the gray with golden rays, paint strokes of orange and pink. 

The robins tweet joyfully and the trees are bursting with green buds, the promise of white blossoms soon. I’m enthralled by the dawn and the once dank becoming intensly vivid. Something inside me relaxes as morning awakes. It feels as if I’m in the middle of an impressionist sunrise. 


©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved

Fiction, My Thoughts, Photography/Visual Art, Relationship, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

Sully Award Entry: One Step Too Far for Modern Art #amwriting #fiction 


I wrote this last year for FFftAW and it’s my piece of Flash Fiction with the most likes ever. It’s a strange story, maybe that’s why? Anyways, I’m entering it for a 200 Word or Less Writing Contest on Hey Look Writer Fellow’s Sully Award Competition. It’s open until March 28, 2017 and the rules are in the link above. Thanks to Michael for sharing the contest, visit Michael’s awesome blog Morpethroad HERE. 

——–

Credit: S Writings

“Look at those cows, incredible,” Dorothy said.

“This entire gallery is full of painted cows. Is this the artist’s ‘thing?’ Dorothy’s husband, Stanley, asked a gallery employee.

“Hi, I’m Theresa,” the woman said. ” How do you like The Moo Gallery? Isn’t Shaunda Rose talented? I’m not sure why she chose cows but I adore how every cow is a unique work of art, don’t you?”

“Shaunda is ridiculously talented. Painting plastic cows, she’s brilliant,” Dorothy declared.

“Cows? Really? Who wants a painted cow in their home or office?” Stanley asked.

Theresa smile was unnatural, “You’re right,” she said nodding at Dorothy. “Cows are Shaunda’s specialty. In fact, these cows were once alive. She has the cows sent to a taxidermist and then has them resurfaced so she can paint them. It’s why they’re so authentic, a fabulous example of Modern Art. Each cow sells for hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

Dorothy’s enthusiasm for the painted cows evaporated and she gazed at Stanley alarmed. He simply shook his head at her and smiled because he’d known all along Shaunda Rose was crazy. Theresa attempted a sales pitch again but he held up his hand to stop her.

“ Shaunda Rose is a nut. Tell her Stanley Manet said so. Manet was an authentic artist, he was also my Great-Great-Great Grandfather.”


©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

100 Word Wednesdays, Children/YA/Family, Fiction, Flash Fiction, My Thoughts, Photography/Visual Art, Relationship, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

100 Word Wednesday: Setting the Scene #amwriting #flashfiction #100WordWednesday


Thanks to Bikurgirl for hosting #100WordWednesdays.

——–

Credit: Bikurgirl

——–

The high school drama teacher, Mr. Elf, decided the school would peform a modern English version of “The Canturbury Tales.” Vernon was recruited to help paint the set and he would’ve been pleased to paint the entire set alone; however, he had to share creative control with Stacy who was also a ‘so-called’ gifted artist. Much fighting occurred.

The day before the performance the extras hung the scenery. Mr. Elf was shocked to see exactly half of the set painted in a superb realistic manner while the other half was rendered using fantastic painterly strokes in the style of impressionist painters. The set was discussed enormously by the audience at all three performances and neither Vernon or Stacy will speak to each other to this day.

——

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Actor/ Actress, Beauty, Current Events, Fashion, Health, History, Music and Performers, My Thoughts, Nature, Nonfiction, Photography/Visual Art, Relationship, Religion/Morality, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

The Complexities of Red #thoughts #amwriting #nonfiction


Credit: Giovanni Licea – YouTube

I considered the colour red. How I’m equally attracted and repelled by it. How I pass by a red v-neck sweater in the right shade, but mix my acrylic colours, blend them until my instincts say stop; stop sign red. No wait . . . a bright cool startling red appears on my canvas. I think this is passion and passion is the boldest red. I think of how I not only crave to paint in vivid red, but in many vivid colours and textures. How I trace the feeling of layered paints with my fingers, and hunger for other colours with my eyes – blue, green, and purple. Though I adore all these colours, my favourite paintings are all in red.
 As with my love for sexy heels, which I adore in red too. If red is passion, what more can I say about women and sensuality then red shoes. They’re expression and fierceness. Like Kelly Picklers song “Red High Heels” — “I’m about to show you just how missing me feels, in my red high heels . . .” Red for revenge, red for moving on, red for love. But I hate red for love, it’s memory is sickening. He looked good in that colour – almost the best. 

Credit: Sam Roloff – “The Big Red One”
Yet red is so many things more. It’s anger, hate, rage, hurt, demons dreaming — the beast inside who does not die. Red is sinful, delicious, and deadly. It’s sex and power; a primilness. It’s royalty and blood, red blood spilled for in the body it’s blue (hence bluebloods). I love how classic red is — nothing more classic then a cat eye and red Bridget Bardot lips. Nothing as classic as red Mustang. 

I don’t wear red, the colour outshines me and doesn’t fit with such pale skin and blond hair. Please no red dress – I’d rather blend in and be a classic black or navy dress cut perfectly. But I seek out bits of red and cling to them, not wanting red to blind me. Only some sparkle and razzle dazzle to hold in my hand. Red nail polish is beautiful, with a bit of bling  Red as some of the lights in Las Vegas and red fireworks; red stoplights. 

Red is perplexing because it’s complex, not simple at all. Red is nationalism and red is internationalism. It’s a proud Canadian colour and I don’t mind wearing it on our Nation’s Birthday. Or cheering on our Canadian hockey teams in the Olympics and junior hockey. 

As well, roses are so divine, so deadly pricking your finger. Red, passion and pain. Together swirled these colours of red, of love, and hate collide. There are many shades of grey, but even more shades of red. It’s more than a primary colour it calls as a siren, “Look see me.” No one hides in red. Red cars are often caught barely speeding and Red is a theme of many songs albums as in “Red” as T. swifts song and album and the Beatles album “Redone.” Red as “My love is like a red red rose.” Some choral song I cannot recall. 

Credit: Jeannette Mattson – “Red Rose” – Fine Art America

But I’m sitting here, music blaring trying to decide what to paint. I’ve that special shade of red and it’s mixing and melding with other colours. Shades and tones. I see, red on my canvas and it bleeds. Red blood, blood . . .life, the most prolific association. Red is blood. Blood is life. Red such as poppies, that we must always remember. Red for anger, red for hate, for war. Red to hurt, poor the droplets down a crystal glass. Red red wine. To drink away the blood and crippling thoughts. Red to forget. I like a Malbec with bite. A Zinfandel to make me chatty. A Merlot or Cav-Sav with some friends. Red sangria is delicious. Red strawberry margaritas because there’s real fire in tequila. Red is too many things, too symbolic, too self-contradictory. Red is life. 

——

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction, Health, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, My Thoughts, Nature, Photography/Visual Art, Religion/Morality, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing, Writing Challenges

Photo Challenge: Poem – Free Verse – ” Yaya Mockingjay” #amwriting #poetry 


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for this week’s photo challenge: 

—-

http://www.pixebay.com

——

Have you cast all your doubts? 

Decided what’s best? 

An old women has regrets, 

There is no life without them. 

It’s difficult, knowing what’s right, 

I just tried my best. 

Listened to my elders, 

As my mother always said.

But there are days I know, 

My best is not enough.

I’m pushing and pulling,

No strength in my bones. 

I’m yelling and shouting, 

But my words aren’t enough,

“We don’t speak your language Yaya.” 

My grandchildren laugh. 

They always need more,

More than dry-bones can provide. 

I feel drained and drowned, 

In lost potential. 

Yaya down and she can’t raise herself up. 

Drenched in such evil, 

Of those with no conscience;

Their knowing looks, eyes that know nothing.

They’re missing my years, my wisdom learned, 

But I’m stuck in thick sticky mud, 

And no one helps an old woman up. 

There’s no hand to help comfort Yaya, 

Her life was tough and unsparing. 

The mud is the only spa I know or ever have, 

A facial mask of sludge and worms. 

An archaic beauty mask. 

Somebody hear, what I’ve learned — listen: 

Your mistakes and your ills you repeat, 

Each day I try to tell you but it’s not enough. 

You smile at me empty eyes, 

My words pass through your ears, 

The wind blows loudly there.

What’s enough? 

Until I’ve drawn my last breath? 

Until I’m lying here still — dead, 

Knowing some journeys such as mine, 

Must be made alone and for naught. 

A solo expedition, my entire culture lost, 

Must I stay on the roads of antiquity? 

Can I grow with the changing world? 

Give me a reason to deviate: 

I must stop the mudslide from coming.

Spitting sludge from my lips, 

Lord, why don’t they hear? 

The roar of doom and pain approaching. 

It will wash them away, 

When I’m safe in the heavens. 

Does being old make me invisible? 

The crevices of my face are a map, 

And my eyes the lights to yesterday. 

Learn from the past, I pray. 

Where is the light? 

Where is the hope? 

I’m just an old bird, a simple sparrow, 

How do I become a Mockingjay? 

I saw her fight in the movies, 

We need a Mockingjay today, 

A bird of pray who acts, 

Not sleeping through each day. 

How do I bring hope, become a symbol? 

How do I teach my young, 

To mimic a wisdom long past. 

You won’t like what I have to say I know, 

But you would hear, a Mockingjay. 

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction, Licentia - aabbccddeeAA, BBffgghhiiAA, CCjjkkllmmAA, My Thoughts, Photography/Visual Art, Poetry, Relationship, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Photo Challange: Poem – Licentia – “Sometimes My Love” #amwriting #poetry 


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s photo challenge.

——-

fineart-photos.tumblr.com

 

———-

The winds warm and soft, prairie fields sway to and fro

Such chores a woman has, hangs sopping sheets thrown,

Over the clothes line, pinning; they’ll smell like sunshine,

Dried by cool wind tonight, they’ll sway on clothes line.

I’m but a shadow, I pass my sheets humming,

A lonely tune, for my life’s solitude humbling.

I’m only a women, my husband says I’m less,

Bruises left, hands tremble, he gives no respect.

In this backwards world, it’s difficult to say,

How we were in love, how war made him this way.

We used to lie in the sun,  beneath us grain, barley.

Now he says, “Stay inside;” I know him now hardly.

The winds warm and soft, prairie fields sway to and fro, 

Such chores a woman has, hangs sopping sheets thrown. 
——-

There once was a dance, that took place in time

Soldiers came, handsome in crisp uniform’s shine.

Caught girls’ eyes; they wore rouge, lipstick, their best gowns.

Swing music played, we danced, eyes caught mine, brown.

Laughter in chocolate gaze, “Get her a drink, eh?”

Night passed slowly, dipping me, we kissed and swayed.

We meant up again, and again, dreaming life,

One we shared; us blossomed –there’s always a price.

We both suffered strongly, fools were we of war,

Injured men, maimed men, limbs lost, minds lost, sore.

The winds warm and soft, prairie fields sway to and fro

Such chores a woman has, hangs sopping sheets thrown.

——-

War would end, countless unknown dead; you crumbled

So lost; letters sent, none returned, war humbles

You couldn’t handle what you’d seen and did, came home,

Ran to you, you held me close, cried so much, roamed –

Town, as other’s alive, –ghosts of war haunting,

We bought the farm, your vengeance rose, me you taunt.

By your past demons, by your bruising punch and yet,

They’re times you are you, before war changed you, set —

Course for man, so angry at life, he curses well —

His wife; sometimes he’s my love, other’s my hell.

The winds warm and soft, prairie fields sway to and fro,

Such chores a woman has, hangs sopping sheets thrown.

——-

“The Licentia Rhyme Form, a poetic form created by Laura Lamarca, consists of at least three – 12-line stanzas with 11 syllables per line. Of course, the poem can be elongated adding on to the following rhyme scheme: aabbccddeeAA, BBffgghhiiAA, CCjjkkllmmAA. The Licentia Rhyme Form is named after Laura Lamarca’s signature, “La” and “Licentia” is Latin for “Freedom”.” – Shadow Poetry

——–

I’m not sure if this is completely right for the form. I think lines ‘bb’ for instance are supposed to be exactly repeated in lines ‘BB,’ not just rhyme with them. The same for lines ‘cc’ and ‘CC’ etc… But I like the poem like this right now!

Please see Shadow Poetry for more information.

——–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.