Sunday Photo Fiction/ Saturday Mix: Poem – Prose Poetry – “We the People” #amwriting #poetry #SaturdayMix #SPF


Thanks to Susan for hosting SPF. Also thanks to Sarah from MindLoveMisery Menagerie’s Saturday Mix Prompt of Opposing Forces. Today the two sets of words are: permit and forbid, and visitor and host. Sorry, this is longer than the regular 200 Words.


Credit: C.E. Ayer


He permits and forbids without reason, with much fallacious thought. He twists words as vines and slithers. A side-show becomes the center of the circus ring, as he pretends he can make you great.


But you don’t need him to flourish. Your strength is in your people, you’ve the right, the ability, to burn such policies to ash. You were great before his birth, before his residence. And — into time, and into the past — his words will fade as hell’s bells knell. With each message of condemnation, each compliment a serpent’s tongue lisping. You never know if you can trust him, and such delusion is surely a crime.


Yet, in a Republic or a Democracy, citizens may choose and remove those who speak only to their self-glories, not of Him above or those soldiers sacrificed; not of the everyday person’s self-sacrifice. He plots and in isolation, he’d have you flounder believing every typed character, every Slytherin parcel-tongued lie rasped. Not the truth that he’s cast on his belly and is nourished in slime. You’re not great because of him, but you are great despite him.


We, your ever watchful neighbor, curse the writing on the wall. Sometimes you’re all too near to see the deception that slips through every crack. Thistle-thorned, tree trunk-sized weeds, poisoning all right. But, if you blocked his words and turned away, gave him no more votes or attention. If you ignored him as a child who tantrums, and slammed the door to his room — his words and lies would fade, no more cats yowling. You could be as one who enters into a serene and secret garden, where suddenly, the silence of blubbering ceases, and your mind crystallizes.


You are the people, and no matter your past vote, you have more power than one man’s ploys. You can forbid his doctrine and not remain astray. While you’re a host of greatness forever reclaiming your liberation, you’ve also the freedom to make his presence, his disturbed and loquacious visit, a memory. Everyone falters, everyone knows the anger of manipulation — we’re all human. So, revise your independence for you all as, “We the People,” are the way to greatness.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Advertisements

#NaPoWriMo Day 28/ Saturday Mix: Poem – Prose Poetry – “Wish You Were Here” #amwriting #poetry #SaturdayMix #MLMM


For NaPoWriMo Day 28, the Prompt is: “to draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard.” Also, I’m combining prompts with Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Saturday Mix Prompt with same but different words. The words are: paint, release, fan, light, and clothes.


Credit: Any Maislon – Google


Dear L,

I’m off on a beach, the honey sand is hot beneath my feet. I’ve slathered in sunscreen every half-hour, but my arms are blushing-red. Finding a swimsuit or two here, that covers is difficult. The waves crash against the shore, but the rhythm is lulling.

I wish you were here, but I needed this time to do nothing, to think about nothing. I feel freed from so much confusion. Today, well this last week, I’ve come to the beach to read and lose myself within a pile of books. I even visited a used bookstore and left my tablet. It’s so hot I was afraid it might melt if in the brushed-orange sun.

This morning I wandered some of the boutiques and shops in this small beach town. It was so nice, many shops had air-conditioning. I’m waving my novel every-few minutes here, as the afternoon heat is intense. But I’ll walk back to my B&B soon to avoid the worst of the sun and apply Aloe Vera. Then, I’ll come back as the gleam of the sunsetting glows in the twilight sky.

We’ll talk soon, and I’ll mail another postcard. Really do wish you were here. You could use the break too.

Love,

A


©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: Chasing the Nymph #amwriting #flashfiction #prosepoetry


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.


Credit: E. A. Wicklund


She was out of breath, a chestnut freckled nymph, tumbling through the woods. As if she were, Diana, running, eluding a square-jawed Apollo, and his torrential bed.

Her legs were short but supple, her body toned, but his strength was so much greater; his limbs thick with muscle earned in battle; height taller, hands quick, fingers nimble — but not such as hers.

She did not tarry, she hurried through the trees; their game played once, and forever. The catch and release continued with the nymph’s harmonious melodies. Her lute trilling, protecting her and luring him, precisely where she desired.

The nymphs laughter was as bells at dawn, signalling he’d caught her, and day turned to dusk as she coyly smiled and left. Her walk triumphant, his laughter all too knowing.

He dreamt of every time he caught her, tossing her up high as their lips melded. They met perpetually in their Grecian eternity, playing catch and release; it never became boring.


©️Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer: Poem – Prose Poetry – “Chop, chop. He Chops” #amwriting #flashfiction #lumberjack #prosepoetry


Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW.

———

Credit: Loretta Notto

——-

Chop, Chop. Chop the wood. Repeat. Chop. Chop. Day ends — Supper. Shower. Sleep too deep. Jarring alarm, awake again. Breakfast. Shower. Sore muscles hurt. Heat eases. More coffee. Uniform and axe. Greet the guys. Say hello — going off. All directions on the forest grid. Each with a partner. Nick is with me. A cadence of chops. Echoes. Chop. Chop. Chop the wood. Split it. Chop, chop. Chop the wood. The trees are felled. Grinding buzzing. Giant chain saw. Felling trees. Cutting logs. Then we chop. Chop, chop. Chop the wood. Lunch. Hungry. Seconds. Chop. Home. Shower. Supper. Eat. Sore muscles. Sleep and dream. Standing there. In her T-shirt. Sweet lips. Short shorts. Gentle laughter. Stroke of hand. Touch. So real. Chop, chop. Chop the wood. Dreaming. She’s gone. Three hours. Then, chop, chop. Chop the wood. 

——-

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction/Poem: Prose Poetry – “Screened in Darkness” #introtopoetry #fiction #prosepoetry 


The Poetry 101 prompt is a screen of any kind using enjambment. I’m also incorporating a word from The Daily Post, Darkness.

——

http://www.pinterest.com

——–

Behind the screen I keep myself veiled, a Japanese screen with paper too thin and I keep on wondering if he’ll look, wishing Luke wouldn’t because I know I’ll be doing the walk of shame back home. And I don’t know why but I’m so ashamed, the wine went to my head last night; I knew better. Luke was attractive, he was kind; for a moment I thought he cared more about me than a few statistics and few words; but this morning, Luke left his house empty but for his cleaning lady and cook who made me crepes and said, “You need to get ready to go home. Mr. Luke doesn’t like his lady friends to be at his home if he decides to drop by at lunch to take the dog out for a run especially.” I didn’t understand why Luke was screening me, why I awoke from euphoria to a cold empty bed; the hand stroking my cheek in the night wanted only one thing, and didn’t want it from me again though Luke and I had been friends before. There was no text message, no note, and I wondered if I would see Luke again. No doubt, he’d try to avoid my favourite hangouts from now on, he knew most of them. But I didn’t get why I felt so exposed that morning getting dressed. We’d been naked all night but when I woke up and Luke saw me; I felt judged. Judged by the bite marks, the bruising, my careful movements. Luke gazed at me grinning, when I hid behind that Japanese screen to dress after my shower. “It’s no use to hide behind the screen Katie. I can see right through it in the morning light. Come back to bed . . .” So back to Luke I went though sorely overused, and when I fell asleep he was gone and I was alone; Luke’s pillow was cold. I wish I’d screened him better, I wish it was him who was exposed and not me. He hides all his secrets in the dark, he thrives in its opaqueness. The darkness lets him treat women how he does, another notch in a metaphorical bedpost. Walking home, I felt empty, caught in Luke’s darkness, as if I had wasted so much time and conversation, in the end only to be screened, told I wasn’t right for the position. 

——-

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

NaPoWriMo: Poem – Prose – “Poker Face”


Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on things you remember. Try to focus on specific details, and don’t worry about whether the memories are of important events, or are connected to each other. You could start by adopting Brainard’s uniform habit of starting every line with “I remember,” and then you could either cut out all the instances of “I remember,” or leave them all in, or leave just a few in. At any rate, hopefully you’ll wind up with a poem that is heavy on concrete detail, and which uses that detail as its connective tissue. Happy writing!

Please see NaPoWriMo for more information.

——

There are memories and memories inbetween memories, things you shouldn’t know. But I write and I say, what naturally comes to flow. Spending a day building raw story into characters who have flaws and appeal. Characters who are relatable and show affection, lust, a special connection with each other.

 I am building story from the ground level, thanks to a friend, who tore my story down line by line so I am able to build. I’m grateful for everything he sees that I do not. How the story doesn’t flow and how the characters actually appear.

What’s believable in real life? I think an interesting situation because the story involves magic and in real life we don’t believe in curses and the power of magic. We write of it extensively wishing for such power, such talents, such super-human abilities. Probably because we’re human, and sometimes being human makes a person feel mighty small. 

Today’s memories are about editing and refinement. Answering questions I wouldn’t know how to ask. I’m learning. Digging deeper, past the simple, into the complex. I don’t want a one-dimensional story. Though it has magic I want the characters to be real people and I want their flaws and likes/dislikes to show. I want what they’re good at, their occupations, their speech and actions, the people they have around them, to demonstrate their characters.

The minds of people are endlessly fascinating, especially the minds of those who say everything or say nothing. My Grandpa said little, his mind was complicated. He was a Pastor whose smoking habit ended his life at seventy-three -years-old. He would ask questions which made one think and consider alternate routes as he taught me the games of cribbage, chess, and when we attempted cryptograms and crossword puzzles. Grandpa’s questions always hinted at digging deeper, searching for another method, and missed details.

But my Godfather, he says everything. And what he says is thought-provoking. He is always thinking of other people, how to help. He is the bestfriend to his friends and he has many. He can listen but mostly he talks and he’s wise with his words.

I miss him and the second place I call home, his and my Godmothers charming house. His wisdom and continual thinking, his belief in God solving all problems, and finding answers from an omniscient God are well expressed; he gives me such peace after we’ve had a conversation or I’ve listened to him talk.

 And I’m thinking about a paint night I’m doing with friends at the bar Sunday night. Painting, did you know I love it? I will need a couple drinks to merely do as the instructor says, but I know what my hands and mind will do.

 I will mix the paint, either ruin or add to the design. I desire creativity. I’ve said it before, creativity cannot be boxed in its true form. But with a drink or two and two good friends, the evening will pass and I’ll come home, painting in hand.

 Also, finding a good guy — one whom you enjoy being with and talking with is difficult. You need to be attracted to their looks and their intelligence. You hope they such as you, have plans to do ‘something’ with their life. Finding a guy with all these parameters, is it asking too much? I’m not sure. I’m not extensively experienced here.

But time after time I’m disappointed when a date becomes, “come over to my place,” usually at night but sometimes in the day. There is no dating involved. There is no understanding of, ” I’m not interested.” And certain men keep messaging or calling. 

I’m not adverse to sleeping with the right guy. I haven’t found a right guy lately. I don’t know if I’m such as Alice’s friend at tea I’m, ‘mad as a hatter’ to believe there are good guys out there who want to have fun out of bed and when a woman trusts them, in bed too. Laying that foundation of trust is vital.

 I don’t think this thought of mine is right accordingto God but I’m trying to find a happy middle. Maybe my happy middle won’t make me happy? 

I’m tired of guys who only want a night here and there. That was university, I’m going to be thirty-one in July. I’m not twenty-one and even twenty-one year old me would have smacked a guy who kept after her after she repeatedly told him to back off.

Guys don’t get it, they scar women. This is stuff I cannot believe I’m writing but eighteen-year-old me was extremely naive at the bar. Her friend ditched her for some guy. She was all alone and trying to get away from this guy who followed her around the bar. She didn’t have the confidence a girl three or so years older had at the bar, batting away and shooting down idiots before they became stalkers for the night. 

She was so stupid. It’s effected her sense of trust ever since. He didn’t stop for a long time; it only felt like eternity. The repeated “No” in his ears, he was deaf to it until she cried wet tears. There were different guys after that, few who she didn’t mind getting close to.

But always, I have this disgust for men who treat women as if a woman’s existence is for their pleasure, because she wants or needs sex too. Should she have to sleep with a man after she has deliberated and said, “no?” No she shouldn’t, it’s always a woman’s choice, it’s her body after all.

Guy’s scar with their repeated advances boardering on harassment. They scar bruising you badly where they should be gentle. You look to see how purple your bruises are. Not understanding how he didnt comprehend, “don’t be rough.” 

Enough. To much info. But this poem is prose; it is memories past and to come — some awful and some exciting. Building memories writing and living in a world that can be cruel at times. 

But I think if you’re building if you’re working towards a goal you can be proud you’re using your talents despite the cards life and your stupid self may have dealt you playing poker.

Cheesy analogy but ever since I learned to play poker — Texas Holdem — in the basement of my Pastor’s house with friends I’d grown up or met in church at that time, I always think back to poker seeing such a carry over for life. 

Each day, place your bets and see what the ‘river’ holds, and how the cards in your hand can be played. Ask for another card if you dare, trading one in . . . 

We’d drink beer and play poker. We’d watch NFL football and play video games. I never entirely got why some days my poker playing was terrific, while other days I could fold most hands and end up broke. We paid twenty dollars in a pot at the beginning of each game. At times my one brother and I would play with the other players until 3:00 am or 4:00 am in the morning.

I didn’t play much poker after those years ended. But I feel sometimes as if I’m placing my bet, and trying desperately to hold onto my poker face. Tomorrow, more building. It keeps me going.

——

“Poker Face” – Lady Gaga

——–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

NaPoWriMo: Poem – Long Lines – “Eleven- Years Strong “


Finally, our prompt (optional, as always!) Today’s prompt comes to us from Megan Pattie, who points us to the work of the Irish poet Ciaran Carson, who increasingly writes using very long lines. Carson has stated that his lines are (partly) based on the seventeen syllables of the haiku, and that he strives to achieve the clarity of the haiku in each line. So today, Megan and I collectively challenge you to write a poem with very long lines. You can aim for seventeen syllables, but that’s just a rough guide. If you’re having trouble buying into the concept of long lines, maybe this essay on Whitman’s infamously leggy verse will convince you of their merits. Happy writing!

Please see NaPoWriMo for more information.

—–


—-

Missing the ladies, who I grew into adulthood with and we saw,

The Grand Canyon in its burnt orange and red glory set,

Peering far down into the canyon, too close to the edge smiling,

Pulling each other back, to flash pictures on cameras all of us worn.

And planning each Thursday night to go dancing and drinking down on Whyte,

Collecting free drinks, shots from young men, paying ninty-nine-cents at the end.

Frequently, snapping pictures at winter formals, wearing our finest,

Staying at the fanciest and most historical hotel for sixty bucks,

Four girls to a room, preparing their hair and makeup, perfection, beauty.

If only I could be as fat, as I thought I was at twenty-one-years-old,

Thinking my stomach stuck-out, it wasn’t concave, it was fine and flat.

Walking through Vegas in stiletto heels, not feeling the pain, lost shoe —

My friend had a lovely Silky black-heel, she dropped walking back, barefoot.

Crying at 3:00 am (forget), remember times smiling and laughing.

Working in the same store, I dream I work their at night with my ladies,

Now raising kids, puppy training, fiancés, husbands, moving in — life changes.

From twenty-years-old to thirty-one-years old nearly; eleven years still strong.

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Poem: Prose Poetry – “Reading Away”


 

http://www.pinterest.com
 
I just want to read. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to write. I only want to read. Let the pages turn, like Metallica’s Lars Ulrich sings. I don’t want to do anything else. I’m under too much pressure. I only want to read, in a comfy bed I’ve made. Sheets that are cozy flannel. A duvet that is heavy with blankets on top. Just let me be warm and content. I’d go outside, if it was twenty-five degrees. But now it’s winter. I’ll stay in my nest. I won’t fall asleep. The book has me enthralled. I’ll stay here with my pillows, all twelve of them. I will read to escape. A book that doesn’t make me wonder. Just words that mean what they mean. And are a hide away. It’s good to have something greater in the big picture. But in the book I read, I want to drift away. Love and Sex. A Mysterious Horror. Blood and Broken Hearts. Action and Sexyiness. Affection and Friendship. No Tears please. Take me away. Let me read. Let the time spin by. I’m in my bed. I’m reading each word with greed. Catch me another day. Today, I’m reading. Today I’m carefree.

——-

©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

Flash fiction for Aspiring Writers: “Demonic Beauty”


Enclosed in the bar, eyes magnify; temptress in red, silk sliding on skin.

Sway in her hips, a tease of the senses. Men breathless consent, adoring sin.

Striding with ease, heels ruby with diamonds. Naked shoulders shimmer, anticipating.

Treading softly, fallen in red fire, elusive, and beguiling; illusion of flames sating.

Moving her hips, licking cherry red lips; coal glimmer in demonic eyes.

Sensations burning, engulfs her body; seething, writhing, building her disguise,

A vestige of power; she’s the tyger enticing, an allusion to Eden, of poisonus lies.

Decisive, sauntering closer, flicking hair, tar-black as the ash before Lent.

Peer into eyes, a glimmer of gold, metal men grieve for; silence, fire scent.

A vision, a curse, a whisper in vain — animating, the instrument on stage, 

Notes dance, music bleeding; breathing sweat, the melody of the enraged,

Fire rings, smoke engulfing; watch the woman despair, her voice entrances, beware–

Beauty enraged, a witch, incaged; performing she’s the beast, on stage no cares.

——-
 

http://www.pixebay.com
 

Thanks to Priceless Joy our wonderful host of FFfAW.

——

©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

Poem: “The Good.”


——–

A personal matter, what you believe,

What is the fire in your furnace,

And why keep it a secret, if you think you’re right.

Perhaps, you’re afraid that you think the wrong thoughts.

Perhaps, you’re prejudiced and say the wrong words.

Maybe you talk, about that which you don’t understand.

Maybe, you don’t really know what you believe.

It’s okay, but you shouldn’t be ashamed.

—–

Where does the good go? It isn’t for reward,

It’s because you believe in a God who is the word ‘good.’

People aren’t good, don’t you see the news?

Sin and badness is within us — from Adam innate.

Even when we try, the good isn’t always good.

It’s hard to explain, but I won’t keep quiet,

Why should I keep my faith locked up, when others could benefit? 

Good deeds have no reward, but they make you feel good.

They are needed in a world where many things are wrong.

And are to be done because it is for the moral good to do.

Also because it was commanded by God to be good neighbours.

—-

You may not believe in a heaven.

Good deeds won’t get you there, but faith could be the cure.

Didn’t you ever wonder where the good came from,

Don’t twist what is truly good, evil is simply good twisted.

Don’t tell me faith is personal and should be hidden.

That’s like being caught in the darkest deepest blackest hole,

And having a candle that could light the way out,

But never lighting it because that candle is ‘personally yours,’

Someone else might find your light, and benefit from its glow,

I share my faith, because my light could lead others home.

So, where is your light, when your candle isn’t lit.

You’ll never find your way out of prison walking in black pitch.

——

©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.