Maydays: Poem-Free Verse – “Burning Him Down” #Maydays #amwriting



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Thank you to K.L. Caley of new2writing for hosting #Maydays prompts. This prompt has to do with fire or anything relating to fire.

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He peeks at her below a baseball hat,

He’s plays with a match; he doesn’t even —

Realize he’s heading for the flames and —

He’ll be consumed by an inferno fast.

Her lips are scarlet sin, and she is —

Sucking back her whiskey; burning down —

Her soft white throat, it smokes and his gaze means–

He’s buying her next round, with Diet Coke.

Her eyes are amber flashes, synging with —

Coal black and thickened eyelashes; she is —

Fluttering at him; sulphurous voice sings.

Dissolving smoke; she’ll set fire rational.

(Any he had) until he’s choking ashy smoke —

Second -hand; a dangerous demon, 

Sitting on his knee; his fantasy he —

Inhales and she’s blackening his weak heart.

She’s burning through his defence and he is–

Lusting for her skin; white ash torching within, 

He’s never going to win; she’s hell —

Burning him for sin; passion ignited, 

A red lighter starts the desire smoking.

She’ll go through him; like cigarettes lit, 

Feeding her ire, her desire; he’s on trial.

Pointed heels lost, fire engine red toes peek, 

He worships at her feet, and she consumes him.

She stands flames enveloping her; within her.

Enthralling curves and eyes seeing inside him, 

Thawing out the cold; she’ll burn him down.

Raging inferno of heat, flames will kill him.

A pile of ashes she leaves in his stead.

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

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Poem/Song: “Lift Us Up” 


At the end of the day, 

You’re lost and you’re praying,

Lord please lift me up.

The skys are all grey, 

I feel lost and I stray, 

God, please lift me up.

I don’t know all your plans, 

But many you have,

I don’t have strength for much,

But Please lift me up,

When nobody cares about anyone else,

When we throw out our neighbours, 

As if they don’t mean much,

When we war, and we’re dying,

In life and inside us,

Please lift us up.

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And I know I won’t make it without your grace,

I’d be nothing but ashes without your love,

From dust we were made of, to dust we’ll return to,

So, now while I’m living, I say:

Lord Please lift me up.

Lift us up, lift us over,

Climb the mountains we’ve made,

Give us your reflection,

Save us from life’s strain,

When your cup runneth over,

May we be thankful at least,

When the cup seems to run dry,

When we don’t know the words,

To say how much we need you,

Give us strength, give us meaning, 

God, please lift us up.

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My prayer is so simple,

And you know I’m imperfect,

Lord, please lift me up.

I’ve done terrible things,

No matter if in thought or deed,

God, please lift me up.

When they’re children not eating,

Mom’s have nothing to feed them,

When the day aches as pain assails,

Yes, Please lift us up, 

When worse pain, is inside,

When you’re waging against demons,

When nothing has meaning,

When we’re so lost we’re grieving,

When we’ve walked out on life,

Please lift us up.

—–

And I know I won’t make it without your grace,

I’d be nothing but ashes without your love,

From dust we were made of, to dust we’ll return to,

So, now while I’m living, I say:

Lord Please lift me up.

Lift us up, lift us over,

Climb the mountains we’ve made,

Give us your reflection,

Save us from life’s strain,

When your cup runneth over,

May we be thankful at least,

When the cup seems to run dry,

When we don’t know the words,

To say how much we need you,

Give us strength, give us meaning, 

Lord, please lift us up.

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

Poem: “Rise Above It All”


 

http://www.gailbrenner.com
 
Fire and frost, polar opposites it seems. One scorches earth, the other freezes everything. Nothing rises up from ice, it keeps what is frozen hostage.

But like a Phoenix rises from a pile of embers and ash, people rise above the flame.They live and breathe to inhale tomorrow’s life.

And what of our scorched remains? We scatter our dead upon open seas, in graveyards, and they sit on the mantles above the fireplace.

When I die scatter me in the wind, of somewhere mythical and gorgeouse. Scatter my ashes in Edan; for a moment maybe the angel guardian will let you in. 

For that angel, holds a sword with fire eternally. Perhaps, he’ll recognize a twin flame, a Phoenix, rebuilding, as you scatter me softly. 

Maybe he is entranced by fire like you. Fire burns and hurts; a cool glass of water will quench an unbearable thirst. And turned to ice, water will make you unmovable at absolute zero. 

But fire can burn through ice. It melts what is solid and still; let the rising of the firey bird begin. No ice will keep her captive. She is a survivor, the mistress of the flame. 

She might burn you with her, but she’ll bring you back to life.When you wander streets in daylight and when you are at your absolute worst – you can rise out of the ashes.

You can be a Phoenix too, atleast in human terms. What bird once destroyed, is reborn in mythical elegance? If the Phoenix teaches you anything,  let it be — always rise above it all. 

When everything is darkest, you are at your best– a Phoenix bursting into flame will light the path your footsteps should reflect. 

And when the light grows dimmer and ashes are so still, let them lye. The Phoenix is not like us, her ashes need not be scattered. 

She will arise a Queen undefined and undefiled. She is the victor of the battle in Hades. She rises and breaks through, she forges, and she fights.

She is a mythical powerful and glorific bird, red as the fire in which she burns. She overcomes and lives always, to rise above it all. 

May you be like a Phoenix, don’t let life pull you down.May you rise out of the ashes of life an unquenchable fire.

Give everything your all; strengthen your character with wisdom. Learn to battle and to pick your fights for the Phoenix is always reborn; you die once.

And like anyone rich or poor you will end up in a box or urn. So, scatter me, scatter you, to the wind so we may burn and be reborn on the flights of rain, embers in a drop; a miracle formed. 

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved. 

Where The Skeleton’s Live


Bringing usual objects to life … trying again, correctly this time with prompt #4.

My closet is bursting. It is as full as a graveyard even though I go through it seasonally. There is a rainbow of colour in my closet spread out between thin boned arms that always seem to crack and break.

The creakybones rattle when I go in my closet to choose something to wear. I can feel the dust of the oldest bones between my pale ghostly skin itching up the material of my clothes. I wonder why skeletons would reside as such interlopers in my closet. Haven’t they got better places to rot and turn to dust then between my favourite blouse and skirt?

These ancient bones they wouldn’t care if they were still dripping wet on the secrets I hide in my closet. They’ve thrown their ghastly juices upon scrapbook albums from my good old university days, albums my nieces and nephews will see when their old enough. Auntie drinking to much Vodka Slime. The skeletons would probably love Vodka Slime. It’s a drink right up a skeletons alley. Enough vodka to rot your guts out with just a twist of lime and a small amount of 7up. Those are probably what these dry bones thirst for, slime.

It’s the shoes I get upset about. Skeletal limbs scratching back and forth on my first pair of deep patent red stiletto pumps. Some association with the pints of blood that use to flow through veins and and work through muscle. But they love to scrape a sequin off my sequinned silver stiletto pumps or to tear the silky material on those flowered purple pumps I’ve never worn yet. They like the cacophony of sounds bones make against shoes possibly because of the association of soles (souls) and feet. They haven’t got either you see so they go after what they miss the most.

They’ve no place to walk these days and nothing to see through gaping eye holes. They have nothing to grin at through toothy smiles. The bones just sway there, holding up my boxes, my clothing, and violating my shoes. They hang between my clothes and I inhale dust in the air like smoke.

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. At least my skeletons were never burnt to charcoal, into small fragments of bone. They have no marrow my bones, I doubt they ever did. It’s too long ago to tell that they had a core full of life. But I take care as I said to make sure they are never covered in rags, or never serve as shelves to tattered leggings.

I leave my closet open at night just so I can see what the skeletons are doing in there swaying and cracking. Sometimes I hear the whisper of song, these dry bones are gonna rise up, these brittle bones…But I think skeletons make you imagine things. They make you hallucinate what was never even real, at least in an explainable sense. But they are my skeletons, my past. And the past is the best indicator of where you’re going.

Truth: we are all going where these skeletons have gone, they are just bones ready to be pushed back into the crypt at the bottom of my closet. In reality, there are more skeletons waiting to get their quivering tarsals ( or is it metatarsals) on my clothing, fresh, juicy ones.

But the skeletons I hate the most are only dust and coat the baseboards outside my closet door. They build up powdery white and dirty the carpet like chalk. I think that if even skeletons can be dust they still exist and can never be fully forgotten. I love your bones, a character in a book I’m reading attests. I think we are talking about two different things …

The Story Of Our Lives: Everything is Right, Then Everything Is Wrong


It has been awhile since I have given you an update on my life. My theme today is my title ” The Story of Our Lives: Everything is Right, Then Everything Is Wrong ” which could have simply said It is impossible for any of us to maintain balance in our lives for a length of time. Life is a series of highs and lows or as John Milton in Paradise Lost might have said: in life we move between despair and overindulgence. Or in other terms, life is like being bipolar your either depressed – as low as you can go, or way high up – having too much of a good time, abusing your limits; there is no or it is difficult to maintain that happy medium in life.

I am so sure, am still so sure that I am met to be a writer in this life, that I have more training left to do as a writer. I have been so sure of few things. But now 2 not 1 obstacles lie in the way of my goal to take an online Masters in Creative Writing at UBC. The first is and has always been getting myself into a program that only accepts 25% of it’s applicants and is a one of a kind program online, especially for non fiction in North America. That did not seem like it was such a large obstacle but the largest impediment to me doing my Masters is me and how I have dealt with my money situation.

I make a limited income on disability and now I will make an even more limited one because every month for the next 5 years I have to pay off my loan to pay off my credit cards. I had to get my parent’s to co-sign on the loan because I had no collateral too. I have tried to gain control of my financial situation before but I have failed twice and this time I cannot fail. It will be hard staying on a budget and being well poor for 5 years but I need to learn. Even harder, is the fact that I cannot just get a better job or another job to pay my debts. What is actually quite a small debt for others, to me is a very large debt being in my financial and health situation. It is doubtful that anytime soon, I will earn more than I get on disability. What is worse, I cannot afford to do my Masters even with scholarships I would be getting and not doing what I know I am meant to be doing really tares me up.

I have not quite acquainted myself with the truth of the situation, that I will only be able to take courses in writing, art, or whatever at the U of A’s Faculty of Extension because $100 a month is all I can afford to save, to save to do something in the week – take one course. I am tossing around the idea of taking writing and editing courses. I could take more creative writing courses but there is no certificate available in that area as I wish there was. Another option for me is to take a fine arts certificate, I have always wanted to do that. I could draw or paint, most likely draw I think because I have 2 courses towards that area, but I really just want to write. This will give me 5 years to develop my writing more I tell myself, you don’t need a masters to be a good writer, but the contacts I would have made and the things I would have learned would have been invaluable! So one day hopefully, I will take that Masters but not soon. It is a moment of despair for me but like any Phoenix, I must rise from my ashes. Cliche but true.

So I am a bit lost right now. I am playing the waiting game, what direction God do you want me to move in? To what will be my next purpose? I don’t know I just know I have to keep a tight budget. I have to do something with my time and that something must have a goal or a purpose. I have to find other ways to keep busy besides shopping online, and lose weight other ways besides expensive weight loss centers. Life is shadowed for me right now. But I know in time my path will be revealed ‘Thy Word Is A Lamp Unto My Feet, and A Light Onto My Path?’ I have spoken about this before, walking through darkness only being able to see a footstep in front of you. Following even though you do not know where life is going. It’s such a hard thing to do and it is necessary to find balance even though I cannot maintain that balance long; balance in life is key.

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The Truth: Poetry


Here is another try at some poetry, hope you like!

The Truth

The Truth is like a pearl,
polished and genuine,
gleaming in the waters still.
Deep beneath where the
light dances and shimmies the waters surface.
It is something taken for granted, something I gave up.
It became this hole inside my heart burning, seething,
twisted and warped beyond recognition.
An evil formed out of something so pure.
A repulsive ugliness that strangles me.

I want to give you that pearl let it gleam in the sun;
Let it adorn a jewelled neck, a sign of hope on a beauties breast.
But I lied and I took our security away, I lashed myself tight to
seaweed strands of purple haze, watery worries.
They will be my grave, they will make you despise me.
For I am a broken soul now and I cannot turn around.
I am set in my ways, though I wail and turn wane.
You are the light of a pearl, the soft flick of ashes, your lashes
The soot of my pain, as I lie to you again, yes I came…

The scent of those ashes, that burning acrid smell,
reminds me of churches, of a place purer than pearls.
Where the air is so still I can hear my breath wrack,
hear my heart beat, find forgiveness relief.
As I cry in my soul, it’s forgiven but torn.
While you pray to Mecca it separates us more.
I speak of a heart beat between you and me.
A quiet place we rest, but you make me ache in pain.
Wound me, complete me, and I bite my tongue as my wry wit replies,
to the pain on my peaches and cream, the bruises the aches in my legs.
To find no relief, in that there is nothing but the trapping of my lies,
the seaweed grief come to strangle my reprieve.
A word of love, taken back, a thought perhaps I care to much.
But when I am skin to skin and feel as close as to anyone that I’ve ever been,
when I would give to you what I’d give to no one else, you turn your back.
You leash me, stop my attempts to train you that way.

So I swirl in and out of this complicated romance, the jumper in the whirlpool.
The one plashless, hopeless because she cannot take back time and thinks
you and the pearl that glimmers in her eye, would have never been,
had she not minced words and told you, I feel nothing, this hurts.
I enjoy the closeness but you are no shiny glimmering pearl of truth yourself.
And I see the future unravel, unruly, uninvited coming near,
ending because you refuse to believe in the significance of ashes and churches.
Because I refuse to live in the world the woman with pearl around her neck.
It’s chocking me, the truth, it slides, a warm gold chain that clasps the pearl in place,
tightens the pearl around me neck until lost breath is imminent.
When will I say it those impending words?
When will I say it I cannot trust you!?
I cannot tell the truth,
You choose to do works when faith is needed.
You hurt me, and care little to understand my body, to explore.
My lips seal the words, close them in a box, turn the key,
Pandora’s box ready to unleash a pearl of wisdom.
Wise words, there are no wisemen here.

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