Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer: Poem – Bop – “Set Free” #amwriting #poetry #flashfiction


Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting the past edition of FFtAW.


Credit:@wildverbs


“Bird Set Free” by Sia


I’ll shout it out, have no doubt, I’ll fly free,

No whispered tunes of birds flitting off key;

A hush of melodies from ages past,

Notes, movements, which won’t disappear — they’ll last.

So, I’ll shout it out like a bird set free.

Singing for love, for possibility,

For the sweetness of words’ probability.

To soar, to rise high, past rising winds,

Find His Spirit within, not to rescind —

Those promises not given lightly, but —

Oaths we crossed ourselves, and kept, to catch gusts —

Off the highest cliffs and spread our wings fast.

Wait; breezes tickle wings, catch the updraft.

So, I’ll shout it out like a bird set free.

Holy Spirit as you rose, naming Him,

Your Holy Son, whose blood liberated sin’s —

Hold on all, on those who who yearned for flight.

No more pain; no more losing wicked fights.

No more bullies who pull feathers out; who —

Know not the joy of sky’s an unknown blue.

So, I’ll shout it out like a bird set free.


©Mandibelle16. (2018)

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100 Word Wednesdays/Sunday Writing Prompt: Poem – Decuaine – “No More Rough Currents” #amwriting #poetry #100WordWednesday #MLMM


Thanks to Bikurgurl for hosting #100WordWednesdays and also thanks to Michael of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting a Sunday Writing Prompt based on a Watery theme and one of the topics: Up the creek without a paddle, Wading Upstream, The River Flowing Up a Hill, and When the Fish Stop Biting.


Credit: @Bikurgurl


Caramel and cantaloupe burn white,

The sun setting, in fiery depths it gleams.

We struggle ‘gainst the current, it’s our plight,

A journey many take wading upstream.

We fight not to slip, sweat-stained body’s heave,

Then, deltas and islands draw near, take form.

In felicitous breezes, drenched clothes dry clean,

Acrid earth bears us, we tremble on shore.

Caramel, Bellini sky’s, rain pours —

We clasp tight hands waiting for the ‘morrow.

*****

Another night in the grit of sands touch,

We dream of skyscrapers, our souls believe;

We’re past the current, our fingers bold clutch,

Memories, hopes, the warmth of home found breathes.

No more suffering in past with disease.

A butterscotch sky, fresh peaches, tall palms —

The sun rises — a gift, fresh view point now gleaned.

The beach busies, children run as waves fall,

Tumbling sandcastles near shores, claiming walls;

The peace of our Home, no rough currents, at all.

*****


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

 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. 

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

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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? 

———



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©Mandibelle16. 2017) All Rights Reserved.