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


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

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http://www.pixebay.com

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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. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer: No Good Witch #amwriting #flashfiction 


Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW.

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Yinglan Z

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Belinda was a nasty middle-aged woman, but her behaviours were characteristic of someone older. 

She was mentally and physically sound; however, the pucker of her frown never left her face. Wrinkles indented themselves deeply into her forehead, around her eyes, and around her mouth; her skin was pasty white. 

She pretended to walk feebly; but when a neighbourhood child or dog was near her property she ran out screaming, wearing stodgy Victorian gowns, no skin showing but her face and hands. Her hair was always severely pulled back in a tight bun. 

Besides a cat or four, she disliked everyone. She made known she had cut her family out of her will. All her money would go to a stern Catholic congeragation she had terrorized since she was four. 

 An old trailer and burned-out truck from a cousin who had lived with her, remained on her lawn, even after the cousin disappeared. No one who entered Belinda’s house came back out, only her cats. 

 The neighbours thought this had been occurring for some three-hundred years, having heard the same stories from their great-grandparents and before. 

Was Belinda a ghost? A banchee? A witch? No one knew. But every now and then someone disappeared inside her doorway and everyone knew that person wouldn’t be returning. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.