#NaPoWriMo Day 15: Poem – “Errant Dukes” #amwritingpoetry


For NaPoWriMo Day 15, the prompt is:


“Today, I’d like to challenge you to write your own dramatic monologue. It doesn’t have to be quite as serious as Browning or Shakespeare, of course, but try to create a sort of specific voice or character that can act as the “speaker. . .”


Kind of just used Browning’s poem for this, and ignored most of the monologue bit. “My Last Duchess,” by Robert Browning.


Credit: Fine Art America

Browning’s last Duchess, a smile illuminates well,

Her cheerful words, her eyes glimmer bright, but —

Most would think, the duke at her offed; she fell —

From grace, honour tainted in death for but,

Smiling, cheeks roses sweet blooms praised.

Eyes lustrous, though she reviles his lust —

For an heir, for her each breath, so she gazed.

Drowning in the time others braved, didn’t steal.

Short death revealed a pale Duchess life-raised.

Who rolled eyes at Duke’s pleas; he gasped, blood congealed.

Poison breeds poison, a last Duchess seethed.

His fortune, grins meet; two last Duchess‘ breathe.


©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.

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#NaPoWriMo Day 12: Poem – Quadrille – “Death Lillies” #amwritingpoetry


For NaPoWriMo Day 12, the prompt is:


“Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why (and how) you love it. Alternatively, what would it mean to you to give away or destroy a significant object?”


Credit: Debby Hudson via Unsplash


Bought glowing flushed buds,

To redefine elegance, breath life in my den.

Thought they were tulips, pretty but certain;

Now, they’re nothing –wilted petals I hate.

Deceptive crisp leaves, rose-pink; garish purple tongues.

Death Lillies.

Some would say you‘re spring’s life, but I’m un-impressed;

You‘re desolation.


©️Mandibelle16 (2019) All Rights Reserved.

Saturday Mix: Poem – “Goddess Pup of War” #SaturdayMix #amwritingpoetry


Thanks to Sarah of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting #SaturdayMix. Her theme today is Personification.


Credit: Action Vance via Unsplash.


They told me it was easy — that a wolf was born to run,

Never once did they talk about innocence, a scattering of light shunned.

When all the darkness mustered, and drove forth as Roman armies.

They told me I had to do it, but my frail hands shook.

My eyes peeped through my lashes, venom running through my veins.

For no one told me about the spilling,

The loss of life and gore; men now faceless, missing limbs.

Life left them in a quickening, and I peeked through the brambles;

Thorns stabbed into my paws, the moon haunted by shadows as if it too, hid.

I wandered around the copse, limbs prickling and tongue mute.

An anthemyst sky drew forth night, a small end to battle; and to camp for today they returned.

No side was bad, no side was good; each believed their god gave glory;

But I was pup who lay on crumpled leaves, moaning in the blood-scented air.

I was but an observer and the scenes were obtrusive; never failed to numb me.

They overcame my sleep, no place for pups as down to sleep.

And in the night I heard them weep, beg for life and help;

For moms to hold them close, for lovers to sing one more note.

And the night was a cacophony, until death silenced some;

And others fell into fevered sleep.

Yet, the crimson morning came with an ominous bells knell; I failed to close my eyes all night.

The clashing of metal, the tangy smoke of guns,

Invaded my nightmares as the half-dead lay silent, if only to live through one more day.

And a tiny wolf crept forth, and through the carnage lunged.

She lengthened each foot and grew tall, silvery fur huge snow-white teeth clasped, titanium claws split bone.

And she knew in the end all had been lost, but she was born to run — to hunt;

She was the goddess of war, and hers was a warrior’s life or death to give.

It never mattered that through each year,

She was still a babe crying in the darkness numb, half-dead after battle.

Half-dead of heart to survive such gore; so, she let loose her demons,

And the fates chose the victors, if there ever are any?

She knew too well as cherub tears fell, nothing was just or fair in war — suffering was the only assurance.

Suffering and the fairy-man’s boat rowing, as if he had all time,

All the time in the world, because he did; and she howled as the dusk once again swept.

She lay down in the copse, a wolf pup again; goddess of war without a pack.

Lady whose job was to perpetually morn, to pick and choose, and forever feel the pain.

Knife and gun, nightmares and terrors, for peace was an infinity — the only dream she had.


©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.

#OctPoWriMo Day 20/Three Line Tales: Poem – Blank Verse – “The Red of Sleep” #3LineTales #amwritingpoetry


For OctPoWriMo Day 20 the prompt is: What color is it? Also, combining with #3LineTales from Sonya of Only 100 Words. Unfortunately, I’ve more than 3 lines or stanzas, but the picture works well!


Credit: Andre Benz Via Unsplash

What color is it? Blood-red or poppy?

Vermilion, cherry, apple or roses?

Gerbera-Daisy bled, or Scarlet?

Rust, copper, orange-red, red-wine or dead-red?

Is it the color of sin –a siren?

Or the shade of glory in battle?

Is it a Chinese wedding dress beaded,

Or cinnamon hearts on Valentine’s?

Is it love or fierce aggression? Anger?

Is it blood slipping down a soldier’s blade?

Blood of every fallen man, history’s —

Nameless sacrificed for freedom or,

To conquer land, or escape into the —

Red Sea parted, never turned back blue.

Red is memory, passion, delight, and —

Death that stains, with transgressions ink;

Indelible as a teacher’s x-marks.

Red’s Opium Dens, Jingle Jangle’s dread;

But, most I think of poppies that blow, grow,

On Vimmy Ridge, where our youth bled out, all —

These wars where soldiers died for peace.

It reigns, while tyrants burn, and hero’s sleep.


©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

OctPoWriMo Day 20/Saturday Mix: Poem – Lunes – “Preserve Hope” #amwritingpoetry #SaturdayMix


For OctPoWriMo Day 20 the prompt is time stands still. Also combining with Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Saturday Mix double-take Prompt. The word homophone sets this week are: groan – reaction to hearing a pun, and groan – has gotten larger, and guessed – past tense of guess, along with, guest – a visitor.


Credit: OctPoWriMo Day 20

“Someone once told me that time was a predator that stalked us all our lives. But I rather believe that time is a companion who goes with us on the journey, and reminds us to cherish every moment because they’ll never come again. What we leave behind is not as important as how we lived.” ~Captain Picard, Star Trek: Generations


Popcorn groans, flowering fluff unbeknownst,

Crackle, crunch; dust —

Evenings remembered butter-soft delight.

*****

Guessing if tonight, presents unpackaged;

Cheeseball, vegetable rolls,

Summer sausage, spinach dip, crackers.

*****

Time you don’t amble here,

You speed-walk,

Then, in terror groan — pause.

*****

Predator or prey, Grimm Reaper,

Perhaps you’re one?

Companion or foe, frequent guest.

*****

Our little moments add together,

Time pace beside;

Where’s the meaning? Preserve Hope.

*****


©️Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

#OctPoWriMo Day 17/Photo Challenge: Poem – “Lay Down Your Guns” #amwritingpoetry #PhotoChallenge


For OctPoWriMo Day 17 the Prompt is Madness Reigns. I’m combining with NEKNEERAJ from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Photo Challenge. Inspired by Joyrose’s piece It’s Not Rocket Science!


Credit: Art Universe @ Instagram

World builder, psycho destroyer

With your purple-pits for eyes,

You black-eyed raven with pitiless guise.

Hiding your intentions,

You cannot snatch them back — nevermore.

You are wicked madness in destruction,

Shedding humanity, no magic world-builder, but you could’ve been.

You could’ve been eloquence or passion,

Most of all you could’ve been sweet-grass alive.

There are a lot of should haves,

Could haves that might have been.

But it comes down to what is, what was —

A descent into wretched madness, no logic nor reason.

Reason so convoluted it reigns hellfire,

Bullets from a gun, shots ricochet, echo in the synagogue.

Flesh squelching, screams, oaths muttered, defiling God’s alter;

You reaped havoc, chaos unleashed.

You were meant to be loved, to persevere;

No to blame others — to forgive.

For we each share responsibility for what we’ve all done;

And we don’t always know the consequences,

How far reaching are actions ripple as stones tossed.

But there are times we’re cognizant,

And some of us, still, desire that the world burn.

Erupt into millions of Hanukkah flames,

The sacred hanukkiyah candles spilled — desolation.

Now we mourn your disaster intended,

Now we mourn children,

Now we mourn families.

You are chaos, pandemonium released.

You did not find absolution,

Only a cause you shouldn’t have killed for.

We all carry our burdens, rocks in our bellies.

We haul them around, as third-world children starving,

Infested with parasites, with death.

Now, the grieving are yoked in disbelief,

And you’re lost endless in the bleak.

No more guns and glory, no more madness;

Help those who need help find it —

Help them not into chaos descend.

Aid those on the edge,

Before off the canyon’s ledge they dive,

Boulders splintering life, bodies of tree husks;

Cut short with a whispered litany.

A Rabbi’s murmured blessings — some people’s last zenith;

Having only ‘just,’ enough time, before their candle flickers.

Rises with smoke, ashes, and incense;

This malice and hatred’s a repetitive cycle — ‘so,’ we beg:

Lay down your guns.

Lay down your guns.

Lay down your guns.


©️Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

#OctPoWriMo 2018 Day 1/ Sunday Writing Prompt/ #PhotoChallenge: Poem – “Death’s Twilight” #amwritingpoetry


For OctPoWriMo Day 1 the theme is surrender. I’m combining with MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Sunday Writing Prompt on the poem, “Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath. Also, using a photo prompt from NEKNEERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie.


Credit: Natalia Ruka

She rises, you think she’d shrink,

Lose her footing with knobby bones, bloody footprints;

But, she’s a miracle and survives despite —

The annihilation of her heart.

No surrender, no train cars full of the sick and dying;

No camps of death will kill her.

She won’t surrender, she’ll paint you a dream,

A masterpiece of despair and scribbled features.

A portrait or less, no seashell rocking shut;

She rasps, vapours of her lost innocence.

Herr who?

With battered purple sockets.

Herr who?

A dream or nightmare trawling.

I have no dreams of innocence, only a suffering spitefulness for your hate.

Words that shattered the cracked mirror,

Seventy times seven bad luck.

Herr who?

Miss Plath, your words are riddled traps.

Herr who?

She fakes death, blood and bone snapped;

Flesh from hands shredded.

Your terror camps and eyes of sunken sin,

Can’t make her alive, though she’s not yet, dead.

Be on guard for those caught in-between;

Those who aren’t afraid as the breath in their lungs rattles.

Beware of those who see death and leave life;

The exact meeting of one leaving the elevator, while the other travels home.

Beware of hair as hellfire, she the angel of death;

No surrender, for none was given her.

Beware her yawning grin,

And hollow eyes as she devours men like air;

Destiny with her twisted wings,

Her opalescent fluttering, a sheen that hides the bitter.

Her charcoal hands twitching as they sketch the twilight of death.


“Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath

*****

I have done it again.

One year in every ten

I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin

Bright as a Nazi lampshade,

My right foot

A paperweight,

My face a featureless, fine

Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin

O my enemy.

Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?

The sour breath

Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh

The grave cave ate will be

At home on me

And I a smiling woman.

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.

What a trash

To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.

The peanut-crunching crowd

Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——

The big strip tease.

Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands

My knees.

I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

The first time it happened I was ten.

It was an accident.

The second time I meant

To last it out and not come back at all.

I rocked shut

As a seashell.

They had to call and call

And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying

Is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.

It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.

It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day

To the same place, the same face, the same brute

Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’

That knocks me out.

There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

For the hearing of my heart——

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge

For a word or a touch

Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

So, so, Herr Doktor.

So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,

I am your valuable,

The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—

You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,

A wedding ring,

A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Beware

Beware.

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air.


©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

#dVerse Poetics Pub: Poem – Bop – “Praying Sick” #amwritingpoetry


Thanks to Gospel Isosceles from #dVerse Poetics Pub, for hosting Poetics on a Loop. Today’s sad theme:


“This day, September 11, will always be a dizzying one for how it comes around on the calendar and slings us, willingly or not, back to that fateful day in world history. What better place to convene than at the concentric point of the dVerse Poets Pub and share our own histories?”


Credit: Julia Laiymani via Unsplash


“Praying” – Kesha


I was but fourteen, sick at home that day,

Awoke 9:00 a.m., as the news displayed —

Twin towers crumpling as tissue aflame;

Planes smashing, last calls to loved ones made.

I was fourteen, I didn’t understand,

Rage, hate, of Fundamental Jihadists.

Where were you that day? I was praying sick.

Rocks thumped in my chest, a call to my mom,

Such shock, abhorrence for those who cared for none.

As twin-towers burned and smouldered ash,

Desperate lives hurling, choosing their death path.

I’ve nightmares, still; they split as sweet melons,

Their persistent echo lives; to death they fell.

Airplanes twisting towers; last phone calls Home,

Death from above, bitter mournful moans.

Where were you that day? I was praying sick.

Seventeen-years, some wounds they’ll never heal,

But hero’s arise from each fight revealed.

None foresaw — but the firemen kept working,

Aiding everyone escaping the berserk.

And high on the planes people overpowered,

Redirected flights, died to give others hours.

Where were you that day? I was praying sick.


©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Writing Prompt: Poem – Italian Sonnet – “Feed Me” #amwriting #poetry #MLMM #SamaritansPurse


Also thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie ‘s Sunday Writing Prompt based on a cause near and dear to our hearts.


If you feel so inclined you can donate towards ending impoverished children’s hunger, and towards their betterment through education at:


Credit: Google – Go Fund Me for Samaritan’s Purse


Feed me, a child starving during last bell,

Give healthcare, no dirty water in the well.

For a coin, a donation receipt dealt.

I’ll help my family, the week will be swell.

Cloth me; I need not Prada, pearls from shells,

I’m suffering in an earthly hell.

So, do as God says, give to those who’ve less —

While you too flourish, and pamper yourselves.

There are parts of the earth — they’re called third-world,

Where baby’s stomach’s bloat, so malnourished.

Where disease’s rampant, and poverty’s a curse —

It’s not their fault, so halt your insults hurled.

Improve their lives; buy pencils, books for school.

Let no child ride the metaphorical Hearse.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: A Gory Death Becomes #amwriting #fiction #SPF


Thanks to Susan for hosting SPF.


Credit: C.E.Ayer


Dust rose thick in the air, and the August sun scorched. The foreman and his workmen dripped sweat, and Natasha Roberts supervised her redesign.

The home’s white-washed stucco matched an aqua-tiled and white kitchen with ice-blue tones carrying into the great room. Glints of multi-colored metal, and a 1920’s inspired bar created a unique entertaining space.

The master-bedroom’s giant windows combined with simplified Art-Decl luxury. In contrast, original barn-doors with glass panes to the balcony, matched the ones downstairs that opened to an outdoor living space.

Natasha admired her creation; she was excited to make the house stylish, and to skim extra profit unbeknown to her clients.

The foreman yelled to her and she scoffed. “I’m coming.” What a hick.

She turned in red stilettos, her ruby dress swirling with its bell-sleeves. She teetered, and her heel caught on the sand-stone patio. Natasha screeched and her body lunged; her ankle and heel snapped. She crushed into white-washed walls, raven hair fanning as she fell.

The foreman witnessed Natasha’s death. He swore as her blood gushed, and crossed himself when he perceived she had no pulse.

Years later, he dreamed of Natasha’s mouth in a daily spitting-rage towards his skilled-workers. He remembered her scream as her ankle twisted at the same awkward angle as her neck. Nightmares haunted him; he believed Natasha deserved her gory end.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.