#NaPoWriMo Day 2: Poem – Free Verse — “To Live” #amwritingpoetry


For NaPoWriMo Day 2, the prompt is:

“Today’s prompt (optional, as always) is based on this poem by Claire Wahmanholm, which transforms the natural world into an unsettled dream-place. One way it does this is by asking questions – literally. The poem not only contains questions, but ends on a question. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that similarly resists closure by ending on a question, inviting the reader to continue the process of reading (and, in some ways, writing) the poem even after the poem ends.”


Credit: Ben White via Unsplash.


Sometimes I’m the spirit child,

Forever pigeon- faced cooing.

Sometimes I’m one-hundred-and-one,

Lapis Luzia blue eyes and crinkled skin,

As seconds tick, shoes tap the floor.

But to whose office am I called, faded bloom or seedling?

Sometimes I am the unsinkable youth,

Glorying in winds, summer wind’s bustle at midnight.

2:00 a.m. suppers, 2:00 p.m. breakfast –swallowed with Advil;

But sometimes it’s Aspirin, to thin retirement blood.

At times 2:00 A.M. is cornpops and milk,

When chicken breasts on salads, and protein shakes are grim;

I can’t swallow cardboard, but I’m not — I’ve tastebuds functioning.

Shall I have my shake to slim my physique?

Or, drink it too keep my nutrition in-sink?

Who wants to age frail, but neither do we want to be fat,

I think we never win,

Time is outside our boundaries.

And, sometimes I’m a teenager rolling with puppies,

With floppy ears and downy fur,

Tummy bare, rounded.

Sometimes my chest flutters, absorbing nips and belly rubs,

Because in such a short time,

She wheezed and I couldn’t awake to be there.

I knew enough, in the stillness of her beauty, what no breath meant.

Age took not her thick coat,

Only transported her to Elysian Fields,

Where we could not be together.

Sometimes I’m her bouncing through fields, cornering chipmunks,

Snuggling in the pack and running for miles.

Then, I’m the patient who’s wistful at her energetic tail.

Too tired to think beyond, the glory of her life,

To stretch and tag along at first so slow,

As she springs off of trees and barks like a bandit;

But, then I’m strong enough to ferry her across death’s rivers.

Later, I’m the painter with jubilant dreams,

Charcoal smudged, thick acrylics, immersed in sunlight.

Or, am the father-tree thick, ever-growing,

Am I one-hundred-and-fifty, here first;

Branches upswept, trailing the clouds.

But, you rip me out, brutally, as a beating heart,

My roots torn, paper shredded.

You make room for your concrete, your steel,

Your building and students, who know not my ghost.

Am I anyone or anything because I was?

Am I anything, was I once?

Now, I’m the knowledge they learn flourishing,

Then, I’m deep, rich dirt.

Reminded that in all homelands,

That all our histories are layer-upon-layer,

Sediment shattered, walls reconstructed.

Fire, earth, wind, and water didn’t end us —

What does? Will they remember before?

But then, I’m the tiniest weed, and still I live,

What’s life?

Your perception of what it is to be alive?


©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

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Poem: Free Verse – “Thick, Thin, and Tequila” #amwriting #poetry


Polyvore on Pinterest

———

You balance out my dance, 

And it isn’t per-chance, 

You’re the same women who tipped, 

Me back with a few drinks ten-years-ago.
Who talked to me in words much deeper

Much clearer than my confused soul.

You understood the words of my heart

Despite tequila, despite red red wine,

Maybe, even despite the way I was acting —

Dragged down by life’s issues, 

You always knew what I was hiding

Those secrets destroying me,

Never stayed hidden long. 

You laughed and you smiled

Gave me hugs and even —

A shot of apple whiskey, 

Or possibly a jello shooter.

In younger years we may have —

Only been egging each other on to drink, 

But we also learned to say to each other, 

Friend, I think you’ve had enough.” 

We’ve learned to have good times, 

Drinking nothing but tea, 

Or a single glass of our favourite wine. 

You’re always happy to see me, 

And I miss being closer to all of you. 

In these years you encourage me, 

For a few hours, for an early night —

To for a moment forget

The problems which haunt me,

You forget yours too —

We have fun, play some games

You tell me to —

“Celebrate with us and let life’s troubles —

Go up in the fire’s smoke. 

Forget your health, your other woes, 

Know us better, we know you best,” 

Years do not contest, the same kind faces, 

Always there, from nights at the bar, 

To tamer houses parties because —

Responsibilities they matter more now. 

You balance out my dance,

My friends, my connections

To myself, the real world, 

The way things could be, would be —

The way things are, 

You balance out my dance, 

In ways tequila never stood a chance, 

 My history, my friends, 

My ones I have chosen, as you’ve chosen me,

To walk with me as adults, 

Maybe someday in our old-age? 

For now we play games and laughter rings, 

It’s contagious and sets me free.

Cheers my soul, 

That unknowingly

You would lift my burdens from me

Give me pause and make me think. 

(The adult sipping on her Zinfandel, 

To make the tequila flavour go away.)

My friends, confidents,

Who accept me for me,

You set me free and give me faith, 

That I can face the bad guys, 

Live another day;

Just to see you all laugh uproarasly.

To see a fire glow and gleam, 

Beneath the silver moon,

And a game of flippy-cup by fires light. 

Some things never change. 

Friends playing, and in all seriousness saying:

“Everyone needs a night or two, 

To let go and live freely, 

And not overthink.” 

Your bestfriends give you liberty

Your best friends hold on to you

Through thick, thin, and tequila. 

——-

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: The Passing Of The Pocket-Watch #amwriting #flashfiction


Thank you to Roger Shipp for hosting FFftPP.

——

http://www.pixebay.com

——-

“I haven’t seen a watch like this in years. My great-grandfather had one . . . I was only a boy of seven and I remember sitting on his lap.” Edgar said.

“That’s nice Dad. You always tell me this story. It’s your watch now Dad, remember?” Tracy interrupted.

“No, it was Great-Grandpa Vern’s watch. I sat on his lap an he said I could have it when he died. He was eighty-four which was quite old for the time .  .  .” 

“Your Great-Grandpa did die Dad. A year later, he got the flu; you told me. You inherited his watch.” Tracy said.

“He died? I don’t remember him giving me the watch . . . But I suppose, since I have it — it’s my watch now. How old am I?” 

Tracy patted her Dad’s hand, “You’re ninty-seven Dad. You lived longer than your Dad or your Grandpa or your Great-Grandpa.” 

“Ninty-seven?” Edgar said surprised.

Tracy nodded.

“Time goes fast. When I die, best give the watch to your boy; the one with all the tattoos.” Edgar remarked, peering at Tracy. He didn’t know her, only knew she was his daughter because she visited. 

Edgar was shocked to realize he was ninty-seven. The watch would have to go to his only grandson.

There had to be productivity and hard work hidden in those tattoos somewhere.

——–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Literary Lion: The Orchid


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He gave it to her the day they first met. A beautiful and lush purple orchid laying in sugar-water. Eve didn’t know who he was then only that she was going to be forced to marry him when she became of age. She was only thirteen and he must have been twenty when they first met. How could he even think Eve was attractive? Eve thought it a bit dirty, but her parents didn’t say much just that the age difference wouldn’t be so much when she was old enough to be wed.

” Why do I have to marry him?” she asked her mother.

“Because” Eve’s mother Blair said ” he has a lot of money, something we don’t. We maybe aristocracy, Eve, but our fortunes run dry. He is a self-made American who owns much land and business. He will take care of us all, but especially you. He asked to be betrothed to you himself, after all the other girls he could have had that are his age. Don’t you think he’s handsome?” Blair asked her daughter.

” Well yes, I think he is handsome. and well-built, but he’s just so old Mom.”

——-

Seven years later at age twenty-one the wedding took place. Eve looked at herself in the mirror wearing a beautiful lace wedding gown with an extremely long elegant train. She also had the flower her fiancé had given her when she was only twelve, it still lived and looked everyday the same, healthy and full of vitality. Eve had grown into a beautiful women with long wavy blond hair and greenish-blue eyes. She was lovely and curvy and she saw the way her fiancé Jonathan looked at her. They had become friends and strangely enough that had led to a deeper connection between them. Something Jonathan had said he knew there would be even when she was a preteen.

So, they married and had a family and many years together. All those years the orchid continued to bloom in its little round bowl. It wasn’t until Jonathan and Eve were well aged and having great-grand children that the orchid began to fade. Slowly, and strangely so did Eve and Jonathan’s health, until one day, they didn’t get up in the morning.

Eve’s maid found the elderly couple asleep in their bed holding hands. She looked at the bowl that held the orchid her former lady had loved or what was left of it. The orchid that had always bloomed now crumbled until all that remained was the dust of the flower floating in the water.

Word Count: 430 words

Thanks to I Smith Words for hosting and giving the prompt flower.