Thanks to Dylan of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie‘a First Line Friday Prompt. The first line from last Friday was: “I’m going to tell you how I lost my inheritance.” For NaPoWriMo the prompt is to write a nocturne which is a poem/song about the night. For A to Z Challenge, today’s letter is O for a GoodRead’s quote.
“You don’t have to be dead to leave a legacy. — Onyi Anyado”
I’m going to tell how I lost my inheritance, how my legacy rides in tides as the full moon rises,
How the night stole my humanity and hammered my soul a blow.
The dusk covered the light, liquid tar blanket bestowed,
The sun hid himself away, way down in western wilds of woe.
A sinking feeling settled in and a certain chorus began to ring,
A range of notes, a rising crescendo of riveting lyrical prose.
A poet’s words possessing her, when she knows full well,
The powerful pull of the midnight hour.
And the pressing provocative lure as the moon glows,
A white orb that won’t warble, a strong luminious light,
Residing over all as every full moon does.
To be host over the howling wolves, the healthy youths as they prowl,
The dark delights of the night distend into the dimest parts of every soul.
A choir of banshees brazenly taking souls salaciously, the maids from their beds,
The hour of the demons drawing back to their victims with wet bloody lips;
The incubus raging and awaking the wild within their prey.
And all is a lure, an image not clear, all this is imagined,
All this is frightening, foretold in nightmares.
The affected awake in the morning from the pleasure and pain,
From satisfied appetites, appalling in the dank aptitudes of night.
Night swells and swallows herprey wholly, partaking and doping with her starry glow,
Inviting the worst from the wise, even ill from the innocent.
Yet a moral being cannot mean to say, night has had her way and ‘I’ had no say;
It’s easy to give in with ease, to isolate one’s self to enthralling entertainments, inscribed darkly now on souls.
And what’s done in the night when the moon is full and fat, cannot be told for it stays hidden on those nights, when the wildest ones escape.
The vampires and the wolves, the creatures we know not of, and humans do not stay humble ether — they choose to fly with the fallen.
A nocturne of night will tell you what power presumes to hide beneath an inky black veil,
It’s not pure evil, it’s the usual kind, who chooses to dance with the devil, and forget their choices their choosing for charm and wine.
For tequila and vodka, for him and her, and whisky burning down your throat as the howls of the night combine with a loss of memory;
And we all awake mid-afternoon, no one knowing the peculiarities of such a night, a full out frightening moon.
Only a feeling, a shiver, a prayer, as the moon fades from brilliance, she is trapped, unwillingingly held as she wanes us back into morality.
The light of the sun salutes from the east and all is forgiven in harmony and health, angelic nebulas, skys of blue birds, and Bambi deers galloping.
Woe is the wicked night on the full moon, but how much greater is the morn after malevolence is perpetually destroyed,
Yet oh, how we miss the fun of bliss in the dark — no thoughts, no reason, just acceptance to absorb the pleasures of night’s nocturnal nightmares.
He sings the song, he knows so well, “American Pie” resounds,
A story “a long long time ago” the lyrics found,
On the lips of those passing by,
Throwing coins for memories sighed,
Thinking of “the day the music —
Died,” a plane crash in history mused.
Brought into the present, the “music [that] makes [him] smile.”
Singing talent innate: “Bye, Bye Miss American pie.”
He sings of the “good old boys . . . drinking whiskey and rye,”
Of the day they thought “this would be the day that” they’d up and die,
He breathes life into Rock and Roll,
Thinks music can save “mortal” souls.
His sonorous voice knows he has —
No luck; but he’ll sing for the past.
For “Miss American pie;” she drives her “Chevy” to the dry —
Levy;” all passing, know the lyrics “the day the music died.”
He’s a hit, his voice similar to Don McLean of past,
He drives home the point as if it were shards of sharp glass.
As history occurred, passed,
“Dirges in the dark” that collapse.
Of forgotten heroes, music lost,
Of times forgotten, with cost.
Singing for the “kings” and “queens” who walk on by, listening,
He sings the song he knows so well “Bye Bye . . . American pie.”
Don McLean – “American Pie”
Wrapped Refrain (Form No. 2), created by Jan Turner, carries some similar aspects as her Wrapped Refrain form, with further advanced techniques. It consists of 2 or more stanzas of 8 lines each, with the following set rules:
Thanks to Bastet from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Saturday Mix. Today’s prompt is a story of the mysterygenre using A BROKEN VASE, THREE DAISIES, A KNIFE, A MUSSED UP RUG, and A SHOPPING BAG. Sorry, couldn’t quite get this down to 150 words today.
A woman lay on the floor holding a shopping bag from Lululemon. Nearby her was what the detective assumed was the murder weapon, a brokenvase which had held three Gerber daisies.
The detective was confused inspecting the victim. It appeared the vase had finally killed her, but he discovered, she also had two stab wounds —older wounds. Beneath the woman was a mussed up rug and her head still bled. The two stab wounds, however, never bled enough to stain the rug.
The detective discovered the woman’s husband in the den, his hands covered in blood. He didn’t even try to deny killing his wife saying he attempted three times to kill her; aknife stained in blood was found in the den.
The husband explained, his wife had been sleeping with the neighbours son who attended university. Parker was a manager at a Lululemon store and sleeping with him, the bored housewife ensured herself a fifty-percent discount.