Sunday Photo Fiction: Poem – Italian Sonnet – “Autumn Forever” #amwriting #poetry #flashfiction


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF. 

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Credit: Alistair Forbes – A Mixed Bag

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Crumpled bits of paper bags, butterscotch, 

Vermilion, ocher, brunette leaves rumpled. 

Gone are days of verdence lush, now muffled —

By decay; pungent scent, Autumn rotting. 

Such beauty, such fear of summer days lost. 

Imagining patio, sangria’s stumble. 

While in the new cold, fingers they fumble. 

Finding right key before cold’s biting frost. 

Radiant decay stay awhile and crunch —

Underfoot; wandering through rivervalleys. 

Temperatures perfect, breezy days fun, 

The crinkle of Autumn’s shedding grande. 

Where the cold and warmth linger sharing grace, 

Fall forever as I meander trails. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

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Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: No Piano Mom.


Thanks to Roger Shipp for hosting FFftPP.

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http://www.pixebay.com

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Mom, I don’t want to play piano, 

But you force me every week, no! 

You say “it can’t be that hard,”

My piano playing, will never go far.

You think I’ll get better when you make me play, 

I practice, fumbling the wrong keys — you say:

“My boy he’s going to be a musician,

My Alex is going to go far, be a physician;

Playing the piano helps with math and science skills, 

Playing these notes, he learns to read music: I’ve chills, 

One day he’ll be a musician and a doctor, 

How could a mother want anything more.” 

So I pound out the notes, keeping my hand like a ball,

Ignoring your wince when my fingers stumble and fall.

I want to do something fun, 

I want to play soccer and run.

I want to be an astronaut, or maybe a fireman, 

A hero who saves people, maybe Spider-Man?

I’m not sure yet what I want to be, 

I don’t like math or piano you see. 

But my printing is good; I handwrite well,

My typing is fast; in my stories, witches cast spells.

I like to read; I’m quicker than other children.

Are you listening to me? Or yelling certain —

I should be practicing piano, something you decided for me.

Never asking how I felt as years passed by and I still played off key.

I couldn’t memorize the music; it was tedious, 

I preferred writing stories, characters mischievous. 

How your face dropped, 

Now you never talk to me; you stopped.

Because I didn’t become a musician or a doctor,

I used my talents and your boy Alex plays professional soccer.

Writing stories in the paper about sports and other topics, I glean.

I didn’t meet your standards; I lived my own dreams.

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© Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.