Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer: Poem – Quadrille – “Winged Hope” #amwriting #poetry #dVerse #flashfiction

Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW August 29, 2017. Also, thanks to Paul Scribbles of #dVerse Poet’s Pub for hosting a poetry prompt on magic


Credit: Jade M. Wong – FFftAW


Art bleeds, 

Nobody’s seen before —

Winged ring,

Mortally wounded.  

Some kids arrows —


Forever trickling,  

Whenever someone’s — 


Knives, gunshots wounds. 

Whether they’re sick —

On pain medication. 

Or dead in sleep.

Winged circle bleeds, 

For generations. 

Weeping blood,

For death is —


Yet in darkness, 

Gleams old magic, 

Hope’s recourse, 



©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 


Collage Prompt: Cascading Etherees – “The Light Keeps Burning” #amwriting #poetry #stories 

Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this Collage Prompt.  


Credit: Window- Andrey Bobir: Fruit Center: Kevin Sloan: Woman- Christian Schloe


I’m a story, my life overarching,

Tale that tells of my unique journey. 

Places I’ve travelled, things I’ve seen,

Until the day comes and these —

Memories imprint, 

Silt, dust, and smoke. 

Characters lost, 

Not even, 

To be, 




Can’t be! 

Actions done, 

Wild nights, regret;

My authentic talents,

And a muse who knows, 

Histories repeated —

Memories of pen and ink. 

Thoughts hidden, lock and key, they close. 

Masking the truth of such characters, 

Building worlds through words, disconnected. 


Sly as a fox, I’ve learned fruitful ways. 

These days go by, can’t halt the clock’s tick,

Don’t forget time’s ever so short. 

Juices dribbling down small chins,

Organic pears sweet with —

Raspberries too. 

Ripe fruit ate, 

Becomes soul —

Food that —




As Tales, 

Brilliant and — 

Warm soothe the heart, 

But reality —

Doldrums work to dull minds. 

An anasethic addictive, 

Sickness in body, soul, and heart. 

Too much berries here for birds who —

Wobble discordently drunk, stagnant. 


Become a person who finds windows when, 

All doors are shut, locked up tightly. 

Find your dreams, your goals define them, 

Persevere, strive in —

Life as it happens; too —

Fast for my liking! 

Absorb moments,

Choose to, 





That we will, 

Be forgotten,

As stories or part,

Of nastolgies devised.  

Obscurity as time —

Moves as the rabbit with his —

Pocket watch; we’re perpetually late; 

Wherever we end; hope it’s paradise.


One where we dwell on stories of truth, 

Body’s age, decay; but our gifts stay. 

Forever they are our tasks.

Someday we each face ends.

As Dylan desperate wrote, 

Of the light’s dying, 

Don’t fear for it; light’s





©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Tale Weavers: Poem – Alouette – “Entrapped” #taleweavers #poetry #amwriting 

Thanks to Lorraine from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting last week’s Tale Weaver prompt on having a dark side or the dark side of life. 


Credit: MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie


” . . .Don’t get to close its dark inside. It’s where my demons hide, it’s where my demons hide” – “Demons” by Imagine Dragon


They’re people we meet, 

In them darkness keeps. 

A veil over haunted eyes, 

Something telling weighs, 

Light badly betrays;

Shadows lift, they’re undisguised


Putting on a face, 

Something’s hidden; pace —

Steadily, you’re caught thinking. 

Truth can be harmful, 

Darkness it swarms. 

Seeming ruse has us shrinking. 


To start, talk awhile;

Some demons revile

Other darkness isn’t asked for it’s, 

Unfairly gifted, 

Souls broken, shifted;

Waiting for light at home lit. 


No one is so lost, 

They can’t be reformed. 

Shadows hold tightly, a hand —

Gives hope in the dark,

Heals bruising black marks. 

Keep helping, say: “Here’s my hand.” 


Though darkness found can —

Be fearful, programmed, 

In those with no conscience led;

Most people are sought, 

It happens a lot;

We’re trapped in nightmares dread


But the light of hope, 

In dawn always glows

Derelict souls need help, change, 

Is possible;

Not impossible. 

Leave no one entrapped; estranged. 


©Mandibelle16 (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Poem: Free Verse – Thoughts of the Mockingjay #amwriting #poetry #fiction #symbolic 

Credit: Wikia


Mockingjay, pretty bird or elegant deadly queen? 

A woman, a creature of dystopia and mythology

If there’s one bird to be, it would be a Mockingjay

Though I know they’re imaginary,

Mockingjays are real as symbols of courage.

Birds which don’t break, they carry on;

Nature outlasting outlandish experiments,

Reinventing, Mother Earth evolving and re-working, 

What humans would call a mistake; 

Yet these Jays cannot be hidden away, they’re fierce warriors risen. 


As a Mockingjay, could I fly close to the sun? 

Icarus (I think) burned off his majestic wings doing such a deed, 

 I’d think a celestial queen of Mockingjays is smarter

She’s a stealthy bird whose whistle, repeats any tune heard, 

Her mimickery can be confusing to her enemy. 

A Mockingjay queen, would keep her scars hidden, 

Safe beneath feathers which float, as hope; 

Now fuzz, falling furiously as she grows, dropping downy —

Fast, no longer a chick adorned with puffiness

Now a full-blown black and white glory who sings life’s story, 

The story of pain, betrayal, and loss;

Your average adventure and most tantalising tale. 

Oh, what a Mockingjay can truly be, 

When her heads adorned by sunlight and truth,

Choosing her battles and using her melody

The Melody you’re humming to yourself. 

The sweetest songs of tears, quicksilver and liquid gold, 

Molten metal glimmering

She burns with fire in her soul, though she is no mythical Phoenix;

Yet she rises from the ashes of society and science

She repeats your tunes, the echoes throughout her wild lands. 


Credit: http://www.nerdist.com


You’ll never catch a Mockingjay, there’s wrath in her footprints, 

Her anger caused, ignites an inner flame brilliant. 

She’ll swoop from above and end you below, 

The dignified woman, no longer laughing,

Going to battle, her war song a trill

The Mockingjay flies her wings fluid, her form grace designed. 

A legendary bird of modern times,

Survival of the fittest crossing genetics; 

Nature re-designs better than a science lab of horrors

Mockingjay is more than bird she is the huntress

The symbolic warrior of Ancient Greece and Rome – Artemis;

Bow with blazing pyrotechnics and lethal skill, pointed at her kill. 

She lives and she dreams of the day, the war is long ended, 

Where revenge and the cold stone hearted have no meaning. 

Her desire is the melody so beautiful it thrills and heals

Enraptures a soul with clearly sung words. 

She’s a warrior with golden platted lashes, winged at her pray;

A sultry seductress and and goddess flying free. 

Mockingbird walks, she sways, feathers flocked close, 

She’s as precious as the sparrow, calling lonely for her love.

She’d scarred, her heart torn

So strong but in need of help most of all. 

Even symbols of strength such as her, 

Who mimick a fictitious tune with ease;

Need more than survival to hope for. 

She needs more than, a gilded bird cage. 


Credit: Laces and Tiaras


©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Poem: Quatrains: “What Never Heals”


“I know that’s what people say– you’ll get over it. I’d say it, too. But I know it’s not true. Oh, you’ll be happy again, never fear. But you won’t forget. Every time you fall in love it will be because something in the man reminds you of him.” 

― Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn


One day you promised me the pain,

Would eventually heal, I’d be —

Free from photographs and the shame.

While I am here, tears streaming.

Out of my mind, of my head,

Did you burn memories seething?

They never left my soul, they’re undead,

While I’m here, tears streaming.

You and her, it’s the cut deepest,

Never heals, it bleeds; you beaming

A baby’s breath; life makes me weak.

While I’m here, tears streaming.

At times, I’m over you completely,

Then, an image leaves me grieving.

Heart of the girl, a heart too sweet.

While I’m here, tears streaming.

Conversation wouldn’t aid, I —

Learn to sew up all broken seams.

Especially in sleep, where I cry,

While I’m here, tears streaming.

A few hours, a few days and —

I’ll be fine again —breathing.

Didn’t have much, nothing so grand.

While I’m here, tears streaming.

Let go, let me free, unburden me,

Stop snipping my wings, inhaling

The past’s ashes, it chokes me,

I was here, tears dried; now I’m free.


©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Poem: Free Verse – “Self-Healing and Caustic” #amwriting #poetry 



The darkness conceals, filthy misdeeds. 
Hidden weapons, malovelence.

Daggers hidden in tips of boots,

Removed from suit coats, in suit linings revealed, 

To silence my heart, and I think it’s the end.

But my heart keeps beating, a hard steady beat;

I hear it alone, only in my ears because everywhere else —

There’s dead silence; but in the silence, 

My heart is a drum, banging out the beats of life and renewal, 

The thump thump, the tempo which will not end.

You’re too generous to stab me in the back,

So it must be in my chest, through the organ which loved you. 

Now my blood spills, but my heart keeps up a ‘Lub-dub,’ 

Waiting for a death which never arrives. 

There is only the sound of my blood pooling in silence.

Yet, I’m only pained by the horrific sound of nothing, 

My heart is strong and I struggle through,

Only to find I have not what most call life’s blood. 

My veins weep venom, for I run on poison — not blood.

And the vitral having leaked into ventricles, 

Pumps throughout my body, 

My own sickly blood healing me and —

Killing my lost love, a murder; 

All those exposed, the blood is poison for.

I’m overcome by sadness as I’m lying here, 

Heart beating, but I should be dead? 

But I’m still going strong with my blood self -healing.

A poisonous farewell I give to everyone I lose.

 I’m unaffected by a dagger aimed, 

Didn’t conceive of my body regenerating.

And my blood in the open — it ends lives.

I rise and into the night fade, as if I never was.

Tears leaking down my face, caustic themselves. 


©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Only A Shop and The Words


As you all know I am very interested in getting into a Creative Writing Masters. But I have needed some inspiration and some pushing to create the way I want to create; the way I need to create. These poems are a beginning. I always used to write my feelings out in poetry such as this when I was a teenager and I haven’t for awhile. So please enjoy, comment if you like, it really does help me edit and refine my work. I am taking a couple Creative Writing classes, now, and in the next year to build a portfolio for my Master’s. These poems I will hopefully submit for class when we get to poetry. Currently, we have just started fiction. I wrote my first fiction story ever, which I will fix up a bit and submit to you at a later date. It has been awhile since I posted, sorry I have been so busy finishing up Architectural Design and my boyfriend was down from up North last week 🙂 I am taking Google Sketch Up after or while this course finishes off so will be quite busy with that but I hope to have some Flurt articles for you all soon as the magazine has undergone some editorial staffing changes lately.

Take care,


Only a Shop 2013-02-13

It’s only a shop, only a store;
But these are the places from which I buy,
more, and more, and more.
C’est le maison, c’est le magasine
but even in Quebec I’d find something,
that I would need to own.
It’s just some compulsion, some want from within,
that makes me buy jackets, skirts, jewelry, and design.
And if I had it my way I could buy as much as my credit card would clear.
But debt is a load that’s hard to bear.
And I’ve a closet that’s full, with nothing to wear.
Full of fashion, what’s chic, that which only fits.
But there’s not enough room in there,
and the clothes they are pouring right out the door
And I want to look stylish I want to look hip.
I want to wear what I want, I want to wear it well.
But my closet is built on the guilt of no savings account.
On money tightly saved, spent once to clear the debt away.
Spent twice, now I’m trapped until I can clear some room,
In closet and on card.
I love the purchases I made in there,
I’d love them more if I had somewhere to wear that swank.
Not just some evening out, once a month.
Not just to a class one evening or two.
I’d love to wear and wear proudly to somewhere it mattered,
to look good, where people cared,
and they out-lawed old sweats and pajama pants’
to nights you had your clothes to wash at home.
My closet is a beast, it reflects the need within;
because what I wear is never enough,
I’m not 155 lbs slim anymore.
And even though I’ve grown a bit,
though I never had the money to dress myself slim back then,
today I’ll buy and buy online and in store.
I love it when I gets that feeling,
It feels like nothing else but…
endorphins from hard workouts in the gym, and dancing, late nights out…
I couldn’t do that for along time you see;
still can’t make my blood pump without passing out.
So I buy and buy myself some happiness,
filling a hole that’s been dug so deep,
like a bandage uncovering a wound,
Heals the shopping, if only brief;
the wounds of disease, the wounds that gape,
every time I get that feeling to just buy a little more.
And I’m so tired of buying, to fill in holes,
to be reprimanded by my conscience’s defiance.
It’s the only place I’m ever free, the place that I most need.
What I’d give for an empty bill and a drug that healed the soul

The Words 2013-03-20

I watched the words snap into place,
An epiphany that I’d never seen.
The words were formless fading things;
she said, redo it, I liked it how it was.
The letters they formed into words once more,
adding new thoughts to paper and rollerball pen.
I was not sure, if the new words fit,
pieces of glass in an open wound,
a story once told and soon replaced.
Do it again, or here I’ll just change it,
alter the words until my voice is unclear.
As you read it to yourself,
you won’t hear me anymore.
I am the voice silenced by anger.
Don’t change my story, isn’t it the same?
You just said it differently,
my clarity, those words aren’t mine anymore.
I watched and I waited, painted the world with emotion.
Anger, disloyalty, loathing – those words are mine.
Stop cutting, stop characterizing, stop changing.
But then I’d never learn if you didn’t comment once or twice.
I’ll never get back to the place where I know it all,
because I don’t know it anymore.
So I allow you to print half the story,
you don’t like how I say it, but this is my voice.
How dare you change my story!
Everyone wonders what the writer meant,
they see what they see, I see what I see.
Look it over and leave it,
your so young you have yet to see,
you like me know nothing.
It’s the curse of this world, there is no control,
you fight for control when you say it your way,
But neither of us knows it
And few people older know; we are small in this world.
We can dream big, but eventually we need come down to earth.
Control is an illusion, so don’t alter the words,
that splash and soak into my paper.
Leave the peace be, and leave my piece alone.
But the words once more came crashing down.
Who knows if their mine, or if they are yours.