Three Line Tales: Poem – Bop – “Golden Haze” #amwriting #poetry #3LineTales


Thanks to Sonya of Only 100 Words for hosting this week’s #3LineTale. The Tale became an entire poem.


Credit: Sharon McCutcheon via Unsplash.


Gold” by Imagine Dragons


Now you’re blessed, so confess all your lost dreams,

Diamonds, emeralds your curse, tearing your seams.

How do you know it’s all real, that you still feel?

How do you cry, when you’re numb and reeling?

Too much gleam of Ag, shallow and false,

You heart doesn’t thump; Midas stilled its pulse.

Such appeal of golden apples faltered —

You can’t eat metal, push away your faults;

Hide your cursed shining touch, voices hush —

No more lies; who now can you even trust?

Everything you graze turns to gold, gold, gold.

You’re a statue bathed in it, no old —

Friends by your side; ruler of cold and stale.

No wine and meat, it’s as ash chewed, inhaled.

Hollow, bathing in liquid gold streaming,

Trying to define it meaninglessness.

Your void in life, as you fade down the corn maze,

A woman hopeless, in a smokey haze.

Life’s no dream when your touch destroys all inane,

You’ll not escape — greed’s your ever-long shame.


©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.

#dVerse Poet’s Pub: Poem – Quadrille – “Questions on ‘Seven’” #amwriting #poetry


Thanks to Grace of #dVerse Poet’s Pub for hosting the Quadrille Prompt on the number seven.


Credit: Lanty via Unsplash.


Is seven lucky,

Or cursed?

I know it’s forgiveness,

Seven times seven,

No matter the wrong.

Does seven have meaning?

Or, is it but a number?

A multiple, a divisor — math.

Is it meaningful numerology?

Perhaps, we imbibe meaning,

Where there’s none?

Or, perhaps, seven’s mere superstition;

Will seven win-out?


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Photo Challenge: Poem – Free Verse – “Seven Times Seven” #amwriting #poetry #PhotoChallenge #MLMM


Thanks to Sarah of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s Photo Challenge.


Credit: Gamze Bozkaya via Unsplash


Pumping legs into the azure,

O’r mountains of snow and rock,

O’r the lush valley below.

Sweat dripping, hands clenched,

Thin cord strung to a wooden plank.

Legs bending, back and forth,

Lungs gasping as I fly.

Seven times seven, as fresh mountain air inhaled.

Breath respires,

Wondering if after seven times seven,

I could soar as the hawks or the jays?

Or would I crumple? A boulder colliding with the ground;

A meteor splintered.

Bones snapping, pine’s lashing.

Seven times seven; I’m not afraid.

But, in our cabin above the valley,

They’re yelling, and she screams.

The blows fall; I cringe, heart flutters rapid.

Pushing my legs forward and back,

Seven times seven, how long can she survive?

Each fight’s more grim.

Seven minutes, then she’s crying, and wounded;

I wash away the blood.

Bandage and set the bones beneath purpled orchid skin.

She says to forgive seven times seven,

But, my hate has increased sevenfold;

His fists mutilate her each time.

Seven-years trapped up here,

But, in seven-days we’ll run.

No more soaring, no more crystal skies,

For seven times seven,

For her life and mine.

I must steal her away —

Not to die with each sip of his rye.

We’ll lose ourselves,

Seven times seven million miles away.

He’ll never find us — not in his forty-nine years.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

Three Line Tales/Music Challenge: Fiction – The Guilt of a Freshmen Love #amwriting #3LineTales #fiction #Musicchallenge #MLMM


Thanks to Sonya of Only 100 Words for hosting #3Line Tales. Also, thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie‘s Music Challenge prompt #29 on the song “The Freshmen” by the Verve Pipe.


Credit: Michal Prucha via Unsplash


“The Freshmen” by the Verve Pipehttps://youtu.be/Jf3pXkBDhiE


When I was young I assumed I knew it all, and not one of us listened to each other; we hammered insults injuring with no thoughts for consequences. Then, we were guilt-stricken, sobbing as we crashed through thin-ice and drowned, as we insisted we weren’t obligated for denying our feelings; as swans plucked clean of feathers — our loves swallowed Valium. We denied them, they weren’t our responsibility because they fell in love first, but I’ll never know why we thought ourselves wise and wouldn’t compromise, washing our hands of our failed relationships — we never talk of dying for our sins; in the end we convinced ourselves, we were only freshmen.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.