#NovemberNotes Day 6/Saturday Mix: Poem – Italian Sonnet – “Wildness Imparts” #amwriting #poetry #SaturdayMix


For November 5th, The Prompt song is “Wild Heart” by The Bleachers featuring Sarah Bareilles. Also combining the prompt with Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie double take Prompt. It uses homophones so words that are pronounced the same way but are spelled and mean something different. Here are Sarah’s two sets of homophones:

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draftpreliminary version

draughtgust of wind; a depth of water needed to float a ship

findlocate something

finedto have to pay a penalty

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Credit: Keyang Zheng

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Wild Hearts” – The Bleachers Ft. Sarah Bareilles

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Life’s one draft, no perfect words imparted,

Not even the winds strong draught or gale un-fashions,

Beauty in the eye’s fake without passion;

All we need is a path to our wild hearts.

I’m not unique, observing those a part,

The wretched, disabled shown no compassion.

No coins, bills, but offensive reactions,

We all need a path back to our wild hearts.

So blaze trails ‘cross sun’s fire and find wildness.

There’s steep fines for our thoughtless mindlessness.

When we stopped talking we neglected,

Cutting off conversing without focus.

It’s why I ask you to find your wild hearts,

We’ll connect face-to-face when talking starts.

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

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Saturday Mix: Poem – Bop – “Mysterious Humming” #poetry #saturdaymix #amwriting 


Thanks to Theresa of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Saturday Mix. Today’s prompt is a poem or piece of prose to describe a hummingbird or another creature using unique similes and metaphors. 

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Credit: Eden Hills – MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie

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Silent but for humming, sound of wind, 

Whizzing, flying, carbon bubbles sigh

A tune of a melody, light, profound, 

Sweetness of ambrosia nector cries, gold drowns. 

Sleekness and color, bright, bold splashed paint, 

Fast and fleet, wings of bubble bees rate. 

Fluttering of bedazzling delight teasing. 

Flit and flutter, bird or bee dreaming, 

As comets blazing across the sky beam. 

Music created, of soothing toned sweet hums, 

In churches as monks chant matins well sung. 

Soul of being, flash of sight, slight thrumming

Awake in the nostalgia, dreams summoning. 

Such honey, sugared lies, praises so sweet. 

Observing the beating, a golden snitch fleeting

Fluttering of bedazzling delight teasing. 

Please let me catch you, most superior bird, 

Chirp and chatter with warbling tweet words. 

Catch the bird thrumming, humming his own song, 

Words of a lifetime lift the world prolong. 

Wisdom knows, one cannot catch butterfly clouds, 

Nor humming birds, who flutter profound

Fluttering of bedazzling delight teasing. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Poem: Octaine Refrain – “Many Muses or One?” #wordhighjuly #poetry #amwriting #paraluman



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http://www.theguardian.com

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Artistic muses, too many to count.

Sky, sun, earth, nature, oceans blue, galore.

World around us inspires us, she implores.

Merely, observing people in life’s fount.

Such shades of colours, glorious to use.

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With paint and paint brush, one cannot abuse.

There’s variety, no limited amount.

No one to say what’s art; keeping your own score.

Artistic muses, too many to count.

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Artistic muses, too many to count.

I’ve artistic gifts to share and give more.

People’s eyes shine, staring at colours galore.

Such muses exist? Or does one amount? 

Paraluman you’ve opened my eyes bright.

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Charcoal, blackening my hands, grey and white.

Sketching, shading, eraser makes light count.

Renderings of images mind adores.

Artistic muses, too many to count. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.


Sunday Photo Fiction: The Herd Never Heard. 


I am at the crosswalk on Jasper ave and then . . .  there are young businessmen in colourful shirts and patterned ties talking loudly about sports; there are elegant older women in pencil skirts and flowing blouses shopping; homeless men in ragged winter coats and broken shoes begging; toned women in their Lululemons running back to the gym; bicycle messengers in their black mud-spattered garb; student’s in blue jeans and t-shirts hanging onto heavy backpacks waiting for the bus; there are the beauticians and hairstylists in their leather leggings, and funky light pink hair having conversations with clients; and there are people who are running home and quickly walking the dog with their husband or wife in tow.

There are also pretty girls with long black hair, heavy makeup, and leather moto jackets who are waitresses at restaurants of good repore; there are CEO’s and their top men in fine suits with pin stripes from Holt Renfrew who are negotiating deals; their are men with New’s boy hats and skinny jeans walking quickly to a retail job selling clothes; there are men in semi-casual khaki’s and a stripped rugby shirts working at cubicles in healthcare; there are firemen in there navy uniforms laughing loudly eating at the Wok Box; there are security guards in grey shirts and ties with a badge looking through a women’s large shopping bag; there all old-women dressed in their warmest down coat, with silver hair, and creased grey eyes looking to make some purchases at the Winners; there are old men sitting in the food court over coffee regailing each other with tales of their lives and of past jobs and children grown up and busy, of grandchildren who visit; there is a blind man led by a black dog in a jewel blue vest, stopping safely at the crosswalk before the cars go by.

Then there was me. An observer of everything, watching everything around me, knowing what they’re all doing. I was there a few days ago crossing the street in heels. Stepping onto a curb before I am pushed by two large men in suits not paying attention to a 5’1″ women. When the car drove over me I didn’t even feel it. I had hit my head on the concrete curb of the street. I was lying there bleeding and the hords stepped around me. They barely flinched when the truck drove over me, as if I was meant to be road-kill.

But I watch them from a tree a wisp of myself. And I wonder if today someone will care about the lonely and the lost, those too short and whose voices are too small to be heard above the noise.


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.