Fiction, Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer, Italian Sonnet - Iambic Pentameter - Octave (abbaabba) - Sestet (cdcdcd), My Thoughts, Poetry, Relationship, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer: Poem – Italian Sonnet – “Green For Jealousy” #amwriting #poetry #flashfiction 


Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW.

——

Credit: Jade M. Wong 2016

———

She used to be green, envious of those, 

Who moved with more than their clever placed prose. 

Green burned within her eyes, she fought to know, 

More than the forest invading souls; chose —

To see beyond green, jealousy which rose. 

Stronger person, tougher girl who fought those, 

Who placed her in such tight square-pegged green holes. 

Beyond emotion to soft grace she rose. 

——

Envy tears apart, so green and seething

A monster growing her sharp teeth, teething;

A vindictive being, behind scenes teasing.

No more green for her, she dreams in light blues, 

No more green, peaceful serenity cued;

Jealousy hits door, tosses emerald shoes. 

——-

© Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction, Mirrored Sestet, My Thoughts, Photography/Visual Art, Poetry, Religion/Morality, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Photo Challenge: Poem – Mirrored Sestet – “Fear of Moon” #amwriting #poetry 


Thanks to MindLovesMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this tarot prompt of the moon.

——-

nothoughtdeviantart.com

——–

World is dim, unconsciousness formed swirls.

Swirls call my mind to odd distant other worlds.

Journey, searching, will I find a place worth, 

Worth finding strange people, repeat journey

Cannot do what I need to do, what’s taught

Taught in school, remembered, forget I cannot

——

Always search, but I never find hallways

 Hallways leading home, place needed always

Excitement high feeds my  inticements

Inticement lingers, through mass excitement

Words coming from my mouth, words but unheard.

Unheard words, no one understands my words.

——

Dreamscapes, such funny places explored seem

Seem alive but hiding painful dreamscapes

No escape, when you wish to climb, landscapes.

Landscapes change in dreams I find, no escape. 

Colourful world, weird place some twisted other —

Other world catches, enfolds, colourful world. 

——-

Where am I, that I chase and can’t find there

There? Places which are morphed, a trap, go where? 

Placed objects in my hands, details I traced

Traced how they felt before I left replaced

Shimmering full moon glimmering.

Glimmering dark moon shimmering. 

——

In dreams the moon it haunts, whispers of sin,

Sins past, present, future not letting in —

Hoping of waking up, tired of fake words spoke.

Spoke from mouths which would never stop hoping.

Here they do, the moon crushing hope with fear.

Fear it rules night, moon glows; yet morn now here

———–

A Mirrored Sestet – http://www.shadowpoetry.com

The Mirror Sestet, created by Shelley A. Cephas, is a poem that can be written in one or more stanzas of 6 lines each. The specific guidelines for this form are as follows:
The first word of line 1 rhymes with the last word of line 1.
The first word of line 2 is the last word of line 1

and the last word of line 2 is the 1st word of line 1.

——-

The first word of line 3 rhymes with the last word of line 3.
The first word of line 4 is the last word of line 3

and the last word of line 4 is the 1st word of line 3.

——-

The first word of line 5 rhymes with the last word of line 5.
The first word of line 6 is the last word of line 5

and the last word of line 6 is the 1st word of line 5.

———

The Mirror Sestet can also be written in non-rhyme.

All rules must be followed except there is no 1st and last word rhyming.

———

©Mandibelle16.(2016) All Rights Reserved.

Free Verse, Music and Performers, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Poetry, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Poem: Free Verse – ” Writing Freedom of Art” 


. Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. ― Leonard Cohen

 ——-

http://www.ilovebodyart.com
 
—–

What do you do when there is no freedom in art?When your controlled by rhyme schemes, 

By repetition and meter? 

I thought this was creativity and freedom,

No one said I had to sign on the dotted line,

No one told me these forms we’ve created are stencils,

And stencils, don’t allow for drawing outside the lines,

If there is no freedom elsewhere, give me liberty of art.

To write in every and any form, to choose the guides we’re taught,

Though I love a fantastic rhyme and a a unique poetry type,

I’m getting lost behind all the hype,

Whatever became of free expression?

Words that tumbled out of you that had no edges,

They came out and simply were, 

They are;  you can’t conform these thoughts,

They’re not meant to be placed in parallelograms,

To exist inside triangles, or even in infinity, 

These words only are, and exist because they must,

Aren’t these words the language of your heart screaming out,

Your art in the form you can honestly behold and serve, 

Finding strangers to comprehend this secret language is absurd,

Each heart speaks so significantly and in it’s own dialect.

We know the words, but do we know how they connect the lines back to a person,

Their inner most thoughts and feelings,

Passions running high and talent divides,

Those who run with freedom of words and say as they like,

Those that let the heart-words speak in loud voice,

Those who nurture a writer’s spirit know only,

The driving need and insistence laid upon your spirit when you were gifted with your voice.

This art that calls, jeers, and whispers; never giving way.

Zooming out to restful images of nature, lying in the grass where you can finally breathe.

Not suffocate on iambic pentameter, or be caught in couplets or quatrains.

Idyllic pastoral poetry might give you reprise,

Floating on clouds, powder puffs in the sky,

Sifting bare feet in sand and jumping as the tide licks your feet.

Writing your secrets of peace and tranquility; the sane that stops the insane, 

Art still calls as a lark in the morning, a jaybird singing melodically, 

Free-verse, or prose poetry, the futuristic form of many a poet,

A burden of the old and the new, confiding they find each other crude,

But any voice who has a song, just sing, your words or story,

Your words are diamonds, polished or rough, waiting to explode in jewelled luminescence. 

Waiting to be incense to a world who needs to hear, breathe in the smoke of truth; have your Liberty.

Freedom of voice, it’s an art to be free to write,

What strikes you at the time, and to be able to stop, when exhaustion lingers, 

To not be chained to an inner voice who constantly begs, “write.”

To let out that voice when you wish and write in your chosen method.

No stencils, merely pen and paper.

Maybe keys on the iPad, as it glows white light into midnight.

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.