Current Events, dVerse, Memories/Childhood, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, My Thoughts, Nature, Nonfiction, Photography/Visual Art, Poetry, Quadrille - 44 Words, Writing, Writing Challenges

Writing Prompt: Poem – Quadrille – “Sounds of Sleep” #amwriting #poetry #dVerse 


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for Writing Prompt #218 on night sounds. 

Also, I’m combining the prompt with #dVerse WhimsyGhizmo Poet’s Pub Quadrille Prompt on freefalling. 

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Credit: MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie
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Plush, toasty, 

Huddled mass, 

Bedsheets cotton crumpled, 

Furnace’s ember glows. 

Sky clouds, 

Dreamy veil. 

Screeching cars,
Transposed. 

Train whistles,

Downy soft knit throws,

Tangled knots. 

Nightmares, quandaries, 

Thunder roars,

Rain lashes out, 

Dishes clinked,

Crickets laughing. 

Duck tapped silence, 

Drifting — no wings, 

Lethargic before, 

Free-falling awake. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Current Events, Fiction, Friday Music Prompt, Lune - 5,3,5 or 5 words, 3 words, 5 words, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, Music and Performers, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Poetry, Relationship, Writing, Writing Challenges

Music Prompt #5: Poem – Lunes – “Not Your Mama” #amwriting #poetry #musicchallenge 


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting the Music Prompt every second Friday. Last week’s song was “I Ain’t Your Mama” by Jennifer Lopez. I guess next time I’ll have to pick a better song, no one was interested in giving this one a go. But I should write for my own prompt at least. 

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Credit: 2nd Chance Water Restoration

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“I Ain’t Your Mama” by Jennifer Lopez

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I’m not just the woman, 

Who cooks for, 

Love, your favourite foods served. 

——

I’m not the one who should, 

Be waking you, 

To work, every single morning. 

——-

Crazy in love, partners united, 

We’ve fallen apart, 

Let’s glue the past together. 

——

For a future where we’re —

Both committed; both —

Living life to the fullest.

—–

No settling into comfortable boredom, 

Watching TV not, 

Noticing each other, nor caring. 

—–

Do some house work, it —

Will heat up, 

The sheets; bring back fire —

——

And if you don’ t desire, 

Changes or improvement, 

Tell me now, I’ll pack —

——-

My bags; I’ll start again, 

Because I deserve —

Better — I Ain’t Your Mama. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Animals/Pets, Books, Children/YA/Family, Lists, My Thoughts, Nature, Pinterest, Quotes, Writing

Notable Quotes: May 2017 Part 1 #quotes #pinterest


Happy May. Hope you are all loving spring and the coming of summer. It’s a busy month for me, how about you? What’s new? Whatever is happening, here are some more quotes for your thoughts. 
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Fiction, Flash Fiction, Memories/Childhood, My Thoughts, Sunday Photo Fiction, Writing, Writing Challenges

Sunday Photo Fiction: Lost Dreams


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.


spf-county-hotel
Credit: A Mixed Bag

Fifteen-years ago Chloe had visited the County Hotel for the first time in Aisling.

As a young woman, she loved how most of the boutiques and fine dining in the city were here. She adored the opulent movie theater and grand Opera House nearby. The area bustled with tourists and business people alike.

But Chloe’s favorite neighborhood Le Solas Na Greine, had aged. She decided this would be her last stay at the County Hotel. She noticed how much the decor of the hotel was worn. Even the blankets and sheets were threadbare and Chloe was afraid to go outside, except to catch a cab.

Now she visited a new hub of the city, the neighborhood of Lasaim. Yet, she was still upset such a lively and vibrant neighborhood as Le Solas Na Greine, was now the poorest and most frightening place in the city to be. It tainted her fondest memories of vacationing here.

She hoped in the future a new generation of politicians and citizens would revive her neighborhood. After all, didn’t the name of the city Aisling mean dream?


©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Fiction, My Thoughts, Poetry, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Travel, Tritina - ABC, CAB, BCA, Word High July, Writing

Poem: Tritina – “Soft Comes The Breeze.” #wordhighjuly #poetry #amwriting #amihan


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http://www.travelawayme.com

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Soft comes the breeze upon my face, 

Feather light kiss, sighing in sleep;

Drowsing in light, rustling of sheets.

——

Drowsing in light rustling of sheets,

Soft comes the breeze upon my face;

Feather light kiss, sighing in sleep.

—–

Feather light kiss, sighing in sleep, 

Drowsing in light, rustling of sheets;

Soft comes the breeze upon my face.

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights reserved.

Fiction, Flash Fiction, Music and Performers, My Thoughts, Quotes, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Sunday Photo Fiction: Purple Haze


A storm of this magnitude was a rare occurrence when the weather wasn’t boiling hot. The temperatures had been mild at best.

Albert had felt the temperature slowly decrease outside his truck where he ate his favourite chocolate bar. He had become cold enough to throw on his thin jacket. Albert adjusted the rim of the Blue Jays hat, as the first drops of rain fell methodically on his nose. 

Then the storm had arisen with tyranny. The unbiased cruelty of Mother Nature had thrown everything she had into the storm as Albert ducked back into his truck for cover.

Golf-ball sized hail pounded down, denting Albert’s beloved white pickup truck. Then the rain crashed in torrents of harsh unending water from the sky. The wind was blowing, howling it’s rage and rocking Albert’s truck.

Albert turned on the radio to comfort himself. He could hear thunder in the distance rumbling closer.

 The sky was a harsh grey with a small purple glow as lightening sparked across it. One lightening crack was so terrifyingly loud, Albert jumped. 

The destructive path of the lightening with thunderheads, made Albert think he was adrift in purple haze when deep booms were followed by flashes of brilliant purple.

Then, the radio was suddenly, blaringly loud to Albert as the thunder and lightening passed. The rain continued in sheets.

Jimi Hendrix was singing “Purple Haze,” crooning in his legendary voice on the radio:”Yeah, Purple Haze all in my eyes, don’t know if it’s day or night . . .” 

Albert could relate to those lines as he waited through the mid-afternoon in his truck, for the purple haze left in the rainy sky to pass. 

(Although, Albert knew Hendrix sung of a different kind of “Purple Haze. “)

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A Mixed Bag

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Thank you to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF
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Jimi Hendrix ” Purple Haze”

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©Mandibelle16.All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction, Flash Fiction, My Thoughts, Relationship, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: You Leave, I’m not.


“The last time, everything fit in three duffles…” well, was never. I mean I have been collecting memorabilia in a trunk since I was a baby.

My apartment has books I am not willing to give up. It is a place to do my makeup and style my hair. It has a mini office, the refinished desk near the front door. The papers I’ve organized to do with taxes and health benefits are all there. The bedroom has our built in closet and dressers filled with my clothes, purses, and shoes. 

 You are aware living in Canada you need clothes for at least three seasons? Winter being the worst because sweaters, winter coats, and boots take up a great deal of space.  And when the weather is warm you need various kinds of shoes dependant on the occasion. 

What about the furniture I made-over with my time and talent? What about the bed I purchased with sheets, pillows, and a duvet and covers? What about the lamps, couches, and curtains? The appliances and electronics?

You want me to go. . . it’s my apartment. I lived here first. You want me to fit everything in those three duffle bags. You’re crazy. You can’t make me leave, that’s your job man whore… (shove). Oh, you fell and hit your head on the stairs. Call your own ambulance.

http://www.publucdomainarchive.com

Thanks to Roger Shipp for hosting this weeks challenge!

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved. 

Event, Free Verse, My Thoughts, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Relationship, Writing

Poem: Quatrains on Life


It’s hard to shut my mind off.

There’s no switch, so it keeps wandering,

Down the paths of will I and should I?

Through the trails of could I? Would I?

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I think I’ve been making some important steps.

I also think there are parts of the wheel,

That still haven’t turned and the process is slow,

But I try to do well just the same.

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I’m stuck in a pattern and it’s not right,

To fear having so many people around,

To wonder how long until my body gives out,

To wish for meaning, but instead I’ll drift.

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Idle, conversation, I am merely there to be there,

To see a girl who lights up the world.

But her candle’s been flickering lately.

Even though she is doing well; I worry,

—–

She’s breaking the back of a milicious monster,

It starts with a “C” it’s a terrible disease,

But she doesn’t give it power, 

It’s why she refers to it as ‘Boobitas.’

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Maybe, she is being cute but I have to agree,

Power lies with the fears we let overcome us,

And she has a life to live, a baby to love.

Better not to let the ‘C’ word devour.

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Tomorrow night there will be a party,

To celebrate her thirty years on earth.

Many will have with them their other half,

But I’m devasted by many guys these days,

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I don’t want to be alone, but I’m not desperate,

But to date in your thirties living with Mom,

Makes the dating process harder.

Not to mention it’s hard for me to be out long with my health,

—–

I miss being a couple, but I don’t want my ex back.

I’ve been there before and done that.

And I’ve talked to many guys, they are quick,

And many are sly, they aren’t interested in putting effort in, or talk,

—–

They only want a woman whose warm,

I write stories and I read them too,

Guys in books they don’t exist,

And when I go to write a character,

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I follow the literary tradition of writing books about guys woman want,

But don’t exist in the real world,

I’m not sure I could write a real guy,

I’m not sure what the ideal real-life guy is like,

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He would probably eat a lot and want a lot of sheet twisting, 

When you go out, he’d say ‘you choose.’

Then not tell you when he hates it.

And he wouldn’t go with you again,

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I don’t think there were ever wonderful princes,

I don’t think there are wonderful millionaires or billionaires.

I think there are a lot of people,

Choosing to stay single because they can’t find their person.

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But then I see my friends with husbands,

I see their boyfriends and I know they are doing well,

Perhaps, I’m on the outside looking in,

But my past relationship was never quite right.

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These are only things I wonder, when I’m tired on a Friday night,

When I had plans but it didn’t work out,

At least I sold my old IPad, slow friend.

And my new one is so fast she purs.

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And I’m submitting writing to all these different places, 

I’m trying to build a portfolio of published work.

But it takes time to craft stories and poems,

Even posted here, they still require work.

—–

So, If nothing else I am productive,

And looking to live my writing dreams,

The mouse typing  in a pile of rodents spinning, 

Tomorrow my friend is thirty and even that’s not enough time to be friends with her. 

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©Mandibelle. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry, Relationship, Writing

Writing 201 – sonnet/apostrophe – The Morning 


That I should wake, to such bliss it causes–

My smile with lips so swollen that I lie,

So still beneath your morning kiss I will —

Not sacrifice a moment alone with you, And–

I wait with baited breath for you to move,

But the kiss is bliss the sun can see rise —

And the thick cotton of sheets they whisper;

And the conversation of skin begins,

The morning, alludes to secrets of night,

And tears from eyes, dry-out in light,

In the ache of daylight that tells us both, 

The time that we spent speaks of more. 

And our love is a mystery baited with,

Breath of life that our history tells, a tale.  

My Thoughts, Poetry, Quotes, Relationship, Religion/Morality, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Poem: I’m Not 


I’m not a crystal ball, I cannot tell the future. It’s a crime to know what time brings.

I’m not a shiny diamond, in that tear drop shape I wanted. Maybe, I’m a future bride but maybe I’ll buy my own ring.  

I’m not a simple book, when you look through a library full of literature. I’m classic, contemporary, romance, adventure, biography, mystery, fiction, non-fiction — “a little brown mouse in somebodies house.”

I’m not defined or confined by a word, I have amassed the wealth of many words. And I might be a run-on-sentence but that’s just because there are no pauses in life.

And I might be blue – eyed and blond but I am not a matter of my looks but a matter of seeing deeper. I’m not the body infront of you I’m the one that was me at twenty-three. 

And I’m not going to try to hold you back because I’m the one who stumbles, you can go on with your life . . . I’ll be fine.

And you are not a matter of your religion, I love you anyway, though I wish you saw the light in the darkness. 

And just because I cannot do all the things you can, does not make me challenged, does not mean I can’t do anything — just call and ask.

I am not someone whose fallen and wants to sit life out, now you hear my voice calling — I have the voice of a lion, screaming let me out! 

And I’m not a room you visit just because it’s peaceful, I’m all the nuisances that came together to form the feeling in this room, as you sit and drink your tea — I’m the warmth that you’re feeling. 

I’m not alone, although sometimes I believe it, I am not isolating myself, I’m just trying to find a middle.

I’m not the amount of time I stay awake at night, I am the woman always thinking, until sleep finds me sooner.

I’m not my favorite dog, but I carry her with me, I need those memories to sustain me until I can get another.

I’m not a single picture, I’m a collage, a mosaic, a seer of the big picture. I am paint, charcoal, pencil, 20 LB paper, erasers, stubs, and paint brushes.

I’m not a tumble in the sheets, I have a name, and If you’re here with me, you’re here with me. 

And I’m not defined by things, all that can be bought. I love to look gorgeose but I’d just as soon sweat and feel the high of endorphins with makeup running down my cheek.

I am not the way you look at me, like you know all about me, what makes me tick, what makes me sad, what makes me happy.

I am not a moment in the sun, I am the hummingbird flitting so fast she can’t breathe. And everything that ever was is eating through me thrumming.

I’m not defined, I’m not confined. 

But why in the world would you look at yourself, really look and see, — everything you’re not?