#OctPoWriMo Day 31/Sunday Writing Prompt: Poem — “Plain Sight” #amwritingpoetry #SundayWritingPrompt #MLMM


For OctPoWriMo Day 31 the Prompt is the word endless. I’m combining with MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Sunday Writing Prompt based on the Sylvia Plath letter quote: “I talk to God, but the sky is empty.” so glad to be done OctPoWriMo two-months later. It took awhile, but I’m happy it’s done in time for Christmas. Lol.


Credit: Paulo Brandao via Unsplash


Words in the tumbled breeze,

Chatter of birds in early light;

Blinding my ears to fright.

Intense azure glows, I cover my eyes;

It burns, it burns,

What a fright, what a fright.

Restless, my ears ringing as if I’ve spent all night,

With giant speakers, there jarring blare.

And oh, my eyes how they sting,

Such terrible light blinds me in fear.

How can such gleaming light be wonderful?

For me, it’s a curse.

No afternoon delight, but hellish nightmare.

The hammer’s swift; I the rock pit —

It’s pulsing, the rhythmic pain seething.

Lips moaning pleas,

Make it stop, but its unceasing.

Not after strong coffee as my stomach lurches,

Nor over toast I spit-out disgusted.

My skin, elephant tusks envy such paler.

No wine or liquor could cause,

A tinge so blue as the veins in my wrist.

Such hopelessness,

A putrid cycle of faithlessness.

Once I believed, now I am lost;

Lamb to the slaughter, must I too sputter?

Have my heart carved,

Gurgling water, blood in the tide.

But the tawny bird near my ear,

He flew inside my broken pane.

He cocks his stubborn head,

Eyes rapid; he mutters, words pained.

His left wing slops,

Tossed from the nest, now he rests near me.

I’ve not the heart to twist his neck,

Though his wing be his death.

But oh, he chirps, eyes rapid,

He sings despite his tepid clawed-steps.

Tiny talons gripping my pillow.

He sings, peers outside,

Aware he can’t fly;

We both can’t.

So, we stare in confusion,

Peering at each other, eye to eye.

Both defenselessness,

We know will soon be cut down.

Yet, while I groan, bird tweets,

The funniest chirps, as if conversing.

He’s livid until I arise, bring him a saucer;

Sups his water, munches sunflower seeds.

He try’s to flutter, my heart leaps —

He flails to the floor.

His eyes see cerulean horizons,

Not wretched revolt.

I’m mad at God,

He made the bird disabled.

But as I curse — bird’s tawny head shakes, beak twerps.

It occurs to me,

He sees more than ‘something’ out there.

If he can chatter at me unperturbed by my size,

Then, fling himself towards the sky —

Only to fall,

Perhaps than, faith can also fly again?

If God can mend my wounded heart,

With nails, grit embedded deep,

Can my feathered mate,

Have his wing set straight?

Perhaps, yes?

Then we can both soar,

And peer to the azure, the Heavens.

Recognize that this ‘something,’

Isn’t intangible, isn’t hiding,

It’s in plain sight,

Crystalline truth sudden,

In opulent morning breeze.


©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Advertisements

#NaPoWriMo Day 12/Poet’s Pub: Poem – Haibun – “The Battle” #dVerse #poetry #amwriting


For NaPoWriMo Day 12, the Prompt is: to “write a haibun that takes in the natural landscape of the place you live. I have to my surprise, never written in this form, so here’s a definition from Haibun– Poets.org:


“Haibun is a poetic form that allows one to answer some of these questions while providing a fresh perspective through a lens that focuses on nature and landscape. Haibun combines a prose poem with a haiku. The haiku usually ends the poem as a sort of whispery and insightful postscript to the prose of the beginning of the poem. Another way of looking at the form is thinking of haibun as . . . a prose poem ending with a meaningful murmur of sorts: a haiku.”


Also, I’m combining with Paul Scribble’s #dVerse Poet’s Pub, poetic prompt on a quote about poetic arts. The two prompts fit together well.


To write about poetry is to believe that there are answers to some of the questions poets ask of their art, or at least that there are reasons for writing it, writes Michael Weigers, editor of the anthology This Art: Poems about Poetry (Copper Canyon Press, 2003).


Credit: FreeStocks.org via Unsplash


Past the ravine, the North Saskatchewan flows; ice on her surface where Spring’s murmuring waters compose. The snow floats, sheets of ice crack, confused, the rivers pull bursts through. Amidst howling winds and bitter nights of chill, Spring waltzes in with lilacs. But old-man winter berates with frost, slippery roads, broken sidewalks. Spring blossoms and explodes, to weave the buds that summon bees. Springs drugged words ignored, no lush greenery bursts. Leaves rot, the ice, the snow, the muck, the refuse mushed, derelict without Spring’s blossoms. She hums her tune, an heals Winter’s hacking cough; she pleads her assurance of poppy fields. The old-man shakes his fist with cantankerous growl — another ‘last’ snowstorm grits. The poet composes in metaphorical bliss, avoiding morn’s beams. The question of, “Why?” No matter. The question of, “How can I not?” Words that enthral.

*****

Sleep in poppy’s opium kiss,

Revel in sunlight’s verdant bliss;

Spring’s song; poet’s light.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: Poem – Italian Sonnet – “Dodged A Bullet” #amwriting #poetry #flashfiction 


Thanks to Roger Shipp for hosting FFftPP.

—–

Credit: http://www.pixebay.com

——

Song of love he sings for her, poetry;

His heart in words difficult to sing.

Lyrics mean everything; his voice brings —

Such soft words gently strummed; he’s lonely

What weapon wins love’s war? The truth only? 

Does she understand? His music, his heart? 

Fact of his feelings —life with her, prays starts.

His daylight is her smile, his voice slowly

Sings last syllables; his baritone stops. 

She listened not, she had such vanity

He never knew she was so off-handed, 

Laughed at his song with her heart made of rock.

Raised her nose, sauntered away cruelly, 

She said not a word; he dodged a bullet. 

—–

©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. 

November Notes: Poem -Day 13 – Etherees Cascading – “I Don’t Understand” #poetry #novembernotes #amwriting #writing #music


Today’s song prompt is called “Shell Suite” by Chad Valley.

——-

“Shell Suite” – Chad Valley

——-

http://www.pinterest.com

——

Signs written on the walls, handwriting no —

One reads such a language anymore.

But you saw the signs, the moment —

Words in my head untangled. 

I don’t understood us, 

Myself, in this mess. 

My feelings confused, 

Time was short. 

Now we’re —

Gone. 

—–

Signs, 

Are so, 

Clear to you, 

I don’t need some —

Gifted seers dream.

Echoes in my head rhyme, 

Tapping my foot along in —

Rapid time, and I wonder where —

My search will begin, if I find us? 

Quarter past, rustle up — we fit or we don’t. 

——

Somehow I’m the one in control, I choose, 

I decide; I want to just go with —

The flow, not worry, not decide;

But at least I have my say. 

Yet life works out your way. 

Grand design heart beats, 

Perplexed by these —

Sounds, friends, foes, 

Yourself, 

Dazed. 

—-

It, 

Mattered, 

Not, writing —

So vivid and —

So crystal clear I, 

Felt resilience in, 

My chest; down to the beach, 

Our getaway, but rhythms ting. 

They keep echoing, it’s exhausting, 

Figuring out your charms, while packing for the sun. 

—-

You’re packing; feel the heart attack we live, 

A life I want not, I’m looking for the shore. 

For a place to get of off the flooding —

Boat before it carries me down. 

Where are you, where’d you go? 

Writings on the wall, 

Said it all well, 

They’re erased. 

You’re gone, 

Fled. 
——

——–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Poem: Quatrain – “Take Back Your Ring ” #wordhighjuly #poetry #amwriting #habilin



——–

http://www.pinterest.com

——

Not with me; think of you too much. 

A tiny ring; it you so condemns.

Even in death your pretentious, 

Hurting me; dying this way such. 

——–

Is it a poisonous ring to touch? 

A gem given not generous.

Without thought of reverence, 

To your memory, not a crutch. 

——–

Only a ring, such evil brings, 

Only a ring; inside me stings. 

A ring he made a promise to —

Love me for all time; it sings.

——-

Yet into my brain it’s screwed,

Saw you kissing her by the yew.

At your grave; asking ring keep too.

In death hold; you I never knew. 

——–

©Mandibelle16.(2016) All Rights Reserved.

Writing 101: Day 5- Hope is a Thing with Feathers


Prompt: Use a quote – I know I’m supposed to actually indent this but I found a picture of the poem (quote) I wanted to share. I started out with a different quote but I like this poem a lot better so please enjoy the wonderful poetry of Emily Dickinson “Hope is a Thing with Feathers” and my comments. 

 

I started to learn and appreciate poetry in high school. In school, we studied a unit in English 10 on Canadian Poetry. My favorite line is from a poem I cannot find today: ” No thank you, soldier, I do not like chocolate anymore.” I enjoyed poetry because it was shorter to read then a novel and for me, more meaningful. When I started to study poetry in first year university for English majors, I fell in love with the language of poetry. I love the rhymes, meter, similes, epistrophe, allusions, consonance, alliteration, assonance, metaphors, personifications, and all those other useful tools that form a poem. In my fourth year, I took American poetry and was introduced to the amazing words of Emily Dickinson. 

I learned so much in that poetry class with Dr. McNamara. I learned that you read poetry line by line and sentence by sentence.That the parts of a sentence can be moved around to find the meaning. You can play with words, that’s what this class taught me. You can move words around until you find a meaning, or until you make a meaning obscure. 

“Hope is a Thing with Feathers” is not a poem I studied in University; but I adored it the first time I read the poem shuffling through some Dickinson poetry on the Internet. 

In the poem ” Hope is a Thing with Feathers,” by Emily Dickinson, hope is personified as a bird ” . . .the thing with feathers” (1) and it ” . . . perches in the soul.(2)” Birds usually perch on trees so there is the metaphor of a soul as a tree that the bird perches on. Moreover, the birds song is personified as hope that”sings the tune without the words / [a]nd never stops at all. (3-4).  Like a bird, hope sings a song without words. It has a beautiful song that is only a tune . But unlike a bird, the music that hope sings never stops; the song of hope never ceases  within our souls and it helps us throughout life. The song of the bird or of hope doesn’t need words, to provide help to the hopeless. It is meaningful in a language only the soul understands. 

Additionally, in the second stanza of Dickinson’s poem, we learn “…sweetest in the gale is heard / [a]nd sore must be the storm / [t]hat could abash the little bird / [t]hat kept so many warm(5-8). Dickinson is saying in this stanza that the little bird, the hope that keeps us warm, is not broken by a horrible storm.Our situation has to become terribly difficult for hope to leave us. The bird of hope carries it’s tune even in the biggest winds, the storms, the hard times in life. As well, the sound of hope is sweeter in the wind and storms, because that’s when we especially need hope. Hope would not “abash” us after “keeping us so warm (7-8).”

Moreover, Dickinson writes in the third stanza that she has heard hope (the bird) in “the chilliest land” and on “the strangest seas (9-10).” We hear hope, metaphorically from the bird, when life seems so cold and harsh; when life is moving and changing; and even when a person is sick as a person might become on the ocean which is consistently rolling out waves. Even in “extremity” hope never “. . . aske[s] a crumb of” us(11-12). In the worst times of our lives, hope does not make us pay for having hope. The little bird that personifies hope sings freely, she does not need anything. Hope is given without cost to the hoper even in the toughest situations in life. When everything else is lost; hope remains.

I pray that this poem makes you, the reader, feel better when you are facing life. Know that hope is always “perching” in your soul. It will never leave you in the harshest winds and storms. In fact, hope is “sweetest” in the storm. And to have hope does not cost you. It’s a virtue that’s free. You will never pay for hoping. Even when the harsh cruel realities of the world hurt us, hope will support are plight. In fact, far better for a person to have the freedom of hope, then to not have hope at all. Hope helps us with it’s metaphorical song, to stay strong.