Friday Fictioneer: Poem – Free Verse – “Echo Beyond”


Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting FF.


ff-train-to-no-where
Credit: C.E. Ayr

Parts of city, no one admits are here,

Only smashed cars, railroad tracks live dying.

Find a fleck of hope here;

There’s not but skeletons, twisted years lost.

*****

We stare into the crisscrossing of tracks,

Wonder how all the trains never seem lost.

For accidents, no care.

Here is our place, where no one dare go.

****

I will always hope,

Wishing there’s more left,

Then empty spaces littered.

I’ll find strength where it hurts,

Will I change our lot?

Someday our names will echo beyond.

*****

I’m tired of staying in this mishmash space,

There’s more to life than choking on coal dust.

My love, we’ll find our place.

We’re wolves, eyes gleaming, searching for home.

*****

Bitterness leaves me caught in this valley,

Is still and hot; we’ll move, find our names.

Wolves as you and I,

Our might is large; ignored, we’re crafty.

*****

I will always hope,

Wishing there’s more left,

Then empty spaces littered.

I’ll find strength where it hurts,

Will I change our lot?

Someday our names will echo beyond.

*****


“The Cave” – Mumford & Sons


©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

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B&P’s Shadorma and Beyond Challenge: “To the Fall Leaves” #amwriting #poetry 


Thank you to MindLovesMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s challenge on Fall and D.H. Lawrence’s poem about Fall called: “Autumn Rain.” 

——–

Credit: Forbes Travel Guide

——-

Crinkled Leaves, 

Whisper past my cheek, 

Twist in hair, 

On the ground, 

Disperse in my hand, fragments, 

Not one leaf — thousands. 

—–

The scent Fall —

Gives, lingers of rot.

It’s acrid

Yet pleasant. 

Dessication, fragrance breathe;

A nip in the air. 

—–

Floating leaves, 

Linger around trees, 

Dropping as —

One passes, 

Realize everything has —

A time to live and die.

——-

Brush strokes of, 

Deep scarlet and orange —

As pumpkins, 

Yellow as —

Butterscotch dripping and warm, 

Oozing to the ground.

——-

Feet crunching, 

Leaves underfoot and twigs, 

From trees mix, 

With their birth–

Place; such twigs sprung with green leaves, 

There weight is now shed.

——

Arises, 

The wind, blowing such –

Skeletons, 

They were lush, 

Now, they are gone, murmuring —

Winters chill and scorn.

——

Yet such a —

Beauty one does not —

See, but in —

The Fall when, 

Leaves cover pathways, hint at — 

Fascinating old dreams. 

——

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Maydays: Fiction – The Truth About Marrion.



—–

Thank you to K L Caley from new2writing for hosting the Mayday prompts. Today’s prompt is skeletons in the closet.

—–

http://www.larrylawhead.com

——

Who is this woman beside Uncle Terrance in a wedding dress? Was he widowed before he married you?” Aunt Rosie gazed at Katie as if she had found something she shouldn’t have touched.

“Where did you find that Katie?” 

“Oh, it was out on the table by the front door. I saw Uncle Terrance in there today, taking out some boxes.” Katie said.

“Are you okay Aunt Rosie? You’ve gone pale. What’s with the picture?” 

Aunt Rosie shook her head.”I can’t. I just can’t,” she said, holding her throat.

“You seem out of breath. Maybe, relax a moment and I’ll make you some lemon tea. Do you want to tell me about this photo Auntie? I think you would feel better if you did.” Katie remarked. 

Aunt Rosie began to hyperventilate. It took a few minutes but Katie calmed her down. ” Nice deep breathes Auntie. That’s it, now here’s your lemon tea. It will soothe your nerves.”

Aunt Rosie sat silently and finished her tea. After about twenty minutes, she began to speak haltingly.

“Your Mom and I . . . we had a little sister, her name- her name was, Marrion. She was – was a younger sister. Only, twenty-seven when she passed on.” Tears ran down Aunt Rosie’s usually cheerful complexion.

“Your Uncle Terrance and Marrion loved each other, from -from the day they met in high school. Marrion was sixteen and Terrance had only graduated. He was working at his Dad’s construction company.” 

“Mom, never said anything about her having a baby sister,” Katie said stunned.

“Sharon and I, we don’t like to talk about Marrion. There’s a reason,” Aunt Rosie remarked.

“Terrance married Marrion when she was only seventeen. I had always had feelings for Terrance, but Marrion didn’t care. She said Terrance loved her and she was right.”

“For six-years, everything was fine. I managed to hide my feelings about Terrance and Marrion and Terrance were in their own world of love. Marrion became pregnant at twenty-three and had a girl she named Lisa.” Aunt Rosie admitted.

“What happened to this baby and was Marrion alright? I don’t have a cousin named Lisa?” Katie questioned.

“I know you don’t Katie, let me explain. It’s time – time you knew the truth . . . Marrion suffered from Post – Partum depression. She didn’t care about the baby and could barely get out of bed.” 

“For the last four-years of her life, Marrion was in an institution. She kept trying to kill herself. Marrion easily became immersed in self-loathing.” Aunt Rosie recalled.

“Sharon, Terrance, and I, we wanted the old Marrion back. No medication seemed to help her. ECT only made Marrion distant, it was if the real Marrion wasn’t there anymore.”

“Who raised Lisa?” Katie wondered aloud.

“Your Mom raised her dear. Terrance asked her if she would be Lisa’s guardian. He said he couldn’t handle taking care of Lisa while working and visiting Marrion.” Aunt Rosie’s voice began to quiver.

“One day Marrion wasn’t in her room or even in her ward. We found her hanging from a storage room ceiling.” Aunt Rosie sobbed.

Katie went to comfort her but Aunt Rosie held Katie back.” Lisa isn’t Lisa anymore. Your Mom raised Lisa from the time she was three-months-old.  Lisa’s your older sister Denise.”

“What?” Katie gasped, having to sit down herself. She was shocked.

“Your Mom asked Lisa after Marrion died,  if she would like to choose a different name for herself. Almost five-year-old Lisa chose the name Denise. It was the name she had given to her most treasured Barbie.” 

Aunt Rosie’s admission hurt Katie.”How did I not know Denise and I weren’t sisters, but cousins? We look so different in appearance. Her hair is auburn and my hair is blond. She has curves and I’m athletically built.” 

“Not to mention, Mom never told me who Denise’s Dad was, she said Denise had been the result of an old boyfriend she didn’t want anything to do with now.” Katie said aghast. 

“How did you get together with Uncle Terrance?” 

Rosie smiled: “Terrance was devastated when Marrion died and had loved her so much. But he needed comforting.We grew closer and got married.”

“It took a few years, but Uncle Terrance eventually loved me as much as he’d loved Marrion, but in a different way I think. Things came together and Sharon met your Dad and had you. We never spoke of Marrion to anyone but your Dad.” 

Aunt Rosie had stopped crying. She smiled and Katie could see she was happy again, as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. 

Katie thought about her Aunt’s revelations: “That’s unbelievable Aunt Rosie, you guys have all been hiding this from me. I need to talk to my Mom.” 

“Oh, you can’t ever tell Sharon, dear.” 

“But why?” Katie said frustrated.

“I promised her, Uncle Terrance promised her, and so did your Dad. You were never to know the truth about Denise and the sad fate of Marrion. Sharon was close to Marrion because they were nearer in age. Marrion’s death is a wound your Mother carries and it never heals.”

Katie sighed. “I wish Grandma had told me about this before she died.” 

Aunt Rosie smiled softly. “She never knew the truth either, dear. We told her Marrion had a reaction to a new medication and died.” 

Katie shook her head sadly,” Talk about skeletons.”

——

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Writing’s On the Wall


“Writing’s on the Wall,”  is the newest James Bond theme song, sung by Sam Smith. It’s an absolutely stunning song. I have a “thing” for James Bond theme songs, you’d be able to tell from my iTunes library of music. I’m not a huge fan of Sam Smith yet, but his voice was so smooth and had that beautiful fluid sound that few singers are able to achieve. Whether Sam was singing “Writing’s on the Wall” using low notes or high notes, he always hit the note and his voice easily moved as the notes formed gracefully from his voice. Sam has that Classic James Bond voice, but I think the song, whoever wrote it, did an exceptional job too.

See the official music video The Writing’s on the Wall here sung by Sam Smith.

Something that struck me before I started to watch Spectre the new James Bond movie, and after, was the use of the words ‘The Writing’s on the Wall.’The last time I remember hearing those words was during Mrs. Keogh’s Social Studies 20 and 30. We studied European history and economics in grades eleven and twelve.  Mrs. Keogh often used the phrase ‘the writing’s on the wall’ to say that for someone something was obvious ( or wasn’t obvious depending on the person) as “imminent”danger. The idiom the ‘writing’s on the wall’ can also mean “the handwriting on the wall” or as the Arabic “mene mene” or “mene mene tekel upharsin.”  The phrase has origins in The Bible in Daniel 5, where Belshazzar was indulging in a drunken revelry and “debased” sacred “temple vessels” by using them as wine goblets. A “disembodied hand” wrote “mene mene tekel upharsin”on the palace wall where Belshazzar was holding this feast.

This  phrase had no meaning to Belshazzar. It literally meant: “‘two minas, a shekel and two parts,'” or “‘number, weighed, divided.'” Belshazzar could not interpret what this phrase actually meant so he sent for Daniel a prophet who was exiled at the time. Daniel interpreted the phrase, which, was an elaborate word play. Each word was a coin and the third word meant “‘Persia.'” Daniel’s interpretation in the book of Daniel in The Bible was the following:

And this the writing that was written, MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN. This the interpretation of the thing:

MENE; God hath numbered thy kingdom, and finished it.

TEKEL; Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.

PERES; Thy kingdom is divided, and given to the Medes and Persians.

This Bible story in  the book of Daniel is a moral tale that demonstrates that Belshazzar could not see a warning that was “apparent to others because he was engrossed in his own” sinful ways.

Later, the idiom took on a less literal take where writing’s or walls were not actually present. In 1720 for instance, Jonathan Swift used the phrase in his Miscellaneous Poetry:

A baited Banker thus desponds,

From his own Hand foresees his Fall;

They have his Soul who have his Bonds;

‘Tis like the Writing on the Wall.

(www.phrases.org.uk)

In modern times, the Collins English Dictionary defines the phrase ‘the writing’s on the wall’ as a sign or signs of approaching disaster.” Synonyms for the idiom include ill omen, warning, signal, sign, portent, or forewarning. But what does this have to do with James Bond and the latest Bond film with Daniel Craig, Spectre?

Spectre begins with a classic James Bond chase scene in Mexico City. It is the day of the dead or some similar celebration occurring as everyone is dressed as skeletons or wearing a skull mask. The first fight scene is particularly well done when Bond and the guy he is chasing, end up sparing in a helicopter flying over the city. The man being chased and Bond hold onto straps in the helicopter and depending on how the helicopter flies, Bond hangs in midair… But, I won’t ruin the rest of the movie for you.

An entertainment broadcaster on Global News Edmonton, thought that Spectre was not as good a movie as Skyfall. But I would have to disagree. This Daniel Craig Bond movie is my favourite since Casino Royale and it’s really the conclusion of what begins in Casino Royale when Vespa locks herself in the elevator cage so she will drown, and Bond finds out that she was working with enemy since she was captured and tortured. There is a reference to Vespa when Bond finds her interrogation video tape in Spectre.

But does James Bond see’ the writing’s on the wall’ when Vespa dies and throughout each successive Daniel Craig Bond movie? I think he sees this impending disaster that becomes worse with each bad guy he takes on, with each person he loses to death such as Vespa and M. But the bad guy of bad guys is the leader of the organization Spectre who would like to control and share with all countries the secret intelligence of each powerful country around the world, including Britain and MI6. To do this Spectre cause disasters in many countries.

When Bond discovers the organization of Spectre, it’s surprising to him who their leader is, who is greatest enemy is. He knows him well and the movie makes it seem as if this fact should have been obvious to Bond and the audience. Bond didn’t see ‘the writing’s on the wall’ when it came to the leader of Spectre. But Spectre is a James Bond movie and the bad guy never wins. So perhaps, it is the bad guy who doesn’t the see the obvious, ‘the writing’s on the wall,’ for he is only a character with limited prospective, and the audience knows how the movie will turn out: 007 always gets his man.

See a trailer for the new James Bond movie, Spectre here.


Where The Skeleton’s Live


Bringing usual objects to life … trying again, correctly this time with prompt #4.

My closet is bursting. It is as full as a graveyard even though I go through it seasonally. There is a rainbow of colour in my closet spread out between thin boned arms that always seem to crack and break.

The creakybones rattle when I go in my closet to choose something to wear. I can feel the dust of the oldest bones between my pale ghostly skin itching up the material of my clothes. I wonder why skeletons would reside as such interlopers in my closet. Haven’t they got better places to rot and turn to dust then between my favourite blouse and skirt?

These ancient bones they wouldn’t care if they were still dripping wet on the secrets I hide in my closet. They’ve thrown their ghastly juices upon scrapbook albums from my good old university days, albums my nieces and nephews will see when their old enough. Auntie drinking to much Vodka Slime. The skeletons would probably love Vodka Slime. It’s a drink right up a skeletons alley. Enough vodka to rot your guts out with just a twist of lime and a small amount of 7up. Those are probably what these dry bones thirst for, slime.

It’s the shoes I get upset about. Skeletal limbs scratching back and forth on my first pair of deep patent red stiletto pumps. Some association with the pints of blood that use to flow through veins and and work through muscle. But they love to scrape a sequin off my sequinned silver stiletto pumps or to tear the silky material on those flowered purple pumps I’ve never worn yet. They like the cacophony of sounds bones make against shoes possibly because of the association of soles (souls) and feet. They haven’t got either you see so they go after what they miss the most.

They’ve no place to walk these days and nothing to see through gaping eye holes. They have nothing to grin at through toothy smiles. The bones just sway there, holding up my boxes, my clothing, and violating my shoes. They hang between my clothes and I inhale dust in the air like smoke.

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. At least my skeletons were never burnt to charcoal, into small fragments of bone. They have no marrow my bones, I doubt they ever did. It’s too long ago to tell that they had a core full of life. But I take care as I said to make sure they are never covered in rags, or never serve as shelves to tattered leggings.

I leave my closet open at night just so I can see what the skeletons are doing in there swaying and cracking. Sometimes I hear the whisper of song, these dry bones are gonna rise up, these brittle bones…But I think skeletons make you imagine things. They make you hallucinate what was never even real, at least in an explainable sense. But they are my skeletons, my past. And the past is the best indicator of where you’re going.

Truth: we are all going where these skeletons have gone, they are just bones ready to be pushed back into the crypt at the bottom of my closet. In reality, there are more skeletons waiting to get their quivering tarsals ( or is it metatarsals) on my clothing, fresh, juicy ones.

But the skeletons I hate the most are only dust and coat the baseboards outside my closet door. They build up powdery white and dirty the carpet like chalk. I think that if even skeletons can be dust they still exist and can never be fully forgotten. I love your bones, a character in a book I’m reading attests. I think we are talking about two different things …