100 Word Wednesdays, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Free Verse, History, My Thoughts, NaPoWriMo, Nature, Photography/Visual Art, Poetry, Quotes, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

 Day 24 – NaPoWriMo/A to Z Challenge/100 Word Wednesday: Poem – Free Verse – “Art of a Story and Death” #NaPoWriMo #AtoZChallenge #100WordWednesday #poetry


Thanks to Bikurgurl for hosting last week’s #100WordWednesday flashfiction prompt. Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is “to write a poem of ekphrasis — that is, a poem inspired by a work of art.” The A to Z Challenge GoodRead’s Prompt begins with the letter U. 

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Credit: Bikurgurl – Her Photograph and work of art for the prompt 🙂

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To write is to forget. Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life. Music soothes, the visual arts exhilarates, the performing arts (such as acting and dance) entertain. Literature, however, retreats from life by turning in into slumber. The other arts make no such retreat— some because they use visible and hence vital formulas, others because they live from human life itself. 

― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet”

(Sorry finding a Q name for this piece impossible but there is Q in Disquiet!)

———

The photograph is lovely at first, 

A brilliant blue sky, soft winds of cool breezes, 

The Atlantic still icy, but forgiving. 

Trees rise and guard the home, the lighthouse, 

Ancient ones in slumber as spring yet approaches. 

Rock walls prevent a fall below, to the unforgiving chill. 

Hypothermia comes quickly here, 

But the scenery makes up for the inherent danger. 

Bright pink of the house stands out and the tower above matches, 

Glows in the night when the boats pass by, 

Protecting and guiding ships. 

The long grass still waiting to be verdent, 

Not dry crumpled straw. 

And the owners of the house are silent, keeping to themselves, 

Their only sense of existing, is the light that glares, when outside the tower is dark. 

Spring is slowly birthing, but the ocean’s still freezing, 

And the danger is too real for ships too close.  

And a stranger walking watches from the dim, 

Holding back a dog barking in madness. 

The bulb has burnt out, now disaster is unhinged, 

The ship clips the cliff, the house crumbles and the ship sinks, 

Screams in the night, in the Atlantic’ waters cold numbness. 

And when all is said and done, only the lighthouse stands, 

With a burnt out bulb of fault. 

How can this photograph be a work of art? 

Is there art in dying? 

Or is art and death as a perception, to ambigious to be real? 

———



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©Mandibelle16. 2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, My Thoughts, Poetry, Quatrain -- abab abba ccdc dddd., Relationship, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

Photo Challenge: Poem – Quatrains – “Tale of The Floating Bride” #poetry #amwriting 


Thanks to NEEKNERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s photo challenge prompt. 

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Credit: Zhangjinga.com

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Enchanting child in slumber keep, 

Red hair surrounds you as you sleep. 

I wait for you to wake from your dreams, 

No longer a porcelain doll preened. 

*****

A wedding gown white lace so frothy, 

Mother hoped your match was lofty.

That you’d found your life partner, 

Your prince, your man, for life to start.

*****

But day by day you grew sad, 

When pressed with his kisses ran. 

Empty feeling inside you grew, 

Like a butterfly away flew.

*****

Mischievous child, pain grew, 

His fist at your face straight-on flew. 

Hiding the bruises with powder,

Not even concealer shrouds

*****

Pride vital to you, tiny doll, 
Escaped; no one to catch your fall.
Fly in dreams with delicate wings, 

Winter ends, it’s soon your spring. 

*****

Gather your courage –call it off;

Don’t marry him, don’t be soft.

In front of the crowd, show each cut, 

Let them see bruises, you must. 

*****

So they know an abuser, 

Isn’t good enough, he’s a loser. 

He broke your velvet wings, 

Your sanity held by strings. 

*****

But it was too late even then, 

The lake too close; so your end.

Now you float, butterfly who swims, 

Eternity of light your win. 

*****

We tried to save a doll of glass, 

But on death she shattered, passed. 

Down below the water’s dark depth,

She’s tranquil, free; although, she leapt. 

*****

Mind too distorted, destroyed, 

Lover’s hands threw her like a toy.

World tough; his madness changed them both, 

In Heaven she smiles free to float. 

*****

He mourns her death each day, each drink, 

Pretty soon his rage him too sinks. 

Accidents happen to the unaware, 

She pulled him in, drowned his despair. 

—– 

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction, Lune - 5,3,5 or 5 words, 3 words, 5 words, My Thoughts, Poetry, Religion/Morality, Three Line Tales, Writing, Writing Challenges

Three Line Tales: Poem – Lunes – “Within Each Sip” #amwriting #poetry #3Lintales 


Thanks to Sonya of Only 100 Words for hosting #3Line Tales Week 50! Wow!!🍷🎈🎆

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Credit: Annie Spratt

——

Table set, wild flowers leaning, 

Feast begins uproariously

Wine overflows, company fully tipsy. 

—–

Each person provided placecard, seating —

Sumptuous meal with —

Strangers, bellies full; dessert eaten slowly. 

—-

No thoughts, host is devious;

Poison downed easily

Eternal slumber within each sip. 

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Beauty, Fashion, Italian Sonnet - Iambic Pentameter - Octave (abbaabba) - Sestet (cdcdcd), Memories/Childhood, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, My Thoughts, Poetry, Quotes, Relationship, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

Photo Challenge: Poem – Italian Sonnet – “Gentle Dreams” #amwriting #poetry #rebirth


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s photo challenge:

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Credit: Natalie Deprina

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“Maybe love isn’t something that comes full circle. It just ebbs and flows, in and out just like the people in our lives” – Colleen Hoover, It Ends With Us

——-

Sometimes we think, it’s easy to manage to–

Balance the flow of our lives, each passage, 

Of words and wonders we travel down fast. 

Of memories, dreams curling blissfully through. 

Of laughter, lovereason to again bloom, 

Beyond the memories trapping us, lasting; 

Never completely leaving until they pass, 

In moments they choose, new whispers approve; 

The coming of the dawn, when slumber breaks, 

Though we’re scarred and hollow, gloves of lace

Will hide the marks of yesterday; fashion

A hug giving warmth, with new love, sweet dreams. 

Yesterday fades, sparks today’s gentle stream

Brings reassurance, your arms hold me dear

——

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Daily Prompt, Free Verse, My Thoughts, Poetry, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Poem: Free Verse –  “Fraility Flailing” #amwriting #poetry 


Thanks to The Daily Post for the word prompt Frail.

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http://www.nited-academics.org

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We walk the golden path; we’re frail, 

Is there any other way to wander?

No one stronger or wiser left to fight?

But we’ve aged within minutes, 

We forgot to gaze behind us, 

To see what the past left for us;

Wisdom and knowledge with a bloody trail. 

Instead, we’re continuing on a broken path, 

We’re frail, aging humans by the seconds;

Counting our tomorrows,

Before we have them granted.

Not listening to our elders;

Who lost life, limb, peace, to war and grief.

We don’t look skyward to the heavens, 

We watch our own feet tremble.

Stuttering we stumble down the trail.

Dragging our canes and walkers;

We’re riddled with bullet holes.

Wounds we never felt, 

We never gave up our guns;

Never thought what “security,” meant,

For our children and grandchildren.

We’re all exceedingly frail, 

As if we were ancient beings;

We carry their genes but their wisdom, 

We breathe out like carbon.

The hurricane winds blow through our ears, 

Blocking out what we don’t want to hear. 

Truth is a dangerous weapon, 

The truth can change direction.

The truth can smart and hurt, 

Our lungs can barely breathe.

It degrades and humiliates, 

It stings our eyes and it turns, 

Focused vision, to grey static.

The truth it always is revealed, 

Until all we can see is real.

But real has no pertinent meaning, 

When what you’re used to, 

Lies promoted and shouted.

Lies built upon lies, 

More colourful than, 

The Grande Canyon’s layered rock.

We hide behind our lies, 

It makes us distrusting.

Flailing, we cannot believe in anyone;

Not even ourselves to do what’s right.

We cannot elect using logic; 

No true king on this earthly realm, 

To lead us to glory and home.

We don’t even have faith in, 

Our own minds and bodies.

We’re so frail, as paper cranes crushed, 

As tissue paper torn without thought.

We cannot lift our fingers to point, 

To teach unlearning children lessons, 

Before they end up like us.

We’re frail; yet we don’t know the meaning, 

But as assuredly as the world turns, 

Our ashes and dust, 

Will blow away in the wind.

The sands of time keep swirling, 

And we’re growing ever closer, 

To our own cremation;

We think we have forever, 

But our steps are forgotten memories, 

Or thoughts not even the silt of dirt.

Frailty so visible, we lumber around slowly, 

In our slumber losing memories.

We forget to see where yesterday led, 

Blindly we falter and walk where we may;

Into tears, and traps, we’re used, betrayed —

Abused and hopeless.

But we reap what we sew;

Our harvest was distrust and darkness, 

A black-hole eating consuming all good.

We’re frail, until we fall where we walk, 

Because life is faulty and frail too;

And our short time, 

Has been for not;

If we cannot learn from our past, 

See how history repeats no matter the leader.

But we are human, 

So we do not learn, 

Thinking we’re invincible; 

Until the day we’re not.

——

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Etheree - 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10 syllable count, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Poetry, Relationship, Writing

Poem: Etheree – “Close.” 


  
——–

So

I go,

And I try,

Understanding,

You won’t give me up,

I’m an addiction — drugs,

Because I deflect questions,

You’ll return, again asking me,

To join in your slumber, these adult games,

To play until twilight and let love,

Breathe life into my hallow lungs, seduce.

—–

These twists and turns we tumble down, in a place,

You’d never remain if you only said,

Join me for a bite, break bread — taste,

Swallow, glasses of Malbec,

Wine with a bite, just right;

Dinner, and a walk.

Conversation.

Know me well

Before,

Bed.

—–

Few

Of You,

Know how to,

Liberate girls,

From thoughts that burn,

Making a woman’s mind,

A confusing place to be,

Relaxation and some talk,

Cease, winding of the wheels spinning; laugh.

Slow the pace, be merciful gent,

Appreciating, discovering, 

Not only for bodies, but minds must mingle well.

—–

Luxuriate in breathing in her soul, herself.

Listen well and inform about yourself,

Slide into stolen glances lost,

Powerful bonds caught, connect you.

Lips licked before a kiss sought,

Arms at length hold fast,

Minds connect so,

Enthralling,

Remain,

Close

——

©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

My Thoughts, Poetry, Relationship, Seven syllable Poetry, Writing

Poem: “Talk to Me.”


http://www.consciouslifenews.com

I am worth more then you think,

I’m worth a conversation,

A long exhaustive one where,

We stay the whole night talking,

And we’re still wearing all our–

Clothes because talking is an–

Intimacy when it is,

Between the two of us and,

There is so much I want to–

Know about you, I need to —

Understand the full picture.

And then because I know you well,

We could kiss and caress in–

The morning sunrise before we,

Settle in our seperate places.

His and Hers sections of the–

Bed. But I’ll link my foot with–

Your calf and listen to you–

Breathe; it brings a calmness to–

Me. That we loved through our own,

Voices, before your body–

Loved mine.  Before your lips taste

All my skin, you knew me in —

My mind. And loved me for my–

Heart. It makes me feel such Joy,

That we are “all in” and find,

We know each other better,

Every time we look, touch and — 

Speak in words we know secret,

Meanings to; and I slumber,

Waiting for you to wake and see,

In us is an eternity.

In us is conversation,

Beyond the most sacred words,

Beyond the looks we share with — 

Eyes that keep catching. I see,

Just today, and then I see maybe,

A tomorrow where I can,

Hear your beating heart and I’m,

So blessed to feel so divine.

I’m happy to be your girl. 

Poetry, Writing

Poem: Hiding In Sleep


The narrow escape at the end of the day,

The time we call sleep and survive on dreamscapes, 

I sometimes cannot wait to fall into this bliss.

But now I’m awake in the deep of the night,

And I cannot but feel the realiness of being wide eyed and sleepy,

But then I find beauty, when I finally find peace,

And wake to a day that I will complete 

With the veil of slumber tucked under my eyes.

And then I will see if the next night drifts by in the blink of a moment,

Maybe, this night will bring a surprise,

When terrors are lost in the sandman’s hand,

And sleeping is floating on clouds way up high.

And the moment I wake up and find that one day,

Sleep has left me replete and how thankful I’ll feel.

That I can go about my day with no worry,

And do all the things that I need to do,

And have all my wishes and prayers come to fruition.

I’ll be so happy, I’ll be so alive, until I go to sleep and find,

I’ve been living my days in my head while I dreamt,

And tomorrow’s activity is more of the same,

An absolute train wreck that no one can hear. 

My Thoughts, Poetry, Writing

Grandfather, do you know?


Grandfather, your pearl is tarnished, crystallized and shattered.
Do you hear her heart beating, the wings of doves fluttering gone soft.
Her heart is the beat of a techno dance song – hard staccato rhythm to drum with the throngs.
Grandfather, the things they’ve come out with in this world.
Maybe your heart would still be thrumming, but you were ready to go home.
There’s technology so thin and advanced, books we read without feeling the weight of rough paper.
The special effects in movies are more real, and the stories so enthralling.
But I don’t know if the stories compare to Clarence Day’s or Harper Lee’s novels.
I don’t know if there’s a Paul Newman or Audrey Hepburn hiding in the cinema today.
But Grandfather, I know you would say, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
There’s nothing new under Heaven and people make the same mistakes.
In Iraq, in Syria, in Afghanistan — so many places enraptured in war again.
And you’d be in shock just to hear that they want to take God out of ‘ Oh Canada.’

Grandfather, this world is still in ruin like the morning you left it.
And Grandpa I’m in ruin, it’s best for you to know.
Your eldest Grandchild an adult several years became ill, and she’s still fighting a sickness she’ll never win.
Medicine is slow, and the ache of a long tired wretched day felt all the more keenly under illness and you would know.
Grandfather, I guess, you don’t feel a thing.
Because down here we feel pain and up there, there is no such word or feeling.
It’s quite a concept just not to know suffering as innocent as Frost’s lamb.
Knowledge came at such a price Grandpa, Eve and Adam, had little clue what they unleashed upon a world.
All this for an apple or a pomegranate.
Juice pouring down our faces as we each share in the deed.
Spitting seeds out as we munch, the greatest flavour, for a wily wretched bunch.

Grandfather, do you hear my prayers, or do they only ascend to God?
Because I talk to you quite often and wonder if you know us down here?
Is there such a thing as memory in Heaven, or will you not know me until you see me on your plane of existence?
Do you remember tractor rides, gardens, apples, raspberries, hot summer sun, and VBS.
Do you think of left over wedding mints, a pulpit, a large pipe organ, all your sisters and brothers, do you remember where the good goes?
We’re looking for it down here, and I wonder if you could spare us just a little to melt away the density of snow the crowds around our hearts when it’s blowing, snowing, cold?
What do you see when you look down here or do you only experience the present?

Do you know how pearls catch the light in glory, and crack under pressure?
Have you seen those who have come and gone, and forgotten those who have fallen?
What have you seen in your gaze, do you see beyond the eternal realm, touch the sun and stars and everything that ever was, do you know the answer?
We flounder in existence, do you remember you did too, and still another winter comes and I cannot see any wisdom past the ground I walk on.
Grandfather, what you see someday I may know, but now I’m barely energized and wishing hard for sleep.
I cannot find a moment to rest, I wonder if I truly slumber, and I wonder about eternity, a time when time becomes timeless.

IMG_0165.JPG

My Thoughts, Poetry, Writing

Exhaustion my Enemy – Poetry


The heavy breath from my chest, the half cast eyes with droopy lids.
The dark circles beneath eyes that only ache for rest;
This is called exhaustion.
The sallow cheeks and dizziness, the world takes on my glazed expression.
And though I fight to stay awake, my aching orbs cannot manage the pain.
Lift them once, until at last they fall;
This is called exhaustion
Laboured air, and bones laid thickly to the bed.
A stillness in the room, the might that could be slumbers.
And though I’ll try to arise;
This is called exhaustion.
Waking up in mid morning, tossing, turning, without warning.
A heavy crash of lid to lid, the fluidity of blinking gone.
When waves of sleepiness flutter through you;
This is called exhaustion.
A limb I cannot lift. No leg, no arm, no neck.
An effort just to to breath deeply and relax, to calm the nerves the day has wrought.
A simple pleading just to fall asleep;
This is called exhaustion.

A mother wakes, she cannot sink, into the depth of dreamland.
A baby cries, he wants something now, the mother weeps.
This is called exhaustion.
A days labour never done, shovel by shovel, he digs that ditch.
His muscles smell of rubbing gel, the kind that relieves body aches.
Hurting just to sit down;
This is called exhaustion.
The mind thinks wonders until it stops, a headache starts and bangs until eyes close,
A momentary lapse, there’s still a day to go;
This is called exhaustion.
Lying awake, all night long, slumber cries for me to not deprive
And though I beg, in agony, swift and long lasting.
I’ll stay awake the whole night through;
This is called exhaustion.
An old man stands at deaths great door, he knows it’s coming.
He hears it’s call in every painful breath, in every cramping of his heart
As he strives to live, he wishes greener pastures would call;
This is called exhaustion.

A population begging for replete, a rest, a sleep, to wake up fully functioning.
There all so quiet as they moan and beg for dreams to tumble on them all
A slumber so deep, you’ll only awake when the aching tiredness is gone,
This is called Exhaustion.