Poem: Alouette – “The Past Dying”


 

womanmulticolourface
Credit: Tory K Webb

To you who chips at

My heart who just sat,

With your friends drinking coffee,

Not paying notice,

I guess I’m not quote:

‘A girl who cares you’re lofty.’

*****

I’m not a step near,

For you to but snear.

My presence unwanted your,

Affect forever,

Something severed.

Piece of me died you deploring.

*****

Not all experiences,

Are helpful; hence,

They’re moments disregarding,

All I’ve learned,

Thoughts which make me squirm,

My insides, wretched, I’m left scarred.

*****

You don’t feel so wrong,

Moving to your own song.

Admitting it was about looks,

How attractive you were,

I the ‘disturbed‘ girl.

Went home; didn’t return took –

*****

Other roads, castles

Of sand, no hassle.

I’ve nothing from you I want.

You’re but old history,

Learning experience stripped.

Walking my paths, undaunted.

*****

You’ve gone, gone gone; I’m —

Just swell; days ‘neath time,

Never fully heal, but let —

Old days die in past,

Wither at a glance.

Survivor, blessed delighter.

*****

red-shoes-logo-mandibelle16


©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

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Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer: Over Troubled Waters #amwriting #paranormal #flashfiction


Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW:

——

Credit: Joy Pixley

——

“When you’re down and out / When you’re on the street / When evening falls so hard /I will comfort you (ooo) / I’ll take your part, oh, when darkness comes / And pain is all around / Like a bridge over troubled water / I will lay me down / Like a bridge over troubled water / I will lay me down.” – “Bridge Over Troubled Water” – Simon and Garfunkel 

——

Wes called up to a young woman sitting on the bridge ledge. 

He gulped and climbed up beside her, assessing her. She shook her head, “I’m not here to jump, it’s only peaceful up here.” 

He settled beside the woman on edge. “I’m Wes,” he said, “I’m not a fan of heights. I don’t understand how you can sit here and find it tranquil.” 

She laughed, “I’m Becca, Wes. Scoot back and look at everything from this gorgeous view.” 

“See, the moon’s a giant light in the sky illuminating everything so the bridge doesn’t feel eerie at night. Now, look at the water below you.” 

He peered down: “I see darkness, turbulence, and fear. I see a river where too many people have jumped and drowned in.”

“You see this bridge as dangerous Wes. But without the bridge, no one would get across to the otherside. Without people in our life–our friends, loved ones, God, helpful strangers –we wouldn’t make it through troubled waters.

“Yeah, I know Becca,” he said.”It’s like the song by Simon and Garfunkel.” 

“Sometimes, we help ourselves, with a little effort.” 

“What?” 

“You stopped yourself, having every intention of jumping before you saw me,” Becca said gently. 

You saved me Becca,”  Wes admitted. 

She shook her head and smiled, disintegrating. He gasped, carefully, moving off the ledge onto the bridge’s walkway. 

Wes ran home; he had hope.

——

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Photo (Collage) Prompt: Adventures in Wonderland Continued #amwriting #fiction 


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s collage photo prompt.


collage31
MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie

“Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the thinks/things you can think up if only you try!”

― Dr. Seuss


Alice was growing older and she hadn’t been to Wonderland in years. Yet, she had not forgotten the lessons she learned there. 

She was an imaginative girl, so much so her mother could not figure out where Alice came up with her fanciful ideas. 

But Alice’s mother adored her daughter so she let her creativity run free, including playing outside and having tea with her imaginary friends.

While having tea, Alice talked to the Mad Hatter, the White Rabbit, the Door Mouse, and March Hair. Often, she talked to a smoking Catipillar, whom her mother naturally disapproved of. But Alice only laughed at her mother saying: 

” Why the Caterpillar needs the medicine he smokes. He’s in a great deal of pain becoming a butterfly.” 

 Alice’s mother had been making ice tea in a pitcher as it was summer. Alice didn’t know what to do at first, her friends enjoyed hot tea. But she determined after a while, they would have to make do with ice tea. She poured the cold tea into her prized teapot. 

She brought the tea to the marigolds and dandilions in the field by her house and poured the cold tea at the base of all her flower friends. She even brought them a few cookies, which she crumbled around their stems.

Sometimes Alice liked to sit out in the field and read. She brought out a fancy white cushioned chair from the parlour to a field of grass and flowers. She sat there considering life and paging through a novel. She was wearing a hat her grandma had given her to keep the sun from her face. 

Alice fell asleep outside in the chair and dreamed she was in Wonderland. She dreamt she had eaten bread to make her big and tall. 

She found herself next to a curious house with the appearance of a giant 🍐 pear ; it had a small red door with steps going down to the grass below. 

There was a handsome Raven sitting on the house, opposite of where Alice stood. She placed her ear against the house, trying to hear if anyone was inside. 

“You won’t find anyone in there,” the Raven told Alice.

“But why wouldn’t they be at home?” Alice asked. “Its Wonderland, creatures here don’t go to work even if they’re adults. Besides, wouldn’t a mother or wife be at home?” 

“I wouldn’t quite call them adults and it’s presumptuous to think all women should stay at home.” 

“If they’re not adults, how come they have a house?” Alice wondered. She looked back to the Raven, “I only thought the wife or mother  might be home because she could be like my mother who stays home.” 

Alice sat down, reaching towards the small red doorway of the pear 🍐 house; it was locked up tight. “Why is the door locked? Who would break into their home here? My father never locks our door.” 

The Raven chuckled in the weird way birds do, “I think they are avoiding unwanted guests of giant proportions.” 

“Also, I think you’re forgetting everyone needs something to do in the day, work or otherwise. We all have tasks, seasons of life to experience, even in Wonderland.”

“Seasons of life?” Alice asked confused. “Well, what season am I in? I don’t feel young, but I’m certainly not old. I’m only nine. But since coming to Wonderland years ago, I think of things adults don’t even consider.”

The Raven squawked, continuing to chuckle. 

“Hmmm,” Alice said, “It only occurred to me, no one ever told me why a Raven is like a writing desk?” 

The Raven ignored Alice but began to whistle a discordant tune.

“That’s awful,” Alice said but he continued his song. 

When he stopped he peered with little black eyes at Alice, “See everyone has a song to sing. Not everyone thinks their neighbour’s song is pretty, but it’s their song and so they must sing it.”

“It is the same with the creatures in this pear 🍐 house. They are off singing their life song, doing what they feel they are meant to do in life, in this season.” 

“Each part of life has a song,” the Raven said. “I hear you singing your song when you’re out in the fields having tea with your Wonderland friends, using your imagination. You’re in the spring of life and your song is lovely and new.”

“But,” continued the Raven, “I am in the Winter of my life. I’ve had many children and I am old, but I sing my song anyways. Even when we are old, we have a purpose and must sing our own song.” 

Alice thought a long while about the seasons, singing, and what the Raven told her. Then she smiled, ” I understand what you mean now. But do you think you and the owners of this pear 🍐 house would mind joining my other Wonderland friends and myself for tea?” 

The Raven cawed laughing at Alice. He nodded his little black head and flew away. 

The next moment, Alice awoke and found herself sleeping in her mother’s plush parlour chair out in the grassy field. Her mother looked down on her gently and smoothed Alice’s hair: 

“Alice there you are. Oh, my good chair. It’s white and you’ve got dirt and grass all over it,” mother said sternly. 

Alice sleepily smiled and said,” I was in Wonderland and talking to a Raven about the songs we each sing in life in different seasons. I’m sorry about the chair Mama.”

Her mother shook her head sighing and ruffled Alice’s hair, “Oh you and Wonderland. Will you ever grow out if it? Little girls will be attending school again in Fall.”

Alice sighed and helped her mother bring the chair back into the house to be cleaned. She decided to visit the roses in the backyard later.

Aluce had told her mother many strange stories about red roses. So much so, Alice’s mother gave her the job of watering and caring for the roses in the garden; she babied her roses. She didn’t want anyone to think she’d been painting her roses and that they weren’t truly red — that always led to problems. 

She wondered about what season of life the roses and all the flowers in the field were in? What was their purpose except to be beautiful? Alice began to hum the particular song of the flowers, watering her roses and caring for them. 

Suddenly, she remembered it was her birthday in a week. She would be ten-years-old; how could she forget? She must go inside the house and remind her mother she needed more bowls to match her tea set. 

For a moment Alice sighed thinking about school beginning soon. Children at school didn’t understand her much. Often, they knew less about things than many adults. Girls at school sang their own songs and Alice as usual, sang a unique tune. 


©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved

Sunday Photo Fiction: Still His #amwriting #flashfiction


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.

—–

A Mixed Bag

——

Caden wasn’t sure how he arrived at the park; his feet had walked themselves there. He sat on a park bench feeling empty and worthless. In front of him sat an old Chinese stove, but he gave it little thought. 

He’d lost Caroline for real this times and Caden didn’t know how to get her back. Lyrics from the song playing in the pub as she walked away from him, were on a continuel loop in his mind; she loved that song. He sighed, begging his mind to forget the painful lyrics.

“She’s imperfect but she tries, she is good but she lies. She is hard on herself, she is broken and won’t ask for help. She is messy but she’s kind, she’s is lonely –most of the time. She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie; she is gone but she used to be mine.” 

Caden hadn’t ever felt so low. What did a man do when the woman he thought he’d stay with forever disappeared and wouldn’t talk to him? 

No one seemed to know where Caroline was. He had almost cried in front of her Dad saying he only wanted to apologize and win her back. Caroline’s Dad patted Caden on the back saying,”Things will get better soon.” 

Caden stared at the odd Chinese Stove wondering what its purpose was. He attempted to distract himself with the stove as the lyrics from that damn song floated back to him:

“If I’m honest I know I would give it all back for a chance to start over and rewrite an ending or two. For the girl that I knew who’ll be reckless just enough, who’ll get hurt but, who learns how to toughen up when she’s bruised . . . she is gone but she used to be mine.” 

Caden pressed his hands against his ears, trying to block the words out. 

Suddenly, Caroline was standing in front of him, “How did you get here?” He asked her.

She gazed at him, “You look horrible Caden. Did I do that to you?” 

He gasped shocked at seeing her, truly there now sitting beside him. Caden couldn’t hold back, he cried into Caroline’s neck as she stroked his hair; he held onto her tightly. 

“I thought you would never forgive me,” he said. 

“It’s alright,” she crooned to him, “I’m not leaving you ever again.” 

Caroline was still Caden’s girl. 

——-

Sara Barielles – “She Used to Be Mine” 

——-

Lyrics from AZlyrics Sara Barielles Lyrics.

——-

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Poem: Diamanté – ” Fire, Phoenix, Light, and Darkness” #poetry #amwriting #music 


“Just Like Fire” – P!nk

——

Fire,
Scorching, Singeing.

Destroying, Cleansing, Burning all. 

Sparks inside me, embers glowing.

Remenants of yesterday dying.

Acrid smell, Burnt scent, Dusty death.

Blowing winds, Becoming but —

Ashes.

——–

Fire,

Flaming, Fluid heat, 

Interrupting life, Avenging, Lighting pathways.

Devastating the place called home.

Lighting the way back to safety, when enclosed.

Luminous candle, Glowing street lamp, Gleaming stars.

Beaming, Brighten’s with —

Light.

——

Ashes,

Grey silt, Smokey remains.

Leftovers, Burnt black-wood, Coughing fits.

From the ashes, rises the grand Phoenix.

Still the Phoenix becomes the fire.

Spreading fast, Blackening souls, Killing life.

Warmth, Hearth, 

Fire.

—–

Phoenix,

Reddish feathers, Flying past, 

Wings spanning, Soaring fast, Exploring the sky.

The fire brings the smoke to rise in plumes, 

The smoke also signals rebirth — to live again.

Light in Darkness, Glistening stars, Glazing flame.

Hope in , Glory of —

Light. 

—–

Light 

Beaming, Revealing, 

Unravelling mystery, Untwisting falsehood, Enlightening knowledge.

Shadow has no place to hide from light;

Darkness loves the corners hidden. 

Nightmares, Souls which quake, Fear Whispers, 

Gloomy, Depressing, 

Darkness.

—-

Dark, 

Twilight falling, Shaded sky, 

Creeps in Shadow, Blackening, Opaqueness.

Not a breath of light or air to spare in life;

Darkness in death, leads to despair without hope. 

Taking Cover, Teasing Fate, Testing Boundaries.

The End, Fini, 

Death.

—-

Death,

Scythe wielded, Bones rattling,

Soul gone, Decaying body, Empty shell.

The dead will rise at the end of days;

But until then, those of light stay in rays. 

Breath of freshest air,  No worries, No sorrow,

Peace, Promise Kept, 

Heaven.

—–

Fire,

Blazing inferno, Uncontrollable, 

Crisp hearts, Burnt hands, Wild fire’s agony.

Fire cooks our food, the first discovery of man;

But fire too, is life and rebirth; death is not the end.

Renewing life, Forest regrowing, Animals returning,

Hopeful for, Breath of —

Life. 

——

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Music Friday Prompt: Poetry – Free Verse – “Silence Is A Sound.”


Thanks for the music post from Mind Loves Misery’s Menagerie. The prompt song is “Sound of Silence” by Simon and Garnfunkel. Most recently, it is noted, the band Disturbed, did a wicked version of this classic.

Also thanks to The Daily Post for the prompt words MuseProfound, and Elusive.

——-

http://www.lawofficer.com

—–

Hello darkness you’re my muse;

A have profound “visions” in my mind,

They’re haunting me again.

Such elusive beings, wisps of vapour transforming;

I’m not sure anyone will understand,

But I strum my guitar and I hum the tune, 

A melody to haunt profoundly through the decades.

Darkness, friend or foe? 

Who would know silence has a sound?

What is the sound of silence, no one ever knows? 

If darkness is the place I most hide, 

Where the “seeds” of this “vision” keep;

Than why do I wander “streets“with “lamps . . . stabbing,” 

My eyes in the cold empty street?

How does that light touch the silence elusive

Silent isn’t a concrete thing.

It’s not physical, so how do lights hurt silence? 

How do you not notice all those “people“(thousands), 

And hear their voices while they stay silent?

How do you know what they are “hearing?”

Only they know if they’re “listening;”

And the “songs“they sing in silence –silence would mean, 

You couldn’t hear anything sung, 

Or know the “song“they theoretically, could sing.

And if no one dares “speak,” somehow I think, 

The silence still eludes them.

And if you say silence is a “cancer grow[ing];”

I’ll tell you what peace I find in it, 

When “fools” they do not “speak;”

But you ring your voice, it echoes,

And you know, no one with silence is disturbed,

So your voiceless voice like “raindrops falling,”

 Is silence never heard.

Can silence be heard or unheard?

A paradox, perhaps? 

Are you sheep to the slaughter to this “neon god;

And what “neon sign flashed” in “warning?”

If the “sign“was a god what did it warn, 

That you were all sheep being led astray? 

And who is this “prophet?”

They’re so many to speak, Elijah or Danial?

The Islamic Mohammed?

And “tenement halls” which from came “whispers,” 

They’re overcrowded apartment buildings.

Apartments with small rooms, where people —

Are stuffed, having no personal space.

Even here, is there no silence which has sound?

Wouldn’t it be a dirty place, no room to move,

To breathe, to live, — to find peace?

Yet the words of said “prophet” are, 

On the “subway” walls.

Means I think, the writings on the wall

Or referring to people stuffed into trains,

 And metros as cattle too? 

I think in the thunderous silence, 

Everyone is missing what’s coming;

And no one knows the truth or breaks the silence. 

Yet a few “whispers” I detect,

 Elusive for their sound;

And silence rings and breaks sound barriers, 

A sound which is never heard. 

But you dear listener, hear the sound profoundly clear;

And wonder yet, how silence is a sound? 

——-

“Sound of Silence” – Disturbed 

——–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Maydays: Poem – Italian Sonnet (Double Octave) – “Love Is The Song” #Maydays 



——

Thanks to K.L. Caley from new2writing for #Maydays prompts. Today’s prompt is a journey – spiritual, physical, emotional, or otherwise.

——-


——

The day begins; I’m sure today I’m meek,

I haven’t the fortitude everything–

Requires for me to be while I’m measuring,

The distance required between sun and sleep. 

Why can’t you support me; not laugh, I weep;

Lost in worlds, created in pages, blustering.

Voices characterized; people greeting,

You’ve become part of a book; words they leap.

——

Understand the writer’s suffering for dreams,

A silly Romance, they say, all they think,

Ready to criticize, it was only sex scenes — wink. 

Stupid, fake; not real, no depth don’t dream. 

As l write I see, relationships in every scene.

You write well; write romance; you didn’t think —

Wisdom was hidden in tangled sheets, links –

To love in tales written long ago, seen. 

—-

In every story and genre, in best played songs,

Love is always there; and sex sometimes,

Romance literature; no oxymoron.

End of the day, lover’s moon full and strong. 

Each writer writes love; some obscure way find,

No matter the genre; love is the song. 

——–

©Mandibelle16.(2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Maydays: Poem – Lunes – “Risk” #Maydays



——-

Thank you to K.L. Caley from new2writing for holding #Mayday prompts. This prompt is about taking flight, a fall, or a leap. Also, thanks to The Daily Post for word prompts of HealthyUnderestimate, and South.

——–

http://www.humfer.net

——-

Underestimate yourself; never — leap far, 

Leap fast, with —

All your might jump higher.

——–

Go farther then they think —

You can fly, 

Healthy people, take some chances.

——

I’m not saying be stupid, 

Take calculated risks

Go South, North, West, East.

——

You can take any direction —

You wish to —

Take, and jump into tomorrow,

——-

Paul Brandt sings: “I’d rather —

Stand at the —

Edge of a cliff and hang —

——

My toes over a bit,

And then jump 

When they dare me and —

—–

Even if it scares me —

And I get —

Hurt . . . I’d rather risk,” Would —

——-

You rather risk in life, 

Not stay still, 

But grow and change; fly.

——-

You have life before you, 

Don’t let life,

Scare you; chase your dreams.

——-

Live one day at a —

Time and take — 

Those steps, to feel alive.

——-

Paul Brandt – “Risk”

——–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

NaPoWriMo: Poem – French Translation – ” La Vie” 


And now our prompt (still optional!) Because we’ve spent our month looking at poets in English translation, today I’d like you to try your hand at a translation of your own. If you know a foreign language, you could take a crack at translating a poem by a poet writing in that language. If you don’t know a foreign language, or are up for a different kind of challenge, you could try a homophonic translation. Simply find a poem (or other text) in a language you don’t know, and then “translate” it based on the look or sound of the words. Stuck for a poem to translate? Why not try this one by Nobel Laureate Wislawa Szymborska? Or here’s one by another Laureate, Tomas Transtromer. Happy writing!

Please see NaPoWriMo for more information. This is the final day. Thank you all who have followed my poems in this month long journey. Also, I apologize for my awful French language skills. 

——-

http://www.tringpark.com

——-

When life is a song,

Each day is a harmony.

—–

When life is a dance, 

Each day is a ballet.

—–

When life is a sky,

Each day is a breeze.

——

When life is a flower,

Each day is a butterfly.

——-

When life is a torrent (fast moving water),

Each day the mountains rise.

——–

(Phew! Glad I picked an easy one!) 

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

NaPoWriMo: Poem – Minor FT Creature – Minute – “Twittering”


  

And now, for our prompt (optional as always!) Just as Rosa Jamila’s poems often sound like they come out of a myth or fairy tale (and not always one with a happy ending), today I challenge you to write a poem in the voice of minor character from a fairy tale or myth. Instead of writing from the point of view of Cinderella, write from the point of view of the mouse who got turned into a coachman. Instead of writing from the point of view of Orpheus or Eurydice, write from the point of view of one of the shades in Hades who watched Eurydice leave and then come back. Happy writing!

For more information please see NaPoWriMo

—–

The bird who sings melodically posed,

Twitter exposed,

Singing with notes,

Snow White songs wrote.

—-

Voice of angel, bird sings lyrics,

Fly spherical, 

No matter when,

Melodies send.

—- 

Eating crisp red apple, evil hag gives,

Her eyes wide strive,

Eat not apple,

Eve’s own pupil. 

—–

Dimly lit girl, breath of life left her,

Creatures of fur,

Point to a Prince

This Prince, I wince.

—–

A bird, Snow calls, tweets melodies.

Kiss. Two lovelies.

All well, I’ve heard.

Stop calling birds.

—–

A birds, not just harmony.

Mates eventually,

Songs for blue eggs,

Snow White she begs —

—-

Let the birds be free,

You’ve no need of our twittering.

Look online now,

Our page is overpopulated.

——

©Mandibelle16.(2016) All Rights Reserved.