100 Word Wednesday: Setting the Scene #amwriting #flashfiction #100WordWednesday


Thanks to Bikurgirl for hosting #100WordWednesdays.

——–

Credit: Bikurgirl

——–

The high school drama teacher, Mr. Elf, decided the school would peform a modern English version of “The Canturbury Tales.” Vernon was recruited to help paint the set and he would’ve been pleased to paint the entire set alone; however, he had to share creative control with Stacy who was also a ‘so-called’ gifted artist. Much fighting occurred.

The day before the performance the extras hung the scenery. Mr. Elf was shocked to see exactly half of the set painted in a superb realistic manner while the other half was rendered using fantastic painterly strokes in the style of impressionist painters. The set was discussed enormously by the audience at all three performances and neither Vernon or Stacy will speak to each other to this day.

——

©Mandibelle16. (2017) 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. 

Poem: Free Verse – ” Writing Freedom of Art” 


. Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. ― Leonard Cohen

 ——-

http://www.ilovebodyart.com
 
—–

What do you do when there is no freedom in art?When your controlled by rhyme schemes, 

By repetition and meter? 

I thought this was creativity and freedom,

No one said I had to sign on the dotted line,

No one told me these forms we’ve created are stencils,

And stencils, don’t allow for drawing outside the lines,

If there is no freedom elsewhere, give me liberty of art.

To write in every and any form, to choose the guides we’re taught,

Though I love a fantastic rhyme and a a unique poetry type,

I’m getting lost behind all the hype,

Whatever became of free expression?

Words that tumbled out of you that had no edges,

They came out and simply were, 

They are;  you can’t conform these thoughts,

They’re not meant to be placed in parallelograms,

To exist inside triangles, or even in infinity, 

These words only are, and exist because they must,

Aren’t these words the language of your heart screaming out,

Your art in the form you can honestly behold and serve, 

Finding strangers to comprehend this secret language is absurd,

Each heart speaks so significantly and in it’s own dialect.

We know the words, but do we know how they connect the lines back to a person,

Their inner most thoughts and feelings,

Passions running high and talent divides,

Those who run with freedom of words and say as they like,

Those that let the heart-words speak in loud voice,

Those who nurture a writer’s spirit know only,

The driving need and insistence laid upon your spirit when you were gifted with your voice.

This art that calls, jeers, and whispers; never giving way.

Zooming out to restful images of nature, lying in the grass where you can finally breathe.

Not suffocate on iambic pentameter, or be caught in couplets or quatrains.

Idyllic pastoral poetry might give you reprise,

Floating on clouds, powder puffs in the sky,

Sifting bare feet in sand and jumping as the tide licks your feet.

Writing your secrets of peace and tranquility; the sane that stops the insane, 

Art still calls as a lark in the morning, a jaybird singing melodically, 

Free-verse, or prose poetry, the futuristic form of many a poet,

A burden of the old and the new, confiding they find each other crude,

But any voice who has a song, just sing, your words or story,

Your words are diamonds, polished or rough, waiting to explode in jewelled luminescence. 

Waiting to be incense to a world who needs to hear, breathe in the smoke of truth; have your Liberty.

Freedom of voice, it’s an art to be free to write,

What strikes you at the time, and to be able to stop, when exhaustion lingers, 

To not be chained to an inner voice who constantly begs, “write.”

To let out that voice when you wish and write in your chosen method.

No stencils, merely pen and paper.

Maybe keys on the iPad, as it glows white light into midnight.

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.