stars – Mandibelle16

#NaPoWriMo Day 21: Free Verse — “The Writer” #amwritingpoetry

“Try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.”

Credit: The Chronicle .

It’s not up to you, to point out black holes,

Name the constellations, and mark each glimmering star alive or perished.

Some stars can’t be named the North Star or apart of mythical stories, there constellations too;

For Never-neverland maybe imagination, but it soared, became more than a bubblegum dream.

If you’ve not struggled, you can’t realize,

How verbs, syntax, nouns, adjectives, punctuation, character, setting, and ambience —

Connect, form a string each a crystalline sentence that aligns and meander as champagne bubbling.

Writing’s not only selling New York Times novels, nor a stilted profession of the tearful unaccomplished.

Not everyone can do it, become JK Rowling or Carrol Lewis — but many succeed in unaccomplished glory.

Wonderland’s not where we live because we write, the everyday is clear and time counts;

The ruby-red snarls of many ‘Queen of Hearts” are far too real to avoid.

Bur, not having lived it, you can’t define an accountant, a banker, an assistant, a poet alone or how words of struggling flow.

Still, wise experience nods a teacher, it creates flushed fools for judging.

Hopes and dreams aren’t for the gavel;

Wasp words, those who stomp out candle light, don’t define reality or illusion as they intertwine.

Hours, sweat, tears, mental blockage, palms ink-stained, and effort –to finish but a sentence, they’re lived;

Writers aren’t mere dreamers, simple poets or wordsmiths;

Artists decide their titles, their boundaries.

People aren’t opinions, so let judgement float into words unsaid; instead, — hasten positivity.

Life’s understood by all uniquely, both in practicality and summer days’ swarming.

It’s not formed by popular opinion, social media, a hostile or forgiving world.

It’s a story that blooms and it’s not for anyone to say what is or isn’t,

For you’re not you’re opinions, and I don’t define you, thus;

People are multifaceted, sharing life’s uneasy ride;

So, keep your conclusions, define your passion and ambitions — not mine.

Unless you’ve walked in my shoes, are the hand covering mine as I jot –the nomenclature isn’t yours.

It’s mine, and I’ve been a writer since I was young,

Yet, the world remains both contentious and compassionate for any career,

I only wish the latter won, somewhere the ethereal and everyday combined in creative culture.

Poem: Free Verse – “All of Eternity Lit” #amwritingpoetry

All of the lights, those vast ships distant.

All of the lights, those mesmerizing jewels.

Shining orbs, dazzling stars,

Dust as gold left in a meteor shower.

All of the lights with infinite yearnings pulse;

With possibility, potential in a thousand galaxies.

Lying in grass sharp, sweet, succulent;

A cushion topped with flannel plush.

We lay entwined, watch the lights, the airplane’s beams;

The choppers blades swooping, pulsing red.

And a hawk’s eyes knife-like, caustic —

While cotton-mice speed ‘cross the field;

Scurrying — not to become a carnivore’s meal.

The sway of the grass lilting hums in evening breeze,

A tune of jabberwockies murmuring hushed.

Birds to long kept, so out of skyways they burst, rapid in flight.

So much light, so vast, yet around us —

The night swallows the bright.

Pitch-black skims past day with purple-charcoaled tar.

And ribbons of white dots, glistening glitter burst;

The serenity of celestial maps; the cosmology of stars, distant worlds.

Astrological divination; but yet here we are — and we stare in awe.

All of the lights, they gleam in your worn denim eyes,

Barely visible in shadows.

All of the lights, the fireworks live-wired in my chest;

They explode on my lips as we taste sparks together.

Our lips ignite — tornado-fires speed; they can’t be stopped.

But, eternal eulogies to the dim, it cannot conquer,

For true darkness never will defeat.

The light came first,

The light will outlast,

The light was and is,

Never can be not.

All of the lights, Heaven’s perennials,

Speeding cars on highways glisten.

The sheen of sweat, and the gleam of skin;

Eternity in moments forever lit.

Three Line Tales/Saturday Mix: The Decayed Farm House #amwriting #3LineTales #SaturdayMix #flashfiction

Thanks to Sonya from Only 100 Words for hosting #3LineTales. Also thank you to Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Saturday Mix. This week her Double Take homophones are: band – a musical group and banned – forbidden; cent – one hundredth of a dollar, scent – an aroma, and sent – dispatched.

Credit: Thomas Shellberg via Unsplash

A person can catch the voices of yesterday in the stars where the decayed farm house sags, where a band sings, playing the fiddle, and the scent of bread lingers with rotting wood; King George pennies are scattered on the floor, one cent coins forgotten with a monarch dead, no longer minted with the current Queen, Elizabeth II.

The prairie nights of old linger here, where joy and sorrow blend with relief, moving from a run-down house banned, deemed unsafe by housing inspection; a gleaming modern farmhouse replaces it nearby, but the old one is left to rot with a sense of nostalgia from the farmer’s elderly father.

A person can picture the dances and parties, dead relatives and friends sitting around the table, the young boys sent out to chase the horses who’d escaped the field, into the neighbors pastures; the past clings to this house as it does to the stars above, both from a time long forgotten.

Published Poem – Spillwords.com – Free Verse “Don’t Burn Out All the Lights” #amwriting #poetry #spillwords

I am pleased to have another poem published on http://www.spillwords.com. Check them out, they are amazing to collaborate with. Here’s the poem: “Don’t Burn Out All the Lights.”

Credit: Spillwords.com

#NovemberNotes Day 11: Poem – Quadrille – “No Us Anymore” #amwriting #poetry #dVerse

For November Notes Day 11 the song is “What About Us” by P!NK. I’m combining prompts with Mish from #dVerse Poet’s Pub Quadrille poetry form prompt using the word/theme rock.

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Credit: dahiana Candelo via Unsplash

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“What About Us” – P!nk

—–

Searchlights in dimness,

Stars gleaming pixies.

Billions of beautiful hearts,

Thumping strong;

What about us?

No happily ever after.

Riddled with problems,

No reconfiguring.

We are but children,

Crying for love.

Flames hovering,

In darkness;

Why must we maintain —

Rock hard control?

Let’s be free,

To let go.

There’s no us anymore.

—–

©Mandibelle16.(2017) All Rights Deserved.

#OctPoWriMo Day 19/Sunday Writing: Poem – Italian Sonnet – “Comfort Spread” #poetry #amwriting

For OctPoWriMo Day 19 the theme is fox or foxy. Also, I’m doing the Scribbler’s Dip MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie Sunday Writing Prompt from Oct 8, 2017 based on the Pablo Nurado poem below:

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Sonnet XVI by Pablo Neruda

I love the handful of the earth you are.

Because of its meadows, vast as a planet,

I have no other star. You are my replica

of the multiplying universe

*****

Your wide eyes, are the only light I know

from extinguished constellations;

your skin throbs like the streak

of a meteor through rain.

*****

Your hips were that much of the moon for me;

your deep mouth and its delights, that much sun;

your heart, fiery with its long red rays,

*****

was that much ardent light, like honey in the shade.

So I pass across your burning form, kissing

you – compact and planetary, my dove, my globe.

*****

——-

——

More than a handful of earth, but crystal,

Light bouncing off of facets, your meadows,

Vast greenery, teaming with life bestowed.

Complicated universe, love enthralled.

Your star, an ember of warmth never falls.

Such sanguine eyes, constellations fed,

Your skin downy white fox fur, comfort bred.

Our touch pulses, meteors involve —

Your mouth delights, your kisses warm invite;

Your hips as the moon’s silver spreading light.

Fiery hearts beat together in time,

Your honeyed lips the relief of shade.

Kissing burning skin, your planetary fire,

A hope for the night for tomorrows rhyme.

——

Photo Challenge: Poem – Quadrille- “Celestial Wings” #amwriting #poetry #dVerse

Thanks to NEKNEERAJ from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s photo challenge. Thanks to MISH of #dVerse Poet’s Pub for hosting this week’s #dVerse poetry prompt. The meaning of a particular sign or symbol.

Dawn’s effervescent brilliance,

Twilight’s ease to ink.

Stars, indulgent jewels,

Delicate glass traced.

Universe brimming,

Nebulas gleaming.

Celestial diamonds.

Drifting where signs,

Vibrate without liberty.

Forget repression,

A soul weighted;

Ethereal form found.

Torn Chinese lanterns,

Flight imminent.

No more signs,

Imprisonment or labor.

Be done,

So I can glide,

Fingers stroking,

Celestial wings humming.

First Line Fridays: Heat Panic #FLF #fiction #amwriting

Thanks to Dylan of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting FLF.

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Three hours into the desert [Sandra felt the jeep’s] engine choke and buckle, rolling dark smoke into the pale blue sky.

“Are you kidding me?” Sandra asked her husband Jim. “We’re going to the Grand Canyon something people do all the time from Vegas and the damn Barbie jeep breaks down? Don’t they maintain these things, check that they’re working before they leave us in the open desert?”

Jim gazed at his wife his eyes half closed. The temperature was a sizzling 45 degrees Celsius and growing up in Toronto’s cold winters meant he didn’t handle the heat well. Sandra’s harping made Jim feel that much worse, sweating prufesly in the leather seat beside her.

“Jim, Jim? Are you even listening to me? How long is it going to take for them to send another jeep? Why is everyone else so mellow about this? It gets cold in the desert at night and what about the snakes and scorpions?”

Jim groaned out load and Sandra gave him a dirty look. “Sandy, its hot right now,” he mumbled. “We’ve no air conditioning and if it gets cold soon that would be great for everyone. I’m sure the tour company will find us soon. Our jeep’s Barbie pink as you say.”

“Oh and could you calm down? You’re frightening the elderly couples,” he said whispering into Sandra’s ear as to not offend the two couples nearby.

Sandra gave Jim a weird look then continued yapping. The tour guides who had been on the radio the last hour with their company were now glaring at Sandra as they too sufferered in the heat and from her constant questions.

The older couples had it the worst, Jim thought. No one wanted any of them to undergo heat stroke since the temperature seemed to affect the four of them the most. Sandra’s constant complaining wasn’t helping the matter.

“Simmer down, lady,” one guide told Sandra,”This happens sometimes. Another jeep is a couple of hours away, if you can control yourself until then.”

Sandra didn’t care, she kept talking.

Jim was surprised when a lady in her seventies, named Meg, smacked Sandra’s face hard. So hard he could see the red outline of the woman’s hand on Sandra’s sweaty cheek. Sandra was so shocked she didn’t say another word except to ask for a bottle of water every couple of hours.

Megan winked at Jim and said: “Nothing like a good smack in the face. I think the heat was getting to your wife. She seems to be okay now that I smacked her and that she’s drinking water instead of talking.” Jim laughed bumping fists with feisty Meg.

“Okay?” Jim asked Sandra later.

“Yeah good now, just a little panic attack I think. The heat was getting to me.”

Jim laughed at this stroking Sandra’s back.

The evening sky in the desert turned from twilight into glittering black with giant stars. All eight people in the jeep sighed with pleasure as the blistering heat cooled and they were awed by the fantastic celestial bodies.

When another pink jeep arrived the next morning, no one complained about the heat or Sandra. Both problems had been eclipsed by the perfect temperature and the starry night viewed under them.

——-

Day 17 – NaPoWriMo/A to Z Challenge/ First Line Friday FF: Poem – Free Verse — “Full Moon of Neurotic Night” #NaPoWriMo #AtoZchallenge #FLF #poetry

Thanks to Dylan of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie‘a First Line Friday Prompt. The first line from last Friday was: “I’m going to tell you how I lost my inheritance.” For NaPoWriMo the prompt is to write a nocturne which is a poem/song about the night. For A to Z Challenge, today’s letter is O for a GoodRead’s quote.

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Credit: Arial Estrulin – Travel and Landscape Photography

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“You don’t have to be dead to leave a legacy. — Onyi Anyado”

——-

I’m going to tell how I lost my inheritance, how my legacy rides in tides as the full moon rises,

How the night stole my humanity and hammered my soul a blow.

The dusk covered the light, liquid tar blanket bestowed,

The sun hid himself away, way down in western wilds of woe.

A sinking feeling settled in and a certain chorus began to ring,

A range of notes, a rising crescendo of riveting lyrical prose.

A poet’s words possessing her, when she knows full well,

The powerful pull of the midnight hour.

And the pressing provocative lure as the moon glows,

A white orb that won’t warble, a strong luminious light,

Residing over all as every full moon does.

To be host over the howling wolves, the healthy youths as they prowl,

The dark delights of the night distend into the dimest parts of every soul.

A choir of banshees brazenly taking souls salaciously, the maids from their beds,

The hour of the demons drawing back to their victims with wet bloody lips;

The incubus raging and awaking the wild within their prey.

And all is a lure, an image not clear, all this is imagined,

All this is frightening, foretold in nightmares.

The affected awake in the morning from the pleasure and pain,

From satisfied appetites, appalling in the dank aptitudes of night.

Night swells and swallows herprey wholly, partaking and doping with her starry glow,

Inviting the worst from the wise, even ill from the innocent.

Yet a moral being cannot mean to say, night has had her way and ‘I’ had no say;

It’s easy to give in with ease, to isolate one’s self to enthralling entertainments, inscribed darkly now on souls.

And what’s done in the night when the moon is full and fat, cannot be told for it stays hidden on those nights, when the wildest ones escape.

The vampires and the wolves, the creatures we know not of, and humans do not stay humble ether — they choose to fly with the fallen.

A nocturne of night will tell you what power presumes to hide beneath an inky black veil,

It’s not pure evil, it’s the usual kind, who chooses to dance with the devil, and forget their choices their choosing for charm and wine.

For tequila and vodka, for him and her, and whisky burning down your throat as the howls of the night combine with a loss of memory;

And we all awake mid-afternoon, no one knowing the peculiarities of such a night, a full out frightening moon.

Only a feeling, a shiver, a prayer, as the moon fades from brilliance, she is trapped, unwillingingly held as she wanes us back into morality.

The light of the sun salutes from the east and all is forgiven in harmony and health, angelic nebulas, skys of blue birds, and Bambi deers galloping.

Woe is the wicked night on the full moon, but how much greater is the morn after malevolence is perpetually destroyed,

Yet oh, how we miss the fun of bliss in the dark — no thoughts, no reason, just acceptance to absorb the pleasures of night’s nocturnal nightmares.

———

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Collage Prompt: How Edges Are Smoothed #amwriting #poetry #LaCharta

Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s Collage Prompt.

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Obscured by flowers she slumbers;

In restless sleep, dreams and wonders.

Of every place she could be stumbling.

She’s on a bus; she’s left and coming.

Engaging, discovering the world,

Hands in the air, gives happy twirl.

—–

She knows she’s one of those shattered,

Those broken people, hearts scattered.

All she lost hurts her, still matters,

She’s travelling, her soul battered.

Wherever she feels she goes free —

Never having felt mindless glee.

—–

In parks she discovers nature’s gifts,

Rain falling down in healing bliss.

Frost on the pine trees, light snow drifts;

Fall’s leaves hanging with an ice kiss.

Dew drops on the pine needles caught,

Icicled and splendid shots.

—-

Shuttering Nikon bright photos,

Numerous, exquisite, with notes —

Written neatly underneath rows.

Photos printed, memories wrote.

Publishes first book from afar,

Remains here; she’s seen lucent stars.

—-

Gleaming, brilliant lights overhead,

New home to heal, words yet unsaid.

Forgets past, hangs laundry instead,

Milk in jug for children, she’s wed;

Life remoulded into her dreams,

Someone loves her, he teases.

——

They laugh with each other love spun;

Knows her well but she’s cut him some.

Yet he heals, heals her too; he proves —

Love is the balm, steady, true.

Whenever her edges spike through,

Holds her tight until she’s smooth, soothed.

—–
LaCharta

“The LaCharta, created by Laura Lamarca, consists of a minimum of 3 stanzas with no maximum length stipulation. Each stanza contains 6 lines. The syllable count is 8 per line in iambic tetrameter and the rhyme scheme is aaaabb ccccdd eeeeff and so on. “La” is Laura Lamarca’s signature and “Charta” in Latin, simply means “poem”.”

Please see Shadow Poetry for further information.

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