#NaPoWriMo Day 6: Poem – Blitz – “Something” #amwritingpoetry


For NaPoWriMo Day 6 the prompt is:


Today’s video is this TED talk on “Why People Need Poetry.” Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem of the possible. What does that mean? Today, write a poem that emphasizes the power of “if,” of the woulds and coulds and shoulds of the world.


Credit: Thought Catalog via Unsplash.


What if the ever became all,

And you kept going still?

Still, you kept rising with the tide

Still, you kept writing and always had time

Time to live, strive, and heal,

Time to believe the words were real.

Real as any you’d ever heard,

Real as the sun blazing, moon a stage-light dreamed,

Dreamed, imagined, written, and spoken

Dreamed, perceived, with conditions to succeed

Succeed beyond wild illusion and the path of misery

Succeed beyond hypocrisy, a losing of yourself

Yourself climbs and soars

Yourself leaps, stomach drops, but you’re gliding

Gliding as the parasailer, survivor despite crashing

Gliding because rising is impossible without falling

Falling isn’t reason to let go

Falling isn’t reason to curl into a ball, weep

Weep for poetry’s drudgery, being mislead

Weep for the things you cannot change

Change despite the hurt, muscles yearning to stretch

Change take your life-bricks — build

Build dreams, light as air-particle hopes

Build your foundations stable as might

Might that lives inside because you’ll rebuild despite

Might that thrives, you’re free to write and be alive

Alive to heal, flourish, learn

Alive to be whatever you perceive

Perceive that age is not the truth of it

Perceive the truth is to age with grace; laugh at heart

Hearts beat strong, thump with reflection

Hearts collide and ache, the wise know well

Well that here as we are, we can only stumble

Well that the man upstairs knows it all

All with clarity, in someways, we have it all —

All the time to jot and dabble

Dabble to compose words that unravel

Dabble to sculpt, build up acrylic colors

Colors that blur, chroma creates illusory delight

Colors create the scenery, the backdrop

Backdrop to meander the verdant Amazon

Backdrop to shiver in the bright of Alaska’s midnight

Midnight is a place in life and in writing

Midnight is peace as words flow off your tongue

Tongue be silent, hands click faster, feather light

Tongue murmur the words as they pass onto screen, paper

Paper trails of dust to starlight trails, black holes of ice

Paper trails that mock, have us stumble

Ice melts, we’ve everything in our grasp

Stumble because other days, we’ve nothing — that’s something too.


©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.

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Sunday Photo Fiction: The Creep #fiction #amwriting


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting the February 11th, 2018 Edition of SPF. This is a bit of a longer piece. Written for a writer’s course, around 500 Words as opposed to 200 Words or less. I cleaned it up and changed the original a bit.


Credit: J. Carol Hardy


Charlene twists her hair. The potent drink on the bar is her fifth tequila shot in an hour. The hazy, dreamlike atmosphere in the crowded town bar confuses her. Most of the crowd puff away, smoke lingering in the air, twisting above her, a toxic dragon of cigarette stench.

An attractive singer who isn’t local, belts out tunes while strumming his guitar. His catchy music has Charlene humming, her fingers tapping to the rhythm.

When he plays a soft song, the crowd boos. Some men throw beer bottles that smash and scatter glass against the small stage’s back wall. The singer peers around the room, his eyes darting back and forth. A bouncer drags away one of the offenders and the singer resumes his music, belting out cheerful tunes once more.

Charlene chuckles. As per usual, the town bar echoes with boisterous laughter and harmless drunks telling tale tales. Then, the creep beside her, pokes her arm. “Drink it, drink the shot.”

She peers up at him and his putrid breath makes her sick. “I don’t want it. Go away.” He leers and Charlene shivers.

She turns, stumbles towards the cracked vinyl booth where her coat and purse lay. Grabbing them she fumbles, zipping up her coat. The creep follows her and pinches her chin, trying to pour the shot into her mouth.

Warm tequila dribbles from her lips, acrid as she chokes. “No more, I don’t want anymore.” She cuts off his words, the poison of the creep’s lizard-tongue. “I’m going home — alone.”

Charlene teeters, leaning against the worn bar. She presses her hands against the humid backs of people waiting to buy more drinks. In open places, she leans on the bar, tracing it’s antique carvings, the dents on its worn surface. Jerry, one of the bartenders, slides her a glass of water. She nods at him, and swallows, her throat aching.

Past the bar, Charlene leans against a lone stool at a table. The stool wobbles on splintering legs. She grits her teeth, than sucks out a sliver of wood from her thumb. A gift from the table top.

Head spinning, Charlene lands in the quiet of the shuffleboard area, dizzy against the table. She presses her phone, fingers clumsy as she sends for an Uber. She downs more water from her purse. With some clarity, she wanders through sweat-soaked bodies towards the main door.

In the chill of the night, the creep is somehow beside her, waiting to follow her into her Uber. She ignores him, hobbling to a bouncer. “He’s following me, make him go away. He put something in my drink.”

The lie slips out; she doesn’t care. The creep who bought her five shots scares her. The bouncer’s blue eyes bulge. “No problem, Miss. I’ll ensure you get into the Uber alone.”

The bouncer offers the creep free beer to go back inside, and Charlene shivers, the wind biting at her face as flurries fly. She falls asleep inside the Uber, and the driver helps her into her apartment on the third floor. He takes the key from her hand and unlocks her door as she offers him a scrunched five-dollar bill.

“It’s fine. I don’t need help.”

The driver shakes his head. “That man you were running from, he’s bad. He has a different woman drunk each weekend night; he drugs many of them. The bouncer’s my friend, and he made sure you got into my Uber. We’re trying to catch him, but this a**holes too experienced to leave much evidence.”

The fact that the creep could’ve drugged her for ‘real’ makes Charlene ill. She rushes to the kitchen sink, throwing up multiple times.

The Uber driver ‘Ahems’ behind her. “I’m going now. Will you be okay?’

She nods. “Thank God, you’re a good man.”

“Stop accepting drinks from weird strangers. Don’t lead guys like him on. You have to think before you accept more than one drink; especially, in a small town like ours.”

Charlene nods, collapsing on the floor. She knows she’s asleep, but a sharp tempo beats against her temples. She’s half-awake, restless, afraid of the nightmares seeping in; the creep’s leering grin and eyes of a predator.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

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


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

——

Credit: MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie

——-

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.

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

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


Thanks to The Daily Post for the word prompt Frail.

——

http://www.nited-academics.org

——-

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.

Poem: Free Verse – ” Thoughts Spinning Before Thursday Night’s Sleep” #amwriting #poetry



———-

Spinning rhymes it’s my design.

I don’t why I am inclined.
———

I’m elated to write and tell my stories,

Truth and falsehood, real and imagined glories. 

But tonight I think, I’m drained; editing all day.

Functioning through each line in my own way,

Build a dream, imagine a story which could be told,

Hope I don’t have to show my hand and fold.

——-

Spinning rhymes, it’s my design, 

I don’t know why I’m inclined.

——-

So much to research and to discover, 

Learning a never ending process and a dangerous lover.

Once you’ve tasted knowledge, it’s hard to forget the flavour;

Addictive, sweet chocolate, dark and soft inside, dissolving in my mouth; I savour. 

Cannot forget the price of knowledge, it needs to be applied. 

What good is knowing if we never use and try.

——–

Spinning rhymes, it’s my design, 

I don’t know why I’m inclined.
——

Knowledge becomes experience and while we’re alive,

There’s need to know, about the paths which lead us to thrive.

They’re places which ensnarl our lives and never let go,

A wise person learns, to not tumble down, into a black hole.

The complexity of knowledge so vast, 

Keep stumbling through life; it goes by fast.

———

Spinning rhymes, it’s my design, 

I don’t know why I’m inclined.
——–

Help others whenever, wherever;

Let the words flow, and never let goodwill sever.

I’m alive and I’m well;

Though the summer heat already swells.

Not built for hot weather; ancestors from climates snowy.

But, I’m not a fan of bitter cold either you know.

——

Spinning rhymes, it’s my design, 

I don’t know why I’m inclined.
——-

Autumns the time with fresh air and red leaves floating;

But in summer sometime, I’d like to try house boating.

Down the river flowing, all the showers I want;

Soaking in the sun, a life less daunting.

Realizing in my bathing suit, I was skinny when I thought I was fat,

And I miss being as fat as I was in my younger years past.

——–

Spinning rhymes, it’s my design, 

I don’t know why I’m inclined.

——–

When I was in my early-twenties, we drank and ate all we pleased,

Know we count are calories, eat little, as if eating were a disease.

It’s problematic to let the children see how their parent’s party.

But I’m sure in a short while, they’ll have their own parties start.

Tired, now wishing for a descent slumber; peace in sleep, 

Thursday night thoughts to count sheep.

——-

Spinning rhymes, it’s my design, 

I don’t know why I’m inclined.
——–

©Mandibelle16.(2016) All Rights Reserved.