Fiction, LaCharta - aaaaabb ccccdd etc. - 8 syllables, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, My Thoughts, Nature, Poetry, Relationship, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

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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Credit: MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie

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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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©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.

Free Verse, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Poetry, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Travel, Writing

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.