#NaPoWriMo Day 20: Free Verse – “Get Away, Get Away” #amwritingpoetry


For NaPoWriMo Day 20, the prompt is:


“Try to write a poem grounded in language as it is spoken – not necessarily the grand, dramatic speech of a monologue or play, but the messy, fractured, slangy way people speak in real life. You might incorporate overheard speech or a turn of phrase you heard once that stood out to you – the idea here is to get away from formally “poetic” speech and into the way language tends to work out loud.”


Based somewhat off William Blake’s, “The Chimney Sweeper: My Mother Died When I Was Very Young . . .


Credit: Google Images


Get away, get away, no scraps to eat,

Get away, get away, vile chimney sweeper.

Squirrel down the fireplace with hacking cough,

Get away, get away, tiny three-year old son.

Get away, get away, clean the soot well,

Treated as vermin, you know not nor why.

Get away, get away — two-hundred years passed.

And many hollows, still haunt chimney sweepers;

The dogs are fed, cats cradled, but somewhere —

The little chimney sweeper’s weep,

Broken spirited, choking on ashes, soot.

And modern toddlers cough, hurt someway else.

Get away, get away, we’ve a thousand things to do,

Get away, get away, nuisances only God sees as deserving.

Perhaps, some grandparent’s of a toddler, yet . . .

We’ve still forgotten. William Blake’s Chimney Sweepers.

Pretence and poison, do we value things, experiences over young life?

‘Get away, Get away,’ words unheeded not remembered,

Think they better, know they not;

None of us are better via religion, ethnicity, nor sense of reason,

If we don’t love the little children.

Get away, get away, let the chimney sweepers breath,

Let fresh air carry giggles, chimes in the wind,

No more work, not ever,

Only golden pathways to freedom.


©️Mandibelle16. (2019) All Rights Reserved.

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Poem: Free Verse — “A Land of Peace” #amwritingpoetry


Wrote this a few days back. Edited it this New Year’s Eve. Sorry, it couldn’t be happier, but I hope you perceive the wish for that which is peaceful.


Credit: Seth Macey via Unsplash


I hear the blunt of your hammer,

Your riffle as it clambers;

If only to block out the ruckus,

While I’m tucked in flannels.

The world spins and stammers,

Your barrel it twirls, the gun’s reloaded.

I’m a maid of ages,

So, bring home my man, prisoner of war.

Life in medicine-hands, he’s grave and damaged.

No one plans life’s intense dramas, when they’re a blood-bath.

Bullots locked and loaded,

Zipping through air in motion slowed, air ripples —

As a surgeons hands riddle, shells from a civilian caught fleeing —

From a soldier he knows not, from a war he caused not;

From a visage of war, he’s not committed to fighting.

So, bring home my man, he’s the prisoner wounded,

The civilian in shackles; although, you’d never recognize their weight.

He’s the media image — the child crying enamored —

Of a wrinkled photo, the last of his mother.

Or, a soldier’s son’s tears dripping rivers,

Afraid and stammering, the stream of saltwater.

His sister caught snitching, but a morsel to spit-out.

And they’re all dying in masses,

But we peeped through fire-ball wreckage,

Rusted 3rd-world problems to obscene to believe.

We couldn’t perceive a media of glorified killers; crosses blunt ashes.

Of people left bawling as the bugle was calling —

Oh, bring home my man,

He is lost in bombs crashing, the stitching of wounds,

Tumors, fractures, and a machine gun’s destruction;

Stomachs bloated hungering, and cataracts gleaming.

Smoke-ridden eyes granted sight, now horrified —

To realize their home’s a wasteland of dreams.

Oh, bring home my man, he’s lost and he’s broken.

The terrors too much, pain scarred soul-deep,

And his child is weeping, no control is frightening.

Oh, bring home my man from your war of terror ageless,

Be you pagan or Christian, Muslim, or Jewish;

You still war with Aries and feed Jupiter innocent flesh.

Oh, bring home my man, no more cause him anguish,

Not the dreams of a ‘silent night’ lost.

Not another year ridden with gun’s reloading,

Gun’s we’ve packed centuries,

To a place mermaids once swam.

The memories paper-bag brown, curled;

Worn like faded leather; a letter disintegrated.

A story once told,

Where three sisters met,

As poppy red blows in lands long forgotten.

1st world woes, claim to expose,

3rd worlds implode, and no one knows;

Root of the evil, that grows and grows.

So, carry home my man, let his feet not in Opium fields drag.

He’s healed your wounded, your dying;

Now he knows he must leave, lest forever he sleep;

Support his weight, his shoulders slumped —

With night terrors, violent streams of woe.

As the new year comes upon us,

Think not of war’s carnage, let all children —

Of every age in existence,

Live in a land of peace.

Never a gun’s bullets ricocheting;

Never a nightmare, but a life of opportunity;

A day without weeping, words tucked —

In the pocket of a heart that beats, not bleeds.


©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Three Line Tales: Mazes and Labyrinths #3LineTales #goodreads #quotes


Thanks to Sonya of Only 100 Words for hosting #3LineTales.

This picture makes me think of mazes and labyrinths, finding your way through a winding place. I found three good quotes on GoodReads to represent this theme. The movie Labyrinth in no way inspired this, I hate that movie!


searchingtlt
Credit: Grace Grandinetti via Upsplash

1.“ [It] became a world whose rules I lived by, and I understood the moral of mazes: sometimes you have to turn your back on your goal to get there, sometimes you’re farthest away when you’re closest, sometimes the only way is the long one . . . That when you seem farthest from your destination is when you suddenly arrive, [it] is a very pat truth in words, but a profound one to find with your feet.”
Rebecca Solnit, Wanderlust


2. “ . . .A labyrinth has only one path and you merely have to follow it; it’s a symbol of life or, rather, of life and death; labyrinths twist and turn, but they have a beginning and an end, through darkness into light.” Ariana Franklin, The Serpent’s Tale


3. “This maze is laid out such that should you step through the correct path, by its end you will have learned the most extraordinary dance, such that any coronation would be proud to see you at the height of its feast, such that any holy dervish would weep and call you his devotion.”Catherynne M. Valente, In the Cities of Coin and Spice


©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Poem: Free Verse – “Her Hair Is Falling Out”


http://www.huffingtonpost.com

——-

I felt it slice through my heart, 

The sharpened blade of a knife, blood spurting.

When she said her hair was falling out, 

It made it all too real.

I felt pierced by a sword, 

Blood draining from my face,

Collapsing from a wound brand new,

I wish I knew how she handled it.

Could face the world with such grace,

I tried to put myself in her shoes,

To keep it about her.

But if she is anything like me,

The loss of blond locks would be gory,

An image of c#%€£r, to be detested and banished.

But reality spears through the aching heart,

She handles all with fierce fire.

—–

But when she said “my hair is falling out,”

My eyes filled with salt water, 

Channels of tears went down pasty cheeks, 

Off skin prepared for the night; I lost it.

In her pictures, she appears happy, like herself,

Handling each trial, each challenge with a smile.

But when she wrote “we’re going wig shopping,”

The tears wouldn’t stop.

And the pain in my stomach is a giant knot.

I’m scared to release that pent up rage, 

At God for allowing her to find out four stages in, 

With a two-year-old and loving husband of only a few years.

She’s living life —

But I ache for her and I pray,

Because I know there is no other way.

Let God heal the c#%*£rous growths.

Let her be healthy, let us grow old as friends.

Let her baby have his Mother.

——-

I think it’s an issue of vanity,

A woman’s hair, her crowning glory,

But my friend’s beauty goes beyond her features,

Beyond skin deep, 

Yet I weep while she smiles,

Picturing her hair at her feet.

Her new wig on her head,

Being prepared for when,

She loses all of her hair.

But yet she finds the strength to keep fighting.

Without blond hair to shield the struggle behind.

Without one of her most defining features,

She loosing her hair with such fortitude.

My friend does not cry,

She smiles with eloquence, 

Handles her fight with class.

But I weep and I weep.

In my dreams, I cry for her, 

For her I’m so afraid of losing,

When we’ve both only begun life’s journey.

She’s come this far,

In prayer and empathy, 

I cheer her battle on.

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.