brightens to summer...
|Friday Flash Fiction||
this wintry spring
brightens to summer...
Imagine a wolf with a sheep’s knapsack,
slinging unearned privilege.
Slinking, toe tipping.
Not one to rush to pillage.
Picture chickens sneering at the sheep
who left the knapsack within wolf’s reach.
Yet the wolf is unaware that she has it
and the sheep thinks she took it on merit.
On the road of dreams
I yearn for your gentle kiss
in the cool spring night
I play with wordy magic, creating something new,
I made an action happen and wish it to be true.
When I make people love, love pours through my own veins,
And when it comes to hate, my hate will cause me pains.
My laughter will echo stuck between the pages,
The sorrow I wrote in would rest there through the ages.
The good soul and the bad guy, I’ll tangle them together,
They will fight their battle no shorter than forever.
I’ll make night everlasting, the sun will mean my hope,
And every single trouble must be a slippery slope.
I might just make you bleed or wander down to hell,
But when it comes to ending, I’ll make sure all ends well.
Verdant grass has transformed to white,
fallen golden leaves sparkle as if with diamonds
as frost melts under a November sun.
The heavens are a rich azure
and the gods have painted streaks of white,
my breath drifting like the mist
rolling on the empty golf course,
pond not yet cold enough to freeze.
Magpies glide and a crow squawks
as surprised motorists scrape ice away
but I'm pleased for the welcome respite
from dreary wind and rain
content to stroll in the autumnal air
and for a short while with barely a care.
Yellowstone on Stan
a cavoodle growls and barks
at all the horses
Seattle baths & bedrooms in the projects
smelled of sweat, raw sex & toilet water
cheaper than musk oil or French perfume
the perfect combination of glandular
action & wish fulfillment blended
into a singular bouquet that lingered
like a nasal ear worm—impossible to lose--
filled disquieting dreams with a haunting odor
that permeated nighttime’s veil & slumbering retreats.
particularly daylight hours, where it followed dawn
employment like a wet mangy dog, wafting
though Amazon workhouses, soup kitchens,
& religious sanctuaries where alternative misfits
sat lockstep in pews, shared collective social alienation,
mainstreamed flannel shirts & ripped jeans, sang in choirs
to dirty guitars, honored Neil Young—the godfather of grunge.
How I wish I could have two Editor's Choices this week – Ed
World Cup in Qatar
Best players under the sun
Morals in gutter
7 minutes past 4 is the time
she always wakes, wide-eyed,
trapped in the soft tomb of her bed
wet with sweat whatever the weather
intrusive thoughts poisoning her synapses.
People cannot understand why she is this way,
she's young and beautiful not old and grey
and the more she tries to think herself better
the worse she feels and only wine
can touch the sides, numbing the pain
she knows she should not experience
yet still dons her mask for the day ahead,
smiles to the world but alluring eyes show
the anguish in her soul...that will not go.
turn the black vinyl wheel
to carry me away back to the past
or spin two magic reels
inside this dusty plastic shell
just to hear again the songs
we all loved
then you can ask me
how does it feel
to be the fearless traveller
through strange spaces and times
swift parrots in the bottlebrush
rising through the spirals of the body
circling up towards the gatehouse
retreating from the farthest outposts
toes. shin bones, long bones
belly, thorax, voice box
small bird flapping
to the skull cage
behind the brow
What if I
were to tell you
the Complete Works
was a map to an
And the island
made of oak
in Nova Scotia
the mystery lies...
I strolled through the Black Tower gate
to a field where poppies were laid
on wooden crosses, an elderly couple
planted one with sombre expressions.
One read "Died for Peace. Thankyou"
and another "Lost at Sea. SS Bibury."
I cannot imagine their awful fear
as the ship sunk with eternity near.
From more recent conflicts were photographs
of young warriors in their prime,
a poignant reminder of the horror of war
as children laughed thankfully unaware
of tragedy as they climbed the Keep,
a squirrel scurried equally oblivious.
The breeze blew ghosts on this November day
over crosses of those who'd passed away.
restless, (w)reckless, pheromone inspired
hunger beyond (bio)logical
imperative to (pro)create (a)new connection
flood of touch speaking flesh to Void primordial
however-gendered passion, pleasure, (con)sensual surrender
swoon surpassing the ordered world
Pi the same for every circle, encompassing the (W)hole
obscenely sacramental sacrifice required, tantric mantra of the Big O(m)
euphoric loss of self, immortal little death, proliferation incarnate
Lovers do lie upon tectonic plates
they slip and slide the tides of ages, of fluids spent
below the thin red jellies of skin and bone, continents shift
and on and on the lovers drift
Old hut near the sea
a pair of ragged sandals
waiting by the door
Imaginary worlds, the fantasy we have
head in the clouds-
lovely to escape to, but don’t, not
in the face of sorrow, real-world pain
address your emotions, the bad and ugly
If Rapunzel hadn’t cried at Flynn’s death
he wouldn’t have been saved, if Rapunzel
daydreamed about his survival, instead of
facing her fears, then
She won’t be having a real happily ever after.
Someone made a poor decision
And the people doth protest -
Not about the price of fuel
Or the job cuts that have left
Them with no income
And a paucity of grub...
No! Someone withdrew the Bounty
From the Celebrations Tub!
An engine on two wheels feels heavy
when hefted or held between denim knees,
but glides with ease and rides steady
when the throttle slips a tease of speed.
Bigger the bore, more the torque,
and faster the vector flows.
Yet the size of wheel between the fork
isn’t always measure of the road one goes.
Off-road, on-tour or blurring the trees.
Living the moment, being in the scene.
Had a bad day-cade
the ten years filled my jar up with honey
can't get out of this sticky mess
mistaken ones were soon to self-pity
after once happily stepping into the trap,
my sticky mess-
they couldn't deal with it either.
Fat wallet, crisp bills
The casino took them all
I'll win tomorrow
intrudes on the cool solace
Have you seen a spider scurry
Or plod across a bowl of curry?
It spins its silk in tensile grey
And hides in haberdashery.
Have you watched one weave its web
Or lie there and pretend it's dead?
Of ugly, beastly ergonomics
It features large in Boys Own comics.
For those about to fill the tub, look out!
Each spindly leg will make you shout.
It hauls itself up by the chain
Or shelters just below the drain
Behind the tap, along the gap,
They really are innumerable
So don't you slip, and don't you fall
It'll be your funeral.
This is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most.