The water is too quiet
Hungry heron waits
|Friday Flash Fiction||
The Duel, by Robert P. Bishop
The frog won’t jump in
The water is too quiet
Hungry heron waits
I strolled down Long Street to the sound
of birds and cows on a fine May evening
to reach the estuary:
sunset clouds transforming placid water
as if it were aflame.
A small boat was moored, I watched the ducks drift,
the tranquil scene giving my soul a lift,
gentle ripples and far from crowds
just the obligatory dog-walkers
as I admired bluebells on the verdant shore.
A mound was all that remained
of a wooden 12th Century Norman castle
yet I pictured it in days long gone by
as I relaxed...under a sunset sky
Chrono Vision, by Ivan Ristic
Yesterday I looked behind me
and I saw myself as a child,
running towards today
with my eyes wide open,
joyful as a child can be.
Today I'm looking at tomorrow...
Not surprised what I see.
So, I want to close my eyes,
sad as only a man can be.
Four O'Clock, by Kate Figurska
The cold air entered through the ajar window,
It smelled of wildflowers and morning fog.
The horizon cracked revealing the shadows
Of the sleeping in the distance towns.
It was much too early to wake up,
Much too late to fall asleep.
I hanged somewhere between these two states,
Unable to do anything,
But think of you.
The Shepherd, by Robert P. Bishop
Summer’s gentle wind
herding clouds across pale skies
and home before night
When azure skies give way to clouds of grey
thunderstorms suck water vapors that freeze
cloudbursts transform, sending hail to the fray
and frigidaire airstreams exhale icy breeze.
Round white pellets assault roof lines and streets
like glacier diamond droplets grown in size
pierce witches on broomstick with snowy sheets
unearthly rumblings resound heaven’s sighs.
Swept by wind gusts like Dorothy in Oz
crystal blizzards accost my hands and face
weathering bombardments, man with a cause
landing feet first with catlike skill and grace.
Knocking ruby boot heels on sandy loam
I hum the mantra, “There’s no place like home.”
Sky Glow, by Guy Fletcher
I'm staring out at the clear night sky,
my breath like mist rolling into the air
but the view is not as days of old,
more and more neon lights pollute
and the situation worsens every year
for in the once pristine atmosphere
poets and writers were inspired,
now just ghosts from long ago.
Oh, the moon shines with all its majesty
but stars compete with the city far below
and although still an alluring sight
I lament the loss of stars at night.
(Light), by Alex Blaine
Bare Poem, by Elizabeth Elder
Put clothes on
Dress it into
a job at the
office, a day
will look the
Equinox, by Robert P. Bishop
the chilling winds of autumn
With such a powerful name,
Who can’t embrace you?
Though criminals misuse your name,
And entrepreneurs found a niche in it,
Nothing will turn us away from you!
Nothing can ever compare to your touch!
Since we owe you, even, our breaths,
Nothing can ever repay your debts.
Moreover, your mercy and might are unrivaled.
GOD, the omnipresent, you are a wonder!
Heart, by Rashna Walton
My heart is a handful, my heart is a fraud, my heart is a frog in a box
My heart is cold and my head is hot, a curious paradox
And she's falling, falling into your arms
Can you shield her from hate? will you keep her from harm?
From breaking, from aching, forsaking her maker?
My heart has stepped off the battlefield, my heart it is wounded and sore
My heart is hungry, my heart is full, my heart can't take any more
My heart has a murmur, we talk at night, she tells me she is blue
My heart is broken, my heart is sick, it lies in a sticky pool
My heart's a machine that hasn't stopped yet
My heart is a pusher and I am in debt
My heart is a dealer in recycled blood
My heart is a pump in an endless flood
lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub
Morning After, by Sandra James
He nods when I ask
if he watched the football
on TV last night
but the look in his blue eyes
(the ones I inherited)
tells me he’s struggling to remember
I pretend not to notice
prattle on about close scores
and tell him his team has a good chance this year
I wonder if an observer
would notice the fear in my eyes
Is this my destiny?
Shall I compare thee to our politicians?
Thou art more gutsy, dutiful, and brave.
Crowd-pleasing shapes a pol’s contrived ambitions
And shatters all the excellence we crave.
He fears to lose a re-election bid.
She fears control will slip and slide away.
They think they serve the country, as you did,
But you gave all, and they give in to sway.
Now, thy unwavering valor holds us still:
You give us steadiness and hope forever,
While, here, our cowards, dickering on the Hill,
Seem not to understand a fair endeavor.
If we ourselves are blessed and strong and free,
Our debt is not to them; it is to thee.
Homicidal Ideation, by Alex Blaine
only to be viewed
like a lion in a zoo
one who's forgotten
Loud Skies, by Malvina Perova
Fall of Man, by Adrian McRobb
Man made machines
machines served man
power drove the machines
they washed his clothes
they cooked his food
they heated his homes
but the power ran out
the machines lay idle
not all at once
but bit by bit
until the fall of man...
Love Faking, by Ibrahim Alhiyari
You delude yourself as you speak of love,
deriving self-validation that is a hard sell, save for yourself,
being three-in-one--maker, seller, and buyer of your lies.
Remember when you said “forever and ever”
and “till death do us part,” only to pillage the half.
Were the bible man, it would frown at you
in disbelief and dismay
baffling at your “real” feelings,
that are as real as a bogus reality show.
As I shut my eyes in bed
I’m oblivious to you
in default, dark, recoiling mode.
Though our limbs may overlap by (affected) chance
my body has shut down
impervious to your love faking.
I'm sauntering up to the Wenallt woods
past a robin and transparent stream
and horses grazing in the field.
As I ascend the steep verdant hill
I regret donning a coat for it is warm
yet Easter Saturday tempts with the prize
of gorgeous bluebells in front of my eyes.
But I have arrived before bluebells bloom,
shrug off this brief disappointment
listening to birdsong amid the trees
grass still sparkling with dew
as I slowly make my way back home
feeling freedom in the soft springtime air,
a million miles from tension and despair
Geodesic Muse, by Sterling Warner
Chapped hands trowel lime mortar
brick upon brick, layer after layer
Greek meander boarders break
static patterns with folded twists
and geometric turns that open space
uniquely catching ambient rays
as robust sunbursts push
piebald light through circular arches.
Raising three fingers, I separate
Irregular beams each shaft striking
opaque quartz walls and pulling
amber streaks across surfaces
like violin rosin; crowing roosters
mistake flashing beacons for yawning
Aurora’s outstretched arms, awakening
my senses, leaving eyes opened wide.
I Am, by Alex Blaine
I am the reason
Why the small-print
At an All-You-Can-Eat buffet
Implacable, by Mimi Grouse
Some have compared her to a summer's day:
Drought-harsh, her gaze a steady glare
That withers stalwart hearts away
And blisters any soul that dares
Supplicate the cloudless skies;
Merciless, and falsely cold,
The cerulean of her eyes
Flashes rancour. Her voice is bold
Like flurried dust-storms sweeping South
From desert-dry despairing lands;
The howling curses from her mouth
Hit harder than the blows that leave her hands.
So long as men can breathe and hear and see,
Wisdom warns them: Let her be.
The large heavy pot stands in the backyard
but when once it was adorned with flowers
now it's like a miniature dystopian lake:
several twigs thrusting out of its depths
as if the skeleton of a doomed ship.
From a twig to the side is a spider's web
but no spider is in sight,
not the ideal location to capture prey.
Yet she remembers tulips, irises
and butterflies: Monarch and Common White
before the garden became decrepit
though there's a certain beauty to be seen
in the way the water reflects the azure sky
as she reminisces...about times gone by.
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.