in a moment of hunger
eats Jenny Craig
|Friday Flash Fiction||
in a moment of hunger
eats Jenny Craig
Today was a hard day
And so tonight I will pray
That soon will come a new day
I awake and see no sun ray
Rain rain go away
But wash away my tears you may
I go out to the rain to play
And you tell me I will be okay
Since you wipe all my blues away
By the coming of the new day
Happiness will be underway
Sometimes worn on a head
Or while in bed,
Yet fabric is the
That can make fashion statements,
And also address social issues
While action does more
Than simply open doors
Because clothes simply cover
While fully-realized people
Attempt to discover
The meaning of their own lives
A mask covers my mouth.
My eyes will tell you a story,
Please listen closely.
Death showed up to warn Peter one day,
that his time to die was coming next May.
Peter then spent every cent that he had,
Parties, carousing, and drinking like mad.
The days until May were growing quite slim,
But Peter decided death would not find him.
So he shaved all the hair from the top of his head,
And into a dimly lit theater, he fled.
Death walked around calling his name,
Angry at Peter for playing this game.
Finally concluding he needed a break,
Death decided a movie he’d take.
After some popcorn and one matinee,
Death looked at his watch and called it a day.
Returning with no one would be very grim,
So he took up the bald man sitting beside him.
Glancing through portholes, my eyes follow people
departing the ferry from Bainbridge Island to Seattle
when employment seemed stable, the future promising;
before masks became a mandate and simple caution
drove the cure, feet nimbly navigated docking ramps
to Seattle’s Terminal without hesitation or reluctance.
Seven thousand horses spin the vessel’s mighty propeller; whirling,
whirling, whirling, its paddles push the ferry along at 17 knots,
indifferent to pandemic timetables or new normal delusions.
At twenty-five percent capacity, the return journey’s now different;
commuters breathe on glass windows, leave sheets of human fog
across transparent surfaces…engrave initials on water vapor,
write names, messages, graffiti underscored by mythic symbols;
relations discouraged, even Puget Sound spray seems to practice
social distancing and avoids mixing moisture with passengers.
Contrary to facts,
Myths sometimes originate
Are sometimes incorrect,
So find a new point of view,
For people do what they do,
And discover all that is new
Through sensation and perception
It's Easter although a polar breeze blows
as the poor daffodils sway and shiver,
shadows like ghosts in the sun.
Their white and yellow hues are vibrant
but it is early April and some petals
are already brown, soon to turn to dust
as eventually...everything must.
Snow clouds form, blinding the sun
and a surprise army of flakes
drop on the freezing daffodils
which had hoped to spend their final weeks
basking in warm sunshine
but it is just a passing shower it seems
as snowflakes melt...as quickly as dreams.
I got the idea to write a 100-word story submission,
even though it might be easier to live on an overseas mission.
Then to write a heartbreaking story about romance, death or people who are insane.
Just keeping the story down to 100 words is enough to give most writers some kind of pain.
But I wrote anyway, about happy stuff,
and waited for comments from an editor I expected to be gruff.
I still haven't heard from an editor about my story.
I knew I should have been more gory.
echoes of the last train
in the tracks
The metallic wail of summer
carries through sweltering nights,
scattered by faint breezes
among the swirling mosaic of stars.
Years of xylem sustenance and tunneling
in the Earth’s sunless belly
propel the insects’ passion,
excite their chorus,
as they excavate a path toward the sky.
Clinging to the rough bark of trees,
they leave the delicate shell of more
than a decade behind,
exchanging their wrinkled, tea-stained skin
for the viridescence of the surrounding leaves and grass.
It's been a year since I strolled here:
now a rowing boat is planted in the flower bed
and a large boat snuggles against the harbour wall
although skeletal wrecks still remain.
Oh, it feels so fine to return
with the fresh wind caressing my brow
listening to the crows and seagulls screech,
it is low-tide on Barry Harbour beach
and the sun creates jewels in the Channel
as a tanker languidly slides across,
a few dogs and their guardians roam.
The Quantock hills are shrouded in sea mist,
the little estuary sedate, shallow and silver
with transient miniature lakes
on the sand which is darkened by the sea,
waves of tranquillity roll over me.
People sometimes do annoy,
Yet there is actually no need to destroy.
Instead, simply take a break,
Rather than experiencing heartaches,
And as the heart heals and
The soul purifies,
People could try
To do anything that they can
To defy the odds,
And soar high
While remembering that,
With all due respect,
There is actually no need to cry,
And to utilize self-respect
On a hot soporific summer's day
I entered the gates of Dunraven Castle,
colossal gate and seat
as if I were from Lilliput.
I peered from the cliff of Southerndown
where poor souls have leapt to the other side.
The grey rocks travelled back in time
when Wales stood near the equator
and in this Jurassic place I sensed
the spirits of dinosaurs.
The beach of pebbles enticed
and I swam in the sparkling blue Channel
laying on my back in the summer sea
in deep water...feeling serene and free.
They're almost here floating on the air.
If I could block out the traffic noises
The cat clamoring for attention
Even the spoon clinking against his cup
I would relinquish the sweetness of birdsong and the soft humming of bees
The murmur of leaves as they brush together, stirred by the gentle breeze
And the swish of summer grasses as they sway and dance
The chirp of some unseen insect busy with important insect business
If I could switch off the voices in my head
The cacophony of survival, of daily struggle
For just one minute!
If I could shut them all off..
I know I could recapture the beauty of those last words you spoke,
Before you were no more
the scent of
By and by,
Beneath the same blue sky,
Some aspects of life
Ties sometimes do
Make life wonderful,
But that only depends
If people make amends,
And make settlements
To experience wonderment.
This fitting tribute is posted today, rather than wait until next Friday.
So the final whistle blows on the life of Peter Lorimer
who could shoot a ball with a speed that seemed to defy
the laws of physics, a member of that great Leeds side
that graced football pitches some half a century ago.
A tough Scot in a group of hard men who yet
produced moves of rarely matched sublimity
whose white kit reflected their purity and artistry
in the minds of those privileged to have watched
them play back in the day.
A proud part of that team
you were one of the best
players I have ever seen.
For those who have no idea what Lorimer was capable of, here's a small, grainy selection of his goals. Watch how many of them end up in top corners. He scored for Scotland in the 1974 World Cup Finals, too.
A robin perches on a branch
of the sumac tree whose buds
are on the verge of breaking free
to produce scarlet leaves later in the year.
But today the March sun seems to hang
on one of the branches
and raindrops from an earlier shower
make the tree appear adorned with jewels.
The robin's breast stands out
against the two-tone colours of the tree
then it flickers away, perhaps never to return
and a different robin soon lands.
I could sit for hours admiring nature's view
regretting I have other things to do.
Her brown, inscrutable eyes are reeking
with pagan indifference.
Holding her book firmly before her,
she has drifted away to some desolate territory.
She sees nothing, hears nothing,
she is distant from everyone in an alternate universe.
mind tempestuous as the sea,
she has crafted a dim idea of herself,
strung together by misty memories.
Look how she massages the nape of her neck,
how she runs her fingers through greying hair,
how a faint smile plays on her fuchsia lips,
her magic is bewitching,
for such gestures one falls hopelessly in love for a lifetime.
He was a cheerful chap this early-morning riser
who’d whistle while joining the birds’ dawn chorus,
his brain obviously chock-full of endorphins.
Nothing really fazed him during his earthly days
for if you laughed he would laugh with you
but when you cried he’d duly sympathize
yet you would know he was sanguine inside.
A blithe spirit he went to his grave a happy man
untroubled by the tragedies of this mournful world.
Now he whistles, he laughs no more this cheerful chap
decomposing in his new abode, for like all that are mortal
Death has shown him the door.
Eyelids not yet uncoupled above the caress
of the bedsheet, the psyche stuck
in its torpor. Muted wittering from the bush
is unidentifiable, perhaps wrens or nimble thornbills
or a shrieker grappling with its reluctance
to acknowledge the day.
Each laughing kookaburra lays raucous claim
to its territory; magpies carol the gully,
the essence of early eucalypts.
Screeching rainbow lorikeets squabble and flash
from bough to branch, a concourse to carouse
and cavil. Soon the sun will slant
through the pre-dawn glow.
Yellow sun, a mellow breeze
The first love letter, her rosy cheek
Reminiscing of her soft touch, the lovely voice
Her red lips move; I love you
The beautiful days of the past
Oh, how her lifeless body now rests on the bed
She murmurs something inaudibly
As I silently cry by her bed
Cancer took her away from me
The rosy cheeks now dead ash
Her memory silently lives on
Oh, how she made me alive
The letters become moist under the weight of my tears
As I hold them and read again
In the digital age of the computer
I hold dearly to the words handwritten
No need for the undesirable
Do anything pliable
Allows for authenticity,
And the audacious
Are bold enough
To do more than enough
To establish themselves
Good Company, Fun and Music
We reminisced about the good and sad times
We shared our hopes and dreams
We enjoyed family and friends
We played music and danced
We had fun
You loved your family
You were Big G a Gracious Hostess
You cooked our favorite foods and offered our favorite drink
You always had a smile and said enjoy the best when you can
You would say "you think it's easy"
It was a faithful few and some may say it wasn't much
but it was
I cherish the time we spent together
It was a Memorable Time.
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.