Fundamentally the same
No matter what name
Life is just life
Reality is real
And even before life ends
There is no need
For a Faustian deal
Utilize forgiveness
To let the soul heal
Friday Flash Fiction |
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Universally different
Fundamentally the same No matter what name Life is just life Reality is real And even before life ends There is no need For a Faustian deal Utilize forgiveness To let the soul heal As he reaches for a book on the shelf
a card falls to the carpet: on the cover van Gogh's "Starry Night" and inside words of adoration in this decades old Valentine's Card cutting his soul like a northern wind as he recalls days long gone when life stretched like a Norfolk sky and all things seemed possible. But he knows dreams should be more powerful than memories or you will drown in the past so he wipes away sadness from his face carefully placing the card back in place. I sit snug in my room
with my elbow on the windowsill. I see a woman cleaning classroom windows in the building opposite mine. I am instinctively transported to my time in school – the carbolic smell of corridors the chalky aroma of classrooms still in my nostrils; the lustrous, shiny blackboard still in my eyes, and there is the first girl I ever loved! I pick flowers for her, bind them in a garland and clasp it, I present it to her; she ruthlessly shoves it in my face, the roar of the jeering crowd still ringing in my ears. clouds move through night sky
crossing half-filled space and time of a waxing moon he brushes a web terrified of a creature shadowing moonlight it spins silken strings shimmering in lunar glow – an orb-weaver lives Did you see her
can you see her? we live in the wall muted missing her Lost children haunted by guilt born too early the other side of the life/death quilt that's her there she goes! Our mother looks so sad we cry and shout with silenced mouths reaching out trying to say "We love you!" She can't hear us we are the other side of that glass handprints on the climbing wall of time... Yes, I remember Whitby
ascending the 199 steps to the abbey on a sultry summer afternoon. I followed the footsteps of Bram Stoker imagining the scene when darkness descended with a full moon and snow adorning the ground pretending I was conjuring Nosferatu. Some gravestones at nearby St. Mary's could not be deciphered, weathered away, bones underneath and no mourners. I felt the spirits of monks not Stoker as I admired the ruined abbey peering down from the clifftop with wonder at the sparkling sea so far down under. Presenting the present
A sublime moment in time Music has rhythm Poetic songs sometimes rhyme And change happens All the time And this very moment Does present opportunities For the ones willing To take those chances And do more than Advance through mobility To help encourage Noble nobility |
PoetryThis 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. Archives
April 2024
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