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
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.