farmer finds a recipe
- escargot tonight
|Friday Flash Fiction||
snails eat garlic patch
farmer finds a recipe
- escargot tonight
Rays of sunlight.
Sipping from glasses.
As time passes by,
Sometimes being under
Is not always fun,
Especially if thunder
Comes barging in,
Change is the only constant,
And never forget
Upon finally seeing the light
You light the night sky
I have another wish
So please come again
He got left behind in love
she never knew how he felt
he watched her relatives
gathering like crows
wheelchair by the window
sometimes she waved back
always thinking what might
talking to a cushion at night
for her companies sake
after she left him...finally
they often talked together
or, he fancied that they did
he stopped taking medication
wishing to follow her, unwilling
to live without her...
I died yesterday
Sun no longer
Tourists flocked to Dawlish Warren
attracted by cafes and amusement arcades
yet we headed for quieter pastures
where few ventured, strolling along
a sandy path, opening wooden gates
next to sand dunes with the tide sweeping in.
The sea enticed us on this warm June day
as the sun broke through the clouds painted grey
creating stars in the turquoise ocean.
But as we began swimming
our screams could be heard in Exeter
with the shock of the perishing water.
Yet every second of the pain felt worthwhile
viewing your face so invigorated,
all our problems dissolved in the sea,
just for a while...our minds were set free.
I wrote a poem
Found phrases in lines by long remembered poets and long forgotten singers
I dug into history exploring sad and troubled times and rejected words that glorified war.
I cried for those needlessly lost.
I hoped while researching that men had changed
That lessons were learned
That politicians had mellowed
I wrote a poem, then I watched the news
Men haven't changed
New weapons are more deadly
And politicians still fuel the fires of war
I wrote a poem that makes me cry.
wade up to
of a moon
Cogito plus toe
Sum equals 4.
See from the outside,
And also from deep within
The pitch blackness, absolute terror
The heart as heavy as a boulder
The bottom of the ocean, desolate
Not a soul to be seen, not a whale in sight
The boy freezes in the absolute cold
His heart frosty, almost rocklike
The repugnant odor of his dying flesh
The flagrant and overpowering stench of his dying thoughts
The loneliness crippling, the desolation absolute
The boy is a fish out of water
Gasping for breath, wriggling with pain
It’s as if there is no oxygen in the ether
In a flash, the ocean opens, the shimmering sun rays everywhere
The flesh restores, leisurely, taking its time
The hands embracing the boy are warm, tender, and delicate
Tears roll down his face, pellucid, a drop in the ocean
Sylvia writes about her death
and of her little children too
although thankfully she ensured
gas did not leak into their bodies.
She comments on the indifference
of the moon because nature does not care
for us forlorn creatures and our despair.
I picture a resigned woman at her desk
still creating beautiful and poignant words
just days before her demise.
What inner turmoil she must have suffered
with her children too young to understand
the horrors lying in their mother's mind,
dying the only exit she could find.
The Tampon is a wily fish
that doesn't swim in water
not the sort of insertion
to use in Neptune's daughter
Like a shark it senses blood
but not in a water situation
no...it has more to do
with female menstruation
The Curse it comes monthly
our fish it swims upstream
some women have no problem
but others, just want to scream!
As a man, I can't imagine
walking with one inserted
especially if it doesn't fit
and on the pavement squirted...
Perusing old love letters like
ancient, fragile Dead Sea Scrolls,
sans animal skin, sans papyrus,
my paramour’s script as elusive as
the Qumran Caves, our romance
an equivalent Judaean Desert where
dry air kept fervor's proclivities from
melting into an endless fluid tryst;
yes, yes, yes—your perfumed missives
added an ineffable essence to pages of
vulnerable self-revelation, confessions
revisited today—eyes misty, heart lonely;
words intended to be read by me alone;
I now want the world to mourn my loss.
a snail crawls unharmed
over sharpened sequiturs
to eat green pellets
Bent over the kitchen sink,
Maa is scrubbing utensils with a puritanical zeal.
I notice the mahogany linoleum warped from moisture
and ants darting up and down the counter.
In the living room, a lizard clings to the ceiling,
Maa chases it away with a broom.
I see termite trails growing like creepers over wooden cupboards
and mildew stained photographs sealed into albums,
lush green mounds of grapes and a delectable loaf on the dining table.
How I love my childhood home,
all my memories are rooted in these four walls after all!
Home is not where I rest my head at night
or fancy furniture or avant-garde décor,
home is the love I’m surrounded with, the warmth in my chest,
the guardians of my darkest thoughts, crippling fears and my deepest secrets.
On the grass verge opposite
lies a pink skip with traffic cones
guarding as if to highlight
its transience. It resides
next to a red berry tree where birds sing.
The house is empty, the skip's open tomb
whispers to me about sadness and doom:
in its bowels are slippers
as withered as daffodils in May,
they will not be worn again.
There's a plethora of black plastic bags
and a mirror broken on impact,
the lost owner never again to stare
at a drink-ravaged face...etched with despair.
More than a combination
Of sense and sensibility,
For within modernity,
Privilege merely suggests
And no matter how hard
Life might seem,
So practice humility,
And combine love
To create a better
They scurry and skitter in places unknown
harassed and playful a dog with a bone
chewing and gnawing at anything tasty
carrying food in pouches but, not too hasty
whirring, unwinding a slow turning key
running and jumping in search of their tea
papers they like to soften their billet
yes...at a push, they'll even eat millit *
flashing around as they wind down
they lodge in the dark, under the ground...
*wartime bread diet
overdue rain drops
on dry soil & frees plant oils--
My bella prima donna.
You pluck at my heart strings, Lily...
I've wasted daisies to find out if she loves me.
Attitude turned lackadaisical.
I know the truth about you now.
You're poison. I've cut the ivy you've spun around my eyes.
You were my rose. Does that make me the prick?
My goddess Venus-
flytrap. Men swarm. We're just snacks to you.
You chewed me up and spit me back out.
I guess I'm not a catch to you.
I'll miss the little things; the scent of you.
But you made your bed, now lay in it.
You're dead to me, Lily.
My deadly nightshade.
The MPAA began censorship guidelines
After the release of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Nevertheless, cinema really is nothing more
Than Hollywood fantasy,
And within reality,
Some parents do try
Their very best
To provide guidance
So that their children
Could live independently,
And dance freely
As if no one
Cope with hope
For not fearing
It was the burning summer of 1921 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
Even after Lincoln’s emancipation of slavery
Tulsa remained divided along the racial line.
Black citizens, working hard became prosperous
The “Black Wall Street” became city’s successful business zone.
Time was ripe for jealousy and anger for the city’s other race.
A rumor bomb was thrown into that flashing rage
Black Dick Rowland raped white Sarah Page.
Thus began the race-riot, burning businesses, and massacre.
Then the entire event miraculously vanished from nation’s consciousness.
The recent brutal murder of Mr. George Floyd
Resurrected the Tulsa-event back in spotlight, a century later.
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.