| Friday Flash Fiction |
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He is here when winter comes
Cold and icy like a thousand old drums But he is a trickster, one that is kind Truly he is still a child of our past mankind Find a rose and what do you see
Something more harmless than a honey bee But when you try to pick It steals red with a prick For that rose has thorns like she
In the week this was written, a couple of photographs dominated the news. I wasn't sure it was appropriate to post them here, but eventually I decided we had no right to shut our eyes.
Where’s my mamma? Where’s my mamma? I’ve lost mamma and I’m all alone I want my mamma I want my mamma I want my mamma to take me home Let me gather you up, take you in my arms, Keep you safe from the shore of shame Sleep tight my darling, you can’t feel the storm You’ll see your mamma very soon again You’ll see your mamma very soon again Can I play on the beach? Can I play on the beach? I’ve only got here please don’t take me away Let me play here awhile Let me play here awhile Please let me play here, mamma let me stay Let me gather you up, take you in my arms, Keep you safe from the shore of shame Sleep tight my darling, you can’t feel the storm You’ll see your mamma very soon again You’ll see your mamma very soon again It actually has a tune of sorts as well. I'm not particularly religious, but I really hope someone's looking after him right now. All of them, actually. His eyes were an off-color blue;
more like a dirty, blue-green hue. "Get contacts," I pleaded. "Make your eyes true blue." "You don't understand me," he replied. "You haven't a clue." I grew to hate him, and that is true. At night I slipped out, to look for someone new. Someone more suited to my taste; someone with broad shoulders and small, trim waist. Someone tall, dark and handsome, too. With a beautiful smile-- and eyes true blue. |
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. 
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