shroud the dirt path--
|Friday Flash Fiction||
Biku, by Michael Leach
dusk & fog
shroud the dirt path--
Carole Lombard's Ghost, by Guy Fletcher
Whom the Gods love die young they say
and alluring Carole Lombard was only 34
when her plane crashed in the Mojave desert.
She charmed the hearts of Americans
but tragedy cut her life short
leaving a devastated Clark Gable to grieve
and there are many people who believe
her spirit haunts the Pioneer Saloon
brought to earth by desert winds
and that cigar burns are a result
of Clark Gable etched with despair.
Well, I don't know but you can view her ghost
in films such as "To Be or Not to Be,"
I just pray her spirit...is roaming free.
Light, by Robert P. Bishop
Fireflies in the night
lanterns on the footpath home
no moon overhead.
find it difficult
to feel guiltless
about taking personal time
on Australian public holidays.
find it difficult
to keep my mixed opinions
on Australian public holidays
rather than public.
I find myself
hoping all peoples
who feel loss
Glee Club, by Robert Hunt
Singing birds at dawn
Monastery chants resound
Remembering Oxwich Bay, by Guy Fletcher
Yes, I remember Oxwich Bay:
a corridor of silver in the sea
and a sky as blue as the Sahara.
We ran into the inviting ocean
on that sun-blessed summer's day
laughing and without a care
and afterwards grimacing as breakers
rolled against us in the cold water.
We swam and I felt immortal,
no pain just the beauty of existence.
You stayed in longer than me
and I watched you emerge from the sea
brushing your hair back with a golden smile,
we were in Nirvana...for a while.
History tells us
that walls fall
Mystics tell fortunes
Wild dreams of love
The sting of youth
Monostich, by David Dumouriez
Beware of unsupported statements.
Lunar Silhouettes, by Sterling Warner
Clear infatuation propels passionate arms
wraps one another in a cellophane romance;
groans and gasps pass through drawn shades
open vents, and tryst friendly hotel walls
advertising blissful unions disconcerting to those
who sleep alone, remembering nights and days
when gaiety echoed through their lives 24/7
watching solar eclipses though heroin shades
dancing among others under blood moons
making promises without regard for tomorrow.
Let carpe diem remind us of special people--
sacred places—where time stands still and lovers
pass no judgement beyond soothsayer prophecies,
black skies shuddering with jubilant sighs.
The Swan, by Adrian McRobb
Unfettered at last from duty she skims the Royal lake
ceremonies done flying above the mourning queues
Westminster fades into distance her wings gather speed
protected by her own charter plumage flattens
a white arrow streaks solitary in blue, dark crags flash past
crossing the river heather beckons calling her back
Queen of the sky she owns the air rushing home to Balmoral...
The double rainbow is a rare event
but particularly relevant
as crowds gathered outside the Palace
to mourn the demise of the Queen
and peering to the heavens could view
two rainbows, a magical sight,
symbolising a new beginning.
It is truly a poignant image
certainly with religious connotations,
for some a sign from God
yet it's a wonderful picture anyway
adding to the occasion
and as the solemn people shed their tears
just like a ghost... the rainbow disappears.
Dear W.B., by David Dumouriez
When you are old and grey and full of drugs,
And the doctors tell me you’ve not long to live,
I’ll dance around and shout “Hooray!”
And look to find a nice young piece of stuff.
Come to Me, by Cheah Yin Mee
Come to me in the silence of the night:
Come, come into my waiting arms.
My warm body, soft and relaxed,
massaged by sleep,
my fingers reaching out for yours
our fingers curling together
I draw you to me.
That summer, I spent my holidays
armchair travelling on every chair in the house
whilst listening to travel
At one point, I found myself
wondering if it’s coincidental
that the most successful singles in Angus & Julia Stones’
back catalogue are tracks about travel:
‘Chateau’ & ‘Big Jet Plane’.
I found myself raiding the printer
and proceeding to fold & fly paper aeroplanes
to the sounds of Angus & Julia Stone
performing a less successful
single: ‘Paper Aeroplane’.
A Number of Lies, by Mary Wallace
I told a lie
Not my fault, it could have been 'til death do us part',
But your lie was ' in sickness and in health'
And you ran spilling lies behind you.
Honour and protect- there's two more
And faithful, lie number four.
That one's a doozy, I saw your texts.
Then there was financial support,
You left me with the medical bills and I found not a penny while sifting through your lies.
You were broke, you said; there's another.
You, with the fancy car, living the high life
I only told one lie; actually I told another,
My fault this time
I photoshopped you with the bosses wife.
Summit, by Robert Hunt
snow-clad peak close by
soaring clouds hover below
The Parasol, by J. Iner Souster
A cigarette between my lips
waiting for the traffic to clear
before I get back into the saddle again
and begin to look for another place to sleep
For though the sun was shining as fiercely as ever,
of distant waves and birds awake to music and rain
I felt cold and wet, breathing hard and trembling like a leaf
A downpour had come from within the parasol,
which now lay in a heap beside me,
The end had broken off
leaving only a little piece stuck in the earth.
Now unshaded is just the thing,
Belonging, by Rona Fitzgerald
Wind and waves greet us, lick our faces
kittiwakes, oystercatchers, zen like herons.
Our hotel is by the sea, near my old home.
I take up the rhythm, sea sounds were my lullaby,
my breathing attuned to the surge of waves -
the soft release across the shingle. Home.
My teenage years, walking to escape censure, exposure
miles of coast, clink and tinkle of masts from small boats.
Early boyfriends tested by the elements.
I ache for water, the song of the sea’s traced
into my soundscape tattooed on my heart.
Keening sea birds call me home.
Art and Crime, by Alex Blaine
My poetry lives in paint cans
the city walls are my pages
I dance on the fine line
between art and crime . . .
is the graffiti of my mind
but my soul has to write
Carol Service, by Guy Fletcher
There is joy etched on the faces
of the congregation
in the splendid ancient church
but as they sing "O Holy Night"
he cannot hold back the tears
then senses her ghost beside him
staring with the most beautiful eyes.
This is his first carol service since
she was cruelly taken from his grasp
but there's a tragic beauty to the scene
as the choir renders this lovely hymn.
He slowly walks out into frosty air
knowing this Christmas will not be the same,
and as the stars shine...he softly calls her name.
Seven slick and speeding snails go journeying to Stowe
Oozing on each slimy toe, with many a mile to go.
And whom should they meet from a small town in Chilé
But a carefree choreographer.
A vapouring prancer, a capering dancer of pirouettes and plié.
Said the snails,
We think it’s quite daunting these moves that you’re flaunting
As we’ve only one foot which is slippery
We prefer to get verbal and guttural and gurgle
And we put all our faith in wordsmithery.
Then the grindlebush windchime struck ten to three
And the snails set the table for afternoon tea.
If, by Liz O’Shea
If I was seventeen and not seventy
I would dance all the way to Brum
I would spin on stilettos at your door
I would fly in on humming birds wings
Tear off your clothes the better to see you
Naked muscles rippling, six pack glistening
With the trickling sweat of your urgency.
If I was seventeen instead of seventy
I would dance naked in the street
And the neighbours would be glad
I would be a love Goddess looking for human lovers
I would choose you above all others
Because you would worship at my feet
If I was seventeen and not seventy.
It is a fine September evening
in the beer garden of the Pantmawr
with a breeze that whispers autumn
as the curtains of the sky close
and a full moon and stars appear
quite indifferent to our trivial woes.
The voices of the inebriated
become louder after every drink
as dogs reside comfortably
by their joyful owners' feet.
I feel at peace just for now
allowing thoughts to drift like the clouds
as the curtains of the September sky close
quite indifferent to our trivial woes.
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.