| Friday Flash Fiction |
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Had a bad day-cade
the ten years filled my jar up with honey can't get out of this sticky mess mistaken ones were soon to self-pity after once happily stepping into the trap, my sticky mess- they couldn't deal with it either. Fat wallet, crisp bills
The casino took them all I'll win tomorrow bustling promenade
intrudes on the cool solace of introversion Have you seen a spider scurry
Or plod across a bowl of curry? It spins its silk in tensile grey And hides in haberdashery. Have you watched one weave its web Or lie there and pretend it's dead? Of ugly, beastly ergonomics It features large in Boys Own comics. For those about to fill the tub, look out! Each spindly leg will make you shout. It hauls itself up by the chain Or shelters just below the drain Behind the tap, along the gap, They really are innumerable So don't you slip, and don't you fall It'll be your funeral. ecopoetry
ecotype coyote poetry Crete repot trope crop root tree eco rye try O Dream catchers lodge where a crucifix once hung
above a single bed stuffed in a small closet offering only enough room to reach the doorway & strut outside; protected from nightmares, my fulsome slumber interwove subconscious thoughts & sleeping fantasies where high school sweethearts walked like supermodels, I spoke like Casanova, moved with the grace of a panther & style of a coyote, searching for blue moons to guide new adventures & places I never get to observe during waking hours where sunlight glares, colors mute & even best friends remain bent on acts of deception-- lacking personal dream catchers to capture negative energy, allowing only good visions to pass.  (Image ©ITV) Alas, the end has come for Robbie Coltrane: most famous for Hagrid in Harry Potter but I recall Cracker many years ago when life seemed to stretch forever. He played a hard drinking psychologist and was a sex symbol despite his size, intelligent and with vulnerable eyes. This role mirrored his life I'm led to believe and how sad he spent his last few years in constant and unbearable pain but he will be fondly remembered, a Scottish actor of renown. Goodbye Robbie you were one of a kind with a giant's body and giant mind. EDITOR'S NOTE: We Scots remember the big man from a wonderful series dating even before that called Tutti Frutti, which also launched the careers of Emma Thompson and Richard Wilson (famous for the comedy series One Foot In The Grave.) The fisherman’s hut
smells of dreams swept out to sea on the ebbing tide The leaves are illuminated
under the autumn sun, the wind's breath speaks of colder days to come. their hues are a splendid red and gold, some flickering to the grass below chasing each other just like lambs at play as white clouds drift on this October day. A horse is indifferent to the view and a squirrel scurries up a branch but I am transfixed by the sight, each leaf with its own distinctive lines. The tree appears beautiful to me standing like an adonis in his prime yet the leaves will be gone by wintertime. Speedster with a kingsized "Me"
And chronic immaturity - Nothing matters. Hell, who cares? Power's just for he-who-dares. So ride the highway, drive your dream, Ignore the way "it's always been"; Put your foot down, hit the gas, Turn up the music. Move your ass! Endless asphalt waxed with heat; Drop the windows, feel the beat - The engine's roaring... Load your gun, tarmac-tyrant, and have some fun. Open spaces, vaulted skies, Wide-winged feathered freedom flies across the windscreen. Hit the brake! Dead bird. Dead driver. Deadly mistake. It's a key, Alice said. It opens the lock
that gives me privacy with my security box. There are no locks here, Rabbit replied. About that box, what'd you say's inside? If there were locks, this would be a key. I said that it's private; only matters to me. If nothing to unlock, does a key make sense? If privacy's inside, then outside is suspense. What good is a key, if there are no locks. How safe are secrets, when privacy’s lost? Cloudless summer day
Mosquitoes from the river singing near my ear Black swans drift in The Brook
as I saunter as if in a dream, the sinking autumn sun illuminating golden leaves on the tree by the quaint bridge leading me to Dawlish Lawn. It is quiet without the tourists, just a drunk in the pavilion. I come across the stump of a chestnut tree transformed into a wooden throne with swans engraved, I reside on it and she takes my photograph, a moment of magic that will surely stay inside my soul...until my dying day. In Halloween garb,
witches welcome revelers crickets anyone? Clock measuring time
gnawing into my body in autumn’s twilight unclouded Sun
on the second day of Oct-- winter finally ends It's one of those beautiful mornings:
an autumnal chill hangs in the air my breath drifting like ectoplasm. My gaze leads me to orange clouds, the nearby woods seem to be on fire as birds sing mellifluous songs. A dog and owner stroll on past and a commuter opens his tin box thoughts not on the wonder above although this sight is nature at its best yet the vibrant clouds turn to grey again but in my mind...the image will remain. Cloudless summer day
Mosquitoes from the river singing near my ear in mother's Kalamkari shawl
still the scent of pink jasmines Embrace the days
and nights of yore, in honour of the forefathers and their unforgotten lore. When everything is quiet and nothing is silent, they will awake to the scent of fall... When nothing rises and everything falls. |
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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