She collects pollen and nectar
A jar of honey please
|Friday Flash Fiction||
The honey bee is busy
She collects pollen and nectar
A jar of honey please
Always aching for something deeper –
beneath the ego, pride and superciliousness
was the longing for soul intimacy:
nothing transpired –
she was too worldly for sentimentality
and he was rather implacable.
Heel and toe on our pavements every single day
we wear them for work and we wear them for play
there's brogues and two-tones, golf ones too
our status revealed in a leather cut shoe
marching with armies, flying in planes
or dancing and tripping to Irish refrains
slip ons' and lace ups depending on taste
they save our feet and increase our haste
I look out
Through the broken eyes of the gutted concrete fortress.
Below tiny people scuttle
Deplore my fortress.
Content with their riches they hurry through grey streets
I look up
Through those broken window eyes to see a clear blue sky
And lie back amidst sunbeams
a white butterfly
flutters by garden netting
lands on sundew plant
Rain pounds the pavement
Water streams down my back
I forget my umbrella
The fog over the bog, choking
I stand on the edge, taking in the natural splendor
The silence paralyzing, the smell overpowering
The dewdrops twinkle, the grass as shiny as the stars
The frog’s baritone-like croak disrupts my trance
I wonder what the other world looks like
The land beyond the fog, ethereal
I take in a deep breath, touching the foggy wall
The sulfurous smell engulfs me, madness
Volcano or magic, land or water?
As I walk, I see a dragon’s silhouette, swallowing me whole
Fire, lightning, and thunder, the land down under
And now, when I look back, I realize
The fog an illusion, life’s labyrinth?
The dragon, friend, or foe? The frog, king, or jester?
Will-o’-the-wisp, magnificent, magical, life’s essence
Think about it!
Think about what life has to offer.
Opportunities to create and make
Rather than destroy,
And take nothing in life
Grant oneself the wish
To become a real person
With thoughts and feelings.
From the rays of the sun
Because this day is the only one,
And after something has begun,
Attempt to finish
From pondering the possibilities!
Once I was a dust
which fell down to Earth.
Now, I'm just an earthling
too proud to stay,
too patriotic to escape.
A mortal being
in mortal fear
of being mortal.
Waiting to become
But not yet.
The devil stares
And the bells chime
The monks are serving
The men die
The women cry
And the moon in the meadow
Is like a thorn in my side
from a cluttered pot
a purple flower peeks out
the blush of summer
On Sunday July 4th, this nation will celebrate
Its freedom, centuries ago, from mighty European Masters.
“All men are created equal,”
Quoted the free nation’s Declaration of Independence.
But those words remained eternally hollowed.
Originally stolen from Africa for slavery,
Black citizens were freed by “Honest Abe”, taking a bullet in head.
Burdened with poverty and inequality, blacks remained inferior.
Racism allowed lynching, race-riots and massacres
George Floyd, the last victim just rolled in his grave.
Overseas, the nation had immersed in faraway wars
From Vietnam to Afghanistan, bringing misery in those lands.
But, this year’s festivities will celebrate
Voting out an empathetic, classless, repugnant wannabe dictator
Bringing hope and faith in a democracy for the rest of the world.
We have a cottage on Loch Lomond, I row
we have bacon and salt, with an eager bow sentry
our house has three windows and a water-butt
I row back to that cottage, your washing again
I watch you pegging it out, lovely when bending
landing with groceries, you make tea by our warm hearth
you paint, I write, and we garden, growing magical herbs
drinking wine by firelight, your eyes glow
wearily we tread those boards again, into rapture and sleep...
Her thoughts are interrupted
by a grey squirrel scurrying
across the garden. It has a purpose
scouring the grass for sustenance,
a beautiful specimen fortunate
to be so blissfully unaware
of painful memories and despair.
It halts for a while to survey the scene
not knowing if it is immortal
just living for this moment in time.
She envies the squirrel as she resides
on the tired bench which holds such memories
and with world-weary eyes she peers around
but the squirrel is nowhere to be found.
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
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.