Tuesday, June 26, 2018

On My Way Home

A quick poem inspired by a Skazat Poetry Slam.

A perfect night,
Once threatening rain; no more.
Walking against the red,
A jaunt in my step.
Where are the fairies on the corner?
Their domain was once vast,
But now only vestiges remain.
Perhaps the cruel without imagination,
Tore them down.
Always a party here,
Lights and a whiff of cannabis.
Is it fair that ditch lilies are acceptable,
But wild weeds must be mown?
Now the fireflies come out,
Advertising phosphorescent sex,
While old women discuss doctors,
And broken bones.
Fading, already forgotten,
Will I remember this when I reach home?
.

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Fowl/Foul Peace/Piece: (3 min)

Theme for this session's prompts was horrid homonyms.
A foul moon hung in a sky of bloody clouds. Out of the night a single white goose flew and landed upon the countess’s windowsill. It was Roving, the white fowl of the east, and often it was the herald of peace, but not tonight. This night when the countess retrieved the bird it was sickly and thin. Feathers dropped from its wings like pieces of fine silk and fell to the floor as she placed it in a basket. She had to summon her marshal from the green lands. The peace was broken, war had come.

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Yesterday My Forehead Had the Number Nine on It, Today it is Eight

Timed writing prompt.

I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not crazy!

My eyes are closed and I’m doing deep breathing exercises and trying to calm my mind. This is not happening. Breathe in. Yesterday was just a bad dream. Breathe out. I open my eyes. The number eight is still drawn on my forehead as if in ash. Yesterday the number was nine. No it wasn’t. I turn on the tap and fill my hands with water and splash it on my face over and over. First it’s cold, but soon it is hotter than I can stand and I have to stop and turn it colder.

I take the nubbin of soap and work up a thick, white lather in my hands then press them to my dripping forehead and scrub and scrub and scrub. Minutes, pass. My face feels raw. I stop and rinse my face again and again and again. Finally, I turn the water off and glance up at the glass. My face stares back at me, the smeary grey number unchanged. I press my palms against my eyes until I see flashes of light in the darkness. When I take my hands away and blink until the afterimages fade, the eight is still there.

Only it’s not. Of course it’s not. It wouldn’t make any sense if it was. It didn’t make sense yesterday and it doesn’t make sense today.

“I am not crazy!” I scream at the mirror.

“I am not crazy!” the mirror screams back.

Wednesday, January 4, 2017

Design Your Very Own Superhero


Writing prompt (4 minutes).

I am Whisper. I am the shadow in the corner of your eye. I am the flickering of candlelight and the soft tickle of wind in your ear. My voice is breathe carried to the far corners of the earth. I could be struck down by a child, crushed beneath a mound of feathers, yet I am powerful. I am the words in your head. I am the angel on the shoulders of demons. I am the conscience of the night. With small sounds I hold the darkness at bay and tip the souls of humanity towards the light. I am an echo of goodness. I am Whisper..