Tag: empty

Photo Challenge: Poem – Free Verse – ” Yaya Mockingjay” #amwriting #poetry 


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for this week’s photo challenge: 

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http://www.pixebay.com

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Have you cast all your doubts? 

Decided what’s best? 

An old women has regrets, 

There is no life without them. 

It’s difficult, knowing what’s right, 

I just tried my best. 

Listened to my elders, 

As my mother always said.

But there are days I know, 

My best is not enough.

I’m pushing and pulling,

No strength in my bones. 

I’m yelling and shouting, 

But my words aren’t enough,

“We don’t speak your language Yaya.” 

My grandchildren laugh. 

They always need more,

More than dry-bones can provide. 

I feel drained and drowned, 

In lost potential. 

Yaya down and she can’t raise herself up. 

Drenched in such evil, 

Of those with no conscience;

Their knowing looks, eyes that know nothing.

They’re missing my years, my wisdom learned, 

But I’m stuck in thick sticky mud, 

And no one helps an old woman up. 

There’s no hand to help comfort Yaya, 

Her life was tough and unsparing. 

The mud is the only spa I know or ever have, 

A facial mask of sludge and worms. 

An archaic beauty mask. 

Somebody hear, what I’ve learned — listen: 

Your mistakes and your ills you repeat, 

Each day I try to tell you but it’s not enough. 

You smile at me empty eyes, 

My words pass through your ears, 

The wind blows loudly there.

What’s enough? 

Until I’ve drawn my last breath? 

Until I’m lying here still — dead, 

Knowing some journeys such as mine, 

Must be made alone and for naught. 

A solo expedition, my entire culture lost, 

Must I stay on the roads of antiquity? 

Can I grow with the changing world? 

Give me a reason to deviate: 

I must stop the mudslide from coming.

Spitting sludge from my lips, 

Lord, why don’t they hear? 

The roar of doom and pain approaching. 

It will wash them away, 

When I’m safe in the heavens. 

Does being old make me invisible? 

The crevices of my face are a map, 

And my eyes the lights to yesterday. 

Learn from the past, I pray. 

Where is the light? 

Where is the hope? 

I’m just an old bird, a simple sparrow, 

How do I become a Mockingjay? 

I saw her fight in the movies, 

We need a Mockingjay today, 

A bird of pray who acts, 

Not sleeping through each day. 

How do I bring hope, become a symbol? 

How do I teach my young, 

To mimic a wisdom long past. 

You won’t like what I have to say I know, 

But you would hear, a Mockingjay. 

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

#OctPoWriMo – Day 20 – Tetracyts – “Forgive” #amwriting #poetry


Day 20 Prompt: White“White has so many connotations, white flag, white hat – hero in the old west movies, white – purity, white – clean, white light, white clouds, and the list could go on. What is the first thing that comes to mind when you think of white? Start from there and write for ten minutes.”

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Reclining Woman 20th Century Credit: Aspire Auctions

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White, 

As Blank, 

As the stare, 

On your pale face, 

Wished to tell you the truth but it wasn’t —

Enough; you appeared sickly, tears rolled down. 

—–

Anger, pain unrolled, 

Exposed your soft, 

Lovely, 

Skin. 

—

I’m, 

Not the, 

Best person, 

But I love you, 

Does that count for anything or are my —

Sins to severe?  Your eyes blink and I hope. 

—

Catatonia, 

Black eyes so, 

Empty, 

Scared.

—

Ice, 

Marble, 

Narnian.

Carved face stoic. 

Was trying to heal us, bring the truth to light. 

Your eyes begin sparkling, what was cold, now’s —
—-

Beauty alive, 

Life spinning, 

Grace gifts, 

Warmth. 

—

Joy, 

Hair flies, 

Hands emote and —

Your glad laugh rings. 

Distracting beauty forgives; peace of mind. 

——–

Tetracrys

“Tetracrys [is] a poetic form invented by Ray Stebbing. [It] consists of at least 5 lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 10 syllables (total of 20). Tetractys can be written with more than one verse, but must follow suit with an inverted syllable count. Tetractys can also bereversed and written 10, 4, 3, 2, 1. 

Double Tetractys: 1, 2, 3, 4, 10, 10, 4, 3, 2, 1
Triple Tetractys: 1, 2, 3, 4, 10, 10, 4, 3, 2, 1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 10.” 

Please see Shadow Poetry for more information.

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 


Poem: Etheree – “Damage of Heart Break” 


 

http://www.quotesgram.com
 
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Sometimes it’s easier to write poetry when,

You’re not counting syllables yet I,

Find there’s no rhythm when you don’t,

Not enough words to describe life,

At times it’s a gong show,

I can’t seem to win,

Change can be hard,

Learning curve,

Growth hurts,

Stings,

—

Eyes,

Blind to,

Such patterns,

Never learning,

Experience, leaves burns,

Never healing on your body,

Not salvaging the heart scars, 

Heart yearns for an echo, one whose,

Heart shares its rhythm, no absence found,

By others who damaged our souls, hearts, skin.

—-

Perhaps, it begins, subtle opening.

Free time amazing, loneliness still,

Staying away from danger, they,

Who suck you dry for one night,

Leave without even notes,

Boxing the night into,

Their life pattern,

No loving,

Just sweat,

Lies,

——

Come

Undone,

Eventually,

You’ll get bee stung,

Learning that you hurt,

With each bed sheet stumble,

Never having anyone there,

Returning home to empty rooms,

Shadows flickering in lamplight glows,

Home alone, no face taking her visage.

—–

Woman who broke your heart, beat your soul dead.

So you do the same to other women,

Leaving them lost, confused, tormented,

Promises you made never came,

Long gone you keep playing,

Filling up empty,

Strainer has holes,

You can’t fix,

Got to

Learn.

—-

Try,

Let her,

See a man,

Not merely bent,

Willing to work through it,

To let the path waters,

Flow, guide through trepidation,

Steps you must take for perdition,

Coming alive, fire consumes through pain,

Living life, though it hurts so good loving.

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: When He Fell Asleep


Shane’s bedroom felt empty and cold, as if every bit of warmth and life had been sucked out of it. It was hard for Kristen to believe, only a few hours ago, her darling boy had been rolling around on his blanket.

One minute Shane had been gurgling and laughing as he held his ABC’s book on his blanket and the next he had fallen asleep peacefully on his back.

Except, Kristen thought, tears streaming down her face, Shane never woke up. Kristen thought Shane was still asleep but when she touched his tiny body he wasn’t breathing; she called 911 hurriedly.

A kindly EMT, Patrick, comforted Kristen.”There is nothing you could have done that would have saved Shane. We don’t know a lot about why babies die from SIDS in their sleep.” Patrick added.

“Still, I should have paid better attention to him . . .” Kristen sobbed.

Patrick looked at Kristen and held her hand.” You’re a parent Kristen and you’re human. You did the best you could,“nothing, especially taking care of a baby, “is ever as easy as it looks.” Parents have no control when a baby dies suddenly so please don’t blame yourself. Grieve, and if you like, have the courage to be a Mother again.

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kids-books
Kid’s Books (www.publicdomainarchive.com)

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Thanks to Roger Shipp for hosting this week’s FFftPP.

 

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

 

Poem: ” Objectified”


 

http://www.pinterest.com
 
It comes to me in pieces. I wasn’t good enough for you. I was only one of many. I didn’t realize, I wasn’t important.

I didn’t have that special vibe, that made you feel alive. The attraction I felt, only my imagination acting out.

Your piercing look of blue seeing me, trying to devise a way to know me. At least you tried a bit. I miss it.

And I miss the arms of someone who loved me much. But something wasn’t right. It’s how some relationships go. I wasn’t aware how much he saw in me, until he was gone.

Some men don’t try at all. They think you are only a release of the pent up need to mate. The desire of a guy for a pretty woman is tireless and unforgiving. He’s sure you’ll answer his libido’s call.

Why did I never see. I was always a number. I was always an object of sexuality. When I was young and so pretty , my worth was my beauty. Somethings don’t change, only the younger women are hotter.

I think of a song: “But Beautiful is empty / Beautiful is free / Beautiful loves no one / Beautiful stripped me.” (Creed) 

Beautiful is empty. Those girls who giggle freely and don’t mind being objectified. But some of them are hiding a world of color and art beneath their facades. A library of knowledge and experiences.

I realize how much we base on looks, our society is based on youth. Those who are the shiny pretty people. But no one can measure up, after your twenties or even then.

You tell me all the hot girls you can get. You tell me how easy they are to find. You make me feel no different then those you have defined merely for sex. What do you want with me, I am not so vapid. 

I thought I saw something in you. A softening of a man’s heart. Maybe I thought, you could sympathize with my life and make more of an effort. But I’m merely cute. I am not beautiful.

I’m not the ‘void’ that made me small when collage boys looked at me. I have learned from my experiences and I have always been more then my face or body. 

You say we should wait and see. Let the way things go, make the decision. I don’t mind going that way. But I see now I’m a number, a prized pet begging for attention with all the other women. A number.

There is an entire women’s movement of equality and their begging their men and trying to teach their sons to see women differently. I don’t think we’re succeeding. 

Woman are valuable because we are a ‘person’equal to men in every way. We are valuable because we are as smart as men and at times, much wiser. 

We are not our looks or our ability to bear a certain amount of children. We are not all the same. Each woman is unique and valuable for being herself. Stop numbering us on your head board. 

Ladies, stop chasing the men who are only after your tail. Stop letting them win when they characterize you as that easy girl they slept with. Make it hard, so they see your worth. Make them work.

And if they can’t see how wonderful you are. Throw them to the curb. Teach them a lesson. Tell them to stop objectifying women. To stop only seeing bleach-blond hair, big breasts,  and a lady whose got back — as the epitome of womanhood.

All of this is special and may make you who you are. The right men will adore your body, and it’s unique proportions. But they’ll adore your mind and your soul equally. They’ll treat you — what a word — specially.

And your man will try his hardest, to ensure you see you are valuable to him. All of you, from your hair to your toes. From your thoughts to your soul. 

Don’t do the walk of shame again and be ashamed for expressing your sexuality. If it’s what you desire you should know, you better make him a number before he turns you into one.

You best believe me lady. You are falling for a con. And you’re pushing back the women’s movement when you give into his charm. When he hasn’t put the work into, seeing you for who you are.

Writing 101 – Fallacy -“Raining Wine.”



I don’t feel like writing when I’m trying to sleep; my mind tells me I do and my finger is sore from hen-pecking the letters. But then there is wine. . .

You want to hear a frightening scary tale; the wine ran out this Friday and I haven’t bought more yet.

It flowed through my veins with a shot of sweetness, ah cab-sav, but the other bottle Merlot, walked away.

You at home and work take heed because I know your ilk, stop taking my wine. I’m not the sharing type.

So, what my arguements ad hominem ‘against the man.’ Should I not rip to pieces your character and everything you’ve done. For wine, yes of course.

You’re a no-good-wine-thief you know who you are, and I won’t take back my criticism until you bring back my bottle.

My glass is waiting, empty, such a big glass. I could have just one sip but it will probably lead to more.

Bring some Vodka and some lime when you bring the wine. It’s a slippery slope but mostly, bring more wine.

But you motion to this great bottle you bought; sparkling what? You’ve distracted me with a ‘red – herring’ a bottle that looks like wine but reads non-alcoholic.

Where is my Malbec, Zinfedal, Shirez, or Merlot? Where is my wine, red, rose, or white?

You said your neighbour she drank the last of the vodka and you couldn’t get any? It wasn’t your fault the store closed.

Yes, the vodka was important but you are strawmaning the arguement, the issue is my bottle of wine? Where is it?

“Well it’s where I left it,” you said. “But I never had it” I cried. “Well then, if you never had it it must be where you left it” you said. Circular reasoning, thief!

I open my hand and close my eyes wishing my Merlot would appear. And suddenly, it does from the sky? It’s raining wine. What a dream.

I guess it wasn’t your fault the wine meant missing. But maybe it was? I’ll never know and you’ll never tell. I won’t forgive. So, the tired writer wrote.

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

A Quiet House


The house is scary and quiet at night. There are no dogs barking. No mindless chatter in the background as someone chats on the computer. There is not a sense of movement, a fullness that would suggest someone other than me is at home tonight. 

I use to love the night and being by myself in the quiet. But being unwell has drained me of those concepts. I am alone all day trying to keep myself busy that it is often difficult at night. Tonight there were a couple of my favorite shows on TV so I watched those but then they ended. And now it appears they might be killing off two of my favorite characters and not just one. That makes me sadder then it probably should.

So, now I am just writing, dreading when it comes time to sleep because I haven’t been sleeping well. And then taking extra sleeping pills means more time in the morning where I am groggy and can’t do things when I want to or need to in the day. I’m thinking of going back downtown tomorrow, I’ve got a couple of errands that need doing. But I’m okay trying to work on another Copywriting module too and saving the errands until next Tuesday. 

This weekend I am visiting a friend not to far away at her house. And if I don’t do that module, I will finish it. I’m also trying to give my room and my washroom a thorough cleaning. I can’t do it all at once but I’ve sorted all my clothes and got rid of the too small or what I never wear. And I have to deal with the top shelf in my closet, with the boxes from appliances that don’t have warranties anymore and the scrap books and photo books all scrambled. There’s boots to put away and clean, dressers and shelves to sort, paperback books to recycle, shoes to sort, bags to sort, vacuuming, and dusting. That is what happens when you cram most of 30 years into a room. I can only imagine the elderly people who must cram 90 years into a room but perhaps then you think you don’t need to take anything with you when you go. I will leave the washroom for later I think. 

For, now, I’ll read for awhile.