smiles – Mandibelle16

Three Line Tales: Poem — Lunes — “The Bridge Home” #amwritingpoetry

Thanks to Sonya of Only 100 Words for this week’s #3LineTale.

It’s dusk hope murmurs marmalade;

Sky quiet blue.

Pink-watermelon stripes collide peach.

*****

Cycling across bridge, rickety wood bounces;

Tires bump, eyes —

Meet; smiles outlast twilight shadows.

*****

Rickety wheels, city of glamor.

Highlights spun yesterday,

Moments matter; arches guide home.

#MayDay Poem Day 9: Poem — “Handshakes and Smiles” #amwritingpoetry

For MayDay Poem Day 9, the prompt is: brushing your teeth and washing your hands (lol.)

Credit: Arseny Togulev via Unsplash.

Our hands are unique, fine lined, some worn;

Callouses, knuckles, scars, crevices, all rekindle a story.

Some lines meet in rhymes, in the the spaces between,

Where palms meets in a ‘hello’ or in agreement, or in the setting of standards,

A competitive squeeze, or a ‘goodbye’ grip.

Hands are significant and without them, how can we communicate?

We might use them to speak, or to brush our teeth;

To clean, type, and write.

But, do teeth tell a tale beyond dental records?

Do cavities, floss, acidic erosion, tell a tale complete?

Some can’t find confidence without a perfect set of white teeth,

Crowns, braces, or wisdom teeth removed,

Porcelain Veneers and whitening.

Perhaps, there’s personality in where or why we grind or clench?

What we tell everyone with a smile, tight lipped, or in anger.

How we brush our teeth, or if we correct with fillings of silver or white.

Why we’ve crooked front teeth, gaps, or perfect rows.

But, I think if you peered at your hands and not in the mirror,

You’d discover more in the warmth of hands greeting;

How facial features, eyes squinting, or cheeks dimpled chuckling, all collide.

And no matter your life experience,

How handshakes are eloquent, as vital as what our teeth or smiles say.

How they get a point across,

How both are the medium and the message, and in a conversation —

Both vital aspects of much needed communication.

Photo Challenge/Saturday Mix: “We’re Done” #amwritingpoetry

Thanks to NELNEERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Photo Challenge and Sarah of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Saturday mix on the theme of onomatopoeia and the three words rustle, thud, and hoot.

Our balance as love-birds is precarious. We’re alike yet, so different. Holding our ‘Adho Mukha Vrksasana‘ handstands, eyes closed; our breath mingling. It’s a habit of ours, mutual meditation of bodies and minds. We breathe deep, yet struggle to hold our pose.

A rushing sensation floods my brain. My blood pumps downward and dizziness threatens.

You groan. “Hold it five more minutes.”

I say nothing. You’re too close, I need distance. I’m sick of this arrangement. You take flight far from me; there’s never any communication, until you’re home. It’s as if I don’t exist for you until there’s no one else.

My muscles relax and I flex my feet, rolling my body through my spine, then my hips, until I’m in table top, and then, sitting cross legged. You’ve noticed nothing. Do you ever? I shove your side. Your spindle-legs flail in the air; you can’t right yourself. Thud!

“What the hell.” You glare and examine the scratches on your body.

I shrug. “Too much. I can’t keep this up.”

“Huh?”

“Everything.” My lungs ache; I feel caged. I want to scream.

“What’s wrong with you?” You cock your head and study me, hands on your knees. Your beady eyes send nervous chills.

“Her, all the hers. Cassandras and Stephanies. Kassies and Ashleys.”

“You’re the only Claire.”

I stand. The sun’s hot on my arms as I yank on yoga pants. Crisp spring leaves rustle above me in the river valley along with the some hooting bird. The breeze quickens, and I shiver, stretching high into mountain pose.

I peer at him, as he considers me. “I think I’m tired of peacocks like you. I don’t need your strutting or the women. The never knowing where you are, or if you care.”

You frown, run your hands through your hair, while your toes dig into the grass. “What are you talking about?”

“I need to concentrate on other things, not where or who you’re leaving here for next; the never knowing if you’ll return.” I turn, shoving my feet into pink Tom’s. My breath eases. I’m relieved that I said it, finally.

“Claire, stay. Please.” You twist your hippy-beard and your beady eyes beg.

I close mine and sigh. ” I can’t; no more.” You reach for your water bottle, gulp it before slamming it against a tree. Twigs crack, the bottle dents.

You swear, but don’t follow me as I hike back to the car. When I no longer see you, my body quivers, wracked with sobs. With each step I rid myself of your poison.

A few minutes later I rub my eyes with my hoodie sleeve. I don’t care that they’re pink and swollen.

That’s when it hits me –the silence of no drama, no worry weighing my entire being down as stones. I let the silence permeate me; a peace I haven’t experienced in years crashes over me. We’re done. My lips turn upwards and I smile. I haven’t done that in years either.

Saturday Mix: Poem – Octain/Double/High – “The Beauty of My Love” #amwriting #poetry #saturdaymix

Thanks to Teresa of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Saturday Mix. Saturday’s prompt was to write pasturel poetry (Fiction/no fiction) which is essentially poetry written about nature in an idyllic way.

———-

———

The beauty of my love is sweet, divinely prized.

Through fields of wildflower I follow her steps,

Her milk white skin, soft, supple; she knows best,

How tiny goat kids, and dog’s pups will thrive.

They bleet, whimper, for her hands petting coats,

Feeding them drops of milk reviving life’s hope.

So they wil live glorious in pastures kind;

Become adults frolic, following my queen.

The beauty of my love is sweet, divinely prized.

The beauty of my love is sweet, divinely prized,

She gathers the chickens eggs to feed,

Those who grace her kitchen with smiles pleased.

Finds the dairy cows, milks them all beguiling.

She’s a feminist, believes we never stop learning.

She chose to farm, grows organic food, serves —

Customers desiring; at market they find hers first;

My love works hard, adores our life, she’s pleased.

The beauty of my love is sweet, divinely prized.

——-

Notable Quotes March 2017 Part Two #quotes #pinterest

Hi hope you’re all having great March. Almost St. Patrick’s Day, green beer anyone?

——-
1.

——

10.

——

11.

——

12.

——

13.

——

14.

——

15.

——

Photo Challenge: Poem – Free Verse – “A Nightmare of Ink” #amwriting #poetry #nightmares

Thank you to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting the his week’s Photo Prompt chalkenge.

——-

——-

She holds the flowers teaming with a life force all their own,

Knowing the ombré blue blossoms will escape;

Flutter into the world carried on the wind,

Pettles and fluffy white seeds blown across the land.

Messengers of hope and artistry, a beauty undefinable.

Her hands tightly grasp the stems, no thorns to prick errant fingers.

She can’t let go, however, she she tries,

Hands entrapped on rough stems holding too hard.

So rigid are her hands, blood comes forth,

The pressure of her grip too intense;

With great thought, he watches her, observes her reactions,

She doesn’t understand why he’s hurting her; she needs help.
She’s dressed in her navy dress and in life he loves it,

In her dream, he picks at the fabric of her sleeve in disgust.

Mumbling to himself, then struck with a thought,

He’s found a thin fluted vase in blue to match her flowers.

She doesn’t conprehend the symbolism or the reason,

When ink he pours onto her flowers from the vase.

He stains her hands until they appear black,

The flowers are ruined and slicked with ink like oil.

The streaming ink is everywhere,

Her beloved smiles at her, he chucks her chin and winks,

Takes the flowers and places them in the vase.

The ink is all over her hands and arms;

Hers and his, and he’s laughing.

Saying how difficult ink is to remove from one’s skin,

So he cradles her face and he kisses her long,

But then she awakes in her dream,

To permenant ink stains all over her face and hands.

He smirks at her, walks away no care for the ink staining him.

The moon gleams in the sky and it rains — buckets of tar black ink,

Caressing her body, covering as sludge, dripping and spilling.

What value is ink if she has no pen’s cartridge to put it in?

She’s not able to use it to write.

The world around is flooded by this precious commodity,

And when she finally awakes for real, all is forgotten.

Yet, the hands she holds up to the sunlight,

Are stained dark black;

She’s tattood in the memory of a dream,

Nightmares and reality never giving way to truth.

—–

Photo Challenge: Poem – Quatrains – “Tale of The Floating Bride” #poetry #amwriting

Thanks to NEEKNERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s photo challenge prompt.

—–

—–

Enchanting child in slumber keep,

Red hair surrounds you as you sleep.

I wait for you to wake from your dreams,

No longer a porcelain doll preened.

*****

A wedding gown white lace so frothy,

Mother hoped your match was lofty.

That you’d found your life partner,

Your prince, your man, for life to start.

*****

But day by day you grew sad,

When pressed with his kisses ran.

Empty feeling inside you grew,

Like a butterfly away flew.

*****

Mischievous child, pain grew,

His fist at your face straight-on flew.

Hiding the bruises with powder,

Not even concealer shrouds.

*****

Pride vital to you, tiny doll,
Escaped; no one to catch your fall.
Fly in dreams with delicate wings,

Winter ends, it’s soon your spring.

*****

Gather your courage –call it off;

Don’t marry him, don’t be soft.

In front of the crowd, show each cut,

Let them see bruises, you must.

*****

So they know an abuser,

Isn’t good enough, he’s a loser.

He broke your velvet wings,

Your sanity held by strings.

*****

But it was too late even then,

The lake too close; so your end.

Now you float, butterfly who swims,

Eternity of light your win.

*****

We tried to save a doll of glass,

But on death she shattered, passed.

Down below the water’s dark depth,

She’s tranquil, free; although, she leapt.

*****

Mind too distorted, destroyed,

Lover’s hands threw her like a toy.

World tough; his madness changed them both,

In Heaven she smiles free to float.

*****

He mourns her death each day, each drink,

Pretty soon his rage him too sinks.

Accidents happen to the unaware,

She pulled him in, drowned his despair.

—–

November Notes: Poem – Day 12 – Lunes – “Our Own World” #music #amwriting #writing #poetry #novembernotes

Today’s song prompt is “Out of My League” by Stephen Speaks.

——

“Out of My League” – Stephen Speaks

——

——

Sea of this land where,

She grabs my —

Hand and we swim away.

——

Each day there is something,

New about her,

To love and to appreciate.

—-

Today it’s her hair and —

Her eyes —

Make my shiver, good way.

—-

Pursing her lips, batting her —

Eyes, she smiles,

I’m out of my league.

—–

My voices it’s shaking and —

I know you,

I love you with all —

—-

That I am; it won’t —

Change; my hands —

Tremble because I’m too stunned.

—-

You’re out of my league,

But I love —

You; you thumb through your —

—

Hair, bat your eyelashes, smile —

Swimming thoughtfully in —

Strange seas; better than land.

—–

You’re out of my league,

I love you —

So much; I’d rather be —

—–

Here with you close as —

We swim in —

The strange sea, lovers together.

—–

I’m out of my league,

Out of my —

League; we’re our own world.

—–

——-

Three Line Tales: Before The Wedding #3LineTales #amwriting #fiction

Thank you to Sonya of Only 100 Words for hosting #3LineTales.

——

——

The future awaits as I stand behind the swing hesitating. It reminds me of when I was a small girl, riding the swing and pumping my legs back and forth. Often, I would end up flipping the swing, riding it too high. My mom would be so upset at yell at me for scaring her each time I flipped the swing.

Today I sit down on the swing which is aggravatingly difficult with all these layers of tulle, silk, and lace. I don’t want to grass stain my gown before my big moment down walking down the aisle. I rock and swing my body using my barefoot and I’ve taken off my couture Jimmy Choos wedding shoes.

I swing softly and think and I wonder what my future will be like when the weddings over? The truth is no one knows what the future will bring, especially not me. I see the light of sun shining down upon my dress, to me on this day, this light is my hope. Such a brilliant sun could only mean a beautiful life ahead.

——-

My girl sits on the swing, rocking back and forth gently, her veiled head leaning against the rope on one side of the swing. Weddimg guests begin to gather sitting in white wooden chair. Some of the guest gaze back at the bride who thoughtfully swings, humming a familiar tune. I wonder what’s going on in her confounding mind and then she peers back at me and smiles brightly.

I’m not supposed to see her in her white dress yet, so I grin and pretend to cover my eyes as she laughs, telling me to go away. That we’ll be married before we know it. Through my fingers I stare at her, she’s so beautiful. I can feel my heart thumping against my chest –I seem to be nervous after all.

——-

Years later, I think back to that moment when our whole lives were before us. Holding each other’s hands and murmuring our wedding vows. Now I cling to her thin hand in the hospital bed as my love seems to disintegrate before me. One never knows what lies ahead and I think that’s a gift. If we knew what our future was, we would never move forward.

But I see the light of heaven shining upon my wife. I feel this warm healing light on my own body and we stare at each other and smile as the Lord calls us both home. The next morning the nurses find us, our bodies cold. We have already gone onto better things. We left holding hands, the same way we began.

——-