Snow – Mandibelle16

Poem: (Bop) “ Cold that Bites” #amwritingpoetry

We gasp in the night, the lunar moon bright,

The aurora sky turns green on sight.

In the fitful winter our breath nips cold,

Wind shivers through us in blasts that mold.

Our hands squished into warm gloves or mitts,

We quake and in the moonlight we sit.

Winter wonderland of frost this fresh night,

Snow drifts, inside warmth surrounds us tight.

A stark cold beauty forms, your cheeks they flush,

The sky ignites in deep colors paint brushed.

Slip-slipping for dear life on thin ice,

No matter you’re in skates that slice.

In layers of wool, down – feathers, be snug,

Warm your ears, heat your feet, blanket hug.

Outside ominous howls of wolves collide,

Cold shivers shake your body; go inside.

Winter wonderland of frost this fresh night,

Snow drifts, inside warmth surrounds us tight.

In aurora brilliance let us go on,

Hear the luminous moon’s mournful songs,

In the day we play despite cold concern,

And, in the house we stay, in heat learn,

There’s crystal beauty in winter’s rough breath,

But better to stay inside, no regrets.

Winter wonderland of frost this fresh night.

Snow drifts, inside warmth surrounds us tight.

#MayDay Prompts Day 3: Poem — “Ice Cold Home” #amwritingpoetry

For MayDay Prompt Day 3 the prompt is being to cold and being too warm.

Mirrored Refrain: XaBA, XbAB, XaBA, XaBA, . . .

Credit: Adrienne Kaczmarek via Unsplash.

We reside in an ice cold home,

No matter how high the heat warms,

Inside our house, bodies shiver;

Even if sunshine gleams, coal-heat swarms.

We reside in an ice cold home,

Blankets surround us, we all quiver.

Even if sunshine gleams, coal-heat swarms;

Inside our house, bodies shiver.

We reside in an ice cold home,

Winter outside, ice patterns on glass form.

Inside our house, bodies shiver;

Even if sunshine gleams, coal-heat swarms.

We reside in an ice cold home,

Silver streams freeze, no more flow in rivers.

Even if sunshine gleams, coal-heat swarms;

Inside our house, bodies shiver.

We reside in an ice cold home,

With fear of blanketed snow storms.

Inside our house, bodies shivers;

Even if sunshine gleams, coal-heat swarms.

#MayDay Writing Prompt Day 1: Poem — Rondeau — “Friday Lights and Monday Frights.” #amwritingpoetry

I randomly looked up writing prompts for May, these are for school but, I actually thought they were great prompts. You can do them too if you like here: 30 May Writing Prompts About Similarities and Differences.

Today: Monday’s and Friday’s.

Rondeau — aaabba, aabR, aabbbbaR

Credit: Tim Mossholder via a Unsplash.

Friday’s we turn on the lights, watch football;

Canadian of course, green and gold, first ball.

Fireworks shoot high, multicoloured thrall

Friday nights we have a caeser, some beer;

Dress warm when the stadium’s cold, and cheer.

We judge referees and yell loud: “ref bad call.”

On Friday nights we hit the streets, resolved,

To have the time of our lives, sip highballs.

Now, we stay home, order take out near.

Friday’s forever beat Monday’s –be of cheer.

Monday’s we drag ourselves up, recall;

How Friday was free, without withdrawal.

Sleeping in, many chores, mind foggy, unclear.

As everyone needs to sleep, not fear —

Monday notes, meetings, errands resolved;

Duties assigned to, resigned to, by all.

Monday’s mean five-days work; life overhaul.

Friday’s forever beat Monday’s –be of cheer.

Music Video:

It’s Friday – Dean Brody & Great Big Sea

Poem: Free Verse — Free Verse — “The Ranch” #amwritingpoetry

Credit: Annie Spratt via Unsplash

Wild cowboys, riding the desert road,

Ranchmen and cowhides, virile leather and heat.

A pathway east to tepid lakes and streams.

Children who swing off ropes into water, wet mud-holes;

Giggling, laughter, sea cows rub near delighted;

Gazing into the valley, into the morning’s heat;

You’re no stranger to the salt of sweat, muscles that gleam, bend, twitch;

The heard and cowboys, sun darkens leathered skin.

Cow hides speckled with moos and ‘yahs,’

A drive into the beautiful sunlit orange and bronzed fields to graze;

Speckled cows to feed; mouth-watering roast beef sandwiches and coffee devoured.

To a spectator, this is diverse world —

I step close, it whirls all around; There’s a rhythm here.

It’s diverse to shivering snow, fall leaves crackling.

Streets of violence, high-rise buildings tall or stagnant.

Pencil skirts and heels, striped suits, silk ties;

It opposes cowboy boots with spurs, muck and mire; a burning summer, shade a rare gift.

Breakfast at 5:00 am, the shovelling in of pancakes, coffee, poached eggs, sweet fruit;

Later, a dinner of rare steak, baked potatoes, vegetables crisp boiled, with potatoes and apple pie baked.

A funnel of heat in the kettle rises; it’s a strange world of opposites,

Hum of big city oil and the quiet streams amongst cactuses, of everything a city-girl knows not.

Still she sighs; there’s peace in the valley, peace in the city;

Or, perhaps not anywhere?

Not on ocean beaches of white sand beautiful, or a San Francisco sunset,

Not of Italian waters rowed or fields of poppies; gothic cathedrals in cities generations old.

In the southern heat the rhythm opposes, not so comforting, but still with a beauty unique, bold.

Poem: Octaine/Double High – “Summer’s Deserted” #amwritingpoetry #winter

Credit: Mandibelle16

Photo Challenge: Poem – Free Verse – “Seven Times Seven” #amwriting #poetry #PhotoChallenge #MLMM

Thanks to Sarah of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s Photo Challenge.

Credit: Gamze Bozkaya via Unsplash

Pumping legs into the azure,

O’r mountains of snow and rock,

O’r the lush valley below.

Sweat dripping, hands clenched,

Thin cord strung to a wooden plank.

Legs bending, back and forth,

Lungs gasping as I fly.

Seven times seven, as fresh mountain air inhaled.

Breath respires,

Wondering if after seven times seven,

I could soar as the hawks or the jays?

Or would I crumple? A boulder colliding with the ground;

A meteor splintered.

Bones snapping, pine’s lashing.

Seven times seven; I’m not afraid.

But, in our cabin above the valley,

They’re yelling, and she screams.

The blows fall; I cringe, heart flutters rapid.

Pushing my legs forward and back,

Seven times seven, how long can she survive?

Each fight’s more grim.

Seven minutes, then she’s crying, and wounded;

I wash away the blood.

Bandage and set the bones beneath purpled orchid skin.

She says to forgive seven times seven,

But, my hate has increased sevenfold;

His fists mutilate her each time.

Seven-years trapped up here,

But, in seven-days we’ll run.

No more soaring, no more crystal skies,

For seven times seven,

For her life and mine.

I must steal her away —

Not to die with each sip of his rye.

We’ll lose ourselves,

Seven times seven million miles away.

He’ll never find us — not in his forty-nine years.

#NaPoWriMo Day 12/Poet’s Pub: Poem – Haibun – “The Battle” #dVerse #poetry #amwriting

For NaPoWriMo Day 12, the Prompt is: to “write a haibun that takes in the natural landscape of the place you live. I have to my surprise, never written in this form, so here’s a definition from Haibun– Poets.org:

“Haibun is a poetic form that allows one to answer some of these questions while providing a fresh perspective through a lens that focuses on nature and landscape. Haibun combines a prose poem with a haiku. The haiku usually ends the poem as a sort of whispery and insightful postscript to the prose of the beginning of the poem. Another way of looking at the form is thinking of haibun as . . . a prose poem ending with a meaningful murmur of sorts: a haiku.”

Also, I’m combining with Paul Scribble’s #dVerse Poet’s Pub, poetic prompt on a quote about poetic arts. The two prompts fit together well.

To write about poetry is to believe that there are answers to some of the questions poets ask of their art, or at least that there are reasons for writing it, writes Michael Weigers, editor of the anthology This Art: Poems about Poetry (Copper Canyon Press, 2003).

Credit: FreeStocks.org via Unsplash

Past the ravine, the North Saskatchewan flows; ice on her surface where Spring’s murmuring waters compose. The snow floats, sheets of ice crack, confused, the rivers pull bursts through. Amidst howling winds and bitter nights of chill, Spring waltzes in with lilacs. But old-man winter berates with frost, slippery roads, broken sidewalks. Spring blossoms and explodes, to weave the buds that summon bees. Springs drugged words ignored, no lush greenery bursts. Leaves rot, the ice, the snow, the muck, the refuse mushed, derelict without Spring’s blossoms. She hums her tune, an heals Winter’s hacking cough; she pleads her assurance of poppy fields. The old-man shakes his fist with cantankerous growl — another ‘last’ snowstorm grits. The poet composes in metaphorical bliss, avoiding morn’s beams. The question of, “Why?” No matter. The question of, “How can I not?” Words that enthral.

*****

Sleep in poppy’s opium kiss,

Revel in sunlight’s verdant bliss;

Spring’s song; poet’s light.

Three Line Tales/ Saturday Mix: Pricelessly Worthless #3LineTales #SaturdayMix #flashfiction #amwriting

Thanks to Sonya of Only 100 Words for hosting #3LineTales. Thanks to Sarah of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Saturday Mix’s double take prompt using the words presence – the state of being present/ presents – gifts and holy – with religious significance/holey – perforated, with holes/ and wholly – fully, completely.

Credit: Emily Mortar via Unsplash

The variegated violet sky was an odd site in winter as rain was dangerous this time of year, an ominous icey presence; Jane turned the ring her boyfriend Finn had given her as a Christmas present and her engagement ring. His holy and reverent attitude towards his Great-Grandmother’s wedding ring was strange, Jane thought, as she gazed at the large gleaming diamond and the holey pinpoints around the central diamond filled with tiny white diamonds too. She turned back to the window, staring at the sky outside and recalled telling Finn that all she wanted was a small purple diamond; Jane did not desire this heavy weight of history and duty that hurt her finger; it made the love she once wholly felt for Finn feel cheap and worthless — her preferences did not matter to him, she realized they never would.

100 Word Wednesday: Poem -Free Verse – “He Flew” #amwriting #poetry #100WordWednesday

Thanks to Bikurgurl for hosting #100WordWednesdays

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Doing tricks,

On his skateboard,

Young boy.

On banana board,

Travelling fast,

Down paved roads.

Swerving before cars,

Smashed him.

On the Merry-Go-Round,

Flying off,

Into the afternoon sun.

On ground,

Never crying.

More stitches;

He didn’t mind.

Snowboard,

Flipping, turning,

Off half-pipes.

Black diamond hills,

Rushing towards.

Bright-white powdered snow.

Matress softening,

Terrible falls.

Breaking legs,

Collar bone, arms.

On his bike,

At the skateboard park,

Flying as a new robin.

Wings wavering,

Into unforgiving air.

Didn’t care if he,

Landed on his head.

Concussions,

Some awful,

Even with a helmet.

Bruises deep purple,

Fractures, sprains —

All painful.

Wherever he went,

Whatever he did,

He flew.

No one ever,

Expected him,

Not to.

He should’ve been,

Born with wings,

But he wasn’t.

He flew,

Just the same.

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Notable Quotes Part One #pinterest #quotes #Canada150

Happy Canada Day all you Canadians. Today our country is 150 yrs old. This may seem a small number to some if you, especially in Europe. But to us it’s pretty awesome! 🇨🇦🎈🎉🎂🥃❤️
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