stone – Mandibelle16

Poem: Free Verse – “Stone White Witch” #amwritingpoetry

It’s the brokenness you cannot see,

The trail of hearts behind me.

Or, perhaps it’s fairer to say, a trail of lust turned cold;

It burns bright gold, a beach and a boat, the sun on my skin, Jackie-O frames.

There’s laughter, conversations, playful negotiations made.

Walls tumble, a connection is raised, a pale thread thin; Hope for the more.

Yet, there is no skin, no breath on lips, no warmth;

I can’t feel you, it’s imagination — your absence, your glowing presence snuffed.

And, I’m not one to lead on; I can’t give what you want —

For you can never hold my hand, and love me ‘here.’

Nor take all your obligations; bear my burdens with me — I’ll bear yours.

I wanted to converge, but you’ve needs, they crush me — until the real me erodes;

I’m no longer your woman, I’m a picture, an image — crushed until she bleeds.

A splattered painting, impressionism ruined; canvas punched in.

Throw scarlet paint over me, my details, my person — she aches;

A meaningless chit, sinful — not whole, but she’s learned she needs to say when;

Her body bends, but you’re not here; we’re both lost.

You forgot about me, while I was trying to satisfy our yearning.

Brokenness and trust, I gave you half my secrets;

There’s too many miles to share the rest;

You so so real, but I’d rather live in harsh reality, than be a siren of our misery.

And in the end I know, you’ll prosper; you’ll not miss me long — though you said so.

I’m still caught in these silken webs, little threads, they never form a tapestry;

They only snap until there’s nothing; I’m stone and I can’t return to life.

And worst of all you’re decent, you could’ve been just right;

But it’s the end and I’m my own white-witch;

Stone is our relationship.

Photo/Music Challenge/ Saturday Mix: Poem – Decuaine – “No Pretty Tears” #amwriting #poetry #musicchallenge #SaturdayMix #photochallenge

Thanks to NEKNEERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this Photo Challenge #219. Also, thanks to Sarah of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Saturday Mix with a prompt based on writing a Decuain. Finally, I’m also combining with MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie ‘s Music Challenge #28 with the song “Cry Pretty” by Carrie Underwood.

Decuain:

The Decuain (pronounced deck•won), created by Shelley A. Cephas, is a short poem made up of 10 lines, which can be written on any subject. There are 10 syllables per line and the poem is written in iambic pentameter.

There are 3 set choices of rhyme scheme:

ababbcbcaa, ababbcbcbb, or ababbcbccc

For a longer Decuain poem, add more stanzas for a double, triple, quatruple, etc. Decuain.

Credit: Enzzo Barrena

“Cry Pretty” by Carrie Underwood

I’ll keep my heart closed, remain unexposed,

For I’m just a girl, though composure slips —

I can’t stay rock solid, broke and alone.

To shatter is human as each soul someday splits,

Despite all the glue patching seismic shifts.

I’m trapped in these thorns, a city of ash-bones,

I cry as I struggle caged, my insides nicked.

No one cries pretty, but smiles hide your groans.

You can say it’s all fine, until fake tears loath,

No masking; no one cries pretty like stone.

*****

Lace and gems can’t hide my inner heart’s shame,

I try to be real, but false words infect —

In a crowd or at home, beneath poise tears rain.

Mirrors don’t lie, hurt a picture of neglect,

So, my eyes flow, as infection wrecks.

No one cries pretty, scarring pain isn’t myth.

You can’t pretend when the dam breaks, correct —

Those trails of mascara; they blacken and drip.

Scratching your face, skin red, itching with pain;

You can’t cry pretty — you’ll learn real tears save.

*****

#NovemberNotes Day 29/ Saturday Mix: Poem: Free Verse – “Myself Alone” #amwriting #poetry #saturdaymix

For November Notes Day 29 the song Prompt is “Just Hold Me” by Maria Mena. I’m combining the prompt with a second prompt by Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie and her Saturday Mix Prompt, Same but Different. We’re using a list of words to inspire is but not using the words in our writing themselves. The words are: party, new, goodbye, resolution, and hope.

Credit: Ian Schneider via Unsplash

” Just Hold Me” By Maria Mena

Why won’t you hold me?

How come it’s so hard?

Let me lie back against you,

I need to here your heart beat.

I need the solid reassurance,

Of each steady breath you take.

Life hasn’t been a celebration of late,

Your forlorn coldness has me breaking.

Your eyes once toffee-soft have gone to stone;

And there’s nothing novel, your affection, your kisses, are merely habit — without meaning.

Rejection and loneliness surround me, there’s no comfortable silence between us.

It’s as if we’re both alone in the same room and —

The coldness of the year’s fresh beginning —

Has made your heart bitter ice.

Why won’t you hold me?

How come it’s so hard?

You know me so well, but somehow not at all.

I tried to hold on, keep praying, to have faith;

But our love is too broken and there’s no going back.

So I slip out the door, I’ve packed everything I own,

You won’t even notice, how empty your home has become.

I set aflame our cherished photographs,

I’ve taken your expensive Scotch;

Hidden your aged red wines in my suitcase,

Stripped the house of life;

Undressed it of every comfort that existed, being us.

I’m going to be brave and I’m going to start again —

I don’t need you to hold me,

Because holding me was a privilege, one you took for granted.

Enjoy your house devoid of us — of lost love and comfort,

For I no longer care about you,

Your icy heart has ensured I’ve learned —

To hold on to myself alone — and hard.

Photo Challenge: Fiction – Spectre of Death #amwriting #fiction #death

Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s photo prompt:

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Credit: “Minutes to Midnight” – http://www.hunternif.deviantart.com

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Time’s clock is forever ticking above death’s throne. The clock’s glass face absorbes the colours of the landscape where death resides. The greyish-green of the stone mass, a floating island, and the pinky-red fire of the sky above and below, reflects on the clock’s face.

The figure of death sits soberly in his throne. The stone carved form a perfect fit for his lanky tall body. Beneath death’s left and right hands, the leering skulls of his first two victims sit. They are from our first two ancestors, people who lived exceptionally long compared to the humans living in modern times. Adam and Eve had tried to evade death, even though they knew he was coming for them. They had been ignorant and had no idea what death actually meant until they breathed their last.

Their souls he’d had to let fly in heaven, gold birds with giant wings exploring their freedom and return to painlessness. He had kept their skulls, though one day he knew he would have to return them. For now, Adam and Eve’s skulls peered eerily out onto whichever soul was before death seated on his throne. Together with the dying person, death watched their last seconds of life tick away. He towered over them in his realm and let their soul sour to heaven or to hell, there was no inbetween except him.

Some souls who stood before him were not afraid. This always amazed death. He was an imposing figure, giant and fearsome, his red hair as consuming flames, and his eyes burning coals. Some humans gazed up at him with what frightened death as wisdom, something they had gained, which few knew, not even him. Their souls flew away and he knew he would never see them again. Other people crumbled before him and he took time to torment them whether they went below or above. He was death after all, a fearsome being.

Yet, he had no control where a soul went. Death had no power to choose or to do as he wanted. He had a job, a task. He was death, he killed; but he was not merely an end. He was also the beginning. What he valued most of all, freeing those souls trapped in decaying bodies or in bodies injured profusely. Death was a contradiction of terms, both good and evil. Souls of faith went above and souls of disbelief went down to hades. Even death was afraid of what lay far beneath him in the abyss.

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November Notes: Poem – Day 11 – LaJemme – “No More Demons” #amwriting #poetry #novembernotes #music

Today’s prompt song is “Paradise Circus” by Massive Attack.

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“Paradise Circus” – Massive Attack
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——–

You feel the stone beneath your back, it’s hard.

Fall apart, lie ontop of it, and groan.

Felt in your deep bones, the cold wind it mares,

The tension starts drifting in and out, moans.

Unfortunate we’re far apart.

Our minds impart, shattered haste.

Playing games wait, we sin for heart.

Love in us cannot sate.

While time flies by, you wonder berate.

Have some patience, rumours arise.

Do not despise, our love it waits,

Us to but lose; we’ll surprise.

Lazily we move, we’ll time again prove .

Block demon’s soft soothe, a lie of our groove.

No demon guards love; God, love, he approves.

The kind that’s grown, realized with heart.

Love that is smart, patient, kind, never departs.

Where your whole heart is honest, though hard.

Dreams alight us both; we’re a work of art.

——–

The LaJemme is a 5 stanza form created by poets Laura Lamarca and Jem Farmer. Meter: consistently iambic

1. Stanza 1, 10 syllables per line, Rhyme scheme abab, 4th syllable of each line is to rhyme with the end rhyme of the preceding line.

2. Stanza 2, syllable count: 8/8/8/6, Rhyme scheme cdef, with cross rhymes in each couplet on 4th syllable

3. Stanza 3, syllable count 8/8/8/6, Rhyme scheme gfdf, 4th syllable of each line follows the same rule as stanza 1.

4. Stanza 4, 10 syllables per line, Rhyme scheme hihi, 4th syllable of each line is to rhyme with the end rhyme of the preceding line.
5. Stanza 5, 10 syllables per line, Rhyme scheme abab, 4th syllable of each line is to rhyme with the end rhyme of the preceding line.
Please see Shadow Poetry for more information.

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Sunday Photo Fiction: Historian and Pyromaniac #amwriting #flashfiction

Thank you to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.

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“It will never burn. It’s stone and concrete. People don’t build monumental buildings to burn easily these days,” Trent commented.

“Well they used to and this building is pretty old. I’d say it’s eighteen-hundreds,” Chip guesstimated.

“That old?”

“Yeah, I took some art history so I’d know. Burning this building won’t destroy the whole thing, but it will burn a lot of history within. Maybe it’s like the White House when the Canadian’s burnt it in the War of 1812,” Chip said.

“Pffff . . . Canadians aren’t that aggressive,”Trent said.

“Oh yeah well why do you think it’s called the White House? Canadians and British soldiers burnt it and the states had to white wash it after rebuilding some parts; white washing covered up the smoke damage and scorch marks.”

“But wasn’t Canada more a British colony at that point? So, the fault lies with the British who were leading things,” Trent insisted.

“Many of the soldiers identified as Canadian, Trent,whether or not they were led by Britain; the States shouldn’t have tried to take the Canadas, as upper and lower Canada were known then.”

“Um, that’s a great history lesson but why do you want to burn this building?”

Chip’s eyes grew dark, “Some people just like to watch the world burn; but I’m okay with one building . . . to start.”

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#OctPoWriMo – Day 22 – Blitz Poem – “Chances Anew” #amwriting #poetry

Day 22 Prompt: Dangerous
“Some things are obviously dangerous, like walking too close to a cliff, and other things, not so much. Free write for ten minutes exploring what is obviously dangerous, not so much, and what dangerous means to you. You could turn this into a rant poem, especially given the times.”

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——–

There is always present danger

There is always a need for caution

Caution is necessary

Caution keeps us alive

Alive isn’t enough

Alive means we need to be safe

Safe is a cloudy dream

Safe is an illusion

Illusions we love because they hide cold hard facts

Illusions keep us content

Content is all we can ask to be

Content not to be in danger

Danger hides and danger runs

Danger is wicked and tricky

Tricky because danger is not not upfront

Tricky because danger bides its time

Time waiting to harm us

Time waiting to strike and destroy

Destroying lives with vengeance

Destroying hearts with humourless mirth

Mirth –does it exist in harsh circumstances?

Mirth is it possible when tomorrow could be–

Be the end of life’s dreams?

Be the end of life without heart sight?

Sight to see the world shatter as glass

Sight to see how lost we are in the world

World where we wander feeling hopeless

World where we’re crushed by despair

Despair slips in and brings us to tears

Despair is a weapon danger employes

Employes to target are last reserves

Employes as those serving him as soldiers

Soldiers, mercenaries, to do the bloody work

Soldiers blinded by their own greed

Greed for money until it’s set a flame

Greed for money, not seeing –it’s only paper

Paper, the German Mark in the 1930’s, in suitcases

Paper marks, thousands were worthless

Worthlessness, don’t ever feel unwanted

Worthful, you’re as precious stones

Stones judgemental people throw

Stoning the accused sinner

Sinners we all are, it can’t be helped

Sinner –let he with the least sin cast the stone first

First you must smile and gather your hope

First be glad, life has new beginnings

Beginnings are new chances

Beginnings are for real, life arises anew

Chances . . .

Anew. . .

——-

Three Line Tales: Missed The Rocks #3LineTales #fiction

Thanks to Sonya of Only 100 Words for hosting a#3LineTales:

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Darkness was stealing the light of day, taking my weary breath away; I prayed while the cold, careless ocean ripped my feet from the pathway of stone I stumbled down, attempting to reach the lighthouse door.

The storm raged and the sound of thunder, a giant drum rumbled and the clash of lightening frightened me; but above me the lighthouse torch glimmered, a shining beacon glowing in the dark for any passing ship –in my heart grew hope dimly.
I wondered how the Captain of the grand ship approaching, could see when the night was black and the shadow seemed to overcome us both; but I, as was the ships Captain, was blind to think darkness could swallow light; as the gleam of the lighthouse blended with the dawn, I was thankful to have survived a dreadful night, stuck outside the lighthouse door, no one to hear my quivering knocks; the storm surrounded me and roared while I witnessed the grand ship barely miss the rocks — the lighthouse torch grew brighter, just in time.

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Poetry: Free Verse – “Woman On Fire” #amwriting #poetry

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Animosity conspires within her belly,

Her reactions fast, lightening sparks.

She stalks through corridors and hallways,
Blood boiling, melting inner warmth of heart.

No one speak of what’s right or the truth.

The bottom line — what is right or true,

Meant nothing when they used her.

And the fire flits through her system,

She’s wants to burn the world down,

What made a gentle song bird, claw back viciously?

The wrath of Maleficante, innocence stolen.

Now, the swagger of her hips,

Is a femme fatele arising,

Wingspan of dragon, breathing flames of fire.

Beating down the masses, burning pyres,

Magnificent rage multiplying.

Try to stop her, it’s in her being now.

Her heart is blazing flare of woe.

Be watchful and be wary,

Someone, something, hurt her fiendishly —

A soft woman breaks most brutally,

When her inner demons burn in wrath.

She’s diligent and mean — so lost,

All her love sprung and fled.

Appears as if she should be wimpering,

But when she talks her words scorch.

Heavy smoke will make you cough and choke,

It’s a dense whirling mass,

That sends ruthless cowards to their knees.

Before fire can blister and raze you,

The smoke will leave you dying,

No breath of life in her has forgiven.

Don’t hurt a soft smart woman,

She’s most dangerous;

Because when her dams break open,

All hell leaks forth.

Demon woman, betting on retribution,

No absolution, no temperance,

They’ve flown away, murdered by spite.

A reckless beauty in pink, with pearls,

Diamonds changed for rubies, tinder red glare.

Her price for life is costly,

Sparked by a wreckless cause,

Anger building, layer open layer molds.

She’s become the wretched clouds,

Above the Valcono seething.

And sulphuric rain’s in her power,

No water to save and cool you,

From a dragons lair or breathe of flame.

Another way to die —

Like she dies inside, daily,

Consumed by all her hatred;

Marked by vengeful ire.

She’s become her indignation,

She’s fury and resentment.

A witches pot brewing,

Antagonism, tears, and vexation.

She will set afire and raze her foe.

Dangerous and furious words,

Melting magma from stones.

She burns inside, and all that’s left —

Ashes killing, if exhaled.

Dust she compresses, from the barren world,

Her flame, herself broken once too often.

Wretched soft woman,

Destroying the world and herself.

That’s why kind gentle women,

Should never be screwed with,

Once destroyed —

They bring the world down with them.

Poem: Free Verse – “The Persistent Consistence of Water” #amwriting #poetry #audio

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If the words keep on dripping, the drops from a tap;
A problem, no plumber can seem to fix.

And drops gather close, become oceans of water.

And swimmers keep treading, doing laps through drops of water.
Drips and drops, no solutions and no answers.

Problems with solutions; problems never existed — solutions solve nothing.

But to mix up a cocktail or solve some chemical equation.

There are no answers, if you’re terrible at math.

Or drink, until the solution is being drunk.

Keep drilling away, chiseling, at the stone edifice.

You know you’ll carve something,

Or perhaps, the water does the carving?

Deposits sediment and cuts through rocky banks.

Making rivers deep and wide,

Building-up, forming, layers of silt and rock,

Until a Canyon has formed; red-sand glow, Arizona sky,

Grey rock interspersing, with shimmering crystal white;

Glimmering blue-santorini water flows through.

Perhaps, sometime a millennia ago.

Waters made of drops of water.

Drip dripping from the sky through humanities history,

The weather of a million dark and stormy nights.

Oceans of droplets, oceans eroding rock in rivers with deltas and gorges; black and deep.

Deep deep the secrets these gorges do keep,

The water disappearing, chasing the blackness it seeks,

Drip dripping droplets and they fall down the window.

Where little children trace the drops with their tiny fingers.

And breathing in steamed windows,

See the O’s made by their precious little mouths.

——

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