Saturday, July 5, 2014

Flash Fiction 55 — Llama

Aymara the Llama by Migy Blanco


Dark blond and übersoft,
my winter coat
gained a magical air when the
babysitter showed me the label,
pronouncing the word — Llama
telling me about the animal, its
mountain home, its prized wool.

I spent the remainder of the day
coat across my lap, an
encyclopedia opened atop it,
lost in discovery and wonder.


My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads.
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Friday, June 27, 2014

Meeting the Bar — DaDa, Daddy



Dada will not
be home for dinner.
The mess hall is a
mess. Actually
unrecognizable, but
so is Dada.
Your father,
if,
he returns
home,
will be
ravin' mad. PTSD-frightful,
this once-
delightful man.
Like a raven
with feathers
oiled, spoiled
forever for
flight.
Wandering in the
fucking muck.
Duck
and
cover. The sky's
falling
and heaven
with it under
Dada's decaying boots.


Written for MeetingTheBar—DaDa Daddy, at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted this week by Victoria C. Slotto. Her prompt concerned Dadism, with several ideas to let "that perhaps dormant revolutionary that lurks in your subconscious and write a poem that takes you and the reader outside of that well-defined comfort zone." I chose to write ekphrasis using the work of a Dadaist artist, specifically George Grosz's The Wanderer.
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Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Flash Fiction 55 — There in my dreams



In one ray of light a dust particle sparkles in flight.
I ride on it.
In the gondolier's melody my name is sung.
I cling to a building as a speck of
cardinal red paint,
then am a thread freed from an awning
of bright aquamarine
floating in heady air
into this canal of dreams

~~~

My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads
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Thursday, May 29, 2014

What is happening to me


 Photo courtesy of Unsplash

“What is happening to me happens to all fruits that grow ripe.
It is the honey in my veins that makes my blood thicker, and my soul quieter.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche


That which does not make our souls quieter
makes us stronger, honey.
And you, and you, my love, still disquieted,
I know what makes your blood boil. I know
what you see as strange or funny, that your
favorite fruit is the pear (substitute the 'p'
for a 't' and you have tear -same shape-
a familiar fluid we've shared).
You know veins in bodies and in rocks, and
how to rock a baby to sleep. You are deep.

Yet, that which makes me stronger
has ultimately quieted my soul:

accepting that blood is thicker than
water, that water can turn to wine (and
forgetting that could kill me), that
fruits need their chosen place in the sun
and soil to ripen; they need their
own happening place in time and space --
that we may always be thick as thieves,
but fragile and endangered as honey bees.
As for me -oh me- my love, you know I know
where to grow old and where my soul to keep.


Written for Write on Edge (I absolutely love that title!), who supplied the above photo and quote by Nietzsche as this week's writing prompt. I also incorporated another Nietzsche quote into my poem: "That which does not kill us makes us stronger."

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Sunday, May 4, 2014

Flash Fiction 55 — obligation



A ration of time, just
a fraction. But
fractured.
Hard to schedule, hard
to please. Dreaded.
Can be dreadful when
not in a zoned-out,
zen-like space. In
laws and in lives some
things are not meant
to be. Human
frailty.
Dis-ease, these
disjointed
hours. He’s cracking
his knuckles. She’s
cutting off her nose.
In spite.


Written for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads.
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Friday, April 18, 2014

Meeting the Bar—Self Portraits

1986


I have been my own worst
enemy in life but also
the soul
who saved me.

I have not looked at myself
enough to know,
or care,
what I truly look like.

I am beginning
to look inwardly and so
I see
my eyes for the first time.

I see myself through
the eyes of the pets
I love
and who have loved me.

My pet peeves are these:
dogmatism, jingoism,
racism,
fundamentalism, consumerism.

I love trees, the ocean,
all animals, quite
a few
people, literature, music, silence.

I value authenticity, simplicity,
honesty, dexterity,
equality,
jocundity, virtuosity, equanimity.

I am grateful for sunny
days, rainy nights,
one tiny bud,
a field of flowers, and love.

Love and beauty
always wanted to guide me--
I did not
pay enough attention when young.

Love and beauty
call to me still and now
I listen
to them more and more and more.



Written for MeetingTheBar—Self Portraits, at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted this week by Brian Miller. Brian challenged us to "write a self portrait poem. It can be symbolic, metaphorical, descriptive—you get to choose what you show and what you veil." Not an easy prompt!

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Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Mag 215 — The King of Cats



He is mine as sure as words
give pause to sweet sighs.

I love the softness of him
I see in his eyes.

He does not find fault in my
demands or my cries -

nor when I rub my big head
on his trousered thighs.

The day I found him I knew
that I had a prize.

So I presented him with
the finest of flies -

and a dead mouse gift also
but he prefers fries.

I like to sit in his lap
while books make him wise -

and I play with the pages
like one of the guys.

When I come home wet he rubs
my fur 'til it dries.

Then I snuggle down with him
and dream 'til sunrise.

 ^.^

Written for The Mag: Mag 215 that inspired with the above image prompt
(The King of Cats, 1935, Balthus).

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Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Mag 214 — Caged



Create interests for yourself,
a house becomes a cage
when love goes.

She said those words to a
friend of a friend awhile ago,
feeling so wise for one
so young, for one with love
taken for granted -- as memory
is also taken for granted,
not expected to go.

Now, in this house, her
father putters around caregivers
who come and go, come and go,
like his flickering memory
turning to dust -- and she
comes and goes less and
stays more and more, caged,
hoping for one more lucid
smile, one more time to hear,
How's my darlin' girl today?
before love and memory
become only a mime's act.


Written for The Mag: Mag 214 that inspired with the above image prompt
(photo by Kelsey Hannah).
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