From a distance I watched the koi in the man-made pond. Seemingly heedless to the world around them, they swim peacefully, their tranquil moves a narcotic in these hectic times. I step a little closer watching. They continue to swim in ever lazy circles. It is a game we play. Well, a game I play. I am never sure if they are in on it or not. I play the game, nonetheless.
The game? How close can I get before they notice me?
There are concentric circles around the pond that mark my progress. So far, I have made it as far the third circle before I am spotted. I am at that line now, trying to get to the second, knowing it will take divine intervention to reach the first line.
Slowly creeping upon the pond, I take my time.
For a moment there is a single erratic movement and I think the jig is up. I still and after a moment the idle swimming continues. I am almost there.
I advance barely, barely lifting my foot from the ground, and slide it ever so slowly forward. All I have to do now is…
DAMN ! I’ve been spotted.
In a blink the formerly calm water is a frenzy of movement. Mouths agape, they all rush forward in a circle synchronized swimmers might envy.
Defeated once again, I take out the bag of food n my packet and feed the koi.
Each week Cyranny provides a prompt to inspire one to write a very short story. The idea being to type the whole story in a minute or less. Of course, you can think about it before hitting the keyboard, and you can take all your time to edit it afterwards…
For most people in the United States, Fall unofficially begins the Tuesday after Labor Day.
But not for Bree.
For her autumn truly began in mid-November nearly two months after its official start.
By mid-November, the many trees that line her street reach their peak orange, red and yellow colors. And each year, a week or two before Thanksgiving without fail, it happens: the last hurrah of the hurricane season. While usually not worthy enough to be graced with a name, it is a storm strong enough that the colorful jewels of the trees are mercilessly flung to the ground.
Bree will step out onto her yard where seemingly overnight it is littered near slick with the torn wet remnants of color that once graced the trees. She’ll look upon the many gnarled branches left clawing at the shortening hours of gray daylight. Then, and only then, does she feel it is autumn at last.
Each week Cyranny provides a prompt to inspire one to write a very short story. The idea being to type the whole story in a minute or less. Of course, you can think about it before hitting the keyboard, and you can take all your time to edit it afterwards…
The prince sighed at the tragic tableau before him.
Two mothers sobbed against their husbands whose own tears fell in silent grief. All bemoaned their part played in what has come to pass. The two men glanced at one another, but neither could sustain the visual contact. Their hate too old. Their pain too fresh.
“What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?” he looked to each of the four red rimmed eyes, but none could return his stare.
“It could have begun here. Grown into something beautiful had you let it. Instead, it ends with them and with you, now the last of your line.”
“Was it worth it?” He spread his arms to the ones before him, but each knew the gesture encompassed several others no longer there to speak. “Capulet. Montague. Go bury your children.”
At dVerse Mish tends bar and welcomes us to another round of Prosery where we are asked to write a very short piece of prose that tells a story, with a beginning, a middle and an end, in any genre of our choice.
Since it is a kind of Flash Fiction, there is a limit of 144 words. It must include a complete line from a poem in the story, within the word limit.
Punctuation can be changed, but it is not allowed to subtract or insert words in between parts of the original quotation.
Today quote is from T.S. Eliiott’s The Wasteland“What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?”
In my mind Romeo and Juliet are the branches that would have grown from the stony rubbish of their families’ hate had it been allowed to take root.
All day and night I want of you – I Want so deeply that “want” Is too trite a word – this To me, my very breath – is to Be in this love – to be Yours and yours only Forever and a day
What you ask of me, I ignore it all Yes, I submit easily, but I Don’t want what you want This moment is all there is This is all I want – to Have you now – to be Yours and only yours But only for tonight
Lillian is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub where she shares her love of how one word leads to another in crossword puzzles and their cousins in style: Acrostic Poetry.
In Word Acrostic poetry the first word or the last word of each line in a single stanza poem spells out a message.
Lillian has created an Acrostic Plus where the first letter of each line in the first stanza spells out one or more words, while the last letter of each line in the next stanza spells out something different, and so on, but together there is one message.
We’re challenged to either write a poem that in some way relates to a puzzle, includes the word “puzzle”; or try our hand at an Acrostic poem. I combine a Word Acrostic with Lillian’s Acrostic Plus to tell a familiar tale of Mars and Venus,
The monotetra, a poetic form created by Michael Walker, must be written in tetrameter, either iambic or trochaic, approximately 8 syllables per line. Each stanza is a quatrain (four lines), that is monorhymed. The fourth line of each stanza must be a dimeter, or 4-syllable phrase, that is repeat twice.
The stanza structure:
Line 1: 8 syllables; A1 Line 2: 8 syllables; A2 Line 3: 8 syllables; A3 Line 4: 4 syllables, repeated; A4, A4
This poem can be as short as 1 or 2 quatrains and as long as a poet wishes.
I had watched In waning sunlight How it reflected In soft contours As one sun Became another And yet another That set In each watery stream Until in darkness I walk away Too cowardly to admit That I Am the cause Of those tears
At dVerse, De Jackson, aka WhimsyGizmo, hosts bar for Quadrille Monday, where we are challenged to pen a poem of precisely 44 words (not counting the title), that must include the weekly word prompt. This weeks prompt: Stream
Take me now; I have need Lexis to which I must heed
Ethereal whisper in my ear Diaphanous sight before my eyes Gossamer touch against my skin
The first preface to our prologue Vellum void of phrase and prose
Let me bathe you in ballad Let me shower you in sestina Let my sweet imagery of nothing Become your metaphor of everything
Let your periphrasis wrap me in symbolisms Let your euphemisms surround me in similes Let our soul be one for the discourse of rhythm for the dialogue of reason, for the diction of rhyme
Let us fall down in the shadow of the valley of meter Let us rise up on the rock of ages and iambs Let us bask in the most of incremental repetition Until only the onomatopoeia of our couplet is left
Diamante drops on parchment and papyrus The final edict to our epilogue
Gossamer touch against my skin Diaphanous sight before my eyes Ethereal whisper in my ear
Lexis to which I must heed Take me now; I have need
dVerse Poets Pub | Poetics: Who’s your Muse?
Today Ingrid tends bar and invites us to choose our muse. I choose Erato, muse of love poetry and lyric poetry to let her sweet whispers scream everything. For when she has need to speak I take heed to listen, and write…
She is a lean shadow, sat alone. Silent tears shed blending into the briny tide that approach and recede her salt licked feet. Only saline tracks that frame her cheeks tell tale they existed.
Dawn chains to dusk, none saw her arrive, nor leave.
shnikt,
She has just been… there…
shnikt, shnikt,
Stone in one hand, blade in the other is no game or dream for her
shnikt,
We watch and wonder what on Earth caused this refrain
I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.
Words unspoken yet heard by all nonetheless
Not what they seem, the tears screen not her melancholy, but her rage
shnikt, shnikt
And all we know is: the day she rises will lead to the night someone falls
Today Lisa introduces the pub to one of my favorite writers, Zora Neale Hurston and challenges us to write a piece of prose that is no longer than 144 words, sans title, and must include the line “I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.” from Hurston’s “How Does it Feel to be Colored Me” in World Tomorrow (1928). This can be flash fiction, nonfiction, or creative nonfiction, but it must be prose!
Raivenne-lations 