Neighbors

    Image by Tess Kincaid

   
While the adage is true,
good fences make good neighbors
don't forget the gate.


For Magpie Tales, carried across the Atlantic.

*The adage is, of course, from Robert Frost's poem Mending Wall.

Lil

    Image from Tess Kincaid

Do not wake me

from my green dreams.

In them we are blameless

perfect, and the garden is ours.

 The marbled world, blue and new

grows through me

like the pit of a peach

I cling to,

fruit sweet and ripe

and dripping

with juices.

No, do not wake me

from my green dreams.

Here are 55 words (including title) for the toads at the Imaginary Garden about the picture from Magpie Tales.  

Dylanw

    Photo by Tess Kincaid: Merchant Seafarers' War Memorial, Cardiff

Where

are we?

blinded and

betrayed by time,

endless skies press down

with the weight of water.

Sanded and salted, preserved,

we thought, like a pearl of great price

lamented but unfound and scattered

so my ribs no longer know each other.

Over at the Imaginary Garden Margaret asked us to "play it again" with a previous prompt. I chose a form called an Etheree, an unrhymed syllable counting form, beginning with a first line of one syllable, and continue for ten lines increasing the syllable count by one each line, as follows: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10.  The image is from Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales and is also posted there.  Please follow the links to both of these outstanding writing sites.

Call Waiting

    Image by Sarlota Ban

There is no one on the line

no one to talk to

no one to listen

when I call your name

There are no more wires

no strings

attaching source to end point

sender to receiver

me to you

What can I do  

with these antiquated emotions?

Box them up,

in a plain brown wrapper

sealed with packing tape

to be placed safely in the back

of a rented, storage unit?

Or do I save them

to an external sorage device

forever safe

able to be accessed

at some future date?

Or do I write them out, longhand…

in cursive

on heavy, scented parchment

then roll it up

and slip into a bottle

to be stoppered

and thrown to the sea?

When I call your name

there is no one to talk to

no one to listen

After a VERY long dry spell I am glad to be back and linking this to Magpie Tales, the weekly, creative writing prompt.

Amphitrite

     Painting by Daria Petrilli

When I went

to the doctor about

the growing lump in my abdomen

no one suspected I had an ocean in my womb. 

But

that did explain  

the leaking and the smell.

My uterus has become a coy (kio) pond; 

I am retaining water.

Of

course

the doctors

recommended

an immediate hysterectomy. 

But they were not sure if it should be done

by an OB-GYN,  or marine biologist, or ichthyologist, 

or some other –ologist altogether

I

decided

to wait and see.

Meanwhile, I’ve stopped

eating sea food and developed a fondness for kelp. 

Also, I’m considering a tattoo – maybe compass points 

on my right thigh.

After all,

I am

Mother of the Oceans,

caring for my realm.

I am

Goddess of the Waters

deserving your devotions

I am

Queen of the Seas

favored of all daughters

and all your marine dreams

reside in

me.

*Amphitrite: In ancient Greek mytholog Amphitrite was a sea-goddess and wife of Poseidon.  Under the influence of the Olympian pantheon, she became merely the consort of Poseidon, and was further diminished by poets to a symbolic representation of the sea.  -Wikipedia

Shhh...

   

I wrap my secrets

around you

like a fur stole,

clasped at the throat

with a promise.

A few words for Tess at Magpie Tales and all the Toads in the Imaginary Garden.

Mother

    Image by Tess Kincaid

She was womb

I was tomb

where her identity

lay down to die

Check out Magpie Tales where Tess Kincaid provies a weekly writing prompt. This one was in color, but I felt B&W was more appropriate for my bleak lines.

Reflections

    Self portrait,Vivlan Maier

Generally when one tries to tinker

with eternity

it does not end well.

The stoutest knots

come undone,

and ends once again

flap loose.

But still there is this

hope

for a sense of

grand purpose,

or at least

a reason to get up each morning,

to brush one’s teeth,

to wash,

to put on one’s  shoes,

one’s shirt,

one’s mask.

And in the meantime

one goes on,

for there are children to be fed

and dishes to be washed

and bills to be paid,

despite the

receding hallway filled

with an overflow of string and boxes

and failed attempts.

And sometimes,

amid the clutter and minutia,

without realizing it,

we get the lighting

and the composition right,

and just sometimes in our wake

we leave something

beautiful.

Photo prompt provided by Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales.  Join us!

Voyage

 
     Yell Sound, Shetland by R. A. D. Stainforth

Climb aboard!

We sail away today,

over oceans deep and wild and wide,

out, and out, league after league toward the horizon

under endless slate grey skies, rain-kissed,                                  

cloud-tumbled, sun-pierced or

star-riddled.

And all we know recedes,

all the firm, green predictable things

recede as we traverse over oceans toward

the strange terrain of dream and fable.

Unknown wonders await;

climb aboard!

The picture is complements of Magpie Tales.  The form is from Imaginary Garden w/ Real Toads. In its simplest form, the Triquain consists of seven lines, with syllables counted in multiples of 3.

3 - 6 - 9 - 12 - 9 - 6 - 3

The trick thereafter is in deciding how many of these stanzas you want to use.  There are several described, and I chose one called   Triquain Swirl.  This is created by joining the stanzas together on the seventh line, eliminating the second 3 syllable line and the space between stanzas. The finished stanza will stand at 13 lines and may be repeated thereafter.

3 - 6 - 9 - 12 - 9 - 6 - 3 - 6 - 9 - 12 - 9 - 6 - 3 

Also, one can include an element of repetition in the Swirl by taking a 3 syllable word or phrase from one of the longer lines and using it as the final 3 syllable line of the stanza or at the bridge of the swirl. 

When Cowgirls Git Over Their Blues

    Elizabeth Taylor, set of "Giant" by Frank Worth

Life’s a rodeo

life’s a desert

life’s a sand burr

under yer saddle

life’s a hot stinkin’ sun

burnin’ the back a yer stiff, red neck

life’s a hot, sweaty sonofabitch

full’a bullshit n’ Copenhagen.

Imma rope you up

real good 

cowboy.

And I ain’t talkin’ no

eight seconds.

55 for all the Toads in the Imaginary Garden and all the Magpies at The Mag.

Queen of the Stone Age

     Museum by Tess Kincaid

Let us not concoct
healing potions for the dead,
nor invent
new colours
for blind eyes.
     -Hilda Doolittle

I dream

that I am on display

I have no privacy

except inside my own mind.

So I go about building an

inner life of vast spaces

empty of people

with wind and sun and

nightjars

singing me into bed.

Meanwhile

I stare blindly past

the gawking people

past the marble floors

glass doors

past the

streetfuls of cars and crowds,

buildings, bridges

mountain ridges

past the curve of the earth

past Moon, Mars,  Pluto

Milky Way,

out and out,

past a thousand galaxies

through time itself.

Written for Magpie Tales where Tess Kincaid reigns as Queen of the Manor.  Click on the link and join us.

Ripe

     Photo Grocery from Tess Kincaid

At the corner store                          

are piled apples, oranges, potatoes 

and onions enough

to make you cry 

with the cutting of them,

 but that just takes one.

And shoppers touch the fruits

and the vegetables -

I won’t even mention

 the ogling of melons,

or the squeezing of tomatoes;

that is too much

firm fruit for this page.

But there is this concentration

of life, of juices, of vegetable matter,

some of it is still ripening;

and though we cling to life like a peach,

out back, the dumpster

is full of molding pears and cabbages.

My dead grandmother used to say

when you are old

your skin gets rotten like a banana.

We are all

ripening and rotting,

every fruit and vegetable and shopper

reaching for a peach,

every person walking past,

too busy to stop

but not able

to rush, or race-walk, or outrun

their own mortality.

And in the end, we all end.

And it is sad, if the life, or the fruit, or the vegetable

was good at all.

But, despite the dumpster full 

of endings,

the store front 

still draws us in.

We want the fresh fruit,

the sweet bite,

the juices running down our chins.

So savor it,

beginning, middle, end.

This is for Magpie Tales writing group hosted by the talented Tess Kincaid.  Come join us!

Everyday Love

   Steps by Tess Kincaid

I reach for you like a dish.

You read to me over breakfast

while I pour coffee.

There is a coming

and going sort of rhythm

to us.

We are everyday

spoons and forks

not good silver people.

The stairs leading to our room

are well worn.

This is for the writing group Magpie Tales.  Come join us!

Real to Reel

     Image from Magpie Tales

The first time

I heard a recording

of my voice,

without the deeper,

lower frequency vibrations

enhanced by traveling

through bone,

I was so upset I didn’t talk

for two days.

Imagine the shock

when I first heard myself sing.

So much for the,

“become a rock star”

career path.

Click on the link for more Magpie Tales.

Fear of Flying

When I was a child

I never slept at naptime.

I would slowly rise up

to the ceiling and

look down

at my  silent self,

then fly around the room

and out the window.

I’d check on the nest

in the tree outside my window

then go up, through the branches

up through clouds

into the sunshine,

far enough to see the curve of the Earth

pale, in the distance.

As I grew older

my flight time diminished;

still, I excelled in science class

when we learned about meteorology

and cloud formations.

I remembered my time

among them, and counted them

as friends

As an adult,

I have a fear of heights.

I left behind the foolishness,

and the magic,

of flying away from my body

until this morning…

Something is different

and familiar -

a feeling in the back of my throat,

perhaps a change in

barometric pressure

(or grown-up life pressures).

I feel a lightness I haven’t felt in ages…

and the rushing up.

I look down at myself,

zoom once around the room ,

then sail out the window

and across the open field

down the road and out over the ocean.

And now I know,

I was never afraid of heights,

I was afraid

that once I left

I would

never come back.

Check out Magpie Tales by Tess Kincaid for more responses to the image, or add your own.  Image by Martin Stranka.  This is also linked to IGRT open link night.  Go there to read a variety of wonderful poems by some fabulous toads.

Why I Hope God has a Sense of Humor

     Feast in the House of Simon, El Greco

"God is a comedian, playing to an audience too afraid to laugh." - H. L. Mencken

Matthew 26:6, "Now when Jesus was in Bethany, at the home of Simon the leper," 

Jesus: Hey Simon – what do you call a leper taking a bath? 

Simon: No idea Jesus, what?

Jesus: Stew!

All assembled: *groan*

Check out The Mag creative writing group for more responses to the image by El Greco.

Abandoned

     Lee Plaza Hotel, Detroit by Bonnie Beechler

Why do you leave me

like this when you know housekeeping

is not my strong suit?

Check out The Mag for more responses, or add your own, to the prompt by the lovely Tess Kincaid.

Dream

    The Sleeping Gypsy by Henri Rousseau

Pull another dream from your jar

my Bohemian love.

Are you naked?

Flying?  

Chased by wild animals?

Or lost in the empty spaces between the stars?

Check out The Mag, formerly Magpie Tales.

11th August

     Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien

At day’s end

 when shadows were long

we’d sit and dangle bare legs

over the edge

of the fire escape.

Looking down on the city

was sort-of magicy.

The smell of

bus-fumes-liver-and-onions-pot-curry

danced through the air

and the tiny people below

softened into vagueness

as the sun snuck off.

You and I would talk about

far away…

   long ago…

      yet to be…

There were forests 

full of green and grey,

swimming pools,

and yards big enough for puppies.

There were dragons and gargoyles 

to be dealth with;

criminals to be fought, 

awards to accept.

We could go anywhere,

do anything,

and nothing could stop us.

Except for mama

calling us to bed.

This is for The Mag creative writing site hosted by Tess Kincaid, and also linked to dVerse open link night.  Click on the links and check them out for some great writing.

Of Magpies and Toads

    Muscian in the Rain by Robert Doisneau

I love you darling

with your comfort at arm’s length.

but when rain falls soft

on black and white autumn days

I seek the warmth of your touch.

This is generated by writing prompts from two wonderful writing sites.  The first, IGRT, is responsible for the form, which is called tanka.  A tanka contains 31 syllables in a line pattern of 5/7/5/7/7. Check out the link for a much more complete description, and other writers' tankas.  The second source, The Mag, has provided the picture.  Check that site for more writers' responses to this image.