at Penn’s Landing, view before sunrise – Ben Franklin Bridge peeking
Franklin slept here between bolts
of cloth and and a cold
that curls up the cobblestones
like a friendly cat
Before we even saw them: two lithe young men
etched with smiles and dark eyebrows violined
a sonata I can’t pretend
to recognize, notes sparrowing up the escalator
off the ceiling far overhead Jefferson Station
(early) for Kerry’s Micro Poetry prompt, in 10 or fewer lines, in the
imaginary garden with real toads
I’m on the road, working, not sure when I’ll be able to link up or read and comment, so please forgive my silence.
today was to be your day
and tomorrow, and yesterday, and everyday
is the day you are dead.
there is no marker
set in stone on a wall or lain in grass
just these electrons
for I have no chisel, nor even a pen
anymore; I have left
all the words
scribed in your ash
prettypetalstudio at Getty Images. Fair Use (non-commercial)
you turned 18
your eyes crinkled at my dad jokes.
you ankled lace-up boots and floated
a crinoline dress to prom
the same way dandelions flit and puff on a breeze.
you gave up
your seat to a stranger on the bus
upon noticing how she cut her hands
on the bag straps.
you cried when you broke
that boy’s heart.
you beat your heart faster
than your chest could hold
18 years ago
and now the only truth is the last
Out of Standard prompt, to write of something that never happened, in the imaginary garden with real toads, and De’s Let’s Get Jambin’ prompt on enjambment, at dVerse.
Caleigh would have turned 18 on November 10th.
Old Homestead, (c) Courtney White, Indelible West
. . .
for the long arm of the wind
to rattle on its frame
a distant loose door
. . .
Gravity and wind play checkers:
one continually resetting the board
with pepper-bright leaves
the other not caring, patient;
and not leaves will come to rest in her arms
. . .
Gravity claps her hands and wind carries the sound
impelled, knowing he only lives
within the courtesy of air
. . .
The straw broom has fallen.
It lays, cheek lining the ground
as though remembering
before the calm
snippets of Autumn, as per Karin’s
Falling Into Lines prompt in the imaginary garden with real toads
giant Florida mosquito
we have mosquitos
with variously sized suckers
either attached or attacked.
some wear pin-stripes
that match their proboscises.
some wear sweats
in which they don’t.
some wear nothing
but the svelte sexiness
reserved for swarms:
as the rising sea.
soon, we are husks
but until the last drops
and don’t scratch
Flash Fiction 55 (minus the plus) in the imaginary garden with real toads. Galen, hope you’re kicking ass somewhere… ~
art and rights reserved by Emilio Garcia
what I found
oddest about seeing
my brain exposed like grey omelet
– your fingers teasing
out strands of memory like snot
or salt-water taffy at the boardwalk
cupping what I thought was me in two palms
like that time we drank water from the lake –
was realizing: this is not how you see
me; I thought you saw that I’m a dartboard
but you see me as a dart
sees: one puncture at a time, maybe three
before withdrawing, so while I’m Humpty-Dumpty post-fall
– mixing metaphors like shards and yolk – your piercing eyes
have found the next shell to crack
for Karin’s prompt in the imaginary garden with real toads:
A Whole Lot of It Is In Your Head, in honor of the remarkable, late, Dr. Oliver Sacks
Red on Maroon, Mark Rothko, all rights to Tate Gallery
poems are just
to put the red
how long the pause? how deep the gash? how far
until the reader false
to the tune of
Words Count with Mama Zen, chez imaginary garden with real toads