Saturday Scribes, short story

lacuna

saturdayscribes: theme: failure to communicate; words/phases: consuming wounds prophet
photo: Mike Rodriquez, flickr

on the way to portland
we passed the columbia river
at least a hundred times
back and forth
side by side

almost hypnotizing
windswept waters
shifted the want of talk

the radio station crackled
some dj prophet spoke of love
mysterious crazy love
he cooed as a dove and played
jimi hendrix little wing

the hours stretched
as a white empty canvas
waiting for paint
propped up against
a thousand others

interrupting time
i slept a short while
and while dreaming
tiny little blood beads
dropped with little hesitation
opening and oozing

a couple of old wounds resurface
sang out in acapello a song
familiar yet ungettable
and when i reached out
to soothe the smear
they sprouted a hundred hairy tiny
little funny legs
and ran away

Standard
Saturday Scribes, short story, SundayScribblings

nothing serious

saturday scribes: theme_change of plans; words_church, exploding, sinister
sunday scribblings: no 199 yes.

yes
i did say yes
in earnest honesty

my mind made up
packed and ready
turned off the light
closed the door
and left

when we stopped
at the gas station
you went to pay
for crunchy peanuts

and then i heard
a no very clearly
screaming really loud

exploding with fire
against the cold cool
clear night

i think it was about
2 in the morning
because it was still
dark

and then i remembered
something so soft
that sinister look
of distraction
when nothing goes well

Standard
monday poetry train, Saturday Scribes

exile

Saturday Scribes: theme-midway; words-dappled, fearsome, firefly;
and, monday poetry train; photo: After the Rain, gcquinn, flickr

when the weather began to wane
a cool shivering breeze
melodiously rattled the sleeping bones
scattered among sweet scented grass

at the end unnoticed, a one-way street
no longer surrounds the terminated buried beneath
daily the rusted ancient gate again stirs
eagerly guards the passage portal

dallying dusk discoveries
emancipate moored moans, soft mad wails
kept from the light wind that travels so much further
late afternoon, heat released
as day drifts toward the western sky canvas

rich characters yield a brush
dappled in rosy pink and perfect gray purple
giving way to the entrance of night
sifting the stars, falling flashes, twilight beckons

as if able, the despondent bones
would will the fearsome rotted flesh
back home where night brings
one firefly then another to soothe the story

Standard
Poetry

drowning dry

saturday scribes this week’s theme: underground, and  words: surface, gasoline, entering, lens; read write image no 15, photo: sunset by MorBCN

224782755_87bd7e8a8e

another place to wander
visiting hours between forever
no one knows the way

entering the portal
eyes always open
a clear one inch lens
confesses colored rainbows

barefoot is an option
the surface feels a thousand
tiny grains of prickly sand

gasoline puddles
darkened obscurity
mirroring magic
hide the cookies

Standard
Saturday Scribes, short story

forest

Saturday Scribes march 6. title/theme: unexpected trees; words: rogue, nature, fallow, intersperse; photo: Tramway wiew from the bus door, fx974, flickr

catching the last bus out of town she smiled at the rogue simplicity of the sudden impulse. the nature of this thought first appeared on a clear sunny day in late spring with the smell of shallots on the wind. the invisible manifested and the seed grew quickly planted in the fertile soil of soft and waiting.

finding a near empty bus, she soon made herself comfortable. pulling back off the mystic throttle, her breath began a slow descent to a sweet speed of normal. time enough had passed and not much later than that beautiful blue day she left taking nothing leaving everything.

hypnotized by the rhythmic movement of music connected to her ears her fallow mind ignited with a spark. crackling thoughts lit as fireworks exploded in illuminating images interspersed as falling fire reflected in the passing lights. too tired to listen to details the late night spread a sleepy spell over her loquacious mind. turning the tunes to silent she soon slept smelling the scent of shallots.

Standard