singing cherries—Friday 5/Friday Fiction

with his fingers in that blue porcelain cherry bowl
he picked a few, popped those into his mouth.
without discarding pips, he started singing
those notes going off key.

Unaware of those strange stares he kept on,
lost in a world of his own.
No more cherries left now, he suddenly stopped,
finding himself in a beach-side restaurant.

all were quiet save him; he wished for the ground
to crack up and swallow him whole
without a single word he got up.
walking as hurriedly as the sand would allow him.

waiter bore the brunt of it
as he had forgotten to pay for those cherries.

Friday 5: brunt, crack, key, cherry, discard

[Fiction] Friday Challenge for February, 1 2008: Your character was lost in her own thoughts. When she snaps back to reality, she realizes she was singing out loud. Unfortunately, she wasn’t somewhere private. How embarrassing… Take it from there.

singing cherries—Friday 5/Friday Fiction

with his fingers in that blue porcelain cherry bowl
he picked a few, popped those into his mouth.
without discarding pips, he started singing
those notes going off key.

Unaware of those strange stares he kept on,
lost in a world of his own.
No more cherries left now, he suddenly stopped,
finding himself in a beach-side restaurant.

all were quiet save him; he wished for the ground
to crack up and swallow him whole
without a single word he got up.
walking as hurriedly as the sand would allow him.

waiter bore the brunt of it
as he had forgotten to pay for those cherries.

Friday 5: brunt, crack, key, cherry, discard

[Fiction] Friday Challenge for February, 1 2008: Your character was lost in her own thoughts. When she snaps back to reality, she realizes she was singing out loud. Unfortunately, she wasn’t somewhere private. How embarrassing… Take it from there.

singing cherries—Friday 5/Friday Fiction

with his fingers in that blue porcelain cherry bowl
he picked a few, popped those into his mouth.
without discarding pips, he started singing
those notes going off key.

Unaware of those strange stares he kept on,
lost in a world of his own.
No more cherries left now, he suddenly stopped,
finding himself in a beach-side restaurant.

all were quiet save him; he wished for the ground
to crack up and swallow him whole
without a single word he got up.
walking as hurriedly as the sand would allow him.

waiter bore the brunt of it
as he had forgotten to pay for those cherries.

Friday 5: brunt, crack, key, cherry, discard

[Fiction] Friday Challenge for February, 1 2008: Your character was lost in her own thoughts. When she snaps back to reality, she realizes she was singing out loud. Unfortunately, she wasn’t somewhere private. How embarrassing… Take it from there.

singing cherries—Friday 5/Friday Fiction

with his fingers in that blue porcelain cherry bowl
he picked a few, popped those into his mouth.
without discarding pips, he started singing
those notes going off key.

Unaware of those strange stares he kept on,
lost in a world of his own.
No more cherries left now, he suddenly stopped,
finding himself in a beach-side restaurant.

all were quiet save him; he wished for the ground
to crack up and swallow him whole
without a single word he got up.
walking as hurriedly as the sand would allow him.

waiter bore the brunt of it
as he had forgotten to pay for those cherries.

Friday 5: brunt, crack, key, cherry, discard

[Fiction] Friday Challenge for February, 1 2008: Your character was lost in her own thoughts. When she snaps back to reality, she realizes she was singing out loud. Unfortunately, she wasn’t somewhere private. How embarrassing… Take it from there.

bag and baggage—-3WW

Approach
Bottle
Smooth

there were sunken puckers, where orbs of her eyes ought to be.
she crouched on the ground, pulled out a sack from underneath her bed;
untied it clumsily, poured its content on dusty floor.
sightless she might have been, her instincts worked fine.
with right approach, she found an almost empty bottle of wine.
this, she had saved for special occassion. she took a swig,
relishing those last few drops of rancid liquor.
changing into her least patched clothes,
covering her head with a shawl which had seen better days-
leaving everything, she walked out, ready to go to a new place.

foraging, begging days were over; her tired bones needed rest.
old home for the destitute had come to her rescue
hopping into ferrying van, she huddled into a corner;
closing her eyes relishing her moment of glory.

when they came to help her out, death had claimed her
ever so swiftly, wrinkled skin, now smooth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*This is roughly based on a real life story. There are too many beggars and rag-pickers in the streets, including the very old. Lucky ones get picked by a home for the destitute. Younger ones do not want to be. However, the older lot homeless that they are, wish for it.

bag and baggage—-3WW

Approach
Bottle
Smooth

there were sunken puckers, where orbs of her eyes ought to be.
she crouched on the ground, pulled out a sack from underneath her bed;
untied it clumsily, poured its content on dusty floor.
sightless she might have been, her instincts worked fine.
with right approach, she found an almost empty bottle of wine.
this, she had saved for special occassion. she took a swig,
relishing those last few drops of rancid liquor.
changing into her least patched clothes,
covering her head with a shawl which had seen better days-
leaving everything, she walked out, ready to go to a new place.

foraging, begging days were over; her tired bones needed rest.
old home for the destitute had come to her rescue
hopping into ferrying van, she huddled into a corner;
closing her eyes relishing her moment of glory.

when they came to help her out, death had claimed her
ever so swiftly, wrinkled skin, now smooth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*This is roughly based on a real life story. There are too many beggars and rag-pickers in the streets, including the very old. Lucky ones get picked by a home for the destitute. Younger ones do not want to be. However, the older lot homeless that they are, wish for it.

Life Force——Totally Optional Prompts/The Last Piaster

This week’s prompt is a quote: “When you were called upon to speak, you were supposed to say why you think you’re alive, why you were born, and why you’re still around: What are your reasons? Everyone needs to come up with his or her own personal answer.” From a novel called Diary of a Heretic, by Kathleen Maher. For an extra twist… try responding to this prompt without using the word “I” (me, my, mine).

Piaster 003 Vision Burn Brain Drain from The Last Piaster

Integrate each of these 11 phrases unchanged and in the order listed throughout your poem. There are no other restrictions. This exercise should cause a few of those synapses to fire.

the moon, broken off like
a red flower brilliant as
her fingers delicate as
the island stretches off the coast like
your backbone rigid like
the bicycle careening down the hill like
soft as
crazy bird its song like
she spun of like
his monotonous voice like
days pass like

I experimented, combining both.

She stood watching the moving sliding clouds. Slipped out
the moon, broken off like a biscuit dipped in tea.
She smiled, concentrating on the sky,
Mars showed up like a red flower brilliant as a ruby
on her fingers delicate as
a cooked plate of noodles she had eaten a while back.
Her vision reached far, thinking
how the island stretches off the coast like
a shapeless amoeba in her school biology book so long ago.

Sighing, she asked the polar star
“why is your backbone rigid like ramrod?”
A noise broke into her reverie, looking towards the road, she saw her husband
on the bicycle careening down the hill like a serpent slipping on glass.
For a miniscule moment, scaring her out of wits,
her thoughts revolving like falcons preying.
Drops of rain fell on her soft as melted butter
That lonely helicopter acted like a crazy bird, its song like
a screeching tyres of a skidded car.

At the sound of deep dark silence, she spun of like a top.
With mixed feeling, she watched her husband walking down to her
and heard his monotonous voice like pebbles hitting water,
ripples of her heart going round and round.
Why had she blanketed out her mind, shrouded it with boredom with him,
letting her days pass like snail trying to cross a road, costing all his lifetime.
What was it that kept her alive; pages of her days should have ended.
A tiny whimpering sound tugged at her heart.
Picking up her infant from the carrycot, she hugged her daughter.

Reflexively baring her nipple for her baby to feed on.
Nurturing a life created by her is reason enough to live, to be born.

Life Force——Totally Optional Prompts/The Last Piaster

This week’s prompt is a quote: “When you were called upon to speak, you were supposed to say why you think you’re alive, why you were born, and why you’re still around: What are your reasons? Everyone needs to come up with his or her own personal answer.” From a novel called Diary of a Heretic, by Kathleen Maher. For an extra twist… try responding to this prompt without using the word “I” (me, my, mine).

Piaster 003 Vision Burn Brain Drain from The Last Piaster

Integrate each of these 11 phrases unchanged and in the order listed throughout your poem. There are no other restrictions. This exercise should cause a few of those synapses to fire.

the moon, broken off like
a red flower brilliant as
her fingers delicate as
the island stretches off the coast like
your backbone rigid like
the bicycle careening down the hill like
soft as
crazy bird its song like
she spun of like
his monotonous voice like
days pass like

I experimented, combining both.

She stood watching the moving sliding clouds. Slipped out
the moon, broken off like a biscuit dipped in tea.
She smiled, concentrating on the sky,
Mars showed up like a red flower brilliant as a ruby
on her fingers delicate as
a cooked plate of noodles she had eaten a while back.
Her vision reached far, thinking
how the island stretches off the coast like
a shapeless amoeba in her school biology book so long ago.

Sighing, she asked the polar star
“why is your backbone rigid like ramrod?”
A noise broke into her reverie, looking towards the road, she saw her husband
on the bicycle careening down the hill like a serpent slipping on glass.
For a miniscule moment, scaring her out of wits,
her thoughts revolving like falcons preying.
Drops of rain fell on her soft as melted butter
That lonely helicopter acted like a crazy bird, its song like
a screeching tyres of a skidded car.

At the sound of deep dark silence, she spun of like a top.
With mixed feeling, she watched her husband walking down to her
and heard his monotonous voice like pebbles hitting water,
ripples of her heart going round and round.
Why had she blanketed out her mind, shrouded it with boredom with him,
letting her days pass like snail trying to cross a road, costing all his lifetime.
What was it that kept her alive; pages of her days should have ended.
A tiny whimpering sound tugged at her heart.
Picking up her infant from the carrycot, she hugged her daughter.

Reflexively baring her nipple for her baby to feed on.
Nurturing a life created by her is reason enough to live, to be born.

Life Force——Totally Optional Prompts/The Last Piaster

This week’s prompt is a quote: “When you were called upon to speak, you were supposed to say why you think you’re alive, why you were born, and why you’re still around: What are your reasons? Everyone needs to come up with his or her own personal answer.” From a novel called Diary of a Heretic, by Kathleen Maher. For an extra twist… try responding to this prompt without using the word “I” (me, my, mine).

Piaster 003 Vision Burn Brain Drain from The Last Piaster

Integrate each of these 11 phrases unchanged and in the order listed throughout your poem. There are no other restrictions. This exercise should cause a few of those synapses to fire.

the moon, broken off like
a red flower brilliant as
her fingers delicate as
the island stretches off the coast like
your backbone rigid like
the bicycle careening down the hill like
soft as
crazy bird its song like
she spun of like
his monotonous voice like
days pass like

I experimented, combining both.

She stood watching the moving sliding clouds. Slipped out
the moon, broken off like a biscuit dipped in tea.
She smiled, concentrating on the sky,
Mars showed up like a red flower brilliant as a ruby
on her fingers delicate as
a cooked plate of noodles she had eaten a while back.
Her vision reached far, thinking
how the island stretches off the coast like
a shapeless amoeba in her school biology book so long ago.

Sighing, she asked the polar star
“why is your backbone rigid like ramrod?”
A noise broke into her reverie, looking towards the road, she saw her husband
on the bicycle careening down the hill like a serpent slipping on glass.
For a miniscule moment, scaring her out of wits,
her thoughts revolving like falcons preying.
Drops of rain fell on her soft as melted butter
That lonely helicopter acted like a crazy bird, its song like
a screeching tyres of a skidded car.

At the sound of deep dark silence, she spun of like a top.
With mixed feeling, she watched her husband walking down to her
and heard his monotonous voice like pebbles hitting water,
ripples of her heart going round and round.
Why had she blanketed out her mind, shrouded it with boredom with him,
letting her days pass like snail trying to cross a road, costing all his lifetime.
What was it that kept her alive; pages of her days should have ended.
A tiny whimpering sound tugged at her heart.
Picking up her infant from the carrycot, she hugged her daughter.

Reflexively baring her nipple for her baby to feed on.
Nurturing a life created by her is reason enough to live, to be born.

Life Force——Totally Optional Prompts/The Last Piaster

This week’s prompt is a quote: “When you were called upon to speak, you were supposed to say why you think you’re alive, why you were born, and why you’re still around: What are your reasons? Everyone needs to come up with his or her own personal answer.” From a novel called Diary of a Heretic, by Kathleen Maher. For an extra twist… try responding to this prompt without using the word “I” (me, my, mine).

Piaster 003 Vision Burn Brain Drain from The Last Piaster

Integrate each of these 11 phrases unchanged and in the order listed throughout your poem. There are no other restrictions. This exercise should cause a few of those synapses to fire.

the moon, broken off like
a red flower brilliant as
her fingers delicate as
the island stretches off the coast like
your backbone rigid like
the bicycle careening down the hill like
soft as
crazy bird its song like
she spun of like
his monotonous voice like
days pass like

I experimented, combining both.

She stood watching the moving sliding clouds. Slipped out
the moon, broken off like a biscuit dipped in tea.
She smiled, concentrating on the sky,
Mars showed up like a red flower brilliant as a ruby
on her fingers delicate as
a cooked plate of noodles she had eaten a while back.
Her vision reached far, thinking
how the island stretches off the coast like
a shapeless amoeba in her school biology book so long ago.

Sighing, she asked the polar star
“why is your backbone rigid like ramrod?”
A noise broke into her reverie, looking towards the road, she saw her husband
on the bicycle careening down the hill like a serpent slipping on glass.
For a miniscule moment, scaring her out of wits,
her thoughts revolving like falcons preying.
Drops of rain fell on her soft as melted butter
That lonely helicopter acted like a crazy bird, its song like
a screeching tyres of a skidded car.

At the sound of deep dark silence, she spun of like a top.
With mixed feeling, she watched her husband walking down to her
and heard his monotonous voice like pebbles hitting water,
ripples of her heart going round and round.
Why had she blanketed out her mind, shrouded it with boredom with him,
letting her days pass like snail trying to cross a road, costing all his lifetime.
What was it that kept her alive; pages of her days should have ended.
A tiny whimpering sound tugged at her heart.
Picking up her infant from the carrycot, she hugged her daughter.

Reflexively baring her nipple for her baby to feed on.
Nurturing a life created by her is reason enough to live, to be born.