Stubborn firs stand warm and smug
beside the giving trees,
shadows now of skeletons
against clear blue skies.
Ground glitters red and gold,
cracks beneath the rakers’ feet
as he piles the oldest, most brittle
atop the crimson bright.
Tis time to take our leave
and slowly say goodbye
to those once colorful days
of leaping, laughing youth.
Photos from walks and visits this past week.
It was the only evidence left.
He came to build someone else’s dream, a canal between two oceans. One year of back-breaking labor, and then a joyous return to Rosa and young Henry. His pay would ensure simple things they grappled for now. Shoes that fit a young boy’s ever-growing feet, and warm coats for cold winters.
He managed to escape malaria and avoid the brothels. His wiry mud-caked frame always alert. Nimble fingers. Quick legs. Just ten days more. Twist the wires. Set the charge and run like hell. Only this time, hell exploded in his hands.
Photo by Connie Gayer. Word Count: 98 words.
Flash fiction using this week’s photo prompt for Friday Fictioneers.
Marilyn
Hollywood starlet
Some Like it Hot and she was
dead at thirty-six.
Frank
Hollywood Rat Pack
crooner who liked it My Way
Old Blue Eyes heart throb.
Judy
Her voice came out of
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
spotlight burned her soul.
I am an old woman
with the audacity to hope.
I shall wear purple
and travel to 1,000 places,
walk in the woods, eat, pray
and make love to a staggering genius.
I shall write letters from the earth
to all my friends above.
Tell them plain and simple,
at this age, the heart leaps
much higher than leaden feet
and I intend to do the long jump.
I will not stay off camera.
And I will settle for nothing less
than a raucous standing ovation
when I do decide to exit
center stage.
In the form of Found Poetry: created from book titles on my shelf – When I am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple, The Audacity of Hope, 1,000 Places to Live, A Walk in the Woods; Eat, Pray, Love; A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, Letters from the Earth, Plain and Simple, and Off Camera.
October 31, 2015
He chose a hickory nut tree
acorns too dainty,
tinny in their ping.
Tree-felled hickory nuts
percussive on the roof
pelted solid deep raps.
Band leader by trade
he created a Sousa drum line
directly above our heads.
Photo credit: Mike Vam. John Phillip Sousa: 1854 – 1932. American composer most famous for his military marches IE Stars and Stripes Forever and Sempir Fidelis (official march of the U.S. Marines).
The cormorant held its breath
and disappeared from sight.
Black, long necked sleek bird,
ducked under, gone.
Like an actor in the second act
it pops up in a different place
new school of fish
different shoreline.
Would that we could do that
shift the paradigm
be a revisionist cormorant,
hold our breath
and recreate the scene.
Old Glory flaps in the breeze
red and white stripes unfurled,
grommets clank against steel pole
as I walk by in a rush.
You loved the beauty of our flag.
You actually lived the flag.
The greatest generation, and you a woman,
a Naval Commander among them all.
Young girls should know your name.
Short in stature, you stood tall
saluted boys and turned them back into men
healed so many, traveled so far.
So many times we sat at your table
ate lemon meringue pie
and rolled the Yahtze dice
the infamous photo above our heads.
You and Admiral Nimitz, side by side.
One honored hero, known by many.
The other, slipped through time
a silver haired, kind old woman.
The wind stops, the clanking too
and I stand still remembering you
in that faded black and white photo
of your glory days.
Florence M. Frazier, 1915 – 2010. Former Commander in the U.S. Navy. Photo is from Aunt Flo’s visit to us in Boston, celebrating her 90th birthday. At our urging, she brought one of her military caps. We took her to the nearby Charlestown Navy Yard and visited this ship. As she boarded and as she walked on deck, every military personnel we met saluted her. It was an absolutely magical day!
Admiral Chester W. Nimitz was Commander in Chief of the U.S. Naval Fleet in World War II.
I’d travelled through time, hopeful to visit the genteel days of Jane Austen’s world. Instead, the calibration mechanism slipped and catapulted me into a reed-covered pond. Scrambling out of the machine, the corrosion was evident. How far off course had I come?
Sopping wet, I stumbled down the nearby path and came upon them: three young girls writhing on the ground. Suddenly they rose in unison, pointing at an ashen-faced red-haired woman in the surrounding crowd. “It’s her,” they screamed. “She’s the witch! Take her to the pond and test her!”
And they moved toward my beloved machine.
Photo by Dale Rogerson. Word Count: 98
First try at flash fiction using this week’s prompt photo, provided for Friday Fictioneers. Requirements: 100 words or less + photo attribution. Boston is a commuter rail ride away from Salem, Massachusetts — alive this time of year with reminders of its witch trial days! Not sure I’ll continue writing in this genre — but fun to try!
She got up on the wrong side of the bed
to a cacophony of sound.
Cats with top hats chased red booted unicorns
down the neon road
beneath her webbed feet.
Flamingos squawked,
slipping up a red licorice slide.
A bubble floated by
with Dorothy and Toto on a hammock inside,
stretched from one iridescent curve to the other.
She wanted to climb inside and lie down
or find some peppermint tea.
She licked her fingers
and slowly remembered
those funny looking mushrooms
on the other side of the bed.
Photo taken on our Alaska hike through the Tsongas Forest.
photo credit: Geoffrey Whiteway
The macaw flew out the window
and my world became inescapably grey.
Poe’s raven without naming text
no black, no white.
Like peering closely at a newspaper,
pica type-print not visible
only paper fibers
etched in fine lines of shaded grey.
Guaranteed indelible ink
smudged by presses.
And no voices.
Only empty word bubbles
suspended from flapping mouths.
Filmed eyes watch stick figures
slink nearby in slow motion.
What happened to me that day?
The day the macaw flew out my window.
Dedicated to those who live in the throes of mental illness or depression,
invisible too long.
lillian the home poet 