Don’t think we don’t appreciate the fare that’s offered. We do queue up from time to time, but food trucks really aren’t our thing. We’re here for the beer, and you do know how to brew. Few craft brewers bother to have a dark beer on tap, favoring IPAs, but your selection is the best. It’s about time we had a quality brewery in town, so your fare is just fine with me. We’ll take a flight of your finest.
what seems like chaos as chaos is in the making is more than chaos yet something less when in truth there is no truth until all is sorted, arranged, placed, removing any semblance of the chaos that is held within the thoughts that created it
Would I be that person again? Am I not, still? The anger that stewed within is gone, resolved with understanding. Loss weighs heaviest when dismissed. Recognized, accepted, it still lives within me, an empty space never to be filled yet always holding those who cannot be replaced.
The farthest thing from my mind when I’m chipping away at the frozen layer on my driveway on a chilly, mid-Missouri February morning that, as usual, has as much rain as snow is to wish for more of the same. But here I am on a ninety-six degree day in August crossing a Target parking lot as I wade through heat waves rising from the asphalt that remind me of that Vegas hospital parking lot in early June of ’93 after visiting Dad and thinking he’d be flying home soon – we know how that worked out – wishing I could have one of those ice-crusted snow days. Or better yet, just one more minute working beside Dad at Overland Express back in Buffalo in the ’70s with the snow blowing between the trailers and across the dock, his face just as red from the cold as it would get if he were here with me on this hot, August Missouri day.
Absent the agony of your companion, the white heat of pain temple to temple, my pleas for mercy falling on ears deaf to everything but a ringing magnified tenfold, you were a welcome distraction, courting fascination with the pulsation of lightning through a prism.
That you are now absent as well, I wonder. Should I miss you?
For years, I was plagued with sinus headaches, often several times a month, that would start with a pressure buildup behind my eyes. A migraine would follow if I didn’t immediately treat the headache with ibuprofen and pseudoephedrine. These days, those headaches are few and far between, and I haven’t had a migraine in many years. I can’t say I miss them. On the other hand, sometimes I would have an ocular migraine, an arc of light with a prismatic effect in my peripheral vision, very seldom accompanied by any discomfort. Those could be fascinating. The last time I had one I wrote about it, here.
Sijo (a Korean verse form related to haiku and tanka)
~ three lines of 14-16 syllables each
~ a total of 44-46 syllables
~ a pause near the middle of each line
~ first half of the line contains six to nine syllables
~ the second half should contain no fewer than five
Originally intended as songs, sijo can treat romantic, metaphysical, or spiritual themes. Whatever the subject, the first line introduces an idea or story, the second supplies a “turn,” and the third provides closure.
Modern Sijo are sometimes printed in six lines.
Read more here: Wikipedia
In darkness filled with the light of memories,
I call out in a voice that carries no weight.
The silence of your response echoes
in scenes that play out before me,
moments always out of reach but never
far from my mind, even in waking dreams
when I know you are gone but always
with me. The separation of decades
knows no distance, whether dreaming
or awake. Day and night are the same,
your absence all the difference. This is my response to dVerse – Poetics – Fractals, the prompt from Lisa at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to write a poem using “fractal poetics.” Alice Fulton describes this as exploring the structure of free verse as “a dynamic, turbulent form between perfect chaos and perfect order,” here.
His name does not come easily to her, and that is good. She refuses to speak it and would consider herself blessed if she never heard it again. For all the damage he caused her, she is now in a better place with that part of her life behind her. She’s had it sliced away. Leaving a scar would mean admitting that he is still a part of her. But there are no scars. It was a clean cut. Several clean cuts, in fact.
So, she was cutting his steak too thin for his liking? Within seconds of receiving a blow to the side of her head for once more failing to meet his standards, she drove the knife into his heart. Many, many cuts later, his body was bagged and ready for a night trip to the landfill. All traces of him gone.
This is my response to Prosery: slices and scars, the prompt from Sarah at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, where the challenge is to write a prosery, flash fiction or creative nonfiction, with a 144-word limit (here, exactly 144 words). Included in the bit of prose is to be a complete line from a poem. For this prompt, the line is from Liverpool, by Michael Donaghy: “she’s had it sliced away leaving a scar.”
“I thought of the future, and spoke of the past.” Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s
Through a haze that erases possession and masks potential, where is the horizon?
I grasp but find nothing. There is no satisfaction in what is denied.
Past and future out of reach, the present slips away with each passing moment.
This is my response to Eugi’s Weekly Prompt – Unbounded and the photo that is provided. It also responds to Poetics: Breakfast at Tiffany’s, although it is outside of the window to link it at Mr. Linky. (other responses here). That prompt from Linda Lee Lyberg at dVerse ~ Poets Pub provides several quotes from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” for inspiration.