NaPoWriMo – Prose Poetry – April 16, 2016

Knobby kneed she’s not –  notice
the shapely curve of leg and thigh.
When one thinks of a skeleton in the closet,
One doesn’t expect this .. rather fleshy isn’t it?
Sam’s wife is sitting in the living-room,
(She’s just come back home unexpectedly).
He called me on the phone – asked me over …
I popped in without hesitation.
My apartment door is in front of theirs.
Now how do I get her out … amazing, Meredith
Hasn’t caught on yet … but then, he was wise –
He didn’t take her into their marriage bed!
She’s nearly dressed …
We’re ready to leave the guest room –
I explain my plan then I go ahead of her …
“Mere and Nadine – come here onto the terrace,
Let’s have a glass of wine.” he says.
“Fine!” I reply, thank heaven’s he’s got some brains.
Meredith sits with her back to the door.
The young women streaks through the room
And out the door she runs.
How is it that it doesn’t slam – a miracle I suppose.
I feel clammy – what one doesn’t do for a childhood friend.
Meredith rubs her knee against mine …
Now this is a different cup of tea,
She’s come home early to be with me.

© G.s.k. ‘16

Mindlovesmisery’s Menagerie – Photo Challenge #108 – by NEKNEERAJNaPoWriMo 2016

The Wooden Steed – Prose Poem – December 13, 2015

Maegan lost her steed as she slept under an oak tree one summer’s eve in the country of Wales.  He was no standard steed, as indeed neither was she, as she was a winsome fairy maiden.  Her true love had carved him of the most precious wood then gifted it to her the day they were betrothed.  She could have wept, but knew it was quite useless, so she searched through the forest and the towns ’til he was found.  He was on a dull pavement impaled on a pole in front of a pub, her anger knew no bounds. So she ranted in rage, threw fairy dust around (the town shook in a quake ’til all were afraid) then Maegan took off with a bound on her steed; neither were seen there again.

© G.s.k. ‘15

uncharted: A Six Sentence Story – Standard

Dark Blue Velvet Memories – Prose Poem – November 20, 2015

The dawn, yet to come – the sky is dark blue velvet and the wind whispers of the sea, these all speak to me of you.  You who loved to wind-surf on the sea, you who made sculptures with me out of jetsam and then we combed the sand as though it was a young girl’s tresses,  like Japanese monks.

The sea, so many long years ago, another velvety predawn.

A shepherd passed with his sheep each morning.  We awoke to the sound of the bell sheep, the others bleating behind it.  The shepherd always smiled at us, maybe thinking that we were a little crazy to sleep on the sand wrapped up in sleeping bags when we had a perfectly good tent set up.

“‘Giorno!” he’d say tipping his hat then he’d follow his sheep never looking back.

The days were hot and the sun intense, so we built a shelter of old straw mats, reeds and wood we’d found on the beach or just beyond the beach, in a sort of tangled grove.  We bought two folding chairs and during the hottest part of the day we sheltered, until the tide rose.

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And after a day of swimming and surfing, when the night came, we played our harmonicas as we waited for our dinner to cook over the open fire.  We drank our wine, talked for hours and then  made love under the stars to the sound of the waves on the shore.

this blue velvet sky
is turning purple now
the sea – far away
I walk along the lake – there
a lone surfer sails at dawn

© G.s.k. ‘15

 

 

 

Sunday Scribblings 2 – Velvet

 

OctPoWritMos – Prose Poem – October 3, 2015

 

Here, looking for that day under the sun, walking down darkest alleyways, along some mystic trail … I’m wondering or maybe wandering.  Will the Muse today smile on me or pass me by, will this be another dull day … or will it be the day of fame, as I go wondering, just wandering.  What is this haughty call for fame, that racks my brain and embroils my words, why look to the world’s approval, why seek out that tarnished mirror, ah but now I’m wondering – just wandering.   The fall comes quickly they say, if you climb the mountaintop to fame – one day loudly hailed with banners and applause and then too soon forgotten – in misty muffled fog and yet that Lorelei calls to me (and I would follow willingly) … just to be … to be … ah, but I’m wondering – just wandering.  And now the evening’s come at last and yet another day has passed, no fame has knocked upon my door, no recognition, no acclaim – as I sit here on these dampened steps in this unknown alleyway, I welcome these serene shadows … and I keep wondering … or maybe wandering.

© G.s.k. ‘15

Yesterday I came upon two verses written by two different poets whom I greatly respect, Paul Lenzi (Fifteen Minuets) and Gary Maxwell (Sonnet (fame)) – the subject was “fame” which inspired me to write this prose poem. William Blake’s “Who can Stand”  seems to me a wonderful piece of prose poetry, which was to be a prologue for a dramatic piece on Edward the Fourth (never completed). It  is one of my favourite pieces of verse … here is a version by Loreena McKennitt which is very moving!

 

October 3, 2015

Wordle – Prose Poem – February 11, 2015

The Chatelaine

She was a living symbol of elegance, like a renaissance castle but covered in a soft purple shawl.

Hidden deeply, was the dungeon where her soul shrivelled imprisoned, the oubliette opened onto an unused courtyard, where none ever came and the sun rarely shone.

Her rippling dark hair was like an improvised canal of moonlit water, flowing down her shoulders, reminding one man of holy scripture and another of a lovely piece of erotic poetry.

Her smile, never syrupy, never reached her eyes, looked upon the world, a petition for love, a request for a paddle that would guide the tiny canoe of her heart, severely dented by love’s disappointments, into serenity.

When she died, young and alone, one god looked upon her, he mourned her passing passionately and so transformed her into a willow that looked eternally out to sea, silently calling to lost lovers guiding them to the safety of her shores.

© G.s.k. ‘15

Mindlovesmsery’s Menagerie’s wordle contains 12 words: Canal,Ripple. Elegance, Shawl, Scripture, Improvise, Baggage, Oubliette (a secret dungeon with an opening in the ceiling), Syrup, Dent, Paddle, Petition

Amphibian Booties – Prose Poem/Wordle – February 8, 2015

Tiny booties once bound his feet, tender and soft wool wound about his tiny toes, no, long gone are those booties now, down a worm-hole of time.  I hear the sound of his clomping down the street (which would instill fear into a Cabaret clown living in Nazi Germany) with his amphibians just like jack-boots and yet I know all his wounds, hopes and fears, that haven’t yet been tempered by years and years of experience. No tiny toes fill these boots wound about with socks of fleece, walking down the streets sealed in hard leather, emitting sounds like stormy weather.  The seal of childhood has long gone into the tumbling eons of time … alive now just in my memory seen through the looking-glass of this old Alice, who’d tumble gladly down that rabbit hole, to hold once more those tiny feet, wound in fleeced booties … ah, they smelled so sweet.

© G.s.k. ‘15

wound, sound, burst, clown, emit, glass, fill , seal, another, tumble, fleece, instill

written for Sunday Whirl and Mindlovesmisery’s Menagerie – BJ Shadorma & Beyond using Brenda Warren’s Sunday Whirl Wordle.

wound, sound, burst, clown, emit, glass, fill , seal, another, tumble, fleece, instill

 

Sunday Photo Fiction – Prose Poem – February 5, 2015

And there he stands, waiting to visit, the opposite of the Michelin Man, old dry boned Reaper Man.  He looks through the windows on a dark winter’s night, when people are cozy by the warm fire light, not thinking of anything more then their comforts and pleasures, though Suzy has a cold and is wheezing loudly .. he knows where he’ll soon be invited.

The Reaper Man never comes without invitation.  Sometimes through carelessness sometimes in desperation, a gild trimmed card comes to him and he rarely says no.   Old Reaper Man stands near that famous curve in the road, where many have gone flying off of the road, having maybe drunk too much or gone to fast. He stands in the battle-fields, he stands in the ocean’s rage, in hospitals or maybe racing tracks and sometimes on a bright summer day, he waits to walk with an old lady or gentleman.

And now he stands near the window, waiting just waiting, to be invited yet once again. As Suzy wheezes and her temperature rises.

© G.s.k. ‘15

I’m still experimenting with prose poetry … I thank Al of A Mixed Blog and Sunday Photo Fiction for this interesting photo to write to! (This is also the last of the drafts I’d put aside for February 3rd).

Sunday Photo Fiction

Homeless Campers – Five Sentence Challenge (Prose Poem) – February 5, 2015

Walking along the city streets, wandering and wondering, at the many improvised beds I see of the homeless campers in the streets.

A flattened cardboard box used as a mat, paper and plastic bags to keep out the damp, and layers and layers of old clothes, these for the improvised beds of the homeless campers in the streets.

Ignoring the incessant traffic that rolls by, the midnight partiers who weave through their improvised dormitory, like drunken warders in a private school or those who take their dogs for their last evening spin, but not the police who sometimes round-up the homeless campers in the streets.

In the silence I watch the faces of those who’ve made it as they look on with disgust society’s human failures, who didn’t quite make the grade in our consumer heaven of bubble and bust economy and I see barely hidden fear, that one day they too might become homeless campers in the streets.

It’s bedtime … and I have a bed and home waiting for me, with a mattress and feathered duvet, no traffic, no dogs, no police nor drunks will disturb my rest, but maybe in my dreams I’ll see homeless campers in the streets.

© G.s.k. ‘15

This prose poem was written for:  Five Sentence Fiction – Bedtime

The Master – Wordle (prose poem) – February 2, 2015

The Master

A rainy day and he and his young patron played inside all day, first, rescuing Mistress Mary’s dolls from a fate worse that death, a terrible dragon’s rage —  so tickity, tickity, tick … up and down, up and down the stairs they went in quiet ticking measured steps, so’s not to waken the beast.

Then they’d had a race, in a state of high excitement — thump, thump, thump … up and down, up and down the stairs they went, the sound spread like a thunder-cloud and echoed through the house.

That night, Spot thought to himself with great humility, ah… what a wonderful day we’ve spent, then laid beside his sleeping master’s bed, spread out like a great black and white rug.

 

 

Eclectic Corner #5 Story Prompt and Sunday Whirl Wordle:  day, race, spend, state, rescue, spread, ticking, humility, cloud, patron, measure, host

Know: Friday Flash 55

Know

Seems that we all know exactly what’s going on.
We see the truth, we understand the right way of doing everything, based on what?

Our infallible understanding of how the world works,born from those formable impressions we’ve acquired looking at the world through our knowledge.

I wonder what a camel thinks about our ideas…

I’m linking this to 55 Flash at Howanxious
HA has informed me that the 55 Flash goes to G-man!