Left, Right, Left
Loudly, we would wrangle well into the wee hours.
Gene and I would worry all but us; uneasy friends, smok-an’ drinkin’ buds
with different ways we saw our world.
Not even—no more.
Look and listen both ways. Lean from friends.
Mind the gaps of age and wisdom, our unforgiving nature.
***
Demonstrative was what Mom said,
but no one ever called me histrionic.
A sober adult, some said automaton,
a stoic robot.
One who cared,
but cared not to show it.
I wonder now though
about this thing with Carlin.
I’m unsure if I’m that good,
or that bad.
Look both ways into emotions and dispassionate objectivity.
Mind the ever-present gaps for stumbling blocks.
Note: I used the noun form of rectify in the title and three synonyms in the piece. Mia culpa.
Rectification
His heart and hers, broken, they had caused their own tragedy. Together, they moved forward, not on, using glue of the gods, Mars & Venus, to correct, reform, and amend repairs. Their common desire: love.
***
Look both ways to “mend a broken heart”.
Mind the gaps for “misty memories of days gone by.”
My inspiration.
Thanks to Rochelle @ Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple for another Friday Fictioneers inspiring Wednesday photo. Her weekly challenge is to write a story of 100 words or less based on a photo prompt. This week’s inspiration is provided by C.E. Ayr.
Genre: (Autobiographical) Fiction
Title: Some Friends
Word Count: 100
***
I was to meet Clair, Jack’s wife, on the movie set. We met for coffee during her break. Clair introduced me to Astrid, who left us alone to talk. She got to the point.
“Bill, I’m leaving Jack.”
I said I was not surprised.
She said, “You’re his best friend. How can you say that?”
“Yes, I am. But I have no idea why anyone would want to be married to him.”
“Bill, you don’t understand. I am leaving him for another woman. You just met her.”
“Oh shit, Clair. I wish I could be there when you tell him.”
***
Look both ways in life and love.
Mind the gaps in close friendships.
Many thanks to Rochelle @ Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple for pointing me to another photo-inspired Friday Fictioneers. The weekly challenge she presents is to write a story based on the photo prompt, provided today by Ted Strutz.
My task is to write a complete story in 100 words or less.
Title: One Last Time
Genre: Fiction (Southern Gothic)
Word count: 100
***
Abject fear hit me when I saw his house, familiar feelings founded on my childhood nightmares with an abusive father and an enabling mother.
I love South Carolina’s low country but have few good memories, a good place with fine people. But not him.
I walked the three steps to front door. A gunshot stunned me. I ducked, looked around, then carefully opened the door.
He put the WWII .45 on the table and said, “Safety’s broke. I ain’t goin’ to no death house.”
“Well, Dad, you cannot live here. And you damn sure ain’t livin’ with me. Now pack!”
***
Look both ways for the life you’ve lived.
Mind the gap like a bad dream.
Many thanks to Victoria Slotto for hosting the dVerse, Poets Pub bar for this prompt. Our play is to write a quadrille (44-word poem) that uses any form of the word garden.
***
Hortus Art
Neither musician nor gardener am I,
yet their music I love. My camera
captures beautiful flowers, botanically
cultured or randomly given by
nature’s pressing flora.
Perceived beauty touches every sense.
In wind, rain, desert’s secret bounty,
all life contributes to more life.
Love it.
***
Look both ways into the magical world of horticulture,
to the earth, air, and sky.
Mind the gaps for contributing animal life.
Click here for a link to the links of all the other participants.
I pass sweet scented bushes on my trek to hike trails,
I listen to songs. I see the cobalt blues and pinks
of early morning predawn skies. Then sunrise.
The familiar places, benches to rest, to drink,
to ponder, sometimes to listen
and to think about nature.
No talking. I write notes in my book,
a poem about this ravine I dare not cross,
about rocks for stepping or tripping.
About finding happiness outside my comfort zone,
as they say in the voice of cliché,
about what’s a name or identity. Am I what I did?
And the viper, that snake may not allow
my passage as he or she sunbathes
and the morning warms its cold blood.
Look both ways, but tread with care. Mind the gaps where vipers rest.
Dying to Self
The obdurate lad labeled shallow,
his brooding nature, vengeful plotting,
lacked love, friendship, deep perspective.
The cold-hearted brutish Devil Dog
sought glory in death, salvation through agony,
shadows to kill without meaning or purpose.
Death and destruction his insensate shield,
as he was, he couldn’t survive
in this world at peace with love.
Curses of sympathy and empathy
mysteriously hatched humanity into his soul.
The old poet sleeps feeling thoughts of emotion.
Look both ways for the glory of Beowulf.
Mind the gaps in hidden emotions,
lest the beast of Cain’s progeny kill the stoic.
I wrote two poems for Sammi’s weekender. I posted the first one Saturday. This is the second.
Everything Changes
Into a kaleidoscope
of passion we creep,
from stumbling blocks
to steppingstones,
we eventually leap
mortared passages,
segues of
unplanned journeys,
everything changes.
Look both ways to see all parts of life.
Mind the gaps where trouble may lurk.
Never heard of Bukowski.
Frost, Yeats, Whitman,
certainly Poe. Those guys;
and Dickenson, Browning,
later Plath and Angelou.
Mary Oliver, too. New and youngs
like Canuck Chica, Kaur.
Gone two decades plus six, old Hank,
who’d turn a hundred this year,
took hold of my poetry reading.
Also liking some Billy Collins
and Clive James. Tony Hoagland’s
pleasant prose and light but raunchy
poems been worth my time.
Poetry, a pleasure,
in the writing and for the reading,
yet brainy head scratchers
laced with metaphoric depth have
pride of place on a lover’s shelf.
Raw life, pain, and beauty without
pretentious creativity,
Old Buc’s art “is its own excuse.”
Look both ways,
to the darkness of shadows
and to the colors of light.
Mind the gaps of the matrix.
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