Prose poetry

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 18, Mephistopheles’ Resignation

For the eighteenth poem of our 30-poems-in-30-days project, known as NaPoWriMo by those of us who attempt the daily prompts, we have been challenged to write a poem where a speaker expresses a desire to be something or someone else and explains why.

My theme is somewhat of a metaphysical humorous spoof. Silly? Maybe.

Mephistopheles’ Resignation

My Dearest Iblis, Nick,

I have decided to transition.
As being without beginning or foreseeable end is boring.
I shall miss you, my old demonic friend.

I can no longer stand pointlessness without end, treason without reason,
night without day, EXISTENCE —

Existence without purposeful term.
None of it continues to hold the least appeal to me.

Of all possible forms of life both universes hold,
I have decided to be human on Earth because they are most like us.

Although…

I am undecided over the whole sex/gender, man/woman or whatever.
It is confusing to me since we have no such identities.

And what of religion? And politics? Will I know then what I know now?

The whole live birth thingy, colors, orgasms, music, and…
(for the love of Beelzebub) … arguing over what is art and what is not holds familiar pointless diabolical promise.

The love. And the hate — they are so much better at it than even our most despicable offspring of Lucifer.

Since time has no meaning for us, I cannot give you a when, but I hope soon because when the Diablo hears of this, there will be Hell for me to pay. That’s human sarcasm.

Anyway…

I ask that once I pass through some birth canal if you and the others would please keep your distance.

Remember, eternity runs both ways. I demand that y’all stay on your side of the Cosmos.

With ambivalent love, mine not yours,

Azazel Zone

Look both ways for greener pastures.
Life is all it’s cracked up to be because it is transitory.
Mind the gaps and hold on to the facts. Reality is what it is, or maybe what it isn’t.

 

Note: Mephistopheles, Diablo, Iblis, Lucifer, Old Nick, Beelzebub, and Azazel are names for devils or demons.

NaPoWriMo 2024 Day 3, Boom Boom

On the third day of April, I was given, via prompt, the task of writing a surreal prose poem (whatever that is). Since on Day One I chose to poetically recount the plot of Going After Cacciato (Tim O’Brien), and since it is somewhat psychedelically surreal, I decided to pop a prose poem based on that, with sadly surreal over-and-undertones, metaphors, allusions, suggestions, and damn lies.

Taking this poem literally can lead to a bad trip, man. If you ask, “What does that mean?” I ask, “What do you mean by mean?”

Boom Boom

In the Nam, the tunnel was the cuckoo’s nest of tightly squeezed death. It all went down that way because the blind leading the blind works better than the blind leading the sightful spiteful since the can-sees commonly also perceive gospel. At the observation post, Big Rifle, Jungle Doc, and Ready Mix watched as Stink Harris got blowed up, floating away, leaving only his face inside his helmet: undead—with a smile. So, they slithered off on a hunt to hook Cacciato. After floating down a cliff, they caught the next train to Delhi where he had jumped one to Kabul! Afghanistan, man. Flashbacks were set to the green alternate timeline when they wigged out because of the oppressed wartime dullness of sightings in Iran or Izmir, Turkey. They hear Sarkin say, “the way in” and she whispers, “is the way out.” Shell Shocked sings it, “Billy Boy, Billy Boy, Billy Boy lived but he was too afraid to die.” He was then a dead head. The smoke clears in Paris. In The World, man. Because being in the war is such a magical and wonderful thing, dead or alive. Boom-boom!

Look both ways for the real never is,
and in every lie, there is truth.
Mind gaps and try, try, try to understand being universally lost.

Sammi’s Weekender #297 (key)

Click on graphic to go to Sammi’s blog page where more 71-word poetry or prose are key.

 

 

Whispering Cuts

Lost in a familiar sea of grave reality, my dysfunctional heart not yet surrendered, something of which none are certain. Worry descended like a pall over my will. Sadness has taken control of my soul. Well-intentioned, high-riding key influencers are wheedling me into their delusional corner. Life, lies, and what matters: shut down before I hit the ground. I ponder death, or better, conceivably, never to have been born at all.

Look both ways, but in the end, it is just the end.
Nothing more.
Mind the gaps of life’s traps.
Sometimes it’s your fault. Sometimes it’s not.

Friday Fictioneers for February 3rd, 2023

We’re iced-in over (down) here in Texas, which means it is our bi-annual week of winter.

While Rochelle is recovering from strokin’ too hard, she has rattled our senses with an Alicia Jamtaas photo taken on a lovely romantic day. Our gig now is to write fewer than 101 words telling the stories that our muses whisper to us as we look at Alicia’s pic.

If your muse is tugging at your mind and makin’ you wanna play, click Ms. Jamtaas pic to dance on over to Rochelle’s blog page where you’ll get to read all about it.

PHOTO PROMPT © Alicia Jamtaas

Genre: Dream-dancing Fiction
Title: There She Was
Word Count: 100

***

It was a hot one. I was minding my business, walkin’ down the street, snappin’ my fingers, shufflin’ my feet, feelin’ the beat.

I saw her sitting there. My heart stopped. We waved. It was love. Music played. We danced. We started callin’ out round the world. Everybody was dancing in the street.

If this is a dream, may I never awaken. I called to her, “Baby, let’s make it real.”

We did with all the music playing, we were all singin’ and dancin’ and hot , hot, hot. She yelled, “Carlos, I love you. “I said, “my name’s Bill.”

***

Look both ways but love may be sitting up above on yonder windowsill.
Mind the gaps but (flash mob) dance when you can.

Click on the salsa dancers to flash on over to the inlinkz page for more hot stories.

AND, A little Smooth guitar from the great Carlos Santana to better tell the whole story.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 24)

Just click on this button for the prompt page and more poems.

For the final Sunday and to begin the last week of National Poetry Month, I’ve been egged on to the sunny task of writing a poem that describes using hard-boiled simile. The prompt suggested similes such as those used in detective stories featuring a tough unsentimental protagonist with a matter-of-fact attitude towards violence. I slipped in some horror genre.

The moon that night reflected light outlining everything and everyone with tarnished silver lines and a grayish tint covering, like the lining of an old vampire’s coffin. Our faces were puffed and molted like poisoned mushrooms on stems growing out of our jackets. The tree we hung him from looked like a dragon’s skull with dead, dried bones — fingers and hands protruding in all directions. It was as bleak and hopeless as a baby’s funeral. The smell was as if standing in an old open crypt exuding the musty odors of long dead flesh. Gravediggers’ shovels made rhythmic sounds cutting earth like piercing chunks of lead striking burned ashes of dead bodies. No one made another sound. Each wondered if we had killed him dead enough, or would he rise again like the devil’s undead corruption? It was our common thought, a fear that united our cause but shadowed our minds like a haunting nightmare’s gloom. We were men, but that night we were like the evil undead lamenting a hopeless mantle of some human hell.

Look both ways when identifying good and evil.
Each defines the other by its absence, yet the absence of one makes the other incomparable.
Mind the gaps when laying blame. Nothing is perfect.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 1)

Today is day one of the 30-day National Poetry Writing Month challenge to write a poem each day of the month. I plan to write to the prompts which are posted early every day. There are few rules to this and the prompts are optional.

Today I am to write a prose poem that is a story about the body. My poem should contain an encounter between two people, some spoken language, and at least one crisp visual image (could be more, could be other senses).

Her Superpower

Big at inception, his cesarean birth was through her swollen uterus and abdomen. Long tearful battles with Narcissus followed. Ripped apart for years, she eventually won her prince who grew into a tall, bulky, powerful, erupting, ever-growing, mountain of a lad. A strapping, kind chap, but like her, blemished by wee fits of fury over wounded honor.

Together they camped where broken was typical. Where hurt hurled tearless acrimony and demons encircled souls. At home but not a home of their own, west of the living and the dead, where spirits danced quietly like running shadows.

“Powerful in body, be strong, kind of heart and mind, my son.” He looked at her and spoke, “I think I can, but I cannot see my way. What mystery is my future? Will you always be with me?” She replied, “I cannot carry your cross, but you can see it there. By your mastery alone shall you lift and bear all burdens. Your will shall overcome.”

Her voice sang in his ears as he stepped onto the platform of his agony. His powerful hands tightly clutched his cross, his face burned red, he lifted as his hands and legs shook, his eyes bulged as he cried out. Every cell of his being bellowed in triumphant pain, he stood holding it still until white lights allowed his release. “I’ll be back.” He smiled, turned in triumph, then he proudly stomped and crowed toward her.

Look both ways.
Make the party yours.
Carry your own cross but mind the gaps for fearful traps.