Monthly Archives: January 2012


Shawna at Rosemary Mint challenges us this week with these words: carom, pygmy, glistening, spry, chalet, electric, sprig, aver, callow, manic.


Chalet di Montagna

Image by kenyai via Flickr

caroms through the valley,
electric explosions echo
off mountain sides
littered with pygmy
sprigs of early spring.
Spry lightning dances the cloud-tops,
layers of white silence falls below,
covering the hidden chalet
where youth races in callow,
manic urgency to aver its vows –
glistening skin, melting sighs,
the only storm they know.




Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Flash Fiction

A couple of more offerings for Flashy Fiction. Check them out for some great prompts.



It was all an evil plot to driver her mad. She hated all of it; being inside, parading around in a dress, getting pictures taken, old aunts hugging her close, ugh. Being inside though, that was the worst.

Right now there were three boys outside (and one mangy yellow cur of a dog) wondering where she was. They were supposed to be going to the creek today; everything was planned. Jimmy and Bobby were bringing the poles, Sam had the bait and she had the net. If she did not get out of here quick they would leave without her.

Her mother had not told her about this little family get together after church. It had to have been on purpose, knowing she would have snuck off otherwise. Now she was trapped. Father had caught her three times trying to get out a door. Each time he just smiled and headed her back into the gauntlet.

She stood for the picture, even smiled, in the hopes that it would serve as penance and get her released. But it was too late; she had seen them through the window heading down the walk out of town. Bobby had looked back once and the dog kept stopping and sniffing the air, like he was trying to find her.

She settled into the chair in the corner of the room, hoping to be unnoticed. She stared, transfixed, as the room began to change around her. Trees came into focus in the living room and there was a stream where the kitchen was. The door beside the fireplace melted into the garden gate and the sounds of the woods filled her ears.

Her father watched her as she dozed off in the chair, wondering about the playful smile on her sunburned face.


A Night Out


“Wake up! C’mon, let’s go. Need to be movin’ on.”

“What? Oh, damn!”

“Yea, I’m guessing that bright light smarts, don’t it. Get on your feet, pal. I don’t want to be bothered with running you in, but I can’t just leave you here either.”

“Um, yea. Where…?”

“Man, that must have been some night. Been a lot of years since I pulled one of those. Heard the Red Horse will do that to you. Crazy place.”

“The Red Horse? Yea, that sounds familiar. How did you …?”

“Stamp is right there on the back of your hand, son. Kind of hard to miss.”

“Oh, yea. So it is. Where am I?”

“Seventeenth Street, between Downing and West Auburn. Lucky you picked this stairwell too. This place is abandoned. If you had tried to sleep it off one over from here and that little oriental woman would have beat the hell out of you with her broom.”

“No, would not have wanted that. Oh, boy.”

“Steady there, hold on to the wall. Not sure how you got down here without killing yourself. Maybe you do need a few hours in the drunk tank.”

“No, no, I’m good. Just need a cab and a shower. Maybe some coffee.”

“HAHA, I’ll bet. A few aspirin, too. All right, pal. You seem to be harmless. Head on home. Just remember that Atlanta’s finest let you off when the FOP collection guy comes around.”


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Filed under Creative writing, Flash Fiction, Free Write, Short Story

drops of red

For The Mag prompt of the below photo.

tears –

like drops of red

escaping the


to fall without meaning

on abstract painting –

mingle with the salt


on the bevnap.

scent of lime

infuses fingers

while the


speaks its warning

in a language





Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

The Sunday Whirl Wordle

The challenge this week is to use the following words in a Poem. Born, feet, earth, fresh, frozen, serenity, flame, anguish, shocks, field, startles, permeable.




The fresh earth of the field

returns his serenity –

to work the soil, broken at

his feet,

a flame to his

frozen thoughts,

a salve to

anguished heart.


Born to this land,

restored by circumstance;

a plowed row


memory that

shocks his

permeable soul –

tears irrigate a

new life.



Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

kissing the ceiling

Response to the We Write Poems photo prompt.

he slept while
she dreamed,
restless outside
of his thoughts.

he slept while
she roamed,
breaking chains
of indifference.

he slept while
she searched,
spread her arms
embraced the sky.

he slept while
she learned to fly.

Posted to dVerse Poets.


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Catching (up on) Stones

Jan 25

Proverbial ear-to-ear grin,

proud of the hard earned test grade

and the praise of pride-full parents.


Jan 26

The puppy (biggest already of three dogs),

less concerned with her ‘business’,

or even the food in the bowl,

as she is with giving and

receiving affection.

Perhaps we ….

Need I even ask the question?

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Filed under Poetry, River of Stones

Positive Mental Attitude

The Attitude of Observation

Days of winter           rain

        have       dampened

earth               mood

            energy                                    motivation.

The dwarf maple stands

branches        bent

in a pool of



Rain clings to every

barren                                    limb

      shimmering    stand-ins   for

each     cast      off      decoration.

Arrogant ravens claim the


ignore the rain

in their


No omen do I perceive –

but a refusal to be


as if they still

            gather                         for       Ellijay.

Night brings a

            forced             quiet

of         weighted        fog

interspersed with

muted             musical






Process Notes (which i do not normally do): an experiment, trying to control mood and flow with structure and spacing with minimal punctuation. Centering it was the only way I could come close to the formatting I was trying to accomplish; and it still will not give me the spacing I wanted between stanzas. Also trying for something close to Imagism as a style. Let me know if it works!

Posted to dVerse poets open link night.


Filed under Poetry

Flashy Fiction – Photo Prompt

Well, I tried to post this to Flashy Fiction ( a cool flash fiction prompt site recommended by Poetic Bloomings), but once again Blogspot denied me the ability to post. Aggravating. Anyway, here is the photo and my depressing flash piece.

She kept herself busy most of the time. It was the best cure for overwhelming loneliness. Their basement apartment had been turned into a laundry where she washed sheets for the army hospital.  Everyone did their part, and with the men all gone the work was left to the women.

There was a never-ending supply of sheets. The wounded seemed to come in faster every day. She did not mind the work; it was hard and left her tired at the end of the day when sleep threatened not to come. The bleach was harsh on her hands and the washboard hell on her back, but she knew it was nothing compared to what her husband endured. Like the other wives, she dealt with her discomfort stoically; happy they had at least been spared artillery and air raids thus far.

They adapted; there was no choice. Every attempt was made to maintain some sense of normalcy. Stores were still open, though often poorly stocked. Meals were often sparse as well; cabbage plentiful but rarely any meat. They could get flour for making bread and that served well to fill empty stomachs.

She only allowed herself emotion twice a day; before going to sleep when she missed him the most, and when she woke and could still feel his arms around her. But every day she was hit once more with a force like a punch to the stomach. Even though she tried to prepare for it, she always had to turn away.

Each day after school her boy would come home and stand in the window. He would lean out over the bricks bleached out by the wash water they dumped on the walk. Every day he would stay there until dark, scanning the faces of the men in uniform that would wander by. Looking for the one that called him son.


Filed under Creative writing, Flash Fiction, Short Story

River of Stones – Jan 24

A day of sun at last –
illuminated browns and rust of
dead winter foliage preferable
to the wet grays.

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Filed under Poetry, River of Stones

Dragons and Old Men

Just some fun with a good ol’ sword and sorcery yarn.

Damn, but dragon hide is sturdy stuff,
my lance broken, horse dead or run off.
My shield was busted by a swipe of tail,
helmet went flying and left arm broken.

Our foolishly brave troop is down to me plus three,
all hiding and rethinking our chivalrous vows.
Two have died from swipes of massive claws,
three roasted in fiery breath, one ingested I fear.

Sitting here with my back against this boulder,
wondering how in the hell to get out of this mess,
pledging that the monastery will be my destination;
damsels can stay in distress, the dragon keep his gold.

What’s this? A newcomer to our futility. Oh Joy!
Much help, I am sure, this old man trudging up the hill;
stooped against the slope, leaning mightily on his staff,
clothed in oversized robes and wide brimmed hat.

Halfway up the hill, just below my hiding place,
he is greeted by the dragon’s challenging roar.
Stopping, as if mildly distracted by the breeze,
he looks from under his hat and strokes his beard.

I hear the now familiar mighty beating of dragon wings,
the old man seems unperturbed, as if studying the event.
Another roar is accompanied by the heat of belched fire;
much like viewing the executioners work, I cannot look away.

Suddenly straightening with unexpected speed and strength,
he thrust his staff forward as the fire engulfs him….
What?! I saw it but do not believe! The dragon’s fire parted,
passed him by on sides and above; not a singed hair in his beard!

There is a new tone now to the dragon’s cry; rage maybe? Fear?
The sorcerer takes a step forward, staff held high in right hand,
steely eyed he begins raising the left as he starts chanting,
a white, glowing globe begins to form in his upheld hand.

Continuing his mumbling as he slowly takes two more steps,
coming even with my spot as the globe grows and swirls.
Beating wings are deafening now as he thrust left hand forward,
launching his magic at his monstrous, unsuspecting foe.

A brilliant, blinding explosion of light and a piecing scream….
I awake to his gentle hand on my arm; ‘Is it over? Is it dead?’
He smiles and shakes his head. ‘No, one does not kill a dragon.
You just have to convince it that it is time for it to move on.’

He stands and takes up his staff, a helpless old man once more,
and makes his way down the hill, carefully avoiding the rocks.
My remaining companions gather round and watch him go,
all somewhat surprised that he left us the damsel and the gold.




Filed under Poetry