?
The orotund timbre of the beating heart
A torrent of blood
Streaming
Torrid affairs
Dearth of good will
Draconian punishments
To obfuscate the truth
With ostentatious lifestyles
Prescinding from darkness
What’s love got to do with it?
Hour 14 – Mushroom Dragon – Image Prompt
Journal Entry 247
I came across a legend,
They looked to be like toadstools
Homes for fae the size of shoes
Too large to be normal mushrooms.
My colleague saved me from disaster,
Had I given in my toes would shatter
For these were hard as iron
Dragon eggs, a mushroom breed
Fungal and fantastic
Had I stepped upon them in attempted destruction
Their rocky-texture would have proved
Quite effective, and I would become
A witless, hapless, research detective
See beyond the iron exterior
The dragon shells are sporous
And should you inhale their dust
The symptoms are laborious
First there’s visions, then the sweats
Then there’s begging and regrets
Then the dragonlings will find you
And grow upon your skull
Parasites of decaying nature
They might as well steal your soul.
The Truthful Cow (a folktale)
The Truthful Cow
Punyakoti, the cow, was so truthful, she never lied,
She had had a little calf whom she idolized.
Her herd lived happily in the farmer’s care.
Once after grazing for a day in the forest
The cows were going home to be milked and to rest.
A tiger appeared, barring their way,
“I’m hungry, ” He said, “And you are my prey.”
The cows stampeded, but Punyakoti stood fast
And then she said, “I know, but let me take a last
Look at my calf, then I’ll return here to you
Then you can do what you are meant to do.”
The tiger, scoffing, laughed at her naivete
He believed that she would just run away.
She then asked him to come along to see
That she could follow through honestly.
She fed her calf, handed him over to the herd
Then followed the tiger, all undeterred.
The tiger could not bear to kill this truthful creature
So he decided to turn vegetarian, changed his own nature.
People called him Arbhuta the Amazing and forever more
This story was told in ballad and verse,
And legend and lore.
Hour 14- Fright & Flight
The soft flapping of the fragile wings,
As the butterfly hovers over flowers,
Scares me more than most things.
What keeps me up late at odd hours,
The incessant noise coming to an end,
As it’s overcome by other powers.
The flimsy membranes sure do bend,
With a careless whisk of a hand,
It lies broken and unable to fend.
In shock, the person does stand,
As the creature falls to pieces.
For the act wasn’t cruel; unplanned.
It’s why my anxiety increases,
Every time I spot a butterfly.
Hanging on a thin thread my peace is.
Note: The above is a terza rima poem, following the rhyme scheme ABA BCB CDC DED
Mountain Tales /prompt 14 -10 pm
Long ago in the mountains
Near the Amazon
The howling of wolves
Could be heard
It is said
That the mountainside weeps
Whenever a child is born
For the pain of the laboring woman
Can be felt by the very earth
You can feel the rumbling
And then she rests
When the birth of the child is complete
She weeps no more
Then the mountain, she sleeps in peace.
~Rebeli
The Poetry Marathon
Once a year we gather
🌎 worldwide 🌎
Connected by internet and wifi
Armed with our tools
Fingers that strike keyes
Pens that bleed ink
We shed our words
These thoughts and feelings
Memories reeling
Exposing our seams
Through this poetic community
We hold space
For what was, hoping
For what comes
Yearning to be seen
Longing to be read
What we mark
Between the lines
Is what we poets love
Final Destination (Hour Eleven, A Two Way Stop Sign poem)
Final Destination
The blue-lined paper stares at me,
as if mocking me in silence.
My big brain sits all but empty
as I scramble words together.
A pinch of this, a dash of that,
I mince words, creating chaos.
Admiring my misguided mess
I am clearly no Chef Ramsay.
At the mercy of my fingers,
I wonder where they will take me.
Will my final destination
be a piece of punctuation?
I buckle up for safety and
relinquish all control as
visions flash before my eyes and
unleash the story in my soul.
**** A stop sign poem, another of my crazy concoctions, is made up of eight line stanzas, and each line consists of eight syllables. The number of stanzas within your poem determines the numbered way of the stop sign. For this example above, since there are two stanzas, it would be a Two-Way Stop Sign.****
Prompt 12 – Devine Energy
Devine Energy
I have a desire to express… to bang and
pound until I’m spent.
Skins baby!
Put me in a room
with a dozen Japanese
drums; teach me to
pound them the right way.
Let me have my way…
I know the energy in
that space will literally
be Devine and will send
healing to my soul.
I am in need of this!
Fish, Enough for You to Fry
Fish, Enough for You to Fry
For years and years the fisherman had a friend.
It aided him– but, was equally pest.
Sought by the sturgeon, large mouth and small mouth
Hook, line and sinker did the trick every time.
Enough fish to make you happy, fill your
net again and again. The Mayfly is the bait
of which the fish can’t resist. Over rock and
under dock, the swarm is something
grand for all to see. The sky darkened black,
Hell on earth if but only for a brief time.
For the show is over as they lay their on the bed,
one would mistake them for dead but they are molting.
Riverbanks come alive with a million wings
yearning to meet in one final swarm.
Only for a moment, only once this year.
Understand the meaning, understand the plight.
The Mayfly is just as important to the earth as you are I.
Our future is with them and on them we rely.
Forgo the chit chat and let’s get to the point,
Read up on the little guy and then you will know.
You will never look at the Mayfly the same way again.
Hour fourteen, 10pm
Fish, Enough for You to Fry
(form Acrostic/ Blank Verse)
Charlie the Mayfly.
v.j.calone
If everyone cared
Underneath the trees,
we stare at the universe as it collapses in on itself.
Maybe it need not be a swirling vortex of entropy;
maybe we need look no further than inside ourselves to
repair all that lies on the outside.
Maybe we need to fix ourselves before moving on to the rest.
The fireflies are the sole illumination in an otherwise dark world.
You can only walk your own way for so long before your legs quit on you.
& as we lie under the light of the full moon, we realize just how less broken
we are then originally perceived. If they could see the same value in this world
as us, just think of how much brighter it all could be. Understand what is it to be anyone
but yourself. Only then will we see the day when iniquity is an ancient relic of yesteryear & empathy reigns supreme.