#WEPFF #WEP The Harvest (#Poem #Poetry)

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*This is my entry for the Challenge above

 

The Harvest

 

Last week we took the ATV
Down the dirt road to survey the fields
Brimming with corn, wheat, and beans

Daddy said it was going to be the best harvest yet
We’ll finally be able to pay the past dues
And save the fledgling farm

Mother Nature
Oh how we tend to forget about her
At times

She has no mercy, she does not care
Man is nothing but a nuisance
An unnatural specimen in a natural world

Since that day of his joyous declaration
She ravaged the fields with a fury my Daddy never saw before
Ruthless, savage like a shark in a frenzy

This morning, I stayed inside but
I watched as Daddy soberly walked those same fields
His shoulders slumped, his head low

The best harvest turned out to be our worst,
And his final
God rest his soul

 

(Word Count: 142; NCCO)

*This was inspired in part by the recent destructive weather we’ve endured up here in North Dakota with September being the wettest on record, and the freak but historic snowstorm/blizzard on October 10-12 where two feet of (or more) snow blanketed the fields that have only been partially harvested. This may turn out to be one of the worst year for farmers in decades.
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Nightingale #Poetry #Spoken #Poem

This short poem was written for a group on Facebook – WE PAW Bloggers

 

 

 

 

Nightingale

 

The nightingale weeps a lonely song

Its mournful tune filling the forest

Splintering every branch and bark

While shedding pieces of a broken heart

As beacon for its lost mate

Caged Bird #Poetry #WEPFF #WEP #IWSG

It happened again
I feel so bruised. Battered.
Each word cutting, slashing
How one’s tongue can hold such power
Damaging. Damning.
More so than a hand. Yes, even more so than a sword.
I lie here, on the bed, trying to catch a breath
In between gasping sobs
He’d promised
I should have known better
My eyes sweep across the four walls
Their lavender-blue hues once beautiful
Now they’re nothing but bars
And I’m their prisoner
His
Oh how I long for freedom
To sing and to fly
However or wherever I wish
I should have known better
No sooner had I accepted the yellow ring
He clipped my radiant wings
And now I sit here like
A caged bird
With dying dreams of lofty peaks and open skies

 

 

*Author’s Note: This poem was written for the following writing challenge:

Click on image

Monday Story Prompt #Writing #Challenge

Write a micro or flash story (or if you prefer, a poem) around the following prompt:

Main Character

Lab assistant

Situation

Gets amnesia

Prop

Guitar pick

 

Post your story or poem in the comment section below. Deadline: This Friday, June 14th

No minimum words but try to keep it under 750 words.

Have fun!

Animivorator #Flash #Fiction

Dark gray clouds hung heavy in the sky like a blanket of wispy fog partially covering the treeline in the distance.

Kurt’s day didn’t start off on a positive note as he trudged along the heavily cracked road.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Buxton, I’m unable to work today due to an aging car that I can’t fix because the wage you’re paying me royally sucks!” he muttered as his brown eyes pandered ahead of each step, hands deep inside the pockets of the long black coat, “of all days to break down, it had to be today.”

“What’s so special about today?”

Kurt jumped and swerved around to see where the voice came from.

There was an old man standing well off the side of the road nearly encased in shadows. His clothes were tattered, his salt n’ pepper hair oily and unkempt. Kurt noticed a strange looking box that he held in his gnarly hands.

“Excuse me, sir, are you alright?” Kurt asked as he stepped slowly to the man.

The elder’s pale face only partially visible save the eyes which were hidden under the lid of a baseball hat with its emblem long worn off.

“Sir?” Kurt now stood a mere yard from  him. The wooden parcel appeared very, very old. Its craftsmanship told Kurt it came from a time long since past. The box wasn’t perfectly squared. No, it held more of a rectangular shape which reminded him of a–coffin.

“What’s so special about today?” the man asked again. His croaky voice carried an unrecognizable accent.

An icy breeze swept over them. Kurt’s body shivered as he buried his hands deeper in the wool pockets.

“Um, I have a presentation to make,” Kurt let out a sigh of frustration as the breath came out in a wavy mist and drifted upwards briefly before dissipating.

“One you really do not want to make,” the man stated as he continued to stand still.

Kurt cocked his head at this strange person before replying, “You’re right, I don’t really give a damn about the presentation.”

“What if I could take away the misery you call your life and give you one with a true purpose?” the man’s tone was an eloquent one.

Kurt straightened as he considered the man’s offer. The breeze suddenly halted as if nature was holding its breath.

Shrugging, Kurt said, “Sure, whatever.”

The man’s lips curled upwards ever so slightly, “Care to see what’s inside?”

Kurt glanced to the peculiar box, “Okay.”

As he took a step forward, the wind let out a whistling moan which caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand up.

He paused.

“There is nothing to fear,” the voice crooned.

Kurt watched as the lid slowly rose releasing a familiar scent.

Cinnamon.

“Come a bit closer,” the smile on the man’s lips grew when Kurt took another step, “and behold your future.”

As Kurt stood over the box, the first thing he noticed was that there were movements inside.

Was there something alive in there?

Blinking, he peered even closer.

At first, he thought he was looking at a box full of the old-fashioned clothespins painted grayish-white. He then realized that the tops held faces.

“What the hell?”

His mouth dropped when he noticed that these “clothespins’ were all looking up at him. With their rapidly fluttering eyes.

Black. Soulless.

“My god, what kind of freak are you?” He stammered as he attempted to take a step back, but a sharp coldness cascaded through his body when he discovered he could not move.

His boots remained planted in the dirty snow, his eyes on the ghostly stick figures.

“What kind of sick game is this?” Spit spewed from his lips.

With a joker’s grin, the man let out a soft, menacing chuckle, “My dear sir, I assure you that this is no game,” the interior now completely exposed, “it is futile to resist. Give in, and fulfill your chosen purpose.”

The more Kurt tried to move his head, or even a leg, the louder the drumming grew in his chest. His face, red with sweat beads rolling down the sides, he opened his mouth and let out an anguished roar that only the trees heard.

Panting, Kurt closed his eyes, fighting back the hot tears, “wh-wh-who the hell are you?”

“The name is Reike,” the man pushed up on the hat’s lid revealing a taunt face that held eyes that were like coals, and a mark engraved in his forehead – of a full moon with an eye in its center.

“And your soul now belongs to me!”

Story written for the Mid-Week Flash Challenge

Heart (a Found poem) #Write28Days #Poetry

Pixabay Free Images

 

*Note: This form is called “found” and I’ve taken snippets from several of my favorite songs to create this particular poem.

 

Heart

 

is a hollow muscular organ 

influenced by hard rock and heavy metal 

 

pain 

shortness of breath 

 

You know something here just ain’t right

what about love?

 

Baby, don’t hurt me

don’t hurt me no more

 

Like a knife that cuts you the wound heals

but the scar, that scar remains

there’s nothing I can do

 

Total eclipse of the heart

 

Baby, I won’t shed a tear for you

I was such a fool

boy, I gave you all my heart and all you do is tear it up

 

We could have had it all,

but

this hollow heart of mine

is ringing out the song of hope

for I have

the heart of a fighter

 

I will survive

 

 

 

Dance (A Cento Poem)

by gillesgrimoin on DevianArt

 

 

Is that dance slowing in the mind of man

The head of a sleeping man

My mind was going numb –

I need a place to sing, and dancing-room,

Wrecked, solitary, here –

All night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations —-

With blood

And then I heard them lift a Box

The deathly guests had not been satisfied

 

 

*Taken from the following poems:

Waking In Winter by Sylvia Plath

God Lay Dead In Heaven by Stephen Crane

I Felt A Funeral In My Brain by Emily Dickinson

The Dance by Theodore Roethke

 

Starting a New Challenge #Write28Days

Pixabay Free Images

 

For the entire month of February, I will be participating in a daily blogging challenge called #Write28Day (click on it for more information).

 

Begin

 

Back to the starting point
Easing my muse into yet another story idea
Grateful that she’s willing to oblige-
Immersing both mind and soul in the
New world of our making, not knowing if we’ll ever return to the old