Back Alley Apple Jacks

Harold lives contentedly, his neighbors not included.
He sees their dreams of grandeur, grandly self-deluded.

Locals squirm and shiver, don’t know how to dress amid the general squalor.
Harold Haberdasher goes to work, grabs stumbling apple jacks by the collar,

Turns them into genuine gentlemen
Even gentle Benjamin
With his quirky regimen

Of gritty diner coffee and high voltage special Ks,
His lucky charms of power for surviving lightless days.

Crack sidewalk traffic staggers, this street life ain’t for kids
It’s iron-taste-in-the-mouth nonexistence on these back alley skids.

Lillian at dVerse Poets Pub asked for some brand name noodling.  My inspiration was Special K which as most of you will know is street language for the horrible drug Ketamine. I mixed up the rhyme scheme to match the mixed up world of the setting. 

Submerge

He didn’t glance back before falling forward
Into the still unknown of shocking cobalt.
Crystalline blue.

No one there to fuss or hold him
No one to cry out at just the right moment
Into the midnight afternoon breeze –
Please stay.

For those he’d loved always, eventually
Let go of his hand.
Left him stranded.
Cast away.

And when he realized this, his fate
He’d grieved. Hardened.
Become impenetrable stone.
Then (against even the quirkiest laws of nature)
Frozen to fragile ice, cracked, shattered.

If not submerged within this serene, sharp sapphire
Where else was he meant to be?

Written for dVerse, an ekphrastic poem responding to a work of art. Here that work is a beautifully complex, yet simple, evocative painting by Fay Collins

Zip-line

Zippo snaps, sparks the flame,
Essential for this daily tinder routine.

Zig zags contain dusty, seedy remains of
His birthday stash from Lex and Jean.

Dad’s lighter, used over years
Engraving’s worn off and disappeared.

What a crazy old ride from cigar to spliff.

Photo by Evan Phillip on Unsplash

Written for this week’s quadrille prompt on d’Verse: use some form of the word ‘zip’.

Fledgling

Fourteen.
My days as dangerous and echoing as a tin with razor sharp edges thrown into the bin.
Then summer. You.
Your free spirit like birdsong, trilled,
Found me, loved me, filled my world to bursting.
Egg shells cracked mosaic-like,
Fledgling life peaked through.

For Monday’s d’Verse Quadrille prompt: Egg

Damage

Sinewed hands grab my shoulders, shove me sideways down unfamiliar streets.

Glowing in the distant dark there shimmers a landed mermaid, enchanting, enticing,

Melting in the tarnished silver spoon I wasn’t born with.

Burns my hands. Burns my veins.

Soundless, the world is ash.

44 words (quadrille) for d’Verse. Prompt word: burn

 

Murmurs

When he speaks plain truth to himself, not often that is,
He whisper-tells that when he twists door handles, enters,
Rooms chill into icy, stony-silent, thin air.

But his deliberate shuffle awakens low-register murmurs,
Piercing, hot hissed hums.
Air full, no, fat.
Like him.

44 word quadrille for today’s dVerse Pub

Canto

Lean down and let me kiss your furrowed brow.
Let me sweep away the shadowy doubts,
Brush them aside with symphonic flourish,
With a lover’s grand, poetic gesture.
An ode to our unparalleled connection,
A canto for the exquisite years we’ve left to be.

44 words for dVerse Pub’s quadrille prompt: poem

Uncontained

Startling crimson seeped across his chest,
Truth displayed for all to view,
Hidden wound of woe expressed,
Proud demeanor now unglued.

Shattered moans escaped blued lips,
Scarred broken heart made final leap,
Across the whitewashed room and splattered,
With love gone, it didn’t matter.

****

dVerse Poets Pub challenge – write a poem or short prose of exactly 44 words, including the word leap.

Festive

Shadows blink, Christmas lights twinkle,  bright white, bright pink, on and off, on and off.

Yet no golden-present miracle nor present-giver appears, two times a loss of Christmas miracles for me, for me.

It seems an utter sham to swathe a house with fir, a house devoid of spirit and of cheer, cheery me, cheery me.

Will hark the herald angels music sing or let it snow drifts, will music change this feeling, feeling off, on and off, on and off.

Shadows lose their sparkle now, the day’s hope fading, the light turns dark, the bulb’s burned out, and so it goes.

Then there I go, off I go,off I go, off I go.

(from the archives)