CCC #72
They hung about her neck
like thick links of leaded chain.
The callused whelps of necessity
having given offshoot
to those of lesser girth
each suckling in kind
from the breast of that
which had gone before
until truth had become
indistinguishable
from fabrication and
she no longer remembered where
fantasy broke off and reality began.
This piece of visual poetry is my response to the photo prompt offered this week on Crimson’s Creative Challenge #72
as i lie awake, at night
in the tv’s after glow
past strung out
like photographs
light flickering, just so…
silent movies
brought to life
on my minds silver screen
celluloid imbued memories
things that may
or may not have been…
accuracy no longer matters
as it all plays out
in black and white
our love affair
edited to perfection…
as i lie awake, at night
on occasion,
bits of her broke free.
they slipped onto
greasy platters
piled high with
thick cured bacon and
fluffy scrambled eggs.
were made palatable
with a gloss of
sweet cream butter
or a slathering
of strawberry jam.
washed down
behind strong
hot coffee slurped
from never empty
cups which sat atop
the cool laminate
counter top
behind which-
she existed.
A while back I was involved in a comment conversation that revolved around the idea that certain classes of people seem only to exist in the setting in which they are familiar to us. I believe this piece to be an off shoot of that conversation.
The Poor Fisherman by Pierre Puvis de Chevannes (1881)
We cling together
Like starving fishermen
Pulling up stones.
Casting nets by day
Lots by night
Crooked tooth smiles
flash. As short
straws are drawn.
This verse was inspired by the two phrasal prompts offered by the OLWG this week. The phrases were: we cling together and fishermen pulling up stones.
Hoar frost in Anchorage via Reddit
There’s nothing bleak about midwinter in Alaska
Nothing bare denuded or exposed
Nothing unsheltered unprotected or unshielded
Every piercing raw stinging second of it
Glimmers and glows glistens and glitters
With a resplendency rival to that of a sun
A sun who would rather sink and simper
just below the line of the horizon,
than harm one hoar frost hair
on an Alaskan winter’s crystalline head.
This poem is my entry into Chelsea Ann Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest. This weeks theme is The Bleak Midwinter.
Thru Violet's Lentz 