not my god…

Chava and Feyedka

He turned his back on his daughter,
his ‘Chavala’
to him, she is dead.
he did so, because she married Feyedka,
a Russian, not a Jew.
he did so, because his traditions dictated it.
he did so, because he believed with all of his heart it was the right thing-
the only thing to do.
he did so despite the fact
that it tore him apart
that it was inconceivable
that it made no sense.
he did so, because he honestly believed
it was required by his god to do so.

Who can logically explain to me
what god of love
of compassion
of creation
of order
would put one mans religious affiliation
so highly above another,
that he can forsake his own child?
what god would inflict this wound
upon his most cherished creation?
that which he “created in his own image”?

not my god…

Written for Chelsea Anne Owens Terrible Poetry Contest, subject An Epic Movie. This of course is based on my favorite epic movie, Fiddler on the Roof..


When I was but twelve, I wanted to be
the most beautiful girl you ever did see.
with shining gold hair, pure alabaster skin,
I was vain to a fault, tho’ I knew it a sin.

At my mirror I’d sit, I’d primp and I’d preen,
with my dishwater hair, and eyes muted green.
I’d pose and I’d pucker, I’d smile and I’d gloat,
“Someday above all of these peasants I’ll float!”

I’d call down from my perch, in a old gnarled tree
“Spellbound by my beauty, is what you will be!!”
At the time I was young, and was not yet aware,
that the spirits that be, were indeed everywhere..

I was yet to surmise, and would never have known,
that the gnarled old tree that I thought was my throne,
was an old soul indeed, and quite wizened with age,
who I came to find out, was called Grandmother Sage..

The tone of her voice was so soothing and kind,
she spoke Shakespearean English, so poetic, refined.
and like my own grandmother, she just couldn’t withhold,
when I begged her for beauty and tresses of gold..

After thorough consideration, and much pleading on my part
no longer could she deny me, this desire of my heart.
“If it’s spellbound that you wish, so spellbound they will be
every creature, thus forth, that casts its eyes upon thee…”

There was no clap of thunder, no chorus of angel song
for a moment I admit, I thought she had done something wrong.
“And as for you my child, tonight you’ll bed in yonder field.
as in the morning light, true beauty’s secret shall be revealed..”

So I heeded her advise, and went off alone to claim my prize.
falling asleep in the moon light, with stardust in my eyes.
Come morning I awoke, and at first thought I’d been cursed.
all alone in yonder field, my broken heart nearly burst.

“Grandmother!” I called out, but she was no where to be found.
and I, was going nowhere, firmly planted in the ground.
For many a year thereafter, I cursed her, and failed to thrive,
as I found myself rooted, so much more dead than alive.

Then once upon a spring time, a traveling carnival did pass,
and it was then, I spied myself, in a mirrored piece of glass.
Spellbound by my own beauty, I couldn’t believe my eyes,
my glimmering golden tresses back lit by sun drenched skies…

“If it’s spellbound that you wish, so spellbound they will be
every creature, thus forth, that casts its eyes upon thee…”
It was only then I realized, Grandmother Sage had bestowed upon me
The wizened beauty of the ancients, as I saw myself- a golden tree…

Posted with a special nod to Carrot Ranches Flash Fiction Prompt, to write about a tree, even though I did not adhere to the 99 word limit.

Sucked clean

She sat alone on the bank of the river
like bones sucked clean of flesh.
Empty. Hollow. Numb.
Her mother was gone.
She was alone now. An orphan.
Alone in a world in which she belonged to no one,
and no one belonged to her.

Her thoughts led back to
the clinic. To the day
they casually sucked the stray soul
from her womb.
So her mother would never know.
She wished now she had told her
That she could hold that baby in her arms.

She sat alone on the bank of the river.
And rocked.

Written for Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge utilizing Misky’s
Twiglet, ‘sucked bones clean’.

and we dance…

Image by Shrikesh Kumar from Pixabay

the moon high and full
soothing and warm..
me in red silk
you, all in black.
we glide above the floor,
you the wick, and i the flame.
consumed. devoured.
we sing, beloved love songs
no one else can hear.
i the melody,
you the refrain.
your lips fall,
soft upon my throat,
leaving behind
the essence,
of a warm wet wind
where your tongue has been.
you caress me with your lips,
you trace my soul,
marking me.
the sweet scent of you
upon my flesh,
becomes mine.
your eyes concealed,
you are silhouetted
in the cool iridescent glow
of the candlelight moon.
you draw me in.
i cleave to you,
afraid to offset
our delicate balance.
and we dance….

the warm humid breeze
of your breath on my neck,
becomes cool.
shivering, i become aware
of a cold wind in the pines.
it sweeps against my cheek,
scattering my dream of you,
and, i am left alone,
in the moonlight,
striving to hear unsung songs
face pressed ever so tightly
atop the soft flesh
of my own arm,
the trail of your kisses
down the softest part of my throat
traced, by only a path
of my own tears…

Posted for Paula’s Thursday’s Inspiration Challenge 1: Ghosts Utilizing her photo prompt.

Hey, I’m in Healy AK and do not have connectivity right now. I’ll be back, just not sure when.


Crimson’s Creative Challenge #22

She liked to pretend she had taken the road less traveled. She told herself she was in every way, unique. She envisioned herself as having risen above the masses. But in truth, her heart was hard, her ardors weak.

She found herself alone in her mid thirties. By her mid forties she’d become romantically involved, with death. In her fifties, she found herself rightfully imprisoned. A time out, in which she used, to catch her breath.

Oh, she still walks to the beat, of her own drummer. She still sees things, just a little bit askew. But today she’s a little older, and a whole lot wiser. And truth be told, she’s not a whole lot different- than you…

Written for Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge Photo Prompt, and Eugenia’s Brew n Spew Cafe’s Word Prompt; Pretend.