Release

 

Chained by the confines,

Of deliberate intent,

Bound by the shackles,

Of indifferent lament,

Held by the limits,

Of all I have known,

Imprisoned surrender,

Of all I’ve out grown,

Like the butterfly,

Escaping the chrysalis,

I open my wings and I fly,

Metamorphic release,

From the burdens,

Choosing to live and not lie.

Once The Storm Is Over

 

 

Travelling the highway,

An empty seat beside me,

Journeying to nowhere,

On a route I cannot see,

 *

Tears along the road side,

And lonely felt despair,

But what’s the use of crying,

Tears won’t bring you there,

*

The emptiness beside me,

Keeps you on my mind,

The thunder in the darkness,

Is the storm you left behind,

 *

But once the storm is over,

There’ll be reason to believe,

Light will come from darkness,

And hope will warm the breeze,

 *

The road ahead will widen,

The signs will all be clear,

I’ll leave the storm behind me,

And cry a goodbye tear.

The Stairs

This is my second week attempting the ‘Shadorma Photo Prompt‘. This type of poetry is still a stickler for someone who can’t stop rhyming, but if at first you don’t succeed, try try again. And I’m nothing if not trying………….

For those that don’t know a Shadorma is composed of six non-rhyming lines (sestina or sextet) and the syllable pattern is 3-5-3-3-7-5.  It can have as many stanzas as you like, just as long as each stanza follows the syllable pattern mentioned above .

 

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The first step,

Is the hardest one,

Not knowing,

What comes next,

Just follow the path that rises,

See where you can be.

  *

The middle,

Is where the chains fall,

That was then,

This is now,

Never look back in regret,

Let the shackles go.

*

The final,

Is the longest one,

Extending,

Far and wide,

Reaching the top will free you,

Take that step and fly.

The Question

 

Answer the questions,

That never get asked,

Question the answers,

You hold in your grasp,

Challenge the notion,

That life is a fact,

Play with the contours,

And create an abstract,

Finish the puzzle,

Without the last piece,

Watch the scene alter,

And find its release,

Pick up a book,

And read the last page,

Know how it ends,

Before you engage,

Colour by numbers,

The odds and the evens,

Mix up your palette,

To temper the seasons,

Search for the purpose,

The reason we try,

Look for the meaning,

Behind every why.

Covering All The Parts

Another fantastic weekly prompt I can’t help dabbling with is Al’s ‘Sunday Photo Fiction‘. A weekly photo to inspire around 200 words of flash fiction. Take the image and run…… 59-05-may-11th-2014

Her head said to go, just turn and leave. A neon sign opposite shot streaks of orange over the bed. She was three floors up and the unrepentant street life threw hits of laughter and singing  through the open window. She should just go, nobody had seen her, experience had taught her that. Nobody ever sees her.

Her heart was battling with her head and a frisson of remorse gripped her throat. This was new.  She swallowed and looked back across the bed. Is this what it would be like, to stay, to watch him sleep? She walked over to the mini bar, lifted out a small bottle of vodka and poured.

She drank slowly. His chest still glistened with tiny speckles of blood. A warm heat hit between her thighs. It had been so long since anyone had affected her like this. The Ice Queen they called her, but the ice cap was melting and her panties were drenched.

The bottom of the glass hit the counter top. Black stockinged feet slipped into 6” heels and she walked to the door. The rest of her could fight over what could have been, but her legs would carry her home.  The job was done; tomorrow £10,000 would be deposited in an untraceable bank account. She just hoped her next hit was a little less appealing.

The Book Shop

I’m a sucker for a prompt, and couldn’t resist a new one I found this morning, Shadorma Photo Prompt. I am trying to challenge myself to explore new styles, new formats. Trying to find my own voice in the chaos that’s in my head. They do say practice makes perfect, but who wants to be perfect when the journey is so much fun….

A shadorma is composed of six non-rhyming lines (sestina or sextet) and the syllable pattern is 3-5-3-3-7-5.

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Papyrus and ink,

The fragrance of age,

A scent of,

Stories past,

Where all the journeys travelled,

Are once more read again,

*

Battles and soldiers,

From the crimson fields,

The blood red,

Tears that dry,

And tales of all the fallen,

Stained upon the page,

*

Loving and losing,

The pain and the joy,

Tales of woe,

Tales that sigh,

And tales that bring your heart alive,

All that’s love and more,

*

Laughter and dreaming,

And a childlike trust,

Good and bad,

Ghouls and ghosts,

All that treasure to be found,

Smiles that light the page.

Second Chances

 

I see you and my breath is caught,

Catching glimpses, food for thought,

Knowing looks and furtive glances,

Stolen moments and second chances,

*

I talk to you and my heart recalls,

Forgotten echoes, falling walls,

Tumbling in and my soul engages,

Retold stories and turning pages,

*

I kiss you and my heartbeat rises,

Tasting heat, exotic spices,

Lips inflamed and tender aches,

Returning love and new mistakes,

*

I touch you and my blood ignites,

Pulsing fever, exploding lights,

Burning fire and forgotten lust,

Raging need and shooting rush,

*

I wake with you and I am whole,

Broken shackles, coming home,

Hearts aligned and bodies sated,

Me and you as fate dictated.

The View

Time again for ‘Friday Fictioneers’. My weekly addiction to the 100 word photo prompt. My prose seems to have failed me again this week, for that I apologise. Never the less, my weekly addiction needed feeding,  so again I’m rhyming. There is always next week……..

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The truth is not always,

About what we see,

Sometimes it’s more,

About what we can be,

It’s not about hiding,

Or escaping the pain,

It’s not about knowing,

How to hide from the rain,

It’s not about swimming,

Or braving the current,

Nor treading the water,

In an indigo torrent,

It’s not about diving,

Beneath a still pool,

Nor rising unblemished,

From waters that cool,

*

The truth is not always,

What we want it to be,

For sometimes the truth,

Is the view we can’t see.