Click! What is your name?
I think that I’ve forgotten.
Tap! Tap! Fingertips whisper.
Bloody, bloody fingers.
Can you tell me why you did it?
At DVerse, the prompt today is to write a poem in the wayra form, incorporating onomatopoeia. I have amended this and written a short story in the wayra form.
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The dark chocolate echoing of dusk
against the Ferris Wheel
overlooking the fairgrounds
That bittersweet evening
Is on my lips
And the errant air
Tastes like apple-crisps
Though cotton-candy conversation parched,
as if by design
Your hands are water
And your lips wine
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At DVerse today, the prompt is to write a Quadrille poem consisting of 44 words exactly (not including the title) in response to the challenge. The word today is ‘Fair’ and it must be used in some form within your poem.
That old swing-set
was young when I was young,
its shoulders fresh painted
and its swings not yet deep rust-set.
We made fast friends,
that old swing-set and I,
though he sometimes threw me from his shoulders
knocking my knees and dusting my hands
That swing-set’s hands are splintered
and I visit my old friend with calloused hands
to find his swings gone and his paint chipped
from when I was away those many, many winters.
I climb his side with a book in hand,
as I once did when I was younger,
and I read all afternoon with my old friend
in the shadow of the boy I was – now a man.
At DVerse, the prompt today is to write a poem recalling some specific thing or things from the past OR more generally about what evokes a memory or memories in you.
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The king lay in bed with a fever. He had been this way ever since three days before, when the peasants had waged an uprising in the town outside the castle’s walls.
He could hear them dancing and singing through his window. It made him sick. How dare they take his kindness for granted?
A servant entered the room: “My lord, the people are asking you to forsake the throne. What will you do?”
The king curled up under his blankets: “I will do no such thing! Woe is me! I am bombarded yet I stand here still! I will not give up my kingdom. It is my right to rule!”
The servant slid a long dagger from the sleeve of his robe: “I have enjoyed serving you, my lord. I am sorry to hear you feel that way.”
At DVerse today, the prompt is to write a piece of flash fiction or other prose of up to or exactly 144 words, including the given line: I am bombarded yet I stand.
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Like cigar ash
my memories of you long linger,
tight packed in my heart
and in my head.
When my lungs make room
for new memories,
the ash burns as warm
as your smile,
smelling of cedar
the soft-sweetest spices.
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The prompt on DVerse this evening is to write an ash quadrille – 44 words, including the word ash.
It is human
to gather moss
on things that matter
and on things that do not.
It is human
to settle too soon
to sink into hillsides
that feel like home
to be a stone unrolled
but somehow still happy
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On DVerse today, we are carving a poem out of the word stone, and making it precisely 44 words long, not counting the title.
That quiver at the corners of her lips,
that nervous tick, quickly covered,
that first hint of an expression
only squinting eyes can see,
spends as much time simply being
what its purpose might be.
That uneasy moment once begun,
so quickly undone – but never truly undone –
is enough for me to know that with every word she speaks,
her silences grow,
filling in the sound with silence,
our conversations with ghosts,
our intimate moments so quickly coated in dust and comments unsaid
that it is quickly becoming impossible
to read the parts of us still unread.
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Her lips taste like cigarette smoke
even from a thousand miles away.
Her eyes smolder whistfully in my memory like tobacco ashes,
ashes that her eyelids would flick deftly from her cheeks
to the pavement at random intervals
under both cloudy or clear skies.
Her soul burning slowly down to the filter
until there is nothing left
and whether cloudy or clear
the ash-touched sky
tastes like regret.
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On DVerse the prompt is to write about an emotion or abstract concept. What does it taste like?
The world could not be ever as it began
untouched by the hands of man
once humanity began
long before she bit the apple
the snake had taken up its residence
behind her ribcage
though she did not know it
when the ark was built
counted two of each animal as they passed
gate-keeping the future from the past
The man in the clouds
with the fierce hawk-eyes
saw all of this and more
long before he bent his back to this most recent chore
With sure hands
unshaken by the sands of time
he draws lines across dunes and deserts
and low valleys
over high mountains
and along rivers
and sometimes through them
When his time was done
the world had become many from one
and he gave no thought to what man would see as signs
that these lines were drawn sacred and divine
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You don’t know his name
he wears another’s face
and stands in another’s shoes,
mimicking their stride,
hiding in their flesh
like a terrified child.
he strips off his masks
and basks in the quiet,
wishing you knew his name.
Photo by Idin Ebrahimi on Unsplash
At DVerse, the prompt today is to use stand or any word that includes stand in it to write a quadrille.