“Hurry up and wait”
the rising west wind royal pennants ruffled
a hoof stamped
the festooned bay shook off fly harness rattled
a trooper coughed
the fierce desert sun peeked above the rim
a tail lifted
the officers blind to the enemy tent billowed
a spear dropped
the harsh reprimand an abashed warrior
a veteran sneered
the bloody battle would winnow the ranks
a trumpet sang
the lines advanced to staccato drumming
a bladder emptied
the rising west wind taste sharp tang of fear
The Daily Post and Three Word Wednesday #495 prompts
Authors note: I’ve always considered the line between prose and poetry to be arbitrary. Originally posted elsewhere in 2008
“In the past, things were different”
The mop should have tipped him off. It would have, had he not been throwing back shots in the bar all night surrounded by people just as miserable and desperate as he. Sitting, leaning rather, in the corner, the strings matted and tangled with a slight sour smell of milk from sitting too long in the sun. Not something you’d expect to find in your hotel room; all withered and forlorn, not unlike his relationship, his former relationship with the ex-social worker. Come to think of it though, the dried up husk of her soul probably resembled the pathetic utility handle in the corner. Thin and useless: that described her all right. Bleary eyes went out of focus and he swayed, tottered to the bed and fell down, his clothes reeking of menthol; smoke from a thousand cigarettes lit in angry defiance of death. The beeper clipped to his belt dug into his folded rolls of fat; fat contained by a belt that wrapped his distant hips in a careless embrace. Struggling to turn, he caught a glimpse, a hint of movement from the corner; the corner where stood the ordinary cleaning device now not so ordinary. Where once was cotton loops down, was now cotton loops up. Now not so bleary, he rolled, more or less gracefully to his unsteady feet, shoulders hunched and arms dangled forwards, head slightly turned in thought, puzzled thought. Hands fumbled in his suit jacket, searching for a light and a hit of nicotine.
When the fire alarm stopped howling, and the blaze contained to number 376, all that remained of the occupant and the contents, was a pile of ash and bone with the melted outline of a Zippo and a belt buckle. And a mop, leaning in the corner, cotton loops down, smelling of menthol smoke and sour milk: with a slight taste of fear.
flowers water sky leaves grass
exotic hues named
“V is for Virile”
the hopes of a nation
the dreams of our culture
the very future
of our society
rests in the little pills
“What does Great Jazz sound like?”
The Snare is,
Notes like fragrant smoke, hewn stone fireplace pine snapping and popping hot tendrils of air rising into a night so cold and black that the stars hang just beyond your fingertips.
The Bass is,
Notes like thick cream, flowing over burnished formica dripping onto oak planks patina polished by ten thousand boots calico cat vibrating up pooling liquid slick to the touch.
The Saxophone is,
Notes like a lovers spanking, over knee bare bottom arching high crisp smacks falling on smooth flesh growing warm and red ’til hot wailing flames scorch the crescendoing sky.
The Keyboard is,
Notes like thunder and lightning, smell of ozone when wind bends trees sideways and the rain comes down drumming on roof like marbles cascading from worn leather pouch.
The Horn is,
Notes like bright glass, shattered amber shards tinkling on mortared wall mirroring electric blue neon frenetic flickering reflection of dazzling jewels swinging fast tempo.
The Guitar is,
Notes like an avalanche, raging eddies swirling slick foamed rocks rushing waves pounding spray casting rainbow of sound hurtling into the abyss carved violent eons past.
What great jazz
Swing by the Poets Pub at d’Verse after the show and enjoy a cold one and more hot poems.
crack cold one puff deep
missed football spread and scratch off
if a vice I’d quit
The Daily Post prompt
Authors note: This is best read aloud.
“Things to do”
turbid water rushes by the constant change of rising prices and falling hopes the song of progress a distant hint in faded ink scratches when time seemed immeasurable under smoky incense brought from plateaus riven with famine and ideology grown dizzy in hate and passions for death of society passes for control of citizens crushed by intolerance as dogma spewed with gouts of bigotry the key to swaying the tired drugged crush of purported free willed members stacking sandbags against the information pouring through breached firewalls in a writhing orgy of minds meeting on networks fostering exchanges submerged by towering archaic opinions passing as knowledge gleaned by jaded writers twisted to meet needs of few suppressing dissent of many…