Showing posts with label The Mag. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Mag. Show all posts

Thursday, April 18, 2013

A Little Gratitude

A Little Gratitude

To all of the people who give a damn
to those who would offer their last bit of toast
to those who help people who are poverty stained
who understand we are all one big family
and that the unimportant things seduce
who work hard to integrate

the ones who have been disregarded, shamed: to integrate
the ones who have been shunned, oppressed, the damned
the ones who have who have been seduced
the ones who have had their inner self turned to toast
the ones who are bereft of any family
the ones who are adversity stained

Thank you for seeing more than just stained
and hopeless euphemisms, to integrate
the person back not using the label, but the family
name seeing more than just some mistake or some damn
illness, not some piece of discarded toast,
and not some vile fiend looking to seduce

innocence away from the young,  to seduce
values away from the land, to leave a stained
path of destruction in their wake, to toast
the good and to integrate
evil, destroy a family.

People are just people, one big family.
And we need to accept each other. Integrate
the idea that we are more than the potential damned.
We are all different, and each carefully stained
with our own unique beauty
our own positiveness that integrate
into our being, each of us deserving a toast.

We are all miracles, like a croissant left in the heat to toast
warm, flaky, tender, flawed, possible family
nourishment. So, to those who wish to integrate,
to enfold in a warm hug, not to seduce,
I want to thank you. To shake your hands that are stained
with your humanity. To those who run towards the damn

inferno, who toast in the flames to battle the seduction
Thank you for our family, for altering the stain.
Proving humanity's best integrated cry: We give a damn!

heidi with contributions from  Alicia, Anne, Sarah, Kathy, and Kristin
written 4/18/13
posted to dVerse Meeting the Bar: Unfathomable 4/18/13


Towards the end of February, I asked  my friends on Facebook to give me a word and then I would use those words as the end words of a sestina. They gave me the words, but, at that point, I no longer had a sestina in me. Then, at this week's dVerse Open Link Night, there was a link to Victoria Slotto's wonderful Transience-A Sestina. It got my sestina fires burning again, and so, early this morning, I wrote this sestina.

This afternoon, on dVerse Meeting the Bar: Unfathomable, Anna Elizabeth Graham wrote an interesting and insightful post about the poetry that comes from disaster or catastrophe. She prompted us to write a poem that comes from disaster or catastrophe  Even though this poem isn't about a large disaster specifically, I think it fits in with the prompt.

I want to thank Alicia Atchison Lemonier, Elizabeth Anne Sclater, Sarah Helmer, Kathy Hammonds, and Kristin Naccari for giving me the words to use! Y'all are the awesomest!









Monday, April 8, 2013

NaPoWriMo Day Eight and The Mag 163

Woman With a Towel, 1898, Edgar Degas
via The Mag


Methane Melodies

After the meal, she yearns for the shower
and feels a tightness in her tum.
Slowly she disrobes and as the steam surrounds her
she reminisces about the two helpings of cauliflower cheese with some
prune danish for dessert. She smiles because she is a farter,
enjoying the notes that pop from her bum.
Bubbles gurgle down her stomach then exit as a delightful poot.
Oh! If only she had eaten more fruit!

heidi
written 4/8/13 for  and for 

(Warning: I cuss in this part of the post...not a lot...but stop now if a swear word bothers you). Okay, so if we have learned nothing else from this blog we have learned that

1. I totally do not get meter (I think it is related to the not being musical thing)

2. I really like gross things (they amuse the shit out of me.)

I take a beautiful picture from The Mag prompt and I see and hear farts. I get a cool prompt from NaPoWriMo to write a Ottava Rima (which I have never written before) and I give you farts with no iambic pentameter.

hhhhmmmmmmm.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

The Mag 159 Submission: Waves

Meal Beach, Burra Isles, Shetland by Robin Gosnall

Waves

Anxious
and depressed the
waves wash through me. The lie
"I'm okay" sparkles on my face
like sun.

heidi
written 3/12/13 for The Mag 159



I've been practicing cinquains on Twitter and most of them are more statements than poems.  I'm still working on whatever it is that separates poetry from pose*...what is that? My poetic voice? Maybe I'm a little too much in my head right now.

*okay, so a few hours later, i come back to reread this and see that i wrote "pose" instead of "prose". i thought about just editing it, but then wondered if it was a freudian slip, or is it that my "r" is not wanting to work?



Saturday, March 9, 2013

Mag 158 Submission: The End of the Affair

photo by TheFoxAndTheRaven
The Mag 158


The End of the Affair


If I'm honest, Frank, no, Splash Mountain was not my dream spot for a proposal.



heidi
written 3/9/13 for The Mag 158 (check it out!)

I've been writing heavy stuff lately and then I see these wonderful prompts from Magpie Tales and it brings out the smartass in me. Can we pretend that I am writing a Monostitch and not just a cheesy caption?

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Mag 157 Submission: The Trouble with Tribbles



Venus de Milo with Drawers, 1936, Salvador Dali
 
 
 


The Trouble with Tribbles

...is that they get into everything.


heidi
written: 2/24/13 for The Mag 157


Yeah, it's cheap and I went there, but it was honestly the first thing that popped into my head. (More Tribbles here!) Happy Sunday morning y'all! The submission are really good this week. Head over and read some!

Mag 156 Prompt: Bubbles Popping

Wind of History by Jacek Yerka
The Mag 156 (I missed the Linky)

**I am linking this to the dVerse Poetics prompt for 4/13/13. It's a short story rather than a poem, but I worked like crazy on this and it got no love. If you are visiting through dVerse and would rather read a poem about monsters, please click Nightmares.**

I usually save my comments for the end of my posts, but there are some things I wanted to tell you before you read this. I am using a writing prompt from Magpie Tales (The Mag 156). We are to write about this really cool picture.  I am a huge fan of those old radio programs, and this picture reminded me of an episode of Lights Out called The Dark. I decided that I wanted to write a version of  The Dark for this prompt. An extra warning though, this is a gross story. If you would like to listen to the original, you can find a streaming source by clicking this link Lights Out: The Dark (This link will take you to the Old Time Radio Internet Archive. The episode I am using is #19 on the play list.*)


Bubbles Popping

Finally, there was some sign of human life. Dorothy and Nora had been driving the deserted countryside lost for hours. They had made a lovely picnic on the shore, but had missed a turn somewhere on the way home.  As twilight began to settle around them, Dorothy saw tire tracks off the side of the road. Up a hill, she saw the house.

"Nora, turn right here."

Nora turned the car and they were jostled by the bumpy hill.

"Slow down Nora!"

"I thought you liked bumpy rides," Nora said, but she complied and eased the car over the hills and the holes of the yard up to the house.

"I really have to go to the bathroom." It was true, Dorothy really did have to pee and she hated going outside. She hoped that the house would have someone friendly and some sort of facilities.  Almost before Nora had stopped the car Dorothy had jumped out and hurried to the door.

"You can stop dancing, I'm sure they will let you in." Nora joined Dorothy at the door and was adjusting her hat. Dorothy knocked on the door and it opened a bit. She stuck her head inside and choked on the damp smell of decay.

"Hello?" Nora called out from behind her. She pushed the door open further and then wrapped her arm around Dorothy and guided her in. "Is anyone here? We're lost and my friend here needs to use your powder room."

There were no lights on inside the house, only the dim light that streamed in from the windows.  "It smells like a barrel of rotten apples in here." Dorothy looked over at Nora and saw her crinkling her nose. Dorothy stopped choking and her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Past Nora, she saw the old woman staring at them from the corner.

"Nora..." Dorothy nodded her head towards the old woman. Nora looked over and saw her.

"Oh, I am sorry. I have forgotten my manners, but you see, we have been driving a long time and we are lost and tired. My name is Nora, and this is my friend Dorothy. I hope you don't mind, but the door was open..."

The old woman just stared at them. Her chin was almost touching her chest and she was looking up at them. She clutched a dirty rag doll to her breast and she her mouth was moving slightly like she was muttering, but there was no noise.

"Nora, let's just go." Dorothy no longer had to go to the bathroom, and if the urge came back she would gladly pee on the side of the road in front of God and everybody, but she suddenly needed to leave this house.

"Are you ill?" Nora let go of Dorothy and started to walk towards the old woman. "Do you need some help?"

"Nora, I think she's okay like she is, please, I think we need to just leave."

Nora reached out and touched the old woman's hand, "Can I..."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!" The old woman leaned up and was screaming in Nora's face. Nora stumbled back and fell on a small table breaking it, as the woman shoved her and ran out of the room laughing a high, shrieking laughter.

Dorothy ran over to Nora and tried to help her up. "Oh Nora, are you okay? Please let's go now."

"Okay, I ...oh! ouch!" Nora could not stand up. Glistening, dark blood ran through her torn stocking and down her leg. Dorothy removed he scarf and dabbed at the blood. There was a long cut down Nora's leg with a large splinter of wood embedded in her calf.

"Nora, you're hurt and I can't stay here, Nora. I'm going to wrap this up and  carry you to the car and then we are leaving. When we are away from here, I will stop and get that wood out, but we are leaving first." As she talked, Dorothy wrapped the leg in her scarf. She tied it tight and a door opened near them.

A soft, frail light fell into the room. There was the old woman again, watching, holding a candle. Behind her there was a wet smooshing sound and a muffled moaning.

"This crazy old crone is going to kill us," Dorothy muttered as she locked her gaze with the old woman. Then the old woman stepped to the side, and Dorothy saw what  was on the floor next to the door.  Her brain could not make sense of what she saw. It was man-shaped, but it was a mushy, bloody, undulating mess. The darkness of the house seemed to swirl behind him. There were what looked like pockets of meat on the floor next to him, attached by slimy stands.

"Oh, those as his insides. He's been turned inside out. How..." Dorothy peed. She never noticed. She was crying and never noticed. Nora was yelling at her, and she never noticed. She just saw him as he began to make sense. She stood there staring at this man as a long, bloody limb reached out to her. It was his hand. He gurgled and then died.

That's when she heard the laughter. Dorothy looked at the old woman. She was looking down at the mess that had once been a man, holding the doll towards him, and laughing. The laughter turned to screaming and then laughing again. The swirling darkness seemed to move from him to her. It whirled around her hand holding the doll. It crept up her arm. Screaming now, she shook her arm and tried to move. The darkness wrapped around her greedily.  Dorothy saw her hold the doll close to her and then the old woman was turned inside out. It sounded like someone slurping the last bits of an egg creme from a glass. 

She felt a sharp pain and her head swiveled to the right.

"Get out of here!" Nora was standing on one leg yelling in her face. Dorothy wrapped her arm around Nora's side and started to move towards the door. She felt a chill around her ankles and she tried to run. The feeling was sticky like taffy and cold like ice. It pulsed up her body and she was suddenly face to face with Nora. They were bound tightly together by the sticky cold. They no longer look like two separate people.

A sound echos through the house, a wet, slurping sound. It does sound very much like the remnants of an egg creme resisting the suction of the straw. The slurping is wet and somewhat drowned out by the sounds of two women in pain. Then there is one soft, moist thump. It is a sound similar to dropping raw ground beef, reserved for this evening's supper, on the hard, cold floor.  Finally, there is a muffled whimper and a muffled sob, and the sound of blood bubbles popping.

There were no signs of human life.



heidi
completed (maybe) 2/24/13




*(If you are a Bill Cosby fan, you may have heard his routine about being scared of a radio program where a chicken heart terrorizes the world. This is the same series, just a different episode. For the Cosby fans, Chicken Heart is #9, and here is a youtube audio of Cosby's routine.)


Does anyone else find editing hard online? I think I need to start printing these out to do my edits. Maybe it's my age...




Saturday, February 23, 2013

Mag 155 Submission: Untouched

artwork by Joseph Lorusso


Untouched

The woman sits across the cafe from the couple.
They don't see her although the three of them are the only patrons there.
He cannot keep his eyes or hands off the girl.

The woman twists her wedding band around her finger
not touching her tea, not touching anything
except for the gold on her finger that only takes warmth from her.

The boy has started kissing the girl, running his hand up her leg,
under her skirt. She kisses him back and holds him closer.
He pulls out his hand and wraps his arm around her back.

The woman knew this passion and obliviousness in her youth,
but never with her husband. Her husband is a sweet decent man who
never touches her, never embraces her, never initiates...

A tear is born and the woman knows that she is the Mrs. Roper in this
episode of "Three's Company" and she needs to get away from this couple.
She lays down her money and leaves the tea, like so much in her life,
untouched.

heidi
written 2/19/2013 for Magpie Tales

This is a late submission, but I really like this picture. I was torn between this and something erotic and steamy (and maybe a little porny), but this is what I wrote instead. It is my first submission to Magpie Tales, or The Mag, but I plan on coming back. For these prompts, a picture is posted and then you write in response to that picture.