Tag: poetry

Third Eye Harvest Moon (poem revisit for the season)

by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments on Third Eye Harvest Moon (poem revisit for the season)

Another re-post of something for this creepy season.

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October 2, 2024

In response to Merril’s “Haunted Harvest” prompt at dVerse poets.

“You can take the themes of harvest or haunted literally or use them metaphorically in any way you wish. Harvest grain, organs, fish, or emotions; imagine the grim reaper with a scythe. Write about something that haunts you, regret, a long-ago love, thoughts of someone who has died, or actual ghosts. Explore a haunted harvest”.

You may also use the painting above “The Harvest Moon” by Samuel Palmer as inspiration.

Took a little bit of both of these ideas …

.

Third Eye Harvest Moon

He woke in a long field itching

of tall blades and short hungry bugs

chilled but not cold wondering of from where that single pocked light

hung high

had fell

.

“From my third eye” said a voice

.

he sudden colding and chilled now

as there was no from where for a lone voice to fall

no trees above nor craggy hills distance

far called with walls

to call back

friend or foe

score or none

to settle

or even from rock tall

smoke black

altars he may have been layed upon  

in the stark

back

then

.

You are man are you not?

I am?

Yes, you are

Then from why where do you ask?

To see if you knew

But I just woke, food for bugs in tall grass in almost dark task

save for one light

high hung

just

right

.

Will you rise and pay threshed tithes

under my third eye

Why?

It is that time of harvest, of tall grasses wrapped with long blades twined

tribute

in the richness of grains

… and the harvest of souls

.

From why where must you have mine after such riches?

.

Because you are the first and quench a stronger thirst

Headstone (a gothic flash fiction video short by Stephen Murray & Frankenberry)

by Stephen J Frankenberry3 Comments on Headstone (a gothic flash fiction video short by Stephen Murray & Frankenberry)

Was talking a little while ago with good friend and co-worker, Steve, about this current spooky season, a one still more “on the way” then when we spoke and he mentioned that he wanted to build something for it, a dramatic piece of some sort, a video short, with a haunting story as well as some music, effects, images and, of course, said story that he could voice and make a cool production of.

Besides doing what we do for our jobs, radio production, he is also a working voice actor and wanted to be creative with something as he had put together such productions in the past, plus, he also wanted to add another something to his body of voice work +.

Now when it came to a possible story I noted that he had liked some things of mine that I had sent his way in the past, plus some others I had and that a number were short, quick and might just fit into what he was looking to do.

So, I re-sent the few previously seen things and also some he hadn’t and he eventually told me that he liked a flash fiction piece I had done a year or so ago courtesy of a prompt from a writing community’s website that I frequent and collaborate at quite often, dVerse Poets, everything from poetry to fictions of one sort or another, a place that I will forever be grateful that I found and even more grateful that I was welcomed with open arms when I did join in even though, in some regards, I felt like I was sort of starting from scratch, especially with poetry.

Anyway, the flash fiction piece he liked was one I called “Headstone” and was a short story of a graveyard’s groundskeeper coming across Death kneeling at a “lost” headstone that the dVerse Poets flash fiction prompt asked to include a line from Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Sleeper”

I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye.

This then, is Steve’s production.

Cheers and well done my friend!

Cricket the Cat Poet: Stepping In Tongues And Boo Moons / Boo Blood Moon (poems)

by Stephen J Frankenberry6 Comments on Cricket the Cat Poet: Stepping In Tongues And Boo Moons / Boo Blood Moon (poems)

So the latest in the way of a Quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets is this one that asks for your 44 worder, this time around to include the word “Boo”, a something for a “pre-Halloween hullabaloo”.

Now let me explain what follows.

As I was working on the beginnings of this with an eventual thought coming to mind of current everyday nightmarish “Boo’s”, Cricket, my cat, who you have met here in the Attic before (one of my two, along with Bella, though obviously Cricket the more creative one) thought to get up out of my lap and involve herself in the writing process again with her own stepped thoughts which really are as they look in the first half of this.

All I did was finish it up for her (I think she may have even been offering to help cleanse this a bit with the 8’s after reading a little on the possible significance of 8’s ) and it is still 44 “words”.

Then I got to mine.

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Cricket the Cat poet

Stepping in tongues and Boo Moons

“Boo////////////////////////////////////////////////////8/8/8/8/8/8/8/8/8’”
 said the season

Off/ering to frighten

Ag/ain

But just

corn mazes for fun

        and snuck kisses  

A/nd Halloween h/a21?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”/+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”/+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+
/rmless haunts

But nothing frightens more this season

than

blind mice

and orange taunts

even keyboard cats stepping in tongues

with questions

can’t relieve

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Boo Blood Moon

“Boo!” said the season

offering to frighten

you

again

but

just with corn mazes and snuck kisses for fun

and Halloween housed harmless runs  

but nothing to frighten more this season

than orange warning’s  

bellows of demise

with a blood orange Moon to rise

Nero Fiddles Anew (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments on Nero Fiddles Anew (poem)

Thought I would riff and stream a little amid this never ending current cluster we are mired in, tired in of never ending sleepless angers …

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Nero Fiddles Anew

Nero fiddles anew

tunes

a world askew

away from what is, was true

while strings snap

with twings and pings and discordant pops

like gunshots  

and rings of liar

under a bow on fire

scratch across what was left

of body violin

once beautiful

vibrant

tune filled

a sin not to  

appreciate full

the song I sing

instead

direct  

song if tell

song if I tell

song if I fell you

otherwise

no correcting what

is played

askew

anew

askew new to you

.

Now

.

I am the new

found

glorious song

sung untrue all such

right the wrongs

from what allowed

perceived

once

now hallowed

blessed

crutch

I will relieve you of

old

past you’ll be glad you didn’t knew

once

relieve you of that limp

of truth

and history

to walk straight

now

step step step in dark

heavy heeled time

never too late

or will berate

till end days

just breathe with me instead

solidarity

in hate’s new stead

I am new Christian

new god

everyone else late

to the sustain

of me

and party

of me

.

Don’t mind the flames

A Petal’s Grace (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments on A Petal’s Grace (poem)

A new Quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets this week, this one from Lillian, a 44 word poem, not counting the title, that is to include one word directed in the prompt.

Lillian’s word?

“Petal”

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A Petal’s Grace

Sitting alone outside the Market

he counts people

not known

together with those gone

in slow

hurries

from one stand

one world

to another

a young girl

holding her mother’s hand

pauses and smiles him

a petal

from the rose held under her balloon

The Failed Painter (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry6 Comments on The Failed Painter (poem)

New quadrille prompt this week at dVerse Poets from De Jackson (WhimsyGizmo) and the word to include for this latest 44 word dVerse special?

“Much”

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The Failed Painter

I amended you the canvas

that one proving

again  

I am no painter

no artist

not even willing walls

of new heart’s homes  

edging tape, drop cloths

always

balled, tossed

but it needed

not much

just subtle signature

later

like forger or vandal

again

A Grimm’s New Tale (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments on A Grimm’s New Tale (poem)

From Bjorn at dVerse Poets, a Cinquain, a short poem based on syllable count, a five-line poem with a count of 2-4-6-8-2, “but there are plenty of variations”

“You may use this form as a single stanza, you may reverse and/or or do it as a mirror”

So I thought to that, to stack some, four mirrored Cinquains together into one piece.

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A Grimm’s New Tale

In dream

of dire dark wood

I stumbled, there you stood

I’d been warned stray not to dark’s could

in hood

.

you stood

shushing me, pointing at a wolf

of kind in his own hood

but you both stood

in dream

.

both you

dreamt that to would

a new Grimm fantasy

where wolves and red ridings untie     

dark dreams

.

escape

not of dark times

but turn tales on their head

to make dream nightmare scenes unite  

Grimm’s would

Cat’s Calliope (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry9 Comments on Cat’s Calliope (poem)

A prompt at dVerse Poets from Mish about “noise” and to write a poem of such.

The prompt is here.

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Cat’s Calliope

A cat purrs soft thunder

from far hills

in my ear through the filter of the top of my head

on shared pillow

(80/20 – as per cat “share” specs)

bringing soft rhythmic distance to my sleep’s  

discomfort

to tame its anger of

day’s dangerous entreats

to eclipse the balm

.

of a cat’s tail worn

as wax curled mustache

in the night

under fancy cat hat

at carnivals of light and hot buttered

sugar powdered smells

and steam calliope song tells

from atop a barking box of megaphoned fun

for all lad’s and lass

to be had

from under a cat’s ass

away from devils of the day

who want loud say

in your deep

in their creep

your wake

your sleep

.

save for

a cat’s tale of soft thunder

in the distance  

moving away

dark days

leaving just lightly breathed pillowed patters of rain

to no carnival guests disdain as they dance  

and prance under their own hats

.

they will fade, purrs the cat

the accurs-sed

the devils

for now

short long

while the calliope plays

familiar songs                                                      

Oh, to the Stars … (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry14 Comments on Oh, to the Stars … (poem)

The latest Quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets comes from Kim, the Quadrille being the 44 word dVerse specialty with a word to include.

The word this prompt?

“Rumpus”

(yes, I still look up and dream)

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Oh, to the Stars …

They spark blinkled star sprinkled

dust

down

tinkled tickled

keys

in silent

song  

.

those sparks

to wrinkled gaze

those notes

in twinkled ears

still

after all these years

.

such a racket

such a rumpus

Oh, if only to hear

once

can you join us?

Where Is Our Hat? (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry4 Comments on Where Is Our Hat? (poem)

From Thursday a prompt from Laura Bloomsbury for an ubi sunt  poem (where are they) a term taken from the longer Latin phrase, Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt (where are those who were before us)?

It asks:

  • title your poem with the question – where are the/they…
  • use the questioning within your poem, even with repetition
  • DO NOT ANSWER it though – the questioning is rhetorical

So this then …

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Where Is Our Hat?

Where is that hat

the one that cherry topped preparations

for another night of revelrous revelations and demonstrations of youth

reanimating another’s time from a naive mood

unintended disrespect of a memory I never met

left, found, bagged bundled in a box

in a church parking lot

with long coats and proud button striped shirts 

and slacks that hung just right

above two toned shoes and finger snapping cool  

and watches spun from a hip

like street corner’s zoot cliché school

once

a hat

.

Where is that Fedora worn

for fun

with no sight to the slight

of history of a man

reduced to a bag bundled in a box in a church parking lot

but one that fit just right

soon

then

on me

.

Where is that hat I pine

bought for a dime but only a penny for thoughts

now

please

I hope

In these expensive times

to wish to recall

in my own time

of a man and a hat

gathering things, soon, in a bag bundled for box in a church parking lot

to be found

.

Where is our hat?