A 'Joseph's Star' poem please- I'm right here! damn it I think they- oh God I hear them coming- please I'm begging stop reading- fantasy makes them- rea... ‘What do you see’ Prompt #151 For Sadje’s weekly #WDYS prompt, she offered the photo below as inspiration for writers to produce art. Image credit:Digital Solacism @… Continue reading Real, or: Imagined
A 'Septolet' I reread it again. Russian soldiers raped a one-year-old with a candlestick, murdering him. Septolet? The Septolet is a poem consisting of seven lines containing fourteen words with a break anywhere in between the two parts. Both parts deal with the same thought and create a picture.
Preoccupied with domestic abuse After my wife's and my recent attempts to help our domestically abused friend, my mind has been awash with thoughts about domestic violence. In that context, I'd like to share another story about a second friend of ours... somebody that we're especially close to. Her story, in a certain sense, is… Continue reading A domestic abuse story
d’Verse prosery Maria looked down at her little finger, as Boss Rossi leered at her lithe body and handed her the small, obsidian blade. "So, what's it going to be, little girl? You wanna live? C'mon… the tip of your pinky is a small price to pay, ain't it?" The beaten woman clenched her teeth… Continue reading Servitude or death
Liss had only been taught a smattering of vernacular terms in Daidanese, enabling Master's servants to attend to her most basic needs. He'd taught her the essentials: bathroom, hungry, cold, hot… but not the word for clothing, of course. That was entirely his prerogative. Her luxurious chambers had been designed and created by the Kingdom's… Continue reading Not the word for clothing
Poetry Partners #83 'When You Choose War' a poem by Rosemary McMahan of 'Spirit Reflections' ... you cannot stop the Lenten rose’s pale white blossoms from unfurling nor can you command the pink-tinged buds of tulip trees to fold inward. When you choose war, know that the grass still greens in spring, the titmouse seeks… Continue reading Whispered prayers, or: Legions
d’Verse prosery Even as the King's mages work desperately to repair my charred eyes, I cannot help but clutch my fists apprehensively, for how can I be sure I shall see again? The world on the first of May was peaceful, no different than the last of April, really, although the skies seemed just a… Continue reading Up towards the vortex
A rant poem in blank verse Paint yourself an angel's innocent white Paint yourself enraged, indignant orange Paint your enemies black-hearted scoundrels Paint your opposition green and guileful Paint [false] former allies yellow-bellied Paint massive war machines brown in thick mud Paint streets red with dead civilians' blood Paint yourself into a corner. Spew hate… Continue reading War paint, or: Theater
The Skeptic's Kaddish 🇮🇱 
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