Insomniac

This was inspired in part by a recent writing prompt on Twitter (#orjay), provided by @RJ_kumarkumar. The prompt is the title of the poem.

The poem was also inspired by recurrent, pain-induced insomnia, and the question, “What the #*%$ can I listen to, read, pray, meditate, work on, ingest, or just DO, in order to get a little sleep?”

This was one answer.

Stranger Tides

salt water rushing over bare legs

familiar coastal sounds a lullaby

stranger tides

another ocean

would wake me too soon

The Hideout

I’m early this week! It’s almost time for Friday Fictioneers, when writers from around the world post 100-word stories based on a photo prompt provided on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.  This week’s photo is by Sarah Ann Hall.

The haiku and story were also inspired by the #liblit writing prompt provided today on Twitter by Shannon Wendt (@wordswendt). The prompt is “death” (a theme) and a bonus word, “subterranean.”

You can read other Friday Fictioneers’ work by clicking the link that appears below my story.

old aqueduct

a subterranean refuge

from alien drones

by Jan Brown

The aqueduct was long overgrown. Dense brambles and a deep, rock-strewn channel provided a secluded refuge at night. The uneven terrain was not friendly to families with children, but we had lost our girls in the first wave of the invasion.  After dark, the underground tunnel sheltered fugitives and fighters like my husband, Jack, and me.

Jack stoically ventured out today for fresh supplies and ammo—a perilous trip in sunlight, when alien drones can detect the slightest movement.

War had changed us both.

Tonight, I said a silent prayer as I lifted the supply packs from his scattered remains.

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Liam’s Wake

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers, when writers from around the world post 100-word stories based on a photo prompt provided on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.  This week’s photo is by Ted Strutz–so naturally, it’s a photo of a bar

You can read other Friday Fictioneers’ work by clicking the link that appears below my story.

Liam’s Wake

by Jan Brown

We walked into our favorite bar, to a sea of sad faces and the melancholy music of a Celtic harp.

“Hey, shouldn’t an Irish wake be a celebration?” I plugged my iPod into the speaker system, and Celtic Thunder belted out a lively folk tune.

“Ah, Liam loved Celtic Thunder. No matter how badly he was suffering with his arthritis, he always perked up when one of their songs was playing.”

“He actually danced a jig with me once!”

“This place just won’t be the same without him.”

“Even the health inspector will miss his antics.”

“A toast!”

“To Liam!”

Loving

instinctual
not intellectual
not overwrought or over-thought
more humane than us wretched humans
not love but loving

The Ghost of St. George

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers, when writers from around the world post 100-word stories based on a photo prompt provided on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.  This week’s photo is by Kent Bonham.

You can read other Friday Fictioneers’ work by clicking the link that appears below my story.

The Ghost of St. George

by Jan Brown

I love the architecture of Spain: organic shapes like the curves of females, flowers and the earth itself.

In Barcelona, I met Señor Battlo. He showed me his old house, remodeled by the famed modernist, Gaudi, later turned into a public space. He reminisced about the undulating façade, the leafy columns, the roof, arched like a dragon’s back, the tiles its scales. To his wife’s dismay, he had played there with his young son, like St. George slaying the dragon.

After our tour, Señor Battlo disappeared.  Eventually, I found him on the staircase, in a 1906 portrait of the homeowner.

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Green Eyes

National Poetry Month is coming to a close! My goal of 30 poems in 30 days is complete with this response to NaPoWriMo’s color theme. Enjoy….

green eyes

or were they amber

or hazel

changeable, like him

◊◊◊

cool green

the jade necklace

he gave me long ago

were we as cool?

◊◊◊

moss green

boulders

in the park that summer

the summer of love

◊◊◊

emerald

the color of foliage

we hid from the world

behind it

◊◊◊

celadon

Korean incense burner

the scent of sandalwood

surrounded us

◊◊◊

“stagnant pond water green”

he called it

the Chicago River

in 1969

◊◊◊

scent of limes

rubbed on margarita glasses

salt-rimmed

sounds of laughter and love

◊◊◊

teal

against a brilliant sky

color of the water

from Lake Shore Drive

◊◊◊

green carpet

against my back, or his

the lacing of fingers

and limbs

◊◊◊

green with envy

who was I with at the concert?

how late was he out?

jealousy, not love

◊◊◊

olives

in martini glasses

a drink or two

to hide the pain

◊◊◊

eyes change

from amber to green

hazel, I’m told

no longer beautiful

◊◊◊

love dies

as green leaves turn

water grows cold

river runs black

Love is Blind

Saturday’s NaPoWriMo challenge was to select a common proverb and plug it in to a search engine. Then review the first few pages of results, jot down any words of interest that are found there, and use those words as inspiration and source material for a poem.

I chose the old adage, “Love is blind,” because it applies so well to my youthful choices. 

I guess I have no excuse for any such choices that I may or may not have made later in life. Hmmm….

Once again, I was also inspired by one of Hilary Blackwood’s charming pieces.

 

I see, I hear

but long for touch

I mourn my losses

but not too much

I long for summer

but melt in sun

I fear the winter

but not this one

I feel love flowing

but not through me

how dangerous

to love, to see