880

MOI?

"Me? Why me of all people. Why do i have to leave my house to go on a picnic. The last time i did such a thing my children were toddlers. My husband was smitten with me and the Hollows was as green and eco friendly as God's Paradise. So why now. Why this. Do you owe me a favour i do not know about."

"And bring no book, for this one day We’ll give to idleness." He said. 

And i muttered is he some kind of poet nut or some such sort?

© gillena cox 2022

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH

Prosery: Bring no book

Challenge - to write a prose including "And bring no book, for this one day We’ll give to idleness" not exceeding 144 words

REVISIT
Prosery 1/20/20: “The Rock cries out…”
Prosery - Bombarded
Prosery - Here’s the thing about existing

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You've heard about the Monday Blues well this is  Monday WRites  (musing on the definition here of rite, as any customary observance for eg the rite of afternoon tea).

Welcome to Monday WRites # 332

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A MEETING WITH A GENIE (A tale, its fiction, not a poem)

A long long time ago, and far far away from home. A girl meets a genie. The genie offers her one wish, only she has to play strip poker with him, and this game has to be played in his bottle. How does a 20th century girl fit into a genie's bottle, you might ask. I have not the answer to riddles nor magic.

Okay so they make a date of it, this strip poker thing, this game, right there in the grey ambiance of a hustling Portobello Road. Then, he vanishes, as any good genie would.

She set about looking to buy herself a pack of playing cards. She knows the suits: diamonds(are a girl's best friend), hearts (oh the red queen of Alice's dream), spades (calling it as it is), clubs (ah yes, those meeting places and fun adults). She buys herself an attractive pack. Poker? poker? all the games she knows are go fish and old maid. Sadly sadly she must up her game plan.

A good distance behind the cell phone era, she calls her girl pal on the telephone. Ring ring.

"Yes i know the place, " answers girl pal. "There is a genie's bottle there?"

"Oh grown up! A crib is a space, is a bottle" she scolds girl pal dryly.

"So do you know how to play poker"

"Hear about the game lots, never played it i could ask my brother "

"O well guess i'll just have to be clumsy, play i wanted to win, and sulk while stripping. Oh and did i tell you? he is a wizard in the kitchen. Pots and pans dance to his every tune"

"Well then bon appetit, and go easy on the wine"

You had to go there didn't you, the easy bit i mean"

"Well ta taa, talk to you soon"
A MEETING WITH A GENIE © gillena cox 2019 (A tale, its fiction, not a poem)



image credit


Written for Poets United
Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: a Pantry of Prose, #5 ~ Away from Home

Monday WRites 209

RISE PAN MAN
When far away an interrupted cry pierced fevered brow, he tossed and sweated back to existence of now. He awoke inquiring "where is grandfather?" the first words to be uttered from his blistered lips.

This decision weighed heavy on his shoulders. He had to settle this one alone. Grandfather had gone to that winged place in the sky where clouds sat beneath ones feet and rain was ones footstool.

Should he go for pan-around-the-neck, as the elders before him did or should he shine in the newness of modern day pan sticks knocking music from the light of moon in the main street of St James.

This flu drenched him in rivers of orange juice, but he rose strong and vigorous. Should he stand behind the tenor pan in the medium band or carry his leather strap to hoist his pan around his neck.
RISE PAN MAN © gillena cox 2019

We Beat Festival 2019 is on going
You've heard about the Monday Blues ❧✿❧ well this is Monday WRites (musing on the definition here of rite, as any customary observance or practice eg the rite of afternoon tea). A Happy Monday to all
Welcome to Monday WRites #209, ❧✿❧ What's your mood like today ❧✿❧ I invite you to link in with one of your WRites.

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Blog Hopping today with

Mosaic Monday
#31 - How Does Your Garden Grow?

AND


heart:


AND

Prosery #1
Challenge: Write me a story using maximum 144 words that has to include the following line: When far away an interrupted cry

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REVISIT
10 June 2017
10 June 2015
We Beat 2018

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ENJOY THE MUSIC
of The St James Tripolians Steel Band

298

[The Frog Prince ~ Maria Hohneck courtesy imainary garden with real toads]

THE CASTLE GATE BOLTED
She is an ugly old witch
Whose heart is dark like sound of void
Whose lips are cold without lullaby
Whose nose smells dank rot of nearby bog

When the time comes for her beautiful daughter
To go into the world of paper files and pencil
To grab her handbag and stalk her high heels
To ride the bus pass sugarcane arrow fields

The wicked witch will have none of that
No princess leaves this castle this day
So she sleeps with her husband and begets a child
A boy small and tender and wailing as babies do

Here she says to the princess, this is your job
Take care of this baby, bottle feed his crying lips
Then off she goes the wicked witch
To look at herself in a shiny pot spoon

pink pomerac blooms -
the neighbour's dog delights in
chasing his own tail
THE CASTLE GATE BOLTED © gillena cox 2016

Picture Glossary
Pomerac a fruit grown here in Trinidad and Tobago also known as Malay Apple

sugar cane is grown in the production of cane sugar, the flowers are called sugar cane arrows

[images from yahoo dot com]

Written for

The Tuesday Platform

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[my video choice for today - Fairy Tales']

271

The Scream by Edvard Munch(1868-1944)
courtesy Wikipedia

A SCREAMING
The clop clop of horses hooves
Sounds through dawning reproves

Space gapes through empty tomb
Void of conclusions now to subsume

Then pinched Pilate, the great Caeasar
To quiet this screaming non-Balthasar

This is not what we came to see
A SCREAMING © gillena cox 2016

Blog hopping in response to Kerry's prompt
Not What We came To See ~ Micro Poetry

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The Projectionist’s Nightmare

This is the projectionist’s nightmare:
A bird finds its way into the cinema,
Finds the beam, flies down it,
smashes into a screen depicting a garden,
a sunset and two people being nice to each other.
Real blood, intestines, slither down
the likeness of a tree.
“This is no good,” screams the audience,
“This is not what we came to see.”

Brian Patten
Liverpool, UK

190

painting by Trinidadian Alfred Codallo [1913 - 1971] from google dot com

COTTON FLORALS
The moon was bright, yet dark the night.
Through the mud dried track, he hurried back.
To the kids and Miss Mildred, ah yes our man Fred.
Bouts of drinking and carousing;
That was his pleasure, how fickle his leisure.

She laughed shrill and high, head thrown back for fie.
Her perfume intoxicating, scent of wild crepe jasmine.
A smile, flashing a thousand stars alive.

He approached her heart racing, she advanced slowly teasing.
Hibiscus in her wide skirt rippled, oh fly in the web tonight crippled!
After midnight scores to settle, so she roams sharp as nettle.
Gorgeous in aura, wicked in nature;
La Diablesse night roaming tigress.

Oops, across a fallen branch he trips.
Under clear moonlight construe, of cloven hoof to view
Sweat stain body across, he signed himself a cross.

Cackle Cackle yuh get away! yuh get away!
Thus charmed, back into the ether of night she was gone.
COTTON FLORALS © gillena cox 2016


Glossary
La diablesse, pronounced - jab less
yuh get away - you got away


Written for Magaly's prompt carpe jugulum in Sunday Mini-Challenge

Challenged: to craft a new poem that speaks of thoughts/feelings on Terry Pratchett’s quote; Carpe Jugulum, as a foundation: “Don’t trust the cannibal just ’cos he’s usin’ a knife and fork!”

184

[Kiskadee image from google dot com]


DIVA WITCH.1
She wasn't about to let this moment pass, no way not this diva. See, she was a witch. She had the power, she had the panache. So, she brought thumb to middle finger; of both those daring hands, and snapped. Swift, purposeful, elegant, Snap!.

[Carambola fruit; also called five finger image from google dot com]

The wine was chilled, at a just right temperature, a sparkling carambola. The mini tablecloth, checkered, shifted a little. Pinks and charcoal was her design for today. The top of the wine bottle, peaked out from the basket, Ah yes, there were rose buds too; red.
They had been apart for too long. This was her man. Fate had brought them back together. This part of the scenario, was not of her doing. It was his. He created power, he created witches, he created free will. He created this moment long ago in the annals of beginnings.

[Calabash mango image from google dot com]

Fingers snapped. And then, the questions, the amazement the wonder; all wrapped into a puzzling bundle of "How? What? wha...Is this a dream?" " No sweetheart," she replied. "This is not a dream, its a prayer answered"
So they sat on the bare tiled step. The topmost rung of the staircase. The welcome mat had disappeared. She, put a finger to his lips. Silencing him with her eyes. Let it be, just, let it be. "We are having a picnic on the steps this morning."
Near the side wall, over the galvanized roof of the garage, calabash mangoes; full rounded, though green-skinned, were ripe for the picking
wind through mango leaves -
what do they say kiskadees
when they twitter so
DIVA WITCH.1 © gillena cox 2016


“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t.
– Mark Twain

Written for Prompt Nights Truth is stranger than Fiction [5]

114

photo from Dismaland



STILETTO ALLURE
Her stilettos clicked boardroom tiles
Men trembled at her slightest wiles
She, goddess, she, diva
Till another, more wicked, more diva
Benched her, to pigeon lady in the park
Now they smother her; question mark
Who is she? faced hidden in feathered smack
Feathered, not tarred, for a hurried snack
Sister sister of Wall street.
© gillena cox



Written for
FLASH 55 PLUS!


The challenge: to visit Dismaland, the anti-themepark brainchild of the artist known as Banksy, and add your poetic voice to his creative vision in precisely 55 WORDS