Photos for January Stones and April PAD 2012 property of M J Dills (exception 1/16)







Tuesday, June 21, 2016

PROSE Acrostic



Poets, writers and lyricists are ultimately
Responsible for everything magical, historical and imagined that
Occurs in and out of the world and common
Sense tells us that words are not only
Essential, without them we would be nothing

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Challenge of theprose.com

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Thursday, June 16, 2016

49




I don’t have personal history so
I can’t truly speak of inner and
constant fear,
threat to safety,
misery of concealment.
What I have is familiarity,
memories of mirror balls and strobe lights,
techno decibels and Gloria Gaynor,
beautiful sweaty bodies,
glistening with rendezvous and desire,
walking home in a tropical dawn,
laughing with my gay boys, arm and arm,
one last cigarette and
maybe a splash in the pool in the dark.
I
have
been
there.
Gathered in clubs with smiles large and
laughter unbound,
grinding,
shimmying,
thrusting,
modified salsa way past midnight.
Never a thought of danger,
nor an allusion of dread,
no panic, no fright.
Shaking the images in my imagination
is not a simple process.
I can no way comprehend
the terror.
And
I cannot accept the anguish.
These feelings of loss and sorrow
are not mine personally but
they could have been
us.
We could have been
them.
My mourning is not extinguished.
My grief is still twirling on the dance floor.



Orlando June 12 2016

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Monday, June 13, 2016

Farcical


They told me M&M’s melt in your mouth and not in your hand.
And then they told me that Jesus loves all the little children.

Harsh reality is when you realize the teachers are not on your side and the principal is not your pal.
Boys only want one thing. 
That was wrong, too. 
They want much more.



~~~~
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(From Prose Prompt June 13, 2016)

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

The prompt for this Wednesday is to write a poem about something that is Nothing Important





Saturday is your birthday. 

How could you think it would be important to me? 
It is certain to me that there is nothing important 
about my celebrations that make you 
notice insignificant numbers 
that rotate on your calendar. 
Days, months, years pass and the vacuum grows. 
Someday it will be a cave for me to fall into. 

Saturday is your birthday. 
I will go to sleep Friday with birthday cakes, 
old photos, labor pains and 
the scent of vernix filling my dreams. 
Saturday night I will sleep with a different type of ache. 
I never lost you because we don’t lose some things; 
they simply develop a distance and 
then we mourn in a visceral way. 
Living, parting and dying are on the same path 
and though it is certain to me that there is nothing important 
about your celebration that I would be a part of, 
I can keen if I want to. 

Saturday is your birthday. 

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Sunday, June 5, 2016

June 5, 2016 A Poem about LOVE and OTHER Things



Babies and young lovers 
kiss in much the same way. 
Open mouthed 
receiving 
full of love 
and 
willing to take in everything. 
When does the face seal up in a manner 
to stop the flow of 
love and knowledge, 
vulnerability and tenderness? 
Why do we become guarded, wary, 
timid and judgmental? 
We begin life, 
love 
and 
lust 
with submission, 
rolling onto our backs, 
exposing the soft flesh of our bellies. 
Then we turn to jade, 
slowly, 
a process that involves betrayal, mistrust, 
little murders 
and colored lies. 
We die, 
tightlipped, underwhelmed, 
secrets buried; our goodness 
tied up in old photos, 
winners’ ribbons, 
perfume tainted with age.


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Tuesday, May 24, 2016

We Are Color


I am white.

You are also white.

But you have a palette of other colors I do not have.

We both come from Mother Africa but you have the beautiful genes that document your claim. Mine have been washed away over decades, centuries, travels and time.

Danish butter rolls through our veins, you and me, and you also have Norwegian, making you more of a Viking than I am.

Your skin is the color of honey… well made bread… fine sand, ground to softness by tides controlled by the moon.

My skin is old now but when I was younger, my skin was taut and inflexible. Now it gives you something to tease me with.

You were born blue. Your eyes were black like the depths of an underworld cave, and sparkling like an ancient fire. You turned pink within moments after your entrance and later, you began to take on the hues of an Egyptian Queen.

We are Cherokee, you a little more than I, making you braver, more stealthy and able to lean into the wind.

We are French, and English, and maybe a wee Irish, and German, too. There are many colors within us, shapes and sizes.

In our bones, we have the ability to break chains, sail tall ships, write ghazals of love, wipe tears off the face of defeat, leap in the name of victory, count stars and follow comets.

We are connected, like a fragile feather to a wing.

We are the threads of a tapestry and we are here to protect the colors.




for Mimi


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G R E E D


Getting everything you want while

Risking friendships and your reputation

Even if it means having no one to love and being

Empty and devoid of compassion or mercy because the

Dollar is what you worship and there is never, ever enough.  




Prose Monday Challenge - Greed - Acrostic

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