February 17, 2016 · 1:08 am
By Dina Corcoran
Her name was always Blossom.
But the young lad had a tricky tongue,
When he spoke her name he garbled it,
So it became “Want some.”
He lived in a castle, hardly squalor,
Where he ate watermelon with his thumb.
One day she swayed by; it made him starry-eyed,
He called out, “Want some?”
A trickle of hope arose in his heart
As the red juice dripped down his chin.
“I’ll volunteer,” she said on a whim,
Going out on a limb, holding back a grin.
thanks to coetail.com
Prompt: from the (printed) list pick 10 words at random and fashion a poem, memoir or fiction.
“garble, squalor, always, volunteer, sway, trickle, watermelon, starry,
February 17, 2016 · 1:08 am
by Nick Triglia
The assignment is to write a poem, memoir, or non-fiction in 200 words or less using at least 10 words from a list of 113. The subject is St. Valentine’s Day. This assignment from an instructor who’s own poem on the subject is titled Road Kill. Mercy! (1) Given the title of her poem, it doesn’t surprise me that the list includes the words: ruthlessly (2), undertaker (3), and algebra (4).
If I’d ever been to Paris (5), Madagascar(6), Amsterdam (7), or (8) Iceland, I might wax poetic about their beauty. And I don’t find the romance in okra (9) in the marketplace (10).
It’s all extra credit now baby!
St. Valentine poem of love.
Giving up on a Litany-
A wave is acknowledgement of existence
A smile is acknowledgement of love
A blow job is acknowledgement of the universe.
OK, ok. Not one word in the above poem is from the list. I think existence, universe, and blow job were worthy candidates. Especially since hiccup (11), bellybutton (12). and sober (13) made the list. I hiccup for your love. Doesn’t make it. Is your bellybutton an innie or an outie? Hardly romantic. My sober thoughts make me drunk for your love. No.
Hallelujah! (14) The assignment is over.
February 17, 2016 · 1:05 am
Seventeen and in Paris on my own. My first encounter with the city of love and fortunate to stay with an aunt and uncle. Both being workaholics left me with oceans of time to explore. What I had in mind to see was the architecture; the art museums; the places that tourists went.
The air was springlike, mild and sunny, although I was spending my Christmas holiday away from my home in Denmark. This is the one time in my life I experienced pure freedom. I remember how my breathing felt different: effortless and silent but steady and consistent. It was a breathing devoid of depression and anxiety. I breathed without past or future and let the air be present.
Walking along grand boulevards beneath a blue sky sporting white clouds I felt a loving heart circulate blood through my veins. On my way past the many cafés lining the wide sidewalk my sway caught the attention of a street performer playing his violin. As I danced by him he let go of his instrument and started to sing Ne me quitte pas. I stopped, turned around, and listened to his chanson. Was he performing especially for me?
My disposition was romantic and I was attracted to the situation. At the same time, I could hear my mother’s voice: “I’m so proud to have brought up a good girl!” I didn’t move. When he was done with the song, he waved me over. I was embarrassed and blushed but followed his hand. He grabbed mine and kissed it. I felt the touch of his soft lips. My skin everywhere reacted by turning prickly and my breathing became choppy.
“Ma Cherie,” he whispered.
All of a sudden my body felt heavy and I pulled away. Caught between wanting to leave and wanting to stay, I sat down on a bistro chair.
“Please, I need a minute,” I uttered.
He held his violin once again and with closed eyes he played the sweetest melody that could melt any tough disposition.
Paralyzed, I tried to think. Should I leave or should I stay? My sense of freedom had slowly vanished which made the decision so much harder. The guy was cute, romantic and talented.
A waiter came over asking me what I would like and I ordered a café au lait. As more people gathered around to listen to the pretty music, I started to relax. He didn’t sing again which made me feel special.
With his violin case full of money and the crowd thinning out, he declared:
“La dernière chanson!”
From his slender body came Que je t’aime and I didn’t know where to look. My gaze fell on a young woman advancing hurriedly towards us and embodying a sense of pure joy. She stepped right up to my singer and kissed him on the mouth.
February 17, 2016 · 12:49 am
Since class was canceled for President’s Day, I gave an assignment instead.
The students were to select ten words at random and write a poem, memoir or flash fiction using the words and send them to me to post as Valentine’s messages.
Read the next several posts for the results. Enjoy!