Hushed whispers,
a quiet frantic
on this blackest night of nights.
Cold madness,
a blanket for all
Lingering thru the streets,
devouring minds
Mad disciples as witnesses,
a new coming
The final bell of doom
Josh Murray is a writer, blogger, and former news reporter. Educated as a journalist, Josh worked as a political reporter in college and as a producer for KFVS-TV thereafter. He is a husband and a father to three sons.
The puzzle looked like confused confetti so I jumped right in to set things straight. No piece was totally benighted because each had a right side though some of them displayed their wrong sides up. I was grateful for those few that had edges.
With all pieces properly placed (except for those the dog ate) the puzzle displayed an image of white puzzle pieces scattered on a dark table waiting for someone to jump in and straighten them out.
And that’s all there is to this confused tale. I’m still wondering why I jumped into that mess of confetti.
Frank Hubeny has poetry published in Snakeskin and The Lyric. He regularly posts poetry, prose and photography to https://frankhubeny.blog
Sorta-Sonnets with Guest Editor Bartholomew Barker close at midnight tomorrow (wherever you are in the world), so this is your last chance to submit to this call.
You can find everything you need to know about this open call by checking out the submission guidelines, here.
I trembled with profound anxiety. This unwarranted attention from the crowd was extremely overwhelming! But wait….”was this sportlight moment a de javu?”
Robert Salau website: https://purkofreshfarm.wordpress.com
There is only one week to go before the submissions window for “Sorta-Sonnets” with Guest Editor Bartholomew Barker, closes.
You can find everything you need to know about this open call by checking out the submission guidelines, here.
That detour Brian didn’t have to take took decades. When troubles knocked some sense into him, he lacked the sense to ride those blessings home. Sliding on curses he went where no one needed to go.
When Brian found his way home he told us, “If I knew how easy it would be to jump off that merry-go-round I’d have done it long ago.” Regretting the waste of life, he added, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
We were so glad to see him none of us saw any need to remind him just how often we had told him.
Frank Hubeny has poetry published in Snakeskin and The Lyric. He regularly posts poetry, prose and photography to https://frankhubeny.blog
“Slice it, Canto,” the knife jiggled over the melon, an imperfect oval similar to his sister’s youthful face. Illuminated by one candle, the wobbly white rind acquired a cherubic aura.
“Say something first?” Canto felt the weight of the birch-wood ukelele shift against his back. This was, after all, mother’s last melon; she hadn’t survived February’s frost.
The knife split the rind to reveal matching halves of terracotta-colored flesh. Beneath nibbles and sniffles, black diamond tiles stretched; Antibes white marble arched overhead. Readying their instruments, the twins materialized mid-stage, the Sacred Music Festival about to begin, their dirge the opener.
K.Hartless is a persistent poet and eclectic fiction writer who enjoys penning fantasy, science-fiction, and horror while traveling the world. She’s recently been published in Luna Station Quarterly and Last Girl’s Club. Check out her Yardsale of Thoughts at khartless.com or follow her haiku habit on Twitter @hartless_k.
Is he cute, is he clever, is he good or is he bad
Is he fortunate in having all the health and wealth he had
Is he ever really thankful is he ever really glad
Or does he just accept it as his right
.
Does he not appreciate good fortune all the while
Does he think he should receive a constant fawning smile
Does he take advantage with a thoughtless scheming guile
Or does he just accept it as his right
.
I think it best that others should….decide if he is bad or good!
He doesn’t care for others so….I think he really has to go!
Peter Matthews, a country boy at heart, lives with his wife in the suburbs of Nottingham, England. His greatest achievement is that he has aged fairly gracefully but has avoided growing up. Peter has written poetry from the age of sixteen and blogs regularly at www.pollymermaid.wordpress.com
The heretic hunters smirked as the paralyzed man was slowly lowered through the roof to the Master’s feet. Their ever simmering fluid of righteousness popped its cork when they heard the Master declare, “Your sins are forgiven.”
Some thought, “Just who does he think he is?” They argued that only the demon possessed would say stuff like that.
The Master waited for the heretic hunters to catch their breaths. The paralyzed man waited also since he couldn’t do much of anything until he first heard words, spoken with the proper authority, like, “Arise, pick up your bed, and walk.”
Frank Hubeny has poetry published in Snakeskin and The Lyric. He regularly posts poetry, prose and photography to https://frankhubeny.blog
We are now halfway through the submissions window for “Sorta-Sonnets” with Guest Editor Bartholomew Barker.
You can find everything you need to know about this open call by checking out the submission guidelines, here.
Don’t forget, submissions close 24th June 2022!
Whispers and Echoes 