Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

May 25, 2018, 07:05:09 PM
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This week's words;

Sunday - Instructions

Monday- Motorcycle

Tuesday- Wildflower

Wednesday- Asparagus

Thursday- Stopwatch

Friday - Confetti


Word of the Day
Pages: 1 ... 8 9 [10]
 on: April 21, 2018, 07:30:19 PM 
Started by Moonshine - Last post by Moonshine
We call it candy floss where I come from
though its really not so good for your teeth.
I remember the sweet smell
You can actually smell sugar ?
I was quite  surprised
A wooden stick  poked into the whirly machine
the mmmmagic wand.
Incantations are made, stirring gestures  
and presto,
candy floss.
fluffy soft that curiously  turns hard as you bite into it.
but sweet
(Kinda like my wife)
gotta shoot the ring off the bottle !
and get the cuddly toy!
the  man on the waltzer!
does the mad tango.


 on: April 20, 2018, 10:32:02 AM 
Started by Dgazzer - Last post by Dgazzer
Brown leather cover,
tied with a piece of leather lace.
The word Diary etched in pretty font on the face.
The smell of the pages well worn,
coffee stained and pages torn.

My deepest thoughts flow from my pen
every night on a new page I begin
to let the cosmos know about me
It's my life in this Diary

Angry words, my blood boils
I can taste the bitter letters as they spill on the page
my knuckles white as I grip the pen
Another lonely night, nothing but the deafening sound of pen on paper

My heart leaps as I recall the first touch
her hand on my shoulder that laugh, too much

 on: April 19, 2018, 05:19:10 PM 
Started by Moonshine - Last post by Moonshine
The drunken diary
bleating heart
between the lines there is nothing
but spaces
wasted words
worries and wounds
stutters  shutters 
shut up
things that cannot be said
for fear of
storms of razor blades
spittle bombs
you are not
the truth
not you
are  not

 on: April 19, 2018, 08:35:02 AM 
Started by Dgazzer - Last post by Dgazzer
Warm sun, passing down through the trees.
The leaves sparkle in the light.
Feet up swinging to and fro
Something about doing nothing just feels right

An old worn paper back I've been anxious to read
Cold sweat on the side of my glass of sweet tea
Not a soul around it's just me
Laying back in a hammock

Cut off jean shorts
no shoes or socks
Slow moving Sunday afternoon
Laying back in a hammock.

The smell of BBQ from a few doors down
I can taste the sauce so sweet
Sunshine moving past the shade of the tree
Burning down hot on my feet

Beads of sweat down my brow
pull the worn ball cap down low
the rattle of the ice in my empty glass

 on: April 18, 2018, 08:05:06 AM 
Started by Dgazzer - Last post by Dgazzer
That deep feeling of someone watching, disappointed eyes staring as I slowly walk up the concrete steps. I reach for the cold metal handle on the familiar wooden door. It creaks open and I walk inside, eyes taking a while to adjust to the dark but the smell of incense brings me back to the many times I stood at the side of the alter. The red gown covered by the white top, I don't even know what those were called. As my sight comes back I see the alter at the far end of the church. The taste of stale bread and cheap wine come back to me. The feel of the wood from the pews as I walk down the centre isle. Pictures of Saints all seem to be staring at me in a " decided to make an appearance?" kind of look. Jesus's head seems to hang lower, as if disappointed I haven't come to see him in awhile. The quiet makes me uncomfortable. I lower a kneeler onto the ground  so the creaking sound will echo up to the ceiling and back down the walls. Old people begin to shuffle in. The alter server comes out and begins to light the candles. The smell of the wax hits my nose, I loved doing that job when I was a kid. 

 on: April 18, 2018, 08:03:11 AM 
Started by milk - Last post by Ymmot13

 on: April 18, 2018, 05:33:02 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Left standing at the altar, the discarded groom
Fallen flower petals swept up with a broom
This wedding over before it begins
No bride, no wedding, no happy ending.

The altar alone, the hard block of stone
No celebration today
They call it cold feet but it must be more
No faith in a future more than fear.

The petals fall from a few flowers
That cluster around the groom
He waits by the altar as guests slide away
He’s numb, he’s blind, he’s all gone.

At the American Legion, they’ve rented the hall
There’s food, cake and a band
But the altar blocks him, he cannot pass
No bride, no party, he just stands.

 on: April 18, 2018, 05:25:03 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Show me the stone, ye without sin
And the cherry without no stone
The jawbone without no chin
The chicken that has no bone.

Cast the stone in a bowl of tin
A stone with no knucklebones
Cast the stone, ye without sin
Be the first to hear the groan.

Groan of despair, the news written there
In runes delphic and fraught
Give to despair all that you dare
The fate is known and you’re caught.

The stone will say to the very day
To the hour, oh ye without sin
The stone you cast has fallen away
In its patterns your end now begins.

You cast the stone, you cast the die
You read fate in the knucklebones
You blind your own eyes as fate comes alive
To carry you back to sin’s home.

 on: April 18, 2018, 05:15:13 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Tongue crumble of the corner piece
Soft point to the chewy edge
Salt taste of brownie give the tongue pledge
Of the chocolate’s stronger release.

Release of the flavor
The sweet and the smoke
Chocolate in crumbles on tongue
Mouth roof feeling how they smooth.

Baked scent of brownie on the corner piece
The chew of the edge on the teeth
Hand held to catch crumbs from the flaking top
A brownie eaten in Fall.

Autumn has its stories, flavors and songs
The stadiums and colors of leaves
Autumn has such things and a warm kitchen
Brownies bake in pyrex mid-rack.

 on: April 18, 2018, 05:05:56 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Broken bronco, steed of the plains
Herder of heads of cattle
Saddle and bridle, bit to bite
Tail to swish on the trail.

On the long drive, the tail gets matted
Not just riders get saddle sores
Raw back from the ride, long cattle drive
To the railhead and payday and more.

Smell of the cattle, smoke of the fire
Harmonica and fiddle together
Trail music played in three four
Trot rhythm out under the moon.

There’s a song to sing from Stockbridge to Boston
A song where the berkshires do roll
But that’s not the song of the broken bronco
Past the fire where the doogies night low.

Smell of the cattle, smoke of the fire
The crickets sing the old song
Broken bronco, hobbled at night
To the trail once more in the morn.

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