Red

Chic in her red finery,

so sleek she is as she

roars down the road.

He is the sporty type

he is athlete.

She a driver for his new career -

the apprehensive acrobat.

They meet head on.

He catapults into the air

and somersaults

and he a novice here,

does not land dainty on his feet,

instead lands clumsily,

cracking head on terra firma.

She is non-sentient,

indifferent to his pain,

wipes red tears from her shattered eye.

And he gurgles in his red viscous pool,

eyes her in odd shades of green,

sucks in one last breath, exhales noisily

and he is,   well,    he is dead.

Anna :o]

I had read Claudia’s clue to tonight’s prompt before leaving home.  Around midday, in a hospital grounds, I was talking to a patient and she was explaining to me the cause of her injuries, and the above began to formulate in my mind…but I took her story a little further…

And now, looking at Victoria’s prompt at dVerse – not too sure whether my offering fits the bill of an object poem…  So it is maybe a case of publish and be damned!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author:  OppidumNissenae

Thing

Confused by it, her mind in overdrive,

she quickly twirled it to its underside,

and what she saw on this black dead of night

gnawed at her soul, and she her faith belied

prayed to her god her dread if to *asswage,

in dearest hope this night her soul be saved

This strange thing was as if a man unmade,

grotesque - a swirling vortex for a face.

Yet in her heart lust for it she did nurse,

she would forsake her god herself unchurch.

For in her sad mind nothing could be worse

than an empty bed and she her lips did purse.

But he (evil fiend) would not kiss her back

saying: You’re not my type!  And that was that!

Anna :o]

* Obsolete form of assuage

Tony at dVerse has us writing bouts-rimés and the words he offers us are: drive, side, night, lied, wage, saved, made, face, nurse, church, worse, purse, back & that.  (It is permissible to use the rhymes as the last syllable of longer words or homophones.}

Please note:  the above is a true story (she said with her fingers crossed) – I found something on the drive when I returned home last night… :o]

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: User:nae'blis

Enough

How could I have ever loved this man,

this man this pathetic apathetic soul

who lies prostrate pissing on just-shampooed floor,

whimpering like some pathetic scolded puppy? 

(No-muscle-strength-means-

he-needs-me-to-get-him-up (long figured out –

then exhilarated at my inventiveness)) 

He has fell so many bloody times before –

but this time, this time I have had enough of it

and no longer stalwart heaving sobs

rack mind and body.   I have had enough.

I have had enough of it, enough of him. 

How could I have ever loved this man –

once dapper now a drooling food-slopping mess –

top and trousers both a ready bib,

trousers a ready sponge for now venting bladder

(and he lies whimpering, whimpering like a scolded puppy). 

This night I have had enough of him. 

I have had more than enough of everything.

How could I have ever loved this man?

He tall dark handsome then,

those zillion million years ago –

now a mere grey disappearing shadow

forever needing, forever tugging at resilience,

rubbing-it-out with every crushing crisis. 

How could I have ever loved this man?

How could I, but I did I did

I do.

Anna :o] 

Karin at dVerse has us writing of repetition

YesterDAY was a bad day – whatever could go wrong did.  YesterNIGHT was even worse.

I wrote the above late last night, early this morning to vent my feelings.  It proved cathartic – and with a bit of tidying-up fit the prompt.

(I am better as in calmer now!)

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons