Saturday Poetry Prompt: repeatable

photo by Prashanthe on Flickr

No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love —
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love

Allen Ginsberg — Song

Profound were the incessant efforts on Việt Nam to stroll through unveiled far-fetched hands curving around in splitting cloudy skies where aggressive winds take your breath a brave walk of electrifying passion desperately counting the chances of death of a silent mind in a spinning world the closing decades of their nameless origin touched with care that sprung from feelings, desires, worries a serene pulsation to intensify the possible a readiness…

Wednesday Prose Poem: the colour says it all

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Stood there and watch silently how colours change in three acts,

while the jester sets the scene in red mocking curtains and chocolate brown rugs. Spectators taking their seats waiting for their middle-to-late speech. Drowned in sound, tilted back, in an effort to breathe. Keep fighting the winter blue with more blue. Many layers of blue cover the background when the conductor stresses the pauses and ensembles the golden gestures with his hands. Strong communication with simple movements of his baton, results in yellow relays of the violinist for the bows to synchronize. …

Wednesday Prose Poem: where do the stories end up

Image by suju-foto from Pixabay

The keeper holds the first words like fractals in the sky and translated all your reasons to art. Wouldn’t it suffice to call it love? For the world outside his window, is sleeping, but he transcends to pure romantic dreams, stories of his secret places and glimpses from a writer’s world. And, still today, not confessing to poetry music, prohibiting parallel voices or even hidden whispers, while making tender sounds with sanitized conscience. He only possesses themes, a collection of memories, a set that has a musical variety. …

Image by Rachel Burkum from Pixabay

Wednesday Prose Poem Prompt: what wounds look like as they heal

No amount of reassurance will change what happened, hurt will eventually grow. This little wound will take small steps to change in shape, to take up more vital space. Yet, every misshaped confliction makes it a bigger ellipsis. And there always comes a second time, where it cracks, probably silently, since anything haven’t been heard back. It has a solemn low lightness. From a photo-metric point of view it speaks in variations of black, but then again, without the proper photo-sensitivity it goes unnoticed.

After months of waiting, it splits its skin and sheds its tears, it usually looks like…

Joanna Vang

An emotional girl with an anxious mind

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