Porthole

Within every speck and mote ... there lies a poem

For "Space Blog" 

"Where Does a Poem Live?"   [E] by Fyn

Mini-critique: it's fairly new and needs a shave and a haircut. Other than cutting out a few weak words it needs to smooth out its rhythm, as that is the main poetic device. Verses 1-5 ask enough questions (ad nauseum questions are annoying) that 6 and 7 could be changed into statements. It could end on "to draw a breath and sigh". Everything after that is commentary and needs to be cut (or incorporated into the poem elsewhere). I wanted to like this more than I did. It has potential, so a 4.0 at this stage of development.

Prompt: Where does a poem live?

Within every speck and mote there lies a poem. It's like a block of stone that contains the statue. The sculptor merely realeases it. Once released the poem lives on long after the poet dies. Even if the words change... what is released has its effect on the living.

"Blogging Circle of Friends "  Use these words in your blog entry today: unmentionable, unaccustomed, collector, tree, book, ghosts

Daily Flash Fiction: witch, ghost, goblin.

I'm so tired of White American Halloween!

But... can I use all the prompts to write a short Space Cadet episode?

Within every speck and mote ... there may be life and therein lies a poem.

"There are no witches, ghosts and goblins except in old-fashioned books!"

We sat in the visitor's lounge while we traded with the Vulch collectors for unmentionable edibles. Xavier was human, not a very smart one, but deemed safe enough.

"Have you ever seen one?" he continued.

Cook interrupted by clanging some pots and pans. "Dinner's ready!" He'd received a shipment of fresh innards from the Kla and they were only good served hot.

When Xavier left, I turned to 90210. "And ... can you explain that?"

"Humans love myths. Humans love to dismiss myths. Humans love to argue over myths."

Cook and Kat laughed. Humans were dangerous. But 90210 was human.

"Look, I need to rest. But you all know that stranger sentients exist." We all nodded as she left.

"Goblins among the Pirates? They'll deny it. We know better."
"Witches of Arcrux? Barely escaped their spells."
"Ghosts? Have you sat in Grey Lounge the Kla prefer?"

I shivered. I hadn't believed in Ghosts but then I didn't believe in lots of things. Curious and unaccustumed to leaving good enough alone, I went to the Grey Lounge. If one were quiet enough one could hear... my 4 ears twitched. I thought it was a speaker at first, someone playing music a tad too loud but Gherald-the-Kla sitting next to me seemed un-perturbed.

"You hear it?"

I nodded.

"The Ghosts speak on their own wavelength, sing their own melodies, whisper in soft encryptions. We Kla listen in. They know things and know we are listening. They are poets."

"Are they alive?"

"Know any poets?"

"Been too focused on day-to-day living."

Gherald nodded.

"Are poets alive? The words of poets last long after they are dead. Listen closely and learn."

He seemed to nod off. I dozed too... as the melodies entranced me and the messages became clear.

Once there was a wise-old tree that died to become a book...

I turned it into a 'normal' flash fiction. "Ghosts of poets past [272] 299 words" 

Finished and posted another new poem (received Honorable Mention):

STATIC

My name's not Jack!  (13+) Pumpkin wants you to remember that pumpkin pie is best from pie pumpkins shared with love. #2236559 by Kåre เลียม Enga

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