There is nothing to report. Just cameras whittling time into little pixeled boxes. Behind a curved desk an anchor is just that today, a weight to keep the ship steady focused in on itself, to stop the rigging pulling loose, or port and starboard drifting too far from the bones of each other. The mics only capture seafoam, its hiss, hiss, hiss, on sand as the nothing news drags in and out across our feet.
Write a poem in the form of a news article you wish would come out tomorrow.
Dark mouths open. Hollow depths, or so it appears until a scream finally sounds.
Before my husband and I started dating, I wrote a fib for him a thank-you gift for fixing my laptop. It was NaPoWriMo that introduced me to the form, and he’d never received a poem as a gift before so he found it quite novel. Now I’m not saying poetry is the basis of my marriage, but sometimes a little fib can go a long way.
Their heads bob like drinking birds, of course, of course, of course. Necks pulled up from their collar bones. I have never seen throats so open as when your snout is at their jugular the gleam on bright white teeth masked by sheer magnetism.
Tonight’s quadrille prompt had me a little stumped to begin with. Then I started writing about iron filings, got stuck fifteen words in, and wrote this quadrille instead. I even got to bring out one of my own sketches to use for the feature image.
Despite the hosing,
stems still cling to their cobwebs.
Strands draped between limbs,
threads quivering in a threat to untangle.
Roses grow thirsty again in a moment,
stripped out of their petals
heat caught up on their thorns.
A lessening, in want of more.