Samuel Feb 8
She’s kind

Isn’t she?

So many others

Look and see

Only her hardness,

Cold gaze

And colder words.

You can’t deny

That she’s cold.

Dour and stern

Always to the point

Reminding you incessantly

Of the mission.

But there’s more,

So much more.


Details matter

And usefulness

To you all

And her especially.

You matter too,

Silly girl,

To her.

She didn’t end

That call.

She let you

Fall to pieces,

Pour your heart out,

Over another

And she said

You mattered.


She listens. Always.

About flowers.

About animals.

About that world

And your want

To see it

Just once.

There’s more too

Than just listening.

You have it,

A precious gift,

Tucked away

That photo there

Of this world.


When people ask

What it is

That draws you,

That attracts you,

You can’t deny

That there’s looks.

But there’s more

So much more,

Because she’s kind

Isn’t she.
The prompt was "attractive".
Samuel Feb 8
How did it even start,

This fight?

The Sage of Holy Wind

Can’t really say,

she never can.

As always she is drawn

By the Wind’s beckoning call.

Drawn by whispered words

Of the Flashing Light’s fight

And her devilish foe.

That’s all she needs.


On those same gusts

She rushes

As she can

To the Light’s side.

A sudden guest

In the grueling conflict

She alarms them both,

The foe and the knight.

With a curse from both

And a grin from her

The combat continues

With desperation.


The foe has six arms

And three faces

All on one head,

A dreadful asura.

He swings six swords

With fiendish speed

And sings a song

Of hate that cuts deep

into the earth

Tearing it from her feet,

The King’s Blade.


She leaps up

Taking to the air

And calls down lights

That crash

With all the fury of thunder

Sped on by her own song

And Hope’s dire will.

Hope to protect.

Hope to save.

Hope to destroy.


His shout shakes the light

From the skies

And he lunges forth,

A dance of blades

Seeking gore and more.

His speed is great

But greater still

Is the Wind’s.

A gusting wave pushes him

Back and down.

He is thrown from the air,

The Fate Spinning Winds’ domain.


Grinning the Blade dives

Down and down

With righteous fury

And the blue glow

Of purest Light’s intent.

The thrust is sure, strong

And cracks like thunder.

The raging storm

Of Grimm’s good servant,

The Light’s own sage.


There is more to him

Than shouts and swords

And six arms though.

There’s a lack of care

And a burning hatred

For all the King’s men.

Many would run

Or raise up a shield

Guarding themselves from death.

But he welcomes it

Letting the blade run deep,

Piercing him through

and mortally so.

Then he catches the arm

That wielded the blade

And pulls down the Blade.


The fight seems over and done

From the Holy Wind’s high place

Her home, the air,

But a screech rings out.

Four devious daggers

Made of Darkness

Claim the King’s Blade,

Rending her flesh

And digging in deadly.

She is tossed aside

Like a toy

Bleeding and cursing

And damned.


The asura damned too

Rises up

Rage incarnate

Blind and dumb

And unrelenting

To finish his job.

He raises up

An arm and then another

Before the shocked sage

Buffets him with a wind.

Tossed he turns

Terrific rage building more

And directs it at her,

The sage unbelieving.


Like a shock of silver

Cold and quick

To the gut and the heart

Is the fear mounting.

Fear for her,

Fear of loss

Of a friend, a lover dear,

Known for a thousands years

And hopefully a thousand more.

The Wind’s sing of necessity

And Fate.

Of life and death,

An air of change,

Unyielding in its march.

The tune is so welcome

Normally,

Though it seems so cruel.

Now it is dreaded,

Disbelieved.

Now it makes her pause,

Turning to look

Searching for life

In her partner dear.


Finding that hesitation

The asura jumps up high

Blades ready

And burning with demon fire,

But his arms are pulled back

And he is pulled down

By deep red chains

Of crimson fluidity,

Of blood.

They coil and cut

Like blades

Slicing an arm free

Then two, then three,

But he breaks free

Shrugging off bonds

With a scream.


From the floor she rises

The Flashing Light

Eyes aflame

With red fury

Brilliant and ominous

As the Red Moon.

From the Flashing Light spills

Blood like a torrent

Shaped into swords

As would the Light be.

The sound of his chant

Is cut short

By a wave of dark

Butterflies fluttering from her.

The sound of her chant

Rings out

Sending forth a wave

Of blood made blades.

Skewering, rending

Utterly ending the foe.

She rises a victor

Dripping blood,

And her wounds close

Fed blood.


She rises a vampire revealed

And fear falls

In the Holy Wind’s Heart.
Prompt was "fear".
Samuel Dec 2017
I met a man of the sea
down at Cocoa
surrounded by Christmas Cheer.
He was an old man,
one who'd caught many waves
then took a break
before catching even more.

The others were struggling
on 1 foot white water
with their shortboards and fish.
This man though,
he caught a few
on an old fashioned longboard
like what I learned on
as a child.

I looked at him with awe,
at this man who knew
the waves and their bobs,
and who knew what sort
of board to bring.
So I talked with him,
asked if he caught much.
He said not really,
the surf is too small for much.
I told him of my father,
and the one gift he gave me:
a love for the sea's art,
for surfing.

This old man then asked
kindly, openly
"Would you like to try it out?
I'll show you a bit."
I thought about refusing,
crawling away in shame
but I was drawn in by
that welcoming man
and so I hopped on up,
or rather slipped and slid
until I perched on top
clinging awkwardly.
He held the board a bit,
telling me to relax,
to let my feet hang down
at the sides,
and getting me to paddle.
Which is awkward with a board
that size between your arms
but I did and I did
pushing myself forward.

Then he let go
and had me paddle out
before calling that I was too far
because he knew where they came,
he knew where I'd catch one.
Turning I found easier,
though I tipped over a tad
before catching myself
and always with my ankles gripping
onto the rails.
I paddled back a bit,
back to that kindly old man.
He grabbed hold of the board once more
and told me to start paddling,
just keep paddling.

Then it was there,
the wave
an unmistakable rush
of most remarkable force
that rockets you forward
and rips away control
while giving you another sort,
so long as you work with it,
work with the sea.
I turned into it,
to the side that hadn't crested
to ride along further
instead of petering out.
Just like he'd taught me,
my father's old friend.
And though I didn't stand,
not wanting to ruin this moment
with an awkward failure at a popup,
I rode and rode
with a growing excitement,
a glee like no other
until at last I could ride no more
for the wave had run out
and the land had come up.
It was both too short
and yet an eternity.
Life encapsulated in just one moment.

I brought back the board
and talked a while longer
of how I'd been reborn
and he laughed oh so knowingly.
"All it takes is one wave,
that's how it was for me,"
he told me as I tread water
still awestruck.
Never has a truer thing been said
to me or to anyone.
All it takes is one wave
to learn what life is
and yet not know it at all.

I met a man of the sea
down at Cocoa,
surrounded by Christmas Cheer,
and he taught me to ride
along his waves.
I met the Man of the Sea
and he taught me to live.
Samuel Dec 2017
How the fuck
do you look at the moon
and see a man
or I guess his face?

It's clearly a rabbit
or maybe an impression of one.
Pounding rice
or thrown by the sun
that's clearly a rabbit,
ok?
Samuel Dec 2017
There's few things better
than a pot of good rice,
for hunger both physical
and emotional.

It's my one good tie
to what my father denied me.
My mother learned it
from my grandmother,
along with a host of other things,
like spam enchiladas;
something my mother never made.

It's simple too.
You gotta crack the rice first,
it's vital to keep it from sticking.
That's what they say,
and I'm not sure it's true
but I do it anyway.
You oil up a pot
or a deepset pan
and just fry it for a bit.
Then it's cracked
and ready for the rest.

The water needs a bit more too,
but just a bit.
Tomatoes and peppers
or maybe just tomatoes.
Chicken broth or stock too,
we always use Knorr.
I like to add some cumin
to give it a warm smell and taste.
Sometimes you don't add the veggies,
but either way it's a bit more.
Just a bit
because really it's just rice.

But it comes out warm
and smelling of home
and things that could've been home.
It tastes pretty good to boot.
It's my mother's rice
that she taught to me,
but my grandma taught it to her
and it could've been hers.
It should've been abuela's.

Could've been, should've been
it's a sign either way.
It's one of my ties,
the biggest one I think
because there's few things better
than a pot of good rice.
Samuel Dec 2017
Your people have been here
for one thousand years and more,
longer even
than this country here.
Much, much longer.
Yet they'd tell you to leave
if only they knew
who you are,
what you are.
But they don't,
and you hardly don't.

Your Spanish is broken,
self-taught because your dad wouldn't,
not even your grandma would.
It's practiced in retail
selling credit cards
to people who can't afford them,
and not at home with family.
Your recipes are a mix
learned from your mom
and that grandma,
to your step family,
and even the ever present internet.
Your name?
It looks French, people say,
even though it doesn't at all
to anyone with even a passing knowledge
of that language or this name.
It's pure Mexican,
so pure not even a lot of friends know it
and are amazed to hear
that you're not really white.
There's others with it though,
some looking far less French than you.

You've never had a quince.
You never set up an ofrenda.
You never dealt with la chancla.
You got the hugs and kisses
and mijas and sweet things ending in -ita,
and you always had the food
and more of it
because you're too thin, mija.
You have so little though.
So little that when you look
at yourself
in the mirror
you see a gringo.

Toss away that guilt though.
Get back what you can and more.
Don't be like your father
ashamed of what Spanish you know.
You're a Mexican too,
you just have to practice more.
Samuel Dec 2017
Leaves rustle
in
the wind
falling off
one
by one
as autumn
turns
to winter.

It's winter
now
by old counts
and ours
now too,
but winter
feels
like autumn
still,
and even spring
before it.

Why do the airs
warm our world,
and how long
will it last?

Will I still see
leaves rustle
in the
wind
as I lay
dying?
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