Want to submit your work? Request an invite
With each day's torments in life
I take my brush and
try to paint out my soul
Where to begin or end
not knowing at all
but still love to paint
to find solace within my heart!

To paint or to write,
is my usual confusion
so did both while writing & painting
my soul out!
I am passionate about writing as well as painting.
Now trying to do both at the same time.
Odious Wench  Aug 29
Doodle
Odious Wench Aug 29
I'm just a little doodle
Sitting on a page
I'm just a little doodle
In these lines, caged
-------------------------
I colored the doodle
In ink they can see
And the moment I did...
Forever will it be
No longer the wave before
Or the swirly clouds
The only thing it can be
Is what it is right now
hoist
the
black flag of
skull and crossbones high
this
is
your
captain speaking
captain Billy Bly
said i
all hands on deck
i
only
want strong men
with
strong backs
from
forward aft
from
stern to stern
right turn right
then
make
a hard rudder left
aye...aye me mates
aya...aye
said i
now
we
set sail  90 degrees longitude northeast
said i
oh
what
a
Yankee Doodle Dandy
MIST CREEPING SLOWLY

The morning found
only blood & feathers.

The fox leaving
only Death

& its presence

& the gossip of the frightened chickens.

My uncle swearing
‘til the sky was blue

(early morning clouds that the sun shone through) .

An embarrassed cock
like a mad alarm clock

crying like a cartoon “cock-a-doodle-do! ”

My uncle dispatching him
with a quick kick.

“Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ”

I take in the scene of the massacre
& whisper:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a chicken! ”

*    *      *

All that next week
my uncle stalked the chicken coup
waiting for the fox

who was clever enough
not to turn up

until the eight day
driven by his hunger & his nature

she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight
& the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight

as both it & the fox(shot through the head)  
fell dead

at my uncle’s muddied boot.

My gentle uncle delirious with Death
the frosted air
stained with his breath.

His voice almost transformed
into an animalistic hoot:

“Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I
could shoot! ”

The good side of the fox’s face
seemed to still laugh
at the very idea of Death.

I whimpered:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a fox! ”

The countryside
brutal & Biblical

demanding

a life for a life

Yet all I could see
was Death...Death.

Priest-like...

I knelt & whispered
a quick act of contrition
to the fox’s carcase.

My uncle probably thought
I was barmy.

That night in celebration
my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck

(the chicken’s name was Patricia)  

& I declined the clean
white breast

still haunted

by the chicken & the fox’s

death.

— The End —