Welcome to Fiction Forge Indy! We are a group of four writers in Indianapolis that love to talk about anything that has to do with writing. We all met at the Indiana Writers Center and come from four very different backgrounds with interests in Fantasy, Mystery, Humor, Romance, and Historical Fiction. Prepare to be informed and entertained! Oh --and by the way, we hope you share your thoughts on the craft of writing, too.
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Mister No Wings Poetry
Note: For better, more savory, more pleasing poetry, please see Mike Moir's post: Poetry is not for me Broken Angel Wings
Leaning against the frame…the opened door
Lost in the sun drag…across the wood floor
Nothing is new…no thought, no sound
Just a darker you…all around.
The fearful knowledge.
Should never have remained so vacant...far
From any thoughtful keep...from opened arms
Alone, you see, is dead…dead is once lived
No such evidence of either exists.
The fear is making.
Cherubs have left you…for good, and for dead
No one to christen…No thing to might live
Others see winged spirits spread overhead
Guiding their souls from cold to warmer beds
Spilt sun soaks and drains.
Your angels -- empty. Empty. Emptied.
The Problem's Resolution
I Know What Death Is…
To the ancients it
was thieves that stole
Life from the living;
The living slipped
into Death’s hands,
Into its underworld; simply too weak to prevent the fall.
But can’t you see?
It’s none of these things!
It’s not Death who
It’s not Life that
It’s not prayer that
prevents this process,
It not process that
I know what Death is:
Golden Gates and Trailers
I want my Mom’s Heaven; full of angels, with real wings and
smiling golden faces, and the lovely scent of roses. There, Grandma is clapping
to a Beatles ditty; Grandpa telling everyone how pretty she is. I can know everything about everyone in an instant of empathy and grace and love...(in an instant!)
And then there is my brother. He thinks Heaven is not much
different than the busy lives on Earth. He says there are pink trailers and golden mansions in Heaven, too, and Springer will have the same guests, the same sound
effects, the same obvious solutions to their woes while the rich will have their problem child hooked on heroin and rap and low rise pants.