sandflea68
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My words seek color as does my art. Unique characters throb my soul. Published author of 2 books.
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Written by sandflea68 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Available Rooms

Danger was her name

passion was her game.

Her nights were like grand hotels

where the rooms

were always available

to the men she loved

and loved well.

Drips of passion awakening lust

moist mouths and pink tongues

fingers touching, bodies wet

entwined like twisted ropes

of lustful body parts and pieces

no beginning, no end, everlasting.

The greed, the thirst, the yearning

the price was never too much

gifts freely given for her beauty.

But the cost they would pay

unbeknownst to feckless men

was the loss of their lives

for when she was through

she smiled as she bit

with pearly white teeth

necks offered in fervor

carotid artery exposed.

Blood flowed on sheets

and once again

her rooms

were always available.

7
3
8
Juice
31 reads
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Written by sandflea68 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Available Rooms
Danger was her name
passion was her game.
Her nights were like grand hotels
where the rooms
were always available
to the men she loved
and loved well.
Drips of passion awakening lust
moist mouths and pink tongues
fingers touching, bodies wet
entwined like twisted ropes
of lustful body parts and pieces
no beginning, no end, everlasting.
The greed, the thirst, the yearning
the price was never too much
gifts freely given for her beauty.
But the cost they would pay
unbeknownst to feckless men
was the loss of their lives
for when she was through
she smiled as she bit
with pearly white teeth
necks offered in fervor
carotid artery exposed.
Blood flowed on sheets
and once again
her rooms
were always available.

7
3
8
Juice
31 reads
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You are the tree in your back yard. Tell your story.
Written by sandflea68 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Roots

You are the tree

in my backyard

muscled arms

standing guard.

Leaves giving me flight

knotholes – a refuge

where I may alight

birds chirping deluge.

Minuscule cracks

safe harbor flow

roots reaching

deep into my soul.

Transcending strength

stable and true

standing through storms

the timber of you.

#Challenge #tree in backyard @strength of  timber

11
3
11
Juice
37 reads
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You are the tree in your back yard. Tell your story.
Written by sandflea68 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Roots
You are the tree
in my backyard
muscled arms
standing guard.

Leaves giving me flight
knotholes – a refuge
where I may alight
birds chirping deluge.

Minuscule cracks
safe harbor flow
roots reaching
deep into my soul.

Transcending strength
stable and true
standing through storms
the timber of you.
#Challenge #tree in backyard @strength of  timber

11
3
11
Juice
37 reads
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Capture a moment
Written by sandflea68

Pregnant Morn

Light caramel breeze

floods over the seas.

Sunrise wades

into our lives,

amber light

of promise, weaving

butterscotch drops.

Cobalt veil lifts

as night surrenders

to pregnant morn,

bleeding colors

and life

into layers

of our skin.

Our eyes

echo soft hues, as

we watch golden orb

continue its path,

struggling

to grasp life

in yearning hands,

ingrained perfectly

in formed memories

of this moment

in time.

You whisper

your dreams in

impressionist light

but I tint them

with my own afterglow,

trapped in my own

reverie of luminosity.

Without hearing

your rosy words,

I turn to see

that you are gone,

the sound

of seagulls fades.

11
6
10
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45 reads
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Capture a moment
Written by sandflea68
Pregnant Morn
Light caramel breeze
floods over the seas.
Sunrise wades
into our lives,
amber light
of promise, weaving
butterscotch drops.
Cobalt veil lifts
as night surrenders
to pregnant morn,
bleeding colors
and life
into layers
of our skin.
Our eyes
echo soft hues, as
we watch golden orb
continue its path,
struggling
to grasp life
in yearning hands,
ingrained perfectly
in formed memories
of this moment
in time.
You whisper
your dreams in
impressionist light
but I tint them
with my own afterglow,
trapped in my own
reverie of luminosity.
Without hearing
your rosy words,
I turn to see
that you are gone,
the sound
of seagulls fades.

11
6
10
Juice
45 reads
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Let your words loose. Write freely. Let the world of prose see your true talent.
Written by sandflea68

Chaotic Words

Tango of shame

I am to blame

words carving

life slot starving

magic pluck

no such luck

dipping into soft jar

weary hand from afar

widen the road

madness unload

stomp into ground

solution not found

naked words

hushed birds

molten breath

sudden death

skeletons strung

clotheslines flung

slice the wind

cover sin

tense echoes

lined in rows

no elbow room

certain doom

long reach

I beseech

infinite sky

let words fly

unhinge the strings

free thought rings.

20
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20
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58 reads
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Let your words loose. Write freely. Let the world of prose see your true talent.
Written by sandflea68
Chaotic Words
Tango of shame
I am to blame
words carving
life slot starving
magic pluck
no such luck
dipping into soft jar
weary hand from afar
widen the road
madness unload
stomp into ground
solution not found
naked words
hushed birds
molten breath
sudden death
skeletons strung
clotheslines flung
slice the wind
cover sin
tense echoes
lined in rows
no elbow room
certain doom
long reach
I beseech
infinite sky
let words fly
unhinge the strings
free thought rings.

20
6
20
Juice
58 reads
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Written by sandflea68 in portal Haiku

A Toast

Raising my glass high

I enjoin churning seas

to quaff sips of life.

16
3
9
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47 reads
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Written by sandflea68 in portal Haiku
A Toast
Raising my glass high

I enjoin churning seas

to quaff sips of life.

16
3
9
Juice
47 reads
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Eavesdropper. Write a short story or poem about a conversation you've overheard.
Written by sandflea68

Are You Sleeping With My Husband?

“Tell me about yourself,” I heard my boss’s dulcet British accent wafting between the dividing wall between our offices. “What do you charge and what can I expect for that?”

His office door was wide open and I couldn’t help but hear his words. I had heard him many times planning assignations with various women, some who were prostitutes and others whom he had encountered in his business dealings.

“I can’t wait to see you. Can you get away without your husband suspecting?” he purred. To others, “Will your daughter be sleeping if I come by at 8? Does she sleep soundly?”

“I’m going to be in town tomorrow at your office. Can you slip away?” His smooth, sexy entreaties never ended.

Often his wife would come roaring into the office to see if she could catch him in the act. She’d rush into his office, asking, “Where is she? When will you be home? Why were you late last night?” And on and on!

My sweet talking boss had often propositioned me and I thought he was attractive but tainted. Although I was unhappily married at the time, I never fell for his bait. I knew where he had been and I was not interested.

One day, I got a call at home from his wife, “I need your address to catch up my address book so I can send you a Christmas card.”

I knew she probably planned to come by my house to see if her husband was there with me, so I gave her my address, thinking that she would understand I was innocent. Later, I regretted my decision because I had a very jealous husband but it was too late to backtrack.

One week later, she came crashing through the front door into my office and shouted, “Are you sleeping with my husband?”

10
2
7
Juice
66 reads
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Eavesdropper. Write a short story or poem about a conversation you've overheard.
Written by sandflea68
Are You Sleeping With My Husband?
“Tell me about yourself,” I heard my boss’s dulcet British accent wafting between the dividing wall between our offices. “What do you charge and what can I expect for that?”
His office door was wide open and I couldn’t help but hear his words. I had heard him many times planning assignations with various women, some who were prostitutes and others whom he had encountered in his business dealings.

“I can’t wait to see you. Can you get away without your husband suspecting?” he purred. To others, “Will your daughter be sleeping if I come by at 8? Does she sleep soundly?”
“I’m going to be in town tomorrow at your office. Can you slip away?” His smooth, sexy entreaties never ended.

Often his wife would come roaring into the office to see if she could catch him in the act. She’d rush into his office, asking, “Where is she? When will you be home? Why were you late last night?” And on and on!

My sweet talking boss had often propositioned me and I thought he was attractive but tainted. Although I was unhappily married at the time, I never fell for his bait. I knew where he had been and I was not interested.

One day, I got a call at home from his wife, “I need your address to catch up my address book so I can send you a Christmas card.”

I knew she probably planned to come by my house to see if her husband was there with me, so I gave her my address, thinking that she would understand I was innocent. Later, I regretted my decision because I had a very jealous husband but it was too late to backtrack.

One week later, she came crashing through the front door into my office and shouted, “Are you sleeping with my husband?”
10
2
7
Juice
66 reads
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"I don't just want to be a footnote in someone else's happiness." -Fall Out Boy
Written by sandflea68

Footnotes of Time

Cadence of flashbacks

sifting through words,

time’s imprints resonate

perfume of my past,

lingering in the pages.

My truth lies

in the footnotes

of my own life in

sacred hallowed place.

I wish to leave

my own noise –

not the footnotes

of your happiness,

stifled in blind alleys.

I write my own ending

in footnotes of time,

parallel lines

released from own hands.

10
4
16
Juice
50 reads
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"I don't just want to be a footnote in someone else's happiness." -Fall Out Boy
Written by sandflea68
Footnotes of Time
Cadence of flashbacks
sifting through words,
time’s imprints resonate
perfume of my past,
lingering in the pages.
My truth lies
in the footnotes
of my own life in
sacred hallowed place.
I wish to leave
my own noise –
not the footnotes
of your happiness,
stifled in blind alleys.
I write my own ending
in footnotes of time,
parallel lines
released from own hands.

10
4
16
Juice
50 reads
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Written by sandflea68 in portal Flash Fiction

She Was Friday

I’m getting antsy. Because I haven’t killed anyone since last Friday, my need for power and dominance is building up to a crescendo. I get in my car; well, actually it is my former girlfriend’s car but she is already dead. To make a long story short, she was Friday. I always labeled my victims by the day of the week that they met their end. The moon is behind dark clouds as I peer through the dead of night to find my next victim. I am excited and quite titillated when I see a young woman at the side of the road looking in frustration at her flat tire.

Her leather mini skirt is hiked up to spotlight her rounded ass as she bends over the tire. But it doesn’t really matter what a woman looks like because it’s feeling control that turns me on and the rest doesn’t really concern me. I am superior and I will show her how to tremble and fear me until the last drop of her blood has leaked out onto the ground. I shiver in anticipation as I pull to a stop behind her and get out of my car. “Do you need help, I ask?”

With a helpless smile on her face, she simpers, “I can’t get the lug nuts to loosen. Would you mind trying?”

She hands me a flashlight and I get down on my haunches to take a look. I turn back to reassure her that I will be able to take care of it and I can see right up her skirt. She’s not wearing panties. This is really going to be an exciting evening. I turn back to her car and she says in her sweet voice, “Here’s a lug wrench that you can use.” That is the last thing I ever know as she smashes the wrench down on my head so forcefully that pieces of bone and brain matter spray in a pink misted arc.

I am now somewhere up above, looking down at the bloody scene and can see a big smile turning up the corners of her lush mouth as she says, “He is Monday!”

13
4
14
Juice
59 reads
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Written by sandflea68 in portal Flash Fiction
She Was Friday
I’m getting antsy. Because I haven’t killed anyone since last Friday, my need for power and dominance is building up to a crescendo. I get in my car; well, actually it is my former girlfriend’s car but she is already dead. To make a long story short, she was Friday. I always labeled my victims by the day of the week that they met their end. The moon is behind dark clouds as I peer through the dead of night to find my next victim. I am excited and quite titillated when I see a young woman at the side of the road looking in frustration at her flat tire.

Her leather mini skirt is hiked up to spotlight her rounded ass as she bends over the tire. But it doesn’t really matter what a woman looks like because it’s feeling control that turns me on and the rest doesn’t really concern me. I am superior and I will show her how to tremble and fear me until the last drop of her blood has leaked out onto the ground. I shiver in anticipation as I pull to a stop behind her and get out of my car. “Do you need help, I ask?”

With a helpless smile on her face, she simpers, “I can’t get the lug nuts to loosen. Would you mind trying?”

She hands me a flashlight and I get down on my haunches to take a look. I turn back to reassure her that I will be able to take care of it and I can see right up her skirt. She’s not wearing panties. This is really going to be an exciting evening. I turn back to her car and she says in her sweet voice, “Here’s a lug wrench that you can use.” That is the last thing I ever know as she smashes the wrench down on my head so forcefully that pieces of bone and brain matter spray in a pink misted arc.

I am now somewhere up above, looking down at the bloody scene and can see a big smile turning up the corners of her lush mouth as she says, “He is Monday!”

13
4
14
Juice
59 reads
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The barriers you come up with in your mind.
Written by sandflea68

Epidermis

In the haze of black night,

my chest rises and falls,

a barrier in the hills and valleys

of colorless existence.

I struggle to exhale my mind,

find my way out

of my tombed place.

I hover over new truths,

battle to breach my limits,

push aside the sounds

of silent isolation of

unclear windows

and tainted blood.

Shivering in grey sea,

barriers too heavy

to lift in sunless rain,

flooding past my waist.

Storm clouds blocking

self-imposed barriers.

I must tear the skin

of my pandemonium,

roll up my sleeves

and listen to bold sounds

to reawaken my heart.

14
4
12
Juice
56 reads
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The barriers you come up with in your mind.
Written by sandflea68
Epidermis
In the haze of black night,
my chest rises and falls,
a barrier in the hills and valleys
of colorless existence.
I struggle to exhale my mind,
find my way out
of my tombed place.
I hover over new truths,
battle to breach my limits,
push aside the sounds
of silent isolation of
unclear windows
and tainted blood.
Shivering in grey sea,
barriers too heavy
to lift in sunless rain,
flooding past my waist.
Storm clouds blocking
self-imposed barriers.
I must tear the skin
of my pandemonium,
roll up my sleeves
and listen to bold sounds
to reawaken my heart.

14
4
12
Juice
56 reads
Load 12 Comments
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Juice
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The Adventures of Mr. Portmanteau
Written by sandflea68

Foreplay

Mr Portmanteau carried too much baggage,

bags and suitcases he wanted no longer,

sins and wicked deeds spilling out on the floor.

Wore striped suit in jail for Californication

because of his great love for sexercise.

Guzzled tall mixed drinks of scotchka,

suffered in winter from chilling affluenza.

Wanted bromance from his very best friend,

lost his Volvo to a friendly carjacker

people he knew were all his frenemies

wearing clothes made of plush pleather.

Holed up in his house for staycations,

fancied himself as a workaholic but

found guilty once again of spamforgery.

Just couldn’t get rid of his baggage!

port•man•teau Definition

ˌpôrtˈmantō/

noun

1.

a large trunk or suitcase, typically made of stiff leather and opening into two equal parts.

2.

a word blending the sounds and combining the meanings of two others, for example motel (from ‘motor’ and ‘hotel’) or brunch (from ‘breakfast’ and ‘lunch’).

15
6
16
Juice
57 reads
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Juice
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The Adventures of Mr. Portmanteau
Written by sandflea68
Foreplay
Mr Portmanteau carried too much baggage,
bags and suitcases he wanted no longer,
sins and wicked deeds spilling out on the floor.
Wore striped suit in jail for Californication
because of his great love for sexercise.
Guzzled tall mixed drinks of scotchka,
suffered in winter from chilling affluenza.
Wanted bromance from his very best friend,
lost his Volvo to a friendly carjacker
people he knew were all his frenemies
wearing clothes made of plush pleather.
Holed up in his house for staycations,
fancied himself as a workaholic but
found guilty once again of spamforgery.
Just couldn’t get rid of his baggage!

port•man•teau Definition
ˌpôrtˈmantō/
noun
1.
a large trunk or suitcase, typically made of stiff leather and opening into two equal parts.
2.
a word blending the sounds and combining the meanings of two others, for example motel (from ‘motor’ and ‘hotel’) or brunch (from ‘breakfast’ and ‘lunch’).

15
6
16
Juice
57 reads
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