Author: Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

To laugh is wondrous
Making others laugh is satisfying
To make him laugh – heavenly

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

Use the first words of the poem from Kunjal called ‘Rain,’ which have to appear at the end of each line with no more than sixteen lines.

“His first rain, from a little scrawny window, droplets pattering and dew forming,”

The thunderstorm raged around his
parasol, yet not a single first
touch of wet frigid rain
fell on his umbrella received from

someone extraordinarily special if a

tad timid in his bearing and a little
self-conscious about his scrawny

body, which is a groovy window
to the gents soul. Unseen droplets
flow from the umbrella pattering

away from his feet, his arms and
his entire body, pools of dew
from his walk become rivers forming

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

Summer Warmth
By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

Monday Poetry Prompt: SUMMER
Hosted by: Bartholomew Barker @ Living Poetry

Heat warms the chilled ground
spreading life awakening messages
to seeds laying dormant in the cold

Tiny sprouts leap forth shaking fragile heads of dirt and debris drinking in the liquid amber light

Trees long asleep in anticipation
of Spring’s sweet gentle nudge
unfurl leaves at Summer’s shove

Sunflower’s bursting in brilliant yellow match the analogous rays
of Summer’s resplendent sun

Worms begin to wiggle happily
deep inside ground frozen
by Winter’s arduous cold

Bees buzz, flies fly, gnats
do what gnats do to survive
living to bite another day

Reptilian creatures stretch
languidly soaking up old
Sol’s heat into disused muscles

Gardens bloom scents laden
with Mother Natures gift
of renewed color and magnificent life

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

Spinnaker sails hoisted picturesquely
to take advantage of their fullness
hoping to catch the heavy air
Two boats, now three race hard
race fast determined to be the first
to make the marker buoy
Red sail matches white sail running
neck and neck as they ride the sea
Blue sail coming up quick behind

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris
(99 words)

Grandfather say,
When you stack
seven stone perfectly,
you have reached
perfection in your life.
Now I teach my grandson
same life lesson.

I say to my grandson,
You see these seven stones
are all the same but each stone
is different in shape, form
color, texture and smell.
I watched him hold one of
the smaller stones to his nose.

My grandson wrinkled his nose
he sneezed quite indelicately
three times in a row, then lifted
another stone and another, having
sneezed only after sniffing
the smaller first stone the first time.
I tell my grandson to remember.

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

I dare not contemplate
staying away at night
enjoying the touch
the kiss of another man

If I should stray away
enjoying carnal pleasures
and the attention of another
the gently rough need of a male

My muse withdraws his stream
of conscious wordsmithing
into an unconscious abyss
somewhere in my mind

Leaving my soul bereft
and my fingers frozen
above my keyboard
arthritic bundles of bones

My muse commands
I give my time my hand
my complete absorption
to his sweet composing

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER WEEK # 25 of 2022
Hosted by Roger Shipp in A Writer’s Community

____________________________________________________He is not what he appears to be, that one. He is not a sexy pussycat nor a cuddly kitten; although he would have you believe it to be so.

So many taken in by that lopsided smile and those cats-eyes that can not look directly into yours. It is not because one of those murky green eyes, that left mismatched one, is a lazy eye; though that is what most everyone thinks. Oh no! He can not look you directly in the eye because he knows you will spot the lie behind them, even the lazy one!

And a lazy eye can not hide that which he has atop his head. Can no one else see? Look closely my friend, but not too close! See there, right between his ears, those nasty protrusions? Not hair tufts, not multicolored hair swirls. No! Look fast and look hard, then run away as quickly as you can! Those are not tufts or swirls at all, those are horns! Devil’s horns to be sure!

Whom does that felonious feline serve? Certainly himself, that much is obvious. Dare not touch the beast, for he will most assuredly lure you to your unearthly demise with promises of love, affection, attention and the pleasure of stroking his deceptively luxurious fur. Once touched, the toucher will find he or she can not withdraw the hand speared by the creature’s short-poisonous spines.

Beware that one my friends. Leave him to his duplicitous ways lest you become one in the same, as him!

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

Grandmother held my hand tightly.

“Kekenâtethiwa, kekenâtethiwa!” she said in her, in our Native tongue.

“Hurry up, hurry up child!” She said again in English, laughing as she pulled me along.

We moved quickly through the field, heavy now with ripening maze. Down a slight incline and then a hefty hike up the side of a grass laden incline that was steeper than a hill but not quite a mountain, on this side anyway.

The other side saw a sheer drop off of untold thousands of feet with rocky outcroppings and the occasional mountain goat or two perched stable- legged on barely there ledges, eating their fill of sweet grass.

It was on that side that Grandmother and I made our way precariously to a well-worn ledge and sat down to wait. Neither of us spoke, our companionship and union of spirit set long before either of us had been born.

It was not long at all before the moon, full and rosey pink, began to rise just over the first mountain peak. It was so big and so bright that it frightened me.

“Nothing to be afraid of my child. She’s as natural as well, as nature!” She chucked at herself before continuing.

“Do you remember why she’s called
Têhimini Tepehkikîshethwa child?”

“Strawberry Moon, Grandmother?” Proud of myself for understanding her. “Yes Grandmother, because it’s pink!”

“This is true child,” she winked at me for my effort. “But why would she turn pink at this time of year, do you know?” Grandmother asked softly, her eyes transfixed by the ever-climbing pink orb.

I looked up at her with wide, curious eyes and shook my head no.

“The Great Manetôwa placed her there to tell us when to plant and when to harvest. When the tides will swell and when they will ease. She turns pink on the Solstice of Summer to remind us to pick our strawberries when they are juicy and ripe before they rot in the heat of Kîshethwa,” she said.

“The Sun?” I asked. I received another wink for that and smiled lovingly up at this woman who was the sun, the moon and the stars to me.

As the strawberry moon rose over the mountain, as it had so many times before and would for so many more; I could feel my grandmother’s spirit sitting beside me so strongly, I almost reached out for her translucent hand.

“Nîna tepânêwa kîna,” I whispered to her.

“I love you, too,” she winked and slipped away with the strawberry moon.

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

In response to Sadje’s prompt
What do you see? # 138

The Red Boat waits patiently
for the other red boat lingering
too close beside her to pass
and give thanks.