My Little Tree

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

Photograph by: Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

In response to LIVING POETRY Bartholomew Barker’s Monday Poetry Prompt: TREE

My little tree
is just a tiny little tree
with long curly leaves
trailing down in fringy falls

A mere two years old
and all of three inches tall
I’ve been told she will fill out
one day full curvy and so beautiful

I’m waiting and waiting
and pining for that special
day to arrive though it feels
like my life is passing me by

Days come and days go and a new
branch with sprouting red leaves
suddenly peeks up from beneath
the mother canopy of weeping leaves

She’s filling out and growing taller
so fancy and so very lovely
I wonder why the same thing has
never happened for me


By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

Image credit: Tasos Mansour @ Unsplash

In response to Sadje’s WHAT DO YOU SEE #133-MAY 9, 2022

It rained down
from the black sky above
liquid fire turning all it touched
to ash or blackened rubble and grotesque stumps
The trees screamed in agony as roots disintegrated away and the Earth shifted its course in response

Stone turned to white smoke
above us the ground shuddered
and trembled the walls of the ancient
cave heaved threatening to entomb us all within it
Noise of unbearable magnitude assaulted our ears
Great whirlwinds of burned debris crossed the ravaged land

Unknown days passed by in terrified silence
Untold atrocities and suffering slowly eased and stopped
Earth came to rest in a new space a new place orbit slowing
Darkness that had prevailed gave way to radiant arcs of star-shine the bright tendrils of light and warmth surrounded the spinning orb the end had come quickly and violently and a glowing new beginning begun

My Mom Selfie

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

Gypsie’s Mom circa 1954

In response to The Carrot Ranch’s May 9: Story Challenge in 99-words
Posted by Charli MillsCompose a Mom Selfie in 99 Words

Looking into the mirror, I see my mom looking back at me. The woman in the mirror has the same wrinkles in nearly the same places. Though her eyes were black as coal and mine are a greenish-amber; they are the same shape and size and both having a distant, distracted look.

The shape of our lips and even the color was identical. It’s the outside wrinkles of our mouths that sets us apart. Hers from being a chain smoker, addicted to those Pall Mall cigarettes. Mine from laughter and love.

Too bad I got my dad’s nose!

The Alchemy

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

Sunday Wordless Wordless #552

Hosted by bwarren

Prompt Words: physics, never, alchemy, snack, drunk, fools, bar, dirt, gold, sometimes, silver, clod

The bar was packed, as it usually was on Saturday nights. It was an eclectic group that met there sometimes. Folks who generally never congregated, that’s a fancy word for partying or praying together; got together to get drunk and basically make fools of each other.

Why do they make fools of each other you wonder? Well, I am very happy to shovel up the dirt on the lot of them.

You see, on these particular Saturday night’s, all those physics people come down here from that big fancy college of theirs, to drink and snack and well, you know. Anyway, the college folk come thinking they are so much more sophisticated than the town folks are, wearing the gold and silver the town folks have mined. Least they think they are!

You see, we have our own psychics wiz in Henry over there. You know he’s only eleven years old? He’s what they call a savant, a right smart boy he is. Don’t talk much, but he don’t need to. Well, he used what he calls alchemy and made up a recipe that turns copper into gold or silver and the town sells it to the rich, but it’s not worth the copper little Henry starts with.

Thing is you know, by the way little Henry’s my son; that fancy college found out about Henry’s concoction and offered us a fair piece of cash if we’d give them the patent for it, and we did. Except, my smart Henry changed one of those numbers in the recipe he gave them; after they brought the cash. So, Henry has the real alchemy recipe, the cash and the gold and silver. Everyone of them’s a clod of manure if you ask me.

By the way, we’re leaving town first thing tomorrow morning …

Keith’s Remote Control

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

A response to Thursday’s Six Sentence Story Link-up – Prompt Word: CONTROL
By: GirlieOnTheEdge
and Keith’s Ramblings response to Thursday’s Six Sentence Link-up Prompt Word – CONTROL

Here I am yet again, stuck between two cushions, I can hear Keith fussing while he is looking for me.

But, I’m going to keep my slim little self right here between these cushions and keeping my buttons to myself.

It’s not my fault he pushes too many buttons at one time, confusing my circuits and criss-crossing them until they give me a splitting headache and I have to freeze all my connections to keep from short-circuiting.

Then, just as I do get warm and comfy in his hand, and those lovely sausage fingers begin to push my buttons in just the right way, what does he do mind you?

That’s right, tosses me aside like yesterday’s Xbox unwieldy game controls and boy does that rankle this little remote’s feelings, causing all of my buttons to shut down and I just turn myself off completely, no buttons, no lights, no tv changing channels all through the night.

So, I can hear Keith out there calling me like a common can opener, but I’ll show him, I’ll – oomph – Keith, Keith, get off, get offfffffffff.

CFFC: Crooked or Squiggly

This week CFFC is celebrating Crooked or Squiggly. Basically anything but straight lines. Make sure the squiggle or crooked part is clearly visible in your photo. Have fun.


My first entry is an old vine I found on a tree that looks like a dragon head to me!

Photo by Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

Second entry is a tree that had no wish to grow straight!

Photo by Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

Just a pretty, squiggly vine.

Photo by Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

Innocence Lost

By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

In response to picture prompt provided by
the monthly Poetorium’s Photo Poetry Prompt Project
Posted by Paul Szlosek

The bombs continue to tear and rip and kill
blasts echo within my chest
as my heart beats no more

How can it beat as my precious ones
hearts beat no longer – stilled by unholiness
stopped by the greed of man

The greed of man has stripped me
of my life my very soul torn from
the very essence within me

They lay here forever entombed
in the ground of a country
they no longer belonged to

Innocence halted tiny minds assaulted
by that they could never understand
will never have the chance to understand

nor will I