Gypsie’s Wonderful World of Words

by Ami (Gypsie) Offenbacher-Ferris 

(Response to Sadie’s What do you see # 108 – November 15, 2021 Picture prompt.)

It’s a key. It’s just a key. It’s not an engagement ring, not a wedding ring. A commitment yes, but an open one right? Wiggle room implied, accepted, assumed. 

Don’t touch it! Don’t touch that key! Next comes exclusivity, then domination, then the rings, those rings. No wiggle room afforded, none implied, none assumed, none expected. 

It will work, it could work. Just a key, without a ring. Open the door, just open the door. Inside is security, affability, friendship, love. Sexuality, with one, just one. Exclusive together. 

It won’t work. It might work, for a time. For a little while. For the blink of an eye. But then, oh then. Another comes along, singing his song. Pulls him away, he’ll never stay. Accept it. 

Reach for it, almost touch it. Can’t. Try again, hand freezes then falls. Knowledge is heaven, but this time it’s hell. Never again, no never again. Turn from the door, turning away from the door. 

Leave behind what might have been, not going to face what might of been. He sits waiting – within. 

Continue reading “Just a Key”

by Ami (Gypsie) Offenbacher-Ferris

In Response to Friday Fictioneers prompt. Write a 100 word story in the historical fiction genre, using the prompt provided.

It was but a small bump, barely a shiver down in third class where so many of us traveled together, to the New Land.

In fact, I rather liked the feel of the big ship as she took the waves and faced the wind. As I’ve done in the past, I wondered at the incongruities of cultural expectations and strictures.

Mama near passed right out when I told her I wanted to be a captain like Captain Smith. She said it weren’t a proper position for a lady.

Cold water slid over my slippers. Did Captain Smith know about this?

There’s meter and there’s meters

One measures a poem’s length

The other the length of a road

Epistemology is much like genealogy

Discovering the secret starting places

Of the words we use to this day

It certainly never occurred to me

To use the algebraic written form

Instead of the good old A, B, C’s

Then we get to the iambic state

Which seems to me a way to relate

Without using words but beats is all!

Last now we see a lambic parameter

A way to install a measured meter

with a beat musicians love to use

As for me I find I have to say

I’m just an eccentric heretic

An apostate non-conformist

An unintentional recreant

Of the well authored word

In layman’s terms – I just write!

by Ami (Gypsie) Offenbacher-Ferris

Passed a patch of pussywillows today

I thought of you and smiled

How you’d make Dad stop each time

To gather a bushel from the swamp

He never fussed he didn’t complain

That in itself a sweet blessing to us

We three girls would sit and watch

As our Dad traversed those Florida swamps

Never a thought nor did he mind

Those alligators standing by

Why they let my Daddy be

Is still a mystery to me

Upon the shelf she kept her prize

Fluffy puffs of nature’s whim

Until the day they dropped their seed

Then back to the swamp we went

Years and years have passed

Since last I saw her smile

Dads gone to join her now

A sprig of fluff in his tight hand

I passed a patch of pussywillows today

Your voice a distant memory

Upon my shelf now sits a bunch

Of willows from your favorite swamp

Agent’s due to come at dusk

A handsome gent

that smells of musk

The kind of gent

that makes a mama proud

A man to make a young girl

do twirls in the center

of her small living room

Over the moon

About a gent in blue

Brother stands and shakes his head

convinced his sister never will wed

Whether or not the gent is true

Whether he wears red, white or blue

This ones not the one for you

Father enters his scowling face

not a hint of kindness

Not a trace

As he explains to one and to all

It’s not a gent that’s going to call

Family all turns as one to stare

at the man in his overalls

He stands to a height of six foot four

sauntering slowly

towards the door

My sweet little girl I’m sorry to say

it’s not a-gent calling for you today

It’s me that’s been caught

well and good

An agent he is for his livelihood

An agent in blue to take me away

My moonshine still did he find

Up the creek and far away

a-gents not yours

I’m afraid he’s mine

Prompt: 🌺 FLOWERS

Flower petals drop heralding winter’s come.

https://thesoulsearchersite.wordpress.com/2021/11/06/6wsp-98/

(Response to Sammi Cox’s prompt EMPIRE – 70 Words)

Babylonia, Media

Persia and Greece

Four empires

the final fourth book

Israel as it stands now

but a crossroad stop

for the armies of

Asia Minor and Mesopotamia

The eastern boundaries

those blazing Arabian deserts

denied their escape

sealed by nature’s fickle fate

Four empires desecrated

passing marauders

Egypt bound for fame and gold

Arts, sciences, literature gone

The burning pursuit

of golden riches eternal

Embedded Inhumanness

since time immemorial

(A response to NaNoWriMo prompts: train, reflect, fog, night, incense.)

Rumbling and rattling soothing sounds to a train engineer Annoying clatter to the car waiting there

A little boy bounces his safety seat swaying counting how many cars the big red engine pulls through the night

A woman sits quietly at the stop without signals Her red rimmed eyes and tear streaked face reflect her youthful agony

Obscured by the incense of fog a possum struts across the tracks in blissful ignorance until the moment bright lights mark his imminent demise

(In response to Bartholomew Barker’s November Visual Poetry Prompt)
By Ami (Gypsie) Offenbacher-Ferris

We sat eye to eye
Me, inside my warm, cozy cabin
Sweet scent of hot apple cider
dancing happily around me

Him, resplendent in his home
Snow framing his petite form
Boughs of evergreen
bouncing softly in the breeze

A bite of my cinnamon stick
He gnawed on his and stopped
Taunting me
Teasing me 

A chattered challenge
I took up the melee
popping the entire sweet
onto my exuberant tongue

Not to be outdone
he devoured his delight
Those sharp teeth sawing
with meticulous precision

Shiny brown eyes glare at me
through frost glazed windows
Two cinnamon sticks had I
poor mr squirrel he had none

https://livingpoetry.net/2021/11/01/november-visual-poetry-prompt-5/comment-page-1/#comment-5834