Poetry, Flash Fiction, Songs

The Royal Wedding

Published in Microfiction Monday, November 10, 2014

The Royal Wedding, by Dan Campbell

Before the wedding, there were the usual preparations. The princess tried on wedding dresses and the royal maids dusted and mopped night and day. The royal secret service positioned snipers and checked for bombs in the church and mines in the street. The royal police trained in crowd control while the royal army stationed tanks in strategic locations and filled the sky with drones. Royal_Wedding_Reception_01 Meanwhile the prince, who was just a frog the week before, remembered his friends who croaked in the night, and he wept when the princess ordered the royal environmental agency to drain his frog-days pond.

 

I recently discovered the musician Ed Hamell and I have really enjoyed his energy and no holds barred lyrics.

 

One of my favorite poetry forms is the villanelle. A villanelle is a nineteen-line poetic form consisting of five tercets followed by a quatrain. There are two refrains and two repeating rhymes, with the first and third line of the first tercet repeated alternately until the last stanza, which includes both repeated lines. I welcome any comments and constructive criticism. Dan

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Thank you Grim Reaper  grimreaper

Without you I’d be a lazy thing,
I would keep putting off today,
unafraid of what tomorrow brings.

I wouldn’t care what tomorrow brings
because what’s the hurry anyway?
Without you I’d be a lazy thing.

Today would be just a carefree fling
if I stayed around and never went away,
unafraid of what tomorrow brings.

But it is you, Death, that is king.
Let me repeat again if I may
without you I’d be a lazy thing.

I’d never know tears or mourning,
I would be a clueless child at play
unafraid of what tomorrow brings.

Instead of blaming, your praises I sing.
Before you take me I want to say
that without you I’d be a lazy thing,
unafraid of what tomorrow brings.

A Postcard from Konanga | Published in Molotov Cocktail, July 2014.

by Dan Campbell

Having a wonderful time; wish you were here. We took a tour yesterday and saw cyclops children peering through windows of doorless houses. The natives worship the moon, it controls the flow of their urges and their blood; women carry baskets of fog all morning; there are twenty-one verbs for different ways to spit and one must bow before three-legged dogs to show respect. wolf

Packs of wolves make the forests dark with their black sweat; shadows are lined up against a wall at noon and shot; faces are painted blue to ward off a moth’s evil eyes and on odd-numbered days handfuls of hummingbirds are released with dreams strapped to their beaks. But no one here slits the throats of rivers and a homeless day can beg for alms without a license; tomorrow we leave on a cruise to pull up salt by its roots and then we’ll backpack to the place where storks are shaped like letters of the alphabet.

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Dan Campbell is a banjo player from North Carolina who is currently working in the swampland of Washington DC. His poetry has been published in more than two dozen magazines and he has earned $48.63 in royalties so far.

 

 

Please let me know if you enjoyed this or think it sucks.  Gracias, Dan

THE CONFESSION 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned and it has been 24 years since my last confession.”  confession

“Sit my son, I am glad you have returned. I am the new priest here and this is my first confession.”

“Father, I knew your mother Mary years ago, someone told me you are her son.”

“Yes, she has lived here many years, she was once a nun but left the Order, she never said why.” “She did not want me to become a priest but I told her that I was following God’s calling.” “But enough about me, tell me son, how have you sinned?”

“Father, I am your father.”

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