Am I the Only One Who Does This?

By John L. Malone

I’ve been clearing up the house
sweeping up the crumbs.
It’s a monthly ritual.
Am I mad? Or just dumb?
I clear away the cobwebs
sweep up the dust
collect and bin the rubbish.
Somebody must.
They won’t wash themselves,
mum used to say.
The sink’s full of them
so I put them away.
Make the place spotless
so it shines & it hums.
& I better get a move on
before the cleaner comes.

John L. Malone wrote this piece “… because you don’t come across many funny flash fiction poems :)”

Her Version of War

By Evan Anders

your neck
hidden beneath
of hair

eliciting you from sleep
would stifle the moment

no longer yielding
to previous follies

i spread out
in gilded rays

allowing nature
to craft her

Evan Anders brews coffee for mass consumption in Philadelphia. He is a retired stay-at-home dad who doesn’t know why he writes. It’s something nice to do when he can’t sleep and doesn’t feel like washing dishes.


By Tessa A. Adams

And I remember you
in charcoal dreams
and chalky daytime visions.
You become we stacking rocks
Like stacking a deck
Like stacking blocks
Like stacking boxes
One on top of the other
This day, we were light as we’d ever been.
Heads back in laughter.
We carried kings with our lips
and tasted salt diamonds on our tongues.
Even now,
our silhouettes sit
frozen forever,
mouths open.
I blink this image to life,
and I think of how
laughing looks like screaming
when the sound’s turned off.

“I write to get closer to the sublime.” – the writer

Best of The Drabble – 2020

To celebrate the end of this god-awful year, we present some our favorite posts of 2020. While we are grateful to all Drabble readers and writers for helping to make this site a success, we want to recognize (in no particular order) a few drabbles we truly loved in 2020. We hope you do, too:

Dog Poem
by Juanita Rey

Her Friends Have Begun to Worry
by Anonymous

Learning to Write Poetry Late in Life
by stevieslaw

In Her Dreams
by Jim Bates

The Weary Healer
by Mark Tulin

All The Concerts Are Canceled
by Sarah Grady

Wild Flowers
by Melissa Gill

by Judy Darley

The Void
by John Malone

by Bruce Levine

The Waterfall
by Bibiana Krall

The Road Back
by Raymond Sloan

Secret Thoughts of a Survivor
by M. Jay Dixit

Me Diversity

By Ron. Lavalette

I look in the mirror, but
I never see the same guy twice.
(Maybe that’s a good thing.)

I know who I used to be,
and who I was before that:
I’m hardly ever them anymore.

I know who I always hope to see.
I keep sending him invitations
but he almost never shows up.

Maybe I need one of those fancy
dressing room mirrors; one that
can reflect my many, many faces

until I can finally settle down,
until I can decide which one of me
is the one that I’ve been looking for.

Ron. Lavalette writes “to overcome his stir-craziness up on the Canadian border in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom.” His debut chapbook, Fallen Away (Finishing Line Press), is now available at all standard outlets.

In the Field, Where We Met

By Alfredo M. Macapanas Jr.

She said, I think I’ve seen
you before? Tell me—is it
in the field? Where we met
While I was gathering sunflowers?
You said it was your favorite.
Do you remember?

I said, I’m a stranger
here—I think you mistake
me for someone else.

“It was you, I know. I
Remember. Wake up dear,
from your deep slumber.”

“I write to express my feelings, and to unbuckle the pain and happiness living inside of me.” – the writer

The Crow Remembers

By Lynn White

Through the mist
the crow is watching
the beach party
as they pile up the stones.
He watches them build them
higher and higher
but he’s not impressed,
he knows that the stack of stones
was even higher once.
Their ancestors built it first
and the crow remembers them
remembers their faces
through the mists of time
in life and in death.
Remembers that
it formed a stairway
all the way to heaven.
That’s what they told him in life.
That’s what they tell him in death.

“I write to let the words escape.” – the writer

Solitary Confinement

By Bruce Levine

A black hole lies in wait
A future created in limbo
Outside forces pull strings like a marionette
A veil of darkness hovers on the horizon
Tears of joy eradicated and replaced by tears of sadness
Perpetrated unknowingly in fields of sorrow
A power of destruction moving onward
Tentacles spreading like Moriarty’s empire
Connecting dots and pulling tighter
Waiting in shadows of a street lamp
Waiting for solitary confinement

“I write because I must!” – the writer

I Am Awake, I Think

By Srilata

in a bubble
as large as my room
an autumn wind can blow it over,
i think.

i am awake in a bubble
while the world outside is a big bad wolf
ready to blow it over,
i think.

i am awake in a bubble
while the world outside daudles,
sniffles and sneezes,
ready to blow it over,
i think.

we are all in a bubble,
well at least those of us who are lucky,
while the rest of them,
wait for all this to be over,
where it is safer to be outside,
of this bubble,
i think.

Srilata is “a photography enthusiast who uses words as therapy; still figuring out how to adjust my intensity to exist in this world.”

Noon Rain

By M. Jay Dixit

It was a fall evening, I was nineteen with head full of dreams and heart full of love. She was just seventeen, perfect from head to toe, she believed in dreams even more than I did. We were on her terrace, kissing in the afterglow of sunset. She was caressing my hair with her nimble fingers like she always did when we kissed. I tried to go deeper but the train stopped, stirring me out of sleep. The dream popped like soap bubble.

wet steel tracks flash gold
red lips, brown eyes and black nails
noon rain makes me smile

Mrityunjay “believes that writing is an act of telepathy.”