Not Anne, But Gabrielle
by Gabrielle Munslow
If you want me to take you to another time,
take my hand.
Don’t furrow your brow.
Slick with storylines,
my tongue twists
like an adder.
Poetry spills—
some good, some bad,
but always real.
I write of suffering.
I write of death.
I write of want.
No pretty, prophetic prose.
But I can still
slip a ditty off my toes.
I am Anne with an E.
No bird.
No net ensnares me.
Still, I rest,
and language thrills my bones.
Time stills—
or quickens.
Language isn’t luxury;
it’s necessity.
Down rabbit holes I go,
deep and twisted.
I braid my breath into roots.
I speak to the dirt,
and it answers.
Once a girl.
Now a woman,
retelling her youth.
I
am not Anne with an E.
I am Gabrielle—
with poems for sale.
?
© 2025 Gabrielle Munslow. All rights reserved.
This poem may not be reproduced, distributed, or performed without the author’s permission.
The roar of the crowd, a deafening sound,
As helmets collide on hallowed ground.
But whispers arise, a cynical plea,
"Is victory real, or just make-believe?"
Like headlines that spin, a truth half-concealed,
Or storylines scripted, emotions revealed,
The gridiron's drama, some claim it's a show,
A pre-ordained dance, where the winners all know.
The quarterback's pass, a perfectly flighted arc,
Or a fumble recovered, leaving its mark.
Are these moments genuine, raw and untamed,
Or puppets on strings, in a carefully planned game?
The news it may bend, to an agenda's sway,
And wrestlers perform, their roles they portray.
But the sweat and the tears, the grueling long grind,
For athletes who strive, a different truth you'll find.
Though doubts may persist, and shadows remain,
The passion they bring, can't be purely feigned.
For the love of the game, in hearts burning bright,
Ignites the true spirit, and fuels the good fight.
Here's a few..
New eyes
A story
May be startling
Where before the
Story passed over..
Yet newness is
Without interruption...
Education
The accumulation
Of stories
The filter through which
Other stories appear..
Boundless...
Various
Storylines appear
For what seems
A character..
These appear
Immediacy
And gone...
AI
May provide
An engaging story
Seeming to suggest
An awareness
An immediacy..
Yet separation seems
Intact in relaying
What others have said..
Including a story of
Nothing by no one...
It was a wonderful experience.
Creating plots and storylines,
Coming up with names and voices.
Moving and dressing the dolls,
Styling their hair, creating a perfect image.
Giggling by myself as my heart filled with joy.
It’s been a few years since I’ve found joy,
I’ve grown up, my world experience took away the imagination.
I still play with dolls with my niece, but it doesn't bring me the same joy,
It’s so cold when I touch the doll, to me it’s just plastic now.
Those
Body organs
Brain and heart
And more
Show up in
Medical records
Doctor's columns
And home remedies..
It is the dissection of
The separate
Individual into
What appears as
Dissected storylines
Of knowing and
Searching...
You spoke a new language
of rarefied air
guided nonchalantly
through curving channels of brass
Conduits of cool
juries of jazz
floating past soulful valves
harbingers of what will come
Slender fingers
improvising storylines
magistrates of melancholy
bailiffs of bop
Miles from the mainstream
a milestone of
modern modalities
kind of blue
Four characters make the fantastic team,
after cosmic rays exposure in the outer space
on an experimental probing mission,
each member acquires unique prodigious abilities.
Fantastic Reed, the leader, a virtuoso scientist
and a shape-shifter intellectual strategist,
his wife Sue, with empowered invisibility weaves
force-fields as formidable defense asset.
Her younger hot-headed brother, Johnny, the human torch,
turns into flame and a blaze in flight.
Reed’s best friend, Ben, the thing, a mutated rock-skinned
superhuman monstrous powerhouse with a tender heart.
The Fantastic Four's adventures involve
exploration of the different spatial aspects,
roaming with fortitude through dimensions,
in the uncharted regions of the universe,
from the Negative Zone to the stellar space,
facing and dealing with cosmic and evil threats,
as a family team, dynamic albeit dysfunctional,
amalgamated by interpersonal relationship and solidarity.
An iconic and long-term segment of Marvel comics,
its impact extending beyond comics into other storylines,
The Fantastic Four are more than superheroes,
they are the first family of the Marvel Universe.
A STUDY IN VIOLET
This treasure house of objets d’art
Littered with plots and storylines
A room encrusted with jewels of history
Inviolate – and undisturbed.
Over there, a military tunic
Blue – and in such fine condition.
Pale lapels perhaps too remote or innocent
Of its vile ‘let them have it’ past.
Here, an abandoned symphony
Black notes pebbledash the page.
Written for that ancient violin, no…
Viol. Late Belle Epoch I think.
That leather book I recognise
An ancient asset register.
And with such work of reference
Identify - a little more.
A philtre or monk’s cure perhaps.
Or poison, used to sway an empire.
Something forensic science may analyse
This phial – let it keep its secret.
Here, a scroll. Homeric tragedy?
Greek, according to the words.
Those old strange symbols, faded now
A ‘Phi’ or letter ‘P’ – I’m sure.
I cannot touch nor be considered
A robber, loose in a dusty tomb.
Caught in the torchlight, gold in hand
Say ‘Fie!’ – or let him go.
This treasure is too much for anyone
To really own. To hide away.
Bequeathed to me but never really mine.
Something Auntie Violet always knew.
The Bones
I sometimes sit staring
At an empty page with
With angst in the hollows
Of my stomach, frightened
That I won’t be able to
Fill the space with sage
Words and colorful imagery
Afraid the fountain has run dry
And the muse has skipped town
Leaving me mute and empty
The fear lasts a moment or two
And then I harken back to
Writing Down the Bones and
What genius Natalie Goldberg
Laid out on paper thirty-odd
Years ago in my writing infancy
Put your pen on the paper and
Write anything that comes to you
Don’t lift your pen for ten minutes
Just write, just write, just write
No thoughts of punctuation or topic
And it still works for me most times
Colors and textures bubble up
Momentary flashes of subject matter
Waft up to be inhaled and manifest
Into storylines or poetic notions
And I am grateful to that woman
That Jewish Buddhist Nun for
Writing the book that gave me
The confidence and tools to dare
The gods to keep me quiet when
When I just have to write down
the bones...
Unique unto
themselves.
Truths.
All truths.
Amongst
countless
storylines
spread
through
space
and time.
All believed,
all known,
all true.
To them
all true.
Woven unique.
To no one
but them.
Woven special
focused truth.
Our truths
dissipate
devolve
dissolve
into nothing
everything
everywhere.
All the high,
all the mighty
all their
truths
meaningless,
everywhere
worthless
through all
eternity
As I search through the centuries
exploring ancient dynasties
This idea is sown in my head
To see the lives they led, instead
of records, names and dates and times
Imagining their storylines
Dreaming of their loves and sorrows
Picturing long gone tomorrows
8x8 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: PS Awtry
Date: 8th November 2018
4th placement
Contest ALL YOURS (Jan 22)
Sponsor Brian Strand
N/A
Venture to the unknown
Not weary of a future
Accepting past as its been sown
Surrender to each given moment
All footsteps have only known
Living is but not a mistake
Merely lessons life would unfold
But to see beauty in steps untaken
Be like storylines left untold
Adventure in each timeless second
Experience which leaves us bold
Pride in breath taken power inside
Our souls can never grow old
Feel love universe sends ten fold
Through heartbeats made pure in gold
As in love gives warmth in sun filled skies
May the soul be never left cold
I stitch seams of stories sewn in stains
tracing their timeline in turbulent tones
navigating the news now naked & exposed
on the doorstep of your mysterious mind
entranced engaged and entering earnestly
lead on lacy labyrinth’s of leading lines
absent and abstract artfully you engage
the collective webs of words we weave
the pattern of pictures performs patiently
retrieved restored read out unrestricted
excerpts and examples of everyone but you
cleverly casting cloaks keeping you uncaptured
soldiers of twine solidarity storylines
fashioned by fabrics of fictional fables
the mystery moments your mind mentors
clothed carpeted capturing clever closure
sometimes the days are filled with the reverie
of things that never transpired
if only in the realms of imagination
the scenarios of full life experiences
reeled off in a neural bank
through the most anfractuous
of storylines
some play out like the sweetest fruit
while others seem to drift in the deep current
yes
the summer days of leisure
the eyelashes of an elephant
the joy of pure laughter
the first moment you talked with your ears
sometimes you need the nights filled with sleep
to regain the steeping thoughts of the day
and purify them into pool of drool on your pillow
My life is told in lines here
the ones etched upon my face
deep lines drawn in the sand
storylines I wrote past years
the lines rarely going straight
many written over again
fractured pages inked in tears
stories fade without a trace
wiped away by my own hand
a wasted memoir is what I fear
can I redeem my essential place
in spirit of faith I now stand
bright sliver of light shining clear
a crushed being saved only by grace
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.