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<title>Prose & Poetry | Debbi Flittner</title>
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			<updated>2026-07-28T15:14:43-07:00</updated>

<entry>
	<title type="text">Remember</title>
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				<author>
					<name>Debbi Flittner</name>
					<uri>http://debbiflittner.com</uri>
				</author>
				<id>Remember</id>
				<published>2026-07-28T15:14:43-07:00</published>
				<updated>2026-07-28T15:14:43-07:00</updated>
				<content type="html"><![CDATA[My haste takes me away from what surrounds me. The tree that needs trimming brushes against and catches my hair as I pass under its branches&mdash;an unspoken reminder of what else needs attention in this explosion of greenery and decay. I slide my garden gloves on and lift the shovel into the yellow, rusty wheelbarrow, fill it, then drop dark chunks of compost around the rosebush. Repeating this task, the shovel&mdash;with a mind of its own&mdash;slams against the wheelbarrow with a clang, spilling the murky contents onto the grass. I stop now, exhale impatiently, and look around.
&nbsp;
Yes, the jasmine grows wildly outside of its obelisk, sprawling onto the gravel, but its bright, wild scent also fills my lungs. What is the smell of ja ... ]]></content>
</entry>

<entry>
	<title type="text">Repetition</title>
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				<author>
					<name>Debbi Flittner</name>
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				</author>
				<id>Repetition</id>
				<published>2026-07-28T15:14:43-07:00</published>
				<updated>2026-07-28T15:14:43-07:00</updated>
				<content type="html"><![CDATA[We strolled along the ancient path that day. There was silence in the ruins, but also the call of birds. Small buttercup yellow flowers &ndash; their blossoms freshly opened&mdash;greeted us, as we admired them and gazed beyond to the remaining Roman walls of Ephesus, once a great city.
&nbsp;
Mosaic panels still flowed artfully along the street front of that single remaining library wall. The city, once vibrant, was silent, unpeople for centuries.
&nbsp;
I paused, caught between the past and this moment, recalling an innocent time when I believed my country &lsquo;tis of thee &mdash;before the grip of tyranny&mdash; might always stand, yet recognized the strong entanglement of power, plunging it downward with breathless speed, and I th ... ]]></content>
</entry>

<entry>
	<title type="text">Here</title>
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				<author>
					<name>Debbi Flittner</name>
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				</author>
				<id>Here</id>
				<published>2026-07-28T15:14:43-07:00</published>
				<updated>2026-07-28T15:14:43-07:00</updated>
				<content type="html"><![CDATA[I&rsquo;m here&mdash;in an auditorium, a student listening to some avant-garde John Cage of a man onstage, banging on assorted bits and pieces to produce odd, startling musical sounds we would miss in the rush of a day. Maybe&nbsp;we&rsquo;d be poorer without them.
&nbsp;
And now he&rsquo;s plucking strings wired up to a living cactus. The resulting sounds are high-pitched, sharp, breaking the silence so we lean in, intrigued by this cactus-noise, wondering&nbsp;what the sounds might mean.
&nbsp;
And now I&rsquo;m here&mdash;at the university movie theater, and Godfrey Reggio and Philip Glass are at it, the focus now the sharp edge of pending global disaster. Koyaanisqatsi&mdash;their movie&mdash;draws us in like a flock of birds, as we ... ]]></content>
</entry>

<entry>
	<title type="text">Belize I</title>
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				<author>
					<name>Debbi Flittner</name>
					<uri>http://debbiflittner.com</uri>
				</author>
				<id>Belize_I</id>
				<published>2026-07-28T15:14:43-07:00</published>
				<updated>2026-07-28T15:14:43-07:00</updated>
				<content type="html"><![CDATA[&nbsp;
&nbsp;
I sat in the front, paddling the canoe through the delicate riffles on the Macal River. My boyfriend sat behind me--the rudder--steering us along. Vibrant birds chirped in the jungle canopy as we steered into a beach along a quiet eddy, filled with the carefree grace of buttery-yellow water lilies. We left the canoe there.
&nbsp;
And then onward we went, the next morning, like the little pilgrims of ruins, foliage, and grace that we were.
&nbsp;
I stood in the cobbled street that early dawn, suddenly struck that everything I needed I already had with me, and I carried that entire sphere of charms in my backpack. I marveled there in this found moment, at the edge of heat--insects singing the day alive--and at this poignan ... ]]></content>
</entry>

<entry>
	<title type="text">MEMORY</title>
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://debbiflittner.com/writings/prose_poetry/memory.en" />
				<author>
					<name>Debbi Flittner</name>
					<uri>http://debbiflittner.com</uri>
				</author>
				<id>MEMORY</id>
				<published>2026-07-28T15:14:43-07:00</published>
				<updated>2026-07-28T15:14:43-07:00</updated>
				<content type="html"><![CDATA[&nbsp;
&nbsp;
The light box is a friend this far north in autumn and winter, and even shockingly into spring, and if I&rsquo;m honest, once, up to the edges of summer.
&nbsp;
Its brightness vanquishes blackness and shadow, lights me up in a neon-sign-above-the-highway kind of way, even though birds chirp outside the window, and a light-gray glow of dawn is lifting the edges of horizon as if to say, here&mdash;come outside!
&nbsp;
Maybe the bright fresh twists of air carrying their stories of the morning&mdash;maybe the dawning sky would be enough, would soon shine brighter than light in a box, would remind us all that in some ancient era we once filled the sky with our fluttering wings that took us high onto brightening branches, then ... ]]></content>
</entry>

<entry>
	<title type="text">For Alex Pretti:  January 24, 2026</title>
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://debbiflittner.com/writings/prose_poetry/for_alex_pretti_january_24_2026.en" />
				<author>
					<name>Debbi Flittner</name>
					<uri>http://debbiflittner.com</uri>
				</author>
				<id>For_Alex_Pretti:__January_24,_2026</id>
				<published>2026-07-28T15:14:43-07:00</published>
				<updated>2026-07-28T15:14:43-07:00</updated>
				<content type="html"><![CDATA[&nbsp;
The stench of acrid smoke rises and spreads.
&nbsp;
Men cloaked in masks, ski hats, gloves and guns, heat of their anger a contrast to cold whiteness of snow, fog of breath, snap and clatter, pushing and shoving, the caw and screech of madmen.
&nbsp;
My heart startles&mdash;a legal observer for years&mdash;I see the one filming who was pushed by madmen and fell as I might have in those years before knees ached and stamina failed, and yet one man rose to help her. It could&rsquo;ve been me he reached for, shoved down for filming, his hand out and then the gun&rsquo;s red flash, again and again and more, that moment now caught in history when they came for him.
&nbsp;
Jimi Hendrix&rsquo;s guitar wailing through speakers on my wa ... ]]></content>
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