They were sure they saw a sign, but of course,
they completely missed the treasure -- early morning
sunrise on waves tinged with purest gold.
Always busy fussing with equipment, looking
down as if sand holds a treasure in place,
all the signs ephemeral and soon gone from sight.


This draft was written in response to a prompt from Miz Quickly on 11/13/22.

My least favorite tasks --
dusting, sweeping, tidying and,
ugh, bathroom cleanup!

My favorite playlist for 
my least favorite tasks? Tammy
Wynette, reminding me to

Stand by My Man, lest there be
a D-I-V-O-R-C-E. That voice, that
energy, those lyrics made me feel

like the happy little housewife that
I never was; I was Almost Persuaded
but only in My Elusive Dreams.

This draft was written in response to the 11/12/22 prompt from Miz Quickly.

There's a crow in my attic.
I've made him my pet.
I feed him strawberries and cream.
His cage hangs from the rafters,
its bars catch the light from
the window that faces the tree.
My crow must be happy - I'm happy
with him! I visit with him every day.

But wait -- there's a problem. He
tries to break free every night 
around twenty of three. His cawing
makes such a miserable sound as
he claws at the bars of his cage. I think
if I love him, I must let him go to 
be happy in yonder old tree. So
I open the window, then open the
cage and he looks at me quizzically.
No longer my pet, but I think he's 
my friend,  he flies off toward the 
moon, finally free.

Written in response to a prompt from Miz Quickly on 11/11/22.

Head full of distractions, no through line detected;
not a thought given to where I'm directed.

The pathway heads north and then 
suddenly switches and I'm heading

off

in

a whole new direction. I wish I might
stay for a while here and write.

I'd direct my thoughts and
my ink to the page, but

it ain't gonna happen, so I'll say, "Adieu,"
as I hurry back to from where I just flew.


This was written in response to the 11/10/22 prompt from Miz Quickly.

The chosen pathway of her life
snakes on before her.
Its twists and turns leave her
to wonder what will be revealed.

Why has she chosen this path
over all the others? The question,
unspoken as dusk closes in.
Only her footsteps know the truth.



This draft was written in response to a prompt from Miz Quickly on 11/7/22.

The workroom a jumble, the worker intent
on sewing the seams just so.

Her face near her work as tears are held back, 
exhausted, she falls in a trance.

Her mind is crowded with patterns and visions,
textiles, silhouettes, designs all her own.

Behind her the unseeing dummies keep watch,
guardian angels of what could still be. 

It's only a dream, but it's waiting for her
to accept that it could be much more.


This is a draft written in reponse to the 11/6/22 poetry prompt from Miz Quickly.

For months, I've lived through unparalleled drought;
I've been seized by unquenchable thirst.

I've wandered pathways covered with rocks,
wondering if my footsteps are cursed.

I doubt my footing as I travel this path --
I'm always expecting the worst.

And yet I keep moving, the goal still in sight, 
until one day I feel I'm immersed.

I gulp down phrases and spit them back out,
as the process is slowly reversed.

My words stream like water and onto the page,
and the ink finally quenches this thirst.


This was written in response to the 11/5/22 prompt from Miz Quickly.

November's my month of return, 
words no longer wrenched from my pen, 
 no effort required like seeing through fog,
or climbing up unending stairs.

No paralyzing fears still dog me; I'm not
sentenced to write stilted odes. Freed since
I saw Miz Q's emails, I couldn't care beans
for self-doubt.


Written in response to a poetry prompt from Miz Quickly on
November 4, 2022.

You paid good money for this retreat.
Don't roll your eyes at the guided imagery
of quill pens and golden boxes holding
your writer-self close to your heart. 
The idea of a golden box too cold and sharp-edged 
until you picture it in golden polished wood
inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the hinged lid
holding back the music of words and phrases
not heard in this space for far too long. 
Open the lid now and let words pour out, 
the pent-up music, longing to be played.

I believe it's not too late.



This was written in response to a November 3, 2022 prompt from Miz Quickly.







.

 I watch the old film and I'm transported 
back to an old house in upstate New York.
"Water, I recommend it!" says the man pouring
from the same pitcher my grandmother owned.

She never mentioned years of drought, nor
con men with their fanciful scenes of clouds
like buffalo stampeding through the sky. Dreams
and dreamers too fantastic for her small life.

But she knew rain and swollen streams, want
and fires too. Enough to break a person who
hadn't learned early to take the blows, the 
unwanted stepdaughter left alone with
only a treasure or two, a pitcher that
sparkled in the light as water poured
into the small ruby glass with her name
etched on the side. It had to be enough.



Written in response to Day Two of prompts from Miz Quickly for November, 2022.