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.

“Rabbit, rabbit” — good luck, it’s said,

and if you’re the first of the first.

A brand new month of feasting and fun,

now that we’ve frightened away the worst.

The ghosts, the goblins, the wolf at the door

to make room for rabbits, writers and more.

This was written in response to a prompt from Miz Quickly, an invitation to kick off a month of writing and frivolity. Back to the future!

Each life, a single note
a small vibration in brief
disturbance of the force.

A blip of energy travels
through the substantial
world on its way to
insubstance — and
immortality.

 

This poem was written in response to Apiary Lit’s April 18 prompt on metaphor, as well as Poetic Asides prompt to write a poem about either life or death (or maybe both here.) NaPoWriMo’s prompt suggested coming up with a neologism, which “insubstance” is, believe it or not. I’m using it as the noun form of insubstantial.

 

 

Haven’t been home in a year or more
Don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow
Runnin’ down this dusty road
into the midnight sun.
We drifted apart,
shadows searching
It goes on
and on.
Run.

 

This found poem was written in response to the Poetic Asides prompt for April 10, asking for a poem about travel. All lines are taken from song lyrics sung by the band Journey, including lines from Don’t Stop Believin’, Faithfully, Open Arms and Wheel in the Sky. The form is a variation on the “melting snowball” with each successive line having one less syllable than the line preceding it.

 

Words, words, words
Words on the page
Words in my head
Words on the screen.

Drowning in words,
seas of ink. Or pixels
that dissolve and reform
into words, words in
the head but not the heart.
Fragments, phrases, whole
paragraphs but nary a word
of poetry.

(April panic. Poets
know it.)

 

This poem was written in response to two prompts today, one from NaPoWriMo 2017, asking for a poem with repetition of a word or phrase and one from Poetic Asides to write a poem about panic. And, yes, I’m behind on the project to write a poem-a-day for the month of April, although I’m trying not to panic about it — too much.

 

morning star

stalks crescent moon

mockingbird song

 

This is an attempt at American haiku, which is said to be a better fit with the traditional Japanese haiku than the 5/7/5 syllable form. (It should have twelve accented syllables and I’m a little uncertain about that.) However, this does reflect a nature scene that’s very familiar to me.