Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 087

Time to get back into our weekly Wednesday Poetry Prompt groove. If you still haven’t submitted up to 5 poems for the April PAD Challenge, click here to read the guidelines on how to make that happen. There’s only a little more than 14 hours left!

For this week’s prompt, write a poem about why you started writing poetry. You can be literal, or you can create an elaborate myth. You can be very specific, or you can be vague.

Here’s my attempt:

“To begin”

Push a pen to paper
and expect it to bleed
because that’s what happens
when she catches your eyes
like fireflies in a jar
she keeps under the sink
where no light can escape
and the pipes drip slowly
with careful abandon.


Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer


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197 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 087

  1. MSchied

    Evolution of a some-time poet

    My five-year-old me says
    "More rhymes, daddy, please"

    By six I am shunning
    "Hop on Pop"
    for lengthy twisted
    manuscripts of daring deeds
    and derring-do
    -"Do go on" I cry
    as Nancy Drew
    finds a clue
    to capture the errant knave

    Child of a decade gone
    imitates Pinocchio
    as nose becomes pathway
    for my scornful gaze
    at Kathleen
    the pretty classmate
    with the frizzy ringlets
    that are always more tame
    than my fine flyaways

    She writes poetry.

    I, the budding connoisseur
    of juvenile literature
    retreat into Narnia where
    the conviction of my allegorical understanding
    suffocates the burning jealously
    of not understanding her world

    As my teendom snowballs
    packing layers of
    angsty drama
    angsty dramatic despair
    angsty dramatic despairing torture
    into an icy boulder
    poetry gets flung into the compost heap
    of intellect I am too good to pursue

    I enjoy Chaucer,
    but he doesn’t count because
    the Wife of Bath is too
    bawdy to be poetic

    As I look forward to looking back
    Alice Norton-style
    could my rotting castoffs have been my salvation?
    Would the unavoidable catharsis
    of revealing my inner soul to another
    have prevented the eruptions precipitated
    by bottled rage?

    Hindsight can’t give me back my childhood
    but young adults sometimes get lucky

    Inner ambition
    drops "Writing from Experience"
    into my lap and onto my schedule

    Woolf’s tender buttons
    teaches me language
    arts to observe
    and express
    daily walks
    and soulful thoughts
    through thoughtful solace
    I see through myself

    The teenage rollercoaster
    has since subsided to the more
    or less gentle turbulence of life
    but occasionally needful sprits spray
    my daily toil, turning into
    verses of venting my voice into the void
    of humanity

    Then came the teacher.

    With her whimsical wisps of wisdom
    she wove her spell
    around me
    entwining my creative spirit
    with the twisting textual tendrils
    prompting me with pen and PC
    P.S. – It’s a challenge

    So April’s cycle began
    saving my fragile aura
    from the crushing effect
    of a stressful world
    and I emerged refreshed
    and revealed
    as pro-poetry proponent

    Now I ply my craft
    as an emotional chess-game
    neither holy part of my existence
    nor occasional occurrence
    but strategically chosen
    by time and circumstance

    Standing on the precipice
    Darwin’s poet
    awaiting the next stage of
    versual endeavor

    I write poetry.

  2. LBC

    Here I am, having stopped to buy a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine – arriving at the party fashionably late!!!!

    Vehicle in Motion

    People travel life’s highway
    in vehicles that suit needs,
    or wants,
    or wallets,
    giving in when the price is right, though the color lacks luster
    and the engine is powerless.

    People I pass on the highway appear
    picture book families in minivans waving at busloads of
    characters with flawless traits wondering what’s so funny as
    comedy humors an economy sedan while
    drama develops in the chauffeured limousine
    following a short distance behind the funeral hearse.
    The plot thickens when
    adventure rides shotgun in an SUV desperate to outrun the
    sci-fi thriller, leaving the environmentalist,
    setting a good example on a bicycle,
    in the dust,
    only to get stuck in traffic on the GWB.

    People on life’s highway
    discover me,
    writing of freedom in a sleek, shiny, silver Porche Cabriolet,
    daring, running wild, top down
    powerful, precise, profound, purposely punctuated!
    metaphorically driving –
    my vehicle in motion

  3. AC Leming

    Well, better late than never


    I tap out my letters,
    two by two.

    Fill my ark.
    Seal the covenant

    I make with myself
    to tell my tales,

    flesh out my lies,
    move my limbs

    the way my
    wheels cannot.

    To make you see me,
    in this chair,

    this minute.

  4. Sara Gwen

    1 – Origins

      As though I’d always known what I might write
      against myself, I stepped into the storm.
      The edges of the rain felt sharp and warm
      like phrases etched in basic black and white.

      I only do the ones I can recite,
      the pieces I can squeeze into some form.
      The orphaned ones that fall outside the norm
      will have to come around some other night.

      I’d never thought to take it very far
      beyond the point where just enough’d been said
      to point me which direction where you are
      among the pieces left inside my head.
      Your voices echo through each poem’s scar
      like veins that stand out only to be bled.


  5. Sara Gwen

    Let It Go

       I kicked off writing so as to hold a hope and to let it go.
       You wanted held.  So it’ll be as you command, to let it go.

       Don’t know where that came from so desperate, feeling compelled
       to grasp such void.  Should’ve been told you planned to let it go.

       Why bother wasting breath creating what’s meant to be destroyed
       before it catches on?  As if it’s too offhand to let it go.

       Didn’t bleed near as long as I expected it to, that scratch
       you let be mine, like it was sketched into the sand to let it go.

       Moonlight’s princess, what dark shadow so eclipses the shine
       that’d touched me as though. Beloved, can I stand to let it go?


  6. Marie Elena

    Colette, Amy, Linda, Pearl, Hannah, Theresa: Thanks to you all for your encouraging words.

    Clay: Good stuff!

    Sara: Got such a kick out of your last piece.

    Walt: Beautiful.

    Son of Walt: Where’s ALE? Hmmmmmmmm? SOMEBODY got on MY case a couple weeks or so ago for the same thing, so ……….
    (Just givin’ ya a hard time. SOMEBODY has to.) 😉

  7. Hannah Gosselin

    Yay!! It’s Wednesday!

    Walt, this last one is so beautiful!

    Barbara! Thank you so much! I have found a groove with the alliteration and am loving it! I’m blessed by my husband having a job that he loves and the ability of staying home with my toddler. If I had to work I wouldn’t be able to do this. My life is God, family and writing!

    Linda, thanks for making me smile!

    BIG smiles too ALL!

  8. Theresa Cavicchio

    Linda – Thanks for your wonderful list, and for the personal mention. I enjoy reading your voice consistently. Looking forward to a new Wednesday prompt, All!

  9. Walt Wojtanik


    Recollections breathe life
    into this lingering heartache,
    choosing to break this silence
    every now and again. A friend,
    a love, a partner and now
    guardian angel. No stranger
    to my muse when I choose to be
    inspired by her passing.
    You ask how can one dip into
    the same well so often, without
    draining it dry. But, I know the
    words will keep my eyes moist
    as I try to hoist this memory onto
    my page of poetic pondering.
    I finish my rhetorical rhyme
    thinking this will be the
    last time I’ll need to resurrect
    these thoughts so loving and
    yet feverishly forlorn.
    Every morning as each dream
    of her fades, I find her again,
    alive in these words I choose
    to proffer, a poet on life support;
    inhaling the inspirations she brings
    to make my words flow and fill this page.
    With the words, her beauty never fades.

  10. Juanita Snyder

    Why I Write
    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    Poetry is something you surrender to
    wholeheartedly, completely
    a girl in a gingham print
    staring from behind a blank
    journal she’s pretending to
    read but is really just holding
    hands with the pressed leaves
    now going jaundice
    against paper spines
    while all around you, in
    the quiet cooling hours
    of a large river park
    granite serenades water,
    blue fescue woos chickadees
    and fringed stadium blankets,
    and a large white dog
    approaches, leash in mouth
    and asks you to dance those
    final dappled moments
    of fading sun light.
    How can you say no
    to that?

    © 2010 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  11. Jacqueline Hallenbeck

    Thanks, Marie! <3
    Linda, that comment you made reminded me of Moulin Rouge, my favorite movie ever. Thanks! <3
    Chev, your "found thoughts.. " poem is perfect! <3

    A Haiku I wrote ages ago (perfect for this prompt):

    I once rode a poem
    from Peru to Ecuador;
    my behind’s still sore.

  12. Sara Gwen

    Colette, ‘Poetic Justice’ feels like it grabs me by the throat and holds me down kicking and screaming until it holds my eyelids open so I don’t blink while it kicks me in the head with a promise that it will haunt more than tonight’s dreams. Which is my way of saying I liked it enough to have it near memorized already.

       I’m a newbie, they don’t come much newer
       and ain’t all that too good a reviewer,
             but I’ve loved every word
             seen read written and heard
       in this post led by Robert Lee Brewer.

       As for me, this’ll do, since dogonnit,
       I’ve written all I can write on it.
             Walt says a rondeau
             is the way it should go?
       I can’t work up so much as a sonnet.

    But have thoroughly enjoyed reading and re-reading every single poem here. But now, back to that jar beneath the sink….

  13. Walt Wojtanik


    So I sit at my laptop with a head full of muse
    and I like what I write
    and the words that I choose to use.
    You see, I’ve been rhyming and writing all day
    that even my thesaurus knows what I want to say.
    But I haven’t crossed the line with the things that I’m writin’,
    me being called a poet, through this block that I’m fightin’.
    I have to watch my words
    and what I’m thinking
    or the Poetic Asiders might get the thought that I’ve been drinking.
    I truly like Haiku, and the Sestina,
    as the meter starts to flow, it improves my demeanor.
    Fool, I’m the funny man the little rhymer’s wanna be like,
    on my seat in the night
    writing poems by computer light.

    I’ve been writing most my life
    Living in a poet’s paradise.
    I’ve been rhyming most my life
    Writing in a poet’s paradise.
    I keep spending most my life
    rhyming in a poet’s paradise.
    I keep bending most my rhymes
    Living in a poet’s paradise.

    Look at the prompt submission, Robert Brewer be postin’,
    I can’t live a normal life, when my Villanelle is boastin’.
    So I have to write down the all things that I am thinking,
    Too much television watching, has my thoughts on the blink.
    I’m an educated tool with a Shadorma in mind,
    got my keyboard in my hands and a poem to find.
    I’m an overzealous poet, a Hay(na)ku maker
    and the Poetic Asiders are all down for the taking.
    Fool, Fibonacci ain’t nothing but a formula away,
    I’m writing rhyme all the time, so what can I say?
    I’m fifty-four now, will my muse see fifty-five?
    The way things are going I just hope I survive.

    Tell me why do we
    write an elegy,
    when a Kyrielle
    would work just as well?

    I’ve been writing most my life
    Living in a poet’s paradise.
    I’ve been rhyming most my life
    Writing in a poet’s paradise.
    I keep spending most my life
    rhyming in a poet’s paradise.
    I keep bending most my rhymes
    Living in a poet’s paradise.

    Not in it for the money, money’s not the reason,
    Minute after hour, season after season,
    Everybody’s rhyming, but only half of them make sense,
    it’s going on, on condition
    but not under false pretense.
    They say I have the knack
    but, I’m just trying to reach them.
    If they don’t even read me, then how can I teach ’em?
    I prob’ly can’t,
    they prob’ly won’t,
    they write their own poems,
    for sure my muse is my own, too!

    I’ve been writing most my life
    Living in a poet’s paradise.
    I’ve been rhyming most my life
    Writing in a poet’s paradise.
    I keep spending most my life
    rhyming in a poet’s paradise.
    I keep bending most my rhymes
    Living in a poet’s paradise.

    Tell me why do we
    write an elegy,
    when a Kyrielle
    would work just as well?
    Tell me why don’t we play
    with a Triolet,
    when a rowdy Rondeau
    is the way to go?

  14. de jackson

    (a fib)

    d a y s
    she would
    much rather
    fight fires or make soap
    or slay dragons than wrestle words.
    rather barter blood, sweat, water
    than ink, but it’s what
    (who) she is
    (will be,

  15. Colette D

    I should credit De Jackson for my form in "Poetic Justice." I have admired your forms, and when this one started looking like a shoe or boot, I just had to run with it! Thank you.

  16. Colette D

    Don’t know if anyone might see these at this late date but just in case, I shared two more poems.

    PKP AKA 🙂 and Linda Goin ~ thank you both. My brother left this world nearly 10 years ago. This is NOT a "poor me" at all, but I’m planning on posting some of the songs my other brother (Tad) and I wrote together about Chris, on the anniversary of his death, and hopefully I can also post a song or two performed by Tad… he made my poems into songs and I have to say that one of them is a masterpiece! Hopefully this endeavor will force me to finally start a better blog and share it.

    S.E. Ingraham ~ I am SO sorry for my horrid typo of your name!

    Kimiko Martinez ~ That’s right! 🙂

    PKP AKA ~ You are welcome, but no need to feel humble… you’re a great writer!

    Beth Rodgers ~ Your line, "It strengthens the weakest of narratives" was a real sign to me! I’ve been wondering whether to include poems in a book I’m working on! But besides that, your poem is awesome! Thank you for both.

    Sara Gwen ~ I love your "Passed Along!"

    Linda G ~ "Jealous mother" is an oxymoron I will never understand. I’ve always been proud of my kids. I’m sorry you had to experience that too.

    PKP AKA ~ that is an awesome (and well-deserved) tribute to Barbara!!! You should have helped her select her 5 best to submit! ;D

    Marie Elena ~ thanks and I hope I didn’t come across as "poor me." I wanted that to be more a tribute to the power of poetry than a "complaint." I don’t think I succeeded. I like your poetry and it doesn’t seem immature; it’s soothing and sweet.

  17. Colette D

    ~ This is How It’s Always Been ~

    I scan the ether

    to catch phrases;


    take head trips

    and flights of fancy

    through thought clouds.

    Key words

    lead to brain storms;

    day dreams

    become mental pictures;

    view points

    soar into whole ideas;

    then punch lines

    come back

    in formation.

  18. Colette D

    ~Poetic Justice~

    Her poetic feet

    meter out punishment–

    figurative yet literal revenge

    stomping with beats-per-measure

    upon concrete yet proof-less acts of crime

    that had been perpetrated in the name of so-called love–

    witness-less trespassers booted out and exposed to witnesses everywhere,

    publishing shame in the name of a victim finally getting to stand up for herself.

  19. Walt Wojtanik

    Not on prompt, but needed to say it:


    Don’t know why, all the clouds begin to cry?
    Stormy weather in the weeping of the sky;
    a sad mourning, a world less beautiful as the dark night
    extinguishes a candle that burned brightly.
    Ms. Horne has passed; Lena eternally ethereal.

  20. Amy Barlow Liberatore

    FangO, your reference to Bukowski, who both scares and fascinates me, is excellent – that visceral description of his need to write. I believe we all write from need – to shock, to enlighten, to entertain, to inform, to shake things up, to simply comment on the human condition… but most of all, to get it out of our systems and onto a page. I love your work and your audacity!

    Barbara, I’m also a fan. We’ve been talking back and forth, and it’s a great conversation. PKP, Pearl, I think it’s beautiful that you had the devotion to her work to go back in the db and select some of the best quotations. I’m telling ya, Barbara, if that’s not going to keep your flame lit, nothing will!

    Pearl, RJ, De, Marie, Walt, Hannah, Mosk, Joseph, Peter, DA, Kim… too many to mention here, but the diversity of thought, the breadth of emotion on this blog are breathtaking. And Robert allows us to post them ALL here instead of just links, so we are able to "pig out" all on one site. Thanks to you, RLB!

  21. Sara Gwen


       Like how pentinas oughtn’t sport some claim
       as having been invented, nor do I
       pretend to own what started off the art
       that turned itself into the poems I’ve heard
       and at my best can only then repeat.

       They’re not ours.  We can’t own them, I repeat.
       The more we try, the more our words disclaim
       their right from the beginning to be heard
       or to their end be seen by any eye.
       Possession is the suicide of art.

       But suicide’s not science.  It’s an art
       that we through poetry should oft repeat
       in sacrificial awe.  Which is why I
       disown myself if thereby to reclaim
       the image of my god, who’s gone unheard.

       The words she wrote weren’t written to be heard,
       but isn’t that the nature of her art?―
       Control and chaos, both these vices claim
       that through their exercise we may repeat
       creation’s act.  Who knew her more than I?

       And then she died.  And then she caught the eye
       of dreams that got reborn in what she’d heard.
       So that is all I’m doing ― I repeat
       the endless river of this borrowed art,
       this piece of wind that none of us can claim.

              (Though this can’t be repeated, nor will I
              deny it claim.  Some portions of her art
              for only one were meant.  Or so I’ve heard.)


  22. Linda Goin

    PKP — I, too, wonder if the desire to comment on all poems is "blowhardy," but once I start reading, I can’t help but say something to the poet. Just think…if these poems were in a book and that book was 100 years old…the only way we could communicate with that poet would be to write a poem to a dead poet. In my opionion, that’s been overdone. Not that I can possibly comment on all poetry here all the time, but it is nice to hear a comment. And, it’s nice to feed into my disorders, too (a little ocd, anyone?)

    Colette — I had a jealous mother, too. I like the 42 funerals. You were prolific! Ah, the revelation about your brother…
    Beth, "I hear poetry in everyday conversation," yep. When you write down phrases, do you feel like a thief? I do. But, it’s a good feeling. LOL.
    PKP, what a lovely story. Father was/is an artist?
    Bruce, meeting poetry on the playground…what a playful way to consider this format.
    Sheila – good to see you. I was hooked on "making love in public," "eureka and alakazam" and that flirty wood nymph.
    Hello Karen! I was going to quote a line or two, but would have ended up with your entire poem here. I likes it!
    De – your ‘quickies" are diamonds in the rough. Love "Periwinkle mango."
    Cara, slithy toves are far too enticing.
    Mary, I certainly would have wanted to meet you if all I had was your poetry…(did that come out right?)
    Penny, LOL — love how you turn a small verse into a huge adventure.
    Janet, What fun! This is the stuff of life, you know?
    Sara – The shrugs and dreamy run-ons are temptresses, bent on hiding your clever crafting. Well done.
    Walt – ah, yes. Where have all the Burma Shave signs gone?
    Susan – bravo for learning about yourself through poetry. She’s that way…
    Jacqueline: I really was struck by your poem. At first, I forgot that it was about writing about poetry, not writing to poetry…and then I forgot poetry altogether, as your words seem to relay other messages. Simple, mesmerizing.
    Sara, like that line break between "word" and "drawing." slick.
    Ellenelizabeth, May the goddess bless Miss Palaza.
    S. E. Ingraham — we are the only ones who can bear witness to our lives. No one can see life quite like we do through our own eyes. Yes, it was, re: the last line. Bravo to you.
    Barbara: I’m glad that curtain lifted!
    Natalie — lovely (and I wrote that before I read Iain’s note!). Happy to see you here. We’re harmless…oh, some ADD, OCD and a little Aspie, but otherwise perfectly normal poets. =)
    Barbara_y, Ah, Little Pigeon…know it well. Stayed many times at the Cades Cove campground, too. Very special place, and you captured the area in poetry.
    RJ — LOL – love your poem. Now I’m stuck on one editor saying, "Ok, Linda, let’s bring those 3,000 words down to 750!" Your poem worked for me. I laughed. Bravo.
    Sheryl, I like Wordsmith a lot.
    Peter (CrazyC), I can imagine having a cup of coffee or a glass of wine with you and being totally entertained by your stories. Say hi to Little Sh*t.
    CJillFriend, I enjoyed your whole poem, but some lines really stood out. Especially liked the "cerebrum of coral reef."
    Daniel — so good to finally meet you. I enjoy your poetry so much. And, yes, then…"The best gifts are like this: unnamed." Thank you!
    Ok — I’m skipping through, but still reading De and Walt and you other prolific souls…just know that I do love your poetic frenzies, but my time is limited, shortened by my own desire to write!
    Ann — "because my son is in love / for the first time;" But, that wasn’t all…it was just the first phrase that woke me up this morning. Thanks.
    Willy — what a lovely tribute. I’m glad you had a mentor hero, as he or she is a rare and lovely gift.
    Connie, Isn’t it nice when our prayers are realized through poetry?
    Theresa, Bravo.
    Kim – I am growing very fond of your way with words. I had to admire the use of "vermiculite." But, what I like is much more than that.
    Victoria — I hope so, too.
    Brian Slusher — thank you! =D
    Jacqueline – ah, that feeling of feeling imperfect, unfit, unloved. Poetry can be a fine comfort…and therapy. Glad you’re out in the world now, sharing your words.
    Stacy — "rolling towards Colorado in a black sedan" Primo!
    Daniel — I usually don’t comment on the poet’s second or third or fourth or fifth poem, but I really, really like "what did we hear in the uterus?"
    Diane…thank heavens you began to write. I was blissed by the fourth stanza…I’m a pig for irony.
    Jolanta — a couple phrases in "Dark Clouds" struck me, but the simplicity of "Dead pan eyes" was great for me. Thanks!
    Julieann S Powell — sometimes I wonder if we’ve all seen that same white church, then a poet like you comes along and points to something that wasn’t seen, that wasn’t heard. But, I do think I’ve seen this church…I mean in real life. Oh, your poem is haunting.
    Hannah — Be the rock, baby. Anytime.
    Marie Elena — "Now poetry’s a part of me – / I’ll write forevermore." Thank heavens!
    FangO — I always smile when I see your moniker at the end of a poem, as your word patterns and thoughts are some of my favorites. I loved reading this one out loud, especially the "and all it has been filled with, like a belly, / like digestion, saying out loud what he has to say," Thank you.
    Clay, a solid name for the bottom of the list, like a foundation holding up all this poetry. Great metaphor, "lingering scent still driving me crazy." Amen.

  23. annie mcwilliams

    Here is the pointillistic brush stroke of each letter,
    here the one-hundred yard dash of each word,
    where thoughts rise like zombie memories.
    Here is the psychiatrists couch.
    Here is the kitchen junk drawer.
    Here is the tool box, the audio tape
    capable of categorizing
    where weepers and smoke flaps belong.

  24. Barbara Ehrentreu

    Hannah, thank you!! I remember so much of your work, because it flowed so easily and lyrically. Too many lines that I loved to put them here, but the ones I loved most were those with alliteration. I am the mother of two grown daughters and I went through the time you are in now. To be able to write and comment with a toddler is amazing! I was lucky if I could pick up my hand after my kids were in bed. They are three and a half years apart.:)

    I went back on Anders’ database and read all your poems and comments. Thank you again to Anders for doing this! You know if we all stay here it will be Wednesday before we know it.:)

  25. Clay Strickland

    Because of Why

    Poetry, is an effect
    of unstoppable cause,
    attraction to unknown,
    head turning perfumes,
    open pages and her eyes
    you can’t walk away from,
    soft hands you can’t let go,
    tremblings from pen touches,
    surfaces absorbing kissing ink,
    printing desires between lines
    as deep as her bluest of veins;
    hints of people we want (to be)
    glimpsed in margins of bed sheet,
    amidst parallel lover long lashes;
    fulfilled with written exhaustion,
    a slow awakening to warm bodies,
    intimate language of dreamy recall,
    lingering scent still driving me crazy.

  26. Theresa Cavicchio

    Marie Elena – Thank you. I’m happy to stick around, and even happier to have you back with us. Hope you enjoyed the time away with hubby.

  27. Sara Gwen

    passed along

       like that same fruit cake
       regifted every season
       in that same festive tin
       we’re even for a change
       as if the thought counts

       like that same common cold
       caught up in its contagion
       with that same headache
       what’s left to bring up
       holding off mama’s cure

       like that same dollar bill
       exchanged hand to hand
       not a care how far spent
       for the same durable goods
       consumed on its account

       like that same raindrop
       cycling down into clouds
       drained through hidden pipes
       through the same ice shavings
       cooling off in my coffee

       like that same breath
       shared as an endless kiss
       as hasn’t eaten for days
       for the same old love we
       thought it could’ve been

       like that same poem
       heard thought out loud
       at a very same because
       snapping its fingers as
       it gets passed along


  28. FangO


    And all these cautious academic poets can strain
    over their 80-page chapbooks, sweating the precarious
    balance between culture and meaning and The Self.
    Buko sits and strains and types, pounding out his life
    and all it has been filled with, like a belly,
    like digestion, saying out loud what he has to say,
    singing all the fluids of Los Angeles and America
    all the evidence against himself, loudmouth outsider
    fighting, typing, dying, writing. It’s the permission
    he gives to put out what’s on your mind. I felt
    I could muster the gumption to do that, too.

  29. PKP aka Pearl Ketover Prilik

    Dear Marie …. I see you Barbara and I are still around the site… reminds me of being a teenager – just "hanging out." See you both on Wednesday… FYI Marie … thanks for being an early and one of a very "discriminating" (translation 1 of VERY few) followers of my blog. I did put up some poems @Imagine Barbara you have inspired me to continue sending in the completed novel and getting to work on the 4 that need editing … I also have 12 short stories… As I’ve said before feel like the sand is running down in the hour clock and since I’ve been waiting since third grade to get something of "fiction" published… the time to put on the after-burners and get going is now. Thanks again to both of you who have supported and inspired me in different but no less touching ways. Again see you on Wednesday.

  30. Barbara Ehrentreu

    It is not often that someone takes so many of your words and posts them and so I am overwhelmed with this experience.:) Thank you so much Pearl for doing this. I am so happy that we have become friends and I appreciate your doing it.

    Thank you Marie Elena for seconding it. That made my day even better!!

  31. PKP aka Pearl Ketover Prilik

    Dear Anders, Your search tool has truly been a magnificent gift. Today I had ‘friend" (oh my what an awful term) nevertheless been befriended, friended whatever Barbara Ehrentreu and though your data base was able to go back and read her poems. WOW!

    How many poems and poets I now wonder have I missed? Although the date is late for comments I just thought that something needed to be shared publicly for Barbara… To Barbara you have a wonderful talent and I have a sense that the way you can view the world and articulate its passion will help you through what was obviously an awful April! I am sorry that I remained there but unaware…


    """""There’s an empty space behind the smile on my mouth

    living room untouched
    but we would never live there again.

    My ears will pretend they can
    bounce words like rubber balls

    before the deluge of age pounded on her shores
    and babies softened her belly

    you gobbled New York in one step
    …When lust leaves, the picnic ends

    New York you walk with me no matter where I land

    You are a headache shaped as a man.
    ….You put your love away in a suitcase
    a long time ago and threw away the key

    …our bare feet leaving no impression on the shifting sand.

    When my time comes will Death arrive as a hot
    guy in a tuxedo holding champagne and roses…
    (really enjoyed this poem!)

    …..Like the way the sound of the music reminds me
    of a time years ago when I stood in a beer soaked
    crowd with the smell of weed permeating the crowd
    lost in the sea of music and feeling like a piece of
    a human ocean.

    …your voice gossamer a silken thread

    Tore me from my parents
    onto a subway train at midnight
    to flee to your open arms.

    …head leaning
    forward as his eyes close

    The colors bleed to gray

    …I close my eyes and see you as a toddler,
    short legs flying down the concrete sidewalk
    …I Cried Five Tears

    ….as you continue to fire
    with me walking toward
    you arms outstretched for a hug?

    The caged words banged against
    the walls of my brain wanting to be released

    …Goodbye to surrender
    to the climb we began
    and ended together """""



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