Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 263

What an up and down week I’ve had! While it started on the down side, it’s definitely finished way up. Last night, our bid was accepted for the house we want (it’s difficult raising kids in an apartment), and a poem of mine was published yesterday by iARTistas (click here to read my poem–and while you’re there, check out Laurie Kolp’s poem too).

For this week’s prompt, write an object poem. Pick an object and write about it. Or pick an object and make it a central piece of your poem. Or pick an object and make it the title. Or pick an object and write an acrostic. Or come up with some other way to combine an object with your poem.

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Here’s my attempt at an Object Poem:

“window”

at first glance
it doesn’t seem much

in fact
it’s transparent

but it shows what
is hidden on the other side

the sun & moon
birds & trees

things you don’t see
without it

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Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems. He loves the old Universal horror films and would check out little books devoted to them from his local library when he was a boy. While Godzilla and King Kong are cool, he was really fascinated by Frankenstein, Dracula, Wolf Man, and The Mummy.

Learn more at www.robertleebrewer.com.

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310 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 263

  1. Julieann

    The Object of My Affection

    You came to me
    When I was very young
    Daddy brought you into my room
    I stretched out my arms to
    Get you, to hold you, to cuddle you
    From that inauspicious beginning
    You spent years being there for me
    You listened when I cried
    You listened when I laughed
    You were nonjudgmental when I was mad
    You were comforting when I was sad
    You arrived in a fluffy pink skin
    And wearing a big, pink, fluffy bow
    Through the years you wore
    Out a number of replacement skins
    And now you reside in my closet
    I know where you are
    And I know if or I when I need you
    You will be right there for me
    As in days long past
    You are my “Hey There”
    You are my first Easter bunny

  2. veronica_gurlie

    The Old Carousel

    It usually rides in on a black horse,
    catches my attention, and pulls me around me in circles.
    It cast spells on me, with ballets of faded metallic colors.
    It surprises me when it stops, and lets me go.
    It’s the dream, of ancient loneliness,
    the one I only see, in my own eyes.

  3. tunesmiff

    BIG MAMA’S BIBLE
    G. Smith
    ———————————-
    Big Mama’s Bible sits on the mantle,
    Dust a testament to her going home;
    Leather cover; pages onion skin thin,
    Edged not in onion silver but with gold.

    Her begats begin before Genesis,
    In a firm hand and in blue or black ink (Red was reserved for the words of the Lord,
    But you know that without being told)

    Births and marriages, and the deaths of kin,
    Ev’ry day she took up the Spitit’s sword
    Each Christmas Eve she read us Luke’s story
    No room in the inn, and the night so cold

    She had her sorrows and her share of sin,
    But grace insured she’d recieve her reward.
    ++++
    Well, I guessed I missed the bref double deadline for this one, but still…

    1. tunesmiff

      Formatting edit:

      The second stanza SHOULD read:

      …Her begats begin before Genesis,
      In a firm hand and in blue or black ink
      (Red was reserved for the words of the Lord,
      But you know that without being told)…

      g

  4. BDP

    “Headstones”

    Your back seat pooled with fabric flowers, waves
    of silk, my rider’s window open, air
    stream warm, you state he was a partier,
    I laugh: your friend, at ninety, brave
    to dance on tables. Wrinkles plus risqué?
    Then lean, and you repeat: “He was a part
    of here.” Our town. You wake my distant heart,
    as always, Cousin, down the lane, at end of May.

    I’m home so rarely, you choose wreaths, the where,
    direct the nestling of the pots. We brush
    moss granite, dried pine needles jab our palms,
    sweet Nellie drowned at nine, and there’s your dad, my mom,
    too soon. We siphon color from your car,
    set plots afloat with petals. Bow, a hush.

    –Barb Peters

  5. De Jackson

    Ink

    How often do we think
    of it, link our hearts to its
    spill, will our
    selves to fill
    just one
    page?

    How often do we smear
    it in our veins, let rage
    be stilled by some stub
    -born stage of black
    clacked loose to breathe?

    How long do we be
    -lieve it will free
    our stains, tame
    our troubled waters,
    stay our salt? Shall
    we find fault in ivory
    spaces yet untold?

    If we’re bold
    and brilliant, born
    ebony in our font
    -ed skin, when
    should we begin
    to blink in muttered
    morse, and
          ink
    our think?

    .

  6. Michele Brenton

    Pretty Objects.

    I look at things,
    their colours,
    how they drape
    or shine
    and how light plays
    with them.

    Light loves to play,
    transforming
    each thing
    depending on the mood
    at hand.

    My mind loses itself
    in the game,
    forgets context, history,
    not that it ever knew
    those things
    for memories transform events
    the way light changes objects
    so we only glimpse versions
    and I don’t hold much store
    that truth be told.
    But the colours,
    forms and textures
    are pretty enough for now.

    Michele Brenton

  7. RuthieShev

    Momma’s Flowered Apron With the Eyelet Lace

    I can still see the smile on my Momma’s face
    Wearing her flowered apron with the eyelet lace
    With a spot of flour on her little pug nose
    In her old worn out often mended cotton clothes.

    Her love for her family would often show
    Through simple things she did like kneading dough
    To make the sweetest bread all around
    And baking it until it was a perfect golden brown.

    In her flowered apron with the eyelet lace,
    You could tell the kitchen was her favorite place.
    Baking cinnamon rolls to complete perfection
    Or making some new scrumptious cupcake confection.

    With sticky maple icing falling unto the plate,
    Her crullers were the best anyone ever ate.
    Before you came in the kitchen you could tell
    You were in for a treat by that wonderful smell.

    Now my Momma’s gone; it’s my turn to bake
    Her special recipe for a delicious coffee cake
    I can’t wait to see the smiles on each family member’sexcited face
    As I stand in the kitchen wearing Momma’s Apron with the eyelet lace.

    By Ruth Crowell Shevock

    1. TomNeal

      You have woven remembrance, love, melancholy, and joy together in a most meaningful way- the past and present blend in your recipe and cake.

  8. cstewart

    Flap, Ball-Change

    Hot Pink and Hot Damn
    That case was a jamming miracle,
    Found at the base of a bookcase
    Where joy and Edith Wharton met.
    Classical and impudent,
    Ecstatic and dancing.
    The jewels within the suitcase
    Were my long lost tap shoes,
    Ready for another go at
    Ballin’ the Jack.

  9. seingraham

    NERVOUS BREAKDOWN AFGHAN

    It’s almost hideous really; a patchwork
    of colours so diverse
    You can’t help wondering what the
    knitter was thinking
    When she decided to put this blanket
    together…crazier than the craziest
    quilt
    And while an attempt has been made
    in places, it seems, to make some patches
    symmetrical
    Most bear no resemblance to their
    neighbour, in size nor colour

    The finishing touch is the linking stitch –
    a pale blue wool — mostly —
    That outlines each patch, making it even more
    obvious that no two are nearly the same
    And a variation of that blue, binding the whole
    of the thing in a loose blanket stitch
    for the most part, but even that is not a given

    So…is this someone’s beginner afghan?
    Something a person just learning the stitches
    and how to design a piece would make?
    No — perhaps it should come as no surprise
    that this is work that an accomplished
    knitter took up
    when she was being slowly driven out of
    her mind
    by circumstances in her life over which
    she had no control

    When things reached a point where she
    couldn’t stand another moment
    When she felt like she might implode
    or do something really rash
    She would grab up the afghan and whatever
    materials she had on hand
    and began knitting, and stayed knitting until
    the feelings were under control again

    It was unlike anything she had ever
    done before…
    A habitual perfectionist, to work on
    something where she just let fly,
    just knit and knit until she had a piece
    that might be finished
    enough so that she could carry on with
    her life
    a means to an end —
    She found it oddly liberating

    She valued her hideous afghan,
    considered it a personal badge of honour
    It was keeping her sane and she knew it
    And when the bad times were past and
    the afghan finished
    She put it away, but she never got rid of it
    She wanted to always be able to look at
    her imperfect piece that kept her from
    losing her mind.

  10. taylor graham

    LEASH

    She didn’t want visitors, wanted
    to be remembered as she was – skiing ahead
    of us over the pass, following her
    golden dog on scent; and on the lake,
    her hair the color of summer-burnt grasses
    in a wind.
    At the memorial, her widower handed me
    a paper bag of her things
    he had no use for; they reminded him.
    A compass, Sierra cup. This blue
    nylon leash. I clipped it to my own dog’s
    collar. Would it give her
    the watch-me! obedience of my dead
    friend’s dog? Every handler
    gets the dog he deserves, she was fond
    of saying. I find
    there was no magic in her nylon
    leash. Look how my young dog leaps
    ahead, tugging to show me
    something my friend never saw.

  11. grcran

    r and r

    my tool
    my old friend
    i rinsed you after last usage
    you are a little stiff
    but you loosen up nicely
    you have such a wonderful balance
    as I hold you, right-handed
    using the left to check the movement
    swing back then forward
    deliver the goods
    wait
    wait

    there it is, now strike, just hard enough
    that’s it
    and play…
    be flexible
    let line go out instead of breaking
    easy does it…
    play…
    and, task complete!
    fish in the boat
    my rod and reel
    my old friend

    by gpr crane

  12. Al-Logaha Hand

    A poet’s chains by Al-Logaha Hand

    A new word
    A carving in of time
    It takes sap from the trees and is at once uprooted
    Not a commercial you but a subtle and long sensation
    Above me something is melting
    It is snow becoming filtered letters
    Old friends pronounce the lack of your presence as being in denial
    Glass chains are a Chinese artifact
    Full of intriguing colors making a pact with an angel
    A grown up child is detested by the masses for all the messes it makes
    A golden plate is delivered with cake
    My blocked self hesitates to take the first bite
    It just might taste too good and I might consume it all by myself
    Like my words
    I keep eating until I am way past full
    And my fingers are indented and cracked
    Confusion sets in on this powdery morning
    I am all set to overstate the facts and build a poetry mantle to set all my future books on
    And then it explodes into the hearts of others
    I can’t sit still
    It’s not my willpower at stake
    But a rake full of tomorrow’s leaves of absence
    So as far as the story goes
    I will let my woes fall asleep on this page and let rage dine into purgatorial descent
    Where I don’t have to lie but lay my soul before you
    Open and delivered by the postman of posthumous dreams

  13. carolecole66

    Clippers

    The July sun beats on my head as I crouch by my front border, clippers in hand.
    They are old and dull; the vining jasmine resists the blade and I crawl along
    the sidewalk, trimming back tendrils that want to swallow the stone edge.
    My back aches and I think of both my grandfathers standing on their hay
    wagons in the blazing summer, think of them in their fields wrestling plows,
    lifting great bales of straw, doing this day after day, twelve hours, fifty years
    of shoveling corn and pulling combines forward to couple with their
    John Deeres or McCormicks. And how their own backs must have ached
    as they stopped to stretch a moment, to look out across the fields they disked,
    the hay they raked. The new sprouts of corn, showing lightly against the black
    earth like shy girls, must have been a glory to them, must have felt like God’s
    offering if only they could be worthy, work hard enough for the blessings
    of good weather, for the grace of harvest as they grew the wheat for bread.
    This was their labor and this is my meager homage to them as I straighten
    my own back, wish for a straw between my teeth, wish to know the two men
    whose struggles formed me as I work my own small plot of land,
    tiny clippers in my delicate white hands.

  14. candy

    Garbage Can

    we ate our lunch in the
    car – burgers with mayo
    and pickles and fries with
    ketchup from the drive thru
    at a fast food joint

    we didn’t want to waste time

    when we got to Charleston
    we dumped It all – the bags
    and half eaten burgers, left
    over fries, cups with straws –
    In the green cage-like garbage
    can on the corner

    we didn’t want to waste time

    we hurried away, sites to
    see souvenirs to buy, history
    was waiting for those just
    like us

    we didn’t want to waste time

    back at the garbage can a
    man with dirty ripped clothing
    was scavenging for his next meal

    we didn’t want to waste time

  15. candy

    Glasses

    better one? better two?
    new glasses, black and yellow,
    correct eyesight to 20/20
    phone book print is readable

    street signs are clear enough
    to find my way across town
    faces are in focus again
    vision improved but do

    I overlook the homeless,
    the imprisoned, the weak
    do I turn away so I don’t
    see injustice, cruelty, waste

    my eyesight may be 20/20
    but how do I measure my humanity

  16. JohnLY

    AN OBJECT POEM

    The object of the exercise is to be
    As uncontroversial as ever,
    To write a poem that reflects
    An objectionable object whenever
    One has an earthy need to free
    The bowels from a blockage, wherever
    The need for relief arises

    To find oneself in a situation,
    Where the object is not available
    To fulfil the need for evacuation
    Can be really quite uncomfortable.
    To ponder the problem of the shortage
    Of these objects for general use
    People on high sit on the throne
    Write poetry and generally muse.

  17. veronica_gurlie

    What I Saw Through My Camera

    A few crabs had slipped and fell in the pool and was stuck at the bottom,
    I noticed the house seemed frozen under water, and you were sitting on the patio,
    so sun fried and drinking yourself up, while listening to “Crazy” by Patsy Clien.
    Your eyes were scoping the naked ocean,
    as if you were imagining, you were taking your x wife,
    out there, on some old boat, and throwing her in.
    I can tell, that is what you were thinking, as a smile almost formed on your face.
    I wish I had taken a picture of you, in that moment,
    then who you do think they would believe?

    1. veronica_gurlie

      rewrite: I took the question mark out.

      What I Saw Through My Camera

      A few crabs had slipped and fell in the pool, and was stuck at the bottom,
      I noticed the house seemed frozen under water, and you were sitting on the patio,
      so sun fried, and drinking yourself up, while listening to “Crazy” by Patsy Clien.
      Your eyes were scoping the naked ocean,
      as if you were imagining, you were taking your x wife,
      out there, on some old boat, and throwing her in.
      I can tell, that is what you were thinking, as a smile almost formed on your face.
      I wish I had taken a picture of you, in that moment,
      then who you do think they would believe.

  18. veronica_gurlie

    While Making a Lunch Meat Sandwich

    I say, “I like Salome, this kind of Salome the most. But not matter what, it’s always seems slimy to me,”
    and he says, “It’s all the same. It’s just that one is hard, and one is soft.”
    “It don’t matter, I enjoy them both.” I say.
    He then looks over at me, like he is thinking of sex, in a different way, that we’ve never had,
    and then he chuckles, and says, “Salome is Salome”

    1. veronica_gurlie

      sorry typo fixed. Please read this one.

      While Making a Lunch Meat Sandwich

      I say, “I like Salome, this kind of Salome the most.
      But not matter what, it always seems slimy to me,”
      and he says, “It’s all the same. It’s just that one is hard, and one is soft.”
      “It don’t matter, I enjoy them both.” I say.
      He then looks over at me, like he is thinking of sex, in a different way, that we’ve never had,
      and then he chuckles, and says, “Salome is Salome.”

      1. veronica_gurlie

        edited. find another typo.

        While Making a Lunch Meat Sandwich

        I say, “I like Salome, this kind of Salome the most.
        But no matter what, it always seems slimy to me,”
        and he says, “It’s all the same. It’s just that one is hard, and one is soft.”
        “It don’t matter, I enjoy them both.” I say.
        He then looks over at me, like he is thinking of sex, in a different way, that we’ve never had, and then he chuckles, and says, “Salome is Salome.”

  19. veronica_gurlie

    The Plant I Put On the Porch

    “Oh My God, I killed it!”
    I say, when I see the burnt jaws,
    and the shriveled up noses,
    and all the pretty little heads of it, slumped over.
    I carry it back inside the house, as fast as I can,
    and stare it, like I hurt something again,
    ruined something that was so perfect,
    trying to move it, to where I believe is a better place,
    like it was my sensitive young heart, my love, my love.

    1. veronica_gurlie

      edited:

      The Plant I Put On the Porch

      “Oh My God, I killed it!”
      I say, when I see the burnt jaws,
      and the shriveled up noses,
      and all the pretty little heads of it, slumped over.
      I carry it back inside the house, as fast as I can,
      and stare at it, like it’s something that hurt,
      I ruined something that was so perfect,
      trying to move it, to where I think is a better place,
      as if it was my sensitive young heart,
      my love, my love.

  20. veronica_gurlie

    The Comforter (blanket)

    My comforter, tries to keep me inside of it,
    so nude, like my poetry. It’s always all over me, like it’s my love,
    even when I don’t respond, and treat it, like it’s a sick dog in my heart,
    dragging one of its back legs, on the floor,
    never out of touch, though I just throw it, any tired old bone.

  21. veronica_gurlie

    The First Sight of Your Own Blood

    The first sight of your own blood,
    is like the moment you realize, you’re alone in the room, with your ideal,
    or quick little guesses,
    suddenly the room is shady and obviously cold.
    and people you don’t like, got less on their plate than you do.
    Up until then, blood is just some “thing” that is always with you,
    and like gravity, some force you knew existed, but didn’t feel,
    at least, not while strutting, like you’re new to this world,
    thinking you’re right about the time, when you say it’s going to rain,
    and just nobody believes you.

    1. veronica_gurlie

      rewrite

      The First Sight Of Your Own Blood

      The first sight of your own blood,
      is like the moment you realize, you’re standing alone in the room, with your ideal,
      or quickly given little guesses, suddenly the room is shady and obviously cold.
      and people you don’t like, got less on their plate than you do.
      Up until then, blood is just some “thing” that is always with you,
      and like gravity, some force you knew existed, but didn’t feel, trying to take you over,
      at least not while strutting, like you’re new to this world,
      thinking you’re right about the time, when you say it’s about to rain,
      and just nobody believes you.

  22. veronica_gurlie

    The Music Boat (From One Of my Hobby’s).

    It’s like my one true love, it’s all brassy,
    with a little bit of bad wiring, and some kind of rainbow watercolor effect, on its face.
    It use to play a song I liked, but I don’t remember what,
    and I confess, I haven’t touched it, since I discovered it,
    it’s really from a place, much deeper than me, but don’t I know from where,
    but I tell you, if I did, I would get another.

    1. veronica_gurlie

      sorry typo::0)
      please read this one. thanks.

      The Music Boat (From One Of my Hobby’s).

      It’s like my one true love, it’s all brassy,
      with a little bit of bad wiring, and some kind of rainbow watercolor effect, on its face.
      It use to play a song I liked, but I don’t remember what,
      and I confess, I haven’t touched it, since I discovered it,
      it’s really from a place, much deeper than me, but I don’t know from where,
      but I tell you, if I did, I would get another.

  23. Al-Logaha Hand

    The Plume which speaks your language

    the plume picks up its pidgeon feathers
    makes a mate of meeting other small birds
    heading north for the winter
    preferring the chill of stillness
    smiling and fluttering before a preferred audience
    singing for surveys of mountain passes
    I need to cry
    to stick to treating happiness with a piece of my mind
    to write out of sight
    i need to think out of space undefined
    out of sight from the wind’s sweet curtain
    to remind myself of other worlds before time split in half
    with flying trucks and cars
    flying carpets too
    squeaking as if wheels were turning that mountain view of you
    I am stuck laughing with myself
    to make faces in the sand
    to throw dirt like a free child
    in order to apply justice
    by making my plume less a bird and more a mime

    1. TomNeal

      i need to think out of space undefined
      out of sight from the wind’s sweet curtain
      to remind myself of other worlds before time split in half
      with flying trucks and cars
      flying carpets too

      These are exceptional lines. I especially appreciate “space undefined” picked up by “before time” .

      1. PressOn

        Yes, and startling too, for me anyway, mainly in the vision of birds flying north for winter. it makes sense, though, in the context of the final line. “Stunning” applies to this whole work, in my view.

        1. Al-Logaha Hand

          Thank you PressOn, I feel honoured from all of you. yes I often think in opposites and here I am in North Africa and Pidgeons are everywhere in all seasons, always flying and then I have this thing with mimes and birds, talking in silence so it made sense to me

  24. veronica_gurlie

    The Plant

    In my candle lit living room, there’s a boring looking plant, on the shelf, and it has my spirit,
    it doesn’t think before it moves, and it’s always moving, and no one ever hears it move.
    I look over at it, and it seems to be hanging in a different way, like an old man whose got his groove back,
    I tell myself, I grew it, so I must check on it, and see if it still has a pulse like mine,
    so I gently sweep its hair with my fingers, and if nothing falls off, I know it does.
    Like something I love to do, but don’t do well, every day, I realize, it has found away to stay alive,
    it has found a way to thrive, no matter how long, it’s kept in the shadows.

      1. veronica_gurlie

        thank you very much, you’re comments are really encouraging, and shows me that I’m going into the right direction with my own personal writing approach. I’ve been reaching more into stay true to the image of things, and how I connect to them. I find it easier for me to do this, with objects that I own. Thank you again:0). Someday, I would love to receive a review from you for one of my upcoming books.

  25. Jacqueline Hallenbeck

    the object of my affections

    the object of my affections
    with a glance brightens my day
    doesn’t think so but is quite
    handsome; makes me sin with idolatry

    collects coins and plays with puzzles
    is my friend, my world, my lover
    if kidnapped, I’d pay his ransom
    in every storm, he stands by me

    makes me laugh till doubled over
    through the years, come what may
    he’s been home to me, I can’t think of
    any other place I would rather be

    two decades strong will mark October
    I wouldn’t have it any other way

    1. veronica_gurlie

      this is a great poem!! I was wondering if you was open for a suggested ending using what you got, moving your ending up a little sooner:0). Let me know. It is such great poem, with solid imagery like little snapshots. I love how you see and make me see in little fine glances. Great work!

  26. veronica_gurlie

    GRAPE JUICE.

    Your pain, real pain, can be too purple, with a cold look back,
    and you can’t deny it, like the taste of grape juice in your mouth.
    You’re just standing around with smarter people, and looking all too well,
    and slowly imagining, coming out of your skin,
    and right when you go to sip your grape juice, for the first time,
    it twists up your guts, and makes you choke on your thoughts.
    Your pain, real pain, is just so sure of itself, it’s just so there,
    that it just takes all the attention, like a splash of grape juice, on your white shirt.

    1. PressOn

      Wow. The imagery is so startling, yet so apt, or so it seems to me. I keep associating the grape juice with blood. Powerful and sure-handed writing here, in my opinion.

  27. veronica_gurlie

    GRANDMAS CUP.

    Grandmas glass cup, is like the spirit of my heart,
    you got to touch it gently, for it can easily break,
    and it can not hide what’s inside of it, nor does it try to.
    It may look so cold, and blue, and frail, from a side view,
    but if you really look down inside of it, you’d see it, it has held so much,
    it has enjoyed the touch of many things, like grandmas, little old hands.

      1. veronica_gurlie

        thank you very much:0). this poem is very true. I drink from my grandmother in laws glass cup almost every day, she has passed now and she was a religious woman who was very affectionate with those she loved. I think of her, every time I drink from her glass cup.

  28. grcran

    vested nest

    this kit came late, stirred up the deal
    made old boss cat’s mad bile congeal
    so at the pet store, found the thing
    a cat-tree multi-layering
    stands six foot tall, round nest on top
    tormented young cat’s place to plop
    a refuge vantage point on high
    i see escape that’s good i sigh

    Now three years later old cat-tree
    is used and dirty place to flee
    it wobbles teetering when climbed
    hair-cushioned worn and grossly grimed
    i yearn to clean it fix it up
    it’s worked so well a loving cup
    for well-loved cat not fitting in
    The only place that he can grin
    i pet him there he arches proud
    it’s smiles, away from madding crowd
    the cat-smile purring furry face
    i cannot change it, it’s his place
    the old one bully-bums around
    my baby’s six feet off the ground

    by gpr crane

  29. grcran

    inanimately ired

    of late, I cry “Really?”
    things inanimate not going my way
    stuff spills out of spoons, the moons and the tides
    pulling oddly, light bulbs go out
    up high
    inside tiny closet
    almost inaccessible
    the entire fixture
    broken
    zipper pull pulls loose
    zapping my slacks selection
    tent pole snaps
    whap wind flap
    perfect pen slides out of pocket
    deep into underseat bowels of car
    user error, I am told
    I agree, half the time
    but
    you, you mindless thing, you’ve done what, now?
    Really?
    Really?

    by gpr crane

    1. grcran

      thanks to all of y’all!… I still haven’t found that pen, can no longer go camping, cannot see inside that closet, and got no pants to wear ;~( …at least I have my laptop on which to write my screeds (learned that word from you, PressOn, thanks for that too ;~)

  30. annell

    Grey
    Today is grey
    Overcast
    Rainy
    A day without sunshine
    A day in May
    A day of grey
    The grey of a dove
    Calling for morning
    The grey of a mouse
    As he sits in the shadows
    Of the house
    Many birds are grey
    Sometimes hard to tell apart
    Grey is the color of my
    True love’s eyes
    Often grey is the shadow
    Of brightly colored things
    A song can be grey
    A mood can be grey
    A memory can be grey
    Grey holds everything
    Only holds it a little lighter

    May 23, 2014

  31. Clae

    Only At A Job

    Work computer:
    my enemy, my nemesis,
    bane of my professional life.
    Why do you refuse
    to let me use
    necessary features
    when system support is closed?
    why do you hate me so?

    T.S. Gray

  32. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

    This White Shell

    This white shell
    has whorls and curlicues
    crinkling its rim

    and soon I fall
    into childhood memories,
    tracing them …

    I stand on the sand,
    with the song of the ocean
    held to my ear —

    a hushed sound
    as of waves in motion,
    but muffled, far.

    I’m four, I’m eight,
    I’m nearly thirteen,
    beside the sea

    where I watch and wait
    for the tide to turn
    and rush to me.

    But the white shell
    next to my face
    sings me back in

    with a tidal pull
    to this present place …
    where lost girls drown.

  33. shellcook

    For Cheryl

    Scissors

    Rock paper scissors
    a child’s game is played.
    Scissors cut paper
    when the cutting of the written word
    isn’t enough to stall the debts we receive in the mail,
    where paper certainly then
    undoes both rock and scissor.

    Hair cut,
    Cutting ties,
    Tying up those loose ends,
    Tying the knot,
    Where paper stands the strongest,
    vows cannot be broken with
    rock paper scissors.

    The world of my faithful scissor hand
    does much more than shrear and trim.
    It shapes the lives of all it touches
    with curving taloned bend
    round arching
    slips my fingers through.

    My need to prune the dead
    or nearly yet departed whole,
    to hear the whick whick of lives remade
    when nothing else is clear.

    Rock paper scissors,
    Thats still the game right?
    Who knew when just a child,
    that this is how our lives are hewn,
    from stone to cycle,
    when all is finally said.
    And done…

    Rock paper scissors
    fill up a lfe
    without ever being told
    that is what they are doing.

  34. De Jackson

    Lump

    She’s got a big one in her throat
    and two a little lower, teeny tiny,
    really, just be
    -low her heart. She starts
    each day with a prayer and a sigh,
    tries to do the normal, everyday
    things, wondering
    if they are time
    bombs ticking, or
    a whole lot of nothing
    sticking to her ribs, a
    temporary hiccup waiting
    to be exposed.

    She palms psalms and
    kneels on weak knees,
    breathes in blue sky
    and promises of strength
    and joy and hope. She
    imagines herself bald and
    beautiful and fighting like
    a girl and standing strong,
    but isn’t sure she really be
    -longs in that gorgeous rebel
    crowd. She cries out loud,
    a puddle of herself spilled
    loose; truth be told she’s
    somewhat made of salt.
    She knows He’ll give her all
    she needs, but still she pleads
    for a simpler path
    -ology, with a sheepish
    apology for her lack of true
    and lasting trust.

    She’s thrust for weeks into
    a world she doesn’t know, of
    tests and waiting and waiting
          slooooow
    and questions and fears
    and more tears. But she’s
    prayerful and careful and
    cared for and held,
    all in His perfect time.

    And finally, results: Be

                                       -nign.

    .

    1. TomNeal

      but still she pleads
      for a simpler path
      -ology, with a sheepish
      apology for her lack of true
      and lasting trust.

      But she’s
      prayerful and careful and
      cared for and held,

      There are so many good lines (as above), so many good descriptions (as above), and the narrative is perfectly paced. Well done.

    2. James Von Hendy

      Quite a lovely and breathless ride that captures well the uncertainty and angst of not knowing and waiting. Also wonderful, the apology for lack of true and lasting trust as singled out by Tom, a nice true touch. And I love the ending “Be [yes] . . . nign.”

    3. PressOn

      Once again, your mastery shines. For me, it all is clearest in the ending: the lone bit of word sits there, like a benign lump. The long, thin form accentuates the sweating-it-out process. Just superb.

  35. annell

    Bird’s Nest
    Safety
    Security
    Place of rest
    Hidden
    Up close
    Far away

    What birds do
    Without hands
    In spring
    Gather materials
    Carefully selected
    From far and wide
    Bits and pieces
    Twigs and string
    Make a whole
    Master weaver
    Thing of beauty
    The inside shaped
    By thumping his breast
    Something no man
    Can master

  36. lina

    Into the Sky

    Unlike the roads and
    mile-wide farm plots,
    the horizon in Chancellor, SD,
    is not a straight line.
    It shifts on the yellow wind
    from the ethanol plant
    and bends at the edge
    of the soybean field
    where the coyotes yelp at dusk.
    In winter, the horizon is low
    as the blowing snow,
    pushing cars into ditches,
    taking our breath away.
    When the weaning calves
    cry out in May,
    the horizon lowers still,
    until it is the window frame
    and wood slat walls.
    Some of us won’t ever leave.
    But on Saturday, the blue Ford–
    spray-painted,
    trailing graduation ribbons–
    races down Route 44
    with Meghan at the wheel
    gunning the engine,
    riding the center line
    into the sky. No limits.

  37. Andrea Heiberg

    Anders?

    Darling, I sold our house
    I go to the window and stare outside.
    “Darling, I sold our house.”
    I touch the window.
    You almost killed me once, because I couldn’t keep it steady when you from the outside tried to fit it in.
    “Darling, I sell your wooden constructions. I sell all your staircases. I sell it all. I sell the heavy stove.”
    The heavy stove!
    How did we get it inside?
    You found out!
    “Darling, I sold it, too.”
    Everything will be gone.
    I know
    when whispering:
    “I cannot reach you anymore.”

  38. Jezzie

    HER BLANKET

    Empty.
    You sit draped over her chair,
    still scattered with her hair,
    wondering where she went
    leaving a familiar dent
    still holding her smell.
    I feel like you as well.
    Lonely.

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