This Changes Everything

Today’s prompt: “Use the last sentence from the nearest book as the inspiration for the first line of your poem.”

I have a pile of books near me and since many of them are manga volumes (Fruits Basket for the win), I had to do some searching before finding a book with an actual ending sentence. I settled on an unread DisneyPress book called Stealing Starlight, hoping I wouldn’t be too spoiler-alerted. All good, though I am intrigued.


This changes everything

My every rearranged

I can’t fight the feeling

I’m elated, scared, it’s strange

If tomorrow never happens

Then what is this feeling for

As my soul is spun asunder

I know life is meant for more

 

Ghost Writer

Prompted by: “Imagine an invisible ghost picks up a pen and starts writing to you.”


You’re like a ghost, my secret writer

Flame is burning like a lighter

Time goes by, you just get brighter

Now connected with soul fiber

 

I don’t think that you’re a ghost, my friend

Just someone lost in the tesseract bend

I leave out paper and my favorite pen

You write the words that cut my soul again

 

Some how, some way you’ve been caught between

No one could understand the things you mean

I only now do through the words I’ve seen

Through your eloquence, it’s so serene

 

I really think your soul could use some peace

Don’t want you caged and so I call release

One hand of mine does want a missing piece

The smarter me just wants your pain to cease

 

In this crazy-dramatic like a new movie

The pen keeps fluttering as you move through me

Your words they whisper that you need to see

A way back home to where you really should be

 

I’ll bury my head in all the pages

Read all of the words built over ages

To get you home I’ll be outrageous

Just please remember what my name is

 

 

 

 

A COVID Week

It’s April 2020. Tensions are high, prayers are many. It’ll be interesting to look back one day and see the order that finally emerged after this massive disorder.  I’m quite blessed to be able to work from home, and this prompt spoke to me as a way to eloquate how things are going as I work from home during COVID-19.

Prompt: “Write a poem where each line/sentence is about each day of last week”


Monday I slept in until 10 minutes to the clock

Tuesday I woke early, later walked around the block

Wednesday I want takeout but I cook another meal

Thursday I am lonely and I can’t forget the feel

Friday I am sleepy but 8 hours left, oh no

Saturday imagine of the places I would go

Sunday I prepare a mask that I don’t want to wear

Monday drone rolls by again, when can I get some air?

 

 

The Moon

Evening light above
Reflecting but not copied
Muse begins to write


Today’s prompt (so suitable for this particular blog): “Write about an experience in the moonlight.”

There’s No Anger Here At All

Prompted: “Write a poem using sarcasm as a form of illustrating your point.”
– This is kind of homage to the many arguments I’ve witnessed/had in which both parties thought they were in the right simply because they went some sort of an inconvenience.  There is no one to blame, but the frustration is still very real. So, when the story gets told, it sounds like there is someone to blame.


I’d been stranded in the summer heat

Just waiting for your call

But I’m fine, yeah I’m good. There’s no anger here at all.

I couldn’t go to the bathroom

There’s no service through the wall

But I’m fine, yeah I’m good. There’s no anger here at all

Since my battery life was dwindling

I couldn’t risk a another call

But I’m fine, yeah I’m good. There’s no anger here at all

It’s understandable you stopped for hunger

Of course the ice cream had to thaw

But I’m fine, yeah I’m good. There’s no anger here at all

Makes sense the food just didn’t make it here

I mean, I’m starving, but that’s all

But I’m fine, yeah I’m good. There’s no anger here at all

There’s obviously trust here

This isn’t friction, not a brawl

Oh I’m fine, yeah I’m good. There’s no anger here at all

Magic Air

This prompt hit home a little. I’ve been slowly learning guitar and all too often fail to practice. My pretty, blue Epiphone sits quietly as the magic it’s capable of weaving is simply lost to time.  I really should do better.
Prompt: “Base your poem around the plight of a musician who hasn’t picked up the guitar or touched a piano in years.”


Seeing a whisp of magic air

I stopped to ponder whence it came

I follow the draft to my olden muse

Rusty strings glint in the sunlight

Both sad and hopeful

 

I reach out with trembling fingers

Then holding back, I catch fear

 

We once spun light and wonder

How can I best myself?

I cannot hope to be what was

 

Days turned years of glances in yearning, nostalgia

Finally not at all – I realize now I was wrong

 

Even so, surely I am forgiven

My fingers have grown rusty as the strings

Am I responsible for time?

 

I begin to walk away but am caught by magic air

A friend is calling me, do I have the heart to listen?

 

I return and picking up my string-ed wand

My fingers find the resting place they’d forgotten

A curse has been lifted: I’ve remembered my love

When Sleep Lacks

Continuing the #NaPoWriMo festivities!

Today’s prompt: “What ideas and feelings keep you up at night? What’s it like when you have to wake up in the morning on a night you can’t sleep?


These thoughts keep me awake as they buzz about my head

Questioning, turning, wondering if my dreams are dead

Is there more, I want to know, than I’ve been banking for

Is my time and money useless, simply rusting on the floor?

 

Am I burying my talent before it has a chance to bloom

Is there more I should be doing than just laying in this room

At what point is my exhaustion both well-earned and well-deserved?

At what point am I just lazy and avoiding what’s perturbed?

 

Am I wasting time with questions as I ponder and remind

Or do my thoughts abate decisions that would prove far less than kind

Will a future unearth before me, or do I have to go and look

Should I sing or should I paint, should I teach or write a book?

 

I know a share of trades, but a master I am none

Is that because I need some time, or is my chance already done

I know my purpose overall but it views like a fuzzy line

I can’t keep being afraid because it’s wasting all my time

 

Through it all I keep on thinking about the hours wasted by

I don’t function well on lack of sleep, I need a heaping of shut-eye

I’ll awaken the next morning: yawning, rubbing at my eye

I don’t count minutes as I toss, so I can’t tell the time goodbye

 

 

Ever True That You Are More

 

ou, over there, yes you

O ver in a mind of blue;

U nearth that diamond in your rough

gree and know that you’re enough;

R egret will always follow doubt

E ach great has chosen to surmount;

ll that to say I know that you

W ill overcome that wall you grew;

E ach day you chip, though seem far long

S ew threads into your tapestry song;

O h if you’ll but take that step and see

M inute are the flaws you flee;

E ver true that you are more


prompted: “write a poem telling someone they are better than they think they are”

And One Did Not

This church I stand before is mine

Next door, 3 crosses left behind

They hail from an event now passed

But the crosses, they were built to last

 

There they are, wrapped in lights

Not for Christmas, just to light the night

A hayride planned to journey past

It took awhile but the rain did pass

 

As always I parked beside the field

Weeks gone by, the crosses steeled

Standing vigil, or so I thought

One cross… two…. and one did not

 

I’m not sure which wind laid the waste

But mid cross fell upon its face

This was so jarring to behold

As the other, smaller two stood bold

 

I paused, reminded of history

Long past, but still no mystery

An innocent man had drooped far down

As devout sinners, whispering, stood around

It was poetic just to see

That one cross bent low, on its knee

I know the story, believe it true

Savior on the cross for me, for you

 

A pretty story for the spring

But there is sorrow that we sing

That clean cross now on muddy ground

Life keeps going, who looks around?

One person could run and lift it up

Two people and the work be shut

Instead inside the church I go

To teach a story of long ago


Prompted by: “Write a poem about noticing something interesting while passing by a church near your home.”

 

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