Across the page my pen does fly
If, not, why
A pathway straight to and from my . . .
He, she, I
. . . Brain
I tell my story, tell again
First, next, then
Revise and edit with my pen
House, place, den
Written by Stella Hallberg, my granddaughter, who will soon be 11. She and I trade poetry prompts each month. She decided we would start the year with the same word, scheherazade. This is her poem….as she wrote it. No edits by me. It fits beautifully with Bjorn’s prompt for today at dVerse. He asks us to recognize the importance of silence in poetry. Silence can be illustrated with various punctuation, including the ellipsis . . . which Stella uses in her poem. Stella explained to me “The syllable pattern is something I might have made up. I did 8, 3, 8, 3, 1 twice, but at the end I added 5, 4. Do you like it?” Yes, Stella, I do! 🙂
She sifts words.
in and out
over and under.
Languorous sips of coffee
and dawning day
let loose her pen.
Mental acuity ages well
when given time to prance
upon the empty page.
in her narrow galley kitchen,
she planed to outgrow it.
The oversized refrigerator
became her gallery of sorts.
Photos of him taped to the door,
ultimately yanked off in anger
before the catsup was even gone.
New boys appeared and disappeared,
friends she planned to feed into lovers.
Time emptied the tape dispenser.
No boys, just gummy residue.
So she walked in the rain one day
going store to store, on a magnet spree.
Colorful dots. Hearts. Fanciful sayings.
Two bright rainbows.
And one empty royal blue photo frame
she stuck on the far-right upper corner
of the freezer door.
She was, after all, an optimist
through and through.
I’m hosting dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. It’s Tuesday Poetics and I’m asking folks to walk into their kitchen and peruse their refrigerator! Look inside. Look at the outside. What do you see that strikes your imagination that can be a jumping off point for a poem! Describe an object or use it somehow in a poem. Our refrigerator doors have always been a “gallery” of sorts with magnets and photos and sayings. So, looking at ours, I made up a young woman who uses her refrigerator door in somewhat the same way.
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come visit and chill out with us today!
Words tumble round my head
searching for mates to copulate,
birth meaning upon the page.
Sleep eludes me as words deluge me.
May I write, please?
Spackle paper in alphabet hue.
Night remnants. Darkened window pane.
My muse flickers like candles upon the sill,
fickle handmaid of creativity.
If light begets light
perhaps dawn will quicken her step,
drawn to these sputtering flames.
Words slowly seep from pen
cursive dips and curves.
I write tentatively,
then speed the pace
racing to beat the dawn.
And then, I rest.
Words falter, flicker,
like a moist match head
producing sulfuric stench
dropping its ash.
Ideas flit through synapses
dead end at fingertips.
Oh fleeting poetic muse,
thou has forsaken me.
Clouds filter lunar rays,
I am spent.
irridescent gems within my mind,
words shiver flutter, push for prominence.
Ideas flow through synapses
sometimes like scattered leaves
rearranged by sudden gusts.
Poetic musing wrestles reality.
Cacophonous silent noise
atonal at times,
until the coda appears.
Sample the edibles
while sauntering by a vendors’ stall
savor the sour and the sweet
lemon tarts with a marzipan carrot beside
devour her lover’s kisses by night
and wake up to humorous tidbits
and some evenings, dine by candle light
lick beads of moisture
from her wine glass
while supping alfresco by the sea.
She fancied herself a chef
stirring the pot
and turning up the heat
if it simmered too low.
Written for Margo’s Poem Tryouts, which I recently found thanks to Chalk Hills Journal, a wonderful blog. Margo asked that we find highly-descriptive words relating to a ‘simple’ subject, make a list of those, and then write to those words. I chose the “simple” subject of eating. Photo taken this past summer on the deck in Provincetown….indeed, eating alfresco!
The myth behind the woman loved by many,
richly layered flavors, cultivated to impress.
Miss Popularity, Miss Luther League
years later, a doctor’s wife
mother and choir member too.
Chameleon of many faces.
24 hours. 10 stories.
A runaway drama, no one really knew.
Instability lurked behind her masks
until the show of the week
forever changed her life.
wider than a tidal pool.
Knife in hand, surge of passion
husband prostrate at her feet.
Murdereress. A new role.
shocked by the script.
Prompts from WP Writing 201: faces, found poetry, chiasmus. Found Poetry: scissors and newspaper in hand, cut out words and phrases and arrange them in a poem. Words from THE WEEK, September 18, 2015 edition. Chiasmus: a reversal, an inversion (title to first line).
Winter comes so soon,
red flannel bathrobe mornings
padding through my room.
She was a primary color kind of gal
young at heart, year after year.
Neon chalk streaks adorned her hair
blue moon ice cream colored her tongue.
She wore bright yellow boots to walk in the rain.
Smiley face balloons attached at the wrist,
always her shadow of choice.
Her happy place
was wearing a clown-face red nose
making you laugh, wherever you met
in a car or a train or a bus or a van
or rocking in chairs here at the home.
We missed her after she died.
But the old man now in her room
wakes every day with a smile,
seeing the large crooked rainbow
painted wheel-chair height,
directly across from his bed.