This passion surfaces, rushes, boils inside me,
raging against the rocks of my conventionality,
demanding release, commanding my pen –
its voice a roar obstructing constraint –
insatiable creativity.
I should be back soon.
(Today’s prompt is to write a poetic prose in the form of a postcard.)
I stand on the threshold of change
anxiety and depression howling at my side
the shadows of uncertainty elongated
by the fullness of the moon.
She is no guide, this orb-faced
deity, whose countenance
fails to reveal a directive –
and yet, at some primal level
I feel we are aligned,
know that her pull is primal
her presence a reminder
that life is cyclical and
just as the emotional waters
rise, so too will they ease
and her voiceless essence
calls me to still the madness
close my eyes to the distortion of fear
and attune to a calm inner glow –
to trust the light within, and
move noiselessly into the unknown.
(Today’s prompt is to select a tarot card and write about it.)
Shards of light cut around the edges of blinds
puncture the bubble of sleep, my eyes
resist opening, consciousness absent
from body, lying corpse-like
under a mound of blankets –
the furnace failing in the night.
Incessant chirping accosts my ears
not yet ready to respond to birdsong,
brain encased in a cement-block fog,
the mournful coos of a dove more fitting
for this somnambulist state.
Mouth, cotton dry, dreams of that first
honey-sweet sip of hot tea, smells coffee
brewing, the warm, encouraging aroma
of toast, weakly considers the possibility
of moving, but body still bears the weight
of death – refusing to respond.
Minutes will stretch to hours –
these mornings when illness wrestles
me into submission, the harshness
of its reality wrapping me mummy-like,
imprisoned in immobility – sentenced
without crime, trial or jury.
(Today’s prompt challenges us to use all the senses.)
Warning: Â approach with caution.
Despite the overt friendliness of the individual
bearing this warning label, please note that
should you choose to engage her in conversation
the management cannot be responsible for
helping you disengage.
Initiate dialogue at your own risk.
(Today’s challenge: what would your warning label read?)
Let us line our memories
side by side, build a raft
to hold her, let our tears
flow as one, form a river
to carry her, line her way
with echoes of her spirit:
her giving heart, her smile,
a vibrancy imprinted on
our hearts, forever blessed
for having been a part of her.
(Today’s prompt is to write an elegy.)
“What is that?”
a boy, two seats over
echoes my thoughts
“I’ve been wondering that too!”
I blurt, disregarding social protocols.
What are the protocols for people
herded onto a ferry, headed across
open water, seated in close proximity
to neighbours?
“A whale?”
his mother asks, obviously as eager
as I to catch sight of one.
“Not whale behaviour, really –
it hasn’t submerged.”
“Sometimes they roll on the surface.”
I’m not an expert on whales, but doubt it.
“It’s a boat,” the father declares
bursting our bubbles.
A curtain draws between us –
they return to their lunch
and talk of things unrelated to whales.
(Today’s challenge is to incorporate dialogue into our poetry.)
Intensity drops in,
early, before I have a chance
to set the day in order –
puts me on the defensive.
She clings, encourages me
to hold on, her sick creativity
awake with impulsivity –
I am ailing, loyal, compelled
to launder the linens,
desperately trying to find corners
in the circular fitted sheet –
dependent on daily chores.
She wants to talk about feelings –
but I am still numbed from sleep,
from this never-ending illness,
from this perfectionist drive for optimism.
She wants to embrace, hug me
into submission, lecture me on the benefits
of organics and loose-leaf teas, and I am
too busy avoiding her to be grateful.
(My chosen prompt for today’s challenge is “circles can’t have corners”)
A tragic flaw
does not always a hero make.
She thought it did –
despite her beauty,
despite the Zeus’ who pursued her;
she set her sights on the unattainable.
Was it self-degradation or the sting
of a jilted spouse that tarnished her –
either way she lost her voice,
her autonomy shattered.
He tolerated her –
to a point – let her fawn
perversely intrigued,
no doubt flattered,
by her willingness to cloy.
Love was not in his DNA –
he lacked the missing component
so wrapt in his own drama;
he had no empathy –
no capacity for compassion.
Was it Nemesis, or
did they just reap what they’d sewn –
for theirs was a tragedy of Greek proportions –
the more distant he grew
the more she desired him
like a flower, too delicate to grasp
the less she demanded for herself
the less visible she was to him –
meaningless words lost on deaf ears
Sadly, theirs is a common tale –
though mythical in its telling, the patterns
repeat – love continues to elude.
(Pretty sure you can guess today’s prompt. Â Hope you enjoyed.)
Listen up!
My words, like children,
need tending to, codling
I can’t just go all willy nilly and let them run amuck
although
they are liking the idea
and what’s that knocking at my door
strange ideas….
oh, this will never do –
I keep a tight ship here –
order and perfection
those are my mottos
the children are getting out of hand
best banish them to the basement
until they calm down, but wait…
there’s sawdust
and garbage down here
(how could I have been so reckless)
Really, I wasn’t expecting all this commotion
and there’s the door again –
Oh dear! Â Just as I feared –
the church ladies are here
and any moment they’ll
start sermonizing
and I’ll feel guilty
for having
let the children
loose
for
having
entertained
imperfect thoughts
for…
What the hell!
I’m an artist not a babysitter! Â Why am I worrying about judgment from a bunch of prudish old ideas about how poetry should be executed? Â I’m in charge here, right?
Children, gather round
I’ve got some tidbits –
snack-sized morsels of ideas
for us to nibble on –
we need to start a rebellion.
(Today’s challenge is to rebel.)
He drives; I sit
armrests down
blanket secured
seatback reclined.
We are trucker-high
panoramic witnesses
living a transformer life –
retractable walls, 6 wheels
bus-like we navigate
destination discovery
former stagnation distant –
we are nomads, defying roots.
He drives, and I sleep
two old people undertaking
a journey of impermanence
thriving in each given moment.
(Today’s challenge is to write a paragraph describing some aspect of life and then by erasing words to create a poem.)
One Woman's Quest 