Tag Archives: Daily Prompt

Unsolitary Confinement

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Unsolitary Confinement

When I’m walking down the street, my bracelets jingle jangle,
executing dialogues—bangle against bangle.
Calling up to earrings that answer as they dangle,
warning errant necklaces not to twist and strangle.
Every little moving piece—every single spangle
creates a  cacophony that’s more than I can wrangle.
Just a little peace and quiet’s all I hope to wangle
as, thrown into my jewelry box, they’re silenced by the tangle.
They’re driven by their fear that their proximity will mangle
if they even try to move to aim for a new angle.

 

 

The prompt today is jangle.

Word Mill

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DSC08696

Mount Señor Garcia and Lake Chapala from my gazebo

Word Mill

The world I see outside my sill—
the clouds that cover lake and hill,
treetops and vines that seek to fill
every space–both rock and rill,
completing  crevasses until
they’ve rendered empty spaces nil.
These things now serve to fuel my quill.
They are my unguent, band-aid, pill.
They prick my fancy, charge my will.
They level out that long uphill
journey to that final kill
when wan and empty, sore and ill,
I will finally pay life’s bill.

 

The prompt today is quill.

Birds of a Feather

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poem


Birds of a Feather

Tossed about in the storm—the tidepools and the heather.
Cast adrift in the air like a tattered feather.
Blown wherever fate decrees, determined by the weather.
One surrenders all control when they are without tether.
Blown up to the highest points, then dropped to the nether.
Never knowing what comes next. Never knowing whether
somewhere there’s another soul, skin weathered into leather
to furnish some protection once we have flocked together.

The prompt today is tether.

(P)luck

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(P)luck

Those who count on karma to bring about their luck
might do better to depend on industry and pluck.
Carry your ambition ready in its holster,
for things like synchronicity are only meant to bolster.
Get an education, in school and in life.
Knowing what you’re doing can alleviate much strife.
Exercise due caution, but do not let fear stop you.
What you’re meant to stand on is not meant to top you.
Watch out for the blind curves and watch out for loose gravel
as you take the wheel to drive on roads you want to travel.

 

The prompt today is “pluck.”
I’m also using this for Cee’s https://ceenphotography.com/cees-challenges/cees-which-way-challenge/

Prophet

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jdbphoto, painting by Jesus Lopez Vega       

 

Prophet

All the solitary seas that he chose to sail
only took him farther, out beyond the pale.
All truths he discovered, he shared to no avail.
When he tried to hit the mark, why did he always fail?

Call him an outsider. Throw him into jail.
Form the boards into a cross. Hammer in each nail.
Set him adrift to flounder with no scoop or pail.
Let him use his own hands if he needs to bail.

Put him on the pillory. Bring out whip and flail.
Bind him up and gag him lest he tells his tale.
Instead of seeing different truths, it’s best you wear a veil.
No telling if you listened, your own truths might just pale.

Fresh new winds are often perceived as a gale.
Manna sent from heaven to others is just hail.
When you confront that other—messiah or white whale,
get your harpoons ready. You must insure they fail.

Truth-tellers speak so softly that when the bigots rail
it may be that you only hear their shout and wail,
but if you set out to find them over that next dale,
the whole world falls silent when you find their trail.

In the night wind’s keening  or rattle of the quail
or in the ridges of the road, written there in Braille,
you may find the answer the outcast tried to tell.
Grasp those truths you find yourself and live by them as well.

 

The prompt today is sail.

Facing up to Facebook

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Aha, it has arrived—my seventieth birthday.  Pictured is part of the detritus of a party that will not happen. A few days ago, I called off the 70’s Fondue Extravaganza Slumber Party and Games Night that I had planned. At that time, I was so sick with some mysterious intestinal and stomach disorder and I didn’t have the energy to do the last minute preparations—plus I feared I’d still be ill and have to call it off at the last minute. In addition, Yolanda was with her husband in the hospital and I didn’t have her to fall back on as usual.  At any rate, I’m feeling better today and so I’m meeting a few friends for an impromptu comida at a restaurant and chocolate fondue at Blue’s house later, so there will be some celebrating done.  This morning brings the welcome messages from friends on Facebook and I really do appreciate them, but as usual, they, combined with the daily prompt, have brought me to reflection.

I hope no one is offended by the below poem.  It is meant in no way to disparage the very welcome communication with old friends that such a day brings.  On the other hand, I can’t help but reflect on how our world changes and changes and how the cyber networks have not only brought us closer together but made it easier to drift farther apart.  I am as guilty if not guiltier of this than anyone else I know.  This is not an indictment, but rather a pondering over where we’ve been, where we are and where we are going—the sort of pondering one does at the age of 70, and if one is a writer or artist, probably at a much earlier age as well:

Facing up to Facebook

Facebook quips and tweets with hashes
have replaced  the dot dot dashes
of telegrams we used to send
to functions we could not attend:
birthdays and other days once meant
to celebrate with an event.

But now we sit in different places
pretending we’re exchanging faces
when in fact, for many years
our facial contact’s been in arrears.
They might have better renamed “Facebook”
“Those Who Have Vanished Without a Tracebook.”

It does not bring us face-to-face.
That is simply not the case.
Rather, it keeps us more alone
than even talking on the phone.
Old friend, it’s good to hear from you.
I know, there’s nothing more to do.

I’m just as guilty of it as you.
It’s what the whole world’s come to do.
We’ve simply moved too far apart
except in memory and heart.
It’s the new age’s way of seeing—
avoiding closer you and meing.

The prompt today was dash.

Kitten Agenda

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Kitten Agenda

Skittering upward,
Climbing my cape,
An agile kitten
Makes her escape.
Prancing the hallway,
Evading my grasp,
Rattling the padlock to
Swing on its hasp.

Scampering everywhere,
Chasing small bugs.
Acrobat tunneling,
Mounding the rugs.
Purring rapscallion
Explores with no map.
Rests at her day’s end
Secure in my lap.

The prompt today is scamper.

Snackless

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I won’t go into details, but the last thing I wanted to think about today was snacking. Up all night, sick most of the day, finally slept in the afternoon.  Feeling better but still not up to snacking so I had a look at past blogs and came up with this:

Refresh Me

If you hope to make conjunction
with me at your little function,
serve potato chips with dip
and also, I’d appreciate a sip
of Diet Coke or Seven Up
in a waxy paper cup.

No one likes a fete that lacks
sweet or salty little snacks.
Pizza, nachos and popcorn, too,
are appropriate things to chew.
Leave caviar to lords and kings.
I’d much rather have onion rings.

Refreshments are an absolute must.
Without them, parties are a bust.
And any date becomes an upper
when it includes a little supper.
So if you wish to win my heart,
my stomach is the place to start.

The prompt today was snack.

Magnet

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I suppose it is the light that is the magnet drawing insects to my screen when I write late at night, but sometimes it seems like an electromagnetic force.  These insects do not flutter, but glue themselves to the screen. That force was active on the night described in this poem.

 

The prompt today is magnet.

Wheel

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The prompt word today reminded me of this poem I wrote three years ago, and since my sister professed it to be one of her favorites, I’m going to post it again:

IMG_1976In case you think peddlers on wheels are a thing of the past, here’s a photo I took in March, 2017 in La Manzanilla, Mexico.

Wish Wagon

Hear the clanging pots, the squeaky wheels?
Over the rise comes the peddler’s cart––
horse with head down, pulling the load,
the jolly man just dangling the whip over her flanks.

Pitchers, fry pans, mops and brooms,
a doll for sis and kites for the boys
who run to greet this week’s happening,
hoping that Pa has spare bills in his wallet this time.

Now hear the “Whoa, Nell!” and see Zeke, the peddler,
swing his bent frame down from his high perch,
Ma drying her hands as she emerges from the kitchen door,
sis attached to her skirts, shy but drawn irresistibly from safety

to see the wonders that the peddler draws from his wagon:
penny candies by the jar and safety pins.
Needles, spoons and dime novels.
Cloth for Ma of calico and new boots for Pa.

Rag rugs made by Ma and traded for a bucket
and a wash pan his last trip here
that haven’t sold and so he won’t need more.
Jangly bracelets like the city women wear.

Her brief laugh scoffs at them.
The very idea. But one finger runs them round
before it draws away. And in her eyes
there is a wistfulness we will not see again

for thirty more years, until another wagon
crests the hill and drives away with her,
that look again frozen on her face
for eternity.

The prompt word today was wheel.