Tag Archives: Esther’s Writing Prompts

“Breaking Her Diet” for Esther’s Writing Prompt

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Breaking Her Diet

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Breaking Her Diet

I measure her cat food with care from the vat,
but she has such an aptitude, my little cat,
for flushing out lizards and others like that.
With delicate paw thrusts, she gives them a bat
’til they barely know where it is that they’re at,
then unleashes her claws for a more severe pat.

Be it lizard or bird or scorpion or rat,
she defeats it as though it were merely a gnat
and lays it out nicely on my front door mat:
one scorpion sting less or a feather for my hat,
then returns to the stool where she formerly sat,
licking her chops, and that’s why she’s so fat!!!

Esther’s Writing Prompt this week is “Break.” Nope, I’m not condoning such behavior…especially in regards to birds. Breaks my heart. The scorpions I can put up with, so long as she’s careful and doesn’t get stung.

Many Me’s

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Many Me’s

If I should have to paint a picture of my present mood,
I’d be walking down a staircase, unfortunately nude—
My many selves preceding me and coming fast behind—
for there would be not one of me, but many of my kind.
This scene is a mere copy of Duchamp’s solution to
a person who perhaps has found she has too much to do.

My list of tasks is growing, though I’ve dealt with one or two;
but how I’ll deal with everything, I fear I have no clue.
And so I guess my canvas style would simply have to be
like Marcel’s (though not cubist, still with more than one of me.)
That way I’d send off each of me to do what must be done.
They’d do all my labor while I went to have some fun.

While self 1 wrote my daily prompt and self 2 cleaned my shelves,
I’d go out to the water park with all my other selves.
We’d climb up all the ladders and slide down all the slides
and play a game of tug-rope where I would be both sides!
We’d go out to the ice cream place and have a cone or three
and they’d get all the calories with none assigned to me!

We’d take my bad dogs for a walk and I would be so free.
Two other me’s would hold the leashes, not the actual me.
I’d loll here in my hot tub, swing in my hammock, too,
while selves from 1 to 9 would do all that I have to do.
They’d figure out my airfryer instructions (all in Spanish.)
They’d sort out all my photographs and clean my loo with Vanish.

Agreeable to every task, they’d never mention “can’t.”
They’ll pick off all the yellow leaves from every drying plant.
They’ll organize my studio that is a horrid mess.
(It’s been that way for many months—a fact I must confess.)
They’d sort out all my closets and organize my drawers,
then go into my Filofax and sort out all the bores.

They’d shape my canned goods into rows—sorted from “A” to “Z.”
which makes it difficult for them, but easier for me.
And though my other selves keep warm from their activity,
my idleness seems not to create any warmth for me.
So although I like my colors and my brush strokes strong and bold,
I wish I’d put some clothes on us, ‘cause I am getting cold!!

Esther’s Writing Prompt this week is: Mood. (Obviously, mine is a silly one.)

Everything is in the Shape of a Bird, a Fish or a Woman

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Everything is in the Shape of a Bird, a Fish or a Woman

Look how they frown in the old photograph:
my grandmother, her sister,
her two daughters and her granddaughter.   
All of the women are very stern.
Grandma looks out of her element,
her eyes shielded against the sun.

In the yellowing photo,
“Taken at homestead” written on the back,
They stand, stark house behind them.
From the porch overhang, a sparse vine hangs,
but on the hidden tendril of the vine,
in the dead tan prairie that surrounds the scene,
in the summer grass bent low, I imagine birds.

It is a drying photo—brittle, cracked,
of three generations of prairie women.
Although none there knew it,
a waterhole is in their near future,
and in this stock pond that my dad would someday dig,
would swim perch and crappies,
sunfish, northern pike.

And although none there will ever see it,
in my house, everything is in the shape of a bird, a fish or a woman.
On the wall hangs an earthy goddess–
stolid and substantial. 
Birds perch on her shoulder, arm and knee.
On the hearth, a crow formed out of chicken wire.

A soapstone fish swims the window ledge
beside that aging photograph
and on another window ledge
 are two ancient terra cotta figurines.
The small one kneels in her kimono, playing pipes.
The large one stands wide-hipped
with arms narrowing to points
above the elbow.

In my studio,
a still-damp terra cotta figure
holds a fat plum.
On drying canvasses,
Women recline in their vulnerable states–
layers of wet flesh tones, yellows, purplish reds.

The house in the photograph
has been long-felled by rot and fire and rust.
All of the people shown here are now dead.
Yet still in the grass, the meadowlark.
and in the muddy pond the minnow.

In the glass of the photo frame, I see my own reflection–
thinning lips pulled into one straight line.
around me is their house, their sky, their prairie grass.
In the glass, my face
turns into the face of my grandmother.
I flinch but do not falter.
I look deeper.
Reflected in one eye, a perched bird.
in the other eye, a swimming fish.

Esther’s Writing Prompt this week is :Shapes.

The Red High Heels, For Writing Prompts, Jan 14, 2026

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The Red High Heels

When I saw them in the store,
one half classy and one half whore,
the Crocs I had on seemed a bore.
Those heels were strappy, cut low, red.
I knew those heels would knock men dead.

As I left the store in them,
I was feeling oh so femme
until one shoe caught on my hem.
‘Twas then that I went tumbling down,
wrenched my ankle and tore my gown.

This fall was just a quirk, I thought,
with no regrets for what I’d bought,
for I was feeling oh so hot
that men would surely all be gawking.
I’d be more careful with my walking.

In Mexico, young girls or crones
go tripping over cobblestones
with no risk to their ankle bones.
Moving with sure-footed grace,
they never fall upon their face.

They chat as they cross streets together
even in inclement weather––
Their four-inch heels of strappy leather
negotiate each slippery rock,
barely noticing where they walk.

So I just got up from the floor
and sauntered once more towards the door
onto the street outside the store.
Where, once I got into the swing
I knew those shoes were just the thing.

My car was just one block away
but it was such a lovely day,
I thought that I would just sashay
up to the plaza for lunch and booze––
a trial run for my new shoes!

I belted up my dress a bit
so I would not trip over it.
Once more I felt sexy and fit
as I accomplished no small feat
negotiating each walk and street.

I must admit that I felt hobbled
as I walked over roadways cobbled.
Perhaps I grimaced, winced and wobbled.
But at the time, I was enthused––
thinking only of my new shoes.

When I reached the plaza and I walked by
a table of men, I felt each eye
peruse my legs from toe to thigh.
I knew that those new shoes were why
I held the gaze of every guy.

Maneuvering towards an empty table,
I walked as well as I was able,
but overlooked just one small cable
as I glanced over for their reaction.
That’s how I ended up in traction!

 

 

For Writing Prompts, the prompt is “Red.” Image by Kira Severinova on Unsplash

“Vitiligo” for Esther’s Writing Prompts

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Vitiligo*

Mighty sol’s ubiquitous in regions that are tropical,
but when it comes to sunlight, I have news that is more topical.
I’m evidence empirical that all folks aren’t created
to lie out in the sun’s rays until their lust is sated
for skin transposed to honey brown from a whitish hue.
For folks like me, such practices simply will not do.

Unlike my lucky college chums, my best friends and my sister,
when I’m exposed to sunlight, I am more prone to blister.
I see them put their swimsuits on and take turns rubbing oil on,
anxious to go greet the sun to get their bake and boil on,
but once they’re spread out on their towels with all adjustments made,
I’ll be covered up instead, sitting in the shade.

*Vitiligo is a chronic autoimmune disorder that causes patches of skin to lose pigment or color. This happens when melanocytes – skin cells that make pigment – are attacked and destroyed, causing the skin to turn a milky-white color. People with vitiligo have no natural protection from the sun.

The prompt for Esther’s Writing Prompts this week is “Shade.”

“Elements of Story” for Esther’s Writing Prompts, Sept 3, 2025

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Elements of Story

Each myth, legend or fairytale
from “once upon” to “fare thee well”
shares some elements of story
be they sad, uplifting, gory.

Always a damsel in some distress—
Rumplestiltskin’s name to guess,
for straw once spun out into gold,
or another story to be told.

Too much sleep may be her curse,
ugly stepsisters, or worse.
Murder, treason, sloth and pox
were emptied from Pandora’s box.

These troubles spread from near to far,
(although, in fact, it was a jar.)
Zeus forgave Pandora’s shame
and the imp revealed his own strange name.

But the other women described above
were saved by cleverness or love.
Scheherazade escaped the hearse
with stories, legends, tales and verse.

Cinderella rose from hearth and ashes
and Sleeping Beauty opened lashes­­––
both maids saved by daring-do:
one by a kiss, one by a shoe.

So whatever might have been their fate:
loss of child or murderous mate,
wipe tears and fears away with laughter.
They all lived happily ever after.

Elements is the prompt for Esther’s Writing Prompts for Sept. 3

Sealed Windows

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Sealed Windows

A progressive woman is something that she’s not.
Way back in the fifties she’s permanently caught.
Travel to new countries? Definitely no.
She won’t let other countries profit from her dough!

She has no curiosity about the human race.
Her interest in humanity ends in her own face.
She sits before her mirror like a window to the world.
Is her lipstick even—her hair correctly curled?

Bravery to her is answering the door.
She walks out to her mailbox, but further? No. No more.
She boils all her bed linen, lest creatures linger there
to creep onto her body and nest within her hair.

All the wounds her life will bear long ago were healed.
She’s a preserved specimen of life, hermetically sealed.
She’ll face no other heartache, no risks of being hurt.
She will not chance a world of germs, bacteria and dirt.

Cats are unhygienic and dogs an equal threat.
A goldfish in a bowl is her single lonely pet.
No companion goldfish to fill its tiny bowl.
Its full attention trained on her seems to be her goal.

All those tight-sealed windows with their draperies pulled tight.
All those single bedside bulbs burning through the night.
Behind each building’s blinded eyes, how many just like her—
sealed inside a bell jar, safe from the world’s rude whirr?

Esther’s Weekly Writing Prompt is “Window.”

Deep Voice for Esther’s Writing Prompts 76

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Deep Voice

I am being visited by words.
Some come from the world
immediately around me.
Travel, experience.

Some come from my grandmother.
I listen to their shadows.
The voice of my mother
echoes from the center of our house.

Poems of the body,
where do you come from?
Books,
Sunday School
and Saturday night movies,
all equally determining
my voice.

Some fade away
but remain backseat drivers
as one after another takes control.
Nothing ever lost.

The Writing Prompts prompt this week is “Voice.”

“Sign of the Chameleon,” for Esther’s Writing Prompts, June 25, 2025

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I can’t resist reblogging this blog that I wrote 11 years ago and because I liked the comments as much as the blog, I’m reblogging them, too. This reblog is published for Esther’s Writing Prompts because this week’s prompt is ‘Signs.” If you want to publish your own response to her prompt, a link to it is given at the end of this post. Thanks, Esther.

Sign of the Chameleon

For Esther’s Writing Prompts, the prompt word is “Sign.”

“Outside” for Esther’s Writing Prompt

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Painting Outside the Lines

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Painting Outside the Lines

Our lives are made, by end of day
with rules we choose to disobey—
those pathways we choose to walk down
to find a different part of town.
Strange roads to new territory
that make the ending of our story
one unplanned, our life replotted.
All carefully scribed plans now blotted
out, with new ones wildly scribbled
in new colors brash and ribald—
breaking rules carefully set
for new patterns you won’t regret,
making our lives messier,
more “maybe” and less “yessier.”
Every rigid rule undone
might simply make our lives more fun.

 

For Esther’s Writing Prompt: Outside