Tag Archives: poem about writing

Everything


Everything

After all the rushing, the extremes and the thrills,
After all the ups and downs, declivities and hills,
I’ve shot enough wild rivers, forded my last rill.
I do not mind the still life, that cup that I must fill.

Ghosts need not be ghouls, I’ve found, except at Halloween.
In dreams and poems they visit me, recalling where I’ve been.
Temporary comfort are what they provide at best,
promoting hopeful hunches that death is just a rest.

Does another life exist somewhere beyond the mound,
and will its joys exceed the present comfort that I’ve found?
No past love gives an answer, so I wrap my queries up
and abandon pen and daydreams to stir my brimming cup.

 

Prompt words today are still, extreme, ghoul, declivity and brief.

I think I have finally lost it. I woke up this morning, picked up my computer from the headboard shelf in my bed, and found the beginning stanza of this poem. I worked for an hour or more completing it, posted it, then posted it to Facebook, but when I did, I found another poem entitled “At 74,” that had the same illustration and opening line and several comments and likes, but when I tried to open it, it said it was no longer available!  It was not in Trash or Drafts on my blog, but people had commented and “Liked” it, so it must have been published. I am totally clueless as to what happened. A case of the entire world having deja vu? The only thing I can think of is that an old version of “At 74” was on my second computer and when I picked it up and finished it, it erased the old version which had been posted on my other computer. And the old version vanished forever. I have no idea what it was, but to all of you that liked and commented on it, thanks for reading. Does anyone remember how it differed from this version, other than by name? Can senility be far behind?

So, the mystery continues.In yesterday’s drafts,  Forgottenman found the previously published poem with the same beginning stanza but a different second stanza!  I rust republished it, but it went back to a yesterday posting.  If you want to see it, HERE it is. To avoid confusion, I changed the photo, which was the same as this one. Ha. How  futile is that–trying to avoid confusion at this late date? It must be my fault but I can’t for the life of me figure out how this happened.

Weird Little Doomsday Poem

Weird Little Doomsday Poem

This window is my namesake if you take out the “n.”
Although I must admit it is just where I begin. 
If you conduct an interview to cull me from the throng
and ask me what one item I would take along
to insure my survival if doomsday were to come,
to bolster my intent to live and pain of loss to numb,
it wouldn’t be a photo of any person past.
The only item that insures that I would want to last
is simply pen and paper, for I still insist
that this is where the future will continue to exist.

Strange where these prompts may lead you if you just get out of their way, and I admit readily that this one is very strange. It was written in about 5 minutes. It took longer to find the photo in my iPhotos file!! Prompts for today are window, namesake, interview, throng and item.

Special Delivery

Special Delivery

Fetch the doctor and bring him home.
I’m giving birth to a new poem.
If he gives you the runaround,
I guess I’ll be hospital-bound,
for I’ve got fever, cramps and chills
that can’t be cured by any pills.

I’m falling into a big pit
and I can’t get rid of it.
The lacuna waits for me.
It is the well of poetry
that I’ll fall into if no saint
comes to rid me of the taint
of words that rhyme or words that don’t.
 I fear that if the doctor won’t,
surely I’ll be ripped apart
by narratives that must depart.

They’ve been gestating so long
that I fear something will go wrong.
So call the doctor. Tell the fellow
that my fingers have gone yellow
from the words that can’t get out.
I’m getting rheumatism, gout.

I’ve got a mass within my heart
and I don’t know how best to start
to free the words that must be born—
that from my body must be torn.
Womb and brain and heart and spleen
stuffed full but yearning to be lean.

Emptied of words, stripped to the core,

then I”ll have room to sprout some more.
For though I grow the poems right well
and have fine stories I can tell—
although I’m bursting with the stuff,
I know that words are not enough.
For years they have been telling me

it’s all in the delivery.

 

 

Prompt words are fetch, runaround, chills, yellow and lacuna.
Photo by Freestocks on Unsplash.

“Dear Self” for NaPoWriMo 2021, Day 11, Plus Daily Prompts,

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Dear Self: The Query

I’ve written all the words. That is the easy part.
But why can I not  finish the projects that I start?
Four books that I have finished languish on the shelf.
I cannot follow through with them. I cannot help myself!
A letter to an agent, a query or request,
someone to pursue the task, perhaps, at my behest?
It just seems impossible to do what I must do.
I haven’t the ability to simply follow through.
I need a deus ex machina to simplify my task.
A simple intervention. Is it too much to ask?

 

Dear Self: The Reply

Jettison your worry. Throw away your fear.
Regain your former confidence. Shift to a higher gear.
Every rigorous journey requires a last step.

Why would you avoid it when you’ve done all the prep?
I think that fear of failure is your fatal flaw.
Those who seek lionization must face the lion’s maw.
Time’s persistent pendulum repeats its past percussions.
Those who overlook them will suffer repercussions.
“Done begins with do,” is the most memorable of morals.
You succeed by finishing, not resting on your laurels.

 

Ironically, “Done Begins with Do” was my class motto when I graduated from high school.

Prompts today are: confidence, jettison, memorable, percuss and repeat.
And also, the prompt  for NaPoWriMo today was to write a letter and a reply. for the

 

The Wordsmith’s Divulgence

The Wordsmith’s Divulgence

My story is a flamfoo, ornamented too excessively.
I always overdo it. I’m over-endowed expressively.

Why use one word with two in mind? I fear I’m never spartan.
Instead of wearing loincloths, my poems are dressed in tartan!

Instead of coming one-by-one, my thoughts come in a storm.
So many little busy bees, descending in a swarm.

I do not have the patience to select them one-by one.
When I seek to edify, I simply find it fun

to pile on word after word. The more the merrier.
Bald truth is not my forte. I prefer my grand thoughts hairier!

 

 

Prompt words today are patience, wordsmith, flamfoo, edify and storm. A flamfoo, by the way, is a gaudily overdressed woman or an ornament of her dress.

Over Head

Over Head

Lying in the hammock, searching for my words,
I come up with nothing, so I consult the birds.
They lift up off my trees to circle in a ring
as though they’re reconnoitering every single thing.

Swooping to partake of swirling clouds of  gnats,
eying all my fruit trees, teasing both the cats,
who, crouched up on the roof, dream culinary wishes—
far above their heads, those tiny feathered fishes

far out of their reach, but so mesmerizing that 
they far exceed temptation of squirrel or of rat.
Cats find bird movements insolent, drifting high up there.
Such an outrê thing to do, floating in the air!

Prompt words today are consult, insolent, outré and reconnoiter.

Stories Told by Silence

Stories Told by Silence

Silence has a language unique to every ear.
Anyone can hear it if they choose to hear.
Do you listen to your silences? The various tales they tell?
I’ve listened to them my whole life. I know them very well.
Their insistent voices burrow through my thoughts,
trail their separate stories and tie them into knots.

Some seek out yarns in chaos: carnivals and bars,
rodeos and festivals, parades and speeding cars.
But there’s drama in the silence as it gathers round—
stories waiting patiently for you to hear the sound
of voices in the quiet. Hush now. Do you hear?
They’ll settle on your shoulder and whisper in your ear.

Silence owns no copyrights. It’s there for you to steal.
Unsort its separate strands and then spin them on your wheel.
The fiber of your silence can be woven into tomes.
Weave them into novels, storybooks and poems.
Stories are out there waiting. Hush and you might hear them.

Reach out and grab one for yourself when you venture near them.

 

Prompt words today are silence, tell and insistent.

Tsk, Tsk!!!!

Tsk, Tsk!!!

Though I applaud your intellect, your word-usage and clarity,
I’m taking steps to deal with your outlandish temerity.
Since I sincerely hold that obscure words should be panned,
hereby, I proclaim that such smug words will be banned.
So words like “impignorate”—found in no sane vocabulary
hereafter will be turned in to the lexicon constabulary!

Word prompts today are steps, temerity, impignorate and  proclaim

Failure to Launch

Click on Photos to Enlarge.

Failure to Launch

When it comes to doing tasks promotional or clerical,
I find that I’m becoming increasingly hysterical.
It’s tough for me to concentrate. I would rather plot
the next word of a poem. A promoter I am not.

I find that my mind wanders when it comes to drafting
queries and proposals. I prefer to spend time crafting
poems, books or stories; but I find it tough
after creative efforts, doing that extra stuff
to place them or to sell them. Though I do not mind the working, 
when it comes to the rest of it, I simply end up shirking.

Words pile up around me. My file drawers burst apart,
for when it comes to their dispersal, I find I’m weak of heart.
It’s not that I am hoarding words. I’d gladly send them out
into the world to find their place. That’s not what it’s about.

The fact that such acts bore me is a fact that’s inescapable.
I’d like to hand them over to a person who’s more capable.
I delight in going inwards and seeing what is there, 
then putting it on paper for everyone to share.

It would be an equal triumph, I have not a single doubt,

if I could find a person I could pay to send it out;
but, alas, I’ve found a new way in which I am resistant,
as I keep putting off locating an assistant!

Word prompts today are tough, hysterical, capable and triumph.

Early Morning Ecstasy

 


Early Morning Ecstasy

That surge of elation when I awaken
is because the next hours have not yet been taken.
No obligations, no duties or meetings.
I can follow my heart—pay heed to its beatings.
I follow my thoughts wherever they please.
I milk them for meaning, fingers on the keys.
Does my mind correlate with the sound of the birds,
Or are the birds harmonizing with my words?
The climate is perfect right here in my head,
computer on stomach, stretched out on my bed.

 

 

The word prompts for today are: ElationAwakenClimateCorrelate and milk.