Tag Archives: poem about writing

Compositionally Befuddled

14 Replies

Compositionally Befuddled

I’m not the beneficiary of your gift for words.
My acumen for spinning tales is simply for the birds.
When I type, the words roll out but they’re not all right.
Then the need to sort them out ends up as my plight.

I need a thesaurus for the simplest of statements.
I ask for enlargements when I really seek abatements.
I chafe under the rub of words, waiting for a rebuke.
Although I want a kumquat, I wind up with a cuke.

I could use some help most days when choosing words to keep.
Sometimes I have nightmares rifling through words in my sleep.
So when I err, be kind my friends, for I fear it’s true
that I have scant facility for what I choose to do!!!

 

Prompt words today are keep, type, rebuke, chafe, beneficiary and thesaurus.

Nomenclaturation

11 Replies

(Dreaming up Words)

Nomenclaturation

The wind like floss, the air like silk,
saxophone music flows like milk.
Hecklers may insult my words,
saying that they are absurd,
and as my life draws near its gloaming,
I admit, attention’s roaming.
Yet I stand by the discrimination
of my nomenclaturation.


I sit in my chair and dream
as words flow by me in a dream.
I reach out for word after word,
selecting some that are absurd,
and when I find they do not rhyme,
I make up words time after time.
The practice didn’t start with me.
How do you think words came to be????

Prompts today are saxophone, heckler, discrimination, gloam, chair and silk.

Plethora

12 Replies

Plethora

If I had any gumption, I’d attack that backlog of
poems that I have written about life and death and love.
Fantastic in their numbers, those poems exist in piles,
bound in three-ring binders and squeezed into hanging files.

Thy cluster in my consciousness, swim nightly through each dream.
They are both strength and weakness as they stretch out, ream on ream.
They allow me no real leisure, for they’re everywhere I look,
begging for confinement in a magazine or book.
They crave to be collected between front and back cover,
but in spite of resolutions, I  simply write another.

This poem and these photos are  no exaggeration. I have 13 file cabinet drawers plus one big bin and a few piles, binders and stacks that contain poems and stories I’ve run off, or ideas for new ones.  I have no idea now many poems I have in my blog and computer that I’ve never run off. 

Prompt words today are fantastic, weakness, backlog, gumption, allow and cluster.

Obstruction of Poetry (The Wandering Muse)

5 Replies

Obstruction of Poetry
(The Wandering Muse)

I’ve no wish to obstruct the truth. The fault is purely mine.
The reason why I’m having such a struggle, line by line,
is because my poet muse is taking a vacation,
having lately moved herself to a new location.

She took my genius with her, in spite of friends’ directions
that I should submit her to most vigorous inspections.
In my innocence, I failed, for though I checked her cape,
her briefcase, pockets and her purse, she made her great escape

by smuggling my genius out, displaying her fine wit
by tucking it into a place where I did not find it.
No place could be more obvious, yet I didn’t think to peek
in the place where genius often hides—between the tongue and cheek!

Prompt words are obstruct,  genius, cape, fail, innocent and direct. Image by Natasha Hall on Unsplash.

Word Friendly

12 Replies


Word Friendly
I have a rabid interest in snazzy ways of talking.
Sauntering or loping are more interesting than walking.
Dew is more refined than mere sweat or perspiration.
In short, words are much juicier infused with inspiration.

I isolate my favorite words, then bring them back together,
joining unacquainted words with hyphens as a tether.
I guess that I write poetry as an excuse to use them,
for words become your friends as you’re struggling to fuse them.

(If you’d like an illustration of this type of word-joining,  go HERE.

Prompt words today are guess,  rabid, isolate,  dew and  snazzy,

Poetic License in a Temperate Climate

26 Replies


Poetic License in a Temperate Climate

December’s moved south of the border where it isn’t so icy and cold,
but still of all of the months of the year, it’s the one where the weather’s most bold.

It’s that time of the year where I profit from staying in bed until nine,
my bed being where I feel warmest—snuggled in blankets, supine.

At seven and eight it is silent, each dog still curled in his bed,
as I burrow into my poem of the day, rousting it out of my head.

It finds a new home on my hard drive, thus quelling my need to relate
as all of my creative juices suddenly seem to abate.

As my poetry swells to fruition, I finally stir from my nest
to dress in my toe socks and leggings, my sweater and wooly warm vest.

A poem survives any weather, surrounded by peers on the screen,
but even in temperate countries, December remains the most mean.

By April, I’ll feel warm and toasty and I’ll need a different reason
for staying in bed until nine when it is such a perfectly temperate season.

 

Yes, it’s true. I even wear them in bed!  Prompt words today are December, profit, silent,
quell and home.

After Four Hours Sleep

9 Replies

 

After Four Hours Sleep

Her key quietly turning in a lock three rooms away
rarely meets my consciousness at this time of day.
She must think me a layabout when she arrives at nine
and finds me soundly sleeping, blissfully supine.

The dishes that I washed last night, she places on a shelf
(The ones I didn’t find the time to put away myself.)
She sorts clothes from the hamper, each color in its mound,
and takes them to the laundry room, all without a sound.

What time she arises I’ve never thought to ask,
but before she climbs the hill to this thrice-weekly task,
she has her family duties and the morning meal to fix.
Surely she must start her busy day at least at six.

When finally at nine-thirty she hears me leave my hive,
she must give a prayer of thanks to find I’m still alive.
And though she doesn’t find me to be demanding or haughty,
nonetheless this sleeping-in must seem to her most naughty.

How can she know I lay awake until four hours ago?
She cannot know the truth of it unless I tell her so.
No book will ever tell the tale of how I tossed and turned,
immolating castoff words in midnight oil I burned.

Words can be a blessing when they find a way to sort themselves—
lining up on paper where they’ve learned how to comport themselves,
but making lists of words to use did not bring on sleep.
Instead, I lay with open eyes, my thoughts all in a heap.

And when I finally sorted them, deciding which to reap,
knowing which to throw away and which ones I should keep,
(a wordsmith’s substitution for merely counting sheep)
I closed up my computer and finally fell asleep.

 

Prompt words are layabout, haughty, sure, immolate and book.

Word Witch: Sunday Whirl Wordle 526, Nov 7, 2021

16 Replies

 

Word Witch

Secrets I have kept for years,
known only by my closest peers,
have been exposed again, it seems,
recovered from my deepest dreams.

I blink my eyes. Words come to light.
I tap my toes and they take flight,
perch on the page to paint a scene,
attract more words to go between.

Words meeting words, no more alone,
flesh to flesh and bone to bone,
in a sort of minuet,
mesh with words that they’ve just met.

They are the stuff of darkest night,
a glass that shatters in the light
filled with words that I drink in.
These words reveal where I have been,

and maybe where I’m going to—
word by word and clue by clue,
a sample of what I have hidden
that comes alive when it is bidden.

I quaff some more, this lust for word
and word and word grown most absurd.
A’s and M’s and L’s and Z’s
flow from my lips onto the keys.

Too soon I know that I will wake.
Exposed to light, the glass will break,
the words it holds evaporating,
ones that might have come abating.

Is it witchcraft or illusion?
My soul alone or in collusion?
We cannot know if words it gave us
are what damn us or what save us.

The prompt words are glass, blink, words, alone, paint, eyes, tap, secret, light, years, meeting and sample.

For the Sunday Whirl Wordle 526

 

Everything

7 Replies


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

18 Replies

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.