Writing
Writing
that’s what i do
five days a week for sure
i write to share my wisdom deep
or what i think is at least deep to me
my audience tells me often
when i am right, when i am wrong
their opinion that is
they are allowed
Writing
TWENTY-FOUR
Got nothing else
I’m not gonna lie
I kinda feel
Like I might die.
But what a great night!
What a challenge it was!
To do all that work,
Just because.
I loved all the posts
That came in through the night.
Everyone encouraging each other
To keep up the fight.
I laughed so much
At the things we had in common
I appreciate every shared word,
Now I guess I’ll go make some ramen.
See? I’m so done
Sleep well everyone!
Thank you for letting me in.
Childhood
Simon says
red light green light
hand games
bike riding and
rollerskating
honey flowers
vacant houses
double dutch
jacks and marbles
bolo bats
and dance routines
were how we spent our summers
no road trips cause Mama was scared of doing things involving travel by herself
we played until night
we ate tv dinners
tony pizzas
chicken pot pies
shared tv’s
watched tales from the crypt
in living color
married with children
and 90210
summers were long
life seemed longer
time seemed to spread like wings
there was so much to do
so much to see
we were comfortable in being kids
full of wonder
we kept ourselves busy
in fun
Sunrise (poetry in motion )
I am awake,
As I sip my coffee, with hope.
I watch as the sun rises, and shines through my window, making everything look so bright.
I can see everything through new eyes in the Light, the light of dawn.
Bringing warmth along the way.
As I stand at my window, coffee cup in hand.
I watch the sun rise in admiration for the fact that it is a universal confirmation, that the divine knows what it does.
I take another sip of my coffee, as a small peace of the puzzle fits together in this light.
As my spirit lifts and becomes bright ~
Watching the sunrise, for me never grows old.
The dawning of a bright new day, there is no other way ~
To express the way the universal balance has it’s cosmic display.
No matter what human kind says or does, the Sun will always rise ~
To give it’s brilliance, with another dawn,
Another beginning ~
A new mourn ~
To lift ours spirits, to open another door, along our way of existence…
C. Burgess (c)
Prompt 29, Hour 24: Five Steps To My MatchBox Town.
Prompt 29, Hour 24: Four Steps To My MatchBox Village.
First step:
Have teenage brothers purchase cars.
Have all go out and play.
Each matchbox car is magical.
So let it seems that way.
Second step:
Be as young as six years old;
Think cities made of mud.
Let childhood genius take its hold;
Recede Snake River’s flood.
Third step::
Skirt around wet fields of grain—
A boon from irrigation.
Small city streets— checkered terrain,
Form by imagination.
Fourth step:
Form Adam’s houses out of wet clay—
schools, businesses, and churches.
Wait for the sun to bake them dry;
daydreams on flowing ditches.
Fifth Step:
Time travel back to innocence.
Bring along your children.
Find they’ll travel other ways;
Their own worlds to pilgrim.
Choices
Sometimes in life
When you are sure about a decision
When you think you know best
You make mistakes
You choose wrong
You become blind
Not every time your heart is right
Sometimes the choices you make
Are wrong
And life wrecking
Unchangeable
Be careful of those Choices!
cross your arms, kiss your elbows
Cross Your Arms, Kiss Your Elbows
Virginia Carraway Stark
If you don’t give it a name
It never belongs to you
And you never belong to it
It’s a sort of magic
That makes you feel safe
As safe as safe can be
If when you were a baby
And your mother crossed her arms
Above your cradle
Kissed each of your elbows
And your knees too
And promised
That every day you’d be safe
And you’d never be lost
You’d never have a problem
Finding a name for everything
And everything a name
And what a happy little baby
You would be
If your mother had only
Crossed her arms
Kissed your elbows and your knees
And told you
What a good life
You would have
Banking
A lock of hair finds its way into my mouth
My shadow skips along
I walk unencumbered
The tiny flame in my heart burning bright
Kindled with painstaking care
May it glow forevermore
Casting its light on you and I
For I am banking on you
My devil, my light.
Your Anecdotes are My Memories
I.
“Remember when…?” Can’t say I do
I remember instead the stories you tell.
And I’m sure your stories are quite true
“Remember when…?” Can’t say I do.
I’m full of holes, events slip through
But stories sometimes stick quite well.
“Remember when…?” Can’t say I do
I remember instead the stories you tell.
II.
Tales of me in school, I learn and grow
But never quite best in show
Just that bit too slow,
Like… you know.
Sheep
Tales of teen years, not much in there though
That’s when M.E. laid me low
Just that bit too slow,
Like… you know.
Sleep
Tales of my youth, fare to and fro
Keen to be doing, but no
Just that bit too slow,
Like… you know.
Weap
III.
Then come the lost years
The tales you can’t tell,
For you were not here –
Or I was not there
Which is the same thing
For our purposes.
Without my Boswell
I cannot recall
How I passed that time
Only that time passed
And now I make an
Effort to catch it.
My memories are yours
Please tell them to me
And maybe this time
I will remember.
Forms used:
I. = Triolet
II. = Triquint
Prompt: Write a poem about your childhood. Ideally this poem should contain between 1 and 5 numbered sections.
5.Self-Doubt
Doubt has swallowed me whole.
Stole my desire and even a tried to capture part of my soul .
I get lost in his hold, lost in its grip and each month I become a captive bought and sold to the highest bidder .
Weakness brought on with her sadness and regret .
Allowing another beautiful day to slip by unable to harness the pure energy from within.
I am a prisoner in my own body.
Pain is my bondsman and for half the month I see no end in sight.
Past hurts, unfinished work, I am not to be crossed, even I dare not try to rock my own boat.
I can ban all food fast away, yet the hurt will not quell the pain.
No physical pain out does the mental anguish that remains.
It’s all the same.
Some months are physical and others it’s all in my mood.
All rights reserved copyright (c) 2019 Natasha Vanover