Prompt One
The sky opens its mouth.
Clouds burp out.
I smell raspberries but
my hand avoids your face.
I see persimmons ripening
and the tractor trailer sails through the miasma.
I hear silence and I touch your face
Bernie Sanders flies over Los Angeles and
if I stand on my toes I can just touch his shoe.
I taste soot and see dogs surrounding the tree,
sniffing at its bark.
#Prompt 3 – 2023
Hearts of Stone
Like a pebble commanding the ocean
Seeing her thoughts
Listening to waves and touching the dream
The aroma of possibility fuelled by the taste for solitude
In the sourness of the colour yellow
Lee cries alone upon the shore
Surrounded by a plethora of sun-worshippers
Not really there
The universe is tranquillity
Hot winds
Dreich days
Yellow tornados of fear
Liquified sunshine in hell
The devil quenches the fire
This girl drops to her knees
In a lifetime she is yet to experience
Speaking without sound
Shouting silently in lost whispers
Facere ius (make it right)
The grotesques laugh, “you have no power here …
In this world of chaos”
Hour Three: Babylon
“By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. There on the poplars we hung our harps, for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy. They said, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’ How can we sing our songs of praise while in a strange land? (Psalm 137:1-4)

They gave us a space
At the bottom
Where we can see wider spaces
Circling above us
with vultures
They captured us to cage us
Where we can be their entertainment
And learn “useful skills” for their profit
So we can love them for the benefit
And forget the tortures
Where they can continue to look down
Where they contain us
In this empty space we sit where
no trees shelter the joy we brought with us
We weep because we forgot
What we lost
We weep because we remember
What we no longer sing
Hour 3 – Twenty Little Poetry Projects

“My dream is to become a writer”
Writers are not born professionals,
Their capability to struggle is vital.
“Pen is mightier than sword”,
Like playing with terrific words.
Read between the lines,
Until you turn nine.
There is the chaos in the crowd,
As critics raise their voices aloud.
Reading is to mind,
Like exercise is to the body,
Take lessons in creative writing from somebody.
By hook or crook,
We burn the midnight oil,
As food wrapped in a foil.
Sleepless nights with racing thoughts,
I became a freelance writer,
Without giving a second thought.
It’s just the starting,
As batsman hits six to earn innings.
The world of imagination,
Makes me ponder over,
Like putting up my thinking cap,
To work with dedication.
From amateurish to prolific,
Fluency will come, so be quick.
Competing in contests,
Lifts our spirits,
Don’t worry if you can’t win it.
Mastering the skill,
If there is a will,
There is a way,
So, make hay while the sun shines,
Those worthy write-ups are mine.
Chasing my dream,
Like eating the sweet cream.
Sometimes, up and down,
Don’t spoil your face with a frown.
Achievements will come in handy,
It’s my job and a necessity.
One day, will I be grinning?
Of course, others say you, will achieve success,
Stop counting numbers in excess.
Thank God, for this rare talent,
Will write in the present moment.
(c) Preksha puri 2023.
Too Much of a Good Thing #3
The air clung to my skin, a wet washrag waiting to be wrung out. Grabbing a hand full, I squeezed until liquid filled my bucket, smelling sweetly of new mown hay. It ran down my arms and pooled around my feet. "Ern's Better'n Nair'n, Kris" my granny would say long ago when I complained about lack of something. How to account for too much of a good thing? Water covered the yard. Making it hard to breath deeply. This poem covers the page in messy writing, impossible to transfer to the page. Full of aulasy, I fight on. Water and words covering me, the page still empty. Ahead, I see nothing but more nothing, but I plunge squeezing words into the bucket with a rapidity that startles even me. Pero, ¿a quién le importa? The bucket, tired and full walks off stage, splashing overflow into the already flooded yard. A vivid image? I will be lucky to complete with a limp image, let's try though. The air smells blue overhead. The sun, a round ball of yellow fire, begins to dry the yard. the wet dishrag I didn't have, I toss after the fleeing bucket, making a SPLISH, SPLASH.
Hour Three: 20 line poem
cooking for me is a game of guessing
drop into the pot what you wish, the less you reveal, the tastier it is
sometimes i’m tasting with my stomach cells or my gills
John loves what i cook but America doesn’t
America loves what i cook but John doesn’t
who cares? not me
me
obfuscating the whole business of cooking
i cook therefore i am
who can deny that?
the old women of witchcraft would say
cooking is a balm and a poison
who knows which
American helper (Prompt 3)
Metaphorically speaking
she is a couch potato with
a heart of gold
answering siren song of
heart-tugging
tear-jerking
infomercial paeans to
starving children
abandoned pets
endangered land
forking over credit card
access with every
channel change
racking up enough points
to travel the world
times over
yet never leaving
her living room
therein proving irony
most always stranger
than fiction
even when the facts
don’t get in the way
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
The Smashed Flower (poem 3 )
What’s the story of the smashed flower on the sidewalk
Was it?
Blown off by the wind, or
thrown away in anguish
What’s the story of the smashed flower on the sidewalk
Was it part of a wreath?
Adorning a maiden’s hair and adding to her beauty, or
Providing solace to a devotee being offered to a deity
What’s the story of the smashed flower on the sidewalk
Did it?
Make two hearts meet and lead to a happily ever after, or
Break a heart and lead to a forever unrequited love
What’s the story of the smashed flower on the sidewalk
Did it land here?
As a result of the changing seasons through nature’s course, or
As a victim of manmade changes through unnatural cause
What’s the story of the smashed flower on the sidewalk
Can we?
Ever know the full truth, or
We’ll have to satisfy our curiosities through our assumptions