I am my mother’s daughter
I save glass jars from peppers and peaches
To use throughout the house for holding things
Like buttons, seeds, and leftovers.
I stay up late after the house is quiet
Finishing projects in sewing and words
Away from the darling needy children
And alone with the depths of my thoughts.
When I want to learn something
I read books about astronomy and birds
I know the knowledge will not help me at work
Or at home, but I want to know anyway.
I am my mother’s daughter because
I know there is no harm in knowing about
The world away from my own
Even if I never see it.
Elizabeth N. Love is a resident of Kansas, where the blue sky meets a flat horizon. She holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing from the University of Kansas and writes science fiction as well as poetry. When not writing, she is found chauffeuring two children to activities, cooking homemade meals, and practicing creativity in music, drawing, and needlework. You can learn more about her on her blog, here.
Photo credit: noach-b on deviantart / Design credit: Laura A. Lord
At first the idea was to do something about the weather, but given what the East Coast is possibly facing, maybe something entirely different is more apropos.
Above you have a mystery man. Who is he? He is anyone you want him to be. The only caveat is: he’s got to be a little…well…different. Interesting. It’s your choice in what makes him so unusual. Spin me a story about the faceless man.
Here’s a list of words to get you in the mood. Use three of these, if you please:
This video may help you along:
As with last week, I’ll be tweeting your poetry and sharing among social media sites. If you have any writerly friends who are looking for a prompt, send them my way. There’s no voting, but there is plenty of sharing and support. Let’s grow this community together.
Let us gather those purple passion orbs
(The vineyard is ripe and ready)
We’ll weave the vines and crown ourselves
The leaflets to cover our glory
Let us drench ourselves in precious oils
That our bodies glisten and shine
It is unto Bacchus
We give thanks for the laden vine
As the ancients of classical Greece
Whose myths never grow old
We’ll dance beneath the harvest moon
Beautiful, brazen, bold:
Intoxicated on life are we
Free from all restraints
Living less complexities
Void of any complaints
O’Prunty lives is a small town amongst the rolling hills of West Virginia, USA. Her works have been published by Middle Island Press, with two chapbooks, “Selected Snippets” and “Unfolding Hearts” her credit. Her poem “A Fleeting Moment” appear as in an Anthology of Poetry: “Sketches of the Soul”.She has also been published in a variety of ezines, newspapers and collaborations.
Writing poetry since the tender age of ten, weaving of words has always been her true passion. In the words of the poetess, “life has been my greatest teacher, experience is now my guide”. You can find O’Prunty’s blog here.
Photo credit: Marcello-Paoli on deviantart / Design credit: Laura A. Lord
Today in the U.S. is Martin Luther King Jr. Day. This and the movie Selma had me thinking about the Civil Rights movement and The 1960s. It’s interesting to look back at the past with a discerning eye, thinking about changes, what could have been, what might have been and what did happen. That’s what this prompt will be all about.
This week’s prompt is about taking a snapshot of an event of a bygone era or decade. Write a poem about an event in history (whether historically accurate or fictitious) from the viewpoint of a spectator. It does not have to be about a social justice issue, but something that tells us something about the time period. Example: If you were looking at England in the 1700s, maybe write about the day of a young boy who is a chimney sweep. The viewpoint could be another little boy living in the house getting its chimney cleaning.
Remember, we’re not voting on Fridays anymore, but we do have the linky so we can share our poetry. Please join in, link up your work, read others in the community. This site is meant to form a community of like-minded individuals, and so we should be here to support one another.
When he talked about it
Out of the blue
I listened carefully to his words
The war was decades old
In his mind
And he had stories to tell
Missiles slipped off incoming planes
Scraping across the deck
He leapt out of the way
He cleaned up the messes
When the hull was struck
A man walked into a propeller blade
He cleaned the deck of blood
He only spoke of it one time
Only one time
Elizabeth N. Love is a resident of Kansas, where the blue sky meets a flat horizon. She holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing from the University of Kansas and writes science fiction as well as poetry. When not writing, she is found chauffeuring two children to activities, cooking homemade meals, and practicing creativity in music, drawing, and needlework. You can find out more about her on her blog, here.
Photo credit: SkyDreammer on deviantart / Design credit: Laura A. Lord
Words, thoughts, ideas
Sparrows between nests
Noisely demanding notice
Touching the fringes
Of my consciousness
Sounds, sentiments, chords
Robin round rubicund
Challenging the garden
Auditory shadows remembered
Scents, perfumes, motes
Encircling the meadows with melody
I live, work, play and create from my home in South-West England.
My (very) recent return to writing poetry has been a shock. I knew that I had a lot to say, but not quite as much. I love the spontaneous pieces (most of my poems) and the sense of achievement when I receive a response, and that I have an audience from across the World (thank-you, everyone). My inspirations? The beautiful countryside and coast of North Devon and North Cornwall, my family, the weather: hence my blog title: The Lull After…You can find Shilyot’s blog and more of her awesome poetry, here.
Two meet as one under the mountain’s roaring cascade.
The lights of civilization are passing peripheral glances.
It’s not quiet but it’s a peaceful not quiet.
He’s holding her like Pan if he ever could put his hands on a nymph.
She to him like a speechless echo.
Each given Chronos’ gift of temporal paralysis.
She’s giving her history with her fingers running across his shoulders.
He’s telling his tale the same way caressing her hips and back.
Not a word spoken, misspoken, or misunderstood.
Time’s gift is a loan and the two depart for separate moments.
Their fate a possible victim of a fading sun.
But their heartbeats leave the moment as it is: untouched and unforgettable.
Photo credit: Lucky978 on deviantart / Design credit: Laura A. Lord