%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |  More poems for Promptly Poetry, stuffed into this book because I have reached my limit. |
|
Prompt: (verb) to move to action Promptly: (adverb) : very quickly or immediately Poetry: a form of writing that no one ever reads |
| Maine Autumn draws the peepers - those foliage seekers, whose shutters open and close on nature’s last colorful spree. Summer has withdrawn, stunning onlookers in her fiery demise. But other, more patient eyes, wait for the beauty of nuance. Pennsylvania Winter is a quiet grace. It is the peace of a soft snowfall that covers our sins, but traces our footsteps in shadows. Written for "Promptly Poetry Challenge (2024-2025)"  Prompt/Week # 14 Use at least three of the following words in your poem: stunning, nuance, colorful, last, first Inspired by: February 2nd 1942 by Andrew Wyeth https://www.arkellmuseum.org/content/andrew-wyeth-1917-2009-february-2nd-1942-19... |
| In the corner of a well-groomed lawn one renegade wildflower takes root. She readies her seeds for the world. She cannot tuck them safely into beds to secure their future, but she knows the ants, foraging deep beneath the green blades they will carry them to richer soil. It may be that her progeny will fly with the birds, or be scattered to the wind by the mower and elsewhere become, a field of resplendent color. The quiet chaos of life goes unseen. In the immediacy of our lives, the busy-ness of insignificance we regard as fateful circumstance the order of the universe - blown into existence by chance, as if a monkey randomly typing for an infinite time would produce Hamlet. https://www.cnn.com/2024/11/01/science/monkeys-cannot-type-shakespeare-study-int... https://www.science.org/content/article/don-t-crush-ant-it-could-plant-wildflowe... Written for "Promptly Poetry Challenge (2024-2025)" TOPIC - WEEK 13 "quiet chaos" |
Now November, air perfumed with sweet decay Fruit fermenting under a carpet of leaves, There’s still time to prepare for Winter today. Bird feeders turn squirrels into clever thieves, Bluejays squawk at the unwelcome intrusion, What keeps one through the dearth, another aggrieves. The trees now cleared of their color infusion, Stand like prophets of dire desolation. Wildlife prepare for the coming reclusion. November strips the world of green temptation, So it may slumber in hushed hibernation. Written for "Promptly Poetry Challenge (2024-2025)" Week 12 Form: Terza Rima A Terza Rima is a poem with an eleven-syllable count in each line and a rhyming scheme of aba, bcb, cdc, dd. Poem should be inspired by the prompt/image in some way This form is eleven lines. |
| I don’t know if it’s an art, or just a craft sometimes it feels like hard labor stitching in colors, one upon another until the vision begins to appear. Suddenly, the lines and blocks of color become the symbols of joy. Snowflakes fall, reindeer dance, trees take shape one branch at a time. It’s heavy and cumbersome not like a painting that rests on an easel or a jigsaw on a table, it’s weight is accomplishment. A struggle for weary shoulders to lift, a burden for arms to carry, yet there’s deep and satisfying warmth when laid upon my lap. This tapestry of woven yarn built one stitch at a time, drives me line upon line until the joy of knotting the last end. But there’s still hanks of yarn that ask to be entwined and raveled into stories and pictures that travel from my heart to my hands. |
| When the flames finally retreat, the meat hits the grill with a rush, a crashing wave Then a hush! that becomes a sizzling murmur as the fat is rendered. Seduced by the heat it drips into the fire, sparking smoky plumes - summer’s perfume in every backyard. There is no rare or medium, it is all well done. The only acceptable patty has been thoroughly charred, infused with polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons. This gathering by the communal fire satisfies an ancient, primal desire a celebration of provision and unity. Once, a rejoicing in the kill still an opportunity to fill bellies and hearts with family and burnt burgers. |
pane-ful obsession her tail flicks, a wild instinctive rhythm eyes fixed upon bustling birds the cat at the window Written for Promptly Poetry "Promptly Poetry Challenge (2024-2025)" Week 8 - Form - the Kimo The Kimo is the Israeli version of the Japanese Haiku. Content: like haiku, usually image-specific and acts as a still life, or snapshot, of a single moment Form: made up of a single stanza of three lines Syllable Count: [Line 1] 10 syllables [Line 2] 7 syllables [Line 3] 6 syllables |
| It might have been September it was that kind of fall rain a silver curtain over the window a gentle rhythm tapping on the panes murmuring in the leaf-clogged gutters a distant song faintly playing in my memory for which there were no words beyond the refrain: “Monday, Monday”. I couldn’t get warm, the kettle whistled for me to make another cup of tea. I grasped the pen in desperation and inked the words into the book before they could leave me. Written for "Promptly Poetry Challenge (2024-2025)" Prompt: Use the following words in your poem: Monday, fall, tea, book |
| a pot of tea, Earl Grey and a rash of strings to start the day the hushed voice of public radio then a symphony of spring lashes at the windows with gusty spray and the exuberance of Vivaldi the willow bends and weeps the tears roll off her cheeks as if she earnestly prays a fierce season is the rain colors, newly bloomed are shaken from the trees for green must have her way Written for "Promptly Poetry Challenge (2024-2025)" Week 6 Prompt -- a rainy day |
| Trekking in a dense boreal forest surrounded by majestic shadows, enveloped in the perfume of pine yet isolated in the shadowy damp, I came upon them. The call of morning was a lilting whistle it drove away the hauntings of the night those booming howls one to another of community or warning? I could not say. Enough though, to make me ponder my discovery. Upon a bed of fallen leaves royal in their red and golden hues a pair of ghost pumpkins sat. Were they an elaborate interior design by some reclusive, naturalist master or set as watchmen in the bewitched wood by some Fortean denizens? No matter, I understood. I was unwelcome here. Charles Hoy Fort (August 6, 1874 – May 3, 1932) was an American writer and researcher who specialized in anomalous phenomena. The terms "Fortean" and "Forteana" are sometimes used to characterize various such phenomena. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Fort Written for "Promptly Poetry Challenge (2024-2025)" Prompt - an image of white pumpkins on a bed of colorful foliage in a forest setting |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
