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To quench a dry poet's pen with inspiration. |
| [Introduction] Quixotic Fancy This is a poetry and prose Campfire Creative in which everyone ends their addition with a prompt for the next person. There are a few basic rules:  Keep everything rated no higher than 18+. Please take your turn in a timely manner. If you don't make your entry within a few days, I may skip your turn to keep things moving. Leave a word at the end of your poem for the next person to use in his or her entry. Try to think of something creative and inspiring. Use the word the last person left for you! You don't have to use the actual word in the poem, but it should be somehow related. Enjoy yourself and be creative!The first word is: Glass |
Fingers trace the smooth surface of the Glass. The lips behind the glass press to my own. You are my mirror image. This futile fight we wage against our agony Cannot make us stronger. I can see you But I cannot reach you. Next word: Enmity |
Hatred holds me hostage Keeps me from you I want to throw this glass filled with my own wasted blood Crashing into the mirror of my soul Fragments blown apart revealing pieces of me and of you NEXT WORD: Wounded |
Yesterday I saw the moon overlapping the sun. My mother always cautioned to never look directly at an eclipse. Its rays were blinding, but I snuck in sideways glances anyway hoping that my eyes would be slightly wounded just so that I would know Mother was right, and I would have something to believe in. I should have listened to your warning. It was easy to allow your heart to overlap mine; the fecundity of warm embraces and kisses that stung. It was all too false for me to ever ignore. You left me blind to anything that resembles love, and I only wish for reasons to believe now. Next Word: Whispers |
Whispering words, whispering thoughts Whisper of knowledge, as lessons are taught. The whispers of grain - left by salt in the sea The whispers of leaves that blow in-between trees Whispers of kindness passed through needy hands Whispering darkness across barren lands. The whisper of senses which guide a blind man The unanswered voice that falls silent on a deaf man. Next word: Desire |
In the middle of my life I hunger for a fruit never tasted the way Rapunzel's mother longed for the herb in the witch's walled garden. Juicy and tropical as a mango or papaya, it is round as a breast engorged with sweet milk for a suckling newborn child, a milk I have tasted though the fruit I have not. I cannot tell you if the skin is apple shiny or tomato thin or if a hard rind binds its succulence. This is a fruit that will drip from my lips to my chin, my breast, my belly, till I am sticky with the unknown mess of my desire. Next word: bowl |
When I was born you burned me, you're a hidden hardened soul. Your hands are soft and motherly your heart is crumbled coal. Amazing is your hot ash glazing, I've been molded to your shape. My temperature's maturing from the pain that I'm enduring you tell me that you've had a plan to make a quick escape. You slide around like molten metal and say that I'm in proper fettle, but you don't the slightest clue as to my current state. And you cannot clearly see me there, I'm just a piece of hollow ware and so the work all ends for you when you collect your going rate. You bake and you blunge and I'm dabbed with a sponge. You create me with potential and then you let me die. It takes no set credential to create something as I. And a loving one would fill me, with her beauty and her soul. But it takes a truly empty mother to raise an empty bowl. Next Word: Howl |
I'd howl at the moon if it would help if anyone would listen I'd smile sweetly and look into your eyes if you would only see me I'd kiss your lips until they bled to get your attention I'd ignore you coyly, turn my head if you'd look in my direction But I'm out of time, out of place shattered into nothing No one sees me, no one knows I can't breathe this apprehension Bruised and bleeding, all alone I walk this lonely road Women don't know what to think and men just want to use me I'd beg on my knees with lowered head if even one would know me I'd howl at the moon if it would help if anyone would listen Next word: Fire |
| A pain grows deep inside of me, An ache melts me away. A sadness wreaks calamity And ties me up this way. A happiness lives on in me And joyous thoughts prevail. This thrill defeats calamity, And causes it to fail. Emotions simply smother me - I sink in this mire. Rage, hurt, joy, calamity - Burn in me like fire. Next word: poignant |
| Today I received a picture An image of your face, Your hair; with flowing tresses Poignantly placed A figure of elegance Classy; and demure, A touching memento Of a child who is no - more Next word: Angel |
I don't know how to come to you except as an angel or goddess, a gift of luminous white breasts in a dim room somewhere at twilight after a day of driving in the country. We'll have stopped now and then to look at tiny abandoned churchyards, tilted tombstones, the way the stones lean toward each other at the earth's urging. We'll talk and kiss and it will come to this, the neon sign flickering its Vacancy from the parking lot as the sky goes dark around us and we come together against it. next word: morning |
As it happened, the night sky paused. It plotted schemes briefly near my head and a rain storm drifts above me, the getaway driver in a sleeping bag of cloud. I felt you lying next to me, a guilty bystander breathing on my neck. The moon crept low in envy glow and possessed no charms tonight to brag about. The sprinkling on the vinyl siding is a foreign language of aimless screaming. Demanding unwilling company and clear directions from the taxi cabs that pass. And your eyes are gently closed. You shift your weight and I know you are dreaming. It's safe to say, they paved your way and you never even had to ask. So the stars shoot from the scene of the crime and the moon is calming down. The sky is late and gets embarrassed then turns the palest shade of red. The rain cloud's the culprit in a hit and run, he takes the first train out of town. The light is thrown like a careless bone and lands on your side of the bed. And I've had the same look on my face, since it was bright enough to notice. I'm woken like the restless warden, to your vacant eyes in an empty prison. Your band of thieves, they taunt me. They wont tell me where your road is. I'll never will find you and night is behind you, now that the sun has risen. Next word: Tribunal |
| Life is a trial can't quite catch up to you I glimpse you in the moonlight but the shadows change and you are undone Restless nights without you close heavy eyes in the morning One more step and then two maybe I can catch up to you. [next word "sunflower"] |
| I try free verse: I feel the grass beneath me, My face turns to the warmth. The winds caress my limbs, The smell of pollen fills the air. Like the sunflower, I bask in summer, Preening, purring, loving Every moment of heat. Summer is finally here. I long for rainy days.  (sorry it's so lame. I couldn't connect to the word very much - I'm a winter girl - and inspiration failed to come.) next word: eclipse |
| I feel your shadow crossing my face, cool, with feathered feet, and for a while I am alive once more as the breeze of your closeness perforates my skin. Ne word: Cimmerian (adj.) |
Cimmerian Blues Right on the brink again, got the Cimmerian blues Right on the brink again, got the Cimmerian blues Might turn to drink again, but I guess that ain’t news You’re so black-hearted, I’m just a woman you use You’re so black-hearted, I’m just a woman you use Left me with nothing but an emotional bruise Up to the edge again, got the Cimmerian blues Up to the edge again, got the Cimmerian blues Out on that ledge again, with nothing left to lose I’d like to kill you, got a pretty short fuse I’d like to kill you, and I got a pretty short fuse It’s all gonna blow up, this I just can’t excuse Right on the brink again, got the Cimmerian blues Right on the brink again, got the Cimmerian blues Might turn to drink again, but I guess that ain’t news Out of my mind again, why’m I so confused? Out of my mind again, why’m I so confused? When is it my turn, surely I paid my dues Up to the edge again, got the Cimmerian blues Up to the edge again, got the Cimmerian blues Out on that ledge again, with nothing left to lose I won’t come here again, not what I’m gonna choose I won’t come here again, not what I’m gonna choose Saying goodbye to that big bad Cimmerian blues "April 29, 2012--Song lyrics--Cimmerian Blues"  NEXT WORD: Petal |
Scrapbook 04/29/12 Scrapbook opens. Pages turn. Faces smiling, Heartstrings burn. Photos whisper. Music plays. Petals drying, Memory frays. NEXT WORD: tremble |
I should leave now. The shore is finished collecting what the ocean has discarded. I search the ragged edge for some sign, some proof, some evidence of a death the world never heard about. Among the remnants of wreckage cleaned from the ocean there is no sign of her. The ocean holds my torment still. I walk alone, trembling with expectation, momentarily lost, bereft of direction, slapped by deaths reality. The thing is, I don't really come to find her; I come to make sure no one else does. She was beautiful, you see. New Word: Perspective |
| Were her eyes the shade which I recall, and not some fitful dream of fettered sleep; I would seek her stare in the saddest things, that only poets abide. But as shades of truth speak more to me, than a past of wistful sighs; I will shed no tears of fervid dreams haunted by her eyes. Next word: Manic |
Mania 06/24/12 I think I see a thing I fear; I am not certain. You tell me I see no such thing; I'm simply hurting. The thing I fear has come to be; I find you lied. This mania is crippling; I'd just as soon have died. NEXT WORD: declare |
Declaration 06/25/2012 I have come some distance And will go some distance more Between the journey made And the one I’m about to set out on I realize that whatever it is I know It is not enough So whatever God has planned for me And what time allotment given He needs to know I’m running behind NEXT WORD: Precipice |
Poetry Is A Vagrant 6/25/12 Such a poor primer, poetry, for igniting fires laid dormant by excess. Superficial; its phosphorescent, once intermittent gleam, streaks across the page, and then, just as quickly, perishes. Not at all like a slow, passionate kiss, a long, fierce rebuke, or...a quick smack to the forehead. Each in its way, glistens the fury of expedience. Poetry is a spark from a conflagration, long dead, which chokes as it sputters-- a vagrant. On the precipice It rises, then falls and settles where it may -- to rest in its silence, unsaid. |
Free Prompt: Often I think rooms are the only safe places left. Garret rooms, changing rooms, or bedrooms. Rooms to climb into, change in Or finally rooms where sleep comes easy. A room with no view would be the safest place of all. An interior hiding place where only those With proper maps and charts could find me. New Prompt Word: Lavish |
July 4, 2012 Dreams of an Independence Day I shall lavish you with dreams, and all such things embellish whe above the din I scream, "Hot dog with extra relish!" |
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