This is the final poem in the thirty day series. Today's prompt was: Write a poem about conclusions. I'm not sure if I'm going to continue writing and posting a poem each day as I have my book, Lost and Found, to complete, but I definitely enjoyed writing poems and reading the poems others submitted. I'd forgotten how much I love poetry.
Conclusions
The artist stood back from the portrait And paused staring at his work. Deliberately, he picked up the paint bush Broadening the shadow on his subject’s silhouette. Slowly, like honey dripping off a spoon, A smile spread across his face. This was as close as he could come to Perfection.
This prompt: Write a poem with very long lines using almost no words of three syllables or more was very difficult for me. This was the first time, I sat for a day with nothing...
The Muse
Nothing makes time move more like molasses than waiting for the muse to arrive, and knowing she’s been delayed.
It doesn’t matter that the tea is brewing in the pot, that the computer is humming like a bee, or that my hands are perched on the keyboard like a baby bird ready to take flight.
There are days when the words hunker down under the covers hibernating like grizzly bears content to spend months in their cave.
No matter how desperate I become or how earnestly I beg and plead, nothing prods inspiration, who like it or not has a mind of her own.
When she ignored my call this morning, I thought I’d trick her by vacuuming and cleaning the house, hoping she would respond like a small child.
But when by two this afternoon, I hadn’t heard from her, I grabbed a towel and headed down to the river for a swim.
After dinner I gave her one last chance, and miraculously she paid me a visit—nothing exciting mind you or brilliant, just enough to get the job done.
Now that I'm back from a week on the Big Island of Hawaii, I have to catch up on my poetry assignments. I actually lugged my laptop with me, thinking I'd keep up with my writing, but internet access was next to impossible where we were staying and before I knew it I was a poem or two behind, and now I have eight poems to write to catch up and the poems from yesterday and today as well. To follow are poems for June 17, 18, and 19th along with a few photos from our trip.
Prompt 17: Write a poem about the process of writing
Writing is…
Waking up with the birds Sleepwalking into the kitchen Turning on the teapot
Stumbling into the office Flipping on the switch to my laptop Whose processor takes about as long to warm up as I do
Pushing my inner critic out of the way Giving the voice within free range
Setting an intention Placing my hands on the keyboard Waiting for them to move
Trusting that the words are there, hiding like bees sipping nectar from spring wildflowers.
Prompt 18: Start and end your poem today with the same line, which must include the word "orange"
Pele
Bright orange lava oozes out of Kilauea and Flows into the Pacific, a magnificent fountain of flames Lover Seducer Traitor Goddess of fire, lightning, volcanoes and violence Licking the bark of the flowering ohi’a tree Ruling from her home, the fire pit Halema’uma’u crater, At the summit of Kilauea Roaming the Big Island Mauna Loa, in one of her many forms Dog Red-eyed old woman Young woman dressed in white Magma as dark as night Bright orange lava oozes out of Kilauea and Flows into the Pacific, a magnificent fountain of flames
Prompt 19: In today's poem, cut in the lines from a song you like every stanza or two. The lines are from the 1981 song Working on My Tan by Tim Curry
Jan Tan
Going on Vacation Time for a Holiday Looking for great beaches Hawaii’s the place we’ll stay Surfing, snorkeling, hiking There’s so much here to do But the thing I want the most Is to spend some time with you Working on my tan. Oh man. Working on my tan.
We toured the coffee plantations Visited Akaka Falls Stopped at the Waipio Valley Overlook Ate Poke in the raw Fumes from Kilauea Surrounded us in vog Thurston Lava Tube was an adventure, and Although I was in awe, I wished I were Working on my tan. Oh man. Working on my tan.
The days we spent in Kona weren’t Typical for June The skies were mostly overcast The sun was gone by noon While other tourists hit the strip for Shopping at its finest My mission here was clear I lay my towel in the sand and started Working on my tan. Oh man. Working on my tan.
Today's prompt: Write about something you own that you’re going to use someday but haven’t yet. When I wrote this poem, I didn't realize that my mother died seven years ago today. For some odd reason this posted on the first instead of the second, but it's actually poem #2.
Rainy Day
There’s nothing in my house being saved for a rainy day.
Cleaning up after my mother died took care of that.
Growing up during the great depression taught her about scarcity,
And it became a family tradition.
I grew up using thread-bare towels when
Stacks of new ones were hidden in the closet.
My Grandmother’s bone china and crystal stemware
Never used, but always on display.
Tablecloths, sheets, pillowcases, and washcloths
Carefully hand-embroidered by my aunt were tucked away.
After she died, I found unopened packages of bath salts,
French soaps, and Channel No.5,
Dusty bottles of Jim Beam, Canadian Club, Dwars. and Remy Martin,
Cases of cocktail napkins, colored toothpicks, and paper plates.
Treasures buried in every cupboard, my mother lived like a pirate,
When she died in a stormy sea, the doubloons were left to me.
I kept what I could use and gave the rest away.
There’s nothing in my house being saved for a rainy day.
I'm the producer of the DVD writing series, The Path to Publication, distributed by Films for the Humanities and Sciences; I'm co-author of a series of articles on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder published by Vietnow Magazine, and also available online at www.vietnow.com; and I just completed a memoir about being adopted, Searching for Jane, Finding Myself, about being adopted. When I'm not writing I'm walking my golden retriever, Loki, petting one of my two cats, Obi and Flea, hanging out with family and friends, and taking time to b-r-e-a-t-h-e.
