We were prompted to write a love poem that "names at least one flower, contains one parenthetical statement, and in which at least some lines break in unusual places." I hope it is not too sacrilegious to rewrite the Bible... I was thinking about how good, true love is like a perennial that with some care continues to grow stronger and more beautiful year after year rather than annuals which are more of a fling born of lust, beautiful for a season, then gone. Anyway, the opportunities with I Corinthians 13 were just too good to ignore. Love is not impatiens,
Love is clematis. It is not celosia (which straight up sounds like it should be Spanish for Jealousy, but actually means "lattice"), [Love] is not pansies, It is not any annual, It is not ranunculus, It does not drain the gardener's resources, It is not snap- dragons It does not bloom over Injury, It does not root over Wrong doing, But roots with the truth. It blooms all season, Blossoms all season, Grows all season, Endures all season. Love is a perennial. If there are propagations, They will be brought to nothing; If tubers, They will cease; If foliage, It will be brought to nothing. For we grow partially And we propagate partially, But when the perfect comes, The partial will pass away.
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Today's task was to write a review of something that you wouldn't ordinarily review. I ordered
A restful night's sleep, But The one I received Was defective With three rude awakenings (if I wanted/ that I would have bought the newborn night experience for half the price) I contacted the Company For a refund, but They claim I Voided the warranty With my abnormally late Bedtime. Now I'm stuck Using Sleep Subsititute until My next order arrives. Um, so today we were supposed to write a poem with numbered sections which are in dialogue with one another, set in a place where we used to spend a lot of time.... I wrote a poem with numbered sections? I forgot about the rest. Whoops! Part the 1st
A piece of the whole some A fraction, decimal, percentage Part the 2nd A line on the head visible scalp Center, side, zig-zag Part the 3rd A role to be cast and played Acted out on stage or screen Part the 4th The action of breaking up a verb To separate, distance, divide The prompt for this day was to take an unfamiliar-to-me Dickinson poem, remove all punctuation and line breaks, then rebreak the lines, adding or subtracting words to make a new poem. I tried messing with the line breaks, but I didn't like it, so they mostly stayed true to the original. I did however change some words to alter the cause and effect a bit, and in my humble opinion, improve the rhyme (sorry, Emily). Here is my edited version of "A not admitting of the wound" by Emily Dickinson: A not admitting of the wound -
It therefore grew so wide That all my Life within it dwelt, No more to be denied. A closing of the hinge-less lid I temporary bound Until the tender Carpenter Perpetual nail it down. A sunflower with
upturned face follows the fickle photons, drinks unrefracted rainbows Erect like a soldier or a woman in heels Fully alive for a season Then retirement, old age spent feeding birds Gradumentally fades into death Next season five hundred faces born of death and sunlight Joy begets exponential Joy we refer to this period as
the Adolescence of Humanity. the recovery of a disturbing number of remains of children who died of starvation found in close proximity to tech boom era communication devices demonstrates how, like a hormone driven pubescent teen whose physical and amygdalar development outpace that of the frontal lobe, Humanity's scientific and technological advancements far exceeded its civil and ethical evolution, making possible the tragic scenarios such as the one uncovered at this site. when AI and robotics could have made possible a 12 hour work week* and eradicated hunger, Dragons amassed abstract wealth, hoarding earth's resources. *Note: "work week" is a post industrial era term referring to the amount of labor required from the average citizen to keep society running smoothly. Records indicate it was highly varied and often ranged from 30 to 70 hours in a 7 day period. This term does not encompass the labor required for personal maintenance such as food acquisition, exercise, or home hygiene. There's a childhood monster I cannot shake,
A silly habit I will not break - Into bed I never crawl. I leap abed or not at all. To this day I won't expose My unprotected grown-up toes To his sneaky grasping claw Or his hungry toothy maw. I thank my kindergarten teacher For my awareness of the creature. A gifted book planted the seed Which grew like an invasive weed. Beneath the bed he's lurking now. I know it, but I can't say how. He lurks and waits and bides his time Until the day I sleepily climb Into bed instead of bound. He'll reach out quick without a sound And grab my ankle as his name suggests While I suffer cardiac arrest. Today is National Haiku Poetry Day so screw the prompt...sort of. Hairy bittercress
Long, thin zombie arms holding Tiny white flowers Everyone who's ANYONE tries to do as they.
Any weakness? Any flaws? Just hide them all away. I heard the way they stayed in shape was swimming in the nude. I heard she only fed them organic SUPER food. I heard dinner was a quiz show (and the prize: a mother's love). I heard the guiding hand of FATE wore a long white glove. I heard that raw AMBITION went dressed as PIETY. With money, brains, and looks in spades, they WERE society. Everyone who's ANYONE strives to be like them, Such charismatic elites, the true crème de la crème. Does everyone who's ANYONE forget about the CURSE? Only the good die young, and the Kennedys die first. Today's prompt was to write a parody or satire based on another poem. I don't think I totally succeeded, but this is based on/inspired by Emily Dickenson's "Success is Counted Sweetest."
It's just the same old story Of ignorance and greed; Some pitiable royal Wishes to be freed. How burdensome those shackles are Of plenty and of fame. You just want a "normal life," Poor thing, it's all the same. Life's responsibilities You cannot circumvent. You may avoid the tabloids, But now you're paying rent! Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and fair of face. For while summer is yet far away, You hold me now in your warm embrace. So if all my eggs fall out
during my period, like, what happens to a guy's sperm? Do they just get moldy up in there? Yo ho! It's sea shanty time! What fun! Overboard the scallywag fell
And it serves him right, says I, For only a scallywag doesna' duck When the boom goes swinging by. Who let the boom fly? It matters not, For the call rang loud and true. I heard it meself, and the cabin boy, And the captain heard it too. Overboard the scallywag fell And it serves him right, says I, For only a scallywag doesna' duck When the boom goes swinging by. The scallywag's a right lazy lout, And he won't be missed 'round here, For when they cried, "All hands on deck," He was drinkin' all the beer! Overboard the scallywag fell And it serves him right, says I, For only a scallywag doesna' duck When the boom goes swinging by. Steady men, and bring 'er about. We're comin' into port To resupply - fresh beer and blood, For we're a scallywag short! Overboard the scallywag fell And it serves him right, says I, For only a scallywag doesna' duck When the boom goes swinging by. Today's prompt was to choose a poem in a language we don't understand, and to write a corresponding poem based on the shapes and sounds of the original. I chose this "Poem" in Czek by Miroslav Holub. My interpretation is based solely on the audio.
Heed all this, my child: Study much if you would learn well, Some, to get by, For it is known, The learned don't mind life in leaves, my child. Not craft nor smarts make for a doctor, Even after the turning of many pages, already a full sheaf, Knowledge someone knew After the lecture Albeit, broken. I do so love a form prompt, especially one with a tight rhyme scheme and syllable count. Knocked this one out before library this morning! Once the chosen couplet's written
The poet's job is half complete. With the triolet I'm smitten! Once the chosen couplet's written Three lines more will have to fit in Syllables: eight to keep it neat. Once the chosen couplet's written The poet's job is half complete. Today's prompt was more challenging than perceived at first glance, but it gave me a reason to pull my Burns off the shelf and peruse his Scottish witticisms. What is the opposite of Burns? The smooth-cheeked, young Folly mayn't
conceal her trash. Take thou without grave Wisdom to sleep; Thou deniest her sufferings, wild-winded and rash, For Wisdom lacks boredom to keep. Clove. Cyclops. Seaweed. Cheese. Fog. Those are the five words I chose as my jumping off point for today's surrealist prompt. Surrealism does not come naturally to me (does it come naturally to anyone without the aid of hallucinogens?) so this was indeed an exercise!
A leprechaun runs barefoot through the stale yellow school bus, invisible but for the tiny footprints he leaves on the windows. Where are his shoes? Confused... A dove clinging upside down to the eaves with eyes wide open, she does not see she is no bat, But he knows what he is: A king scouring the shallows for his seaweed crown bent double with the search, but also with a hug that squeezes the heart a little too tightly wrongly or rightly. Can a floating cancer with a tiny stethoscope and an MD from Cornell free him from said embrace which cheers the soul even as it depresses the pulse? And should it? I don't think the waitress brought me decaf... So at 1:30am when I still couldn't sleep, I looked up the prompt for today figuring I may as well accomplish something beyond tossing and turning and wishing I were asleep. Today, we were to write a poem inspired by one of the book covers featured on this site. You will find that perhaps my poem is more inspired by the name of the publishing company than by the cover itself, but both got the juices flowing. The unicorn presses on When childhood fancies long since gone Give way to heartbreak and worldly woes And "Isn't it better that she knows?" For I find it easier to conceive Of horses with horns than to believe In fish that fly or duck-billed mammals Or spotted, no-humped, long necked camels. But a creature so pure, of magic and light Could not survive in this world of blight Of wars and guns and hate and smog And disillusioned daily slog. So they escaped to a holier place More suited to creatures of such grace There to rest and there to wait For the hate and smog to dissipate. But hope remains that they'll return To the earthly home for which they yearn When a new generation finally learns To change the world before it burns. The unicorn will never die, Though other wells of faith run dry. Once we restore the love we lack, The unicorns just might come back. |
AuthorHi, my name is Ember. Yes, like the glowing bits at the bottom of the fire. Archives
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