Maybe they use a light bulb,
because memory is only a
a quip of a quick blinding burn -
Sometimes I like to compare myself to an old man.
Note how I did not say old woman – for old women have a
special quality to them
which old men do not:
you can see it if you brush away the dust,
buried inside them is a treasure
pearls of wisdom remain.
Today’s Savannah Brown writing prompt is:
How would someone else do it?
the L illusion
I have noted in these past few nights,
that Confidence is not found in the usual places;
it is not found inside another person
between cracks and small openings,
between the rust and rubble of
someone’s dampened heart,
or broken art,
but rather among
leather, lipstick and lingerie
— and no, I don’t list these because I am an object,
but rather because I am creating one.
I am creating the L illusion,
the mathematical formula for Confidence,
the concocted potion in a witch’s pot,
as my hot, boiling broth of
newly found esteem,
spills over the edges,
rising in steam,
and falling onto the floor
only to be caught in my palms.
I take a sip of the potion.
The formula flashes before my eyes:
leather jacket + red lipstick + lingerie = the L illusion,
This poem was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 13, Poem #7]
This was originally meant to be posted yesterday, but my internet crashed 😦
I thought it was appropriate on Remembrance Day, to write a poem around that theme.
If I am to remember,
what does that truly mean?
Does it mean to remember the guns fired,
to watch the scarlet blood gleam,
or to touch the spirits who are still alive today,
and hold them in high esteem?
If I am to remember,
what am I to forget?
For it is difficult to say I am sorry,
when we have never met.
If the poppy grows in barren lands,
where do memories grow?
The brain does not work like a field,
but poppies don’t either, I bet.
Where does Time go when it comes home,
made old by rust and regret?
This was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 11, Poem #5]
The new poems will be based on the Savannah Brown prompts which she gave in the description her write with me video. If you’d like to check them out they’re here.
The first prompt is:
Listen to the quiet voice
When Time fades, and the clocks melt away,
I want to be right where I am now,
not beside another name, place or day.
together but alone, is how it’s best,
together is where we shall be,
isolated from the rest.
this feeling is our home,
that we have built from the ground up,
the foundations run smoothly,
even if they took long to put up.
within this house is where we shall remain,
listening to the quiet of our voices,
sheltered from all the rain.
This poem was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 9, Poem #3]
WRITING PROMPT #70
Write a poem or story in eleven lines or less. Write it as if you were writing a photograph. You can make the moment personal or choose to write from fiction. What was that moment like, the second your firstborn child came from his mother? Describe the moment you heard terrible news. Or Goldilocks, when she first woke to find herself surrounded by three grizzlies. Let images take the place of feeling. Let the atmosphere set the tone. I know I say that a lot, but I mean it EVERY TIME.
She ran the quill’s feather through her fingers, with each stroke an old thought arrived and vanished. These thoughts fluttered around in her head, like a million different birds all singing different tunes to tell things to one another in secret codes. How was she to decipher their songs? A neatly bound book fell under her gaze; it had been placed at an angle on the left side of her father’s desk. Her fingers abandoned the quill and reached for the volume. And so, with a new play-thing in her hands arrived a new thought — should she be doing this? Perhaps her father was right, women were not suited for the life of a novelist. Thinking this, she opened the front cover of the novel, and inside read: ‘Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen’. This, she thought, is whom I aspire to be. She immediately relinquished the songs of the birds, and instead listened to the quiet, dipping back into her mind and her quill into her ink, writing fervently.
This was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017, [Day 6, Writing Prompt #70]
WRITING EXERCISE #83
Today, one of my toddler daughters had the end of a stick in her mouth. I said, “Stop eating that stick! We don’t eat sticks, silly!” and my 4-year old daughter said, “Yeah, Lulu. If you eat sticks, you will get old.”
So let’s riff off that. Write a poem built out of four (or however many) cinquains that tell the story of someone getting old. Make sure one of the things that made them old was something they ate. Something they saw. Something they heard. Something they felt. A fragrance. Have the first line be the person’s name. If you want each cinquain to be about a different person, cool. Oh, and if you forgot what a cinquain was, here’s the format:
line 1 – 2 syllables
line 2 – 4 syllables
line 3 – 6 syllables
line 4 – 8 syllables
line 5 – 2 syllables
Sign here, sigh there,
Wear and tear of the town,
causes tearing of hair, baby
that standing up has come,
Standing on your own two cold feet,
good bye —
the Muffin Man,
hungry as I run to
Drury Lane, a girl or
a boy or something else holds me,
isn’t what it
was, I can’t run,
but I can sleep now forever,
This was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017, [Day 2, Writing Prompt #83]