I've often found myself contorting,
squeezing into other peoples' boxes.
Maybe it's because I'm small.
I can fit into places easily.
But my stomach hangs over my legs,
petruding over the line.
Stuffing never helps.
Hiding can often reveal more than
So I stopped contorting.
WRITING PROMPT #74
“Why are we not permitted to show our faces in the picture , Mama?,” Charlotte asked, staring down at the photograph in her hands. The whole prospect of one picture alone to represent three young ladies in the newspaper seemed so obscure to the girl, that she had initially refused to be part of it at all; but her Mama had insisted, and so she did.
“Men shall often find one’s body more agreeable than one’s face,” Mama answered sharply, “can you not see that is why I have dressed you in the finest silk dresses you own?”.
With her nose held high in the air, so as to maintain decorum, Mama sauntered over to her grand mirror, her favourite part of her bedroom. It had been bought for her as a gift by her husband, as had the house her and her daughters now lived in. Many hours had passed in front of its golden frame, preparing herself for her husband or local balls. Time had withered her patience and she prepared as such for no one but herself anymore, and her three daughters. Now, in her corset and petticoat, she placed the photo on the bed beside her and began adorning her face with powder.
Her youngest daughter, grabbed it and exclaimed, “No rouge, no curls! No man shall ever send us prospects of marriage.”
She turned to her mother.
“Mama! What were you thinking?”
“Hush now, Anne! Your father payed a large amount of money to get that photograph taken, and we shall be rewarded for our efforts, I guarantee.”
A book snapped shut to Mama’s left.
“Then perhaps a woman shall send us a marriage proposal,” Emily began, “and I shall be so very pleased if that were to happen instead.”
This poem was written during National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 3]
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]