Tag: W3

Blather · nonsense · Writing

A Poetry Prompt and a Stream of Consciousness Prompt Met in a Bar

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The Stream of Consciousness Saturday word this week is notebook.

The W3 prompt for this week was to borrow the first line from another poem to use as the start of your own.

What if, I wondered this morning, I take those two prompts and mush them together?

For instance: Two roads diverged in a yellow notebook. (Sorry, Robert Frost.)

What would that look like? I picture an artist drawing a notebook — because that’s what they happened to have with them when they encountered a scene they wanted to remember. So they started drawing one road coming up from the left hand corner and another road coming up from the right. Where would they meet?

Oh wait, I just made the roads CONverging, not DIverging. I’d have to turn my notebook upside-down.

How about this one: Listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight notebook of Paul Revere. (Sorry, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.)

What if Paul Revere was not a man of action but a man who believed that the pen was mightier than the sword? I mean, I DO believe that words are mighty, but I’m grateful that Paul Revere rode to every Middlesex village and farm to spread the alarm instead just writing his grievances in a notebook.

How about: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s notebook? (Sorry, William Shakespeare)
A lot of the romance is gone in that one! As much as I love notebooks, I would NOT want to be compared to one, even a summer one.

Here are a few more (without my blather). Submit your own in the comments —

i thank You God for most this amazing
notebook
(e.e. cummings)

The notebook is too much with us, late and soon
(William Wordsworth)

So much depends
upon
a red note
book
(William Carlos Williams)

Ooh! One more — but it’s a children’s book (one of my favorites)

Once there was a notebook….
And she loved a little boy
(Shel Silverstein)

That one has a lot of potential for a story about a future writer, don’t you think?

Thanks, Linda Hill, Josie Holford and David Bogomolny for a fun prompt!

poetry

Tweedy

Sally9 Comments

In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines
Lived a little gray cat all covered with lines
She made her home behind the wall
Came out to play when she was called

Her muted tabby stripes became
The reason for her silly name
They called her Tweedy – you know, like tweed
It suited her well, all agreed

Tweedy had a bouncing gait
Light on her feet
At pouncing — great!

She bouncy-pounced around the house
Until the day there came a mouse
Who ventured in, and up, behind
The wall to Tweedy’s lair — unkind!

Behind the wall Tweedy had no pounce
Behind the wall Tweedy had no bounce
So nose-to-nose with visiting mouse
Tweedy growled and hissed and groused

Then little mouse spoke in his little mouse voice
“Don’t be like this! You have a choice —
We could be friends, you and I.
Sip some tea. Nibble on pie.”

Tweedy stopped her growl and hiss
Said to the mouse, “I’ve been remiss.
Yes, let’s go out into the kitchen
I’ll see if I can find a smidgeon.”

So out they went from Tweedy’s space
Into the big wide kitchen place
“Bet you don’t weigh even an ounce,”
Tweedy said — and then she pounced

“Delicious!” she purred a few minutes later
Not feeling the least bit like a traitor.
There’s an old house in Paris covered with vines
Guarded by cat with muted gray lines

This week’s W3 is brought by Josie.

Every poem begins somewhere. Sometimes, all it takes is a single line to set our imagination in motion. But what happens when that first line belongs to someone else?

For this prompt, I invite you to borrow the opening line of any poem, famous or obscure, and use it as the starting point for a poem of your own.

You can keep as much of the original poem’s voice, rhythm, tone, form, or imagery as you like, or leave it all behind and head in a completely different direction. Be serious or playful, thoughtful or mischievous, quiet or outrageous. The important thing is to let your own voice shine through.

I kind of cheated by using the first line of Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans. It’s a children’s book (which I love) but it’s also a poem. The best children’s books have that rhymey lilty rhythm that makes them so fun to read aloud.

A friend of mine has a new cat that likes to hide behind the wall in the basement. Her name is Luna — but Tweedy is very much modeled after her.

poetry · Writing

Curiosity

Sally8 Comments

Look
Wanna
See a trick?
It’s quite easy
Guess what’s in my hand
(giggle) [flips hand] Nothing!
How ’bout this hand? What’s in it?
A coin! How’d I do that? Magic!
The world is quite a magical place —
See that bee visiting the flower there?
Do you know what he is doing? Magic
That little bee will go make honey
Magic sweetness incarnate
Science also tells us more
Why is the flower red?
Magic and science
Open your mind
Ask questions
Listen
Look

This week’s W3 PoW Dennis challenged us to write a poem that gives something abstract a voice. Imagine your chosen concept as a character. What might it say?

It’s been a busy week for me. I started a story poem called The Worry Clinic:

He stood outside and read the sign
“C. I. Tee’s Worry Clinic”
He worried over EVERYTHING
Wished he wasn’t such a cynic

That’s about as far as I got. Dr. C. I. Tee’s first name was going to be Curious. I had read that curiosity can be a cure (or at least a deterrent) for anxiety.

Anyway, the week got away from me. So, for what it’s worth, I wrote a Double Etheree about curiosity.

family · poetry

Margrethe

Sally4 Comments

My great-grandmother, Margrethe, came over steerage
Which was at least two decks below the peerage

Her home had been Varde a small Danish town
Moving to Boston turned her life upside down

Her four young children accompanied her
Moving-reuniting family with father

He was a tailor who had come over ahead
Establishing his business to earn their bread

He worked for the wealthy on Boston’s North Shore
While living in an alley among immigrant poor

Speaking no English, Margrethe invited
Other Danish women similarly plighted

Their Kaffeeklatsches became a sweet haven
To encourage each other before anyone gave in

People of wealth sometimes didn’t pay their bills
Margrethe went without coal while the rich dressed in frills

It doesn’t seem fair — they worked so hard!
But that strong work ethic is its own reward

My grandmother worked hard; my mother did too
I learned there’s always something worthwhile to do!

My great-grandmother, Margrethe, came over steerage
Her legacy leaves me far richer than the peerage

This is my response to the W3 prompt: write a poem about a person who has had to leave home. Please include the word “home” in your poem.

I chose to write a Couplet Poem about my great-grandmother, Margethe. My grandmother, Margrethe’s youngest daughter, wrote afamily history and included the details that I used — like no coal on winter day because the rich customers “forgot” to pay their bill.

Life · poetry

Truth Quest

Sally11 Comments

Into her hand the strange man pressed a shell
Etched “Truth lies at the bottom of a well”

A Quest! She smiled and started her pursuit
Visiting farms, homes, parks along her route
Her Magic shell led her to Magic Cup
At Magic Well from which she pulled truth up
She held it in her hands — lovely and bright
It shimmered-glowed ethereal radiant light
But then the truth turned ugly and it hurt
The truth began to drag her through dirt

Was it a shell from heaven or from hell?
Either way it’s back down in the well

designed with AI

For this week’s W3 Punam (PoW) asks us to tell a little story in verse! Write a poem in three stanzas, with no more than 12 lines in total. Your stanzas can be different lengths.

  • Stanza one: Introduce a character who finds something unusual or strange.
  • Stanza two: Show what happens when your character uses what they’ve found.
  • Stanza three: Bring the story to an unexpected realization.

Let your imagination lead you, and see where your character’s discovery takes them!

The other day I read an old children’s story that included the quote — “Truth lies at the bottom of the well.” I had never heard it before and looked it up. It came from the Greek philosopher Democritus who wrote that we know nothing for certain because truth is hidden in a deep abyss or well.

I realize that I took my story in a different direction — but I was trying to think why truth should be hidden.

The truth is we don’t always want to know the truth.

Grief · Life · poetry

Life Can Be Hard

Sally22 Comments

Hiding in my room, back pressed against the door
Don’t come in, I whispered, while outside he swore
Barely could I breathe — in fact I held my breath
This ghutan was a feeling that felt worse than death

Now I live alone, the chaos pushed outside
With qaraar peace inside me, I am fortified
I can face tomorrow and tomorrow and again
Home now is a sanctuary, quietness within

And yet the ache of failure lingers in my heart
Did I do enough? Where did it fall apart?
Nobody will know all the secrets that I hold
But kasak gently holds my breath, as I breathe uncontrolled

This week’s W3 prompt from PoW Destiny:

Some words hold a whole experience within them. This week, use one or more of these Urdu words to tell a story through poetry:

  • Kasak (کسک)
    Pronunciation: “kuh-suk” · IPA: /kə.sək/
    A lingering ache—something that stays with you long after a moment has passed.
  • Qaraar (قرار)
    Pronunciation: “kuh-RAAR” · IPA: /qə.ɾɑːɾ/
    A quiet sense of peace—something that steadies you and helps you feel settled.
  • Ghuttan (گھٹن)
    Pronunciation: “ghoot-un” · IPA: /ɡʱʊ.ʈən/
    An unspoken feeling of suffocation—as though something inside you has no room to breathe.

Poetry form: Your choice, in 12 lines or fewer.

poetry · Writing

Yoga

Sally18 Comments

Breathe in
Slowly exhale
Breathe in hope for this day
Exhale yesterday’s lost moments
Breathing

Child’s pose
Kneel – stretch – relax
Childlike falling asleep
Gentle drift into surrender
Child’s play

Tree pose
Balanced, focused
Tree branches reaching up
Standing tall on one foot, grounded
Tree roots

Yoga
Outer/inner
Yoga – yuj – means unite
Inner/outer join together
Yoga

This week’s W3 prompt from PoW Khadija is to write a cinquain, a five-line poem, using repetition to give one word or phrase new meaning as the poem unfolds. She further challenges us to “begin at least three lines with the same word or short phrase. This is called anaphora.”

Five lines: Use this syllable pattern: 2–4–6–8–2. That means two syllables in the first line, four in the second, six in the third, eight in the fourth, and two in the last.

A repeated beginning: Start at least three of those lines with the same word or short phrase.

Any subject: a feeling, a place, a memory, or an ordinary moment.

I do NOT claim to be a yoga expert.

Several years ago I took my first yoga class. Once I got over the awkwardness of my inability to hold poses the way some of the others in the class did — and being reminded repeatedly that yoga is NOT a competition — I found great value in simple poses.

Last week, when I was traveling, I found myself at times focusing on my breathing (see Aggressive Driving) and at other times doing Child’s Pose on the floor to stretch out my achy back. When I got back to work on Monday, I needed a little time for Tree Pose, which requires focus, and somehow makes me more inwardly balanced as I outwardly balance.

poetry

Blue Heron

Sally8 Comments

This is my response to this week’s W3 challenge from PoW Heather. She challenged us to have a conversation with nature! “Choose something from the natural world: an animal, insect, plant, rock, or whatever catches your attention. Address it directly and look at it with fresh eyes.”

I’ve been in coastal Maine all week, enjoying nature, especially the birds. I decided to write a poem about the Blue Heron and use an Irish poetry forms, the Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire — which is three syllable lines put into quatrains with an abab cdcd rhyme scheme.

I wrote it — and then felt like it didn’t do the heron justice. Today I wrote a Shakespearean sonnet. So — here are two, not one, poems for the beautiful blue heron. The first is the sonnet; the second is the Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire.

You pick your way along the craggy rock
You pause, you watch, you listen all the time
Is that a fish? Above, is that a hawk?
You freeze, become a statue – so sublime

But once a year you gather in a throng
You court with sticks, choose partner, build a nest
Together warm the eggs, hatch, raise the young
Then leave because alone is where you’re best

You curve your neck into an “S” and fly
Drag spindly legs behind you as you go
Broad wingspan, steady rhythm thrums the sky
Time to return to living life solo

To be alone does not make you forlorn
It means this is the life to which you’re born

You stand tall
Motionless
Feathers grey
Opalesce

“Why are you,”
I inquire,
“Always lone,
Grand flier?”

You stand still
Carved of stone
Blink your eye
Cover blown

Single bird
Blue heron
Rule the strand
Beach baron

Being one
Not a curse
Be unfed
Would be worse

All alone
You can fish
Minnows, eels
You vanquish

Solitaire
Tall and proud
Hermit life
Head not bowed

Life · poetry

Hygge in a Mug (an advertisement)

Sally11 Comments

Hygge (pronounced Hoo-gah) is a Danish word with no direct English equivalent. It is a cozy contented feeling that involves being in the moment, and feeling safe and comfortable.

Who knew a drink could comfort like a hug
The warmth of which permeates my soul
Freshly brewed coffee in a mug

This hygge feeling gives my heart a tug!
Pre-dawn moment makes my whole day whole
Who knew a drink could comfort like a hug?

I know, I know — caffeine is a drug
(I say that with a serious eye-roll)
Freshly brewed coffee in a mug

In my big house, I sigh and give a shrug
Aloneness — part of this season’s role
Who knew a drink could comfort like a hug

I curve my hand around, feel warmth so snug
Sipping joe, I write words to extol
Freshly brewed coffee in a mug

If I could advertise one thing, I’d plug
Java! Cuppa! Have some! I’d cajole
Who knew a drink could comfort like a hug?
Freshly brewed coffee in a mug

W3 Prompt this week: This week, let’s write a villanelle about enjoying your favorite beverage, whether alcoholic or not. What’s in your cup?

Here’s a link to my favorite villanelle of all time: https://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/2011/10/06/a-villanelle-for-national-poetry-day/

family · Life · poetry

Genealogy

Sally9 Comments

It started with a phone call
“Who are you again?”
The letter arrived yesterday
I was full of curiosity

“Who are you again?”
His answer meant nothing
I was full of curiosity
Slowly the pieces fell into place

His answer meant nothing
I scribbled down some names
Slowly the pieces fell into place
Somehow we were related

I scribbled down some names
She mailed the letter with photos
Somehow we were related
She took me up the family tree

She mailed the letter with photos
She wrote stories of people I knew
She took me up the family tree
Naming people, naming places

She wrote stories of people I knew
The letter arrived yesterday
Naming people, naming places
It started with a phone call

This is my submission for this week’s W3 prompt. PoW Reena challenged us to “to explore the music of repetition by writing a pantoum on any theme or subject.

A pantoum unfolds in four-line stanzas, with each stanza carrying two lines into the next:

  • The second line becomes the first line of the next stanza.
  • The fourth line becomes the third line of the next stanza.
  • Add new lines in the second and fourth positions, letting the repeated lines gather fresh meaning in their new surroundings.

Continue for as many stanzas as you like. To bring the poem full circle, the final stanza traditionally uses the opening stanza’s third line as its second line, and the poem’s opening line as its closing line.

This is a true story. I got a strange phone call at work one day with someone asking me for my home address. We chatted for a while. I had no idea who he was — but I did eventually give him my address. I knew this could end badly and even joked with him that at least he wasn’t asking for my social security number or credit card information.

Just the other day the letter came from a distant relative. She had actually found me through this blog! She was out of the country, but wanted to send me something regarding a relative we had in common — so she recruited a friend to call and get my address.