September 7

Writer’s Book of Days prompt: Write about a place you long for.

Tree of Life

Sometimes waiting changes everything

allpoetry.com, Sunday Scribbling prompt#231 wait

Like Elijah in the bible,
he ran as though
life depended on it,
suspended from it.
He was running from
life to an end
of his choosing,
his own way of losing.
No answers, no quick fix,
no way out or bag of tricks,
would make it alright;
make a way out, a way up,
a way back into life,
to his wife to his dreams
that flowed out like
fast streams, wasted down
to the ocean. He ran til
his breath burned and still
found no solace. But one tree
stood tall with good solid
branches, to hold one, to
tie one to fate, and unnoticed
his gone-ness would offer
it’s own apologetics. What
did he believe and was it
all really worth it? He
laid down to rest thinking
after and after, to tie
one good knot and climb
high in the bowers, and one
leap of faithlessness ending
the hours of worry and searching
for answers, for reasons.
To keep on the working, the
trying, the seasons,
and so he did slumber in
shade softly under
the tree which did wonder
why it should be punished?
Should then be remembered
as death’s final say so. It
turned to the sun and in
whispers and pleas found
the answer in grace for the
sun talks to trees, and it’s greenery,
finery, turned into poetry.
Hope and tomorrows
did shower the fellow on
waking, and shaking
the sleep from his eyes and
aware, that he never again
would see skies noticed
leaves filled with light, filled
with words of the world, with
his memories, forgotten and
stashed away folded
like small bits of paper
stuck back in dark cracks
and scuffed up worn roughed up
in old billfolds, reading in wonder,
and tender, and love torn
asunder, he leaned back
on the tree and put his hand on
the bark and said, thank you
and stood. With a last look
he turned and walked back
where he came from, his shoulders
unburdened and next to the base
of the tree now unheeded
unneeded, a small length
of rope slowly covered as wind
blew brown leaves down and
rain washed the tree down
with promise of sunshine
in future tomorrows

September 6

Writer’s Book of Days prompt: Write about a fragrance.

Vertrimos Truth

this was for a contest at allpoetry.com

the word bank was a group of made-up words, use at least 6 and poem to be between ten and twenty lines

Adrigony
Blauxist
Diatimerich
dundipple
eraculise
fallacidious
fbiblet
Ichelur
Lopoxary
Gypsacillian
Mulcable
Hombriety
Orvesttee
perflickt
raboritum
scouddle
Thructious
Urgestrate
Vertricimos

my entry:

The blauxist spoke in measured tones
beliefs were strong entrenched in wrong
the gypsacillian yelled the loudest
to the crowd who just threw stones
If speech matched thructious schools
of thought and all would seek hombriety
then mankind would exist for once
in perflickt  fallacidious adrigony
a raboritum could be called on
lopoxary punishments and hate
would urgestrate the crowds and
children scouddle under trees
their parents eraculise and proud
in mulcable peace and harmony

September 5

Writer’s Book of Days prompt: The time between dusk and dawn.

She Loved a Harper

I wandered further in the woods
a harper tune to hear and
as I pushed the branches back
I stood to listen to the tune.
He played the notes that
climbed the clouds
and burrowed into leafy piles
of rotting life on forest floor
and I could not help but
adore the man who stood in
ray of sun beneath the canopy
high above and love became
the siren song that held me
still though I would leave
and hasten to my home alone.
I could not move as mesmerized
he lifted saddened blinded eyes.
His playing stilled, he called to
me. “Who waits there, for I
cannot see?” I answered.
“I would hear some more.
lured here by music on the wind
I am alone and wish no harm.”
His fingers worked the mighty
strings and chorus sweet
he played for me and I began to
sing the words I knew not
still I sang and still he played
late into night,
and sight would be no obstacle
for hearts can hear and speak
a language eyes could never
understand. The music led me to
him and music bid me stay.
He took my hand and walked with
me. I took him home that day,
and now the harper is my own
and music makes our hearts
it’s home.

Grace Rains

prompts: squeaky and clean

rain falls down
in sheets and streaks
and weeks of water
raining down on dirty stained
and grimy slimy dust and
grit and split the seams of pretty covers
over head and under foot so put the soap
out let the rope out lather up and polish
all the dirty hands and muddy feet that
walked where grass is not so sweet
the face is fine it’s mind where
rain won’t reach so just believe
not sway to left or right keep pure in
sight and pray to stand not lean to
keep the heart so squeaky clean so
scrub it up and you will find a new soul
underneath the mess the laces tied
so tight so loose them open up the door
let more love in grace pours out
for all us children needing cleaning

September 4

Writer’s Book of Days prompt: You eavesdrop on a conversation.  What do you hear?

Tender Center

3 Word Wednesday CCIV: break negative surface

the skin bleeds but
bones don’t break
it’s only surface pain

don’t let negative
touch the center
open up the vein

life is never
chocolate covered
melting in the rain

hearts muscle
keeps beating
captive in chains

September 3

Writer’s Book of Days prompt: Write about your neighborhood at 5 P.M.

September 2

Writer’s Book of Days prompt: “It was Sunday morning.” (after Sharon Olds)

September 1

Writer’s Book of Days prompt: Write a December memory.