Lil

    Image from Tess Kincaid

Do not wake me

from my green dreams.

In them we are blameless

perfect, and the garden is ours.

 The marbled world, blue and new

grows through me

like the pit of a peach

I cling to,

fruit sweet and ripe

and dripping

with juices.

No, do not wake me

from my green dreams.

Here are 55 words (including title) for the toads at the Imaginary Garden about the picture from Magpie Tales.  

Dylanw

    Photo by Tess Kincaid: Merchant Seafarers' War Memorial, Cardiff

Where

are we?

blinded and

betrayed by time,

endless skies press down

with the weight of water.

Sanded and salted, preserved,

we thought, like a pearl of great price

lamented but unfound and scattered

so my ribs no longer know each other.

Over at the Imaginary Garden Margaret asked us to "play it again" with a previous prompt. I chose a form called an Etheree, an unrhymed syllable counting form, beginning with a first line of one syllable, and continue for ten lines increasing the syllable count by one each line, as follows: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10.  The image is from Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales and is also posted there.  Please follow the links to both of these outstanding writing sites.

Mother

    Image by Tess Kincaid

She was womb

I was tomb

where her identity

lay down to die

Check out Magpie Tales where Tess Kincaid provies a weekly writing prompt. This one was in color, but I felt B&W was more appropriate for my bleak lines.

Reflections

    Self portrait,Vivlan Maier

Generally when one tries to tinker

with eternity

it does not end well.

The stoutest knots

come undone,

and ends once again

flap loose.

But still there is this

hope

for a sense of

grand purpose,

or at least

a reason to get up each morning,

to brush one’s teeth,

to wash,

to put on one’s  shoes,

one’s shirt,

one’s mask.

And in the meantime

one goes on,

for there are children to be fed

and dishes to be washed

and bills to be paid,

despite the

receding hallway filled

with an overflow of string and boxes

and failed attempts.

And sometimes,

amid the clutter and minutia,

without realizing it,

we get the lighting

and the composition right,

and just sometimes in our wake

we leave something

beautiful.

Photo prompt provided by Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales.  Join us!

When Cowgirls Git Over Their Blues

    Elizabeth Taylor, set of "Giant" by Frank Worth

Life’s a rodeo

life’s a desert

life’s a sand burr

under yer saddle

life’s a hot stinkin’ sun

burnin’ the back a yer stiff, red neck

life’s a hot, sweaty sonofabitch

full’a bullshit n’ Copenhagen.

Imma rope you up

real good 

cowboy.

And I ain’t talkin’ no

eight seconds.

55 for all the Toads in the Imaginary Garden and all the Magpies at The Mag.

Everyday Love

   Steps by Tess Kincaid

I reach for you like a dish.

You read to me over breakfast

while I pour coffee.

There is a coming

and going sort of rhythm

to us.

We are everyday

spoons and forks

not good silver people.

The stairs leading to our room

are well worn.

This is for the writing group Magpie Tales.  Come join us!

Fear of Flying

When I was a child

I never slept at naptime.

I would slowly rise up

to the ceiling and

look down

at my  silent self,

then fly around the room

and out the window.

I’d check on the nest

in the tree outside my window

then go up, through the branches

up through clouds

into the sunshine,

far enough to see the curve of the Earth

pale, in the distance.

As I grew older

my flight time diminished;

still, I excelled in science class

when we learned about meteorology

and cloud formations.

I remembered my time

among them, and counted them

as friends

As an adult,

I have a fear of heights.

I left behind the foolishness,

and the magic,

of flying away from my body

until this morning…

Something is different

and familiar -

a feeling in the back of my throat,

perhaps a change in

barometric pressure

(or grown-up life pressures).

I feel a lightness I haven’t felt in ages…

and the rushing up.

I look down at myself,

zoom once around the room ,

then sail out the window

and across the open field

down the road and out over the ocean.

And now I know,

I was never afraid of heights,

I was afraid

that once I left

I would

never come back.

Check out Magpie Tales by Tess Kincaid for more responses to the image, or add your own.  Image by Martin Stranka.  This is also linked to IGRT open link night.  Go there to read a variety of wonderful poems by some fabulous toads.

Why I Hope God has a Sense of Humor

     Feast in the House of Simon, El Greco

"God is a comedian, playing to an audience too afraid to laugh." - H. L. Mencken

Matthew 26:6, "Now when Jesus was in Bethany, at the home of Simon the leper," 

Jesus: Hey Simon – what do you call a leper taking a bath? 

Simon: No idea Jesus, what?

Jesus: Stew!

All assembled: *groan*

Check out The Mag creative writing group for more responses to the image by El Greco.

Abandoned

     Lee Plaza Hotel, Detroit by Bonnie Beechler

Why do you leave me

like this when you know housekeeping

is not my strong suit?

Check out The Mag for more responses, or add your own, to the prompt by the lovely Tess Kincaid.

Dream

    The Sleeping Gypsy by Henri Rousseau

Pull another dream from your jar

my Bohemian love.

Are you naked?

Flying?  

Chased by wild animals?

Or lost in the empty spaces between the stars?

Check out The Mag, formerly Magpie Tales.

11th August

     Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien

At day’s end

 when shadows were long

we’d sit and dangle bare legs

over the edge

of the fire escape.

Looking down on the city

was sort-of magicy.

The smell of

bus-fumes-liver-and-onions-pot-curry

danced through the air

and the tiny people below

softened into vagueness

as the sun snuck off.

You and I would talk about

far away…

   long ago…

      yet to be…

There were forests 

full of green and grey,

swimming pools,

and yards big enough for puppies.

There were dragons and gargoyles 

to be dealth with;

criminals to be fought, 

awards to accept.

We could go anywhere,

do anything,

and nothing could stop us.

Except for mama

calling us to bed.

This is for The Mag creative writing site hosted by Tess Kincaid, and also linked to dVerse open link night.  Click on the links and check them out for some great writing.

Of Magpies and Toads

    Muscian in the Rain by Robert Doisneau

I love you darling

with your comfort at arm’s length.

but when rain falls soft

on black and white autumn days

I seek the warmth of your touch.

This is generated by writing prompts from two wonderful writing sites.  The first, IGRT, is responsible for the form, which is called tanka.  A tanka contains 31 syllables in a line pattern of 5/7/5/7/7. Check out the link for a much more complete description, and other writers' tankas.  The second source, The Mag, has provided the picture.  Check that site for more writers' responses to this image.

New York at Night

    New York at Night by Vivian Gucwa

Take my hand

and walk with me

into the night of the world.

Take my hand

and walk with me

into the simmering stars.

Take my hand

and walk with me

into the light of my wound.

Take my hand

and walk with me,

and I will make you whole.

Written for Tess Kincaid at The Mag creative writing group.  Also posted at dVerse Open Link Night.  Click on the links to check them out. 

Past Perfect?

    self-portrait, Francis Bacon

When I look back,

even then,

life was never

just black and white.

There have always

been grey areas.

Always.

Read more at The Mag.

Exit Dancing

    Image: Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, 1895096, Edgar Degas

Enter the closet

with boxes full of dreams,

excess baggage,

skeletons,

dirty laundry,

truth.

Close the door tight.

No.

Open the door,

and come out

dancing.

This image is provided by Tess Kincaid at The Mag creative writing group.  Click on the link and check it out.

Recurrection Reunion

     Resurrection Reunion 2 by Stanley Spencer

What the hell?

Here I am, back again;

dirt up my nose and in my ears,

amid all these crazy people

in woolen stockings.

When time bends over, double

and we step

across the fold

to back-here-again,

then dinosaur oil slicks

knit back

into shining, bone-hard whiteness

covered over in leather-flesh

filled with being.

Dusty tombs

fill with reconstituted blood and juices,

fresh flesh,

so succulent and tender,

lips again kissable

tongues speaking, shrieking

hands pulling aside

death shrouds.
And feet,

my feet,

in woolen stockings

amid all these crazy people;

dirt up my nose and in my ears.

Here I am, back again.

What the hell?

This is for the The Mag creative writing group and also the Nobember PAD prompt from Writer's Digest.  Click on the links and check them out.

On Time

     Image by crilleb50

“We must not allow the clock and the calendar to blind us to the fact that each moment of life is a miracle and mystery.”  -H.G. Wells

I wait for the 12:15 miracle.

It’s late,

but still I sit and wait.

How else will I get to Schenectady?

Written for The Mag creative writing group.  Click on the link and check it out.

Superman Ain't Got Nothin' On Me

Baby I’ll fly you to the stars,

double-clutchin’ all the way.

Superman ain't got nothin' on me.

This is for The Mag, where Tess Kincaid gives us a weekly writing prompt.  Click on the link and check it out.

Heartsong

     Image: Charleston Farmhouse Door

Come on in 

it's open...

Check out The Mag creative writing group hosted by Tess Kincaid.

Thermochemistry

     Image: Ponytail by Last Exit

I breathe you

in long, lovely inspirations

You fill my lungs,

circulate through my

blood stream,

fill me

Finally,

saturated, satiated

I dissolve into

you

*Thermochemistry is the study of the energy and heat associated with chemical reactions and/or physical transformations.

Written for The Mag creative writing site.  Click on the link and check it out.