They met on a Sunday, the skaters
twenty-two of them, each
essential to the team, a kind
of human chain outlining
a mighty figure eight in
the flooded frozen field.
Come and peek through nearby boughs
to watch the twenty-two as they
slide and glide on knife-edged skates,
cutting the ice, making crystals fly.
Distant mountains shield their green
in a veil of new-fallen snow, all a
silent wonderland, a sight
to make your heart stand still.
Watch the mist of your breath
appear and know that you are here.
This was written in response to Miz Quickly’s “Anything Monday” prompt for January 11. I believe I used eight of ten words from the list and gave myself a bonus for incorporating just a touch of Da Doo Ron Ron.
In a letter to my younger
self, full of subtly sage advice,
witticisms, aphorisms, nothing
suggesting condescension born of
knowledge bestowed on me by virtue
of my advancing years, not that
there’s a thimbleful of virtue in
all of that.
“Be brave; follow your dreams; don’t fall
for weight-loss scheme; don’t wait for
Mr. Right; always keep moving, but stop
to look at the stars.
The only thing you’ll regret is what’s left
undone when what’s done is done.”
(I doubt that you will read this anyway.)
This poem was written in response to Miz Quickly’s January 10 prompt to write an epistolary poem.
Square grid of numbered boxes
bordered in ordered blackness.
Numbered clues, across and down.
Gradual filling in of spaces
Pencil or ink? Erase or cross out?
Dimming vision mandates ink.
Near the end now. Shall I cheat?
Google makes it feel like “research.”
Google search says many do.
Don’t I see myself above that? Yet
do I have the time to ponder,
even for a moment more?
“Wasting time,” some say about it.
My trusty pen knows better though.
She and I are filling grid cells,
saving brain cells, making word spells,
staving off demon dementia
for at least a moment more.
This poem was written for Miz Quickly’s January 9 prompt in which we were to make a list poem by describing attributes of an object or idea. While working on the NYT Sunday crossword, I decided on this.
The world was born out of chaos.
Divine spark or lightning strike.
A cosmic cyclone of creation
and primordial soup
comes into equilibrium.
World born of the whirlwind.
This was written in response to Miz Quickly’s January 8 prompt to create a poem based on a title I chose. This is more a preliminary sketch than a poem, but then again it’s almost 10 PM.
oil on linen 48×78 1986 Chronicle by Ruth Bevatta
Waiting, chatting, hands in pockets, hiding, holding, on hold
For hours anticipating something (someone?) to return.
The traffic stop, the casual cop, belie the
miracle still unclaimed, still unnamed — still
to all a familiar mystery, a known unknown.
Come as you are or as you know you want to be.
This poem was written in response to Miz Quickly’s January 4 ekphrastic prompt. I responded to the painting shown above with a persistent earworm of Leonard Cohen’s Waiting For the Miracle to Come, thus the attempt at an acrostic.
I am essence of Rose Solitude,
single shell wave-abandoned
above the sun-drenched shoreline,
a shell bleached silvery-white.
Shell-shocked, alone, yet inside,
a subtle whisper of pink
shading to rose at its core,
and daring to dream of rebirth.
This was written for Miz Quickly’s January 3 prompt in which we were to select the first line of an existing poem to use as the first line of our newly-created work. This first line is from Rose Solitude by Jayne Cortez.
under leaden skies
boat bobs amid rolling waves
plumbing ocean depths
A haiku(ish) response to Miz Quickly’s prompt for 1/2/16, to write about plumbing.