Promptly This June: Unplugged Poems

Googling 'poetry prompts' brought me this, from Writer's Digest.

 

Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 221

Categories: Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

May 29, 2013 | Robert Lee Brewer

   

Over the past weekend, I took Friday off work and “unplugged” myself from nearly all my electronics (except my phone, which I barely used) until Monday night. So four days and four nights (if including Thursday night) without e-mail, social media, blogging, websites, etc. As a person constantly immersed in media, it felt liberating to pull the plug.
For this week’s prompt, write an unplugged poem. The plug could be attached to computers, but maybe it’s a metaphor for relationships that need the plug pulled. Or a phase of your life. Or a way of thinking. Or a toaster. Just a toaster.

-----------------------------------------------------

I'm going to have to do this with pen and paper first, to remember being unplugged. When I took my first poetry courses in college, it was all pen and paper.




The Cool Lamp


Our cool blue lamp broke in transit
One item from a household of goods
Chairs and antique platters, movies and crystal and hope
Driven here in a POD and set in the new driveway.

We unpacked ourselves less carefully than we could have.
We rushed into a larger space than we knew, going in.
Sharp pieces hid in many corners.

Unused but not discarded
The strong metal base sits in a closet
Dusty and dim as the hopes and crystal, now
Disconnected from our energy.



© By Mari Kozlowski, June 18, 2013


 

Promptly This June! June 12th, The Man in the Park

Here's one I picked up from WD's online prompt source, http://www.writersdigest.com/prompts.

The Man in the Park

 

May 3, 2013 | Brian A. Klems

  

 

 

You get back to your studio to develop pictures from the hour you just spent in the park. All of the pictures turn out well, except for a select few. In six photographs, there is a man in the frame. Something seems slightly off, and rather strange about each picture. Who is he and what is weird about the photographs?

500 words or less.

----------------------------------

Neela laid out her afternoon's work, smiling-- the colors, the action she'd captured on film, were the makings of a fine collage, a set piece to be bleached and stained, in parts, hung against other finds from the park like the twisted twig still adorned with half a cocoon, or the heron feather, her prize of the day. Four hours of shooting & gathering, and another two in the darkroom, she considered well spent. She walked around her craft table pushing pics towards or away from each other, as a natural arrangement suggested itself.

 There was core of ten, she felt, the lynchpin of the piece emerging in her mind's eye-- each filled with movement from animals, wind-rippled leaves and a generous splash of sun-struck cityscape in the background. She slid the group of photos together and apart, testing her ideas. One of the core had an odd blue edge to it, on the right side. She swung her overhead light to a tighter focus, and noticed that several more of the core had the same edging of blue.

(unfinished)


 

Promptly This June

 That's my unsubtle play on words, since here it is, already my little sister's Birthday, June 9th.

 Of course I called her, hush now.


 If you've been keeping up with me, you know I've just had major surgery, a full hysterectomy. I've been home for over a week now; I went in on a Wednesday and came home that Friday. Normally I don't heal all that fast, so this amazing turnaround is heartening. Still, I've blocked out my calendar for June and July as Healing months.

 Healing is boring sometimes, though, when you can't go outside alone, or drive, and you don't look decent enough to have visitors that aren't related. So I've decided to use a new prompt here, every few days or so, to keep my head moving and the ideas flowing.

 I won't keep them to fiction alone, variety is Necessary right now.

First one, below. 'Night night!

---------------------------------------
From P&W, my easy source for prompts.

Ten-Second Essays

 

Read James Richardson’s aphorisms or “ten-second essays." Pick one that resonates with you, and use the aphorism as an epigraph or starting off point for a poem.


11.
ll stones are broken stones.

--------------------------

Around the edge of the sidewalk, in the street or garden

stones are broken, pieces of hardness

not hard enough to have stayed whole

like your child's heart that still beats in two places--

a half-forgotten past and the idealized future

we were building with curved cast-off tiles 

when the moon came down and shattered us, too.



© By Mari Kozlowski, June 9, 2013


 

 

Story-A-Day May: Why Witches Won't Cross Water

I began this the other day, and will finish it when I finish it. But here's what I have.

 

 

-----------------------

 

 Three witches walked the long, high road along the banks of Mongee River, taking its twists and tussocks easily in their stride. They wore strong boots with thick, wide soles that helped them to conquer the uneven turf without so much as a turned ankle all the day.

 

 The youngest walked ahead of her older sisters, being the most sure-footed and the best navigator. It was always her job to foresee perturbances and find a path around them, whether walking miles of bumpy, muddy ground or setting out a perfect tea party for a wealthy family that might purchase the special services the sisters offered. She had been uprooting obstacles for 78 years now and it was second nature to her, never questioned or reflected upon.

 

 Till they came to the door in the water.

 

 It was 7 feet high, made seemingly of the shimmering live river water it swirled up from, and blocking their path at a narrow juncture between tightly grown trees on one side, and a rock formation on the other. The older two stopped several yards shy of the thing, and glanced to their problem-solving sibling.

 

“Well, Ruby, what do you make of that?” asked the oldest.

 

Her young sister stepped close to the door, without touching it. Within the set shape, the fluid moved rapidly, rushing and foaming; she watched as live fish swam about their business, apparently unaware of the odd change affecting their environment.

 

“Perhaps someone has cast a spell, Lu,” she suggested.

 

“Powerful spell.” Lu observed. Beside her, Jacklyn nodded, stroking her chin.

 

“Elementalism, I guess. But for what purpose?” she said.

 

 She stared at Ruby, and Ruby stared at the amazing door, lost in its beauty. Her sisters waited with some calm, expecting her to suggest a course of action, perhaps perform a counter-spell. But she did nothing for a quarter of an hour. The air was growing cold, when Jacklyn got tired of waiting.

 

 “Ruby! It’s chilly near this damned door. Fix it! We’ve got work to do in Kelfield early tomorrow. We have to go.”

 

“Don’t know what to do.” Ruby came out of her contemplation with no idea of how to get pas the door safely. Well, just one.

 

“We could walk through it,” she said. “It’s water.”

 

Jacklyn shook her head. “Could be more than just water. It’s animated, and who knows by what?”

“Or who.” Lu added.

 

 Ruby sighed and tried to think hard on the problem, but nothing came to her. They couldn’t climb the trees, as the branches were too thin to support them, but too closely set to push through. They couldn’t climb the slippery rocks safely, as they were too wet and steep. She knew her sisters hoped she could spell it away, but she knew she had no such power in her, and besides, she didn’t want to destroy it— she found it wondrous. There must be something else to do.

 

 Jacklyn stood fairly steaming in disapproval, yet Ruby couldn’t come up with a useful idea.

 

“Maybe we should turn back and find a way to go around this.”

 

Lu scowled. “After all this walking?”

 

“What choice do we have?”

 

“Always another choice. Just need to find it.” Jacklyn grunted.

 

 She scratched her head, and began to think on the issue herself, something she was unused to doing. The older sisters would happily put their full powers and concentration into any task, so long as they didn’t have to decide on the task; that was Ruby’s job. But there was work to be done elsewhere, and the daylight was going. Beams of red gold sunset filtered through the door, splashing rainbow shadows onto the wet wall of rock. It was beautiful, she’d admit, but probably dangerous, and damned annoying.

 

“Could we call our friend Havre?” she asked, and ruby shook her head.

 

 “He’s on a mission, remember? Rescuing that dragon egg he heard about.”

 

“That’s right.” Jacklyn said.  

 

Lu leaned against the nearest tree and rubbed her calf.

 

“We might have to camp here, if this goes on much longer.”

 

“Too dangerous.” Jacklyn said. “Can’t sleep near a magic door you didn’t call.”
 

“Then we'd better get past it!” Lu stood up again, angry and tired. Ruby could feel her frustration, and she decided to try the only way she had left.

 

 “I’ll go through first. I’ll find out if it’s safe.” she offered.

 

“No.” Jacklyn said, but Ruby blew her a kiss and stepped through the glistening clear door before she could change her mind, and disappeared. Lu stepped back from the door, a horrified look on her face. Jacklyn just looked angry.

 

“Damn!” she cried, “Why didn’t you grab her arm?”

 

“She moved too fast!” Lu said. Her voice cracked, and she sobbed. “Why didn’t she try a spell first?”

 

“We’ll have to try to spell her back,” Jacklyn said, “or else follow.”

 

Lu wiped her eyes and stepped back further. She had no desire to go through that door, even to save her sister.

© By Mari Kozlowski, May 24, 2013

Story-A-Day May: The Tangled

If you saw the way she looked the last time I saw her, you'd never believe that she used to be pretty, engaging, have a sort of bright mind, and be the kind of calmly hip person to inspire a child. But she was.

 This girl, a slovenly, sad, mind-mangled creature, was once the fresh young thing that taught me to wash my hair properly. Three sisters I had then, yet it was a high school dropout that had gotten preggers at the age of 14, that showed me what I needed to do.

 It was like this: I had cleaned my hair, I thought, and was having trouble brushing it through. I think I was 9, or maybe 8 or 10-- somewhere there in the firm hand of pre-teen silliness and self-consciousness.

 S. saw me flailing around, and offered to comb me out. She was over to see my sister, her friend, but really to share our family's vibe, since hers was kinda more fucked up than ours. I think she had a crush on my oldest brother, too. And the first thing she did was tell me not to use a brush on wet hair, because it could tear it and cause tangles and split ends.

 This piece of advice made her an instant guru to me. She went to our bathroom and found a slim, long rat-tail comb, and began trying to fix my hair with it, but I hadn't gotten all the shampoo, and then conditioner, rinsed out. it was clotted in clumps and itchy as hell.

 "You have to rinse it better, Mary." she told me, and then took me into the bathroom and made me stick my head under the faucet. She rinsed me clear, then put a little cream rinse in, combed it through, rinsed it out again, and this is the brilliant part-- showed me what it should feel like when I had it really clean. That feeling against your fingers, that lets you know you're done.

 Then she towel dried my head and combed carefully through every single strand, starting gently at the bottom instead of the top, showing me how that would remove tangles without stretching, pulling and tearing my fine, thin straight flyaway hair. She must have spent 45 minutes or more helping me, which is approximately 44 minutes more than any of my brothers or sisters had spent with me since I left infancy.   

 She and my sister parted ways with much acrimony, amid suspicions of someone seducing someone they weren't supposed to; my kind mother, who was called Mom by at least 2 dozen more children than she had actually produced, kept in touch with S. for years, allowing the progressively misguided girl to call her and spill out her troubles from time to time.

The girl's son had been taken from her at fifteen, then returned, then taken again. She herself went in and out of mental wards and was put on nearly every kind of brain-altering drug that existed back then. Her intelligence dropped by degrees, and her judgment of men's intentions, never very sound, got her into all kinds of scrapes and heartbreak. the last time I spoke with her, she was barely capable of speaking a coherent sentence.

 It's one the saddest little true stories I know. I wouldn't want to see her, now, because she isn't that hopeful helpful girl anymore, but a piece of human wreckage. The sadness of her life depletes me, if I think of it too often.

 So this is for her, wherever she is: a small, useless, but heartfelt thank you for the attention and care she gave me one afternoon, long ago. Whatever others feel about her, I choose to remember that sweet chunk of time she offered, and her generous concern about something everyone around me had ignored. It made a big difference in my perception of myself, and my understanding of why I should take care of myself.

 I hope she has found some unexpected generosity, herself.




© By Mari Kozlowski, May 22, 2013

Story-A-Day May... slowing, but still going.

A week of being terribly sick has left me behind again. What to do?

 Jump in and stop worrying about what I didn't finish (four stories with no ending) and get into it NOW.


 -----------------------------------------------
Summer land of WNY



 In a breeze from the lake, you can smell five things, or six, or seven. Lake Erie's beaches carry the scent of fish, of smoke, of seaweed (or lake weed, to be specific), of rotting logs, of clean-washed air, of baking sand, and the coconut scent of tanned teenagers sweating in the sun, displaying their golden greased curves to each other in hopes of hooking up around the bonfire later.

 Looking out from the edge is similar to looking at the ocean. It seems every bit as endless, but the weight of water you feel as you stare is less. In first morning sunlight, an unbroken wall of white gold shimmers too brightly to take for long; no visible division of sky and water exists. I have seen the Atlantic, and two of the Great Lakes-- the lakes are still stunning.

 There is a lovely coastal feel to the areas around the lakes, as well-- people buy cottages and spend two or even three seasons there, where the living is simpler and time has its own lake-set pace. You may have to get up early and drive in to town to work the next day, but if the stars are beautiful and the grill is going, it isn't bedtime yet. When you do lay head to pillow, you'll sleep the sound sleep of the profoundly grateful, hearing nothing but your own breath and the soft crick of a window somewhere, moving slightly as it holds against the low wind off the water. The waves are felt rather than heard, a rich slow hum that soothes and protects your dreams. Heroically tall pines sway and open onto a living darkness of indigo sky.


© By Mari Kozlowski, May 19, 2013

Story-A-Day May: Hothouse Burdens

Lilly has a crown she will wear this morning, when her groom climbs the high hill and the players strum their green-stringed goldbedums, singing softly into the moist air of May.

The circlet is made of silver leaves, dotted here and there with water gems, the costly ones that look like emerald. They are fixed in the centers, or at the shiny tips of the worked metal leaves like dewdrops about to fall or evaporate. Many enslaved artisans helped in the making of this beautiful thing, an item of rare grace that Lilly will wear ever after only for the most special and sacred occasions.

It does not dawn on her that her people, who are starving, may look upon the jeweled artifact with resentment, wondering why she has the nerve to flaunt her stolen wealth at them. She has no fears that her countrymen and subjects might look with distaste or even disgust at the explicit show of expansiveness, might revile the largesse of her wedding feast, where they would not be welcome.

It doesn't cross her mind, because it isn't so-- the people, hungry and falling daily from sicknesses associated with inadequate nutrition, want nothing but the best for their queen. They would have it no other way, than that she should make them proud by looking as richly refined as the princesses of the three wealthier countries that border theirs. The image of their young queen, lovely as a blossoming tree as she speaks her vows, is what they wish for this morning, to hold in their hearts through the drought-ridden summer to come. Their crops will die soon, after stunted yields, but her glory will rain on them all.

 © By Mari Kozlowski, May 5, 2013