How you do anything is how you do everything,
so in my case, distractedly. I started this poem two days ago, got sidetracked by my brain, forever diverging from the task at hand, or maybe my hand just set the pencil God knows where, reached for a snack or hovered brainless over the rocks that line my windowsill. I am holding one now. It isn’t sure what to make of itself. From a distance, it is charcoal with a few white flecks stuck to its surface like marshmallow fluff, but held close, it is all aberration. It is bits of chocolate and crumbled graham, and maybe you see what I’m dealing with here— I wanted to tell you about flickers and smoke, how my brain can’t look at any one thing for long before I need to blink or move or light something on fire. I wanted to tell you about distraction. Instead, I am licking my lips, stroking a stone.
The Prompt
My desk is covered with dozens of rocks, a few acorns, and a handful of shells, including one from a snail. Also books, papers, pencils, and a rapidly growing aloe plant, threatening to push us all to the floor. I’m not especially tidy, in case you’re wondering. If I were one of those super organized left brain types, maybe I would find it interesting to tally the items on my desk. In any case, there’s little doubt that rocks outnumber the other desk dwellers by a substantial margin.
I reach for them reflexively when I am reading or writing or stressed or bored. Most of the above poem was written with my right hand, while I held a stone in my left. And that’s my weird invitation to you today: hold a rock in one hand, write a poem with the other. Like for real. If you have a rock in your house already, great! If not, take a stroll and find one, or borrow a stone from a neighbor or friend. (I’d love to hear how you explain that particular request!)
Spend a little time getting to know your rock before you begin writing—before you even wonder what to write about. Just feel its weight in your palm. Notice its temperature and texture. Wonder about its story—how old it is, where it has been, and what it has endured. If the rock tells you to do something that is within the bounds of your personal moral code and the laws of the land, then listen. You might, for example, hold it over your heart or toss it from hand to hand or, I don’t know, lick it? Be a little silly if you’d like. Chat with the rock. Tell it a secret.
When you’re ready, let the rock rest in one hand (or perhaps on your knee if you insist on typing with two hands) and begin to write. You don’t need to write a poem about a rock—and you don’t need to write a poem not about a rock. Just start with whatever comes up, and see where it takes you. I mean, I subjected you to a poem about my covert yearning for s’mores, so I’d say anything goes.
I am so looking forward to reading what you share! And even if you aren’t up to sharing a poem of your own, I encourage you to check out the comments thread. There is such humor, intelligence, kindness, and utter gorgeousness there. You may just find another poet or two whom you’d like to follow!
"If" you already have a rock in your house 🤣 (of course I do). This is delightful.
Stone
.
It was easy to find, a smooth little rock
from my son’s Dig-It-Up Kit, dark gray
with snowflakes falling on its polished surface.
.
It’s been lying around the house, destined
to be swallowed by the dog at some point
if we leave it long enough. But as I ask him about it,
.
as I hold it in my hand, my eyes move to the peach pit
(also known as a stone) that I just cut from a peach
for my two youngest, who don’t love the crisp
.
I made in honor of summer, the scant handful
of blackberries I managed to pull from the low vines
huddled across from the house, which my oldest son
.
warned me to wash well, because it’s where the dog
likes to pee on his evening walk, and they opted instead
for one ripe peach split between them, then another ripe peach
.
the stone wet and brown, always looking a little carved
like a treasure someone whittled with a tiny knife
then hid safely inside the soft fruit.