When I dream about my childhood home, red brick and built on a hill, it’s always surrounded by devastation, by some fresh dystopia like a world that still circles the sun, but has turned on itself so long it’s flattened and folded.
I love this Tamsin! It brought me right back to "penny candy"--yikes, and those times when the wrapper stuck to the candy, and my teeth, and all we wanted to do with some new found money was to run down and buy candy! I really like your ending :
And a gambolling cartoon/fluffy dog adventures with/a harassed cat watched on/a tiny black and white screen/the theme tune settling in for/a cosy ear worm/ And an open fire below a/ Copper hood, carefully tended.
Thank you for that heart rending and heart breaking poem. Your question "why did he stop loving me..." echoing across the ages, asked by so many with no answer ever reasonable. My hearts and prayers are with the little boy who asks the question, and the good adult man who may still wonder of the answer.
Oooh, I know the prompt was not exactly dystopian dreams, but those are one of my favorite gifts from my brain -- better than Netflix! -- so that's where I took this.
This is a dystopian delight, Rebekah! I like its soberness, humor and sense of apprehension mixed with poetic pragmatism. I love where you take the prompts--keep on dreaming!
I was drawn right into this, Margaret Ann. Your language is so easy to just fall into. Plus, yes, what the hell, why do I suddenly feel every little scrape or cut (especially on my hands) when I'm trying to sleep!?
Thank you 💛. Yes, it’s so odd. It’s partly why I keep a box of bandaids in my nightstand. If any cuts feels too sensitive, it gets covered for the night so I can finally sleep 😵💫.
This song I discovered 42 years after its release stsay with me, and when I thought of your prompt today, the first line that poured out was the refrain of the song. The song is more beautiful than my poem, but writing it let me listen to the song a few times in a row. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vFyVrz0_F8
Ribbon in the Sky
^
“There is a ribbon in the sky
for our love.”
I excitedly played the song I stumbled upon
while looking for a song about rainbows,
and rushed to play it for you.
“This song reminds me of us”
I smile as we listen silently.
“What does it mean” you wonder.
Decades of truth telling answer
“I don’t know.
I just know it is beautiful
and if I had known of it then
would have danced with you
to it at our wedding.”
And though I can’t recall the song we did dance to
or know exactly what a ribbon in the sky might be,
First off, loved your poem, especially the multi-meaning "turned on itself."
Second, thanks for the invitation to just write without worry. Some of my poems that I quite like came as "second" poems, after I gave myself permission to just scrawl something out, and then for whatever reason felt ready to write another poem, sometimes leaving the first abandoned halfway.
Thank you, Mike! I've had that same experience with second poems many times over. (Or third or fourth poems, on occasion.) It's like a creek dammed by leaves and twigs. Once that blockage moves (the murky or meh or downright shitty first poem), the clear water behind it can finally fully flow.
Actually, if I'm honest, poop metaphors were coming to mind first, but I'm trying not to go there.
This is incredibly beautiful, Lisa, and I am so glad you let the first sentence take to such a lovely poem. I do hope that Zebras and microchips do get time in future poems--perhaps the same poem!--but this one is exquisite. This paragrpah is one of the most profound I have read since the election, and I truly thank you for the depths of this sad heart:
"A part of me reads the news or tracks the weather and sees the end of everything I love. A part of me senses this same fear in so many others. That part of me wanted and needed expression in this poem. She’s not the only part of me. I am also sturdy bricks and cozy pajamas. I am also a voice reaching out, nourishing connection with other voices. But my fear wanted and needed to find expression here. I released the urge to get in her way—to bend her into something more upbeat or mold her into something more poetic. I just let the poem be what it wanted to be."
Thank YOU, Larry! Really, truly, thank you for the thoughtful and kind way you show up in every single comment. (But don't let me box you in! If you ever need to be a jerk for a day, I'm here for you!)
I love this, Lisa. Dreams can be so rich and then so fleeting at the same time. It was like the poem was able to open more of the dream for you. Your prompt reminds of Annie Lamott’s idea of writing the shitting first draft. I have a poem I’ve been trying to write since last Christmas and it’s just starting to come together.
I love the notion of the shitty first draft so much! When I first started writing poetry (more or less in January 2023), I dubbed it the Year of Shitty Poetry and vowed to write a poem a day. I didn't quite manage it, but I did churn out maybe 150 or so poems, and I think it was that permission for them to be shitty that made that possible. And when you write 150 shitty poems (or essays or lines of fiction), you land on a few good things in the mix, too.
I love that you have stayed with or continued to return to the poem you've been trying to write since last Christmas! That's a muscle I still need to build.
I’m sure there many gems in the 150 poems! The poem has done a lot of sitting around between drafts. Sometimes I try to force poems or give up when there’s something to come back to. This was one I really wanted to come back to.
This is delightful, Katta! "Nothing / Most people fear it / Yet I relish it." You drew me right in. I relish it, too, when I remember to leave my phone in the next room!
Your publication was recommended to me by a close friend and I already love what I seeee.. Would've put something out but I probably will as I read through your other pieces.. As for the writing process, it hasn't really changed much for me, it's always been a spilling whenever it's me and an empty page.. Sometimes I have a central quote or thought (usually randomly scribbled) and it grows branches and roots from there and then afterward, I read it out to myself and I'm shocked some days at what I uncover.
Your process sounds a lot like mine, at least most days! I'm so glad you're here and am keeping my fingers crossed that I'll get to read one of your poems sometime down the line.
So odd, only meant to write the marvel at your regular creation (always had writer's block), but it seemed I needed to explain my refusal of a reasonable ask, with my rather irrational hope, that I had not quite entirely capitulated to an exit with no trace, & that as well, sometimes our best hope is the wholly un-crafted but certain persistence of truth. Hit send before thinking it might be taken as verse... or wouldn't have, I suspect. Perhaps it was the context you've created that allows this so peculiar of a result. ;)
I tried this - it’s not finished nor revised - it needs a banger of a last verse
The candle gutters puffing
sweet rhubarb and custard
mixed with smokey burnt wick
a scent from childhood
of four for a penny chews
pink and yellow wrappers
refusing to part completely
from the hard candy beneath
that threatened to crack teeth
the extra paper gummy on lips
And a gambolling cartoon
fluffy dog adventures with
a harassed cat watched on
a tiny black and white screen
the theme tune settling in for
a cosy ear worm
And an open fire below a
Copper hood, carefully tended,
I could taste the candy in my mouth (wrapper and all) reading your poem! Lovely. I’d love to see where you end up going from here.
This is so rich, Tasmin! I can easily feel myself there.
Thank you ☺️
I love this Tamsin! It brought me right back to "penny candy"--yikes, and those times when the wrapper stuck to the candy, and my teeth, and all we wanted to do with some new found money was to run down and buy candy! I really like your ending :
And a gambolling cartoon/fluffy dog adventures with/a harassed cat watched on/a tiny black and white screen/the theme tune settling in for/a cosy ear worm/ And an open fire below a/ Copper hood, carefully tended.
Thank you for sharing this!
Did you ever get the Rhubarb and Custard cartoons in the US? Have a look on YouTube if you haven’t seen them, they are ace.
I have never seen them but will take a look! Thank you!
Ok, here goes:
My father is the only one
Who ever loved and cared for me
I was his oldest son
I was his pride and joy
He always worked
Helping me improve
When he rolled the car
Running from police
Avoiding a ticket
He took care of me
I was his only passenger
Bashed my head on the ashtray
On the back of the front seat
As cars were made then
No seatbelts then
Left with a big scar
On my forehead
Right across my widow’s peak
A sign of courage
I didn’t cry—that I remember
I was brave as I should
Because I now was five.
So why did he stop loving me
Why did he leave me at eight
Partying with three friends
Just a little alcohol
Returning from Mexican border town
Why did he leave me
Four dead, he was driving
Why did he leave me
Was I such a disappointment
Jim, this is beautiful and devastating. Thank you so much for sharing. 💔❤️
Dang it Lisa. I was just following your exercise this morning and wrote in haste and now reading your reply I have wet eyes.
Jim, this is so raw and beautiful. I ache for that little boy.
Thank you for that heart rending and heart breaking poem. Your question "why did he stop loving me..." echoing across the ages, asked by so many with no answer ever reasonable. My hearts and prayers are with the little boy who asks the question, and the good adult man who may still wonder of the answer.
Oooh, I know the prompt was not exactly dystopian dreams, but those are one of my favorite gifts from my brain -- better than Netflix! -- so that's where I took this.
.
I dreamt I was incompetent,
unable even to order a chai.
.
Chai is not my usual drink
but on this day it was
essential, coming at the end
of an interminable bus ride
with dozens of others,
none of us quite there by choice,
and after the bus ride a solemn,
triple-file queue --
three parallel chains
stretching through
an otherwise empty terminal,
with me running alongside
scanning faces and finding
only strangers.
.
When the checkpoint arrived
it resembled a coffee stand
but was clearly some kind of test.
How I flunked was I
requested two different drink sizes,
then tried to pay with
Monopoly money, and this earned me
two sips of tea in a four-ounce cup,
and no information.
.
But I remembered the skyline
from the bus ride in. I had
remarked to my seatmate that
I knew it from The Walking Dead –
it was Atlanta before
Rick’s long sleep.
We chuckled wryly at the metaphor.
The world was too busy for
this virus. The apocalypse was still
anecdotal. But we were its
long fingers snaking in, we were
the first to fall.
This is so juicy! I laughed aloud (and heartily) at the second-to-last stanza. I love the emotional turns this poem takes, just like a dream.
This is a dystopian delight, Rebekah! I like its soberness, humor and sense of apprehension mixed with poetic pragmatism. I love where you take the prompts--keep on dreaming!
Wounds
.
I keep feeling tiny wounds on my hands
When I can’t sleep, a cut that won’t heal
A raised bump where I remember
Laying my hand against the edge of a pan
And then jerking it back, burned.
A paper cut from breaking down a box
A nick from grating cucumbers.
Sometimes I can’t remember why I’m hurt
Why it stings and aches and makes me wince
And maybe it’s better that way.
I was drawn right into this, Margaret Ann. Your language is so easy to just fall into. Plus, yes, what the hell, why do I suddenly feel every little scrape or cut (especially on my hands) when I'm trying to sleep!?
Thank you 💛. Yes, it’s so odd. It’s partly why I keep a box of bandaids in my nightstand. If any cuts feels too sensitive, it gets covered for the night so I can finally sleep 😵💫.
This song I discovered 42 years after its release stsay with me, and when I thought of your prompt today, the first line that poured out was the refrain of the song. The song is more beautiful than my poem, but writing it let me listen to the song a few times in a row. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vFyVrz0_F8
Ribbon in the Sky
^
“There is a ribbon in the sky
for our love.”
I excitedly played the song I stumbled upon
while looking for a song about rainbows,
and rushed to play it for you.
“This song reminds me of us”
I smile as we listen silently.
“What does it mean” you wonder.
Decades of truth telling answer
“I don’t know.
I just know it is beautiful
and if I had known of it then
would have danced with you
to it at our wedding.”
And though I can’t recall the song we did dance to
or know exactly what a ribbon in the sky might be,
I do know our love was meant for a lifetime.
After all the wrong turns and shifting shadows
that ribbon rainbow keeps emerging,
shining and singing and full of surprise,
a lifetime journey into sunset.
This is so tender and sweet! If I ever fall in love again, I hope it's a ribbon-in-the-sky-even-through-the-storms kind of love.
First off, loved your poem, especially the multi-meaning "turned on itself."
Second, thanks for the invitation to just write without worry. Some of my poems that I quite like came as "second" poems, after I gave myself permission to just scrawl something out, and then for whatever reason felt ready to write another poem, sometimes leaving the first abandoned halfway.
Thank you, Mike! I've had that same experience with second poems many times over. (Or third or fourth poems, on occasion.) It's like a creek dammed by leaves and twigs. Once that blockage moves (the murky or meh or downright shitty first poem), the clear water behind it can finally fully flow.
Actually, if I'm honest, poop metaphors were coming to mind first, but I'm trying not to go there.
This is incredibly beautiful, Lisa, and I am so glad you let the first sentence take to such a lovely poem. I do hope that Zebras and microchips do get time in future poems--perhaps the same poem!--but this one is exquisite. This paragrpah is one of the most profound I have read since the election, and I truly thank you for the depths of this sad heart:
"A part of me reads the news or tracks the weather and sees the end of everything I love. A part of me senses this same fear in so many others. That part of me wanted and needed expression in this poem. She’s not the only part of me. I am also sturdy bricks and cozy pajamas. I am also a voice reaching out, nourishing connection with other voices. But my fear wanted and needed to find expression here. I released the urge to get in her way—to bend her into something more upbeat or mold her into something more poetic. I just let the poem be what it wanted to be."
Thank you LIsa!
Thank YOU, Larry! Really, truly, thank you for the thoughtful and kind way you show up in every single comment. (But don't let me box you in! If you ever need to be a jerk for a day, I'm here for you!)
Ha! Thank you Lisa! My inner jerk stays hidden in the basement!!!😊
Haha, we all have one of those!
I love this, Lisa. Dreams can be so rich and then so fleeting at the same time. It was like the poem was able to open more of the dream for you. Your prompt reminds of Annie Lamott’s idea of writing the shitting first draft. I have a poem I’ve been trying to write since last Christmas and it’s just starting to come together.
I love the notion of the shitty first draft so much! When I first started writing poetry (more or less in January 2023), I dubbed it the Year of Shitty Poetry and vowed to write a poem a day. I didn't quite manage it, but I did churn out maybe 150 or so poems, and I think it was that permission for them to be shitty that made that possible. And when you write 150 shitty poems (or essays or lines of fiction), you land on a few good things in the mix, too.
I love that you have stayed with or continued to return to the poem you've been trying to write since last Christmas! That's a muscle I still need to build.
I’m sure there many gems in the 150 poems! The poem has done a lot of sitting around between drafts. Sometimes I try to force poems or give up when there’s something to come back to. This was one I really wanted to come back to.
I find that things are always moving under the surface, so sometimes stepping away and stepping back is all the magic that’s needed!
Thank you for the prompt, and I so enjoyed reading about your piece!
Here’s my go - definitely non revised and not much rhythm or structure to it, however I did enjoy it!
Nothing.
Most people fear it.
Yet I relish it.
That feeling of nothingness
The calm, the content, the present.
Nothing to fear nothing to fixate on.
I wonder if this is what peace feels like?
The one the Buddhists talk about.
I decide that it is,
On this Sunday morning,
Coffee sipped,
next to my love.
This is peace.
This is delightful, Katta! "Nothing / Most people fear it / Yet I relish it." You drew me right in. I relish it, too, when I remember to leave my phone in the next room!
Yes a vital element of the nothingness! 🙏 thank you for your kind encouragement!
Your publication was recommended to me by a close friend and I already love what I seeee.. Would've put something out but I probably will as I read through your other pieces.. As for the writing process, it hasn't really changed much for me, it's always been a spilling whenever it's me and an empty page.. Sometimes I have a central quote or thought (usually randomly scribbled) and it grows branches and roots from there and then afterward, I read it out to myself and I'm shocked some days at what I uncover.
Thank you for sharing Lisa :)
Your process sounds a lot like mine, at least most days! I'm so glad you're here and am keeping my fingers crossed that I'll get to read one of your poems sometime down the line.
Nearly 71, and still dare not write with such inspired courage. Or, at all.
My son keeps asking. I keep saying I’m still trying to learn how.
But my dream is the bits here, and there, and times past, cohere as I dissolve.
And that he will find them someday and recognize us.
We are all still learning here, Mark! And this is beautiful. "That he will find them someday and recognize us" - wow!
But thanks, I've loved poetry all my life, and I'm glad you've done this!
So odd, only meant to write the marvel at your regular creation (always had writer's block), but it seemed I needed to explain my refusal of a reasonable ask, with my rather irrational hope, that I had not quite entirely capitulated to an exit with no trace, & that as well, sometimes our best hope is the wholly un-crafted but certain persistence of truth. Hit send before thinking it might be taken as verse... or wouldn't have, I suspect. Perhaps it was the context you've created that allows this so peculiar of a result. ;)
I suspect you have all sort of peculiar magic inside you waiting for an outlet! We all do. Thinking sure does get in the way sometimes, doesn't it?
She said, to the nerd… 😏
Whew. Your poem packs a wallop, Lisa. Off to try this myself.
Thanks, Margaret Ann! As far as I can tell, every prompt you touch turns to gold. But poems of all tints and metals are of course welcome!
Cue massive blushing 😊😊😊