This is inspired by FOWC: Pizzazz and also Wednesday’s Weekly Scribblings but because it is so late, I am linking it to the Writers’ Pantry also.
History will certainly have pizzazz,
Yes? With truth stranger than fiction
(If anyone can even find it),
Allusions to the Apocalypse rampant,
Conflict in the plot of life outpacing
Many people’s ability to deal.
Is this a stream of consciousness for
The universe (which I wish we could
Go back and edit, reverse)? When will
This nightmare be consigned to history?
A haibun for Writing Wednesday. Join in here!
The news today is that President Trump is suggesting to delay the presidential election until in-person voting is safe. Though absentee mail-in voting is good, he says, to make it universal could lead to massive fraud.
People on the opposite side of the aisle are framing this as the president clinging to his spot in the Oval Office. I don’t think so. Say what you want about Trump; he is right that the potential for voter fraud is higher, and with the way his opponents have hounded him for the past 4 years, he is right to be worried.
I think no matter which way the election swings, it’s bound to be a disaster.
thunder and lightning
shouts of four horsemen ready
skies already gray
I decided to try Prosery again at DVerse. We are “jazzing it up” today. Lillian gives us the choice between two quotations from Carl Sandburg’s poem “Jazz Fantasia.” The one I used is, “Moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops.”
The depression is usually worse in the fall, as the weather tends to be more cold and rainy. I am thinking — I am hoping — spring and summer will get the worst of it this year. I am hoping unsteadily, that in September or October, I can see more friends. Maybe even in person. Maybe I can go to the store and roll my eyes at all the pumpkin spice, and not even have to think about my (not-Halloween) mask. As it is, all day this whole world feels like The Twilight Zone, and some moments I feel so lonely that my soul wants to moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops.
This is a décima for Ronovan’s challenge this week. The word he gives us is “story.”
Little girl’s creativity
Knows no bounds, fears not even seen,
She’s not learned to be timid, mean
To herself — she writes her story.
Perhaps it is written poorly,
Yet its adorable delight
Is evident; and she just might
One day become a great author,
Though some underestimate her:
Growth in imagination’s sight.
This is for Linda Kruschke’s paint-chip poetry #24. These are our inspiration this week:
And here’s what my brain did with that:
When I was a kid
I didn’t have a rubber ducky,
But I did love cheese puffs,
Especially the way they made
Your fingers orange.
(Nothing rhymes with orange.)
In elementary school
I remember learning patriotic
Songs, “purple mountain
Majesties” and all that;
We didn’t know what it meant.
(I don’t know what this means.)
I hope there’s a rhyme and reason
For even the missing things.
Note: I am even more unsure about posting this than before I typed it out, but I’ll do it to show Linda that somebody actually used rubber ducky and cheese puff in a poem. 🙂
At DVerse, for quadrille Monday, we are drumming! I have many positive associations with drums and drumming, so this was fun, but still difficult to write one that I wanted to share. Tell me what you think about this. 🙂
Words are pounding in my mind,
They can’t sneak out of this skull,
But need a pen as a conduit:
My heart speaks nervousness
As it drums against the lungs
Like bongos :
I need to let
The words go
They’ve been muted too much.
This is for Weekly Scribblings, inspired by the playlist which Sanaa provided. This was much more difficult than it probably should have been, but I decided to write based on the song “breathin” by Ariana Grande, even though that’s not usually my type of music. I am also linking with DVerse OLN. Also, this ended up being almost a stream-of-consciousness; I was surprised where it ended up but I guess I’ll share it.
“Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.” ― Victor Hugo
When do lungs get a break?
When do tongues reveal what’s fake
So that they no longer take
Anxiety is inside of me,
Doing anything to become free
Of this rib cage’s constraints —
I wanted to post something today so that I wouldn’t break my almost 2-month streak, but I feel like everything that I have tried to write is bad. So here’s this.
Silent muse mimes
Many times; my
Brain climbs — backwards.
This is for Linda G. Hill’s SoCS: Cave.
The human psyche’s cavernous
With many crannies and nooks —
All that’s in a single mind
Could fill up thousands of books!
Confusing it can be to map
Including hidden dangers,
Some people do not make the trek
And from themselves are strangers.
Today at DVerse Poetics, Bjorn asks us to write about solitude. He adds, “Solitude to me is a tool to handle loneliness,” an insight that I really liked. This poem was inspired by the fact that I tend to do most of my writing in the morning, yet I also wrote this poem just now.
It is early in the morning,
No one to greet except Jesus
And the sun, prayers rising,
And pen bringing more words,
Companions into my world.
It is getting late at night,
With the moon out to play
And many people sleeping, less light,
With pen vivifying more verses
To get through this darker time.