(prompted at writer’s group by an old lighter)
It’s a bic lighter
Not alight even though
I have seen it used for the gas
I suspect somewhere there is a roll-up
Flimsy paper, sticky flakes
a stash, hash.
Lighten up people
What do you know about
some of this?
Names you talk about
Lighten the load.
Anyway I go my road
Flame flickers yellow
Coward, frightened, burnt,
Never see the sun rise
No shining eyes.
Let it go to landfill.
Where went the light?
While I flew to the flame?
Writing 201: Poetry – today the
prompt instruction was: animal, concrete, enjambment.
Middle grand-daughter, Ruby, with Finlay, the dog. Ruby is blonde, her sisters are red-gold, a match for Finlay.
Concrete can mean ‘make a shape’ with those lines. Enjambment means that a sentence or phrase can go over a line break, stop in the middle of the next, etc. Well, if making a shape, the enjambment seemed to follow. Question is: Is it a poem?
Fun to do. I did the shape by writing in a word doc over a nearly transparent picture. Then I took a screenshot. If, or when, I work out how to do this by some other clever html way, maybe I will update. Maybe not. Seems a lot of effort for not much result.
Change attitude. It is also for fun.
I have not been writing poetry recently, and not happy with what I tried. Not uncommon I know. I have restarted the writers group on Block Island for the totally selfish reason that it might get me going again. Thanks to Gloria, Kim and Maggie and their encouragement, writing to prompts we have had some fun. I found myself writing short prose.
Prompt (a random line from the bookshelf): He determined that when he heard the sound of the mug being put down on the desk he would be back.
He thought about how often he had allowed a casual event, like a sound, to be the marker from which his next action would proceed. What did that say about his character? General indecisiveness in disguise? He remembered a book from years ago “The Dice Man”. The hero threw dice to decide what he would do. It was a horrible book as the list of possibles was put in by the so-called hero, if he remembered right, there was always a horrible possible, an unthinkable, like rape or murder, like russian roulette in a dice for determination.
Then he remembered how much he had hated the book as the dice game seemed to be the author’s excuse for putting in lots of sensation: sleaze and sex and smut.
Dear God. He was supposed to be being decisive now, deciding when he would be back and he hadn’t even gone yet. This forgetting what he was about to do was becoming part of everyday life. The nice lady with the nice title he had forgotten that was supposed to be a nice way to describe a person who looked after geriatrics who couldn’t remember their own name sometimes let alone anyone else’s professional title, what that nice lady said was find little markers to help you remember things. Yes that was it, putting the mug down on the desk.
Now, I remember.