543 Day Writing Journey

Wilfred Owen. Day 171.

This poem may be disturbing to some, whether or not they’ve seen war or have suffered the effects, either directly or indirectly, of Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Some of the language and wording in this poem has become less than polite or proper through the years due to our glorious evolution of language, but the sentiment remains the same.

Continue reading “Wilfred Owen. Day 171.”
543 Day Writing Journey

Miss Emily. Day 156.

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

Baylee is studying the late 1800’s in history, and because his workload this new semester is quite giant, I’ve opted to not introduce a novel and do some poetry instead.

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543 Day Writing Journey

Spine Poems. Day 144.

I had nothing today, no ideas, no revisions, no poetry. I didn’t even want to share a recipe. I needed help with my fleeing focus.

Sometimes when I’m struggling to write, I google “writing prompts.” Dr. Filas used to pass an item like a pear around the classroom and tell us to write about it for five minutes. The end of our little essays was never about a piece of fruit.

The online ideas are limitless and today I found a new one, spine poetry.

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543 Day Writing Journey

Coins. Day 113.

Fives boast about their size and smooth edges and it’s hard to resist rubbing your coarse, naked thumb all the way around to feel the liquid, flawless flatness; A dime in the pocket waits for the nickel to boast about its size, then smirks with its sharp ridges and invisible heft when the five sees how the ten makes you smile more; The friends chingled and changled and clattered in your anxious palm as you presented it for a crispy, inky morning news, milky, sweetened coffee, or early morning bacon sandwich in 1975. Melted yellow American cheese and fluffy salted egg. Toasted buttered rye; The laughing quarter reaches into the lighted glass world and allows the twirl of the metal coil to drop your dusty Cheetos or left Twix or expired Necco Wafers; Pile it all in your right hand, feel the weight then let it spill spill spill over into the chipped ceramic bowl that you bought at the tag sale at your lonely neighbor’s, or maybe you used a wrinkled paper dollar to get some coins back. A drizzling Saturday morning in September. Western Massachusetts; The metal friends sit in the sticky cup holders in your uncle’s Ford pickup or the top of a father’s oak dresser. They are wrapped in old gum in her Nana’s purse and living in the dark cushions, lost from the pockets of gentlemen; And Little Miss Copper with her oneness shining in the sun. New penny old penny hiding in the dry dirt or waiting on the city sidewalk for you to pick her up so she can inject you with her bad luck like a stepped-on crack or a feline with black fur; Heads are heads and tails aren’t tails; Dimes, pennies, quarters, and nickels cheer when they fall or join their metallic friends. They can’t whisper so they don’t until they are wrapped in brown paper, colored orange, green, blue, and red. Folded ends to trap them inside and marked with a number. Bigger ones that don’t matter to them, because they’re shiny and noisy and alive as they roll and twirl and circle around in the ancient Kenmore dryer.  

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543 Day Writing Journey, poetry

Will Pay With Eggs. Day 59.

Poetry is my favorite writing form. Maybe it’s because the first time a publisher ever said yes was for one of my poems put into a copy of Hypertrophic Literary Press called “Dear Annie, I Kissed Another Man.” Also, poetry is therapy because a writer may choose to rhyme or not, and it is a free and freeing way of writing. Some are intimidated by poetry, understandably so, but it is not as complicated as most believe. Lyrics are poetry and most of us sing along to them. Greeting cards, nursery rhymes, and even silly limericks are poetry. I suppose it doesn’t matter why I love it, but that I just do.

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543 Day Writing Journey, poetry

Purple. Day 46.

Revision in writing is what offers color to a piece, no matter the genre. I am forever editing and revising old works, and today have decided to paint a poem I wrote for a chapbook I put together a year ago, and the color I used is grape.

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