Inspiration on Brain-cation

Lost in purchased imagery

of foreign sights and sounds 

     expressing

        voicing 

past thoughts silently suppressed.

A flow of words across the eye

of people, places, and emotions. A

     transformation

        transition

moving picture of the mind.

Hands anchor and trade 

with fingers at the ready to 

     flip

        turn

thumb through to new realities.

Thoughts race at contemplation of motive,

an anticipation of twist

     reveal

        shock

perhaps I knew it all along.

Such daily relaxation forever cheap

a brain-cation

     motivation

    incitation

to pick up my own pen and take a leap.

Exercise: Personification of Kitchen Appliances

Next time you need some practice, try this exercise on for size! Look around your home and choose four appliances. Let your mind be your guide, but here's a list if you just want to randomly choose:

Blender
Microwave
Toaster
Stand Mixer
Hand Mixer
Coffee Pot
Food Processor
Refrigerator
Freezer
Dishwasher
Stove

Teapot
Rice Cooker
Waffle Maker
Pasta Maker
Bread Maker
Toaster Oven

George Foreman Grill

Crock Pot/Slow Cooker

Once you've made your selections, write a poem or short story where you bring these four appliances to life. Not literally, figuratively. Use personification (giving human qualities to animals, inanimate objects, or ideas) to make describe these objects in a new way. Does your teapot whistle? Maybe your toaster spits out a bagel. The fire of your gas stove could hug pots and pans. It doesn't have to be complicated, but I ask you to challenge yourself! One final tip: avoid usual descriptions (like a teapot whistling). Your imagination is your only limitation!

The Morning After

A couple of years ago in one of my poetry courses we had to write a short work of fiction and a poem that described the morning after a significant event. My prompt was to write about the morning after a parent either (a) backed into their child in the driveway or (b) started to drive with the child in their carrier on the car (I can't remember the exact wording). Despite my attempts, I can't find the short story, which is upsetting because although it was hard to write, it turned out much better than I thought simply because of the difficulty of the subject. I did, however, come across the poem I wrote and figured I would share.

The Morning After

Silky sheets desolate, icy touch freezing the heart.

Familiar waking noise: pop and sizzle, clang and beep.

Loving laughter. No.

Silence.

Hardwood to tile, butterflies to bees. A nest disturbed.

Yellow sun-glow, sparkling white. Clean. Empty.

A witness! Green light, aroma slight.

Splash. Stir. Sip.

Sniffle.

Dewy air, table, and chair. Lone stare.

A hesitant touch. Two shy words. "Honey, I-".

<Squealing breaks. Slide, scrape, bang. Terror.

Tremble. Splatter. "Our daughter, Ben!"

Shatter.

Phonetic arrows, pummeling ire.

Guilty arms circling pain, mistrust.

Whispers of fault, regret. Forgiveness.  

The monitor cries.

Here's the challenge: write a poem or short story about the morning after a significant event in the life of a couple. Don't go easy and pick the morning after their wedding day or something happy. Make it difficult. Challenge yourself. Channel those emotions and see where they take you.

A Nine-To-Five Hoax

A deep breath in strain. By brick vest contained,

The worn voices weep. An unspoken grief.

Marred yet glowing, beauty is unmaimed.

Vocation revocation. Heartless thief.

Toil and grind too much time, bones bare and aged.

Joints creak as pressure applies. The soul dies.

What else to do when a muse is so caged?

The heart wants what it wants and tells no lies.

The siren’s song is a steady tune. Yet—

What intent belies that smile? Sneaking singe.

Beauty begins in the mind and once set,

A mind wilts without ambition to binge.

Follow a dream, give no excuse to pause.

I fail to contemplate a more just cause.

A Bittersweet Goodbye

It strikes a chord to see you go,

Yet the tune is airy and light

Each note ringing high and free.

This chorus is merely filler.

Your next verse is sure to reverberate,

line by line.

Immersed (in) Recollection

Shadows stirring, reflected through clear tide
Flush of smooth notes sway slowly on air
A soft flowing blanket, graceful 
ripple dancing against cool
porcelain. Droplets scorch
paths down pouting curves.
Burning, haunting
melody.
Flashback.
Tears.

*Nonet form.

Haunting Favorites: Poetry

Many of these are well known, but each are some of my favorite poems from over the years.

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

The Giaour by George Gordon Byron

The Haunted Oak by Paul Laurence Dunbar

What are some of your favorite hair-raising or Halloween-themed poems?

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door— "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;— Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"— Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— 'Tis the wind and nothing more!" Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never—nevermore.'" But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting— "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore! - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15638#sthash.Vmwi8Kor.dpuf

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door— "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;— Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"— Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— 'Tis the wind and nothing more!" Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never—nevermore.'" But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting— "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore! - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15638#sthash.Vmwi8Kor.dpuf

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door— "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;— Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"— Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— 'Tis the wind and nothing more!" Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never—nevermore.'" But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting— "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore! - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15638#sthash.Vmwi8Kor.dpuf

Five Types of Poetry You Should Try

Before I really studied poetry, my own poems always focused on end line rhymes. I had no idea what meter, rhythm, closed form, and free form had to do with writing poetry.  Yeah, everyone knows William Shakespeare's work, but do you know how hard it is to write a good Shakespearean sonnet?  Try one of these types of poetry to stretch your poetic skill.

1. The Nonet is all about syllable count. There is no focus on rhyme schemes or meter.  Write 9 lines, the first containing 9 syllables, the second 8, the third 7, until you end at one.
2. Shape Poetry. Write a poem in the shape of whatever you're writing about.  For example, a poem about a bird would be shaped like a bird.  This is a great way to see how shape and white space can enhance a poem.
3. The cinquain focuses on syllable count. Using a total of 22 syllables, the lines are split between 2, 4, 6, 8, and 2 syllables. On the fourth and longest line, the poem comes to a climax or twist, and the final line serves to bring it back down.
4. The triolet utilizes rhyme and repetition. The 1st, 4th, and 7th lines repeat and the 2nd and 8th lines repeat, creating the form abaaabab. Only the 2nd, 5th, and 6th are unique in the poem.
5. Free verse frees you from any constraints. Focus on where to put line breaks and see where it takes you!

Feel free to share in the comments.

Drinking Perfection - Throwback Thursday #tbt #halloween

I was.... 16 when I wrote this one.  Figured it was appropriate for Halloween!

Drinking Perfection

Footfall could be heard on the cobblestone path
The reflection of the creator could be seen by the birdbath
Swirling lights from the lighthouse nearby
The color iris staining her eye

A wisp of his presence came out of the air
All of a sudden he appeared from nowhere

Satin cloth brushed by her side
Tendrils of hair caressed her forehead
A loving kiss was plated on her cheek
A hint of wine could be sensed on his breath

The wounds from his fatal kiss were far gone
Now the creator stared at his job well done
The beauty of the creature was hard to miss

Skin the feel of steel
Lipstick as that of an evergreen garden
Eyes that absorbed all of the spectrum
Strength that outnumbered the largest of men
Fangs to match the shining white teeth
Yes, she was perfect indeed.

A shiver ran through her body
The metamorphosis claimed her mind
The time had come for the affect to take hold
 Her first victim was only seventeen years old

Ahhh!  I cringe!  Like I said in a previous post, keeping my writing helps me see how much I've grown.... and I've grown a whole lot since this! Do you have old writing you aren't proud of?

A Paw-Printed Heart

Footfalls silent against the aging overgrown trail
Spurred by nature's breath singing a lonesome song.
Drifting numbly forward to forlorn emotions frail
And no softened ground catching my upcoming swoon.

Pale fading petals shrivel and shed
Blanketing stone brushed by paw and palm
A steadfast symbol always I dread
Heartbreaking past hostile to care and calm.

Love buried in the ground,
too soon gone to mother earth's bed.
Pain sings in the sound
We knew she was loved, they said.

Furry little missile zooms through the garden
Explosion of energy booms then dies.
That toothy terror begs for a quick pardon
Mischievous yet innocent big brown eyes.

Similar browns once stared back at me
Now long gone but never replaced.
Guiltiness slows with time and now she
Helps heal my heart, shame displaced.

RIP Aubrey

A Surprising Fact About Late Night Creativity

You know those ideas that pop into your head late at night?  Maybe you're trying to sleep and your mind starts wandering with your Midnight Muse.  Perhaps you write best at night or that's when you have the most time.  Your mind races with ideas that you know you need to write down before they're lost.  Why in the world does my writer's block lift when I can't sleep?  Science has an explanation!

According to Business Insider's "10 Surprising Facts About How Our Brains Work," a sleepy brain is more creative:

If you’re tired, your brain is not as good at filtering out distractions and focusing on a particular task. It’s also a lot less efficient at remembering connections between ideas or concepts. These are both good things when it comes to creative work, since this kind of work requires us to make new connections, be open to new ideas and think in new ways. So a tired, fuzzy brain is much more use to us when working on creative projects.

Great news, writers!  Those late nights when you lose sleep to write have a productive purpose.  Next time your spouse questions your midnight dates with written word, don't be afraid to tell them that's when you're at your best... science has your proof.

Alabama Snow

An evening white with snow
the weather channel shows.
Hurry, hurry! Please prepare!
Water! Blankets! Bread!

The shelves in stores are bare
the streets are dark and dead
A flake of snow is falling
and friends and kin are calling.

Exciting! Dreadful! Scary!
The people are warm and wary.
Reports on television warn and show
excited children want to know.

Morning shows a flurry came and went without a flake to stick
perhaps we southern people act a little quick.


It's been cold down south a lot lately... can't say that I like it! We don't do well with cold down here.

#tbt Throwback Thursday: Drinking Perfection

Drinking Perfection
Ten years ago! 11/1/2003 - Age 16


Footfall could be heart on the cobblestone path
The reflection of the creator could be seen by the birdbath
Swirling lights from the lighthouse nearby
The color iris staining her eye

A wisp of his presence came out of the air
All of a sudden he appeared from nowhere

Satin cloth brushed by her side
Tendrils of hair caressed her forehead
A loving kiss was planted on her cheek
A hint of wine could be sensed on his breath

The wounds from his fatal kiss were far gone
Now the creator stared at his job well done
The beauty of the creature was hard to miss

Skin the feel of steel
Lipstick as that of an evergreen garden
Eyes that absorbed all of the spectrum
Strength that outnumbered the largest of men
Fangs to match the shining white teeth
Yes, she was perfect indeed.

A shiver ran through her body
The metamorphosis claimed her mind
The time had come for the effect to take hold

Her first victim was only seventeen years old.

War Eagle

Perched atop a stony edge, talons gripped in wait
the sun stains Spirit with a rusty luster.
A canvas of blue above and a sea of blue below,
the loud rumble of crowd signals and calls,
a song to beckon each beat of wing.
Talons twitch, feathers flutter, and wings spread wide,
the raptor captures the wind and sails the sky high.
Prey in sight and she quickly dives,
"War Eagle" her audience cries, roaring with pride.

(Open Form/Free Verse Poem)



Football season is here! Football season is here!
 

Line Breaks, Syllables, Organization

Careful use of line breaks can alter a poem's rhythm, tone, and meaning.  The poem below is full of imagery that can be grouped and broken to change the entire feel of the poem.  You might have to pull out the old dictionary to find the meaning of some of the words.  As you read the poem, think about how you would change the line breaks or reorganize the words.  Read the original below and then my "rewrite" is after the jump.

"Silent Poem" by Robert Francis

backroad leafmold stonewall chipmunk
underbrush grapevine woodchuck shadblow

woodsmoke cowbarn honeysuckle woodpile
sawhorse bucksaw outhouse wellsweep

backdoor flagstone bulkhead buttermilk
candlestick ragrug firedog brownbread

hilltop outcrop cowbell buttercup
whetstone thunderstorm pitchfork steeplebush

gristmill millstone cornmeal waterwheel
watercress buckwheat firefly jewelweed

gravestone groundpine windbreak bedrock
weathercock snowfall starlight cockcrow

My Version of "Silent Poem"

Backroad leafmold
    stonewall

chipmunk underbrush
grapevine woodchuck
    shadblow

woodsmoke cowbarn
    honeysuckle

woodpile sawhorse bucksaw
outhouse wellsweep backdoor
flagstone bulkhead
  
buttermilk
   candlestick
      ragrug
         firedog
            brownbread

hilltop outcrop
cowbell
    buttercup

whetstone thunderstorm pitchfork
     steeplebush
gristmill millstone cornmeal waterwheel
    watercress buckwheat

firefly jewelweed
gravestone groundpine
windbreak bedrock

weathercock
    snowfall
        starlight

            cockcrow


In my reinvention, I intentionally looked at the items with a wide lense and then brought in the focus to certain elements by imaging the scene.  For instance, with the lines

buttermilk
   candlestick
      ragrug
         firedog
            brownbread

I imagined someone carrying a pitcher of buttermilk, passing by the candle light to sit on the ragrug in front of the fireplace (firedog: the metal supports for logs in a fireplace) and enjoy a snack of bread and milk.  The original author oriented it differently, painting the picture differently through his line breaks and organization.  At the end of the poem, I specifically utilized white space (the literal white, empty space around the poem), line breaks, and line spacing to reverse my wide to narrow focus and introduce the fading of starlight and dawning of a new day (cockrow: the time when cocks first crow, or early morning).  There are so many ways to "play" with this poem and each of them is unique and interesting.

As evidenced by this exercise, one of the beautiful aspects of poetry is its flexibility.  You can change the entire meaning and tone of a poem through use of line breaks, organization, and white space.  Don't be afraid to experiment.  Poetry gives you the freedom to throw normal sentence conventions out the window and create something all your own.  Take advantage of it!

Roadside

Cracked rearview, busted taillight,
Full tank useless against the closing twilight.
Parallel orbs cut through the darkness,
growing, approaching, dancing right by,
the sway of their wake jarring, cutting like a knife.

A shaking hand drifts toward that precious metal piece,
pushing, turning, loosening with each click,
the sound deafening in silent space,
yet unable to spark life to drown the hopeless cry.

The mechanical maze awes and baffles.
Puzzles and pathways,
roadblocks and riddles,
deflation.
No miracle nor savior,
self reliance under the hood.

Black and bleak against another fading hour,
Finally!
A sight!
A light!
A guide toward the coming dawn.

Rough capable hands tug, twist, and turn.
Wide eyes darting left and right,
eager to remember and learn.
Green light.

Spark, ignite, hum to life,
and glide home in the rising sun.

Photo Prompt: The Falls

Some visual inspiration.

Fresh Flowers

Pink petals unfold
embracing the rising sun,
cool dew glistening in light.

Beautiful roses
in a garden colored bright,
snipped, gracing a table top.


*Written in sedoka form.

A Walk to Remember for #ThrowbackThursday

A Walk to Remember (11/1/2003)

Beautiful cloudless sky
Endless mass of stars above
Two forms walked forward
Walked only looking ahead

He held her hand in his
She rested her head on his arm
Silently they walked in sync along the path
Only one set of footsteps could be heart
Just one powerful heartbeat could be sensed
The pair was one.

Every night the pair walked
Hand in hand for hours on end
Every night they never spoke
Just cherished the moments together

This evening would be the final night 
Until a year passed
For he was leaving
And she would be left behind

This night their pattern was dismissed
For he broke the silence
And she broke the touch between them

"I love you," he whispered silently
She looked up at him teary-eyed
"I love you, too," she answered 
With a hint of sadness in her voice

He grabbed her hand
She placed her head on his shoulder
They walked on again until the night was over

Until the miles no longer stood between he and she
A walk to remember this would be.

A poem I wrote when I was 16, presented for Throwback Thursday. Barf! It reads like more like a short story than a poem... a bad, broken, improperly formatted story... and apparently I didn't realize you don't have to capitalize every line... and that poems should flow instead of read awkwardly... and that it is just completely horrible.

Do you have old work that makes you cringe?

Growing as a Writer

I have a binder full of poetry and short stories that I wrote from about age 12 to 18 stashed away for safekeeping. While there isn't anything in it I'd dare be proud of today, each is evidence of my growth as a writer.  For instance:

Why Me? 1999 (I was around 12)
As I look into the cup
the cup in front of me
I see my life
dark and unfree
it hurts to cry
through the tears I can barely see
all I think about,
why me?

I believe it's the first poem I ever wrote and even though I can recite every word...ugh, I cringe! Luckily, I had a habit as a teenager to date my work with at least the year, so the dates give me a timeline of my writing.  I can see change in my ability from the first poems I ever wrote to the last entry when I was 18.

Depression Reigns (2005)
Pain took advantage of the circumstances
Sorrow is once again my home
If only I had the courage to bleed again
I might feel better with depression on the throne.

To each good thought
he screams off with their head
To each wonderful memory
the dungeon is where they make their bed

He severed the lines that allow me to smile
the laugh I once had has been captured for a while
He drains my energy
But retains my tears for their daily trip down

Some may call him a tyrant
Some may find him vile
I call him my grand king
After all, I cannot escape him
So I gave him the crown.

Whoa at the teenage angst! Without a doubt I know that I could take any one piece from my binder and create a totally different, vastly improved version of my old ideas... but I won't.  I really do want those poems and short stories to stand in time.  They may not make me proud of my writing ability back then, but they serve as static reminders of my love of creativity and the written word.  More importantly, they are evidence of my growth as a writer.

Part of the importance of a writer's journal is that it keeps record of your ideas and work.  Not only can you revisit ideas once discarded, you can see how you grow as you become a more involved and talented writer.  Often times I laugh at the silly or typical words and images I used in past writing, but I can also see how I used figurative language and other literary devices without even being aware of their purpose.

The whole point of this post is to urge you to keep everything you write, especially that which doesn't make you the proudest.  There may come a day when you can revisit that piece and turn it into the masterpiece you envisioned when you first put it to paper.  You need to see evidence of your growth.  It will be a great tool those days (or weeks or months) that you need a confidence boost.