Category: Prompts
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AprPAD Day 4
A Case for Spring (Villanelle) Has gone, be gone, I said, this weather’s all wrong. Winter’s too long, its wet months spread. Has gone. Be gone with a blackbird’s song. Unsung. Unsaid. This weather’s all wrong. The wind’s too strong for March has fled, has gone. Be gone Rain. Rain, all nightlong. Falling silk,…
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AprPAD Day 3.1
Periodic I’m reading the Periodic Tables. I learned all this useless stuff in school, but forgot it all. Anyway, it seems that I am a saline nothingness, a chip off the moon, a muddy spring day, I am mundane, maiming, an uneaten fruit, the sound of speech, a comforter, comforting, dusty, flaking, bone white…
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AprPAD Day 3
I. Lilies I stood tiptoed, looking down the throat of a white trumpet flower. It was open. Wide. As a hungry child, or a belligerent baby bird. Stamens bright as a sunset, deep as a vein. Lilies. Spilling white everywhere. All over Grandma’s coffin. Couldn’t stop looking at them, haunted by flowers. I was…
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Twiglet #67
In the Rain You’re out on flattened water, fishing — rain slashing the car window in long trickles, tracing like wizard fingers, or seahorses. Rain does that. for Twiglet #67, and extracted from the American Sentence post earlier today
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Red Wolf Prompt 362
The Bones of Sickness Her complexion is gusty grey. She’s the face of rooted weariness and boredom — the bones of sickness. She closes her eyes on her own froth, darkness filling her ears as she sleeps with captive shadows. Sickness is a dark strife of crumbling candles. Her lustre is uncoupled, a stammering pale…
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For Sunday Whirl & RWJ
At Least for Now She folds sheets, snaps their rasping frozen weave against the gusty breeze. It’s hazy, monotonous work. This life is a poverty, likely a saint’s holy calling, but she keeps at it. At least for now. Life is a long twisted rope, so said her mother, and she’s glad for a warm…
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Red Wolf Prompt #320
Summer Blue The garden gate is slamming — the wind’s picked up, and August is disappearing into drizzle; sets petunias on their weary way. A march toward mould and mess. Odd how a slick of rain melts purple blossoms into streaks that stick to your fingers and stain you like a typesetter in a print…
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June’s Visual Verse
Your Wind Song You sing, but your voice is lost in snarls of sails and that howl of yours scouring my spine. Nips and bites. Sail, sail on tideless days. Shrill as the chop and heave of your salty breath, sailing through this soured sea. You’ve drowned my curiosity. And I’m lost, too lost, in…
It's Still Life 