of necessity I invent this poem for you for whom there is no day marked staked and claimed on calendars in the aisles, in the advertisements a capitalized Day from which no one can escape.
this poem is for you creatives who bring your arts and ideas to the light who tend them and grow them and help them find their way in the world.
here is a poem for you who sometimes help another person maybe you cook for them or give them a ride or sit with them when they are in the dark afraid. maybe you
even love them, just because. and sometimes you clean up messes that you didn’t make; you volunteer and get things done and you share tools, time, tales— you are
reliable. you don’t require praise don’t want a day that spotlights you because sometimes you struggle and struggles are private. this poem sees you; it says thank you for all that you do.
This week’s W3Wea’ve Written Weekly Poet of the Week is Punam Sharman. Punam’s challenge is for us to write a palindrome poem, that is, use the same words in the first half of the poem as the second half, but reverse the order for the second half, and: use a word in the middle as a bridge from the first half to the second half of the poem.On the level, if you can pull off this deed you will not be deified but will definitely be on Punam’s radar. (See whatI did there?) Go to The Skeptic’s Kaddishto find out how this unique prompt works and to link in your own poem.I also want to thank Lisa for the wandering pilgrimage prompt at d’Verse.
Comings and Goings by D. Avery
mysterious tangled twisted paths wandering in circles searching for buried treasures meaning of life questions without answers form a silence ~becoming~ silence a form answers without questions life of meaning treasures buried for searching circles in wandering paths twisted tangled mysterious
It’s meant to be one photo a month, but I wanted to show the progression for “Flower Power” in pictures and with an Imayo, 4 lines of 12 syllables each with a caesura between the fifth or seventh syllable. I kind of expected bloom, but it’s been a cold week.
This week’s W3Wea’ve Written Weekly Poet of the Week is Ben Tonkin, which means Ben gets to provide the prompt. He says, “From free verse to haiku…/ this ‘folly’ can be up to you/ can’t wait to read how you do/ Your inspiration is ‘folly’.” How fun is that? I’ve had a little lapse in writing for this weekly poetry prompt; for better or worse I am back this week. I had fun with ‘folly’and took Ben’s prompt literally, fooling with free verse followed by a haiku form.
(Go to The Skeptic’s Kaddishto find out how this unique prompt works and to link in your own poem).
Free Follying Verse by D. Avery
Free verse, he says!
Like he’s just handing the stuff out like
advice, or pamphlets, the only
cost a moment of your time and the strain of
someone trying to change your thinking or
convince you to try their product, no money down, free
I’m doubling down on this post. The first poem is for the Quadrille Monday challenge, hosted yesterday at d’Verse by De Jackson, aka WhimsyGizmo . She would have us ‘frolic with the word Friday’ in a poem of any style as long as it is exactly 44 words, for that is what makes it a quadrille. The day after Quadrille Monday makes it Tuesday, and Sanaa (aka adashofsunny) is encouraging pubsters to try our hand at a Maggie Smith style poem, non-rhyming and conversational, a poem of address for Tuesday Poetics.
Thank you to both hosts. Cheers!
Living For the Weekend by D. Avery
On that day one of us would say
Let’s get fried, ay?
And this after thirst day
Now we’re long in the tooth, ay?
those of us still alive who managed to survive
one day
at a time every day
now a weak end.
Spring’s Harbinger by D. Avery
yes, I saw that you’ve seen robins they thrive on our sightings, don’t they
and our worry as they come back just prior to a big snow storm
I don’t see them as a sign of spring; don’t get me wrong, I enjoy them
busy in the yard and singing in the trees but they don’t know
They are brash, overconfident, cocksure and invariably off in their timing, unlike
the prime sign of spring I saw yesterday prima— primal, prehistoric—
a pterosaur! A pterodactyl taken wing, a great blue heron in flight
Now there’s a bird who knows when the ice age has ended
and it has, the marsh is open its primordial ooze thawed to release
its frogs, turtles, its bountiful treasures, tribute to the patient
great heron whose return truly signals a beginning
a softening and a greening reverently reflected in the water
beneath the din of red-winged blackbirds (who, as you know, arrived with the robins)
But it’s the silent heron you can count on, it’s the heron who knows
the ancient cycles, the changing seasons, another spring, at last.
The April 9, 2024 story challengefrom Charli Mills at Carrot Ranch is to: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about someone (or something) strutting. What has caused the overconfidence? Is it arrogant? Foolish? Legit? How does strutting shape a story? Have fun and go where the prompt leads! Submit by April 15, 2024.
Reconstruction and renovations continue at Carrot Ranch. Hang in there Charli! Hang in there, Ranchers!Meanwhile,Velma Valentine has returned.
Hoodwinked by D. Avery
“Start your engines!” Daryl McGreely cheered, for, though she still refused to lift her hood for him, Velma Valentine had finally agreed to a race.
Daryl strutted and crowed when his Oldsmobile crossed the finish line ahead of Velma’s Buick.
“Your braggadocio is quite unseemly. It was a close race.”
“But I won! Ha!”
“I am willing to race you back to the Flap House sign, double or nothing.”
When the dust she left Daryl McGreely in settled, Velma Valentine might have strutted, but she didn’t and even felt a bit bad about duping him, unseemly though he was.
Don’t Count Your Chickens Before They’ve Hatched (602 words) by D. Avery
Velma Valentine, blinker on, looked left, looked right, then looked left again before pulling out of McGreelys’ Service Station. After watching her vintage Buick ease on down the street Daryl McGreely strutted back to his brothers, “The race is on!” Daryl crowed to Rufus and Alton, for, though she still refused to lift her hood for him, Velma had finally agreed to a race, a race that he was sure he would win when he finally pitted his Oldsmobile hotrod against the Buick as old and well-kept as its owner.
Pulling alongside Velma on the Center Road just before the huge pancake shaped Flap House sign, Daryl revved his engine. The Flap House was empty, its customers waiting up the road at Elmer’s Egg Farm to witness who would pass Elmer’s driveway first, their unfinished breakfasts and coffees abandoned at their tables. Daryl revved his engine again. His Oldsmobile did not backfire, but gave an even, throaty growl. He grinned at Velma, who sat in her purring Buick patting down an errant wisp of hair. She sighed and motioned to the Flap House busboy, who removed his apron and held it aloft as a starter flag. “On your mark, get set, Go!”
They went. They chirped tires, spun through the gears, and roared side by side on a road as straight as the rows of corn that flanked it for most of the half mile to Elmer’s driveway. All who were watching could clearly hear and see them coming. There was no question that Daryl McGreely’s old Oldsmobile had passed ahead of Velma Valentine’s vintage Buick.
After coming to a stop they both turned around and pulled over at the entry way to Elmer’s Egg Farm. Elmer did not, as a rule, keep roosters, but Daryl, now out of his car, swaggered about quite cockily, his movements and language loud and colorful.
“Unseemly,” Velma said.
“What?” Daryl asked.
“I said, your braggadocio is quite unseemly and unsportsmanlike.”
“But I won! Ha! I don’t know why I ever thought you had something special under the hood of that old car. Or maybe you’re not as good a driver as you led on.”
“You won?”
“Yeah. I won. Everyone saw it.”
“What did you win?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Dufus McGreely, that I am willing to race you back to the Flap House sign, and I am willing to wager that you will not be so lucky.”
“Rufus, not Dufus, but that’s my brother. I’m Daryl, remember? And if by wager you mean bet— you bet.”
The short order cook from the Flap House, who was also the owner, held their money and Daryl and Velma got back into their cars, pulled into the road side by side. They waited until the counter waitress had time to drive to the corner past the Flap House to stop traffic, just in case there was any. On her way by the waitress alerted the busboy who quickly snuffed out his cigarette and picked up his apron. Though it was checkered only by coffee and syrup stains, it sufficed to flag the clear victory of Velma Valentine in her souped-up vintage Buick. It would be on him to tell and retell what he saw of the second race, for one contestant left before the spectators had made their way back to the Flap House and their cold breakfasts. The other waited only long enough to collect her winnings. She, Velma Valentine, could have strutted, but she of course wouldn’t, and so she didn’t, and even felt a bit bad about duping Dufus McGreely, unseemly though he was.
The April 2, 2024 story challengefrom Charli Mills at Carrot Ranch is to: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that happens in a flash. A flash of inspiration? A flash flood? Who shows up in a flash? Who is impacted for a lifetime from a single flash incident? Go where the prompt leads!Submit by April 8.
Charli is busy renovating the Carrot Ranch site, after relocating it to another hosting platform. Which is way beyond me, I am just glad that the Ranch is still within reach, a beautiful place even with unfinished, unpainted exteriors.
Chasing Rabbits by D. Avery
His beagle, Flash, lifted one sleepy lid at my arrival, raised the end of his tail in salute before resuming his perpetual nap.
‘How’re things?’ I asked, and he answered, as always, ‘About the same.’
He said, as always, how it was good I’d come by, that he was dying.
“Any day now,” he confided.
“You said that last time, Unc. Yet here you are.”
“Well things don’t happen overnight.”
People said he was too lazy to cross over.
“Patience,” he continued, a flash of conviction lighting his eyes. “You want to do things right, you can’t be rushing.”
While Unc had never had what most would call a job, he’d built the house he still lived in. Grew most of his own food. Got his own wood in.
“I stop at enough,” he explained. “And I’ve never needed much.”
Flash whined in his sleep, his paws twitching.
“Flash neither. That dog dreams rabbits, night and day, till he’s too worn out to bother with hunting. Can’t say he’s any less satisfied.”
We sat in silence, watching Flash dream of chasing rabbits. Then Unc said, “It’s good you came by.”
“Because you’re dying?”
“No. For your life lessons.”
“See, it’s you important, busy people who are dying, don’t even know it. It takes a lot of patience, living, but comes easier with practice. What’s important is to sit still, remember we’re part of creation, but we’re not the creator; be mindful of our place in the world’s turnings.”
Through the window we watched chickadees flitting through the branches. The icicles that tapered from the eaves sparkled in the sun, the steady drip like the ticking of a clock.
“This,” he said. “You have to take the time to really see this. It comes and goes so quickly.”
I love this prompt, and yet struggled to come up with a 99-word story, my de facto definition of “flash fiction”. Sometimes they come to me in a flash and almost 99 words exactly, first time. This time I got the old beagle and the old man, no real story, but just wrote. It came out to 297 words, which as you know, is a multiple of 99. So with a little revising I turned that draft into three 99-word stories. For seven of Charli’s ten years of Carrot Ranch challenges I have gone where the prompt leads me.
I’ve learned and continue to learn so much at Carrot Ranch. First I learned that there is a thing called flash fiction, and a wonderful supportive community of flash fiction writers and readers.I learned that the constraints of a specific word count make writing a story both easier and more challenging as one revises and attends to word choice and main idea to meet the constraint.But mostly I learned to go where the prompt leads. Results vary, but it always ends up somewhere. I learned that anyone, including me, can write. Just go where the prompt leads.
Exactly a week ago I photographed this same spot, though then I zoomed in on the daffodil shoots just poking through the leaf matted soil; I was excited for that iconic herald of spring. Anyway, here is an updated photo. The daffodils are there, under eighteen inches of snow, which is less than we got two weeks ago.
This photo was taken yesterday morning, during the first truck sweeping. It also shows the outside of my house. Many from recent d’Verse Open Link Live events guessed correctly that I am in an A-Frame. I admitted to that group that I was using the monthly Open Link Lives to practice my poet’s voice. Thank you d’Verse Poets’ Pub poets! Encouraged by you, I have been participating in local Poetry Month events live and in person, including local haiku workshops with Mark from SeasonWords. But maybe these pictures show why I have trouble getting inspired by the usual spring kigo words.
You might have noticed it’s been a while since I’ve posted a 99-word story here for Carrot Ranch. That’s because Charli has been rebuilding her site. She is far enough along with that project now that there is a new challenge up: (Carrot RanchApril 2, 2024, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that happens in a flash. A flash of inspiration? A flash flood? Who shows up in a flash? Who is impacted for a lifetime from a single flash incident? Go where the prompt leads! Submit by April 8, 2024.) And the last challenge, “To Leave a Leak”, is posted as a collection for your reading pleasure. Know that the Ranch is under construction but will get finished- painted and polished, and welcoming to readers and writers of flash fiction, (and poetry, memoir, creative non-fiction- anything, as long as it’s in 99 words). As always you can also keep up with Ranch happenings here through the misadventures of virtual ranch residents, Kid & Pal.
Since Maria Antonia switched things up and changed #PicoftheWeek to #2024picofthemonth, with one bingo sheet for the whole year, I seem to be able to keep up. Click HERE to find out more and to see how you can participate in this unique prompt.
This month’s photo is not pretty. But that is the first of my daffodils, yellow tipped from the cold snow perhaps, but emerging into the light at long last, though most of the plant is still below ground. The temperatures will remain below freezing at night for a while yet, though above during the day. Spring is here.
At the dVerse Poets Pub, Haibun Monday is hosted this week by Frank J. Tassone.He would have us “celebrate the arrival of spring ourselves. Write a haibun that alludes to the first [cherry] blossoms (hatsu hana).”Two years agoI also struggled with a cherry blossom haibun prompt; not only do I not have any planted, it is simply too early for them in northern New England.
Cherry blossoms are from another time and place. I once lived in a place where their bloom meant the end of the school year was near, but also the end of the respite from tourists. Kwanzan cherry trees lined the streets and to think of them in bloom is to remember walking downtown with friends, enjoying a warm sunny day, taking advantage of more shops and pubs being open.
Spring seemed a longer season there, easing in, unfolding slowly, gracefully; crocuses, forsythia, daffodils, and cherry trees took the stage, danced their dance, then bowed out. But what a mess those cherry trees left in their wake. Sometimes they swirled like pink snow petals in the breeze. More often wind and rain escorted them unceremoniously from the stage, and they would sulk in sodden heaps, thick on the brick sidewalks, clumps of browned petals, slippery underfoot.
Now I am under maples, yellow birch, white birch, and beech. I suppose there are cherry blossoms to be seen in one of the towns I might go to near my place, but not yet. I measure spring differently now.
ShiftnShake 