Tag Archives: Writing Challenge

Ghostwalk

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We marked the spot where first we saw her walk

there the woods, and then to the meadow dark.

She seemed to drift or soar, in white, like chalk

of the cliffs, where ships below lay there stark,

old bones without life, bereft without spark.

The ghost though, from what hauntings had she fled,

did she seek love, did she know she was dead?

 

 

 

This is a septet for dVerse. In honor of dVerse’s seventh anniversary, Frank has asked us to write a poem of seven lines on any subject. I’m not sure that it’s quite rhyme royal, but it’s seven lines, and it rhymes. I’ve used Secret Keeper’s weekly writing challenge words: ghost/mark/woods/soar/meadow.

Footprints in the Sand

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footprints-e1497449643622

 

Casting off her sleek brown pelt (but holding it close), she rises from the surf. No goddess, though men will be drawn to her, despite–or perhaps because of–her otherworldliness. Through the waves, she walks, clumsily at first, as she adjusts to two legs and to being upright. The world looks different to her now. It feels different, too. The air is cool against her skin; the breeze dances across the new womanly curves of her body. She steps onto the beach, eager to embrace this life, if only temporarily, leaving footprints in the sand. The sea covers and takes them, keeping a trace of her to hold in its depths till she returns to it. And she will.

 

I’m late, but this is for Frank’s Footprints in the Sand challenge.    

Another selkie story–because, well, selkies.

footprints-challenge-badge-e1499020928621

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Captive

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edward_reginald_frampton_-_elaine_the_lady_of_shallott

Edward Reginald Frampton, “Elaine, the Lady of Shallot, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

 

Captive, held in a cage of dreams

reflecting streams

in mirrored eyes,

she’s cursed, she sighs,

 

mirror-gazing, she sings a song,

wonders how long

she’ll sigh and sing,

while dreams take wing

 

she weaves a spell, and watch she keeps,

she scarcely sleeps,

sees plume and blooms,

she’s caught, she’s doomed.

 

This is a minute poem for Secret Keeper’s Writing Challenge.

The prompt words were: Cage/Sing/Dream/Watch/Spell

This is another poem based on the Lady of Shalott.  Here’s the link to the Tennyson poem. As the end of the year draws closer, I feel the need of romanticism. Here’s the link to my earlier poem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Light Shines, Over and Over

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sunlight_throug_palisades

By LacZ (Own work), “Sunlight through Pallisades,” [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

“Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in.”

–Leonard Cohen, “Anthem”

 

We pause now to gather strength

to fight for justice

over and over

to strive for courage, hope

lost and then regained

over and over

change happens for good, for bad

thoughts and actions

over and over

two steps forward, one step back

over and over

through the ages

we find the crack

to let the light shine in.

 

 

I wrote this poem yesterday afternoon before I heard of Leonard Cohen’s death. I guess it was of those strange coincidences in life that I had been thinking about him.

This poem is for Secret Keeper’s Writing Challenge.

The prompt words were: Pause/Over/Strength/Age/Change

 

Shaping the Words

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jose_clemente_orozco_-_the_demagogue_-_google_art_project

By José Clemente Orozco (1883 – 1949), The Demagogue” 1946 – painter (Mexican) Born in Jalisco. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

“This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper”

–T.S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

 

Commencing countdown–

how shall we shape the words

to describe this moment,

did it really happen?

hollow men speak lies—

so many lies—

too many lies—

lies upon lies–

repeated over and over,

they land, seeding fertile brains,

sprouting, growing hate,

a bumper crop this year.

 

Ten, nine, eight–

continue countdown,

centuries of science, exploration,

the processes of experimentation and learning

(inquiring minds want to know)

But the words,

shaped and twisted

turning thought inside out.

“Ignorance is strength,”

cry the demagogues,

as they insist,

two plus two equals five,

and the people cheer.

 

Blast off!

to unseen worlds you go,

but what is your mission?

Do your cylinders and circuits let you dream

and hope there are other beings out there

with other, better words?

I think of how our world might end

with little protest,

a sigh,

a whisper,

but your brief life ended not with a whimper

but with a bang and a crash,

and we are left here to wonder,

what you might have seen

and what truths you might have told us,

and if we would have believed you,

and how we would have shaped the words.

 

This poem is for Secret Keepers Writing Challenge.

The prompt words were: Brief/End/Shape/Land/Blast

This poem was inspired by the recent crash of the Schiaparelli spacecraft ion Mars, the movie, Denial, and the alternate reality viewpoint of DT and his supporters (among them crazy conspiracy theorists and Neo-Nazis). Also, of course, T.S. Eliot and the book, Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell.

I will be seeing some of Orozco’s work later this week at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, although I’m not sure if the painting above is in the exhibit, “Painting the Revolution.”

 

 

Microfiction: Kiss at the Window

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611px-Edvard_Munch_-_Kiss_by_the_window_(1892)

Edvard Munch, Kiss By the Window, Public Domain, Wikipedia.

Inside the house, lamps and hearths glowed, banishing the darkness of the Norwegian winter. As they stood by the window, Fredrik gently placed the pearl necklace around her neck. The lustrous white spheres were cool against her skin. He kissed her, first gently, and then with more urgency. The faint scent of his pipe tobacco clung to his clothes. A knock at their bedroom door made them break apart, as her maid, Sonya, announced that their first dinner guests had arrived. Elisabeth vowed to remember everything about that December night forever. It was her twenty-fifth birthday.

Now alone in her hospital bed, body aching, she watched that memory, a movie in her mind. It had been nearly seventy years ago; twenty years since she had last heard Fredrik’s voice. She sensed—something–the air felt charged. She smelled pipe smoke. She heard a voice say, “Are you ready, my darling? I’ve missed you so.” Her heart fluttered. She noticed a window draped in blue, a fire burning in fireplace. She felt a necklace, cool against her throat. She smiled. She took Fredrik’s hand and walked with him into the glowing light.

 

This story is in response to Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge. The prompt was the painting above with a two hundred word limit; mine was 191 words.

Microfiction Challenge: Shapes in the Mist

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ChelmonskiJozef.1870.OdlotZurawi

Józef Chełmoński, Cranes, Source: Wikipedia

 

We’ve traveled far, my crew and I. We’ve journeyed past thousands of stars and worlds. Our small ship has sailed through space. None of our kind has ever been this far away from home. Our voyage has taken decades. We’ve slept much of the time. Our automatic system has awakened us occasionally to perform some needed task. Or maybe it was simply to give us a break from sleeping, from dreaming of the unknown and those we’ve left behind.

Now we’re all fully awake. It’s time. We’ve landed on this green world, the third planet in a system that revolves around a bright yellow star of average size. We’ve sensed signs of life. We pause now at the doorway. Large creatures swim before us in the murky water. An uncharted world with uncharted waters. I’m going to stand for a moment, my tail held high, before I issue the command. I want to remember this. In a moment we will raise our wings, and fly out in formation to meet them. First contact.

 

My second attempt at a microfiction challenge: Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge: Shapes in the Mist 

The prompt is the painting above and the words, “uncharted waters.” There’s a 200 word limit. My story is 173 words.

 

 

Triple Challenge: Wine and Tears

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This is the result of a triple challenge. Jane Dougherty of Jane Dougherty Writes came up with one of her usual gems in response to ronovanwrites’ Haiku Challenge.  I told her that there was much more to the story in the John Singer Sargent painting she chose. (You can see the painting by clicking on the link to Jane’s blog post here.) She challenged me to tell it. Although I’m not quite certain this is the true story, I’m posting it anyway.

She wore her hauteur like a mask at a masquerade ball. It was a flimsy veil to hide her true feelings, one that might easily slip, revealing the depth of her misery. She had been the queen of the county—the proud Marguerite Sommerville, living in the ground house on the hill. Now her husband was dead, leaving her with debts she had not known existed. There was also the discovery of other women in other towns who claimed his name for their children. The neighborhood gossips relished each tidbit as it was revealed; each dainty morsel multiplied and divided like fish and loaves. I remained her friend. She needed a true one. I would pour her another glass of wine and wait for the mask to slip. The salty tears would soon come. Tomorrow she would don her mask again, and I would help her face the future.