Writing Workshop: This is What America Looks Like

 Gaithersburg Book Festival offered an online workshop this morning. Here's what I wrote during the 5-10 minute writing prompts.

(1) 

I am standing here,

On a dirt road,

Thinking,

Yes I could live here.

I’m looking at a panorama of mountains,

A highway,

With trucks and cars heading east and west.

No people that I can see,

Far or near.

Houses behind me. 

I saw a man walking his dog

As I drove up the hill.

It’s hot, 

A dry heat

That doesn’t cause drippy sweat.

Later, I will wash the dried salt and grit

Off my face,

And make my decision.

————————————-

(2)

What are 4 or 5 things that are essential to you

1. Water and food

2. Place

3. At least one musical instrument

4. Running/walking shoes and clothes

5. Paper and pen or iPad and electricity

I need water and food so I can remain living.

Everything else I need 

Relates to my happiness

And how well I live.

Place.

A view

A peaceful place to walk

Mountains, canyons, 

water trickling or streaming over rocks,

Singing to me.

People

A friend or two who don’t question my quirks

And enjoy some of the things I like to do.

Music

A ukulele or guitar or keyboard,

My voice

Others playing instruments and singing

Writing

iPad, laptop, paper, pens,

A place to sit

People to watch

News and stories to read and hear.

Clothing.

Shoes and clothing for outdoors

I don’t care what I wear indoors

Outdoors, I need the right clothing

So I can run, walk, hike up mountains and into canyons,

—————————

(3)

America is…

America is a beautiful day,

And a stormy sky.

Happiness and hope

Sadness and despair.

Ancient trees, newly planted trees.

Burnt and insect ravaged forests

Quiet contemplation,

In your face loud questioning.

Colors, accents, cultures, 

Innocence and guilt.

Truths and lies.

Lines drawn,

No retreat.

Running away,

Marching in the streets,

America is a house,

And to some a home.

 

My Story

Today’s prompt came from a request that people in a group I belong to tell their story in a short video. 

My story is still being written.

Some chapters are boring

Work, walk, eat, sleep, together, alone.

The chapter I’m in now 

Is interesting,

And full of secrets

I don’t want to share.

Which makes it hard to decide what to write about.

Because I like to share what I write.

I’m human.

I like positive reinforcement.

I like getting a thumbs up.

I like seeing that people actually read what I write.

I like feeling like a real writer.

So instead of writing about my secrets,

I am writing a cryptic poem,

That I can share,

While I save my secrets, 

For the unpublished pages.

That are just for me,

My means of survival,

My personal form of therapy,

My thoughts typed as they come,

No filter

No censor,

No limits.

Truth.

My truth.

Private.

The pieces of me I don’t want people to see.

The process of working out who I am

Isn’t meant for public consumption.

Utah

 

Utah is the height of my life,

Slot canyons,

Slick rock,

Running, hiking, cycling, and music.

A giddy high feeling,

Everywhere I go.

Dirt, dust, red, orange,

Scenery that looks like a painting.

And then there’s night.

Stars, stars, and more stars.

Utah,

Where I pushed myself to the limit,

Went out of my comfort zone,

Survived,

And thrived.

Utah,

Where I raised the bar,

And vowed to never go low, 

Again.

Rats around my house

Based on a writing prompt: Rats, so agile and curious, surround my house.

In my dream,

Rats, so agile and curious,

Surround my house.

I don’t live there anymore.

I don’t remember seeing rats

Although I did find a dead mouse on my driveway one time.

I left it there,

It was gone by morning.

Parsing my dream.

A house I no longer live in,

Rats, 

Curiosity

Agility.

What did I do today

that put rats and my house

in my mind?

I remember the rats in New York City,

Outside the office building where I worked.

They were big

With long tales.

They came out before sunset,

Lounged on the concrete

Went wherever they wanted to on the plaza,

Because, seriously, who was going to stop them.

My house in suburbia

Didn’t have rats,

Just that one mouse,

And snakes in the yard.

It wasn’t my favorite place to live,

It was always just a house to me,

Never a home.

Maybe that’s why the rats

Surrounded it in my dream.

Maybe they were curious 

To see what kind of creature

Doesn’t abandon a sinking ship,

Like they do.

Yes, it was a dream

Not reality,

Rats, agile and curious

Surrounding my house.

Keeping me out or keeping me in?

I’ll never know,

The dream woke me up.

 

 

 

Shirts in the drawer

 This one started from a writing prompt and then took on a life of its own.

His shirts in the drawer

She can’t stand seeing them anymore.

Sees the buttons she replaced

The stains she tried to erase.

Worn out memories

Faded logos and words.

She closes the drawer

Leaves the shirts in their place.

Third drawer down

That’s where they’ve always been

Clean and neatly folded

Growing older with each day

A reminder of good times, bad times,

And all the times in between.

When it’s time to move

She doesn’t know what she’ll do

No need to bring the furniture

Just what she needs to live,

A few reminders of where she’s been,

And space.

His shirts in the drawer

She kept them because it was easier

Than giving them away.

Soon she will need to decide

What to bring and what to leave behind.

Her head tells her to let go

Her heart asks her to hang on.

Her hands want to touch the softness

But she knows what they need to do.

Lift the shirts out of the drawer,

Place them in a bag,

And remove them from her life

forever.

 

Thunderstorm

 

I hear distant rumbles

and feel the air change.

Watch for a flash,

so I can count the seconds before the boom,

Look up the weather report one more time,

As I wait for the rain to pelt my windows,

and soak the ground.

I leave the windows open,

Until the wind and rain decide to

visit.

The rumbles get louder.

The light show arrives.

Rumbles are punctuated by booms that rattle

my apartment's old windows.

I hear the rain hitting the glass, 

The sky lights up,

Faster and faster,

Lightning dancing across the sky, 

Warning of the sounds to come.

Severe thunderstorms were predicted.

It looks and sounds like

the meteorologists got it right,

This time.

Spring #1

 First spring poem this year

Sitting outside,

Blossoms on the nearby cherry trees

Flowers on the bush to my side.

Looking at the beauty around me,

While my nose runs

And my throats gets scratchy.

Ignore the minor discomforts of allergies

And focus on spring, 

Sunshine,

The clear blue sky.

A light cool breeze,

The warmth and growth surrounding me.

Savoring the moment.

As a bird near me chirps 

A response comes from across the street

and a musical conversation begins.

Call and response

The birds stop singing .

And i hear cars again,

And the murmur of a conversation behind me.

A couple walks by

I sit

Outside

Content

In this space and time

Wishing it could last forever.

Mom talked to me yesterday

 Her voice in my head seemed so real, it felt like she was there.

Yesterday my mom lectured me

She’s been gone over two years

And she still tells me her opinion

I don’t mind it now as much as I used to.

I like hearing her voice in my head

And hope I never forget the sound,

The rhythm,

Words and phrases she made her own,

The tell-tale sigh, the exasperated admonition,

The doubt and pride, 

The music.

Tie that Binds

 I seem to be writing about my mom lately. This poem was prompted by a line in a book I was reading. The tie that binds mother and daughter.

The tie that binds mothers and daughters

is like no other.

It’s like the eternal light,

that never goes out.

There’s no physical alter,

Although the sacrifices seem to be many.

There’s a tie,

That sometimes tears

But never fully breaks.

The light may falter,

But it continues to glow,

Even after death.

I Still Sing to You

 I still sing to you when I visit

I used to sing to you when I visited,

Sometimes you sang along

Once you told me the songs I was doing were boring.

And asked me to do songs that rocked.

When I played downstairs in your building, 

You were so proud.

Your daughter was playing and singing

With your building neighbors.

They weren’t people you talked to much,

But you told everyone who I was,

My daughter visiting from Memphis.

At some point, I wasn’t able to visit as often.

Then you had to move.

In the new place, I sang to you in your room,

And sometimes outside.

They didn’t have a piano for residents to play,

And no banjo player asking me if I knew 

Wabash Cannonball.

People walking by would sometimes stop and listen

You couldn’t see them

But I could.

They smiled and some sang or danced along

As they passed by.

I still sing to you when I visit.

I Iike to think you can hear me

And your toes are tapping

I like to think that you like the songs. 

I like to think that you heard me

When you couldn’t speak.

I like to think you knew who I was,

And were bursting with pride,

Telling yourself,

That’s my daughter.

I sit in the grass and sing

To you.

The air listens.

The breeze blows my hair into my eyes,

I know the strings are out of tune in the sunlight,

But I play anyway,

Not wanting to stop,

Until I play the right song to end on.

I sing to you,

And then put my ukulele back in it’s case,

I tell you that I have to go,

And walk away,

Quickly,

I so badly want to sit back down and play

One more song,

Which will lead to another,

And another.

I don’t want to stop 

Singing

To

You.

I still sing to you

Every time I sing.