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Tag: writing prompts

“I Remember Her Hair” & The Prompt That Led Me Here

 
Happy Wednesday, everyone! I hope you’re all enjoying your week. I’m doing things a little differently this week, writing poems every day, but in a mix of free-writing and prompted writing.

Here is my poem for today, and the prompt that inspired it. Thanks for being here, and thanks for the read. I hope that the prompt inspires you, and that you’ll share your poem in the comments!

 
I REMEMBER HER HAIR

I remember the crack in the ceiling by the front door, still creeping. I remember
the chair in the room, gone now, where I used to look out on our sycamore tree,

our neighbors, our fence that leaned a little bit with snow. I remember the hallway full
of her footfalls, her own small herd. I remember her hair, draped down

the length of the couch, our laps, on her pillow. I remember how it felt
in our fingers as we separated the strands, sunflower from gold

from chestnut and mouse. I remember its length, how soft,
the curls. I remember how the rain hit—our windows, the fog, the fingerprints,

pawprints, the dust. I remember planting flowers in the backyard.
I remember loving you late in the night.

How far off it all looks now. Bursting open.
I remember.

 
 
Prompt: “I Remember” by Joe Brainard, found here.
 
 

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Reading at LangLab Tonight! & Poem Featured as Creative Writing Prompt

 

Hi everyone! I hope you’re all enjoying your week. Two pieces of fun news for this afternoon—

I’ll be reading tonight among friends at LangLab in South Bend at 7pm as a part of Lit Literary Collective‘s WRITE NIGHT with Ultreia, Inc. You can find more about it here; I hope you’ll join us!

And I also found out yesterday that my poem, “Timetable,” previously published by the beautiful Rogue Agent (and featured partially above), was used as a creative writing prompt online! I am so pleased and flattered. You can check it out, and the other writing prompts, over here.

Have a wonderful night, all! If I don’t see you, I hope you enjoy the sunshine and get some writing done. If I do see you, I hope you enjoy the poetry!

Until Later, Best ~ from me

 

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My Dumb Heart

 

                —To my fellow Benders, I threw on my grief.

 

MY DUMB HEART

 

is open wide and overflows with water. How I manage
to stay alive is beyond me. I like to think that I am more

than a wallflower, that others see something in me, that the love
I feel swells out in swarms, but sometimes I wonder what good

that will do—after the apocalypse, what will be left but a swarm
of beetles—what but exit signs, laundry, and dirt,

my sadness like a cloth underneath—still present and wet
with earth and never clean again, never reflecting

sun or moon or teeth quite like the first time. My sadness goes
with me like a cloud. My sadness rides around with me

in the backseat. It wears a black cape and snakeskin boots
that click down afternoon hallways. It trades, sometimes, for

feather-duster wings when it is a she and she
is in the mood for forgiveness. She eats chocolates by the handful

and offers them over silently. Every time
they taste like tears, because they were not meant

for someone like me, and yet
I try them, because there is a persistence

to them. They bring out the hope in me. I look up, like moon, and I think
that is what I love most about her. Every time she trades

for her wings, she keeps those snakeskin boots.

 

 

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Dear Emily—

 

Hope is the thing with feathers.

 

Here is a truth: I thrive
on hope. But yet, here is another: if you fill

a pillow with feathers, I cannot sleep—
I wake in the middle of the night,

heavy-chested and warm, throwing off the dark
as if it were a spare blanket meant

for the shadow sleeping
in the spare room. I will not lie to you,

I am lonely; I am restless; I dream
that others will recognize

the potential in me like a cloud. You prod
at that hope in me like a swarm of bees.

But when the winter comes, let me throw on my grief
like gloves because my hands will be frozen anyway—

without them, I will not be able to write you letters,
and how sad would that be, how sad your grave

would be without all these folded sheets
of paper—but really, how sad

I would be without you. Dear Emily, how I
have turned back to you

in the fog—

 

—for Kelcey Parker Ervick’s Letter to Dead Authors exercise at her reading yesterday at LangLab

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