tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88764003107496593222011-12-29T17:34:10.251-07:00brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.comBlogger3101100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-81977945162952333712011-06-10T08:39:00.000-06:002011-06-10T08:39:57.640-06:00

With sadness but no regret, my writing at Beyond the Bozone is complete. The blog will remain archived here. I may remove pieces if I choose to revise them for publication. All of the work here is mine. Read it and enjoy it. Your presence here is what makes blogging worthwhile. My ego will have me yearning for Blogger’s followers feature, but it bothers me that Blogger makes it difficult for

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-76876091133545244592011-06-08T08:21:00.000-06:002011-06-08T08:21:02.772-06:00

Serpentdragonmanbird with your tail so sharp and your aim so true I fear the air surrounding you. You’re a slithering sneak with a raven’s beak and the face of a striking young man. Your feathered reptilian wings spread flight in circling rings. Your neck stretches scales and your serpentine tail threatens to impale little me. Oh my! It threatens to impale little me. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-86234233886047522112011-06-04T23:00:00.004-06:002011-06-04T23:00:04.669-06:00

In the gaudy glow of afterbirth a field mouse burrows its hantavirus hole, unknowingly pulling Hank the Hired Man into death’s murmuring abyss. His chest undulates convulsions while Misty Winston, the Rancher’s Daughter touches his common cheek unafraid of Daddy’s inky wrath. Her hero lies dying spinning his way into purple nothingness. He stills and her beating heart breaks. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-68571449678176634352011-06-01T00:01:00.002-06:002011-06-01T00:01:01.229-06:00

swallow dives hard backwards in wind = airplane flies through turbulent wind = tornado flies lives become wind = whoosh! cries the wind whistling its sin ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A shout out to Tilly Bud, who got me writing piku this week. Tilly authored the prompt at We Write Poems this week. Here it is: Write a piku. (a cross between a haiku and the first three numbers of pi.) three

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-73619120660633436852011-05-30T14:56:00.000-06:002011-05-30T14:56:00.064-06:00

Banquet Scene with a Lute Player by Nicolas Tournier, 1625 Ghostly servant painted white, fading into darkness, what stories your thin lips must spill what distasteful tales convey for surely you have heard it all in your insignificant way. Utter them now , spin us the yarn while this good lady looks at you every one else at the table is bored with my uncle’s incessant reflections. Look at

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-27977030063220786932011-05-30T08:17:00.005-06:002011-05-30T11:27:58.228-06:00

A smile incriminates her sleeping curl, as swallows dive around her just to play. With arms outstretched she soars above her world. She swirls beyond the life she leads by day. Her dreams create this charming super girl whose deeds expose her waking life’s decay. She longs to sleep in perpetuity evading waking’s incongruity.  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ From a prompt at One

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-67084425284824921002011-05-29T12:16:00.001-06:002011-05-29T12:17:49.435-06:00

for Len when the forgetting begins let me mumble my mumblings when the wandering ensues lock me in our room and love me when my vitriolic dementia breeds quiet somber reflection hold me encompass me in your age spotted arms lift me with the spirit of who we used to be let me ride you like a stallion when our fallow fields fade before everything we ever were gets covered in the grave ~~~~~~~

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-1036111462519039192011-05-29T09:26:00.000-06:002011-05-29T09:26:59.231-06:00

 Photograph by Scott Wyden  She sighs, surrounding each of his fingers with her own-- intertwining digits, imagining his picture with her— a spandex clad savior mission complete, flying for fun. Strength becomes her. She spreads shock and awe amongst dwellers behind reflected clouds. Rising toward that crack of sky, she leaves him behind, camera in hand, puzzled and alone. ~~~~~~~~~~~~

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-88579315713206578972011-05-28T20:51:00.000-06:002011-05-28T20:51:15.651-06:00

She orbits, a planet turning against her striding self, afraid of fallen angels frolicking in yellow fields, afraid of crying winds whisking hair into tails— wild things, winding life with leaves whipping in the gravity of twilight’s last glow. She envies each of the planets and dreams herself a meteor falling a fiery hole into Earth free from fear forever. She orbits like a planet parched

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-21939329774386557502011-05-27T18:15:00.003-06:002011-05-27T19:02:33.987-06:00

Inundate me. Pull me into your flow so swirling limbs become river washing up on eternity’s shore. Swirl me through the shelter of underwater homes and past the store front windows with mannequins afloat. Churning debris congregates in eddies as the river’s sisters drop grey sky onto Earth. Taking me with it to everything else. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Montana is flooding, school is ending.  The

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-59466689066387853962011-05-21T23:30:00.009-06:002011-05-21T23:30:00.924-06:00

Yellow rolls down steep green hills where angels surrender flight. They risk disappointing the Absolute just to smell yellow in. Rearranged angels on the wane lull themselves through windows into carnal beds Beneath dreams they utter words like Rapture and dance among the yellow. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Click on the wordle to see other people's responses to the wordle below at AWWS.

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-67395183362026998332011-05-17T18:00:00.001-06:002011-05-17T19:59:21.760-06:00

The day I read this week's prompt at We Write Poems (to write your own prompt), a movie came into my mailbox from Netflix. It was a documentary called “Wounded Heart: Pine Ridge and the Souix.” A prompt arose. Prompt: Watch a documentary film. While you are viewing it pause it to explore any images that strike you as interesting to get a piece started after the movie is over. Keep your notebook

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-60637104811338851642011-05-16T18:29:00.001-06:002011-05-16T18:35:12.558-06:00

1. Reflecting tomes lined in rows pages coerced together. A collision of words lies trapped in sequential narration. Stories yearn for the feast of your eyes; it is you that makes them alive. Meanwhile, your fingers tease and twirl through filigreed swirls recessed upon leather bound spines. Up to the top, your fingers drop levering a hardbound down. Hands caress both front and back opening

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-24152332969624110122011-05-14T22:51:00.003-06:002011-05-15T09:00:01.701-06:00

Brandishing hips holstered in leather and rhinestones her wide brimmed hat filters catcalls, sunlight, and Jebediah’s rural stare. She feels him like a chimney eking smoke up her stack. Distant bridges whisper stories textured with his touch. Lost in lustful reverie salty infusions begin to erupt evoking an image of her gecko slurping sweat from her brow. Touching the brim of her hat she

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-35350956289583266452011-05-13T11:07:00.000-06:002011-05-13T11:07:46.540-06:00

if everything is one big thing as it could well be argued being bound in these imperfect forms people persistently muck up the whole we are inferior manifestations of the one we kill we maim we eat our own babies we proliferate evil being bound in these imperfect forms a sardonic dance ensues BECAUSE WE DON’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO I want a drink I want a long line of coke snorted through a

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-13193630123862860572011-05-10T19:18:00.003-06:002011-05-10T20:26:30.917-06:00

navigate imperfectly these confused blood cells need to ask you if you have ever regretted leaving if forgiveness were molded in between my hands dreaming to the rhythm of horses’ hooves but I do not remember anymore and the last road you know as well as I do we are the kids outside the bingo hall my cries combust into purple flames swallowed by glaciers the size of ten thousand buffalo

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-87073576037362737582011-05-09T19:25:00.003-06:002011-05-09T22:21:04.347-06:00

stone saintwith Max’s young facetell me his secrets let me be a stone sparrowchiseled into storiesof strawberries,violins, and madness let me knight youand ride you throughdeath’s distant doorall in the palm of your hand Tell mestories of BergmanOn Fårö Islandwhere the seathrashes through a glass darkly and I can believe in God through your so blue eyes ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-1858140588958625292011-05-08T00:01:00.020-06:002011-05-08T00:01:00.556-06:00

She breathes as its current embroiders seaweed through tiny holes in spirit. Water slides beneath her. Branches tug at her hair, snap and become part of the flow. The river supersedes her. In the morning mist rises and evaporates. Released from darkness she eddies, a silver white glisten floating on the Mighty Mo. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ On Wednesday this week, the body of a missing

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-71749353627157524802011-05-07T08:48:00.001-06:002011-05-07T09:18:29.509-06:00

Pelting droplets interact with earth’s surface molecules and release perfumed fecundity while morning strides its song. Chickadees’ staccato punctuates distant dog woofs and mourning doves coo a lovely leitmotif. Rain loosens her and Earth becomes ecbolic forcing bulbs to green her flesh. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The prompt at Writer's Island was "season." Also, Elizabeth started a Wordplay.

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-26033065365620400702011-05-06T00:01:00.023-06:002011-05-06T05:26:13.134-06:00

Cheryl’s constant attack on the others made wringing her neck easy. That left sweet Sheila, Gita, funny little Francis, and Mabel. Yadi did not have the heart for more slaughter. Gita’s eyes held reproach, Francis ran circles round his feet, and Sheila shuddered on the passenger seat. Screeching, Mabel charged Yadi. She was the next to go. Grabbing Mabel’s neck, Yadi stepped from the bus and

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-67024279325408205992011-05-05T18:02:00.000-06:002011-05-05T18:02:19.254-06:00

Dae-dal 1. intricate: complex 2. ingenious: skillful, may imply cunning, or cleverness 3. decorated with many things: especially natural wonders. ** ** ** Intricate doodles covered the margins of Marissah’s mind, off to the side where she kept her daedal ideas.

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-77311012312021312512011-05-04T19:48:00.000-06:002011-05-04T19:48:20.075-06:00

A big thank you to Elizabeth at 1sojournal for inviting readers to journey through a word a day with her. I visited today, and found the first three words. The first piece is dark, but then, so is the word. You should go take a look at Elizabeth's word play, too. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1. abatis A defensive obstacle made by laying felled trees on top of each other with branches, sometimes

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-53485880028116756622011-05-03T20:25:00.000-06:002011-05-03T20:25:02.229-06:00

on being myself A brick-by-brick disguise distorts who I am as rippling renditions radiate centrifugally forced fractions of me. Limited because, the real me might cleft your fictions and flash opposing sensibilities through your eyes. Trembling, I venture out only when the roots of trust begin to inch their way through those heavy red bricks. It’s always a gamble. Inviting eyes

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-31033806753203758532011-05-02T18:27:00.002-06:002011-05-02T21:16:31.465-06:00

Smoldering Fires Clarence Holbrook Carter (1904-2000) Columbus Museum of Art everything I’ve ever known is changing smoke and flame vent a roiling dance out the sides of the beast and my baby coos he coos he is a soother this one yellow against the two fingered fist that holds our ending pills we’ll ingest before we become invisible merging with the searing red flow the beast could heave

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-39947233734545215272011-05-01T00:01:00.014-06:002011-05-01T07:45:20.731-06:00

Whispers of revolution fall from hillsides as Ezekiel quiets his riotous visions straining to hear the aching message the night train scribbles. Praying for his people’s resilience, praying for oppression’s end, he screams. On this night, the train whistle screams and Ezekiel guides his horse through hillsides. Trembling himself, he blesses his mount’s resilience. The stallion first appeared

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-82772412437870091612011-04-30T08:23:00.004-06:002011-05-02T18:57:40.729-06:00

Here's the prompt from Poetry Tow Truck: Have you ever told poetry how you feel about it? For today, write a love letter to poetry itself – or to a favorite poet or poem, or to words, or to a person that brought poetry into your life…interpret the prompt however you like. And keep poems in your life every month, not just in April. Thank you for the prompt, Donna. I read Donna’s piece first, and

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-44002913219140201852011-04-29T00:01:00.006-06:002011-04-29T00:01:08.900-06:00

A big snow should pass through later today. I'll likely skip the drive and figure something else out. When I'm a passenger, I love driving through snow, but when I'm a driver my anxiety is bigger than I am. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Would you like some cheese with your whine? I can’t go driving in the snow white knuckling it down highway 87 working muscles into knots It’s April

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-20821708101800894532011-04-28T00:01:00.005-06:002011-04-28T05:46:13.136-06:00

My muse is running dry. For inspiration I typed "anguish" (emotion, starts with "a") into Google images.  The image below was among the first group that came up.  The piece is in response to the picture.  I'm not sure who took the picture.  The blog where I retrieved it listed it as a photo he had collected some time ago.  Only two more days in April!   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ anguish salty 

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-45528324035763658712011-04-27T00:01:00.013-06:002011-04-27T00:01:00.577-06:00

April’s end nears! Thank you for reading my work this month, and for leaving your impressions Beyond the Bozone. Knowing that you read and appreciate some of my pieces brings me joy. If you blog, you know. I created today’s piece while playing with the phrase generator at Language is a Virus. I wrote four short phrases as instructed, and synonyms for the phrases. Then I cut and pasted it all in

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-34821982245742907352011-04-26T06:10:00.000-06:002011-04-26T06:10:31.936-06:00

slightly ajar A mason jar of butterfly wings sits on a shelf in her soul. Raucous fluttering riots what meditation quiets so she falls to the floor a lotus alive and she breathes. The jar’s twisted rim clatters, flurrying matter’s fixation. Showers of sugary powdered snow globe color settle in transmuted piles. All distinction dissipates. waking?/shutting down waking?/shutting down She

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-21561657625883610942011-04-25T00:01:00.007-06:002011-04-25T00:01:00.558-06:00

In a bizarre turn of prompts…ha! I read a few of the responses poets had to NaPoWriMo’s prompt yesterday to use a list of words as end rhymes in a sonnet. I tried a sonnet, and do have something in the works…but it just might stay there. Instead, I used the words, or any form I saw fit, in this piece. It’s a bit bawdy, and I don’t do that often in poetry….but my “gut” tells me that it’s about

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-4747425431689937512011-04-24T00:01:00.009-06:002011-04-24T00:01:01.048-06:00

This is my first response to a wordle at a wordling whirl of Sundays. I had no idea that this piece would evolve from those words; it is quite dark. The first two lines came, and I mulled them over. I decided to just go for it, and write this piece from the perspective of someone who is the creep’s captive. I watch enough crime drama on television that the rest came easily. The last two

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-45885932940141507662011-04-23T00:01:00.014-06:002011-04-23T05:47:11.748-06:00

A very specific prompt gave birth to this piece. I’ve been working and reworking it for two days. It was hard to make it flow. It still feels like there are splits in the piece; but I like it nonetheless. I included the prompt so you could see the inspiration. Donna Vorreyer posted it as a Saturday prompt last week on her blog, Put Words Together, Make Meaning : Today’s poem comes from a

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-31195736597941196122011-04-22T00:01:00.014-06:002011-04-22T19:26:48.587-06:00

From a Big Tent prompt that asked us to "write a poem about what you would shout down the street," I came up with a story poem. If someone dropped their purse in the street, I would shout. This piece transpired from that thought. It begins and ends with the narrator shouting in the street. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Street Talk “Hey Lady! Hey Lady! You dropped your purse!” I hold it up,

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-171488021912471482011-04-21T06:38:00.001-06:002011-04-21T06:39:22.996-06:00

One of my "additional hats" is to organize our annual Middle School variety show. During the last two weeks scheduling and judging auditions took some time. Yesterday, I posted the 2011 Variety Show Line-Up. I wanted to commemorate the day with a poem. Ventriloquist came first, and it came as one line that was perfectly separated into haiku (kismet). This act brought tears to my eyes.

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-5457700513969557742011-04-20T00:01:00.005-06:002011-04-20T05:43:07.452-06:00

We Write Poems offered two starter lines for poems. One of them, "I'm willing to eat..." prompted this memory poem that came quickly. Like all memories this old, it is embellished. But rest assured the ingestion of worms for Rainier occured on a playground in Montana. Who says that youth is misspent? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ worms for beer When we were 15 Mary Cullum told my

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-16467778978493496742011-04-19T00:01:00.015-06:002011-04-24T23:03:04.420-06:00

Several of you have been writing sevenlings, so I surfed for more information regarding the form. I followed the rules for the sevenling form found at The Chop Shop. If you are interested, I've reposted them beneath the poem. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ sevenling (in the middle) in the middle of the table in the middle of the room three of my favorite possessions loom a sock, a clock,

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-74472292507452267382011-04-18T00:01:00.016-06:002011-04-18T05:35:28.285-06:00

When NaPoWriMo’s website suggested a portrait poem, I took the opportunity to promote one of my personal heroes: John Trudell. He shows up in my work often; he deserves April airtime. Follow my tags about Trudell if you are interested in him. He’s also got work available on iTunes, I suggest his CD DNA. The movie Trudell is worth having in any home video library. The image I paint of JT in

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-51395951810768000462011-04-17T00:01:00.009-06:002011-04-17T13:16:56.599-06:00

I pulled these words from the works of three poets who posted their poems at Writer’s Island Saturday, NaPoWriMo's Day 16. Four words each came from Alias Jinksy 16, Stan Skibinski's An Offer I Can Refuse from his blog Elephant Small, and from Mr. Walker's poem, Never Again, at Sadly Waiting for Recess. Thank you all for your poetry. I tackled the wordle this week trying to use each word in as

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-88838545206455995312011-04-16T08:47:00.000-06:002011-04-16T08:47:58.792-06:00

I'm not sure what I think of this piece. A friend asked for this recipe, and I decided to try writing it as a poem. Portions aside, you get the picture. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Casserole for Kara set aside lightly boiled cubed potatoes and crumble pork sausage into cast iron skillet grease glass casserole with pork fatted fingers chop onions tyrannizing eyes into medium high

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-62419133974873072032011-04-15T00:01:00.005-06:002011-04-15T00:01:00.607-06:00

Feeling short of time, I did these quickly. We are halfway through this month of writing! Spring Break starts for my school district one week from today. Then I can read more of your poems, breathe, and write. Woo hoo! 1 in meditation the refrigerator runs shattering silence 2 under nirvana the refrigerator hums pulling me back up 3 electricity runs my refrigerator its contents run me 4

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-37674546060795756092011-04-14T00:01:00.056-06:002011-04-14T00:01:00.542-06:00

Barbara at Briarcat (check it out....she plays with words) wrote a five minute poem to a prompt she found out there somewhere.  I loved it, and decided to write my own. I couldn't do it in five minutes, but did do it in twenty.  To clue you in, an atomic blast is when you pound the face of your fist with another person and then pull away fast while opening your hand.  Oh yeah.  When you teach

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-78975433090938182242011-04-13T00:01:00.015-06:002011-04-13T00:01:00.358-06:00

One of the prompts at Big Tent Poetry this month asked that we write an ode to an object. I'm not sure that this qualifies as an "ode," but the prompt did inspire the poem. Buddha has been in our lives for seven years. Now seven is a lucky number for some, it seemed fitting to mention it on this unlucky (?)13 of NaPoWriMo. It's interesting the sound thirteen shares with thirty. As my grandmother

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-58833909816645473852011-04-12T00:01:00.010-06:002011-04-16T08:52:42.995-06:00

Sounds daunting, doesn't it? One sentence in 40 lines. It was the NaPoWriMo day 11 prompt. It showed up here at 12:01 a.m. mountain standard time. It was fun to write, and I hope you all like it. It gave me a little break from darkness--I feel grateful for the prompt. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ pancakes If miracles were pancakes I still would not have enough to stack 40 of them together in

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-59558087606284869192011-04-11T00:01:00.036-06:002011-04-17T13:17:32.647-06:00

A big chunk of my Sunday surrendered itself to the following sestina. I wanted to attempt at least one during NaPoWriMo. Prime number 11 is a good day to post it. The first stanza was inspired by a television commercial with an ape walking through chest high water. It’s a commercial for an upcoming documentary, Born to be Wild. I have not seen the show. That image drove this sestina, and I

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-38718645966084157352011-04-10T10:35:00.001-06:002011-04-10T10:36:18.808-06:00

After a handful of poets responded with a piece to last Sunday’s wordle prompt, I created another one. I pulled these words from the works of three poets who posted their poems at Writer’s Island today. Four words each came from Andy Sewina’s She Can Laugh, Whistler’s Annunciation by Ron at Scrambled not Fried, and Pamela Sayers’ Mr. Corruption.  Thank you all for your poetry. My piece came

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-31817014208857636242011-04-10T00:01:00.018-06:002011-04-17T13:18:43.198-06:00

Brief Intro (scroll down if you just want to read the poem): The Battle of the Little Bighorn took place on the Little Bighorn River in Montana. It was more famously known as Custer's Last Stand. Indian people called the Little Bighorn the Greasy Grass. This is a work in progress, and I welcome feedback of any kind. It might become part of a larger piece I’m mulling over. The word wasichus is

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-17149209376230408402011-04-09T00:01:00.004-06:002011-04-09T00:12:53.371-06:00

process notes: Two or three revisions, and it ended here. I’m not sure what I think of this piece or where it came from…sometimes they just roll out of our fingers without thought. This is the ninth day and 9 is a magic number. Who knows where Saturday rolls, as it rises from the darkness beneath dawn. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ parent reprehensible self-promoting agenda covers who you are

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-75508199911550545102011-04-08T00:01:00.050-06:002011-04-08T00:01:00.290-06:00

Process Notes: This piece came rather quickly and writing it was cathartic. This is a snapshot of one of my literacy classes. I work as a reading and English teacher for middle school students who struggle with reading, some of them are non readers, they are aliterate. One class with seven students is particularly difficult to manage. Today I almost cried when I lost them. Fury, and the fear

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-2944378980987340142011-04-07T00:01:00.045-06:002011-04-07T00:01:00.180-06:00

L. Frank Baum wrote the Wizard of Oz in 1900. It became a movie in the United States in 1939, and continues to be a hit today. From 1890-1891, Baum published a small newspaper in Aberdeen, South Dakota. In his editorials, he advocated for the extermination of American Indians. Uncovering the Wizard contains mostly Baum’s words from the end parentheses to "In 1876," although I did use some of

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-1057988562052373182011-04-06T00:01:00.004-06:002011-04-06T00:01:00.813-06:00

For today’s piece, I wrote about someone who I knew I’d never be: a biker’s old lady.  Let me fill in some back-story.  A few years ago, one of my 8th grade students asked me if I was a biker when I was younger.  I said no, and he said, “Oh, because one of my friends thinks you probably used to be hot.”  J  I can’t help but love that story, and wonder at its origins in this young man.  In this

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-50602623254837959222011-04-05T00:01:00.010-06:002011-04-05T00:01:01.813-06:00

Process Notes: Pamela at Poetry With Me wrote a piece a week or so ago that is made up of lines from her old poems (Ashes Find a Way Back).  I liked the idea, so used it tonight. This piece is taken from some of my 2009 poems.  It was fun to go through them and create something new. Most of the lines are intact from old pieces. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ magic's meal A full moon rises transparent and

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-76541831794416825742011-04-04T00:01:00.008-06:002011-04-04T00:01:00.215-06:00

Fish Basket Sensing dishonesty, the fish journeys past dangling lures of prodigious preconceptions preferring fallow flies with speckled feathers. It imagines buzzing as it swims up and snaps its supercilious jaws. It swallows its own omnipotence (hook, line, and sinker). Harried agitations settle it into a pocket between trout and perch whose docile gasps indicate submission in

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-75454340295507150222011-04-03T14:39:00.000-06:002011-04-03T14:39:51.402-06:00

Here's a Wordle created from Sylvia Plath's Mirror, Emily Dickinson's The Railway Train, and a piece I wrote after reading those two pieces. Four words from each piece made the wordle. If anyone wants a prompt, give this wordle a whirl. I'll post a piece tomorrow, and would love to see you give it a try! If you use the wordle, link it here, or in tomorrow's Bozone post.  Thanks for stopping by!

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-13460537615324545332011-04-03T08:46:00.003-06:002011-04-03T08:54:57.810-06:00

Process Notes: The prompt for day three at NaPoWriMo asked poets to “write a poem predicting your own death — at night in Omaha at the Shell Station, in an underwater Mexican grotto after a dry spell.” It was an interesting process. I’ve revised it a dozen times, and it may see some revision yet (no piece is ever entirely finished!). It feels like a hopeful piece to me, if not a bit

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-18505038434450115672011-04-02T10:00:00.005-06:002011-04-02T10:38:11.785-06:00

Process Notes: Here is the prompt from Donna: For today’s prompt, choose something that is either common in your everyday life, like Plath’s mirror, or some novel new piece of technology, like Dickinson’s train. Then try to write about it in a somewhat cryptic way. I read Plath’s piece that Donna provides at Poetry Tow Truck, and came up with this piece. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sydney I am

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-49786441955814664112011-04-02T08:29:00.003-06:002011-04-02T09:53:14.743-06:00

Process notes: This article on NPR got me thinking about peace and democracy. Does democracy promote military action? Is “peace and democracy” an oxymoron? Aside from the parenthetical addition to the last stanza, all of the words below came from the article. I cut and pasted it into a document and deleted words in “erasure” fashion. All but the last four lines occur in the order they appear

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-10419425037203702142011-04-01T20:33:00.001-06:002011-04-01T20:34:19.508-06:00

89 brings April Driving home on highway 89 the air hangs heavy. South a mile over hills that roll the Little Belts parallel the road. A trying window of blue sky glimmers dim in a scalloped wall of gray hovering above the pine-treed range. To the north Mount Baldy disappears under clouds letting loose winter’s last blankets. High on the belly of Montana, a dreary drizzle receives aplomb

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-46820802344144555402011-03-31T23:09:00.000-06:002011-03-31T23:09:23.272-06:00

~Process Notes~ One of the prompts at Big Tent Poetry this week was to use feather and stilettos in a poem, but to use them without people wearing them. The first thing that I did to tackle the prompt was brainstorm a list of words that shared sounds with stiletto and feather. I added to the list all day today. Pairing the words in several variations, I said them aloud over and over. When I

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-27650463586125937632011-03-29T18:03:00.004-06:002011-03-30T05:32:39.696-06:00

When flourished forgettings flash, crows play chess in the folds of my brain. Their fluttering flusters up musty minutes as onyx pawns cross alternating sidewalks of feathered glass. My glasses. Where did I put my glasses? What was your name again? A big crow circles my thoughts. Tracking the front of its revolution my head sways side to side and my glasses catch the window light. What am

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-73702859267544368632011-03-28T22:40:00.002-06:002011-03-28T22:49:59.775-06:00

The crows called out. Chilled souls. Merlot and bordeaux fire glass burning in the billowing Bozeman white. A toast to ponderosa peaks! A caw to friendship! Glasses raised high, we sauntered streets bellies warmed palates charmed arm in arm brosia.

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-8384726715801856822011-03-26T13:57:00.002-06:002011-03-27T08:21:26.852-06:00

“Cha cha, cha cha cha,” sings boogey man. “Cha cha, cha cha cha,” sings he. “Cha cha, cha cha cha,” sings boogey man, as he hides inside your tv. He hooks you into his stories designed to delight and deceive, that boogey man sets an invisible scheme to implant an agenda in thee. “Cha cha, cha cha cha,” sings boogey man. “Cha cha, cha cha cha,” sings he. “Cha cha, cha cha cha,” sings boogey man,

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-4282961930139827002011-03-26T11:06:00.003-06:002011-03-27T08:22:13.201-06:00

The disappearance of our world imprinted in our faces echoes in kindred cages in labs across the states. Can’t you see yourselves in me? Can’t we be a we? Living side by side and free human and chimpanzee. Open all the cages provide a sanctuary, with birds, and chimps, and bonobos it’ll be an ape-iary. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Thank you to Donna Vorreyer at the Poetry Tow Truck for

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-86189221982021937642011-03-25T19:21:00.002-06:002011-03-26T09:33:21.073-06:00

Epicenters of uprisings explore decimation, plundered people scatter in panicked packs some track flat beneath turreted tanks ta tat - ta tat - ta tat tat - tattering torsos to shreds of all that used to be. America, we open our eyes to sunshine and doughnuts living every day like nothing matters but Facebook. Suffering superfluities Batman! We oughta get outta Afghanistan! Lybia shmybia

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-6247247376230707522011-03-24T21:45:00.005-06:002011-03-25T19:00:33.052-06:00

1whirling illusionspolish deception untilclarity dissolves ~~~ 2fingers move acrossintrospective ivoryair becomes alive ~~~ 3secret renewalintoxicates deep regionshitherto unmoved ~~~ she floats Neurotic introspection caresses hysteria encouraging destruction. Merging hallucinations incessantly chant . . . shackles . . . shackles . . . shackles . . . undering perception. Futiitly

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-90913454421743373342011-03-22T20:10:00.001-06:002011-03-23T05:38:50.478-06:00

Forsaken eyes bleed under cloudless blue skies,dripping brick veneerdown holy crowns tearing thorn through flesh tomess with its essence,dispatching frequent pulsesthat vibrate Satan’s wires. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~A shout out to Nicole Nicholson at We Write Poems for the picture prompt.   "Nicole stumbled upon the work of an Australian street artist named Rone who creates a

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-42786534820983312932011-03-13T09:48:00.002-06:002011-03-13T10:30:39.108-06:00

people scrambled and tossed become debris churning in the roil

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-79259782417598528672011-03-12T08:23:00.002-07:002011-03-27T08:22:43.323-06:00

Hopper grows old at the foot of my chairdreaming of dog bones and pussies to snare,More often than not my feet find him there,sleeping deep deeping beneath my stuffed chair. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The prompt at Writer’s Island this morning was “tribute.”  This one goes out to the family dog Hopper.  Hopper is a pit bull mix.  He’s graced out lives for nine years, and we love him.

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-90025232697358723532011-03-10T19:30:00.007-07:002011-03-11T05:26:22.278-07:00

fascopy paper formed into ballet toe will cushion an egg, raw, wrapped andnestled in its egg-protector as it sails to rain-gutter glory (it’s sharpee black body dons a skull sticker with wings) one centimer folded columns bumper the slipper’s toe fronting a pool of squirted glue that ups the car’s mass to meet challenge requirements fins provide balance and finesse they streamline eyes that

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-37634675820552881382011-03-07T18:00:00.004-07:002011-03-09T05:22:48.257-07:00

The prompt from We Write Poems this week asked us to select 10 to twenty words from Gordon Lightfoot’s song, “Don Quixote,” –you know the one “Through the woodland, through the valley, comes a horseman wild and free…” I selected twenty words from the song to construct something, and from those twenty utilized some form of the above 12. I tried to necessitate each word. The piece contains darkness

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-52632600947624495552011-02-05T09:27:00.001-07:002011-02-05T11:18:40.095-07:00

Splinter trickery from guile expose flesh shells under sieging petticoats. Precise incisions slice through sorcery while creatures whimper and scrutiny bares deceitful souls. Redemption rests in mindfulness. Breathe and be true. Illuminate the ruse of guile. Rise to the day’s remains, splinter trickery from self, and welcome authenticity. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Writer's Island prompt for this

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-61861275468126384202010-12-31T10:00:00.001-07:002011-03-27T08:23:17.464-06:00

Pieces from puzzles and frames holding faces bathrooms with drawers full of ribbons and laces brown cardboard boxes beginning to fill with things from a life that never more will Dogs run through hearts, and give out wet kisses while snakes on the hillside share rattles and hisses the river below will continue its spill far cry from a life that never more will Betrayal uncovered set moving in

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-43767498080299299392010-12-29T08:37:00.000-07:002010-12-29T08:37:48.222-07:00

Emanating from my abdomen, hand blown zeroes whisper infinity . . . infinity. With soft sighs they dissipate into ether’s emptiness as drifting echoes tickle the slits that let them slip. Beneath Luna’s full light spread gypsum on the edges of the gashes in my flesh to lure in her luster and illuminate infinity. Then stitch me back together so I can swallow life whole. ~~~~~~~~~ The

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-86125819647926667332010-12-21T11:01:00.005-07:002011-04-04T20:57:23.901-06:00

for Dave and Kate because I love you In Italy, in a low-valleyed vineyard Colleen Dewhurst’s laughter floats on scents of bay laurel and candle wax. I’m sitting at her table with Len, and Kate who keeps vying for Thich Nhat Hanh’s time. (She heard he likes Vienna Teng.) My great grandmother smiles with 30 year old eyes full of stories to waft through the air while my children replenish her

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-74135137055498157182010-12-21T07:57:00.001-07:002010-12-21T08:00:28.267-07:00

I haven’t been very good this year. Foul words fell from my mouth, and my contact with family and friends frittered to infrequency. On the other hand, I reached a couple of middle school students who try their darndest to resist reading and learning in the classroom. Maybe that’s enough to merit making my wish come true? Santa? We were friends a long time ago. Do you remember when

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-23167734475357612572010-12-20T08:28:00.001-07:002010-12-20T08:32:05.522-07:00

Mary held her head high. If Jonathon would not allow her to present the pig to the Olafsen’s, well then she hoped it soiled his waistcoat. Microfiction Monday

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-58813028776458738522010-12-19T08:36:00.001-07:002010-12-19T08:45:57.557-07:00

Six months ago the northern hemisphere began its darkening. There are some who say it is darkest before dawn. Last week, when somebody in her 6th period science class asked why she didn’t just ask her parents for an iPod, Josie Storm cried. She later told her teacher, “I hate Christmas. I have three sisters and my dad died last year. We don’t have any money.” Mrs. Estes down the hall is

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-85207393405543847722010-12-18T10:05:00.002-07:002010-12-18T10:27:56.729-07:00

Otto experienced triumph when words pittered past his stilted tongue. Each “thank you” exalted effort’s completion propelling Otto’s lank form into twisted celebration. As they toured the sheltered workshop, one of those high school girls cringed when Otto stretched out his gnarled hand to greedily shake hers, and the smiles faded in his eager blue eyes. Otto experienced triumph when another

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-47295999844840114952010-12-16T18:20:00.005-07:002011-07-17T06:34:54.981-06:00

Live as if you were already dead. –Zen Admonition Oh yeah, you are. –Me The dead woman smoked Top rolled tobacco with the Mad Hatter as they walked through oceans of tassel teased grain. The dead woman and the Mad Hatter roosted on a railroad trestle’s black iron undercarriage as their words ebbed and flowed. She closed her eyes and she laughed as a train rode the rails over head, blowing

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-60939074177347826002010-10-02T17:14:00.002-06:002011-03-26T09:35:49.742-06:00

Languages die beneath tongues silenced in schools designed to transform little Indians into assimilated copies of the dutiful US. The great white father molded death with agrarian paradigms and words shoved down throats. God the Father, household tasks and and shut your dirty Indian mouth covered the curriculum. One weekend per month at home sent Cheyenne syllables swirling silently through

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-89786443628797655792010-09-02T19:29:00.002-06:002010-09-02T19:29:57.983-06:00

After dark campfire burns echoes of futures collide with times past. Technology is a carrot chased from the start. Obsidian falls in grassy fields shining under full moon light. Black glass flakes off under hammered stones to reveal projectile points arrowheads rubbed to perfection deadly weapons pitched in notched wooden spears flint mapped stone— wrapped tight with sinew strands. Power in

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-82160584269244341412010-08-21T07:26:00.004-06:002010-08-21T08:59:18.570-06:00

dip a paddle deep in time’s river mirrored wormholes lure through tomorrow’s stars yesterday great granddaughter tells tales of glass encased cities spread over crumbled dead Earth eyes wend a destruction story already several months in older than you she begins, “It starts with a slow dying ocean, until all that’s left is a shell. . .” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Visit Writer’s Island for more

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-28818807195928489892010-08-20T13:27:00.001-06:002010-08-20T13:35:07.165-06:00

my two men break trail to heaven through brush over deadfall up up up branches furrow skin blood drips a story of ascent marking machismo bonding father & son feeding Earth stand tall breathe thin summit air raise your arms to unrivaled views honor your mother beat a track back home down down down where blistered feet breathe relief and red trails blazed in heaven

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-34466389711201371962010-08-19T15:43:00.002-06:002010-08-20T08:04:27.172-06:00

silken stream moisten my spirit soften its pineapple thorns plant me naked in baked fields bouldered with broken cars near Juniper’s deep-rooted soul hose the spot make me summer clay shape me into earthen pots render me useful hand blown zeroes whisper infinity, infinity ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This is one of two pieces I wrote for the Big Tent Poetry prompt wordle. Visit the Big

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-88374251164894187782010-08-18T08:55:00.002-06:002010-08-18T09:36:50.741-06:00

echoes of summerripple in snapshotsstill waterlaughing girlslovely lilies  lilt a leitmotiflingering imagesechoing summer ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Shout out to ABC Wednesday!  Be sure and visit their site for more Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees.

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-73868448490960775882010-08-17T21:15:00.002-06:002011-04-16T08:51:15.578-06:00

At Grandmother’s kitchen table cardamom coffee cake splits to expose cinnamon walnut veins twining through moist yellow fields. French pressed grinds infuse darkness that heavy cream clouds unfurl. My heart spills concentric rings across Grandmother’s smooth water soul. She unbolts my floodgates to decontaminate discontent; she verifies my life. We sit in satisfied stillness. Out the

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-62251058054165413442010-08-16T09:11:00.004-06:002010-08-20T04:23:40.299-06:00

hose off your pineapple dude knock off the silk mumbo jumbo you think zeroes streaming outta your mouth’ll make a difference? the baked days of summer are blown the gig is up moisten your pencil lead plant yourself deep pot’s not gonna save you now stop driving your brain car through barren tundra learn to deal chill get a towel and dry off ~~~~~~~~~~~ This came out as fast as my fingers can

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-13746589570112455452010-08-15T11:59:00.004-06:002010-08-15T12:11:48.694-06:00

Out my front window Hill 57 rises above houses rust colored boulders pepper summer dried grasses neighbor voice echoes, “Useta be injuns lived on that hill, damn squatters.” Little Shell tribe of the Chippewa Cree seeks federal recognition landless they hit fences honor denied people denied spirits dance through grasses atop 57 strong proud sweating story in glory of place a man speaks

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-10870472907322887842010-08-15T09:15:00.003-06:002010-08-15T09:29:29.178-06:00

scissors rip wrists until blood pulses red streams that pool in linoleum shallows silver flashes in a falling hand eyes hollow everything stops outside my window rain comes rain goes ~~~~~~~~~~ The first stanza is a poem created while I watched Law & Order on American TV. This is a show that airs during top family viewing hours. I am not sure of the title and am willing to entertain

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-76586380349026900602010-08-14T19:24:00.001-06:002010-08-14T19:25:35.120-06:00

teeth set against me inception of initial angst remains hidden behind a laser gaze burning holes in the wall of our classroom while the rest of us carry on you’ll show me (and absorb what we do through osmosis just wait one day participation will surprise you when it springs without thought from your mouth) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Check out Writer's Island for more responses to the prompt, inception.

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-3443181324557446612010-08-12T10:09:00.001-06:002010-08-12T11:17:48.046-06:00

in less than two weeks Teacher Me will be on stage for many pairs of eyes eyes with stories behind them stories temporarily sealed in stone cold pupils eyes with stories inside them stories shooting daggers through Reader Me’s heart eyes with stories waiting to be screamed stories flowing freely from far too few little writers waiting to set words to page to let it out to tell stories of

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-42776160595342450672010-08-12T08:37:00.003-06:002010-08-12T09:00:05.331-06:00

A turquoise metal filigree frame holds the first picture of you and me. Look at you. So tiny. So new. I tried to smell you into me as everything about you enveloped who I am. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A shout out to Cynthia Short, who provided the Big Tent Poetry prompt this week, to write about a possession. I chose this picture because I needed to write something affirming.

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-58686615453268773452010-08-11T08:17:00.004-06:002010-08-11T10:02:42.090-06:00

I am afraid Enlightened people, thinkers will opt out of childbirth knowing Earth won’t sustain growing populations. I am afraid welfare doles will continue to grow teaching children to rely on a system to hate a system to believe a system owes them. I am afraid that rather than relying on themselves to contribute to society, they will expect

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-10998178924674336152010-08-05T09:24:00.001-06:002010-08-05T09:26:24.836-06:00

The Big Tent Poetry prompt this week had poets check back on their previous dozen or so poems and write something different.  Metaphor is different for me in two ways.  I wrote it with the intention of creating a metaphor for the prompt itself.  I also played with the structure of the piece.  I don't do a great deal of either.  Formatting text for blogger can mystify me so I

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-40197804171176516662010-08-04T08:49:00.001-06:002010-08-04T08:50:47.132-06:00

 I took these pictures in July 2010 in Montana's Helena National Forest. The limestone formations create Refrigerator Canyon, which is typically 20-30 degrees cooler than the outside temperature. Carved through limestone by a small mountain stream, the canyon is 10-feet wide and 200-feet tall. It cools when air moves through the canyon and evaporates water from the stream.   The creek is high 

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-41722030166899925442010-08-03T14:53:00.007-06:002011-03-27T08:25:15.635-06:00

Gruffling snuffling snoring snorts brought Danny the Woodsman near to the cottage of widow Johnson, window glass against his ear. Sounds that did not seem human made Danny peek inside where whatever lay in the widow’s bed bore a hairy bristled hide. The woodsman pulled his knife from its sheath, exposing its silver bright shine he snuck in the cottage and sliced the wolf and saw Little Red

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-56434478008084434212010-08-03T07:10:00.002-06:002010-08-03T07:16:33.249-06:00

for t. c. one last time we fall into bed and heave an ending to us spent, I look at you still beside me hermoso separado dormido surfing down wispy cirrus clouds our dream selves talk about friendship and love You say, “We’ll float apart now, but we will both still float.” I say, “Sing for me one last time.” “Chantilly lace, with a pretty face…” your singing stuns me awake “

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-78895572326721851902010-08-02T08:44:00.001-06:002010-08-02T08:45:03.010-06:00

AJ promised me that the new house would be perfect. Yeah, if I were a deer. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This is my first post at Microfiction Monday.  Visit the link for a plethora of delightful takes on the prompt.

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-57122480482187595022010-08-01T08:48:00.004-06:002010-08-01T10:10:32.805-06:00

The lock covers Amanda's mind. It stares at her everywhere she goes, her own private eye. Billy deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it. "Excuse me, Miss, uh--your bag." Cheezums, Amanda almost walked right through the airport scanner. She hands it to security and smiles, "Sorry about that. My mind is a million miles away." He smiles back, like everyone does when she flashes her perfect row

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8876400310749659322.post-29233360196324599452010-07-30T21:23:00.009-06:002010-07-30T22:14:59.916-06:00

perfectly still window open moisture beads trails down waist slight breeze stirs sigh fingers trace rivulets curved hip head moves whistles cool salty streams shiver still ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Thank you to Poets United for the prompt. Visit the link for an assault on your sultry sensibilities. ha!

brenda whttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00846306414656375463noreply@blogger.com6