Writer's Island Visual Prompt

The follwoing image by Michael Maeir is the prompt at Writer's Island this week.  I've been in a bit of a poetry slump so decided to write a letter, instead.

Letter

Hi, Mom, I see Dad
has taken up the violin
again. It always amazed
me that those rough

and greasy mechanic’s
hands could ever make
music. But you knew
how magical he was.

It’s so nice to see you
young again and swaying
to the strains of the ocean
waltzing out of the violin.

Never look back, Mom.
We’re all doing fine here.
Open those wings and blend
into the gossamer forever

with your violin player
scattering confetti notes
around you until you both
become a whirlwind of one.

Love,
Linda

Damp, Incensed, Skid for 3WW

I really need to write a good poem.
I’ve been trying
but the results are insipid.

I hate this poetic skid.
I’m incensed that it has happened.
Used to be, I could write

about anything so easily.
Tulips are shouting,
leaves are stretching,

but, my imagination is shrinking.
It must be the weather.
We haven’t seen the sun

for over a week.
Everything is damp and dreary.
And I’ve cranked out another dud.

3WW: Grace, Jitter, Thin

I look around my classroom
at the messy pile of textbooks
at the world and U.S. maps
taped to the wall

at the posters in progress
draped over tables
like Dali’s clocks
at the hundreds of novels

sitting like crooked teeth
in makeshift bookcases
made out of empty boxes
at two plants gasping

for sun and water
at three hot pink recycling
bins and a gray garbage can
at a Purell dispenser

a pencil sharpener
a table with discarded
how-to-write-poetry books
waiting for new homes

at seventeen cranberry desks
four sky blue ones two navy
blue ones and a lone sunny
yellow student desk

at an old TV and VCR
on a raised stand with various
tapes strewn about
at a beige file cabinet

at the poster with flames
Carl King made
shortly before he died
three years ago

at my windows full
of white birch trees
and baby leaves
at a wall hanging

of Shakespeare
a moon poster
four schedules for this week’s
classes taped to the board

at piles of papers
bins with all my assignments
a pewter mug with a bouquet
of pens and pencils

at a mural of four gods
and goddesses painted
over twenty years ago
at bulletin boards

filled with imaginations
and creativity
at a poster that says,
“Poetry is honeycomb

so full that it drips
into a puddle
from which the hummingbird
sips”

at a clock that says
8:20 am and a red second
hand making its way around
taking me one click

at a time closer to the end
at a notepad with the words
grace, jitter, and thin
written in black

that I keep glancing at
wondering how on earth
I’ll ever use them
in this poem

at my fingers jitterbugging
on black computer keys
as I try to find a way
to stop writing when there

are still so many other
things to list about this room
this life this working race
to retirement.