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.

Design for Sunday Scriblings

I wrote this one a few Columbus Day Weekends ago.  It popped into my head when I saw the prompt this week.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Designing

I spent the morning
in front of a computer
designing a TeacherWeb page
and if I turned my head just a little
I could see the sun
designing a mosaic
on the fall leaves.

Now, in this caramel afternoon
I’m sitting on a beach
with that same sun
painting shadows
in all the little pockets
of the sand.
I watch the waves
rush toward high tide
crocheting an intricate doily
on the shore
and with a yellow pencil
I design a poem.

Shackles for One Single Impression

I’m in the gray cellar
cleaning out
my mom’s things.

I knew it would happen
I just didn’t know
when or how.

She died last summer
and I hadn’t been
able to really mourn.

My heart was bound
in chains and I hadn’t
found the key.

Until I discover
her well-worn
crossword dictionary.

Inside the front cover
are pieces and pieces
and pieces and pieces

of paper containing
obscure definitions
and meanings

written in my mom’s
neat penmanship
straight across

the pages. My mom
who was so embarrassed
because she never

even graduated from
high school, who
always thought

she wasn’t smart, who
completed the crossword
every single day

and recorded the words
she learned, who was
smarter than anyone

else I knew. I stand
in the cellar marveling
at this pearl

of a mother and wipe
my teardrops
from her precious words.

Inspiration

I hear the squeaks
of baby birds
in the cedar tree
outside my living room

window. I climb
on the couch
to investigate
and kneel there

camera ready.
I see the blue sky
change into various
shapes as the wind

stirs the branches.
I see sunshine
resting on green
lounge chairs.

But I cannot see
a nest. I still
hear birds, though.
demanding breakfast.

I watch. I wait.
My finger
poised on the shutter
button. Then I see

some branches
stroking the glass
and making the squealing
sound. I put

my camera away,
open my computer,
and use imaginary birds
to write a real poem.

3WW: Evident, Illusion, Tragic

Choices

Her agony was evident
in her slouched shoulders
curving like a quarter moon

protecting the child
of her depression.
She aimed her arrow

at the kid whom she imagined
had insulted her then picked
up her books and fled,

her illusions trailing
behind her like dandelion
fluff. I looked at the rest

of the class and they
were just as confused.
Innocent eyes stared

back at me. I should
go after her, let her talk
about her tragic life

but there are fifteen
other kids waiting
for me to teach them.

"Open your To Kill
a Mockingbird book
to page 238" I said,

instead.