Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Word List Wednesday #9

Every Wednesday I select a list of at least 10 words (sometimes more).  I pull these words from a favorite literary piece that has inspired me. Usually it's another poem.  I always provide the poem author and title unless you want to go read it for yourself.

The idea is to take those 10 words and create a new, unique piece of writing of our own.

I love word lists/wordles because  they allow me to use words I don't often use, and those new words encourage fresh concepts and ideas for my poetry.

I first created this weekly prompt to inspire myself.  However, I am extending the invitation to others who may enjoy writing with my word list.  I invite you to link your work in the comments section if so!

The Word List for this week is selected from the novel Darkwater by Cecily Crowe.

Word List:

And here is my contribution to the prompt:

I Was a Time Traveler 

Restless of a wasted winter
I take my car into the
back roads.  Dreamer in
a cocktail dress and suede,
boots not meant for cold weather,
I throw caution to the thick-branches
of a mountainy impasse
and travel backward, believing
there is some type of parallel
symmetry between present
and the girlish world of some
other yesteryear.  I'm an empty
wishing well steadily dropping dreams
between the ancient granite hillsides,
a litter from the most unlikely tourist,
each one as inaudible to me
as a foreign language for I fear
I still do not know myself.
Time unravels inside the solitude
of this simple world, empty trees
cushioned between dusty roadways,
nearby bird-cries and someone's wash
hanging on the line, an isolated
kind of nakedness, a minutiae
heirloom of my grandmothers golden age.
There is an immaterial kind of complete
fullness, this dirt-road meeting the magenta
becoming of twilight, wheels rolling
steadily past civilization yet unspoiled
by consumerism.  My eyes swallow
distant mountains and a small
cemetery to my right, village churchyard
dipping into the valley to my left.
I imagine home-baked bread and
the grainy smell of Sunday potluck,
hand-rolled dough for biscuits,
the farmhouse with young chickens.
I think of life, of birth, the very
microcosm of lung-lining and
fresh breath and I think, albeit
mournfully, of the dead and all
the colors they cannot see.
Glory be to this fading day,
the light in my iris, an old car
flying its cylindrical fill past
fields of flower like a time machine
and myself guiding the wheel,
an alien among the innocent arpeggio
of nightlife in the deep forest sounds,
forlorn of an early country evening.

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