EVERY OTHER Wednesday (twice per month) 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 collection of poetry titled Riversongs by Michael Anania.
This week I wanted to mix things up. So, you can choose between the two prompts, or write with both.
Use this excerpt from the poem In and Out by Michael Anania as inspiration for your own unique poem.
She cranks the head up
and turns his face to the window,
late light sluiced past
chokecherry across occluded eyes;
the brown water threads its sludge;
the sprung branches of a fallen elm
trail curls of yellow scum, turning
as the catheter bends southward.
"there warn't no home
like a raft, after all"
Each spring the land spills back
with the receding floods, the slag
of the gray flats hooked with rubble,
stiff weeds strung with drying mud;
the rivers harvest bobs in the dark current.
I actually chose the second prompt and found myself inspired to write my own poem about water.
Here is my contribution:
I dreamed of
river banks and young ankles,
brown water threading
the edges where the land spills
into a blacktop Boulevard.
Saw myself in the fresh
skin of ten, weeding the water,
blonde head bobbing between
the garden's harvest,
a mere dandelion petal
hooked against the wind,
blowing somewhere far south,
a descent too sharp to remember
even the scent of fresh daisy
and chokecherry, talcum powder
and country gravy;
The girl whose heart died inside
while she was still alive
wants to remember the slippery
comfort of warm algae, the
Korean-war fisherman by the shore,
the kids even younger than
her then-cheap ten
dancing along the pavement
like specters against
the windshield of the moon.
An innocence not yet
dead enough to be reborn again,
a time when my bare feet,
wandering poets even then
who refused logic or authority,
still imagine me in.
The nostalgia choked me up as I wrote this. I miss the simple times gone by. Like the blow of a swift wind, unexpected, and something sacred has fled too far beyond your fingertips to grasp and so I touch them inside my dreams, scattered shard of memory that last momentarily. They touch me like hot hands, a mark with no scar. An invisible evidence that still lingers, even in the absence of association.