Write about coffee.
Write about dogs.
Write about murmuring starlings.
Write about money.
Write about love,
just be sure to kill your darlings.
Brenda Warren 2015
If you’ve read Stephen King’s book, On Writing, you understand the importance of killing your darlings.
Her false little smile disturbs me
it hides her truth from view.
She forgives all the people around her
for transgressions they did not do.
The world inside her head defines
her counterfeit presentation,
leaving the rest of us hoping she seeks
a mental examination.
Brenda Warren 2015
This town is feeding on my heart.
I hope it gets indigestion
I hope it belches snippets
of the moments we once shared—
walking dogs along the river’s edge,
twirling in the halls at school,
feeling breezes atop Hill 57,
these fleeting snippets of heaven.
Brenda Warren 2015
my bed eats sleep for breakfast
it’s hungry at 3 a.m.
it tosses and turns me over
then changes its mind again
my bed likes me over easy
my bed likes me sunny side up
mostly it wants me scrambled
finally I just get up
Brenda Warren 2015
Spring Break is no more. I wrote a quick ditty too early this morning, and will check out the daily prompt later.
Morning sighs its arrival
breathing sleep aside.
Denying her charms
you slumber,
holy in repose.
Silent, I watch
as the dog curls into your side
nuzzling the last of night
beside you.
Shifting my weight, I rise,
turning to your form’s reflection,
barely perceptible in dawn’s
tenuous light.
I stand here watching
until color chimes its way
through the blinds,
urging your departure,
while I imprint morning’s mirror
in my mind.
Brenda Warren 2015
Today’s prompt asks for an aubade, a form that explores lovers’ morning farewells.
The sun dispelled night a ribbon at a time
announcing morning’s pleasure
its news like squirrels ran
across the wires
above my yard
with urgent chatter on.
The hills untied their bonnets
and sweetly spread their locks
for sister wind to breathe upon
dancing for the sun.
Brenda Warren 2015
The prompt was to take an Emily Dickinson poem, and tweak it into a poem of our own. This was not my favorite exercise, but I did it. Here’s a link to the Dickinson poem. A Day
The tongues of angels clatter against
ten thousand stolen beginnings
fluttering syllables like wings gone
wild, until letters float like
feathers through
my dreams. Reminding sleep you
nestle next to me.
We end our day in silent
reverie, like spoons of primal
clay merged in a single am, filled
with shards of marmalade and jam.
Brenda Warren 2015
The prompt:
Love poems are a staple of the poetry scene. It’s pretty hard to be a poet and not write a few – or a dozen – or maybe six books’ worth. But because so many love poems have been written, there are lots of clichés. Fill your poems with robins and hearts and flowers, and you’ll sound more like a greeting card than a bard. So today, I challenge you to write a “loveless” love poem. Don’t use the word love! And avoid the flowers and rainbows.
I also used words from a previous Sunday Whirl.
You force your needle in my skin imbuing stories told.
Ink leaves behind dark lines of shape a pachyderm to share.
The humming sounds of shooting pain exude Ganesha’s birth.
From steel to flesh an elephant, reflecting Hindu mirth.
Please tell me of your circus tents, unjustified behind
the wonder in your children’s eyes—the bullhooks, chains, and lies.
Prevaricate the jewels you sell in lines that wait for rides.
Embellished cloth protects their eyes, your children’s, from their hides.
The subjugation of their kind, to kill for ivory tusks,
to entertain opposing thumbs, and keep our species dumb.
May circus chains and zoo refrains bring nothing but disgust.
Brenda Warren 2015
Prompt from the NaPo site:
And now, for our optional prompt! Today I challenge you to write a fourteener. Fourteeners can be have any number of lines, but each line should have fourteen syllables. Traditionally, each line consisted of seven iambic feet (i.e., an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable, times seven), but non-iambic fourteeners also exist. The fourteener was popular in 16th and 17th century England, where it was particular common in ballads, but it also is the form in which “Casey at the Bat” is written. The form is versatile enough to encompass any subject matter, but as the example of “Casey at the Bat” shows us, it is particularly useful in narrative poetry, due to the long line and the step-like sense of progression created by the iambs.
FYI: I tried to stick to the traditional parameter of seven iambic feet in this piece. Go me!
Twinkle, twinkle little jar
filled with memories and scars
let me throw you to the stars—
primordial shining bards.
Saturated galaxy milk
spin your orbit white,
translucent strands of who we are
thread their way through night.
Blood moon round and red
illuminating sacred,
stars sing while we shed skin
beneath their camera, naked.
Release my sheep from counting,
interrupting bliss.
This interim is hounding me
I want Ohio’s kiss.
Brenda Warren 2015
The prompt was stars.
It is not stroking kayaks across Holland’s morning mirror
winter’s lifeblood trailing streams along my arms.
It is not dipping paddles through a gleaming glassy surface,
fishes floundering in a space that disappears.
It is not breaking branches along glacial mountain passes
heightening a sense of something near.
It is not snowmelt mounting, forcing channels through rock canyons
weeping diamonds in a forest of steep fears.
It is not a red winged blackbird admonishing existence
as I wander on the walkway near its nest.
It is not the thrumming wings of pelicans, against an ancient sky
over Buffalo Creek in deep July.
This is dripping salt from my eyes.
Brenda Warren
April 2015
If I make it through a month of writing it will be my sixth year participating in National Poetry Month’s poem a day during April, or NaPoWriMo. Here is the prompt for today:
Today’s prompt is a poem of negation – yes (or maybe, no), I challenge you to write a poem that involves describing something in terms of what it is not, or not like. For example, if you chose a whale as the topic of your poem, you might have lines like “It does not settle down in trees at night, cooing/Nor will it fit in your hand.” Happy writing!
~~~
As it is, poems have a mind of their own. While this one speaks of what it’s not, it’s also what it is. Makes sense to me.
I reserve the right to edit these pieces as moments pass. Nothing is every really finished.
Adventures in Poetry and Writing
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