Here’s the quote:

“Nothing is impossible, the word itself says, “I’m Possible!”
~Audrey Hepburn

Image result for audrey hepburn

How is the impossible even possible? We wonder if we are capable to achieve great things because they seem daunting, haunting our every thought and action. “What’s the use?” we ask. We think we’re setting ourselves up for failure.

But, take this quote from Audrey Hepburn, star of the silver screen and a World Ambassador. From humble beginnings, she rose to her status in films such as “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” “A Nun’s Story,” and “My Fair Lady,” to name a few. Once retired from acting, she took on the challenge presented by third world countries, focusing on the starving and sick children. Always charming, always a loving soul. For Audrey Hepburn, she made the impossible, possible.

So, what’s possible for you? What do you consider out of your league? What have you or do think you can achieve?? Write a “possible” poem. Or an “impossible” poem. Or a hopeful dream … something you’d like to do but haven’t yet. Something “bucket list” worthy. Impossible? Positively possible!



Castoff the conception that curiosity
killed the cat.
Inquisitiveness is
the origin of opportunity.
Actually, cultivated curiosity
converts to curiositunity,
and curiositunity
attracts astounding actuality.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018




I started writing at thirteen,
lyrics for a song I hacked out
on the old organ we had at home.

Melody first, a little loop
of sound full blown into a
song, my first attempt.

Looking at the words
scratched onto a page
of spiral notebook paper

tattered and lined
random thoughts
of a future love long gone.

It had form and meter,
it had rhyme, my reason,
a poem of sorts on my page.

A poem never to see 
the light of day for years,
dead ended in a rusted file cabinet,

along with every other lame attempt
of poem and prose that
had me believing I had talent.

Maybe talent, but nary a whiff
of confidence to show the
work that was even at this early

date, very personal, a glimpse
of my inner self, the now me
in miniature, immature,

but with a dream.
To see my words light up
the pages of this book of life.

The flesh was willing,
but the spirit was weak,
my ambition was a wishful thought.

I wanted to write in the worst way,
and that was what I did,
in the worst way.

As the years passed,
I still tried to convince myself
that I was a writer, a poet

a composer, an untapped
resource in a disconnected
reality, a dreamer

working for his hearts desire.
Hard work, hard words
mired in the muse of my mind.

But determined to live
according to the dictates
of my nightly mystic visions.

I dusted off my file cabinet,
shooing the dusty webs from the 
hidden treasures long buried.

I sent my words into the world
unsure of their worth,
afraid of their power.

Given to the eyes of
others of a write minded bent, 
sharing similar uncertainties

of their own. They labeled me,
tattooed me with an identity.
They called me poet.

The name I wanted;
the name they offered.
Nothing is impossible.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2018

80 thoughts on “PROMPT #215 – “AND I QUOTE” – INSTALLMENT #2

  1. Oh, Wow!! Marie, I just adore your title! Walt, the line “dead ended in a rusted file cabinet,” got to me. We are kindred with this. In my old age, I find myself rifling through my writing. Sometimes, I sit looking and wondering where those thoughts came from at such a young age. My mother would say, “old soul.”
    We are all proof that the impossible is possible! Blessings!

    • My grandfather spoke in a heavily Polish laden broken English. He would always tell me something in Polish that I never understood. When I had asked my mother what it meant, she said it roughly translated to “old soul”. Other than the language barrier, I understood the makings of the man. He never steered me wrong. “Old Soul” is a high compliment. Thank you!

      • I like “curioussitunity” myself (however it was spelled. ) I am a Leo, as curious as a cat.
        And amen, Walt, loved your poem! I have grown as a writer, but some of my earlier was truly beautiful. First book came out in 2005. Dabbled in poetry in 2014, and begann the poem a day challenge in April and continue writing a day. Anyhow, the point being . . . we are poets now because of who were then.Doesn’t surprise me at all.

  2. Maybe…

    For years, they separately dreamed
    of changing things
    of creating new possibilities.

    Like barnyard hens, they scratched around,
    here and there,
    doing what they could to help
    those who needed more than most offered.

    Then, after long, dark nights of dreaming alone –
    dreaming dreams
    impossible to believe in –
    the dawn broke to reveal
    their separate longings.

    Joining their dreams in the bright light of day,
    they woke to the clear, tangible knowledge
    that together
    dreams became undeniable possibilities.

    © 2018 Linda M. Rhinehart Neas

  3. On a Sunny September Sunday

    On a sunny, summer Sunday,
    I throw on my cleanest finery,
    which, as it turns out,
    doesn’t have much to say for itself.
    It’s fine, though, I’m still up for listening,
    headed to one of my safe places,
    the most spiritual of spaces,
    seeking some joyful calm,
    a message of balm,
    leaving struggle at the door,
    feeling peace, and what’s more,
    finding a non-anxious presence
    in an anxious world,
    hearing that still, small voice,
    its beauty unfurled.

    It’s Sunday at Seaside,
    where love and good and light,
    are real in our life,
    just as real as toil and strife,
    where “effortless effort”
    is written in invisible ink
    on our nonexistent name tags.
    There’s music and prayer and meditation,
    a message, camaraderie, and a break
    from the madness, a soulful vacation.

    I have no name for the effect,
    but I do know what to expect.
    Others will speak, I will listen,
    and an unseen current
    will course through me,
    and I will see
    that change is challenging
    but hope is tangible,
    and grace is possible.

    • Simple words of wisdom. The title is a quote from John Heywood. He had written many known sayings we use with some regularity. Make hay while the sun shines, Many hands make light work, Rome wasn’t built in one day… I’ve written a series of Heywood based poems, glad you like this one, Marie.

  4. You’re alive with possibilities
    Unlimited potential
    Live creatively
    You’re aware of the world’s beauty
    Even in the windstorms
    Risk intuitively
    You’re attentive to other’s frequencies
    And hear what they can’t say
    Love courageously

    Darlene Franklin

  5. One thing I have learned in life – Nothing is impossible – Even to a hopeless heart.


    I’ve taken the bottle and let it flood my mind;
    Flirted with death, said many words unkind.
    Took the roads less traveled, wandering for relief;
    Every turn found misery, churning silent grief.
    Fist full of pills, powder cut to a line;
    Nothing forbidden, with no sense of time.
    Nights forgotten, before coming to end;
    Blurring at home, not knowing how or when.
    Took love for granted, nonchalant, cast it aside;
    Threw out dignity, in exchange for pompous pride.
    Took a tender heart and ripped it to bleeding shreds;
    While never connecting the unravelling threads.
    Ambassador to indulgence, no happenstance;
    A fool in a court of jesters, living by chance.
    A mind that knew better and a heart that withdrew;
    Charted a hopeless chasm, with no bridge view.
    I saw heaven at the ridge, with no way across;
    Except for a shepherd, dragging a bloody cross.
    He knew my name, called me closer, my past in view;
    And said, “This cross I bear, was the cross meant for you”.
    He opened my heart and gently removed my shame;
    Then with his blood-soaked hands, He erased my blame.

    Now that my soul’s restored, I live in gratefulness;
    And rejoice in Christ’s miracle of blamelessness.

  6. The Fog

    It was supposed to be routine
    Well, at least on paper
    But occasionally the paper lies
    And this lie was a whopper

    At the surgery pre-brief
    All the routine warnings
    Discussed and signed off
    Just to cover all the bases

    But it was the non-routine
    Those things not covered
    Those things not expected
    Things hiding in the fog

    These things unexpected
    These things never covered
    Grabbed me with all hands
    And dragged me into the fog

    For days
    Then weeks
    Then almost a month
    I drifted through the fog
    They couldn’t get me out
    And I couldn’t escape
    Though I tried
    And tried

    At times I wanted to give up
    More than once it crossed my mind
    Frustration overtook my brain
    As all attempts to find my way out
    Failed time and again

    There seemed to be no way out
    Every direction shrouded in fog
    Only the occasional touch of reality
    From those that loved me so much
    As they tried to pull me out
    They pulled and prayed and talked
    Refusing to give up on me
    So I could not give up on myself
    Even with the seeming impossibility
    Of ever rejoining the living

    Slowly the fog would dissipate
    Just enough to let me see out
    But all too soon it would thicken
    And again I would lose my way

    After weeks of frustration and fear
    Stumbling and crawling in the lost
    A hand from above took my hand
    And I held onto His hand for dear life

    That seems like oh, so long ago
    The time the fog almost kept me
    The memories of that ordeal
    Still haunt me from time to time

    Then the memories of my loved ones
    Crying, praying, and reaching out
    Pulling me back to the real world
    Out of the fog of death’s grasp

    That I’m still here is truly a miracle
    I returned from an impossible place
    The fog of death was defeated
    When God’s hand pushed it away

  7. Broken womb, aching heart.
    Impossible, the doctor said,
    to grow a babe and birth a child.
    Hopes dashed for the only dream I ever had:
    To hold the babes our love made
    all new and fresh from the womb.

    Broken womb, aching heart,
    hopes dashed for new life.
    This man who holds me gentle,
    whispered words of love
    that far outweighed
    the hopeless bits of broken
    in my aching heart.

    Broken womb, aching heart,
    the doc smiles confused.
    Somehow from impossible,
    five lives came to bloom.
    Three babes breathe eternity
    two babes breathe on earth.

    Healed womb, thankful heart.
    Impossible made possible
    by the God who brings new life
    even through an empty tomb.

      • These poems from personal experience and heartache carry much more weigh because they are cathartic; they release a bit of ourselves into the world. Surprising how we find that sometimes what we kept close to the vest, is a shared experience for someone else. But your expression here is real and written with such a tenderness and acceptance in His working through us. Thank you for this Michelle.

    • Oh my sweet friend … I knew of miscarriages, but didn’t remember (or maybe didn’t know?) there were 3. So, so hard…

      This piece is so beautifully written, Shelly. I think it would be hard for anyone to believe you are just now trying your hand at poetry. My goodness, you are such a natural. Comes as no surprise to me, because you already have (as my partner calls it) a poet’s heart.

      • Marie, yes three and a fourth heavenly treasure who is unmentioned here.

        Your words are always so kind! Thankful for you and your encouragement. I feel rather shy and intimidated after I read everyone’s poems, so rich and deep, full…but at least I didn’t message you in fear and have you to remove my poem this week. 😉


    Seven days left to finish the book
    Twenty-One Thousand three hundred
    Words to polish in three days
    Wait for edit’s polish
    Rework and refine
    Ready or not
    Time is up
    Turn in

    (during a visit to audition at Juliet)

    We sat in Broadway Joe’s and listened to songs
    My boy Jaran watched me cry
    For another boy, Bill, and how his father longed
    Possibilities took us to the island
    Where my people huddled with tired masses
    Breathe in, breathe out, where might my story mind land?
    At home, the truly unexpected waited
    Denver did the impossible on their fifth try
    Keys to Super Bowl Kingdom opened the gates

  10. Travel

    To me, traveling is like an itch
    It’s torture if I can’t scratch it
    Trips to far-off places beg
    I don’t care what terrain
    Try to save money
    Tests my patience
    Thank You, God
    Tick tock

  11. Different Endings

    Next sand hill I occupy alone
    in my dream, I fight
    fear, sprout wings, fly
    off that high peak. Stop.
    End of dream.

    Oh no! Lost again, wandering
    this sad, sandy ground
    with locked doors, hallway
    mazes leading nowhere. Except,
    now I walk tall–small me
    who never can find the right
    room, hallway, door–stride
    up that long staircase, heels
    clicking smartly. With confidence
    I step into my office, composed.
    Stop. End of dream.

  12. Possible Avenues

    I have wandered, young, oblivious,
    on possible avenues unknown to me.
    Forest paths,
    where then, trees stood tall
    and ferns and mosses, broad and small
    grew scattered in shadows between sun patches
    filtered through pine boughs overhead.

    And now the place is pavement,
    and forgotten ferns are not even imagined
    among in-line roses, pompous azaleas,
    intently-spaced perfect plants along green criss-cross lawns.

    I had no notion, young, oblivious,
    that streets would over a half-life appear.
    Appear to displace a dream,
    while I was gone for years,
    convinced my childhood woods were there,
    and would be there,

    I have wondered, older, oblivious,
    what avenues I might walk on now?
    If I could know, if I should know,
    what I might find here, come again,
    another long-possible half-life gone?

    © Damon Dean, 2018

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