PROMPT #219 – THE RISE (AND FALL) OF POETRY

We’ve all heard of the rise and fall of empires and sports “dynasties.” We know what goes up, must come down. In “Fiddler on the Roof,” they sang “Sunrise, Sunset.” 

But, by now you may be getting a little tired of fall. So, today I’m looking to get a rise out of you. Let’s write a “RISE” poem. Be it getting up in the morning,or going up or expanding like bread dough, tell us of your rise in poetry. Or even write of your rise to poetry. Look up and see where poetry takes you!

MARIE’S REASON TO RISE:

Spirit bestows it –
Worship swells from the Wellspring.
Oh my soul, take part!

Would that this poet
rise up and sing like the king
after God’s own heart!

© Marie Elena Good

 

WALT’S EXPANDING UNIVERSE:

THE JOY OF POETRY

poetry becomes my joy 

it takes me to exotic places

quixotic spaces and

lifts my heart bringing smiles to faces

as I struggle with an amusing muse

it is something I’ve gotten used to

I refuse to be down when poetry is around,

writing or reading, I’m not needing 

anything more to lift me off the floor. 

Poetry has been my joy.

 

(c) Walter J Wojtanik -2018

137 thoughts on “PROMPT #219 – THE RISE (AND FALL) OF POETRY

  1. AT THE DARK OF BRIGHT

    The muse is so inconsiderate as to come calling
    in the wee hours before anyone else is up.
    Rising to greet her, to accommodate her need
    I stumble blurry-eyed to our favorite stop.
    Always in a hurry, no time for the gentle courtesies,
    she launches in with a string of words and barely a breath,
    then, with much ado, she’s off, leaving in her wake,
    a poet, stupefied – a mere moth mystified by her fickle flame.

  2. Camouflage

    In his daily search
    for calm, peace, ease,
    even happiness,
    (though he knows that to be a false goal),
    he disguises himself as a poet,
    a spinner of yarns,
    a writer of maybe’s,
    a frail human with hopes.
    He’s been called charming,
    yet he knows anyone
    can seem like that
    for short public stretches.
    Some people think he’s witty,
    but he knows
    that just comes from good reading.
    A few friends know him as kind,
    and that one he accepts as true,
    failing sometimes in the attempt,
    but always trying.
    Forgetting the frequent façade,
    he simply does his daily work,
    lives his life,
    tries to give good to the world.
    Oh, and he keeps in touch.
    People know that he’s keeping it a hundred.
    His friends like that.

  3. The Bare Minimum

    We are all
    just passing through.
    What’s now so old
    was once quite new.
    Things rise and fall,
    they come and go.
    Such impermanence
    is just what’s so.
    This is a happy thing,
    not one of futility.
    It can bring joy to one
    practicing radical humility.
    So, please awaken,
    discover your right stuff,
    be content in learning
    how much is enough.
    When you do so,
    I think you’ll know it,
    but before you stop accumulating,
    buy a chapbook from a poet.

  4. Rising in Fall

    As light spreads like buttered honey, the warm air begins to rise.
    Naked-faced buzzards leave their dead roosts for the sky. Climbing, they grow small.
    It is the same trick the moon plays, the same slight of flight against the skywall.
    Their pleasure in weightlessness is plain. My blunt shoulder blades sympathize.

    My stubby fingers feather out to hold light and wind. I could not fall
    with those palpable currents cushioning me. This is how morning flies,
    how time and its weights disappear, and how gods are born before our eyes.
    The gliding of buzzards capsizes your gravity like alcohol.

  5. SEEMINGLY IMPOSSIBLE

    Down in the dumps
    Down in the mouth
    Down the rabbit hole
    Just plain down.
    Depression is all consuming,
    Eating your energy,
    Eating your joy
    Eating your life.
    The hardest thing to do
    When you want to do nothing
    When you want to withdraw
    When you want to not exist
    Is anything at all. Anything.
    But the best thing you can do
    despite the pain of the effort
    Is anything but stop. Anything.
    To save your world
    To save your sanity
    To save your life
    You must rise.
    Rise out of bed
    Rise from immobility
    Rise from the depths.
    Only then can you find hope
    Find your self worth
    Find that there is meaning
    Find that you can go on.

  6. In Despair of a Lost Hour

    Today I rise in the soft gray light
    Of pre-dawn – before the sun has
    Thrown back the heavy blanket of night
    The time of day when quiet seems to reign
    A time for hushed conversations and tea
    But soon, too soon, our clocks will betray us
    Falling back one hour in the middle of the night
    So that when I rise the sun will have already risen
    And I will have missed my hour of peacefulness

  7. The night he stopped to watch the snow
    No moonlight reached the earth below
    –that darkest evening of the year
    in woods so lovely, dark, and dear–
    But when I cast my eyes outside
    I’m searching for tonight’s moonrise

    At night I stop upon that hill
    To visit in my dreams while still
    Spend memories of a beauteous sight
    As bright as day when falls the night
    Ice crystals crunch beneath my feet
    And dance in time with moonbeam’s beat

    Tonight I hope to watch the snow
    Perhaps will be that rarest show
    A harvest moon of orange red
    Will rise above a snowy bed
    I dip my brush in clouds and paint
    Their words into a living stain

    He will not mind me stopping here
    His lovely words fall on my ears

    Darlene Franklin

  8. Marie, Amen to your poem! I am feeling depleted after this past week, and still s0re – but asking God to rise up in praise! Because He always is and always will be worthy.

  9. Heart’s Decor

    I rise in the morning, soul hits cold floor
    I wonder if life has anything more
    than the broken and bleeding, hopeless décor
    of heart overwhelmed by memory’s roar.

    I cleanse in the Word, try washing away
    leftover heartache, black stain colored gray
    I try to remember what love would say
    to all the places lies want to betray.

    I am clean, washed by the Word in His blood
    My heart, my soul with His love have been flood
    current sweeping away life hardened mud
    removing stains everyone freely judged

    I rise in the morning, soul hits cold floor
    learning Christ’s hope is heart’s warmest décor.

  10. SUNRISE, EARLY MORNING

    Quiet. Serene. Soft and gentle
    calling to the soul seeking refuge,
    solace in the silent sanctuary.
    It’s a feeling that rises up, touching
    every fiber of your being.

    As the sun rises, you are seeing
    things in the light of a new day, another
    way to capture the beauty of a world
    left to your own devices, It is nice
    that the vision of that first sun, shines through.

    You fill your lungs with as much fresh air
    as you can inhale and without fail, the scent
    of the pines brings a tear for it is here
    that the world began. Your heart beats
    more true as you stand and listen

    to the awakening that began
    with the rays of the sun as it raises its hands
    to glorify all that it touches. A symphony
    of avian arias and woodland creatures
    alerting the world they have arisen.

    There is a sweetness that exists in nature,
    a honeyed palette that quenches your thirst
    and satisfies your hunger for each new day.
    You savor the flavor of what your senses reveal.
    You believe this is the most alive that you will feel!

  11. .
    .
    I
    traveled
    on a road
    that let me past
    a hundred milestones
    of tasks set long ago:
    to grow, share, love, give, receive,
    and strive to rise with the challenge
    to be the me God meant me to be.

  12. Rise

    It boiled over
    before I could
    stop it
    with nothing
    to do but wipe up
    the gritty mess
    smearing beneath
    my dirty rag
    as words
    stick
    hardening
    like corny mush
    and it takes
    more than
    syrupy promises
    to set
    our table
    right.

  13. Gold Rising

    First
    time
    ever
    I baked new
    recipe–yellow
    sweet bread, three risings, I could not
    resist peeking. Bread rose and rose, golden domes topping
    pans. Scent swept house, piquing my hunger pangs. I rose to the table with
    lots of butter.

  14. Light Weight and Strength

    Miraculous! An eagle soaring high!
    Its body’s strong to carry off its prey.
    Its hollow bones are light enough to rise.
    About a half a pound, its bones will weigh.

    Strong muscles give its downward strokes much power.
    And lighter muscles make the wings go up.
    And turning wings’ front edges speeds through air.
    Wings’ wider parts toward wind slows—not abrupt.

    An eagle’s seven thousand feathers plus
    weighs only five small ounces plus a pound.
    To lift large prey, the eagle’s strength’s a must.
    A finer use of strength/light weight’s not found.

    God takes what weighs us down to make life light.
    He strengthens us like eagles to take flight.

    But those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles (Isaiah 40:31 NIV).

  15. VIGIL

    The waiting is the hardest part
    but memories can ease the way
    as one life ends and others start

    their journeys on life’s grand foray.
    The pain is real and will not go
    but memories can ease the way

    toward acceptance as they flow
    from mind to heart in endless stream;
    the pain is real and will not go

    but neither will the fervent gleam
    that life dispenses on its course
    from mind to heart in endless stream.

    I hear her say, “Have no remorse;
    go on, be gay, exult in all
    that life dispenses on its course.

    Just so you know, I had a ball.”
    The waiting is the hardest part.
    “Go on, be gay.” Exult in all
    as one life ends and others start.

    • William, so good. Loved “but neither will the fervent gleam / that life dispenses on it’s course…” We live best when we bask in the light of the journey, we die best retaining that light as our eyes close on this world.

    • This “Vigil” is one we all face at one time or another. The blessing to carry on without is hard to receive with enthusiasm. Stiff upper lip and all, we still need those moments to be right with that which we are left, and those who leave us behind. You’re an extraordinary poet and person and this may be one of your most striking poem to date, William.

  16. RISING

    Something rises in my heart
    but then I know, not only heart,
    but mind as well.

    And then I know, it’s in my senses
    too, and in the things I’ve known
    as well as wondered,
    and the blend of
    thought
    emotion
    word
    constrained,
    no, not constrained, but trained,
    by syllable and rhyme,
    converge, sometimes
    like ripples leaping rocks
    or gasses from a geyser
    or lava from a cone of porous stone,
    or like the sigh of morning wind’s first breath
    on tender meadow grass,
    the early kiss that moves
    dew drops to quiver–
    and a poem appears.

    And poems appear,
    like nature’s voice
    like commentary on the warmth
    or judgment on the cold,
    or tunes hummed by the middle seasons ,
    autumn, spring,
    as if they were two grandmas holding
    children in their laps,
    and poems appear,
    and like a kiss,
    like lava from the heart
    the poet feels
    a satisfaction
    in the rise.

    And something settles in my heart,
    but then I know, not only heart,
    but mind as well.
    A poem appears.

    © Damon Dean, 2018

  17. Yes! Walt, Marie…the joy of poetry is in the reply to Him who called us to it, gifted us with it, and wrote His own messages to us in it. What greater joy than to relish in His own art of language, word, meaning. Great prompt for us.

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  19. To Rhyme of Not to Rhyme

    Twinkle, twinkle, little star
    Just five years old when that story was told
    It lit a poetic fire in my soul

    Then along came Dick and Jane
    Fun all the time without the rhyme
    Still rhyming was my goal

    ‘Twas time for me to rhyme
    Or so I thought, but ‘twas for naught
    For I was not yet ready

    But I would not give up
    So pencil in hand I tried again
    Forward rhyming steady

    And that’s where it started
    With twinkling star I’ve come so far
    Now I write all the time

    No longer to follow
    The question asked way in the past
    To rhyme or not to rhyme

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