We talk of muse. As poets, it can be our best friend. Muse is a kind of motivation. It gets us writing. So let’s get motivated. For the next thirteen Sunday prompts we’ll be inspired by various nudges of motivation. It can be the featured concept, or you may be inspired by the accompanying quote about the subject. Or come up with a quote of your own and expound on that motivation.

As long as we’re on the subject, what motivates you? Write a poem about what moves you to write. Then we’ll delve into the different concepts of motivation.



“So you write your novels, if that’s what you do,
Or scholarly texts, or cerebral world view,
While I write my lighthearted, fun-to-write rhyme,
Then do it again for the ten millionth time.”  ~ Marie Elena Good, 2009

Now sometimes I write some political stuff –
Some downers and bummers, and, oddly enough,
It isn’t dependent on what’s in the news,
Nor spotting and schmoozing with some obscure muse.

What moved me back then and still moves me today
Is the awe of my God – and to this end I pray:
That whatever I write, be it witty or grim,
It will honor my God, and point others to Him.

© Marie Elena Good, 2019




I share my words.
They have become my passion.
I would fashion my thoughts into poems.
But I would never show them to anyone.
No one would ever know my heart
and I would start to doubt the power
that lived in my linguistic pursuits.
I felt smothered under the weight
of their gravity. I felt this need
to dispatch my words into the cosmos.
I would feed my poetic beast,
a feast of the rhymes I would prepare.
And it is there I get my fire.
I have this desire to share my words,
no longer one of my fears,
it brings me to joyful tears.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019


  1. Good morning.

    The one on my blog at is formatted, but this is the same without formatting. Lately, what motivates me is the sun rising again. I hope to get out of this frump sooner rather than later. Poetic Form Dodoitsu (

    And It Keeps On

    In the east where the sunrise
    sings, faint horn of a train rings.
    Dawn is gone — a flash and burn,
    counting milestones.

    I want to live where I can
    remain. See the seasons. Rain
    scour — blow against my door.
    Live. Let live today.


    When the cardinals fly over the snow
    on these mornings of twenty below,
    their bright splashes of red
    then demolishes dread
    that this wintertime weather won’t go.


    The music of the words invites
    my pen to find its needed path,
    expressing joy or maybe wrath
    or musing on the simple sights
    of flying birds or starry nights
    or even broken plaster lath;
    the music of the words

    is never really mine, by rights,
    for in its startling aftermath,
    more bracing than a morning bath,
    I sense that something deeper frights
    the music of the words.

  4. Marie and Walt, your poems remind me once again of the great service you provide, not only making this apace available, but sharing whom you are. Thanks.

  5. I write my seventeen’s,
    unless I have no time.
    Then I write long poems.


    I’m nearly seventy-five
    and he wants to know why.
    What would our friend Walt do?
    He’d write and write and write,
    and then write some more,
    and they’d all be great,
    and they’d all be interesting,
    and we’d all read them,
    and we’d all have ink envy…again.

    I tell lots of stories, so
    that’s no problem, and
    it’s too late now to worry about
    too much exposure.
    I have written about going through
    a windshield…twice.
    Not the same windshield, but still.
    I have spoken to
    the day my mother died,
    and about when I met her
    on the night I died, nine years later,
    the day she sent me back from near death.
    I have ruminated on the choice to
    move to a foreign country,
    and then we settled inCalifornia.
    When homage was the goal,
    it was sourced in that writing group
    in the SoCal desert.

    Ultimately, there is only one choice.
    I write because I have no choice.
    I write for the pure expression of life,
    the joys and fears and hopes,
    surely about love.
    I write, inspired by the writing of others,
    by the natural world in my backyard,
    by the speechless days at the ocean,
    by the sun and the moon,
    their rising and setting,
    even moved by the sounds of fire trucks afar.
    As age has flattened me,
    as humility has claimed me,
    I now write more about Spirit,
    about oneness, about transition.
    I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.
    I’m simply sure I will write about it.

    • Oh, Daniel … I love these. Both of them. And let me tell you something: I am a better person because of all you have shared of yourself. I’m thankful. ❤

    • You have me pegged, Daniel. I’d write and write and write some more, for you see, I have no choice either. Once near death myself, holding dad’s hand as he crossed over, and a home that is still so deeply ingrained (it was a great place to find myself). Love is a perpetual subject (lost or found) and the grounding that this place, “that” woman and wonderful poets such as yourself provide… I need you all as much as you need me. Thank you for your kindness.

    • Daniel, your writing is always this delightful documentary that promotes awe for a moment in life, a new view of a normal day, or a deep thoughtful examination that reveals beauty in simplicity. Often your work leaves my jaw hung open, or prompts a whispered ‘wow’ from my lips.

  6. Words Without Motivation

    This poem is born of
    Here and now
    Shaped and formed
    By words tumbling
    Around as if some cosmic
    Juggler was putting on a show
    One word falls upon the
    Page followed by another
    Feeling no need for speed
    Or acceptance
    Often seeming to lack direction
    Lose track of some destination
    Not motivated to accomplish
    Just to be

  7. I write because I can not quit
    Words on my heart demand free reign
    Though9s once spoken keep me safe
    Phrases my dreams together knit

    Too closely woven to be split
    Once shared we all enjoy the gain
    I write because I can not quit
    Words on my heart demand free reign

    But I pick and choose but by bit
    Carefully choosing what remains
    For soundness before I commit
    Both right and left sides of my brain
    I write because I can not quit

  8. The words flow freely
    At times they flow free no more
    Motivation please


  9. Pingback: THEN AND NOW | pictured words

  10. When looking through the archives, I found this partially written piece from a decade ago and decided to update it. Hope y’all like it.

    My Poetic Life

    The origin of my very first poem
    Is vague to say the least
    I can tell you I was very young
    When I released the poetry beast
    I cannot wrap my mind around it
    That first set of rhyming words
    But I can tell you why I wrote
    And now hang with poetry nerds

    I do remember hearing stories
    With lines that rhymed throughout
    And as these stories went through my head
    My thoughts would scurry about
    My mind would change the lines around
    The words just seemed to flow
    The story came alive anew
    Poetry was the way to go

    So I began to write the lines
    The rhymes flowed like a stream
    I wrote of life and love and God
    And things only in my dreams
    Inspiration came from all around
    And at times out of the blue
    Once I broke the rhyming rule
    I wrote like a poetic fool

    I wrote with pencils, pens and more
    On paper of every kind
    I bought a pocket tape recorder
    For those inconvenient times
    I wore out my computer keys
    More than a time or two
    Pounding out the prose and rhymes
    It was what I liked to do

    Then life caught up and I slacked off
    It was a hobby after all
    I switched over to devotionals
    I felt that was God’s call
    But soon the poems slipped right back in
    The stories they could tell
    ‘Cause poetry is Biblical
    King David used them well
    And then I found the challenges
    To write a Poem-A-Day
    Read the prompt; write the verse
    So much fun to play
    Each April and November
    I wrote in prose or rhyme
    Sometimes I didn’t make the grade
    Just didn’t have the time

    Then appeared the blooming bunch
    A group that fits me the best
    We’re not the biggest on the web
    But we’re better than the rest
    We write of love and life and God
    In free verse, forms and such
    It’s my new home for poetry
    Thank you very much

    © 2019 Earl Parsons

  11. Why I Write Poetry

    As a youth, I was extremely shy.
    I don’t know how or why.
    It doesn’t mean I had nothing to say.
    So I needed to find another way.

    All those words built up inside me.
    This condition sorely tried me.
    I was like a volcano ready to spew.
    With writing poetry, spew, I do.

    Not to say, it’s volcanic destruction.
    That’s not how I like to function.
    Instead, may I encourage others.
    That’s what I’d do, if I had my druthers.

  12. Great poems, my friends…I can’t seem to think poetically at the moment, so I will write in prose:

    I am motivated by so many things in my life. The beauty of a sunrise has me spilling over in words that taste and smell of butter cream, lemon tarts and strawberry sherbet. The sound of my grandchildren inspires me to find words that can match these little scallywags as they cavort and scamper through the yard or along the shore, making more noise than the crows or seagulls. My garden has me tongue-tied for words to describe new shoots in springs, all green and tender; to paint word pictures that portray peace roses in full bloom; to capture the glory of New England in shades of harvest gold, pumpkin spice and apple red; and to memorialize the winter whites, grays and browns of a garden tucked away for the season, dreaming of sunshine dandelions and the scent of fresh herbs. Finally, my love motivates me with is never-ending support, encouragement and kind critique. For all of this, I am infinitely blessed!

  13. What Drives Me To Pick Up A Pen?

    If I hear a funny
    conversation, see an
    unusual sight,
    I write.

    If I think of people,
    and animals I’ve known
    and loved in my life,
    I write.

    If death rears its head,
    causing me to lose
    someone I love dearly,
    I write.

    If I am in the early
    days of depression
    when all seems futile,
    I write.

    If the government pisses
    me off, and I begin
    shouting at the television,
    I write.

    My motivations are plentiful, and,
    I love to write.

  14. I don’t know how to muse
    really, have few clues,
    but I love the One who came
    and I write for the glory of His name.

  15. Hopeless, helpless, ball of pain
    wishing someone could help me regain
    the woman I was born to be.
    Will anyone dare speak life and liberty
    to all the chained and broken inside of me?

    Then I read of One so humbly grand
    He spoke a word and the world began
    His light drove out the deepest dark
    Started a soul-fire with one small spark
    Healed the broken of heart, set them apart.

    I trusted Him and surrendered my life
    Fell at his feet in an act of belief
    Jesus the Christ died on a cross for me!
    His grace and love made me free,
    My debt was cancelled by the Son’s decree.

    My words spill from His abundant love
    and for the glory of the One from above
    Boldly, I tell of my struggles and sin
    how Jesus redeemed and entered in
    my heart to cleanse and my battles to win.

  16. Writing Whys

    It’s on my site,
    digitized in so many pixels,
    published for the unaware to see,
    with but a few poet followers,
    a dozen occasional friends
    or cousin, sister,
    one spammer
    undeleted yet.

    “Why kids read is why
    I write” I say.
    Not only kids,
    but any wondering heart
    that wanders among stanzas,
    to stumble upon occasional words
    random or purposed thoughts that are
    a part of me.

    Yet sometimes that
    concise and catchy motto
    seems so lame, so thin,
    like a clever reason scribbled out to satisfy
    a query, but not just that,
    instead a question of my own
    upon the margins of my life,
    unanswered fully,

    I write–
    but quietly,
    too often timid,
    pursuing the whole answer,
    parts of which I know,
    but parts not fully assembled,

    © Damon Dean, 2019

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