There is a moment in each day when it becomes obvious that day has become night, light becomes dark. The difference is stark, one from the other. But there is that moment where twilight starts to set in, a gray area in between night and day. There is a balance somewhere in the middle. Today, expand your mind: Find your gray area and write it into your poem.



She was taught to think in black and white.
She sits,
feverishly writing.  Puts down her pencil, and
the thoughts that made it to paper.  But more so,
how black
the emptied back of her mind now seems. Blank
and white
really, so she fixates on how erasure smudges
make gray.

© Marie Elena Good, 2021



There is a small window

where light and night converge.
We get this urge to ignore the transition
and take the position that day is day
and night is night; meeting twains
pass when darkness fades. In the shade
of a stone monolithic bridge there is a smidgen
of gray where the bright light is emitted.
You are committed to cross over into
the next tomorrow with joy! No sorrow
rests within its scope. You hope to bask
until dusk crossing over a bridge to daylight!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2021

222 thoughts on “PROMPT #326 – DAY AND NIGHT


    Sometimes the mind
    borders on the criminal;
    when conscience is marred,
    slowly dulled into neglect.

    But what can you expect—
    at twilight, when thoughts
    shimmy on the horizon,
    wandering into mist.

    When light squanders away,
    succumbs, to the premise of night.
    When darkness settles in,
    slithers over the landscape.

    At which point, there is no escape.
    When darkness penetrates light—
    swallows it whole, without mercy.
    Yes, the mind borders on the criminal.

    Teetering between love and hate.
    When heart is neither, white nor black.
    When ill-willed thoughts attack—
    the hue—smearing semblance of night and day.

    When lukewarmness awakens,
    beckons, the creeping things;
    Although being neither—hot nor cold,
    but a bold gray.

    Benjamin Thomas


    Today, grey wraps green
    in softly muted tones
    and flows quietly onward.

    In passing, it bids high yellow
    stop its shouting
    and hushes reds and oranges.

    It greets blues and purples
    with knowing smiles
    and winks as it goes by.

    It even charms the browns,
    kissing them all
    with glistening glances.

    Only the blacks
    are impervious to its passing;
    they snort as it rolls by.


    Am I day, or am I night?
    I’m frightened to say—oh my.

    I mean—I see the sky,
    withered, shaky, seems a bit shy.

    Oh my! I can’t decide.
    Which is it? Which am I?

    Should I—have to decide?
    As if—to be, a foot, or a thigh?

    Oh my…What to do!
    What would you do?

    Like, I have a choice?
    To be the voice of day, OR night?

    This is way too confusing!
    Or, is it, amusing?

    Hmmm…Not sure,
    putting me between—white and black?

    Between! That’s what I am.
    Neither here, nor there, right?

    Well, thanks for
    giving me clues;

    but don’t expect me to fight
    these hues…I mean, would you?

    Or could you? If gray?
    No way! Not—doing good today.

    Or, is it tomorrow?
    Who the hell is gray anyway!

    You can’t be both!
    Perhaps, you’re color blind?

    Surely, you’ve lost your mind.
    Or, rather, can’t find the truth.

    What? I can’t handle—
    the truth? Ok, whatever.

    Either, you’re white or black.
    You can’t BE both.

    That’s the question, isn’t it?
    To be, or not to be?

    That’s it! Or not.
    To be one, and not the other?

    Oh brother…
    To be black, and not white?

    Or—is it, to be white
    and not black?

    Which is it? Come on—
    Get it together!

    Both??? Are you,
    insane in the membrane?

    Day can’t be night,
    and night can’t be day, right?

    There’s a definite
    separation—at twilight.

    But, let’s not
    confuse the issue—

    I AM, the issue?

    Of black and white?
    A delusion of hue?

    Who are you? Or—
    Who am I?

    Benjamin Thomas

  4. Fulcrum

    There is a certain aroma
    to this pause between
    sunset and night sky
    still aglow with faded pink
    washed with a wet brush
    dipped in India ink

    On the creek the ice dull
    gray the glare of snowpack
    faded as well into the trunks
    of black trees drops still sliding
    between wales of bark to pool
    at snowy roots slide beneath
    mounded ice its subtle separation

    Gray’s stealthy power beyond normal
    spectrum some color/non-color
    that may be tipped either side
    light or dark some fulcrum of nature
    dawn dusk those moments of pause
    earth held in abeyance with us
    miniscule spectators watching again

    mouths agape inhaling this fragile scent
    of spring thaw even as night closes in
    believing in the light and left waiting
    to see if the natural world will hold
    to its usual routine which way
    will it be something we can count on
    like so little else.


    My name,
    Is Earl—
    Grey that is.

    I am
    a public servant,
    —of sorts.

    the deep-seated

    Of thirst
    in the

    with a
    the oil of bergamot.

    My name
    is Earl—
    Grey that is.

    Even though
    I am,

    in the community.

    As a
    public servant
    —of sorts.

    Benjamin Thomas

  6. Flight

    The night moon sits, lingering,
    bright but hidden
    behind the evening clouds.
    How soon,
    ‘twas only noon
    a few minutes ago,
    the sun shining, its glow
    large with dreams, with hope.

    The day moon looked on then too,
    light gray within the blue,
    faint but present,
    an augury of things to come,
    too easily ignored by most of us,
    less foreshadow, more omen.

    When the final moment arrives,
    as it assuredly must,
    filtered by the end’s dark dust,
    yet with a light brighter than
    the moon and  stars,
    it will be the middle of the night.
    No matter the time.
    One will know that the past
    ended yesterday,
    and in the end,
    our lives are simply stories,
    and the dark of night
    comes all too soon.

    So much
    for man.
    The world
    will proceed
    with its plan


    They say, soldiers are
    born on the battlefield.

    This is true, awakening,
    fumbling into consciousness;

    where the adversary is the
    greying of the mind,

    and the battlefield is the
    low dungeon of depression.

    Pondering while pinned,
    under the immense weight of gloom,

    Doom? Or shall I rise yet again?
    Yield to the deep abyss of ravenous grey?

    Be consumed by the dark knight?
    Or still soldier on into the calling day?

    Pressing on, no matter how dire the grey?
    Or falter, becoming a victim and the prey?

    Seeking to overcome the morbidity of inertia,
    deny the powers and principalities;

    deny their moment of glory, their fill—
    and rise yet again.

    Soldiering on, weathering the storm,
    cloudy—with a chance of happiness.

    Benjamin Thomas

  8. Twilight Magic

    Those silvery grey moment
    delusion suffusion infusion
    when shadows appear bathed
    in a blue-tinged sweet sadness
    when dusk is in its last stage
    when the champagne buzzes
    when sleep is becoming aware
    when the world is floating
    like a raft on the river
    and you feel a bit unreal
    those silvery grey moments
    between actual and possibility
    that fade like a trippy caterpillar.

  9. I cheated a little as I have been playing around with this piece for a long time, but it seems to fit into the gray area theme with some revision.

    Gender Nonconformity

    They are the whisper of those ancient ones
    on the path to immortality whose bodies
    labor under backbreaking scrutiny all the
    while they can feel the sneering of the
    condors on their neck in the gray morning

    or they are a tiny boat on a heaving tide
    whose captain that shallow and fickle
    heart can find no mooring or anchorage
    for its weariness drifting endlessly between
    the weight of the sky the depth of the sea

    or they are the breath of spring in the
    ageless mountains while flowers all
    around incite remembrance of the violence
    that brought them to this moment standing
    in the gray half light filtered through a snowstorm

    or they are all of these combined a child
    and a swallowtail and a mother who never
    knew the people like them in their past but
    knew of their existence because how
    could they not exist.

    Their gender is a tumultuous riot that
    brought about a sudden stillness
    unknown grandfathers unknown stories
    religious fanaticism on both sides
    broken bones

    and they are the call of the robin in the
    thicket at the break of day whose voice
    reminds them of those ancient ones
    chosen family and
    queer ancestors and
    the rejection of toxic blood and
    calm in the midst of storm.

  10. Marie and Walt, stunning examples once again. I love waking up on Sundays and checking in here with my morning coffee, reading poetry from the two of you is such a peaceful way to start the day.

  11. Prompt 326 – Day and Night

    The Golden Hour

    Pack up the backpack
    Grab the tripod and flashlight
    Pour a big thermos of coffee
    And warm clothing and gloves
    And head out at 4am

    The spot was already scouted
    And the weather checked
    Should be a great shoot
    If nature cooperates
    And I don’t fall asleep
    Waiting for the shot

    Yes, it’s a lot of work
    Catching the sunrise
    But it’s all worth it
    If I get just one gem
    Of God’s handiwork
    At the Golden Hour

    The tourists are gone
    The beaches vacated
    For the most part at least
    So when the sun begins to set
    My tripod is at the ready
    All test shots on the card
    And the settings all set

    The other Golden Hour
    When God softens the skies
    And removes the harshness
    Of the noonday sun
    A treat for the photo nuts
    But just sunset for the rest
    They don’t understand

    Between the dark and the light
    Where the night spawns the day
    Between the day and the night
    When the light fades away
    These are the Golden Hours
    When everything is beautiful
    Just as God intended them to be

  12. Call Me Gray

    You think you can ignore me because
    I’m gray
    But I am many shades and tints,
    like clouds
    I am the background of your colorful life.
    me blues would not be as vibrant, yellows would have no
    and the color wheel would be nothing but
    a blur

    I wrote this for a prompt about colors on another site (d’Verse Poets). Thought it might work here too. #waltmarie

  13. Searching for Shade

    Forever stark in black or white,
    how nice it would be to see gray
    outside of clouds, shadows of night.
    Forever stark in black or white
    impulsive acts with no insight.
    Love or hate, no pause to survey.
    Forever stark in black or white,
    how nice it would be to see gray.

  14. Commute

    The sky is gray sitting heavily
    Over jagged teeth of the city
    Scraping at the underside
    Gray of the highway lanes
    Morphing with gray of the Sound
    Gray buildings with weird yellow
    Glints telling of habitation
    The mood in the car is gray this morning
    In a gray season
    In a gray city
    In a gray world

  15. Pingback: Beware the False Dialectic – eastelmhurst.a.go.go

  16. Battleship Gray

    Growing up in a Pennsylvania country neighborhood,
    we grandchildren had free rein of Pappap’s house.
    He’d leave it unlocked when he was out and about
    helping one of the neighbors, hunting for deer or rabbits,
    or off to Johnstown visiting his lady friend.

    There’d be a bowl of circus peanuts on the dining room table.
    Occasionally there’d be a note to say to call all the kids
    to share a watermelon or a half gallon of sherbet.
    We often went into his workshop in the basement
    to get supplies to make things like doll furniture, games,
    or props for a play we practiced but never put on.

    But all of the privilege didn’t come without cost.
    Pappap had his grandchildren mow the lawn, dust the house
    and paint whatever needed painted battleship gray.
    Battleship gray porches, picnic tables and cupboards.

    God made some beautiful and wonderful things gray:
    Grandparents’ hair.
    Silver for teapots.
    A seagulls wing.
    A whale leaping in the ocean.
    Clouds preparing for a storm.
    The moon on a dusky evening.
    A smiling dolphin, a wise elephant.
    Cute koalas, kookaburras or donkey foals.

    But I swore off battleship gray.
    If you came into my house today you’ll see blues, greens,
    purples, turquoise, creams and whites. But battleship gray?
    No way!

  17. Erin, a “pingback” is similar to a “tag” on Facebook. If you click on the pingback above, it will take you to a poem written by LARRY TRASCIATTI, and posted to his blog. Excellent poem, and well worth checking out!


    There was only one night for them
    This night
    A chance connection that offered them
    their path
    Passion’s course had been set
    Was clear
    love’s fire rekindled
    So close
    A yearning for another chance
    A dance
    To move them all night
    A song
    To play in a continuous loop all day
    Two hearts
    Lost in this moment
    One love.
    Conjoined in the greyness of
    This night

    © Walter J Wojtanik – 2021



    Who is our Lady Grey?
    She presumes no stance—
    of pomp and circumstance.

    Her demeanor void,
    of cheer or dejection,
    Her advent, disengaged.

    The cadence of her gait
    was well displayed—nonchalant,
    across sterling cobblestones.

    Her storm Fall-front gown
    flowed inconspicuously,
    along bland autumn breezes.

    Her eminent cheekbones,
    bore semblance to
    carefully sculptered sandstone.

    Her wintered visage
    was ice-cold—stark,
    a taste of stoical.

    It was said her heart
    was impervious to joy, grief—
    It’s chambers bedecked in marble.

    Her preying eyes
    burned like silver flames,

    Coined as silky-grey skies,
    set in sapphire sockets,

    Her ashen hair flowed
    like passing day—
    in twisted locks of pearl river;

    Reaching her pelvis
    as smoked steel array,
    well adorned armor.

    She moved ever so swiftly,
    like aching wind,
    amidst summer heat;

    the passing shadows—
    Then she was gone.

    Benjamin Thomas


    They say
    there’s three pounds
    of grey matter
    ‘tween these lobes
    but I might have two

    They say
    there’s grey matter
    bout three pounds
    amidst these lobes
    but I don’t know who

    They say
    there’s three pounds
    of grey matter
    ‘tween these lobes
    something’s askew

    They say
    There’s three pounds
    of ash grey matter
    ‘tween these lobes
    and it ain’t nothing new

    They say
    there’s grey matter
    about three pounds
    amidst these lobes
    but it feels like brew

    Benjamin Thomas


    in grey
    somber neutrality

    in limbo



    shades of

    to ambivalence







    Of fifty
    shades of

    Benjamin Thomas


    The balloons
    were released

    and made
    the leap


    to the steady
    steel procession


    into asphalt



    to ashes


    to dust




    with the


    Benjamin Thomas


    Although a bird of the far north,
    it sometimes deigns to sally forth

    to climates located farther south,
    where it might be found with mouse in mouth.

    It often seems profoundly absurd
    that skinny branches support this bird

    as it perches there in winter weathers.
    But then, it’s mainly fluff and feathers.

    if interested:

  24. I’ve been loving the work here, even more and more as time passes. I am flattered by our associations and honored (as is Marie) by the development of the Waltmarie form (Thank you again, Candace!)

    Back in 2013 we explored a “form” called Line Messaging ( It has an element of the Waltmarie, with the internal poem. We may revisit that again soon.

    But in the mean time, I’d like for Candace to write up a piece describing her form with examples to include in our Inform Poet Directory.

    if anyone else has a form they’ve “created” we’d like to help promote it. Let us know!

  25. Oh Wowza, Walt! This blessed me to my toes: “You are committed to cross over into
    the next tomorrow with joy! No sorrow
    rests within its scope. You hope to bask
    until dusk crossing over a bridge to daylight!”

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