PROMPT #400 – GOING SOLO

We’ve reached our 400th prompt here at POETIC BLOOMINGS. Marie and I (and the majority of you) have been on this journey together. This is an endless trek to the poetic prowess which we all share. So, it’s humorous that I hit this plateau going solo. Marie has another reason to be away for this weekend (no computer, no connection, much desire to join us, but…). That prompts me to offer the prompt of going solo.

Some things in life require us to go it alone on occasion. No shame in that. No matter who is around and available to offer assistance, it’s something you need to handle yourself. Be you a one man band, or a one night stand, however you find yourself doing the job on your own, you’re grown up enough to handle it. Our challenge this week is to write a solo poem.

WALT’S SOLO:

THE BEING OF WEIGHTLESSNESS

Here I am
floating by my tin can,
just a man feeling
the girth of the earth;
the weight of the world.
The only space that ever concerned me
was the empty one inside me.
It hides me from this life’s mission.
I keep giving my heart permission to soar
but once more it is left at the gate. And so I wait.
Love, once lighter than air can scare the living
color out of this duller than life fellow.
For all I know, ground control has one goal
and it seems I’m just not getting it.
I’ll forget flying solo, never getting so low
that the ground poses problems.
I’m taking a shot. I’m not going anywhere
if I can’t achieve air! But make it clear,
falling in love isn’t really that bad.
It’s just that the landing always kills me!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022

106 thoughts on “PROMPT #400 – GOING SOLO

  1. Moving On

    Some days this small town made him feel
    small. Both dead and alive.

    He was too big for this town,
    so he boarded a bus for anywhere else.

  2. Alone
    Uncomfortable
    Just me and my shadow
    But soon we’ll be reunited
    Just the way God intended

  3. Poeming
    Words on a page
    A record of flashing thoughts
    Write them down before they’re forgot
    So many escape my pen

  4. LONESOME IN THE VALLEY

    The green valley
    this used to be
    does not tally
    with what I see.

    All the creatures
    of this place now
    are but features
    it will allow:

    the dogs and cats,
    are domestic;
    the mice and rats
    aren’t majestic;

    no fox nor deer
    at water holes.
    There’s nothing here
    to raise our souls.

    Shopping centers
    brook no reprieve;
    ennui enters,
    and I must leave.

    NB: For me, this prompt calls to mind the old song, “Lonesome Valley.” I think it is a traditional song, with carious artists writing lyrics for it. I associate it mainly with Woody Guthrie:

    https://www.woodyguthrie.org/Lyrics/Lonesome_Valley.htm

  5. Self-cooperation

    Each morning
    I face a list of my own making.
    And I’m the only one
    who can do anything about it.
    Most of what’s on that list,
    no one would notice
    if I didn’t do it.
    At least for a while.
    Sometimes going solo
    and motivation
    have a hard time
    working together.

  6. The First Morning Song

    the morning whispers
    quiet but restless
    as it for me
    to write a poem
    breeze through window
    early light inspires
    after a night of rain
    I sit alone
    a song plays
    on my laptop
    a soft ballad
    resonates
    through the walls
    a gentle awakening
    a refrain
    I write a poem
    for someone
    not quite love
    but more
    than a friend
    as I wait to see her
    and together
    we’ll seek
    the stars

  7. Mike Bayles

    The First Morning Song Revision

    the morning whispers
    as dreams linger
    a heartfelt stillness
    but the morning stirs
    as it waits for me
    to write a poem
    breeze through window
    early light’s
    reflections
    after a night of rain
    I sit alone
    a song plays
    on my laptop
    a soft ballad
    and a feeling
    of romance
    resonates
    echoing between walls
    a gentle awakening
    a refrain
    I write a poem
    for someone
    not quite love
    but more
    than a friend
    she’s drawn
    to my writing
    and when
    we’re together
    we’ll seek
    the stars
    in the universe
    we create

  8. AN INDIVIDUAL JOURNEY

    in the context of others
    we learn to reach out
    without any doubt
    early in the days
    of our lives
    our parents offer substance
    our chance
    to be comforted
    to be loved
    fed
    put to bed
    with no dread
    until we gain
    sustain
    our own stand
    preparing us to move on
    building upon
    every strength we’ve learned
    burned
    yearned
    to know
    on our way to grow
    once out there
    still not truly alone
    we connect with people of every kind
    until we possibly find
    one to spend our life with
    create two lives with
    possibilities for a family
    a gathering of you and me
    building again for more
    people around you to adore
    what we create for
    until that creation
    shows desperation
    as it begins to crack and break
    maybe for its own sake
    possibly before your ready
    or obviously steady
    you find yourself
    on your own solo journey
    free standing
    with no strong understanding
    of which way to go
    feeling more strength than you know
    because the call has come
    it has begun
    charting your own course
    through the soft and coarse
    preparing to learn, of course
    hesitant
    yet clear
    holding all your learned skills near
    you trust every ounce of yourself
    taking each step
    along a new road
    until your new sense of self
    now sturdy
    hands dirty
    knows your solo efforts are not in vain
    they’ve helped you remain
    sane
    you’ve made it through
    the struggles and pain
    and tomorrow
    you’ll do it bravely
    all over again

    (c) Janet R Carnahan 2022

  9. Alone

    I sat in the room
    That was not mine,
    It was night and
    It was going to be a long.

    Before the sun came up,
    I was going down for surgery…

    But this night before me
    I was alone…

    No one to pray with me-
    No one to kiss me-
    No one to tell me stories-
    No one there
    But strangers…

    I placed the tears
    Within my heart
    To keep them from flowing…
    The last person
    I saw that I knew
    Was a cousin
    Who dropped me off
    At the door where
    They signed me in.

    Alone
    In a room

    With my fears gathering,
    And crisp white
    Pillowcase to shed my tears…

    I imagined when I woke
    There would be someone
    There with a smile
    Glad I had survived…

    Alone,
    But I knew
    What they told themselves.
    She is used to being alone.
    It won’t matter to her.
    They were wrong.

    I heard the phone ring,
    But someone
    Had placed it beyond my reach.
    I heard someone say…
    I will move it closer,
    And another answered.
    She will be fine.
    I heard their steps go
    Down the lighted hall,
    And I closed my eyes…
    Telling myself stories
    Until I slept.

    In the morning light
    I was still alone…

    Do you know
    What loneliness is?

    I do.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    August 21, 2022

    My mother was in her 80s and could not be there… when I had surgery in in 2002. In November it will be 20 years since that night…

  10. Walt and Marie thank you for letting me join in with your little group…. here’s to many more years

  11. FLYING SOLO

    It’s just me.

    Flying solo here at night.
    All others have been taken captive
    to vivid dreams and memories.

    My thoughts.

    Circulating, percolating, eagerly awaiting,
    the drip-drop of a pen’s ink.

    The page—
    anticipating the grand stage, salivating,
    about the strange ways that I think.

    © Benjamin Thomas

  12. THE SOLE DEFINITION OF POETRY

    The sweetness of poetry
    is the nectar—a fruit like substance
    regurgitated from the deep recesses
    of a mind’s throat.

    Otherwise, it is the bitter taste
    of what could’ve been. Wasted
    potential, carceral words,
    like a shipwrecked boat.

    © Benjamin Thomas

  13. Solitary Prayers

    As she lay dying
    Because at ninety-two
    There are less days to live…
    Besides she did not know me
    Her last-born child.

    I prayed in the morning…
    Not for her to live…
    I knew she was fading,
    And her life was waning…

    I prayed in the evening…
    Not for myself
    For I knew I would face
    Whatever would come…
    I knew I would get through it
    I had been taught by her
    Who rested in a hospital bed
    In a room I painted blue for her
    Because she loved the color blue.

    I prayed for those who crossed my life…
    I was cut off from everyone
    Unless they came to see us
    Or called and some were faithful
    Most stayed away.

    I needed to be connected
    To those I loved-
    I prayed for them…
    Sending them blessings,
    But some prayers
    I sent for guidance
    For those I loved…
    And in my tears
    I wept for those
    Who had lost someone they loved,
    But I could not comfort.

    I did not know before how it was
    For those who are caretakers
    To be so alone, and
    Just wanting someone
    To hold them close
    And let their tears
    Fall like streams
    From their souls.
    It is a prison built of love,
    But a prison just the same.

    I thought of Jesus words
    When he spoke of those
    Who were sheep
    Who visited those in prison,
    She had done that…
    And I knew because
    She could not drive,
    And I drove her to those visits.
    I never knew their value.

    It has been years since those days passed…
    It has been years since she left…
    There was left within me a fear…
    That when my last days come
    I will be alone, but
    Then I remember
    That I was there as her last days ended,
    And she will be there waiting
    For me to cross over.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    August 22, 2022

  14. WORDS THAT FLY SOLO

    LOVE.

    HATE.

    FORGIVENESS.

    What is this—
    solitude???

    Single words, that change
    my attitude…toward —> change?

    There is—

    LIFE.

    MERCY.

    LIBERTY.

    HOPE with donned wings.

    Freed birds that cheer
    bond, sing, with chemistry.

    A single word can be a bomb,
    an explosion of cruelty,
    a terrorist act upon humanity.

    OR

    It could bring about the awesome

    AUDACITY

    and

    QUALITY

    of change.

    Turn the page.

    © Benjamin Thomas

  15. ONE WORD

    One. Word.
    Can bring about destruction.

    A single word.
    Can be a deadly projectile.

    A bullet.
    An intangible, lethal munition.

    Or could be a bridge.
    For healing and communication.

    A single word.
    Can heal a nation.

    One. Word.

    © Benjamin Thomas

  16. THE BLISS OF SOLITUDE

    Searching for the bliss of solitude
    in the midst of the flames.

    There is sometimes beauty,
    in the stress of burning wildfires.

    Seeing the outlandish raging of red,
    the effects of squeamish, calming yellow.

    You know,
    what she utterly desires.

    The absoluteness, that
    she earnestly requires.

    And she cannot consume—
    a thing, without fuel.

    And without the cruel,
    surrender to the peace of ashes,
    there is no solitude.

    Silence.

    The flames have their bliss.
    Tis the kiss of embers and cinders.

    As we enter the joyful state
    of nothingness.

    © Benjamin Thomas

  17. Wrote this earlier this last week, after a kayak bass tourney, then realized this morning it kinda fit the prompt. I love being out on the water. It’s one of the two best solitudes I know. (The other is sitting in my recliner w coffee in the dark early morning with musings over the Word and random prayers). Putting the linknto my FB post so you can also see the picture.

    https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=pfbid0322dQVsaZiGSk8PgR2V7Yyetez1BL9UrJuYop8gsKwMDKuDZcRk2MQvjMGLS2MZZsl&id=100006131765782

  18. Pingback: 23 August: A Destination – It's Still Life

  19. This is my second near death experience….

    How Do I Explain?

    My body was in a hospital room.
    I was not…
    I was lighter than air;
    It was sweet smelling
    Like an apple freshly picked,
    Light and fresh as the air
    In which, I floated.

    The colors glistened
    With their own light…
    And in the air was these
    Translucent colors
    Floated around me…
    But never touched me…
    There were greens that I did not phantom.
    Blues in water between
    The shades we see,
    And light was everywhere…

    In the distance I heard music…
    In it I heard the origin of jazz,
    And voices singing words
    I could not comprehend…

    I wanted to go forward, but
    Frantic voices were calling…
    “Breathe, Mary, Breathe.”
    I turned and was shoved
    Through a fog until I saw
    Them hitting my face, arms and feet,
    Crying out over and over, “Breathe.”
    I could not feel their touch,
    But I heard them cry and
    Felt the fear, and
    I smelled their distress.

    I looked to where the music came,
    Felt my soul cry, but
    I had to stop their anguish;
    I needed to end their fear…

    I became heavy, and
    The air I breathed
    Was heavy with the smells
    Of antiseptic and relief.
    I had not known
    Relief had its own smell,
    But it does.

    In that room I felt crowded…
    Overwhelmed, and sad…
    Because for moments
    I felt the burdens gone,
    And knew that joy
    Was actually in the colors
    We see every day.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    August 23, 2022

  20. Kiss

    In the early morning
    after the clock’s heavy hands
    have pushed past midnight

    I pull back the curtains
    to search out the solitary
    tree frog that climbs out

    of the flower boxes to
    suction cup his way up
    on tiny pads and ascend

    the French doors where
    I press my fingertips
    against the cool glass

    imagine I can feel
    through the pane
    his tiny beating heart

    almost like a kiss.

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