PROMPT #405 – ECCLESIASTES

Now Autumn is here and the seasons have changed and to everything there is a season. A time to be born and a time to die. A time for every purpose under heaven. We are inspired by these truths. We will write “A TIME TO _________” poems. Turn, turn, turn!

MARIE’S TURN:

A Time to Hear

Don’t speak.
Don’t read, or write.
Quiet the background noise.
Then, listen for The Still, Small Voice.
Listen long. Relish your God.


© Marie Elena Good, 2022

(My first Parsons Appreciate Form. 😊 )

WALT’S TIME:

A TIME TO RHYME

To every word, learn, yearn, turn
and write what your heart offers.
Your coffers overflow with a wealth
of expressiveness, an excessive mess
Of sound same games. Names
become fodder for verse and you nurse
your poetry through every nuance 
of absurd words. You gird your loins 
and coin a phrase or two and you come to view
life in terms of verbiage. It becomes your time
to rhyme. There is a season and a purpose 
to everything under heaven.

(c) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022

PROMPT #404 – THE FALL OF AUTUMN

Summer is ready to slip away quietly. Not with any parade or marching band. It just beats a hasty retreat. And with its departure, we herald in the autumnal equinox. So we will write autumn poems. But…Your poem will present the essence of autumn, full of descriptive language and imagery. Replete with the colorful sights and aromas. However, your poem will NOT contain the words Fall or Autumn anywhere in your verse. Not in the body and not in the title. We will know it is an autumnal poem by your words alone (as long as none of the words are Fall or Autumn – or any derivation of either!) Take us into the season which is upon us… whatever it’s called.

MARIE’S DEPICTION:

Ponderings

Smacks of death, say some.
But I smell Mom’s pies. Hear Dad’s
marching band pre-games.

Feel crisp air against
my sometimes still-a-bit-tanned-
from-summertime skin.

Marvel at the sky’s
puffy white and charcoal clouds
in deep blue setting.

Relish the jewel-tones
gradually gracing trees,
begging wonderment.

Enjoy leaves crunching
beneath the tires of my bike,
or cute-boot-dressed feet.

Experience leaves
raked in a pile over my
head, then jumping in.

Savor the taste of
a hardy stew with biscuits,
or bowl of chili.

Memories bring smiles,
like the Robbins Avenue
Pizza (a rare treat),

enjoyed on our porch
after walking home from a
nighttime football game.

Smacks of death, say some.
But my senses are filled with
what I’ve fallen for.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

(An extraordinary piece, Pard! IMHO!)

WALT’S PRESENTATION:

AS THE DAYS DISSIPATE

The sun's glow doesn't last long past seven,
and all the splendor of Heaven descends
in a rapid cascade of color and shadow.
Archangel's wings stir the winds of change
and coolness becomes the shroud that engulfs you
in hues of crimson, and rust, and brown decay.
The scents fill your nostrils; burning leaves, stew
brewing, and you wish you could capture it all 
in your imperfect words. Birds prepare to head south, 
without much to carry but their songs. 
Before long, winter will approach, encroaching on all 
who mourn her sorry demise; her eyes, vacant and sad.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022

PROMPT #403 – LIVING ON THE EDGE

Every day we inch toward the edge of a precipice. Summer is on the downward spiral. Daylight is a waning commodity. It seems we’re living on the edge of something. We’re looking over the edge to write our poems this week. Edge of sanity, edge of reason or the edge of a ledge, what fuels your poetry? Give us a view from your lofty position. It’s true. We’re living on the edge.

MARIE’S LEDGE:

On Edge

A young mom stands.
The four-year-old boy at her feet
sits in his unseen labels:
Autistic.
Nonverbal.
Sensory-impaired.
She holds one end of a leash.
The other is attached to a cute backpack
he wears, as he fidgets in a small spot of dirt
in an otherwise flawless lawn of the public library that is, 
today, being used as a venue for celebrating diversity.  

The morning is perfection.  
People of different cultures and languages together,
sharing their talents and being offered a public voice.
This mom does not move from her spot
for hours.
The darling boy pays no attention to the speakers
the music
the dancers
other children.
His focus is only on his patch of dirt.
He sits in it.  Lays in it.  Plays in it 
with his hands and feet.
Feels it with his cheeks.
He pulls a bit of the grass around it,
increasing his speck of space.
A woman with a long dress gets close.
He reaches out to touch the fabric.  It is the only thing
I see him pay attention to, besides the small patch
that grounds him.  
His momma tells him
don’t touch the dress.  

When I am leaving, I approach her. 
She stiffens. 
I smile.
“A sort of sandbox, I see,” I say.  
She tells me nothing soothes him quite like
a patch of cool dirt. 
She tells me his labels.  
I place my hand on her shoulder briefly,
and assure her she is a strong, good momma.
She says the only other woman
to approach her this day sternly told her, 
“I pay taxes for this grass.”

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

WALT’S GONE OVER BOARD:

THE STORM APPROACHES

In the distance, a rumble,
a tumble of thunder as the truth approaches.
Standing on the edge, the storm is here,
a torrent of rain coming to wash away the mud
and slime slung as the truth keeps brimming
to counter the lies pushing to level the people. 
Its ferocity will shake the world,
a swirl of wind in forceful retribution.
The solution is clear. Hear what you choose; 
what your heart wishes to believe.
Seek shelter from the storm.

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2022

PROMPT #402 – COSMOS

The James Webb telescope has seized our attention and imagination, with its ability to capture images from the far reaches of space. To find today’s poem, let’s look to the cosmos. Planets, stars, asteroids, comets, light, life … stretch your mind to its own far reaches, and grab the poem that is there.

MARIE’S MACROCOSM

What The James Webb Telescope Can’t See

Exposure to the vastness of our world
reveals the limitations of my brain.
As gleaming glows of galaxies unfurled
have come to light, I cannot even feign

to grasp a tiny bit of what exists,
or visualize what else may be out there.
For as the search continues to persist,
we’ll surely find more great unknowns elsewhere.

Here’s me, my feet fixed firmly to the ground;
my tiny world spills full with those I love.
My eyes and heart lift up to God, spellbound
at what He made that I can scarce dream of.

This God who spoke unending realms to be,
sees fit to whisper words of love to me.  

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

“When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars which you have set in place: What is mankind that you are mindful of them? Human beings that you care for them?”
~ Psalm 8:3-4



WALT’S WORLD

COSMO’S FACTORY

Hear the sounds in a rundown garage,
a hodge-podge of music and mayhem,
giving Creedence to the revival.
Clear water runs deep. But, who can sleep
while the travelin' band is assembled.

Life resembles the ramble-table they provide.
It cannot hide. My baby left me
up around the bend. Looking out
my back door I wonder who will stop the rain.
I heard it through the grapevine, but
before you accuse me, let's run through the jungle
as long as I can see the light.

(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022

A Found Poem written from the song titles (in italics) from the Creedence Clearwater Revival’s album, “Cosmo’s Factory”. A different take.