PROMPT #410 – NOVEMBER

And so we enter November. This year has wizzed by and left a vapor trail. If you look at the word, November could be translated as “New Ember” – a new fire. As the home fires burn and we approach the magic of the Holiday season, we’ll put the warmth back into our days with our worded wonder. Think in terms of comfort, an ember, a fire or something new. We’re giving you a free rein to go where these thoughts lead you! Cuddle up with your muse and use what the good Lord gave you!

MARIE’S GLOW:

Warmth in the Hocking Hills

My wool hiking socks
Lavender robe
Corner fireplace
Thick blanket on the front porch
Large mug of steaming tea
Big, colorful scarf
Hot tub after a long hike
Your arms wrapped around me
The crinkle around your eyes when you smile

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

WALT’S WARMTH:

COMFORT

There is a coziness in comfort.
A feeling most desired,
a warmth that cannot be equaled
unless you sit by the fire.

Food can be a comfort,
good to warm your soul.
A kettle of stew or pot of soup,
a hearty, steaming bowl.

There's comfort in a warm embrace,
from someone that you love,
to nestle close there face-to-face,
a blessing from above.

The surrounding warmth of blankets
wrapped to ward off chills,
a sure and easy comfort
that truly fits the bill.

A child's smile, a present joy
gives comfort to your heart,
They feel the love and let it show,
the perfect way to start.

A caring friend when times are hard
would ease your burdened life,
A comfort in a time of need,
could ease your troubled stife.

I feel the comfort in my words,
that offer hope and solace,
and share them gladly with the world
without a hint of malice.

© Walter J Wojtanik - 2022

66 thoughts on “PROMPT #410 – NOVEMBER

  1. DAZZLING HOT EMBERS

    I’m completely enamored
    with the dazzling hot embers
    of the house blend, and one part
    peppermint mocha.

    It’s a sure recipe for addiction.
    For the daily use and substance abuse
    in the form of extra large twenty-four
    ounce cups.

    Benjamin Thomas

  2. PIPING RED HOT

    She was piping red hot,
    straight out of the womb
    of unbearable fire.

    Like sizzling, crackling ember—
    popping, she set me ablaze,
    then entered my life.

    And just like that,
    she consumed all my desire…
    and now we burn together.

    ©️Benjamin Thomas

  3. Eighty
    The high today
    But this is Florida
    The Sunshine State rarely gets cold
    Just chili from time to time

  4. Autumn of His Days

    There is a gardener in the man,
    scattering his seeds,
    nurturing his spot of earth,
    feeding more than a few needs.

    There is a cook in him now,
    comfort foods his best,
    mostly vegan, sometimes not,
    depending on the fest.

    There is a husband in him too,
    way past youthful fears,
    he’s never won an argument,
    not one in fifty-two years.

    There is a Marine somewhere inside,
    one who fought beyond our borders,
    though he now approaches eighty,
    he’s still home, awaiting orders.

    There is a man of many words,
    a writer, mostly a poet,
    he sometimes likes his product,
    that is, when he gets to it.

    He appreciates most
    what has grown within his heart,
    his connectedness to Spirit
    now plays his biggest part.

    Cheered somewhat by the
    crisp sunlight of early fall,
    he knows, peace, love and friendship
    to be the most valuable of all.

    In matters of Spirit, he knows
    that words get in the way,
    that there’s a legacy to loving,
    to the Grace of a single day.

  5. (I’m always wondering what things around me think. This is just a thought on what the leaves are wondering now, at the cusp of a season’s change, and the comfort they might be graced with.)

    Oaks In Between

    The oaks are in-between,
    summer’s colors mixed with fall,
    both done-for gold
     and tired-out green.

    A crispy wind’s wavered sighs
    dry leaves that still would bend,
    stiffens them with every wisp,
    till their fluttered voices speak in lisps.

    Old trunks, tired twigs and branches, weary limbs,
    prefer to sleep but they cannot, they hear their children weep.
    They sense their anxious dread of fall,
    afraid to leave all their young green souls
    have known since spring.

    “Where will moths lay eggs?”
    the leaves who cling still say,
    “and what will come of fledglings when our loving shades for nests are shed away?”

    The mother oaks give whispered answers:

    “Fear not, children, all is well.
    The sun that governs seasons
    must now quell
    your growing time.
    You will leave our arms,
     your bodies now will dwell
    beneath the soil below.
    There you will feed a thousand generations, every seed
    will rise in spring.
    Thankful sap will flow to honor you,
    bloom, grass, sapling, weed will sing,

    Fear not children, all is well, rest, cease well, for
    you will resurrect as something new.” 

    © Damon Dean, 2022

  6. Citrus

    It’s time to hunt for oranges
    not on the west and southern coasts
    but on almost bare-limbed trees
    glinting on draping chains of bittersweet
    spinning from orbs of ripe persimmons

    Here little fires ignite leaf by leaf
    licking at bare woods to spread
    onto verges and race into ditches
    climb utility poles until they’re wreathed
    in flame whorls showering sparks
    so that you hold out your hand
    like a child in awe of a mid-summer sparkler

    only this morning Bradford Pears burst
    into flame light shimmering from a thousand crimson leaves
    falling onto fat pumpkins on front porches
    bouncing from the back of a curious buck
    investigating shining gourds on garden fence
    orange glimpsed again tucked into back feathers
    on a darting Flicker winging into corn stubble
    where bright bits of kernels smolder hot coals
    amidst turned soil to be gleaned by flocking turkeys

    hot orange fingers of fire race down long winged sumac
    shaking five lobed Virginia creeper on hedge trees
    yellow still against rusting hillsides but all
    too soon the droop and shrivel, the lot of it gone
    to inky ash, autumn’s fire burned out
    memories singed become only leaf crumble
    between thumb and fingers and just the scent
    woodland’s burn to hold in your heart
    like a bit of orange left on your skin
    balm against the coming storms.

  7. There are two months each year I dread… August and November… This is my poem for November

    November doesn’t bring me comfort…

    Before the embers of November
    Catch fire in the fireplace,
    And before the ghosts and goblins
    Seek out treats,
    And we say a prayer for those saints
    We have lost the last year…

    I steel myself
    For November
    Brings me sorrow.

    I remember the second fear entered my life.
    It was November 6, 1960
    When I was left behind
    As my brother was rushed
    To the hospital.
    I was alone in my fear.

    A young woman,
    Whom I tried to help,
    Was born in November, and
    Long after I worked with her,
    I sought her out on her birthday
    To tell her that she mattered.
    But that November
    My father died,
    She had been gone
    Eleven months,
    And her funeral
    I will never forget…
    For I was the only white person there,
    And the only one crying.
    She made more people hate her
    But I was stubborn,
    And knew down deep
    She was good
    But so broken
    The stain glass to her soul was crushed.
    No one could see it.
    I pray she found peace.

    My father, my uncle, and my brother
    All died in November…
    Some years those anniversaries
    Shake me… sometimes they are barely a memory.
    People say I should let it go, but
    But I have been ravaged by death,
    And it is always there knocking at my door.

    Thanksgiving from the time I was small
    Was my father’s holiday.
    He loved to have his family near.
    He loved to cook beside my mother.
    And after they left to head home,
    He would say, “Louise, this was a good day.”
    I hear those words echo in house
    Haunted by those memories.

    Last November I woke
    With a chill of death, but
    Before the next November
    That chill had become embers
    Of a life that was not to leave.
    Thanks to prayers of those that loved
    The one that faced cancer and won.

    Each November as I face this month,
    I hope the embers will catch fire with joy,
    And something will be found
    Instead of something lost.
    Each December
    I am disappointed.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    October 30, 2022

  8. I KNOW MY PATH

    I’ve done the math
    Count me in
    the bubble bath

    I’ll go the way of the cone
    Vanilla or chocolate
    Throw in the scone

    Toss me a blanket, heated
    Turn it on
    Right here, where I’m seated

    Serve me hot cider in that mug
    Make it spiced
    Add a spicy hug

    Curl up with me, take a chance
    Watch the movie
    It’s over, let’s dance

    A great back rub to soft music
    Sweet sounds
    Meant to stick

    Pumpkin pie by a blazing fire
    Add whipped cream
    Embrace that desire

    Grab each new slipper
    My favorite robe
    Without the zipper

    Now that things are soft and warm
    No more chill today
    Let’s ignore that storm

    We can let go, just relax
    Enjoy our connection
    To the max

    Let the stars do their thing
    In the morning
    Hear birds sing

    You are my ember in the night
    Glowing warm
    And all is right

    (c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2022

  9. The Even Novembers

    On the even Novembers our duty we do
    On the Tuesday after the first Monday
    Some do it early while some mail it in
    Most usually if they’re far away

    Some cast for party, some for the issues
    Some even flip a coin or two
    Some cast for country, some cast for God
    Too many stay home, yes they do

    Every even November I do my duty
    For God, country, and family
    But before I cast I pray to my God
    To help me see through this insanity

    NOTE: Vote however you feel, but remember to put God and America first, know everyone on the ballot, and disregard the commercials and the media. The most dangerous person in America is an informed voter. God Bless.

  10. questions of november romance

    she served me a whiskey
    smiled and said hello
    although we barely spoke
    when we met four days earlier

    four days earlier i was running errands
    parking on a busy one-way street
    pausing to seek drink and conversation
    as summer bled into fall

    fall a time of reflection
    of seasons past and age
    memories of friends
    and i asked myself if i could use another

    another time and place the reflections
    my heart bore the weight
    of those who’ve come and gone
    as I lived my many lives

    my many lives whispered as I looked at her
    each a song and a poem
    each a never-ending refrain
    memories rekindled on a day in november

  11. Each November Past…

    After Thanksgiving meal was ate,
    And guests had gone home,
    And the kitchen cleaned and sparkling,
    We took a trip…

    Each year my father chose
    To go to a cousin’s home
    Who had lost her husband,
    And her children lost their father.
    There was a young boy
    Who deeply missed his father.

    He would load up us in his blue ford,
    And drop my brothers off at aunts,
    And drive us farther south
    To a little town known as Chapin…
    Just to get a Christmas tree
    For his cousin and her little ones.

    My father did not have a good father,
    And the men around him knew this…
    Some were black and some were white,
    And they taught my father to be a good man.
    He paid it forward to boys who needed
    A man to teach them what a good man was.

    He knew his young cousin was that man and
    Went out to get a tree with him, and each year
    It was exclaimed to be the best one yet.

    I enjoyed the chatter of the women talking…
    Cousins of my mothers, and their brother came
    To tell us tales, and before it was over
    Da recited a poem or two, and
    There was love in that house,
    And I loved the noise and joy.

    We would head back, and
    Pick up my brothers.
    They would tell what they did
    And I would think,
    I had the better treat,
    Of stories, Christmas trees, and love.

    Da taught us well to give love and hope
    To those that crossed our path,
    And not to forget those in need.
    Isn’t that what thanksgiving is all about?

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    October 30, 2022

  12. Red Noses

    November winds make noses red,
    come in out of the cold.
    Have some hot soup with buttered bread.
    November winds make noses red,
    find a dog to cuddle instead.
    It’s nice to have someone to hold.
    November winds make noses red,
    come in out of the cold.

  13. Home

    I’m at my home away from home.
    Just drove seven hours
    from southwest Colorado to Phoenix
    to be with my kids at their house.
    I personally wouldn’t have picked
    the gold paint for the walls
    but somehow the color relaxes me.

    And like mother, like daughter.
    She decorates her house with crafts
    and pictures from our travels.
    A drum from Hawaii, paintings from Ireland,
    a framed photo from Maine.
    Funny how objects from far away
    can make a home feel more homey.

  14. THE CROWN JEWEL OF AUTUMN

    I’m comforted by the seasonal sense of autumn.
    Utterly captivated by the strange dichotomy
    of beauty and loss, resilience and frailty,
    of death and resplendent resurrection.

    Embracing the wondrous spice of fading hues,
    facing the slow pangs of an untimely death—
    to train us for the rotten gray of barren boughs,
    by the bane of winter’s cruel bitter breath.

    What is the crown jewel worth before he who
    discovers it? It must be defiled by painful loss,
    robbed of elegance, and like a leaf—
    crumble, shatter, and be re-sown into the earth.

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas

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