Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #411: Information



For it wasn’t a lack of information
that caused the family disunion,
but rather too much,
for to withold one’s piece
kept the peace.



Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #409: I Am A (Blank)

Reflections, Saint Patrick's Day

I Am a Slow-Speaking Lady

I am a slow-speaking lady,
a cracked Southern belle.
I am a Pollyanna at times,
an H.L. Mencken at others.
I am a Christian outside church,
a skeptic, a questioner, inside.
I am a lover of old things,
a user of new things.
I am okay and not okay.
I go by no other name—
no Mrs., no Dr.,
and never Sally.
I am someone’s brown-haired,
less intellectual
Diane Chambers.
I am a Lucy,
looking for her Ethel.
I am a bra-hating
stuck in a society
stuck on teats.
I am a 35-year-old mama
playing her gender role
to the cross.
I am a black Irish,
working-class gal,
whose freckles
number the stars.
I am an open book,
a woman of mystery—
right down to the
witty gritty.
I am unilaterally deaf,
bilaterally blinded by
what is going on in the world,
for mine is a series of
unnatural disasters.
I am strong as spider’s silk,
as vulnerable as Hitch’s
leading ladies.
I am all these things;
I am more than these things,
for there is no end
to that which makes me,


Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #408: Second Home


She Comes in Dreams

For even as the kingdom of God was inside her,
so was her second home:
that world she built in her mind,
a world of poetry, stories, fantasies, and dreams—
a world that was an escape from her first;
and she prayed that so it was written,
so it was true—
that the first shall be last,
and the last shall be first.


Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #407: Big Event


Under the Floridian Sun

They wore their special glasses,
when it was twilight at noonday.
There was a cessation of sorts—
of everything that made the news these days:
outrage at inanimate objects of long dead souls
rather than living oppressors,
wars and rumors of wars,
and the 24-hour propaganda cycle
that spun from both sides
as the world spun out of control.
It was during this natural phenomenon
that the shades of Orwell’s 1984

Their eyes were watching God today.

For all that was seen was this crossover
in the visible heavens.

And while everyone else was looking up,
they were looking at each other,
not blinded by that which was extremely bright
and incredibly far away;
they were not eclipsed by the seeming merging
of two superpowers.
For he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen,
only because,
he’d first been
the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard.

The hour of the eclipse
was a time of calm
in diverse spaces—
like dots on a map—
bringing with it a new awareness
and a coming together of souls
that looked beyond
what was around them,
to what was above them.


Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #405: Money


What Money Bought Her

It bought her healthy food,
respectable clothing,
safe and clean shelter,
reliable transportation,
and quality medical care.
It paid for her college education,
which paid off with a career she loved
so that she could escape the job she loathed.
It bought books the library did not have
and toys for those who had little.
It paid for the technology
that connected her to the world.
It gave her family the ability to see that world,
unfiltered through a screen.
It paid for the piano lessons
for her autistic daughter;
for the horse she rode
to alleviate her anxiety.
Whether the money came from herself,
from taxes,
or from charity,
it was money that afforded her these things.
No, it didn’t buy everything,
but it bought everything else.