Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #474: Gift


A Series of Fortunate Encounters

The day was young,
the night was long,
that date of March 4th–
the date Sydney breezed into the Reedsy Bluesy Cafe
where Tammy O’Shanter told her that Adelaide
(called Addie)
was the only one who had ever ordered chocolate milk (never coffee)
and a truffle brownie drenched in caramel syrup
every morning for breakfast
while she completed her morning crossword,
leaving behind more questions than answers.
Sydney waltzed into the Pence State College library
where Addie was always on the waiting list
for the newest installment of the Chocoholics Anonymous,
even as she was always late returning it,
leaving behind a Dove candy wrapper like a pressed flower,
which she had used for a bookmark.
Sydney ran into the man to whom Addie had been “practically engaged,”
into Addie’s best friend with whom she had shared the part of her life
her sister hadn’t seen,
and the mother they’d shared a space with–
a woman who had known Addie in a completely different way.
This all happened on her way to her Celebration of Life
(which they called funerals now),
with Addie as the guest of honor,
but the celebration had begun early
as Sydney retraced the steps Addie had taken every morning–
to gather the memories she would take out like holiday keepsakes–
memories she would take out when it only seemed
that she had run out of her own.



Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #322, Theme: 10 Lines or Fewer


Life in 10 Lines

After childhood comes adolescence,
along with feelings of uncertainty about who we are.
Adulthood follows, when we discover who we really are.
Then middle age creeps upon us,
when we begin to look back at who we were,
and despise ourselves for it.
Old age sets in not too long after,
and we revert back to childhood.
And for those who had no childhood,
there is no going back.


Poem-a-Day Writer’s Digest Challenge #20. Theme: My (blank), The (blank)

Prelude to a giggle.JPG

My Daughter, The Warrior

My daughter, the Warrior,
fighting the forces of gravity
with the grace of Tuesday’s child.

My daughter, the Soldier,
warring for our attention,
our hearts the spoils.

My daughter, the Queen,
with her crown of strawberry-blond,
her grey-blue eyes the jewels.

My daughter, the Princess,
daughter of Eve,
child of a King.

My daughter, the Destroyer,
a one-child demolition crew
of block towers and battery mice.

My daughter, the Dancer,
en pointe with ankles crossed,
in ribbon straps and polka-dots.

My daughter, the Learner,
who calls for Bubbles out of thin air,
and Goady-Goady for no reason at all.

My daughter, the Teacher,
from whom I’ve learned patience,
and how to unwind through play.

My daughter, the Inspiration,
for writing whimsical poetry
and singing songs of Ireland.

My daughter, the Angel,
with her holographic halo
and invisible wings.