Each month this blog will feature a word of the month to stimulate a poem. Anyone who wishes to share a poem is invited to participate. The point is to enjoy the challenge of writing a poem inspired by a single word. It doesn’t matter if this is your first poem or five hundredth. It’s all done for the fun and exercise of writing.
Cutoff for posting the current Word of the Month poem is the last day of the month.
On the first day of each month, a new word will be posted to challenge your imagination for that month.
Please post your poems on this page, so everyone can find the poems easily.
Thank you and have fun!
David
PS: The word for August is GONE.
Gone with the wind
with the wind
the wind
wind
wind to go.
Jeanne Poland
Jeanne, since we met in 2011 I’ve read many of your poems and watched you become willing to step out of your comfort zone and experiment with form. I’m enjoying the journey!
Thank you, David. Please go to https://thevibrantchanneledcreator.wordpress.com/2017/08/02/wind-3/ to see the accompanying illustration. You might enjoy the 3 related posts too.
Jeanne
You always give something extra. Love the picture too.
I can feel the breeze, Jeanne! Lovely illustration, too.
Gone with Another Wind (for Jeanne)
I am gone with the wind,
a little wispy trip.
Let er rip!
We are heading north,
for cooler days,
visiting Auntie Haze.
What a snap!
What a breeze!
Crossing borders with much ease.
I spot her house,
give a hail.
She answers in a gale.
Welcomes us
with a blow.
A little sleet, a lot of snow.
I give her hugs,
a bit of bluster.
and a mighty duster.
The weekend is
a lovely squall.
We had a ball.
Then blew home,
in the new dawn,
with the wind,
gone.
©2017 Jane Yolen all rights reserved
Jane Y
I like this kind of weather.
Your words are neat.
What fun with rhyme, Jane, and joyful word play!
dear Jane,
reminds me of my trips to Maine. I like to go in the snow, when Bar Harbor and Southwest Harbor are least crowded with tourists and the poetry group meets and shares poems, drinks tea from real china, and honors its indian chiefs.
Jeanne
Sounds like a great time.
Rose poem
My little rose flower still wrapped tightly in a bud. Waiting for a blessed shower. To turn the dry dusty earth to soft rich soil.
Waiting for the flower to burst from its tightly wound cocoon. To bring joy to us all, it will happen soon.
From its beginning on a stem of thorns to the time the beautiful bloom begins to unfurl. It’s life is so short its beauty wanes, before you know it our rose is gone.
Don B
Love it. So true roses gone too soon.
Don, that sums up this summer here. Roses are a passing beauty for sure.
DINNER FOR ONE
Cooking for one is not much fun
There doesn’t seem much point.
The smallest saucepan’s far too large
And if I cook a Sunday joint
It’s still around mid-week.
The supermarkets seem so vast
And I’m not catered for.
Although they have the things I want,
They’re all in packs of two or more.
And you’re no longer here.
Remember when I cooked for us
And ate by candlelight
Our favourite pasta recipe
You always said I cooked just right?
I never eat that now.
My dinner’s on my lap these days.
The television’s on.
I tune our favourite programme in,
Then realise once more you’ve gone
And let the image fade.
That tear? It’s just the onions.
You know what onions do.
It’s force of habit I suppose
That made me go and chop up two.
But you’re no longer here.
© Bryn Strudwick
Bryn: Fabulous. And sad. I’m sorry for your loss. Congratulations on your well-honed poetic skills.
Bryn S
Sad.
I agree with Karen E. You have done this poem well.
How poignant are your words. Beautiful, Bryn.
Sorrow
By Linda Boyden ©2017
Sometimes
the sorrow of losing you
waits in the streets of my heart
a hungry child, forsaken.
Other times, it shines,
a violet in the snow,
hopeful beyond all reason.
Mostly, it sleeps,
my sorrow,
gone to the dark side of a planet,
condemned to an eternity in ice.
I think this sums up perfectly how sorrow should be borne. Not to be forgotten, of course, but not to be allowed to get in the way of enjoying your life. Easily said, I know, but my philosophy.
Thanks, Bryn. So often we are taught to forget sorrow; don’t give in to it, but it isn’t something simple.
This just happened last night.
DOWNED
felled in a flash
snap like twigs
GONE
centenarians once stood
s t a t e l y
moments ago . . .
© Cory Corrado
“This just happened last night.”
The poem or the trees?
Jane
The tree devastation happened last night. (in Montreal)
They called it a microburst.
The poem, this morning.
Thank you for asking, Jane.