license

For today’s prompt, write a license poem. There are many different licenses available to people. Fishing license, driver’s license, license plate, license to kill, and marriage license. Poem doesn’t have to be about the license, but it could mention a license, happen at a licensing office, or well, use your poetic license. — Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

I’m taking poetic license today and writing from Rader’s point of view. This one may be disturbing; suicidal thoughts described.

License

It’s been fifteen years and
three hundred fifty-nine days.

Five thousand eight hundred thirty-eight days.
Day follows day follows day,
always the same.

How can I bear another day?

Sixteenth birthday, six days away,
driver’s license within reach,
but I can’t find the will to practice;
everything is exhausting.

Plus there’s nowhere I want to go.
There isn’t anywhere I want to be;
I don’t want to be here.

There is no route by car
to get to a place
where it doesn’t hurt like this
where I don’t feel like this
there is no such place.
There will never be any such place.

What I want is license to let go.

---

To anyone reading this who is struggling: Rader’s thinking was wrong. Mortally wrong, because depression lies. Life is worth living and does get better. Help of so many kinds is available. If you’re in crisis, please tell someone! You also can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-8255, or click here for their online chat. You can text the Crisis Text Line at 741741. If you have an ongoing battle with suicidal thoughts, make a safety plan that’s easy to put into motion when life starts to get overwhelming. The NotOK App is one you can have right at hand, on your phone, to alert trusted contacts to check on you when you’re in need. There’s no one else like you, and you are so loved. Please stay.

little inconceivabilities

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Little (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then write your poem. Possible titles include: “Little Guy,” “Little Richard,” “Little Mermaid,” “Little Italy,” and “Little Words That Pack a Big Punch.” I think if you think about it for a little bit, you’ll find a big (or little) poem to write. — Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

Little known

Little did I know
how far my life would be
from what I had imagined
for myself
and my family

it doesn’t seem foolish
to dream of an ordinary future
to expect the world to be
as it always has been

yet every little thing
is different
I
am different
in a thousand ways

Little did I know

catch and release

Time for our third Two for Tuesday of the month! Pick one prompt or use both … your choice!

1. Write a catch poem. Catch a cold, a ball, a fish, or someone’s eye.

2. Write a release poem. Release your anger, a ball, a fish, or someone’s head (from a head lock while wrestling, of course).

Remember: These are just matches meant to spark your creativity; you can catch and release your fire wherever you wish. —Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

Catch and release

Sometimes I catch myself
imagining
the parallel universe
in which Rader right now

hurtles toward high school graduation
six weeks away,
and the life that waits for him
after leaving home

in which we release him
into the wild
and he figures out how to fly

finds his place at college
enjoys his classes and friends
prepares for work, life, love.

He comes home to visit;

he’s just been away.

Just away for a while.

unpredictability

[Day 15.] Half. Way. There. It’s all downhill from here. For today’s prompt, write a prediction poem. Make a prediction. Write about another person’s correct or incorrect prediction. Or, you know, be unpredictable. — Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

Fortunes

[for today’s poem, I found an online fortune cookie message generator. I’m going to let it give me a few fortunes and work from those.]

Love is right around the corner.
Sometimes I feel
as if Rader is right around the corner
just out of sight
’on the other side of the veil’
that we could meet in a dream
or I could conjure him
if I just imagine hard enough.
But memories
are all I can manage.

Seek out a new environment if you’re stuck in a rut.
Change of scenery,
getaway.
Shake things up
go somewhere new.
But remember,
wherever you go,
there you are.
You’re still you.

Move quickly. Now is the time to make progress. (and/or)
Work with your destiny. Stop trying to outrun it.

Speed up!
Or slow down.
Reconsider.
Make another choice.

Don’t rush me!
Maybe now is the time to stand my ground.
There may be hazards
to forging ahead.

Don’t fence me in!
Maybe now is the time to expand my horizons.
It could be dangerous
to stay at a standstill.

There is no safe option,
no guarantee of success.
I have no way of knowing
the outcome of any path.

I deliberate.
The winds of fortune blow.

on growing up in a small southern town

Two weeks! That’s how much poeming we’re about to complete. Big deal. For today’s prompt, pick a state (or province, territory, etc.), make it the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. A few possibilities include New York, California, Ontario, Bavaria, and Champagne. It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: Feel free to bend this in any direction you wish. — Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

North Carolina

I had just turned 11
when we moved from Washington state
to rural northeastern North Carolina
for my dad’s maybe-three-year assignment
in a town that was home to
the world’s largest pulp and paper mill complex
and very little else to speak of

We weren’t from around there
but right away I learned
to say ma’am and sir
and y’all
and found my place
in the Girl Scout troop
and Miss Anne’s dance class

And three years came and went
but we stayed

I lived there again for one short summer
once I left the state for college, but
North Carolina remains my home.
It’s where I’m from.

the way i see it

For today’s prompt, write a view poem. Wherever you’re at, you have a view: maybe of a river or sunset. Maybe of a cubicle or a copy machine. Even the blind have a view of darkness, nothingness, or some other -ness. And that’s just being literal, because everyone has views on sports, politics, poetry, etc. — Robert Lee Brewer, Writer's Digest

Harbingers

Lake
pitted by raindrops
that also fall, pattering,
on the tin roof

Birds call
and flit by
robins, crows, cardinals
other unseen songbirds

Still-bare trees
almost shimmer
with the verdant haze
of leaves about to burst forth

The rain falls faster
reflections of light like static
across the surface of the water
ripples, circles

A mallard soars past
audible rush of wind and feathers
to make a noisy splashdown
quack, and preen

Now he swims by
all majestic iridescence topside
and busy orange feet underneath
V-shaped wake trailing him, a royal cape

The rain cloud passes,
sun emerges
everything above reflected below

A view I will love all of my life
that I long for when I am away
How this place soothes my soul
All is well, you’ll be well, be still and listen.

a poem of dedication

For today’s prompt, write a dedication poem. This is a poem dedicated to a person, an animal, or an organization. Or hey, objects work too — like a poem to a rock or paper bag. Put the dedication in the title or in a line under the title (“for Mother” or “to the heart-shaped rock between the creek and the tulips”). I dedicate today’s prompt to all of you! — Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

To the giant hollow chocolate egg

You caught my eye —
the biggest chocolate Easter egg
I've ever seen.
Hollow, of course, my favorite.
Wrapped in shiny cellophane,
tied off with a satin bow,
calling out to me.

But too late;
I was already corralled
in the Marshall's & HomeGoods checkout line
with my shopping cart full of new flowerpots
for houseplant transplantation.
I had somewhere to go;
I would have to come back later.
Would you still be there?
My destiny?

Everyday life got in the way
and weeks — WEEKS! — passed
before I was able to return,
seeking you with trepidation.
Yet, joy! There you were, just waiting for me.
Nothing could separate us.

At last I was able to see you up close,
to hold you. So smooth, so heavy!
A full 3000 grams, almost 6 2/3 pounds.
So much Easter happiness!
Until I looked at your price tag.

O, chocolate egg.

I could not, would not
pay $80 for you.

(Epilogue: I bought myself a smaller version of the same egg. This is not such a sad story after all.)

lost and alone

For today’s prompt, write a lone poem. Perhaps the poem is about a solitary wanderer or person who just prefers to go it alone. Or a lone winner, lone wolf, or some other solo individual. Or alternatively, I’ll accept poems that are about loans or that are about being alone. — Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

Lone

Bereavement is a solitary world
No one else is living your life
— even those who mourn the same loss

Some respond according to norms
While some are outliers
Some grieve ‘properly,’
and some are shunned
because their mourning makes other people uncomfortable.

Maybe you cry too much.
Say their name too much,
talk openly about what happened.
Don’t manage to ‘move on’ at an acceptable speed.
Continue to rage and rail.

Maybe you fail to return
to being the same person you were before
— how dare you not bounce back
from your whole life imploding?

People have been dying
since people have been.
Why are we so terrible at this?

How can we undergo an experience
that has happened or will happen
to every single person who ever has lived
— the loss of a loved one —
and still be alone?

i am for love

Time for our second Two for Tuesday of the month! Pick one prompt or use both … your choice!
1. Write a love poem. All you need is love.
2. Write an anti-love poem. Or not.
Remember: There are many forms of love: romantic love, friend and family love, love of being alive, etc. Also, here are some tips on how to write a love poem.
— Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

I am for love

They say
that being a parent is like watching your heart walk around outside of your body.

They say
that grief is just love with nowhere to go.

I walk around
my heart filled up to overflowing
with love whose object
no longer walks with me.

They say
’tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

They say
love never fails.

They say
love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love.

I have come up against it.
And I am for it. I am for love.

(Quotes from
Elizabeth Stone
Jamie Anderson
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
1 Corinthians 13:8
Lin-Manuel Miranda)

seven, eight

For today’s prompt, write a lucky number poem. Some people have lucky numbers, some don’t. Wherever you fall on the lucky number spectrum, you can still write a poem about the phenomenon of lucky numbers and/or luck in general.
— Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

Calligraphy by Carol Chan

Fall down seven times; get up eight — Japanese proverb

Lucky number seven

When I read these words,
I feel a boost of courage

— my inner optimist
straightens her shoulders
and nods in recognition,
resolved, ready —

as if the deepest truth of the universe is that
all that is required of me
is to keep going.

“Try, try again.”
”Don’t give up.”

And I want to think
I will get up eight

But is it really that simple?
And how do we ever know
until we have fallen down seven?

celandine jealousy

For today’s prompt, write a jealous poem. Maybe you’re jealous. Or maybe someone else is jealous of you–or someone else. Whether envious of another or suspicious of a partner, dive deep into this emotion today. Remember: These prompts are just springboards; you have the freedom to jump in any direction you want.
— Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest

Stylophorum diphyllum (woodland or celandine poppy)

Jealousy

woodland poppies,

celandine,

bloomed where they were planted and then,

when we thought they may have failed to thrive,

showed themselves again but now

refuse to be contained,

stake their claim

shouting in bright yellow

across the forest floor.

I envy your boldness.

after ____

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “After (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: “After Dinner,” “After You,” “After Hours,” and/or “After I Finish Writing This Poem.” — Robert Lee Brewer, senior content editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community

Aftermath

After the worst has happened?
Inconceivably, life carries on.

But an alternate life, a changed life.
In which (I have thought):
what is left to fear?
Why should I be concerned with what anyone thinks,
with keeping up appearances?
With laying bare my soul on the page?
Nothing left to lose.

Or is there?

I have lived "every parent's nightmare"

and after, still I dream

of flood,

of failure,

of things lost and left behind.

[Unfair
that surviving a real-life nightmare
fails to end
bad dreams of the ordinary sort.]

After?
Still fear.
And life.
And figuring out the balance.

Stealing/steeling

“For today’s prompt, write a stolen poem. And no, don’t steal anyone’s poem! But you can write about doing such a thing. Or stealing hearts, stealing time, stealing minds. Or steeling your mind (remember: I don’t care if you play on my original prompt). Steal away into a comfortable place to write and break some lines today.”

Robert Lee Brewer
Writer’s Digest Poem-A-Day Challenge prompt

Stolen

I find myself in a familiar position
as I inventory my emotions
and wrack my brain:
Where to begin?

Elbows on desk,
hands clasped to the sides of my bowed head,
fingers just touching,
I stare at the glossy wood grain mere inches away.

Where to begin?

As if the words will float up from the surface
and come to life in my mind
Steeling myself
for when poetic inspiration strikes

See here, the words come,
the lines unfurl,
the stanzas type themselves out
stolen from some secret storehouse.

out of a clear blue sky

Today’s Writer’s Digest poem-a-day writing prompt was to use the name of a painter as your title.

Blue Sky

All the times we were in Columbia
for football games
or driving through
from one side of the state to the other
we never made the effort to show you
at the corner of Taylor and Marion streets

Tunnel Vision

artist Blue Sky’s trompe l’oeil mural
covering the entire side of the old Ag First Building
a passage blasted through rock
to a brilliant sun setting over the ocean
neon-powered, glowing

You would have liked
the incongruity
of a tunnel to the sea
through the middle of a building
in a landlocked city.

We thought there’d be time.

poetry month poem a day: dogs

Today’s prompt was to write an animal poem.

Dogs

When my surviving child
went off to college
less than three months
after Rader's death blew up our nuclear family
at first we texted every day
at least some small thing
and then eventually I didn't need that
so much

It's been three, almost four semesters
and now
every few days
we send comics
and pictures of dogs

because dogs are good
and a very adequate shorthand
for "I love you."

worst case, best case

Day two of Poetry Month. There’s a two-for prompt on Tuesdays. Today’s was to write a worst case poem and/or a best case poem. When I got right down to it, my thoughts were simple. So I chose a concise format: haiku.

worst case haiku

Worst? Already was.
And the best that still could be?
Won't have you in it.

april is national poetry month

April is National Poetry Month. I’ve decided to try writing a poem a day using prompts from Writer’s Digest. If all goes well, I’ll share them here daily. If they’re too private (or unsuccessful — I think there was one poem last year I never did get to “work”), maybe not. The first prompt was to craft a morning/mourning poem.

Mourning Poem

Morning comes too early
my body says it's time to wake up.
Awake and waiting
I debate whether
to look at my watch.

I resist but usually in vain.
Like it or not, it's another day

That unfurls itself ahead of me
full of opportunities and demands.
Mostly I rise to them
not always cheerfully.

Faced with a fog, I fight against it
clouds my ambition
obscures my vision
makes it feel dangerous to go too far afield.

Every morning I wake up and
realize my loss anew.
Somehow the world
keeps spinning without you

And the time you were here
recedes farther and farther
into the past.
My mind can't make sense of how
that can be.

Morning to night,
it's always the same

seconds, minutes, hours, days

weeks, months

years tick by without you.

And every day,
another morning comes.

Too early.

Taking the Measure of Myself (with an Ergometer)

I lost my 15-year-old son, Rader, to suicide on a Wednesday night last June (2017). In so many ways, I had no idea what to do or how to react, and looking back, that time is just a blur. But I did know one thing: I needed to take care of myself, whatever that might mean. So the following Monday, I was back at the gym, in class with my friends, working out on the rowing machine (also known as an ergometer). I needed to be. Had to take action.

National Poetry Month: Today's poetry prompt was to write an action poem. So I wrote about rowing.

---

Taking the Measure of Myself (with an Ergometer)

Since you’ve been gone, I’ve rowed 600,000 meters on the erg.

Each stroke— 
the catch: where I'm coiled like a spring, 
the drive: the hard push through the feet as I straighten my legs, 
the finish: the lean-back where I bring the handle that represents the oars to my chest, 
and the recovery: the slow and relaxed return to the starting position— 
propels me backward through the waters of my imagination.

I glide across a mirrored lake, or fight the chop and current of a wide river. 
When I close my eyes, I’m alone out there, 
with the warm sun, and the gentle breeze I create with my own motion, 
and the sounds of the water as my oars push through. 
I lose myself in the rhythm of it.

Stroke after stroke, 
I'm rowing away, 
away from the dark clouds, 
away from the dark thoughts, 
away from the dark times. 
Away from the mundanity of the day, 
away from the people who don't understand, 
away from the tasks of a life that goes on
even when we wish we could just stop it and take a break
and get away.

But not just away. 
Stroke after stroke
in my imagined watercraft, 
I'm rowing toward, 
as if it were a vessel, a sweet chariot, 
that could bring me to wherever it is
you have gone.

Six hundred thousand meters, 
and each week I row more, 
taking the measure of myself
with an ergometer.

Flaming Katy Kalanchoe

We made our getaway, Flaming Katy and I, 
on a hot July day. 
Packed up the car and drove north
to the quiet house on the lake
in the small mountain town
where peace awaits me
when I can't find it anywhere else.

I ran away with Katy and the gang
and when we arrived at our destination, 
I carefully arranged the flowerpots on the back patio and dock
overlooking the lake
where Katy with her fern and tricolor plant, 
and the huge glossy peace lily and the basket of African violets
and the beautiful big container garden
could bathe in the rain and bask in the sun
or just enjoy the mountain air
as I tried to come to terms
with the event that brought us together: 
my son Rader's suicide the month before.

We were inundated with flower arrangements— 
so many that after the funeral, we gave some away
to the friends and neighbors who had
cared for us in every way those first few days. 
But the houseplants I kept
because it helps me to care for them
and I feel rewarded when they thrive
and challenged to rise to the occasion when they falter
but the stakes are low; 
it's not too much pressure.

I think Flaming Katy needs a new, bigger pot, 
and a little less water, 
but the African violets are blooming
and the peace lily— 
from the class of 2019 at Rader's high school, his class— 
is thriving.

I took the plants on vacation with me
partly because I hadn't had them long enough
to give anyone else instructions
on how to care for them in my absence. 
But also I just like to have them around
and so maybe this summer
we'll run away together again. 
————-

National Poetry Month
Today's prompt was to take the name of a plant for your title and write from there. Flaming Katy seemed like the obvious choice.

battle scars

battle _____

Battle Scars

Sore and bruised,
I have been through it
and have the scars to show it.
Cleaved nearly in two
Half my heart
torn from my chest
How do you heal from
That kind of catastrophic injury?
And yet
Again I stand, if barely

An unevenness, roughness
A thickening of my soul
I feel it
In a constricting of my
Range of motion
I’m not quite free to do
The things I used to do
Not without a constant dull ache
And sometimes a sharp pain
Reminding me
That I’ve been through it

But scars mean healing is taking place
Imperfect healing
Slow and ongoing
The broken places mend
Evidence of my battle
Etched into my very skin