Prompt: It's between us

This morning I looked up, online, what a local radio talk show would be featuring. Someone happened to glance over my shoulder at the computer screen and muttered dismissively, "Oh, that conservative war-mongering idiot." Wow, I thought to myself, if that is true, how could this guest have authored a book about "the road to character", about creating an authentic inner life, about developing humility? Now I had to hear this, I promised myself.

And soon enough, there he was, in a dead pan voice, droning on about authenticity, about a life-well-lived, how selfless caring for others is all there is at the end when one is eulogized. How ironic, I thought, that he is on tour, selling a book about selflessness, about moral fiber and the lack of it in contemporary society. He called out narcissists and careerists, literally tsking at them for their obtuseness, their limitations. How strange, I pondered, that the host seemed to be eating all this up, groveling at his guest's feet. I looked at the website again, hoping to find a juicy comment, of which there were a lonely one or two, but of course none of those entries was read aloud. The call-in guests were no better, only adding to the oleaginousness. Well, between you and me, I shut the radio off and hopped in the shower, if only to get ready for another day.

Prompt: Impressionistic

Word: impressionistic

Words on a page can conjure an image. For example, when I see the world "library" written, I envision a room, dim and spacious. It must contain shelves around a perimeter packed with books, of which only the spines are visible. In the center of the room are tables that may or may not have reading lamps upon them, depending.

When I see the word "impression", I have no impression, until a suffix is added. Just a few more letters, always beginning with an "i" and I travel through time and across oceans unimpeded by language. I'm writing of course about the Impressionists and Impressionism. While they are not my favorite ism as far as schools of art, they are certainly an iconic bunch or more accurately their work is. I sincerely doubt I can say anything new about this movement that hasn't be trodden to death, so I will simply ask, wouldn't it be fun to discover them for the first time, now, instead of having spent decades being assaulted with their imagery with everything from water lily cocktail napkins to haystack mouse pads? I have heard that when their paintings were first introduced to the general public many many years ago, there was an uproar, something about such tasteless garishness. Imagine that.

Prompt: the poem Grief Work by Natalie Diaz

La Llorona, the one who cries, by the river, pacing up and down its bank. Do you know why she cries? I didn't know why, but still I could see her walking and sobbing with her hair limp and dark, and long like a willow at the water's edge. La Llorona, moving slowly, always, slowly. As she brushes past the wild roses growing at the river's edge, she loosens little dabs of color where they float quietly to the ground, grief's petals.

I have to close my eyes to see. I can hear her weeping. It sounds like water traveling over stones; it sounds like leaves clinging to their branches in the wind. The high gate above her knees creaks in sympathy. This breaks my heart.

I didn't know why La Llorona cries.

Not long ago someone told me the story of La Llorona. La Llorona who cries forever at the edge of the water. I see her still, same as before even though I know now why she is there, tethered to her path and why she weeps.

Does it matter why she weeps? We are all La Llorona, aren't we? Is this dream we call Life not a journey that at times takes us down to our own river bank where a high gate above our knees creaks quietly, whispering we are not alone? We go where there is love, to the river, on our knees.

Prompt: I found a key, I think it's yours

It was right here in the spot where you were sitting. And, I think if I'm not mistaken, you were the last person sitting in this place. I'm imagining how you must have gotten into your house without it. Did you have to pry the screens from the windows? And now I realize I don't know if you live in a place with screens, or even windows, but for certain there must be a door, because here in my hand I hold this key, your key. I wonder what the door to your house looks like. Is it red? Is it rounded at the top? And the lock, it must be copper-colored like this key you've left behind. In my mind, I'm turning this key in the lock on the door to your house that may or may not have windows, covered or not by screens. Does the key fit? Does it click, does the knob turn? Suddenly, I'm shy. What if you're not home, or worse, if you are. It just occurred to me you may have a hidden spare, by the front steps, under a fake rock or even the mat that says, "Welcome". I hesitate. I contemplate knocking, and as my knuckles rap upon your door, which I can see now is a bright blue, I hear the sound of knocking, but more distant, more determined. I think it must be you.

Prompt: what she really wanted to say

She watched him closely as he gave her directions. He looked so much like X, she mused. His eyes had that same soft color, that same sad, haunting look. It was uncanny. He was talking but she could barely make out the words, only the song in his voice, the notes, the warmth. He even gestured in a manner that was so close to X. She could feel heavy tears threatening. She looked away, at her hands, tight on the steering wheel. When she looked back he was smiling. He asked her if she thought she could find it. Yes, I think so. What she really wanted to say was: I miss you. Thank you, she said, and drove off, slowly, watching him disappear in the rear view mirror.

Prompt: The feeling poem

smells like woodsmoke

tastes like jello without enough flavoring

feels like a bright sunny early morning summer room with diaphanous curtains billowing over a lush garden, both empty

feels like an alley cat who wants to be pet but doesn't know how

feels like that shopping cart on its side in a ditch by a country road glinting as you whiz by at 50 mph

loneliness

Prompt: things that get in the way

Barriers, obstacles, roadblocks, blocks, writers' block, painters' block, responsibilities, obligations, laundry, dishes, vacuums, sponges, towels, weather, schedules, calendars, agendas, appointments, meetings, meetings, meetings. What happens when all of this is vanished? If it disappears, what then? What is there waiting behind all that is in the way? What is it that has been obscured? Will it now finally float, ever so serenely, up, casting a shadow that too will fade as it, this thing of wonder, this fantastical beast, rises higher and higher, stopping only to levitate with the accumulated clouds? It is then we wish we had tied a very, very long string to this winged thing, to this elusive mythological creature.

Prompt: Langston Hughes: April Rain Song

A little sleep song, a little sleep song, a little sleep song, she murmured to herself and the sound of rain tapped an ambient rhythm. It was almost dawn. She'd propped herself up, bolstered with pillows, a wall of feathers against the day ahead. A day of feeding and chauffering and assisting and augmenting and adjusting and nurturing only to stop for a brief respite and then resume once again. A little sleep song, a little sleep song, a little sleep song. It's always darkest before dawn, she remembered and then was only slightly aware of experiencing a stutter, a break, a gentle wash from the falling rain.