Two Paths

Two paths stretch, tangle and turn; two
roads bramble lined and narrow,
diverged and dove out of sight.
In confusion, I walked
a distance in the oaken shade, then the
yellow yarrow called so I left the
wood and walked where I could feel gold.

Prompts: Margo’s Tuesday Tryout which is an acrostic but with a twist.  Margo offered a couple twists to choose from and I chose to write a sentence acrostic, using a line from a poem and starting each of my lines with those words.  You probably thought to yourselves as you read, that it sounded like Robert Frost and indeed it is.  Thanks Margo, for a very fun prompt.  I also incorporated this week’s words from Three Word Wednesday.

Anxiety

I cannot coldly observe
how you have her curled
on the floor, fetal
position, frozen, shaking
like a kitten in a cage.
I try to ignore the trivial
bait you set;
so subtle she can’t name
it for me.
Fight or flight fails her.
She is trapped;
you stack her thoughts
— the significant memories
on top of future fears
of failure, unfounded
and untrue.
She wimpers
Help me.

Prompts: Poetry Mixtape to personify a serious subject, Poetic Bloomings to write about something I don’t understand/can’t grasp, and Poets United Vice Versa.

The Face of my Father

I have
a staircase nose
narrow
steep
and long
with a gypsy hook.

My eyes
gold flecked emerald
are rimmed
with inky lashes
that brushed my swim goggles
like crushed
spider legs.

The creases
at the corners
of my lips and eyes
are serious
etched
with the knife
of a life
spent pondering
and perfecting
instead of laughing.

 

I used three prompts when I wrote this poem.  First up (from oldest prompt to most recent), I used Poetry Mixtape 21 prompt of K.I.S.S.  The goal was to write a three sentence (not lines) poem where the title has significance.  The second prompt is from WWP #108: Write a poem about your face.  The last prompt is Margo’s prompt to use images and to use line breaks as punctuation.

Grammie

I remember her
in the kitchen;
scarlet print dress
white eyelet apron
around
her waist.

Pear shaped;
short
in stature
and temper
a mean drunk
or a
sainted martyr.

Dark onyx eyes
changing moods:
warm mocha,
flaming fire flash,
gypsy barter glance,
mischievous
glitter dance;
rarely at
rest.

I wrote this from Donna’s Heritage prompt where she asks us to write about a grandparent.  Instead of exploring her heritage, I ended up painting her portrait instead.  Funny how poems have a mind of their own sometimes.