Search This Blog

Monday, November 2, 2020

Enter

 From Writer's Digest November chapbook challenge:

For today’s prompt, write an enter poem. We're entering a new challenge, a new month, a new poem, a new state of mind, a new candy hangover, etc. Maybe your poem enters a haunted house or enters into a conversation. Take enter where you wish.

19 comments :

  1. As we enter into new, what will we make?
    Unaware if it is sunset or dawn.
    Briefly I fell asleep but now awake.
    Wondering if it matters if it is night or day.
    Wont the light on my cellphone work either way?
    Wont I find another option to illuminate my way?
    If it were temporarily or permanent darkness,
    To solve our problems we should still try our hardest.
    Survival of the fittest,
    Those who refuse to adapt fail the quickest.
    Even if nobody can see the path but me,
    Shouldn't I choose to be light?
    If everyone just led themselves out of the tunnel,
    that wouldn't be very nice.
    It would also not be as efficient,
    we should teach those who are knowledge deficient.
    Although it may be difficult and require patience,
    We all benefit from the result, people in all nations.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I like the hip-hop irregularity of the rhyme. I can't quite figure out the tone...or does it gradually morph? It seems to start out earnest and then become quite playful. I like it, but I like the playful parts best.

      Delete
    2. I enjoyed the play with reality and non reality and how it goes off into survival and light... very refreshing...

      Delete
    3. Interesting take on the prompt. I do like the feel of the rhyme and yes, you should light your own path without worrying about what others think. So good to see you posting again.

      Delete
  2. Not a new one, but it is on theme:

    WANTS

    I walk into the room wanting
    something—a glass of water,
    chocolate. I want strange
    lacquered fingernails
    on my back. I want
    to look into the eyes of a man
    who has two weeks to live.
    I want to get my hands on
    the vanilla pudding bosoms,
    the dark tangled damp of
    my twenty nine year old bride,
    virgin, Italian, sheltered,
    but she’s locked herself in the bathroom
    and won’t come out.

    My dog follows me,
    bumping the muscle part
    of my calf, not letting
    the door close in front of her.
    I want immortality, or else
    what she has, and my father had:
    never to know I’m not loved.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I loved the stark reality of the bride hiding in the bathroom ... it made everything just jump to life because you can hear her thinking and his lusty need ... i lived it

      Delete
    2. Parts of this confused me, but the last three lines are so powerful. It could just be my general mood, but this is the 2nd one in a row of yours that made me choke up.

      Delete
  3. ENTER

    the air moved
    around them
    all appeared
    ethereal and paper thin
    hands passed through
    throwing thin theories
    through questioning minds
    the two of them
    entered the fissure
    in front of them
    passing by way of a warm
    bubbly feeling
    they came to the other side;
    the dimension warp
    stayed wobbly, floating
    flirtatiously as fear and
    doubt faded into curiosity,
    a gander at the golden scene
    surrounding them,
    the sensation of a southerly wind
    and the sensual solitude
    strengthened their courage
    to walk on and feel the purity
    and spontaneous synergy of the place
    let’s walk on
    they heard
    but neither had spoken
    telepathy they each heard
    and knew this universe
    was special

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I love the alliteration in this, makes it even spookier than just the subject matter makes it.

      Delete
  4. Watching “Moonstruck,”
    I was struck
    when Cher dipped her fingers
    in holy water,
    how much I miss

    rituals
    of Catholicism.
    How I would love to
    enter a church,
    dip fingers,

    make the sign of the cross,
    father, son, holy ghost,
    amen. I would
    wear a hat,
    genuflect, just part of

    the congregation,
    confessional
    in sight, where
    a priest hears my sins
    decides whether to

    absolved them all
    with a few
    Hail Marys, maybe some
    Our Fathers, if my
    sins are mortal.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. this poem is so real because i know what it feels like to go through all that ritual and when you step back and look at, witches have rituals and such also...it’s not much different

      Delete
  5. Dan died


    dan died
    did he enter
    the gates of heaven
    like he expected?
    did he meet his god
    and repent his sins
    he thought he knew
    he thought he was
    invulnerable and could not die
    but his body expired
    late last night
    and we will never see him again
    I hope he entered his heaven
    and I hope he met
    his god
    because no one really knows
    what’s beyond...

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Wow. A great take on the topic, knowing Paul's friend recently passed away

      Delete
  6. Where has everybody been hiding??? Come on let’s write some poetry... ok???

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. And comment! I emailed Tasha. She doesn't do FB much and may have given up on me.

      Delete
    2. that’s sad because her contributions were worthy and fun. I enjoyed having her with us...

      Delete
    3. I just posted a poem to this prompt and the next one. Been dealing with medical issues though not serious, that took time, Dr. apts etc, and my birthday as well with hone calls and kind emails, etc. We even had a Zoom party! Hope to have comments on my two. Thanks for your kind words, too.

      Delete
  7. Entering

    This is to enter,
    and I enter here, to become a part
    one of those who enjoy
    making my entries,
    who feels prompted to enter
    again and again, to frame
    my words in the little square,
    there, and push the button
    to make it so
    and then I have entered.

    ReplyDelete