Poem-A-Thon
Day 1 ( Prompt: How to write a poem)
11/01/2025
The Poet’s Journey
by Dee Nebert
It starts in the stillness, not with a word, but with an inner yearning unwillingly stirred.
We write the verse to face the shadows deep, The buried regrets and secrets that we keep; We brave the darkness dwelling in the mind, For in that struggle, greater truths we find.
We sit with ghosts, engage the shadow's plea, The messy, honest self for all to see. From haunting's raw heat, alchemy is wrought, A blade of truth from battles gallantly fought.
This dangerous, honest thing, it then takes flight, To shatter norms and pierce the dull, gray night.
We write to inspire action, strong and true, To turn the pain to purpose, fresh and new. Let shadows not consume, but rise and gleam, Casting a powerful, reawakened dream.
To stir the soul, compel the turning hand, A brave, small step across a barren land.
Day 2 ( Prompt: Write Your Own “I Am From” Poem)
11/02/2025
Foundation
by Dee Nebert
I come from a case of love at first sight and a vow shared. A place where a new path taken was bravely dared. My roots are woven with a determined thread, By those who challenged what society spread.
A life where minds were open, hearts were near, And nothing built was ever bound by fear. A chosen path of freedom, unrestrained and true, So we could grow up lovely, brave, and new.
I come from a people with shoulders of stone, Whose honest, good labor was proudly known. With minds that were clever, and hands that grew skilled, They coaxed from the land what it was eager to yield.
They carried the magic the old Celts imparted, A deep, knowing wisdom, both steady and hearted. They spoke to the stream, and they honored the wood, By roots in the earth, they were strong and understood.
I come from the land where the sun draws water from the rusted red earth, Beneath skies that are open, inspiring mountains to birth. The silent, green cactus stands prickly and tall, And vast, empty desert encompasses all.
I come from the whispers the canyons have stored, Where ancient native voices are poured. In patterns of stone and the dust of the ground, A culture of spirit and wisdom is found.
Day 3 ( Prompt: an abecedarian poem. Each line of the poem begins with successive letters of the alphabet, starting with A and ending with Z.)
11/03/2025
Dream Soul
Archetypal whispers awaken the unconscious dream.
Beneath the surface, the illusive Self, a radiant theme.
Contemplation calls forth the collective unconscious vast.
Deepening understandings from all that has since passed.
Ego incorporates the shadow, a greater knowing found.
Fundamental truths and tangled regrets are unbound.
Great ghost of history, the archetype's deep root.
Her hero's journey, bearing transformative fruit.
Image intensifies the feelings we repress.
Journeying inward to the soul’s distress.
Knowing comes from symbols the unconscious shows.
Logical mind surrenders to the way the current flows.
Mythic memories rise from the universal well.
Numinous moments when the deeper truths compel.
Objects appearing as objective psyche wills.
Persona's mask dissolves on psychic hills.
Quickly questioning the meaning of the sight.
Reconciling opposites into a healing light.
Synchronic events, the universe’s exquisite rhyme.
Transcendent truth dissolving the illusion of linear time.
Unconscious urges drive the narrative's deep core.
Velvet veil lifted, showing what we are meant for.
Wisdom older than the individual's time.
X-axis crossing where the mundane is sublime.
Yielding to the guru of the Western mind.
Zenithal experience: the Self, profoundly kind..
Day 4 ( Prompt: Title your own piece “How I Would Paint Happiness”.)
11/04/2025
How I Would Paint Happiness
By Dee Nebert
I'd start the canvas with a wash of Joy— The shade of Mother Nature’s colors after rain, A thousand hues that nothing can alloy, A chlorophyll-deep, sun-drenched, vibrant strain.
Into that bedrock green, I’d stroke in devotion, The warm, unquestioning trust of loyal puppies near, A furred and frantic, velvet-pawed emotion Whose simple presence chases back all fear.
Next, a thick texture of pure, molten Delight, Drawn from a granddaughter's unconditional embrace— A precious child surrounded by light, Where all time stops and innocence finds its space.
For the background tones, I'd mix bright Awe With the deep, fiery hue of Sunsets over Western shores; The ocean vast, obeying timeless law, As light dissolves and evening spirit pours.
And last, the movement: sweeping strokes of Peace, In the foamed white and sapphire of rolling waves' advance, A steady rhythm promising release, The rhythmic, ceaseless, mesmerizing trance.
My masterpiece complete, no pigment spent, A portrait built of Feelings, deeply meant..
Day 5 ( Prompt: Write from the point of view of a fictional character)
11/05/2025
The Stitchwork of the Soul (Frankenstein’s Monster)
I bear the stitchwork of a stolen life, A tapestry of dread and sudden fright. My first breath was a curse, a surgeon's grief, No lullaby, no solace, no relief. I sought a family though a thunderous storm But found only terror coupled with my subhuman form. The Maker fled, leaving a void too vast, A lonely genesis that could not last. How can a son find kinship when his face Is proof of nature's shattered, fall from grace?
And self-esteem? It's a fragile, broken thing, A hollow music that my bones can’t sing. They call me "fiend," "demon," "accursed clay," And every whisper chips my worth away. How does one learn to love a shattered whole? To reconcile the body with the soul? Perhaps the only family I can claim Is the cold comfort of my lonely name; My only friend the moon above the moor, And self-acceptance all I'm fighting for— To find the goodness stitched within the dread And hold the monster in my heart instead.
Day 6 ( Prompt: You might try writing a piece where you play with tense in an unusual way, or one in which you address the Other as "you" without directly naming the person.)
11/06/2025
The Unseen Spread
You are not here, yet your hand is here. It lives in these precise, slanting lines, ink pressed deep into the page— The Fool, always a leap, she writes, but only if the wind will carry you.
I hold the stack of notes, a heavy archive, your personal Major Arcana. Each meaning perfectly rendered— no sloppy box to contain your wisdom, no general book to dilute the seeing. You threw away the manufactured words, leaving me only the pure, distilled essence.
You were the Architect of my reading. Your notes are the structure, the perfect grammar of the cosmos. I will learn your language, that blend of traditional symbol and your own wry humor, a marginal note next to the Five of Wands: “Follow you conscious.”
I am reading my life through your lens now. The past was the instruction. The present is the spread. The future will be the perfect, clear sentence you taught me to compose, one careful, handwritten truth at a time.
Day 7 ( Prompt: What have some of your past names been? Does your name fit you?)
11/07/2025
Many Names, One Being
In the dawn of my days, a melody sweet, A name that the earliest friends would repeat. With a warmth and a resonance, soft and yet bright, I answered to Dee Ann, a true childhood light.
Then came the new season, the journey to find, A self that was strong, with a focused, sharp mind. The "Ann" gently faded, though still a soft hum, And I stood in my own right, as Dee I’ve become. Not a nickname or fragment, no letter to spare, Just a short, lovely sound that hangs light in the air. The echo of Mother, the middle she bore, A lineage of strength right down to the core.
But the years brought new titles, of pride and of grace, The most tender of names in the whole human race. With cookies and cuddles, and patience untold, I earned the great honor of Mom, brave and bold.
And then comes the sparkle, the crowning delight, When small voices call out, with their faces alight. A hug and a giggle, a story to share, The queen of the family, known as Grandma rare.
Dee Ann, Dee, Mom, and Grandma—a beautiful blend, A testament to roles that never will end. Each name is a chapter, a part of my soul, And together they weave a wonderful whole!
Day 8 ( Prompt: While you were gone ...)
11/08/2025
While You’ve Been Gone
While you've been gone, I've learnt to tame the lawn and clean the gutters, The house had its own list of heavy, green demands. I fought the rampant weeds with sharp and focused mutters, And now the edges look neat, shaped by careful hands. The downspouts flow freely, cleared of the silt and leaves, I found the right ladder, the strength to climb up high. I sealed the windowpane where the bitter wind grieves, And stopped waiting for a voice to tell me what to try.
While you've been gone, I learnt to barter with realtors, salesmen, and contractors of many names, My voice found a lower register, firm and unafraid. I learned to spot the hidden fee and counter their false claims, And signed the documents where every price was weighed. The leaky crawlspace pipe is fixed, the paint is fresh and bright, I argued for the better finish, stood my ground on price. I found the power in my words, asserting my clear right, No longer startled by the cold of their professional ice.
While you've been gone, I learned that the bed is far too big, and I adopted a puppy to fill the void and warm the space, Her name is Minnie, a sound of comfort and of grace. She curls up by my feet, a small, insistent weight, A warm, vibrating anchor in this quiet, lonely place. She waits by the door when I leave, and jumps high when I return, A silly, constant shadow that requires me to be kind. A small, dark life in place of lessons I must unlearn, Leaving less space for the sorrow to inhabit in my mind.
While you've been gone, I learnt to navigate maps and finances both, The bank accounts now balance, every figure is correct. I follow all the blue lines on the screen with quiet oath, Driving past the intersections I used to just neglect. The spreadsheets are all ordered, the investments carefully tracked, I know the winding route to places I have never been. The burden of direction, once so heavy, is unpacked, I face the roads and columns now, both external and within.
While you've been gone, I have not learnt to dine out alone, but prefer to take it home, I still can't stand the table set for only one. The silent conversation with the strangers where I roam, And watching other couples when the busy day is done. I take the paper bag and drive back to the kitchen light, And share the savory bounty with the puppy at my feet. The public places hold too much of what once felt so right, I save the space beside me for someone yet to meet.
Day 9 ( Prompt: What have some of your past names been? Does your name fit you?)
11/09/2025
The SnowBall
The memory sparkles, a sweet, clear recall, Of the Snowball Prom, that grand junior ball. A dress from the seventies, a glamorous style, I remember it clearly, and how I did smile.
A red flowing skirt, to the floor it descended, With a lacy white top, where fashion was blended With puffy white sleeves and small crimson dots, A look that was certainly tying the knots Of holiday colors and earth child flair, The grooviest formal beyond all compare!
My friend, she was swathed in rich velvet of green, The perfect companion, the holiday Queen! Our dates, ever thoughtful, purchased flowers so sweet, Orchid corsages not a carnation cheat.
Mine sported a deep emerald bow, sharp and neat, My friend's, a bright red, making our theme complete. The dates wore their suits, oh, the style of the day! In polyester blue and a soft shade of grey. With collars so pointed, a stylish command, We stepped out together, with fun as the plan.
Day 10 ( Prompt: “-Use the imperative voice-Take the reader through a typical day-use parentheticals-can start with As you.... three parts to every directive: action/the repetition of the phrase “think of others.”/a parenthetical reminding us that what we are allowed to do is a privilege. )
11/10/2025
Vacation
As you wake to see that the ship has docked beside a glorious new port, be thoughtful (avoid big box stores and give local shops support).
As you maneuver the lavish breakfast buffet adorned with a cornucopia of delight, be thoughtful ( donate to your local food bank helping to make access a basic right).
As you board the moving coach to take advantage of a wonderous excursion, be thoughtful ( tip your driver and thank her for conveying you safely without diversion).
As you read the guiding signs and follow the wooded paths of stone, be thoughtful ( use gentle voices and stay on the trail to protect the native species, for this is their home).
As you attentively sit in at the lively history filled discussions, be thoughtful ( remember those brave adventurous soles who first mapped the wilderness regardless of the repercussions).
As you dine in elegance- pampered and graciously served, be thoughtful (ask for half portions so your hips don’t become much too curved).
As you sit in puffy round chairs to enjoy acoustical entertainment gleefully given, be thoughtful (cheer loudly for those everywhere brave enough to overcome inhibition).
As you gently rock to sleep on a freshly made bed with silky soft sheets, be thoughtful, (celebrate and appreciate those who toil to clean and maintain the suites).
Day 11 ( Prompt: write a traditionally rhyming sonnet)
11/11/2025
Ode to Beacon Rock
Upon the Columbia’s vast and flowing stream, Doth rise a monarch of the basalt stone, A monolith that wakes as from a dream, Where nature's hand its majesty has shown. No tower built by mortal art and toil, But by a fire that cooled in ages past, A silent sentinel on Washington soil, Whose rugged, lofty shadow is wide cast. Through verdant woods, a spiral path doth wind, To crown the summit where the eagles soar, And leave the watery world far, far behind, To gaze upon the Gorge forevermore. So stands the Rock, defiant, proud, and steep, While ancient river-secrets softly sleep.
Day 12 ( Prompt: For today, just try a little rhyming.) I’m thing Seuss.
11/12/2025
Westward Ho
Oh, President Jefferson said, on a bright, sunny day, “Go West, beyond where Louisiana grasses sway! We need maps! We need plants! We need critters galore! We need someone to sail to the far Western shore!”
So they picked out two men, quite a fine, jaunty pair, With a twinkle in eye and a brave, steady stare. There was Captain Meriwether, so thoughtful and tall, And Captain Clark too, who could handle it all!
“We’ll take a great boat!” they declared with a shout, “A mighty Keelboat for sailing about! With flour and beads and some muskets so grand, To trade with the folks of that wild, unknown land!”
They started in Spring, from Saint Louis city, Where the rivers ran muddy, and the trees were so pretty. They sailed UP the Missouri, a river so swift, Past buffalos great such a wondrous gift.
They pushed! And they pulled! And they rowed and they tugged! The river was twisty; the banks were all mugged! They met a nice lady, a maiden so keen, Sacagawea was her name, the best guide ever seen!
She knew the small trails and the mountains so steep, She knew where the berries were buried so deep. She carried a baby, a dear little tot, And helped the two Captains find every new spot!
They climbed the Rockies, so jagged and high, They gaped and marveled beneath the blue sky! They saw beasts with big horns, and bears brown and black, And never once thought of turning right back!
They slid and they scrambled, they walked and they ran, They followed the river, it was part of the plan! They followed the water, Columbia the mighty, Until they saw waves and hearts became flighty!
And then, oh, the wonder! The sight that they saw! The big, briny water! The ocean! What aw! The wide, endless water, where the salty air did spray! They reached the great PACIFIC! They shouted, “Hooray!”
They built a small fort, for the long winter stay, And then they turned 'round, and they started the way! Back home they came sailing, with maps and good cheer, With stories for ages, for all who would hear!
They showed the new plants, and the stones and the mud, They showed the new world where the great rivers flood! They saw things you’d never have thought could exist! The Tale of Lewis and Clark never to be missed!
Day 13 ( Prompt: Write a short poem in trochaic tetrameter as if you’re casting a spell—either to invite something into your life or to banish it. Use repetition and maybe a bit of rhyme)
11/13/25
Guilt’s End
Heavy burden, dark and low, Shadows haunting, time to go. Leave the sorrow, let it fade, Errors banished, price is paid. Rise up quickly, stand up tall, Answer freedom's urgent call. Never linger, turn a key, Guilt departs and sets you free.
Day 14 ( Prompt: Do you have a favorite title you’ve previously used? Try it again, but go in an entirely different direction).
11/14/25
The Mushroom’s Journey
Silent sleeping, deep and damp, Woven threads of mycelial tramp. Hidden highways, white and fine, Drinking darkness, earth divine. No need for sun or light of day, Just the waiting, far away.
Pressure building, slow and sure, Through the dirt and rotting manure. Cracking open, soil gives way, Greeting sudden, brilliant day. Tiny cap, a perfect dome, Found the surface, found a home.
Spreading upward, fast it grows, Past the moss and dandelion rows. Veil is broken, stem is stout, Gills unfurling, turning out. Brief existence, quick to come, Hear the buzzing, feel the hum.
Dust of purpose, light and small, Drifting downward, answering call. Spores released on wind's soft breath, Seeding futures, cheating death. Flesh returns to soil to feed, Cycle turning, planted seed.
Day 15 Prompt (Write a villanelle about a thought you can’t shake—grief, desire, an earworm of a melody, a worry. Let the repeated lines change slightly over time, the way a chorus might shift a word or two to show growth).
11/15/25
Mirrored Time
The mirror shows a stranger's weathered face, Each passing minute brings the resolution near, The sands of time accelerate their pace.
I look at youth, still full of vibrant grace, And feel the weight of every passing year, The mirror shows a stranger's weathered face.
My memory struggles to recall the place, Where certainty once banished every fear, The sands of time accelerate their pace.
I try to fight the inevitable case, Of joints that ache and senses growing sheer, The mirror shows a stranger's weathered face.
But wisdom settles into the empty space, Where youthful impulse held dominion dear, The sands of time accelerate their pace.
I start to see the beauty in this race, The life I've lived, the memories held clear, The mirror shows a friend’s less weathered face, As slow acceptance moderates the pace.
Day 16 Prompt (Write a haibun about a recent journey—this could be a physical trip or an emotional one. First, write one short paragraph of prose that describes the journey. Then write a haiku that focuses on one small, vivid image from that experience. Let the haiku deepen or complicate the prose, rather than simply summarizing it).
11/16/25
Ice Passage
The journey began in Longyearbyen, a splash of color against the white canvas of the Arctic. The National Geographic ship, a silent steel leviathan, cut through the inky water, carrying us north. I was armed with telephoto lenses and an endless supply of anticipation. Each briefing was a lesson in respect and patience—we were visitors in a vast, cold kingdom. Days blurred into a rhythm of gentle swells, lectures on ice ecology, and constant scanning of the horizon. The landscape was monumental: turquoise glaciers calving into the sea, icebergs sculpted into impossible, fleeting art. The air itself held the scent of salt and ancient cold. We felt small, enveloped by the silence of the high north. Then, the call: "Bear, port side!"
White on white horizon, a great hunter stirs from sleep— shutter clicks softly.
He patrolled the edge of the fast ice, immense and solitary. The powerful lens brought his breath mist, the texture of his fur, and the deep, intelligent curiosity in his eyes into sharp focus. For twenty silent minutes, we drifted, observing a perfect, wild life. It was a pilgrimage answered, a moment of profound connection to the untouched world, leaving only digital files and a humbling memory.
Day 17 Prompt (Start with a conditional or find the inevitable gratitude in your morning and write about that, amidst the worst-case scenario. Other words besides "say" signaling the conditional: if, should, could, would, maybe....).
11/17/25
If There Were No Puppies
If tiny tails didn't wag with glee, If no wet nose pushed against my knee.
If the house was quiet, no excited yip, If the carpet stayed spotless, without a slip.
If no awkward paws stumbled through the grass, If the morning's joy didn't come to pass.
If leashes hung unused beside the door, If no one dreamed of treats and playing more.
If pet store windows held only small toys, If children missed out on those furry joys.
If lessons in patience went unlearned and mild, If the definition of innocence was defiled.
If "man's best friend" began without a start, If a certain kind of warmth was missing from the heart.
If the purest love had nowhere to begin, If every playful chaos just vanished within.
If a puppy breath smell was something unknown, If the seed of loyalty was never sown.
If the world was colder, and a little less bright, If we never experienced that pure, youthful light.
Day 19 Prompt (Write a pantoum about a recurring memory. Let the repeated lines show how your relationship to the memory shifts.).
11/19/25
Island Diving
The Andros blue was vast and deep, A shimmering light filtered far below, The ocean holds secrets I try to keep, Where iridescent squid began to flow.
A shimmering light filtered far below, The coral gardens were a shocking sight, Where iridescent squid began to flow, Their hundred forms moved in fractured light.
The coral gardens were a shocking sight, With parrot fish in brilliant hues that played, Their hundred forms moved in fractured light, Through sunlit reefs where shadows swayed.
With parrot fish in brilliant hues that played, Then from the gloom, a massive shape appeared, Through sunlit reefs where shadows swayed, A silent, smooth grey reef shark was feared.
Then from the gloom, a massive shape appeared, The ocean holds secrets I try to keep, A silent, smooth grey reef shark was feared, The Andros blue was vast and deep.
Day 20 Prompt (You could: write your own fable of (wo)man against the machine or write a ballad (a song that tells a story, usually a tragic one copy the structure of the song, with repeating refrains..).
11/20/25
The Ballad of Seth Todd, the Amphibian Avenger
In misty Portland, where the rain falls slow, A quiet man named Seth Todd took the street. His heart was heavy, witnessing the woe, The injustice that he could not defeat. He knew those in power had become vile, The creeping hands of malice stretched too wide, So he devised a way to protest with a smile— A blow-up frog, with nothing left to hide.
(Chorus) Oh, Red Cape Frog! You beacon bright and green! Against the darkness, leaping from the mist! A man of peace, a powerful machine, A righteous defiance inflated with a twist! He stands for those who cannot stand at all, Against the tyrants and the heavy hand, The humble Todd answers freedom's call, The simplest hero in this struggling land!
He donned the suit, a vinyl, bubbly guise, And fastened tight a cape of crimson hue. He marched on buildings where the ICE offices rise, Against the fear their cold decrees accrued. The agents watched, perplexed and somewhat miffed, As Seth, the Frog, stood silent in the square, A massive, gentle, undulating gift, Protesting power with compassionate air.
The message spread beyond the Oregon pines, Of this strange creature battling the cruel. He stood for immigrants crossing harsh-drawn lines, And children trapped beneath a broken rule. He faced the racism in the public space, He met the pepper spray with a bobbing head, His oppressive government could not erase The simple truths the silent Frog had spread.
When whispers turned to shouts of civil need, And fear was used as tyranny's defense, Seth Todd became a necessary creed, A symbol charged with moral common sense. He stood for injustice, where the innocent were wronged, He showed that even simple, air-filled forms, If to the cause of righteousness belonged, Could weather fierce political storms.
(Chorus) Oh, Red Cape Frog! You beacon bright and green! Against the darkness, leaping from the mist! A man of peace, a powerful machine, A righteous defiance inflated with a twist! He stands for those who cannot stand at all, Against the tyrants and the heavy hand, The humble Seth Todd answers freedom's call, The simplest hero in this struggling land!
Day 21 Prompt (Choose a short line from a poem or song you adore (5–10 words). Write a new poem where each line ends with one word from that line, in order).
11/21/25
Roads to Justice
Pompous greed and untamed hubris leads this once noble country
I yearn for the familiar twists of winding honest and moral roads
A wild and unruly path for a resistance ordained to take
A simple, quiet journey is no longer possible for you or me
Longings deep inside direct tired steps hoping once more for home
Where unwavering acceptance extends a gracious hand to
All those seeking a decent life and basic rights of humanity for the
Where kind and caring soles can be proud to claim this place
The quiet voice of conscience guides my soul, and so listen must I
Until racist self-serving evil is repelled and everyone can truly belong
Day 22 Prompt (Choose a single room that holds many versions of you (a kitchen, rehearsal space, childhood bedroom). Pick six concrete nouns from that room (e.g., “window,” “guitar,” “cup,” “door,” “mirror,” “floor”) and use them as your six repeating end words. Write a sestina about the regrets, choices, or versions of you that live in this room).
11/22/25
The Shelter of Selves
The small structure at the garden's edge holds totems, Of every self I thought I had to be. Its frame is honest pine, A simple box designed to catch the light, through a square framed window Where dusty sunbeams meet the desk. Beneath the lampwork torch I melt the glass, transforming shards into a world. Look through the window And see the quiet change, the alchemy, the making of an art.
The porch is adorned with large, sculpted forms, my crafted totems, Made from fallen hardwood trees, not supple knotty pine. They represent the secret vows I whispered to the window, And every future I dared shape beneath the smoking lampwork torch. The glassblower I was, who watched the world outside the window, Now sketches new designs, a vision honed by patience and by art.
I drag my fingers across the cool, rough back of these old totems, Recalling days spent stacking and securing the skillfully notched pine. There's one silhouetted figure staring toward the dusty single window, The vessel for the girl who learned to tame the sudden, fierce lampwork torch, A fierce, bright star held in her hands. She gazed out of the window, Searching for a meaning that was deeper than just simple art.
The shadows lengthen, stretching tall from those carved wooden totems, Across the floorboards smelling faintly still of sawed, pale yellow pine. I walk the perimeter, pausing by the large and painless window, Where the reflections play, showing the ghost who fought the lampwork torch And failed, and started over, seeing fire as a lesson in the window, The discipline required to turn the heat into delicate, fine art.
Each finished bead upon the chain is one of many tiny totems, A captured moment formed from heat and silica and ancient pine. They sparkle now, catching the last slant of sun through the window, A testament to hours spent controlling the wild, hissing lampwork torch. The molten moment captured, frozen by the cool breeze from the window, A quiet history of self, a life defined by difficult, strange art.
I settle at the bench, the flame springs up, hungry, yellow totems. I inhale the sharp, clean scent of propane mixed with dying pine. I reach for colored rods to try again beside the moonlit window. The self I am tonight holds steady, ready for the gentle lampwork torch, And knows that every future starts right here, reflected in the window, Where memory and future blend into the making of new art.
Day 24 Prompt (Write a ghazal where each 2-line stanza explores a different kind of desire (for rest, for art, for justice, for connection—whatever feels alive for you). Choose a short phrase as your refrain (for example, “in this life” or “call it home”) and end every second line with that phrase. In the last couplet, address yourself by name or by a nickname.
11/24/25
A Ghazal: Seeking Wholeness
A soul adrift seeks shelter from the storm's great roll, To find an anchoring peace, I long to be whole.
I seek a silent mirror for the thoughts I keep within, A heart that understands the stories of my toll, I long to be whole.
The work of transient hands feels like a fading mist, I strive for meaning in the role that I control, I long to be whole.
To walk a path where all my scattered efforts bind as one, To yield a harvest from the seeds that I unroll, I long to be whole.
May love's bright fire consume the walls that keep me isolated And mend the fractured map that marks my destined goal, I long to be whole.
Let Dee remember this bright wish, this burning plea made, To join the thread and fill the lonely, empty hole, I long to be whole.
Day 18 Prompt (Try writing a dramatic monologue in blank verse: one character (real or imagined) speaking from a moment of tough decision. Let them wrestle with what they’re about to do. Keep the iambic pentameter as best you can, but let the voice feel like a real person talking, not an elevated poetry voice....).
11/18/25
Mindless Midwinter
We seek the comfort of the Winter Solstice, When shadows stretch and Nature seems to pause To gather strength beneath the frozen crust. Our fathers knew this turn, this cosmic truth— That light, though dimmed, is never overcome. They raised the evergreen, defiant sign Against the barren snow; they lit the hearth, A ritual fire against the creeping dark, To honor growth and promise of return. Where are those honest meanings now? They're lost.
Now, every glittering thread and tinsel strand But binds us closer to the common pit. The Light we chase is but the shop-front's glare, Reflecting back the hunger of the Mall. The frantic need to purchase, to possess, Has choked the simple root of gratitude. We measure love by cost, and peace by gifts, And pile the debt up higher than the pine. The children weep, not for the fading sun, But for the plastic idol still unbought!
Oh, to recall the sacred, wild consent To Earth's great cycle! To stand upon the hill, And feel the cold wind refresh weary flesh, And know the deepening breath of Nature's sleep, And find the hope within that frozen ground! But no. We drive from door to crowded door, Exchanging tokens, smiles worn thin and fake, And miss the ancient magic in the rush. The holidays have conquered the old truth, And left us rich in product, poor in soul.
Day 23 Prompt (This one feels like a sermon to me. Short and perfect. Try starting with a phrase like:
You must, As long as you...Don't move even if...only ____ is a lasting friend.
11/23/25
The Courage to Stand for Justice
As long as you believe that truth is not disposable but foundational to the soul of a free people, you are called to resist the erosion of integrity in public life. When the language of the powerful is used to sow division, deflect blame, or distort reality, it is a spiritual injury to the collective consciousness.
As long as you remember that the worth of a society is measured by how it treats its most vulnerable, you cannot stand silently while policies cause unnecessary harm or suffering. We are commanded to defend the oppressed, to welcome the stranger, and to uphold the cause of the marginalized.
As long as you understand that no one, regardless of office or title, stands above the law, you have a solemn duty to demand accountability. The very fabric of our republic depends on the principle that power is temporary and subject to checks and balances.
As long as you possess the gift of a clear conscience and the ability to speak, silence is never an acceptable response to injustice. Cowardice is the quiet compromise that allows wrongdoing to flourish.
As long as you maintain faith in the transformative power of civic action and the ultimate goodness of your neighbors, you must continue the work of restoration. Every small act of resistance—a letter written, a vote cast, a conversation held—is a holy contribution to the future we are building.
Day 25 Prompt (Try something like this, thinking of someone you love (or dislike) and give the reader the images to draw the conclusion you feel in your heart without nudging them with phrases that give the reader your flat-out opinion. You might even try inserting a young, foolish you into the narrative.)
11/25/25
The Artist
A melody danced, a quiet, practiced hand, Fingers pressing keys, little lessons grand. Brushes moved in light, a canvas caught the hue, Worlds of vibrant color, always fresh and new.
Books on ancient texts, a quest for inner sight, Seeking sacred patterns, dawn into the night. Laughter echoed freely when friends filled the space, Open arms and welcome, a warm and friendly face.
Small hands held in hers, splashing in the rain, Joy in every puddle, free spirit to gain. New ideas, like windows, always open wide, No closed doors for thinking, confidence in stride.
Two carts pushed in tandem, down each market aisle, A shared journey biweekly, marked by every smile. Ground beef and the box, a simple, ready meal, Nourishment provided, a comfort you could feel.
Day 28 Prompt (In honor of today’s apparent “holiday,” Black Friday, You might write about clothing, greed, waste, inhabiting another’s belongings.).
11/28/25
One More
I swore to myself I would buy just one more small gift. The shopping, you see, is a seasonal mood lift.
I needed one more blanket for my sister Laura. So, I scored a half off coupon by purchasing two mora.
I snagged one more snow board for my youngest boy, then spent a hefty sum on Etsy for a Labubu toy.
I searched for one more coupon code to get a swell deal, ordering several tiny gadgets for Christmas socks to fill.
Using one more custom Amazon list, I secured Uggs and mugs with just a flip of the wrist.
My friends and my family will be receiving a bountiful haul. And I have one more mystery box, accidentally ordered, in the hall.
Day 26 Prompt (When hope and history rhyme!!!" WOW!!! Think about the genius of that phrase. The poet takes two abstract nouns and then uses another abstract noun ("rhyme") to form the metaphor. Play around with this. And/or try your own "cure” poem, where you start with your catalogue of how messed up the world is, everyone you know is, the suffering of it all. And at some point, let your poem face the sun again).
11/26/25
The Remedy of Small Things
The screen glows blue against the numb stare, We scroll through floods of sorrow and of despair, Measuring our worth in clicks and hollow sound, While silence is the diamond we haven’t found.
The modern panic is a relentless drum, a tightening knot, a rising fever that refuses to break. We mistake the urgent for the important And forget that trees do not rush to grow tall, That rivers do not sprint to find the sea.
The cure is not a grand, sweeping decree, But the courage to set expectations free. To turn off the noise and let the heartbeat slow, To plant a seed and simply watch it grow.
True connection is a sturdy bridge, a mirrored glass, a rooted tree sheltering us from the rain. It is the neighbor’s wave, the shared bread, the listening ear, The refusal to let cynicism become our atmosphere.
So let us pause the spinning of the wheel And remember how it actually is to feel. For hope is a stubborn thing, a morning light, a mended wing ready to retry flight. The world heals not by speed, but by the breath, By choosing life in the very face of death.
Day 27 Prompt (We can't always manufacture joy on demand, but practicing gratitude, thanksgiving, is always possible.
You might play with this by starting with: “There is gratitude/ in…”-“There is beauty/ in…”-All this is God-“I am thankful for…).
11/27/25
All This And More
The voices that once asked for a bedtime tale, Now call to ask if I am doing well, They keep me technologically savvy and socially aware, A reversed love that time has come to tell. To see them grown, yet turning back to care, Safety and warmth I no longer have to store, For the protective love my children bear, All this and more, I am thankful for.
The clumsy paws that slide across the wood, A wet, cold nose that nudges at my hand, A chaotic joy that’s deeply understood, In language only hearts can command. For tail wags that shake a whole body with glee, And soft, sleeping weight upon the floor, For puppies who simply want to be with me, All this and more, I am thankful for.
The scent of sugar browning in the heat, The steam that rises from a ceramic mug, For friends who know that life is bittersweet And offer cookies and a gentle hug. For hours spent just sitting at the table, With nowhere else to go and nothing to settle the score, For friendships that are kind and stable, All this and more, I am thankful for.
The beam of light that cuts the heavy grey, Reminding me the dark does not win out, The golden warmth that blesses a difficult day, And whispers hope within the noise of doubt. For storms that break and finally burst the dam, To wash the pavement and the spirit’s shore, Cleaning the old trauma from who I am, All this and more, I am thankful for.
For the friendly hand that waves across the fence, The open gates that don't require a key, A kindness that requires no pretense, From neighbors who look out for little me. For a world that feels vast, yet close and sweet, With love waiting just behind the door, For every small grace on this quiet street, All this and more, I am thankful for.
The sisters bound by blood and those by vow, Who stay woven close though living miles apart, No map can measure what our souls allow, Or break the tether tied around my heart. For long calls that bridge the distant, empty space, And a loyalty that’s unshakable at its core, For the family found in a sister’s grace, All this and more, I am thankful for.
And for granddaughters, precious and sweet, Who make the circle of family complete. With creativity, giggles and spirits so free, They are the new blossoms on our family tree. They carry the future in small, tender hands, While walking beside me through life’s shifting sands, A soft, distinct love within to explore. My joy, my delight, and my littlest friends. All this and more, I am thankful for.
Day 29 Prompt (Ekphrasis is a Greek term, meaning “description” (Ek= “out of”; Phrasis=to show, explain), and was originally a rhetorical device. An ekphrastic poem vividly engages with a specific work of art).
11/29/25
The Tsunami of the Self, ( A Ekphrastic poem inspired by Hokusai’s Great Wave)
The sky is painted with a distant peace, Where Nature holds her humble, soft release; And there, small Fuji, steady and serene, A quiet symbol of what should have been.
But down below, the ocean, once a friend, Is mobilized to serve a selfish end. It swells and crests, no longer wind-driven spray, But the dark tide of human disarray.
This curving blue is not the sea, but Greed, A massive volume, fueled by bitter need, To grasp and hoard, to take beyond the fill. It climbs the air with pure, consuming will.
The peak, that razor line of frozen foam, Is sharp-edged Hubris, far away from home; It scorns the ground, believing it can fly, Reflected in the cold and vacant sky.
The underbelly, shadowed, dark, and deep, Where churning motives ceaseless vigil keep, Is boiling Anger, restless, unforgiven, The poisoned current tearing all that’s given. And holding all this bulk, the crushing weight, Is brutal Power, sealing common fate.
Look now beneath the torrent, how they survive: The little boats, where fishermen strive. They are the vessels carrying Compassion's plea, The fragile rafts of shared humanity.
The water tears at Patience and at Grace, Washing away the goodness from this place. The fishermen are tossed, their efforts vain, Beneath the force of manufactured pain.
The crest descends, the dragon’s dark design, To shatter all the virtues that align. The human flaw, immense in cold blue scale, Makes every gentle, living thing grow pale.
The print becomes a warning, sharp and clear: That the worst storm is not in the atmosphere, But in the heart that lets the dark tides grow And drowns the Fellow Man in its undertow.
Day 30 Prompt (Now that November is almost over, write a poem in which you try to “capture the drama or emotion” of the month/season you’ve just lived through, or for the one we’re about to enter).
11/30/25
November's Hearth and Veil
November arrives, not with the fanfare of Spring, But with a hush and a slow, settling weight. It is the hinge of the year, the subtle swing Toward the silence where the long dark awaits.
The maple's fierce, bright, summer temper fades, And the pavement is slick with a skin of gold and rust, Where Fall leaves, once banners in the sunlit glades, Now crumble and merge with the damp, earthy dust.
I walk through the woods, where the air grows so crisp, And smell the deep, resinous, rich, earthy tang Of shedding trees and the sharp, subtle wisp Of pine needles covering ground where the green song once rang.
It is the month of The dark reunion, the time When the veil is so thin, a breath might blow it aside. My calendar turns to the sacred, the prime Moments when the ancestors' shadows abide.
Later, the gentle, soft light of the hearth must gleam, For Diwali's five nights banish the encroaching gloom, A triumph of hope, a brilliant, guiding dream, Lighting the path through the cold, earthen room.
And as the wheel turns, drawing nearer to rest, I watch the Pleiades glitter in the late, deep sky, Ready for the wisdom and the deep, silent test Of the season that asks us to simply be and lie Fallow, like the fields, awaiting the next, vibrant burst, Knowing the slumber of winter will nourish and mend.
November is gratitude, when we feel the thirst For kinship, and gather before the year's end, Not just for the bounty that filled us up first, But for the threads of connection that bind us and blend.