The prompt for day 28 (sob, how can it be almost done!!!???) of PAD was Important (blank). I liked Robert’s one prompt idea of Important Documents, so I went with that. I actually had ideas floating around in my head all day, but just didn’t want to sit down to write. I had hoped to keep the poetry flowing in a steady day to day thing, but I wanted to do other things tonight. Or last night since it’s technically morning right now. I think I was channeling Boris. He’s been in my mind since I finally got a letter from him a week ago. So, old feelings have resurfaced, much to my chagrin, though the muse has been at work.
You know how the Greeks had their nine women muses? Well for women, I think we need men as our muse. Or at least I find men inspiring. Maybe not. Maybe it’s just Psyche’s Call that I’m listening to. For those that are wondering about that phrase, I just am giving promotion to one of the women in our writing group who sends out a writing prompt ever day. They are not your normal ‘word’ prompts, but more of a thought process digging deeper into one’s psyche. I urge you to sign up and check them out. They are thought provoking and while they haven’t ever really made me start a story, they do make me reevaluate what I am writing, or make me look at what I’m writing a bit differently.
A current prompt from Psyche’s Call
I hold out these important documents
tied up in manila and twine and brass rivets
and cogs and wheels and locks and keys.
They hold things so dear to me, but I’m handing
them to you, trusting you to not tear me apart.
I hold documents so dear to me, out to you,
you who has been a part of me over the years.
I wrote them to you, for you, about you,
then tucked them away safely for years,
afraid of showing myself to you.
But you have been ever bit as safe
as the warm blanket that holds me at night
never judging me for the words I wrote
for you, about you, to you.
Thousands of words, written too big to say out loud.
I can only whisper them, or write them down.
My heart too afraid to utter a syllable of sound.
I know you won’t shatter me, but I still hand them
to you and ask you to read what I say
inside my very soul each time I say your name.
These dreams are what build universes
These dreams are what make my world explode
These dreams are what turn out words
These dreams are what make me create
a love story
These dreams are what are so important to my life
I wrote out a poem for you, or two, or three, or millions more.
I have them in scraps of colored paper and index cards.
I wrote them on pictures, on postcards, and notes.
I have important words for you to hear though I can’t say them.
They are too big to say out loud, to small to write them down.
They are what make you a dream, and me the goddess writing them.
They are what make you the mystic and I am the mystery unfolding.
They are what make you the sorcerer and I am your slave.
The magical words bind me to you in simple ways.
The words tie me up in hopeless thoughts too confounding.
The words cling to my skin like sand on the beach.
The magical words are my shackles and my freedom.
Come read them and take them with you.
Take them from me so I forget what I said.
Let me throw them to the wind like petals on the prairie.
Only you could ever know what they mean to you and me.
Clearly there is a theme, of sharing words with someone, but also being afraid to, but then knowing that person would not hurt you. It’s a weird feeling. Maybe it’s a feeling that’s too big to express. Maybe I have been writing poetry for too long and too many this month. Maybe it’s a good thing that the month is almost over of a poem or more a day. Because clearly I have been writing more than one poem a day.