Prompts for poems

Prompts for poems

can come from anywhere.

An unexpected letter from a college friend

that triggers a memory.

A slant of light that rekindles

another time and place.

The taste of chocolate (I'm remembering the taste

of chocolate icing on my grandfather's cupcakes).

The smell of the sea, 

of saltwater.

The memory of summer vacations at the shore,

the sound of a seagull's laughter.

Poems are like the air--

invisible but everywhere.

You can inhale them

with each breath.

You can taste them before 

the words form on your tongue.

You can see them

if you open your eyes.

And you wonder at the miracle

The poems come in bursts

like gusts of wind

or a sudden rain shower

words spilling onto the page

coming from who knows where

your heart, perhaps,

or some other place

inside you

that's kept under lock and key

inaccessible 99% of the time

except on those days

when without knowing how

without understanding why

the key finds its way

into your hand and

you can unlock the box

and watch the page

beneath your pen

fill with words--

words you didn't expect

you'd ever find inside yourself

and you inhale a breath

and exhale words

and by the time

you take another breath

the wind has died down

the shower has ended

the box is locked again

and you wonder 

at the miracle

you just experienced--

the magic of poetry,

the mystery of words.

Sleight of hand

If words are reluctant to appear on the page when you sit down to write, why not try switching pens?

It's a simple trick, an easy way to encourage words (and thoughts) to keep flowing. 

You might call it an illusion, a magician's sleight of hand, but when you find yourself stuck it's a way that might help you draw new words from the mysterious source from which all words flow. 

It's what I do, switching to one of the pens that I keep ready on my desk.  

Over the years I've collected dozens of pens. I fill them with different colored inks--violet, blue, black, ama-iro, kon-peki (both different shades of blue), sepia, and more--and, depending on my mood, I select a pen with the color ink that suits my mood that morning. 

Each pen's barrel is a different size, shape, weight, and color. Some of the pens are made in Japan. Others are made in Germany, Britain, and here in the United States. Some have fine point nibs, others medium, or extra-fine. Some are sharp-edged, others rounded. 

But the pens share something in common. The moment I hold one of the pens in my hand, I feel as if I'm holding a magic wand that's filled with magic ink. And as soon as I begin writing with it, I can feel the pen weave its magic spell onto the page, helping me draw words out of silence. 

Each pen leads me down a different path into a sea of words. 

Words that heal my heart. Words that make me smile. Words that connect me to those I love. Words that help me understand the world. Words that link me to the divine source of words. Words that form stories, create poems. Words, words, words...

Some days there are so many words that I feel like I'm swimming in words. But other days, staring at a blank page, I can feel as if I'm stranded in a desert without a drop of water within reach. 

That's when switching to a different pen can help me overcome the silence, poke through the resistance, leap over reluctance, and swim past fear. 

Somehow holding a different pen in my hand can banish the dread of emptiness that I feel when I look at a blank page.

Just seeing the pens lifts my heart. 

And just holding one of the pens gives me the courage to begin, to step into the unknown, and to begin swimming. 

Each pen gives me hope that I might discover something that I've never seen before. And questions begin to bubble up: What will I learn today? What will I find that's been hidden for years? What will this pen bring to the surface?

Of course, there are no guarantees that switching pens will help words appear on the page or that a new pen will help you find what you need on the page. 

But it's always worth a try.

So when words are reluctant to appear, why not try switching to another pen... and see if it might help you discover what you need to find this morning... just as switching to another pen helped me.

Each day is like opening a book

Each day is like opening a book

and finding another poem

waiting for you

sunlight or clouds on the page

shadows or raindrops

the sound of the wind

the silence of snow falling

of clouds passing by

each morning a different poem

lighthearted or sad

a moody melody

a gleeful reprise

the moment you open your eyes

you can hear

the song of a new day

words filling your ears

sounds you never heard before

syllables that roll off your tongue

letters spilling onto the page

one after the other

a stream in flood

pulling you into the day

filling your lungs with air

with life, with gratitude

for whatever appears 

on the page

beneath your pen 

You can't know how or why

You can't know

how or why

you can only know

what you know

the feel of the pen

in your hand

the scrape of the nib

on paper

the smoothness of

a blank page

the joy of seeing

the page fill

with words

ink flowing onto

the page

your hand rushing

to keep up

with your thoughts

that feeling of

wishing you could

stay in this place

forever

writing

feeling a connection

with something larger

than yourself

a part of the universe

inside you

that you touch each time

you hold a pen

and move your hand across

the page

like plugging 

into your heart

like hearing

the song

your soul

sings

like praying

to God

and knowing 

God is there

listening

Replenishing the well

Lately I've shortened the time I spend writing in the morning.

In part it's an effort to re-charge my energy after a busy month and give myself a rest. The chance to rest will, I hope, help replenish the well out of which all words come. 

Every so often I think the well, which feels close to empty now, needs time to refill itself.  

I don't remember the last time I took a break. All I know is that month after month words have flowed from my pen, and that I've held the pen waiting to see what emerged. 

I never know what word will appear until its shape forms on the page beneath my pen. It's part of the mystery of how writing works.

This process of stepping into the mystery day after day, and not knowing what I'll find, is part of what keeps drawing me back to the page. 

I try not to have any expectations (just hope that I'll be able to write something). 

It's like receiving a gift, the feel of the pen in my hand, the sensation of moving the pen across the page, the sound of the nib scraping the paper, the sign of words appearing, as if by magic, on the page. 

And maybe what draws me back, too, is the simple act of leaving words behind on a page like footprints in the sand.

Evidence to show that I existed, at least for a day.

Before the waves of time wash the words away. 

The fear and magic of writing

I'm revising lightly as I go through the manuscript again, but it's not easy to face the truth of what's on paper. 

I put this off for months, and each morning I'm still putting it off, not wanting to find out if I failed, not wanting to find out if I'm a failure. 

This fear (of being a failure) runs through my veins. It's what causes my need to procrastinate. It's what keeps me away from the manuscript for days and weeks, from working on it for months, from improving it, from enjoying it. 

As soon as I manage to overcome this fear and return to the manuscript, though, I find myself absorbed by it, drawn back into that world, pulled back into the spaciousness of my imagination. 

Maybe that's what is so scary--leaving reality and its solid footing for the imaginary world, worried I'll lose myself there and never return? 

It's funny (I realized this morning as I was working on the revisions) the way holding the pen in my hand roots me to reality and takes me into the imaginary world simultaneously. 

Isn't it interesting how I can enter an imaginary world and stay rooted in this one, the "real" world, at the exact same moment?

My pen is like a talisman. Its mysterious properties let me go in two different directions at once. 

I can write my way into the world of imagination while writing words that appear on the page and remain physically present in this world, this reality. 

Maybe this is the magic of writing. 

It lets us inhabit two (or more) worlds at once. 

And maybe it's the magic of reading, too.

Do you ever wonder?

Do you ever wonder 

what the day will bring, 

what stories will come, 

what poems, what words?

Do you ever wonder

where the source of words 

is hidden, and how it opens 

and lets words flow every day?

Do you ever wonder 

why these words, not others, 

and why now, and why through 

your pen and not someone else's?

Do you ever wonder 

if you can live a life filled with words

without wanting more

than being able to write, 

to share the joy and mystery 

of words with others?

Do you ever wonder

if you can keep writing

day after day, week after week,

year after year, in the hope

words will unlock 

the mystery of why

you're here and 

who you are?

 

Where do you go to find words?

Where do you go to find words? 

Is there a store you can drive to in the mall and 

purchase them by the dozen?

Or is it like going to a deli on Sunday morning 

and taking a number, waiting your turn, 

then ordering the words you want--sliced extra lean, 

a quarter-pound or a pound, 

with a pickle or two on the side?

Or is it more like bird-watching, 

waiting in stillness with binoculars around your neck, 

scanning the sky, hoping words will come into view, 

wings spread, flying into sight so you can record 

their presence before they depart for their next destination, 

as if they might leap off the page of your journal 

in search of a permanent home.

Or is it like fishing, 

waiting for a nibble, a bite, waiting

for the line to tug down and the rod to bend

toward the water, and you can feel the words pulling

as you grope for a way to haul them up, maybe

using a net, maybe just with your bare hands, 

so you can get the words on the page, 

wet and glistening like jewels, 

gills still rising and falling, 

vibrating with life.  

What Happens When You Mix Ink and Paper

It’s the kind of morning when I don’t think I have anything to write. 

I don’t feel any need to say anything new. 

I feel empty, in fact. 

Yet here I am sitting at my desk waiting and wondering what I might find on the page today.

It’s just ink and paper, yet there is a kind of magic that happens when you mix the two together. 

You can’t predict what might happen. 

The moment the nib of your pen touches the page—whoosh!—something percolates inside your brain, and your curiosity is aroused, and you wonder what will emerge from the other side of your consciousness. 

So you write to find out.

Maybe it’s a memory that you pull from a far-away time in your life. 

Maybe it’s a dream that haunts you after opening your eyes. 

Maybe it’s just the sight of sunlight falling through the window as you get out of bed. 

Maybe it’s nothing more than the sound of your breath or the sound of your pen scratching the surface of the page. 

Or maybe it’s just the feel of your chest rising and falling and the pulse of your heart beneath that reminds you of the waves of the sea and how you’re part of a universe extending beyond where you can see.

And so your pen takes you to places you might have missed if you hadn’t decided to sit down to write. 

That’s the thing about writing. 

It’s a mystery tour of the inner workings of your mind and heart. 

You never know where you’re going until you get there.

Nobody's going to know my name

 Nobody's going to know my name 

years from now

whether I write these words

or let them slide off

the page into

oblivion.

What difference does it make,

really? Who am I writing for

anyway, if not for myself,

to find out what

I'm thinking in this moment

and the next?

I guess there is always

the fear of disappearing,

of vanishing from view,

of no one ever remembering

that once I was alive

and breathing and feeling

the pulse of life.

It's so strange to think

of leaving this world

without a trace of my

existence--except for

a headstone--to mark

the span of my life

on earth.

We become like dust

as the Bible says,

tiny specks of dust

that dance in the light,

ghosts of who we were,

memories of a life once lived,

forgotten,

except for the words

we leave behind.

Where do words come from?

Where do words come from?

The air, 

like specks of dust

floating free, unseen,

until they fall

onto the page?

The heart, 

flowing through 

your veins

and arteries 

until they reach 

your hand?

The eyes, 

seeing so much 

beauty in the world

you can't help

recording what

they see?

The pen, 

in your hand,

moving across the page

leaving words behind

as proof that you were here

if only for the blink

of an eye?

The breath, 

out of which each word 

forms and is brought 

into being?

Wondering About Words

On some mornings I sit down to write wondering where words come from and, if they come, why they come to me or to anyone else, really.

I wonder if words come from some secret place hidden beneath our feet—somewhere deep under the earth, perhaps?— or from somewhere high above, way beyond the clouds, way beyond the moon and the stars?

I wonder if words are simply invisible until they appear on the page, which is the reason why we can’t see them floating through space like foreign objects that come to earth carrying a message from another planet sent especially to us.

I wonder how we find the words we need to express what’s hidden in our hearts, words that describe the mix of thoughts and feelings swirling inside us.

I wonder if maybe it isn’t that we find words but that words find us, as if we’re magnets that can draw to us the words we need to help us explain how it feels today or how it felt yesterday to inhabit this body, to dive into the unknown not knowing what we’ll find, just hoping words will appear to help us understand what we need and who we are and where we belong.

I wonder every morning — or whatever time of day I sit down to write — if the page is really blank or if it’s filled with words I can’t yet see and which only come into being the moment I begin writing. 

I wonder if words are inside us, locked in some mysterious storehouse, and how we’re supposed to find the key, and then I wonder if words are all around us, waiting for us to catch them, how a writer is born with a net in his or her hand to capture them like butterflies before they get away.

I wonder about words which flow on some days like a steady stream and on other days like a trickle and I wonder how on other days there's nothing more than a dry creek bed where words once flowed.

I wonder how words became as much a part of our lives as the water we drink, the

air we breathe, and equally necessary for our survival.

I wonder why we wait and wait and wait, never knowing if anything will appear on the page in front of us, until one day a word appears… and then another.

Making Space

One of the joys of writing is reading—soaking up words, absorbing sentences, inhaling paragraphs, stanzas, lines, metaphors, rhymes—and over the years I’ve watched as books in our house have piled into stacks on nightstands and tables, on the floor and on bookshelves, especially in my office.

Most of the time I’m too busy writing (and reading) to notice the quantity of books that I’ve accumulated. It’s rare that I look up from my desk and notice the walls of my office or any other room in the house where we’ve lived for the past dozen years. But, recently, I looked up after finishing my session of morning pages and discovered my office walls have become dull and spotted with age and dust, so dull and spotted, in fact, that it was clearly time to paint them.

So, I moved my laptop and writing journals to the dining room table, selected a color (three shades of blue) to replace the dull beige that the house’s original owner had used, and began preparing the office before starting to paint.  After stacking all the books that I'd taken off the shelves in the hallway and in my daughter’s empty bedroom and on the floor in the bathroom, trying not to topple them whenever I walked down the hall to reach my office, I used a handcart to wheel all the bookshelves into the front hall and foyer. And then, once the room was empty, I stretched blue tape around the ceiling and baseboards and corners to help me paint clean lines before lifting a brush.

Now, after two weeks of painting—painting four walls is a lot harder than I’d imagined!—I have to decide what books to move back into my office, which means looking closely at all of the books and asking myself if I’m ever going to read them again, the books that I fell in love with as a teenager, the ones that I studied over and over again to learn the craft of storytelling, the ones that touch my heart when I re-read them each year, the books that I saved because someone who I loved gave them to me, the books that I kept on my shelf because I thought I needed them to make me look smarter or more learned (and on some days, I guess, I needed to feel that way).

Where do you start when you know you need to reduce the number of books in your library and remove the clutter and give yourself space to think and imagine new worlds and, yes, put new books on the shelves? One of my friends suggested that if I hadn’t opened a book in a year, it was time to give it away. Another suggested five years. But how can you know if you might not need to open that book tomorrow or next week or the week after?

One way I knew it was time to give a book away was by the size of the type on the page, which seemed to have gotten much smaller since the last time that I’d opened the book. Pocket paperbacks were no longer easy to read. The lines were packed too closely together, the letters like sardines. They were going into the boxes that I planned on taking to the used bookstore, especially since I knew most of my old paperback editions of Updike’s early stories, Dickens, Dostoevsky, Chekov, and Cheever, and countless other classics, were on the shelves of our local library, or else I could get digital versions online without any trouble.

Other books were easy to give away, too—books with broken spines, books with brittle pages, books with signatures falling out. I might have loved them once, and, to be honest, still loved them. But I had to admit they were merely collecting dust on my shelves now. No longer were they books that I longed to open and read. They still gave pleasure, but the pleasure was in the memories they contained, the days that I’d spent with them, in love with the words on their pages, the feel of the paper, the smell of the ink, the remembrance of the breeze against my skin as I lay on the grass one summer day to read or as I rolled over in the sand at the beach holding the book in my hands.

I am trying to make space for new growth—for new ideas, new ways of seeing the world, and for new books. So I’ve spent the past week putting books in boxes and carting them off to the used bookstore and to the local library and even to the local dog rescue sanctuary where I once volunteered, hoping others might find the same wonders in their pages that I once found there.

Each time I drop off another box of books, I feel a mix of emotions. It’s not easy to say goodbye. But I have to admit I’m excited by the new space in my office, and by the prospect of what might replace the books that I’ve given away. I think about the effort that it took someone to write the words on the pages, and how this writer’s act of faith in books and in language inspired me and others, I'm sure, to write and explore the world and its mysteries through words.

When I sit down at the dining room table to write each morning, I am surrounded by piles of books that soon will go into the back of my car. I open my journal and pick up my pen. I watch the ink flow onto the page. I think about all the words of writers who have written in journals over the centuries. I think about how all the words flow like fresh streams and rivers into an endless sea of words. I think about how these words keep the world afloat, how they have kept me afloat. I think of the flame of imagination that words can ignite in the hearts of readers everywhere. And I think of how this light has glowed in hearts ever since the first words were carved in mud and stone thousands of years ago.

And I think of passing a torch, flame to flame, heart to heart, each letter, each word a spark of hope that can melt the distance between us, which is part of the magic that can be found in a book and why, I guess, after so many years and so many books, I still love them and look forward to reading (and collecting) more.