The elementary school and playground which captivated my attention as a child was torn down many years ago. A bench surrounded by flowers is all that remains.
That and a thousand memories …
I kissed Amy Mayberry on the monkey bars. I pulled out a G.I. Joe action figure from my jeans pocket to fight battles with Jeff Vrabel among the exposed curling roots of an old tree. On the merry-go-round, I practiced my spelling words with Chuck Kirkpatrick.
Poetry brings us back to the big slide again so we can play in a green field of memory.
Tweetspeak Poetry’s May Play
We’ve decided to play together at Tweetspeak Poetry this month. We call it May Play. This week we wrote found poems using words taken from “Coated” by L.L. Barkat. Whenever we had a few minutes, we sat down on a bench and uncovered a poem. We played on Facebook, Twitter and personal blogs.
All this talk of May Play even got my wife writing poems again.
Toby McCrae wrote,
short sharp shock
the needle drops
sound spins
shiny black vinyl
play on
stretch it
tar covers hairline cracks
don’t stop don’t stop
Oh, God
Play on
nancy davis rosback wrote,
the magnolia is antique
or is it ancient
like crossing your fingers
it doesn’t matter
in this place
this farm
where the needle
is lost in the haystack
and the secrets
are buried beneath the skin
leaving hands hungry
to touch the truth
in the growing storm
We even had new visitors join us. Lorraine closed her eyes to find a beautiful truth.
holding you,
resting my cheek upon your velvet skin…
drawing your aroma in
mesmerized
I close my eyes
and escape…
to the hidden place,
and wonder who
will nurture you?
as crimson dusk turns dark then into dawn,
I waken to
the morning dew…
still holding you!
Lisa Miller felt a moment of inspiration in the holes in her jeans.
Fingers go where eyes have gone
Touching, nudging threads.
Stretching threads convey the cover
Rued within our heads.
We were tweeting the poems with the #mayplay hashtag, too.
@pathoftreasure: He is scarlet/ A coat of crimson/ Covering me/ Covering you/ Tying us together/As one/ No longer hanging/No longer alone
@monicasharman: Lost as a button, my inner/ compass needle points to the secret/ way home/ but I don’t buy it.
@DianaFrancis2: A secret lingers Sunday/ runs her hands around the afternoon tongue-/ hugging the evening/ She bites Monday’s neck/ truth revealed
@meganwillome: The red / was her favorite. / ”Ama red,” my kids call it. / I’m so glad / I bought the red camera / Almost didn’t buy it.
Creative word play is good for the soul. For the month of May, grab a word (or more) from our Monday poems and stretch it out into your own poem.
Here’s how it works …
If you haven’t already, please consider subscribing to Every Day Poems.
1. On Mondays, the Every Day Poem in your inbox becomes Play-Doh. Pinch off a word. Or more. Mix in your words and colors. Until yours.
2. Tweet your poems to us. Add a #mayplay hashtag so we can find it and maybe share it with the world.
3. Or leave your found poem here in the comment box for each week’s May Play post.
We’ll read your tweets and share some of your weekly play each week. At the end of the month, we’ll choose a winning poem and ask the playful poet to record his or her poem to be featured in one of our upcoming Top 10 Poetic Picks.
Here’s today’s Every Day Poem. Now go play.
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BONUS: Winner Takes the Chocolate
If you have a short story about why you love Every Day Poems, leave it in the comment box here or post it to your blog and leave us the link.
We’ll enter your name in a drawing for some gourmet chocolate.
Photo by Camille Richez. Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Matthew Kreider.
___________
Buy a year of Every Day Poems, just $2.99— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In May we’re exploring the theme Roses.
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I LOVE that Toby wrote a poem (and that she has forgiven you for the Mayberry incident
)
You had nicer friends than I did, Matthew. Kimberly Jensen slugged me while I hung exposed on the monkey bars.
What a crazy fun bunch of play going on here.
I may be daft but I wrote in response to this morning’s poem “On Inspiration.” In any case, someone very wise once told me “Wrong words? Pfft. It’s poetry. No such thing as wrong words.” Here goes:
we lay
across worn wooden planks
your raw-honeyed
voice
a basket that bears
endless days
now we are snow angels
in a field of tall grass
now we conspire with
the owl we bear
witness to
stars
but you ride
leaving a tiny counter
piled with speckled notebooks
creamy sugar whispers call
from pages worn
http://sandralynnbrower.blogspot.com/2012/05/water-to-pop-oil.html
An Entry for the Gourmet chocolates. Even though everyone loves chocolate, I really wanted to show you how much you have inspired my creative juices. Thank you for a wonderful blog.
it’s a delight to take part. thanks for doing this.
I wish I had saved the poems from my elementary years. I wrote them secretly and kept them in a shoebox. When my brother found the box I was so embarrassed that I tore them all up. Oh, well. It’s nice to have started again about 30 years later.
Thanks for another great May Play.
Rose Petals and Copper Spoon*
Chili air peppers the knight
red-hot with inspiration.
In tiny handmade notebooks
he shelters rose petals
amid mint and rosemary.
Beyond fields speckled
with kale and purple clover,
creamy lavender and marigolds,
a sage teapot-black steed
stirred for the offering of sugar
piled atop a worn copper spoon.
* Using words from Kimberlee Conway Ireton’s “On Inspiration”
Maureen! You know, my words were all stolen from the “On Inspiration” chapter of LL’s book. Then you took them and made them beautiful all over again! How fun the way the words just keep on giving.
My favorite lines of your poem are the last three: “a sage teapot-black steed/stirred for the offering of sugar/piled atop a worn copper spoon.” Such great images!
It’s such fun to play along with you all ~ thanks for the warm welcome! So true Kimberlee…the words do keep on giving! And yes, great images here…thanks for the great inspiration!
for play on “Inspiration”
- – - -
Mint Juleps anyone…
Taking shelter from the red hot Kentucky sun
she rests on worn wooden planks
beneath the willow tree…
stirring the chiffonade of mint
into the sugar rimmed, frosted glass…
and she sips…
and she waits…
to see the black steed
race his way to the finish line;
and she hopes…
he might take his princely ride
through the field of clover,
draped in his blanket of roses
and his cobalt ribbon prize…
and she sips…
while she waits.
if i had a speckled hen
i would gather eggs into a basket
tightly woven and strong
if i wanted tea
i would put a kettle of water on heat
the warmth to pour over withered leaves
giving back what was taken
if my mother were alive
i would make her eggs and tea
we would sit at the table
and visit
I actually wrote this poem when I thought the poem was about playing and hadn’t read Ms. Ireton’s poem. I inadvertantly grabbed two words in the poem that I didn’t even know existed given that I hadn’t read it yet. I guess I was meant to be writing this semi-autobiographical poem. Thanks for the fun.
Snippets
Running through purple clover
Marie and her friends find secluded
shelter behind a cluster of Oak trees.
Little hands placed in pinafore pockets
struggle to pull mini dolls and furniture
previously hidden from prying eyes.
Names like Macy, Lacy, and Rose
come from cherry red tongues
while their minis are provided
leaves, bark and wispy grass houses.
The little girls and their minis
sip a bit of lemonade, eat a bite
of crumbled pink sugar wafers at tea.
A shrill sharp ring
pierces the laughter
of the little girls.
“We must run
we’ll be late,”
whispers Marie.
“let’s go.”
20 minutes of fun
then mind numbing numbers.
Recess is over.
Iso is this how we play? i found a perfect rose in my inbox today… i grabbed a word… and then this happened… )
perfectly
Broken
Perfectly
Blurred
Perfect
imperfection
Shaken
Or stirred
Perfectly
Curious
Perfectly
Still
Cliches
play gotcha
inside of
Gods
will
and oh how perfectly mistaken! i am on the wrong page i don’t know how to do this but its still fun! i’ll catch on :O)
poetry grows my heart, your ste helps me to remember & inspires me to sing words & marry them to color
“Fire birthed rock
Fluid as water
Pliable
Malleable
Your touch softens
The inner, captive heart”