The Door

Photo Prompts Photo Play Stairway

Thank you to all our photographers and poets who participated in last week’s poetry and photo prompts. Here’s part of a poem, from Elizabeth, that we recently enjoyed. We thought it was a nice matchup with some of the Photo Play entries above.

Sometimes the greatest distance between two
Is the other side of a one inch
Wooden portal, hanging by a thread
Ferme la porte as you go
And let the cat out one more time.

—Elizabeth Marshall

Be sure to check out the rest of our favorite highlights from each participant on the Photo Play Pinterest board! And keep clicking and/or playing with words.

Featured photos by Darlene, Nancy, and Jennifer Dukes Lee. Post by L.L. Barkat.


NOTE TO POETS: Looking for your Monday prompt? On Photo Play days, it’s right here. Choose a photo and use it to jumpstart a poem!


  1. says

    Thanks so much for including me here — there were so many outstanding images.

    Mine is the side of our small town’s hardware building, across from the coffee shop. We’ve got a lot of interesting textures and oddball pairings in our 3-block-long town.


  2. says

    Using my own brick wall door image, here is my photo prompted poem for today:

    Take-out coffee is always too hot.
    An inflamed tongue and burned mouth –
    Who likes extra skin hanging
    down, dangling into the rest of the day’s eating

    Take-out coffee cools on tabletop.
    A morsel of divine and dark chocolate –
    I cannot resist, nor do I care about
    its wrapper being undone in my Wrangler jeans

    Take-out coffee found a photograph.
    An edge of wilderness town, rough and poor –
    Who knows what happened to this store
    with fancy bricks above white plywood nailed

    Take-out coffee is always too hot.

  3. says

    Hansel Alone

    The rain-rippled clay
    streets are now paved.
    A timber trail at the wood’s edge,
    where once a sand path began
    its turn into the thick needles,
    like a dry throat catching its breath.

    Beyond, a sweeter voice beckoned
    from the sway of yellow pines,
    to the crooked fingers
    of oaks with their moss shawls.

    If I could return, to be lost
    in those woods again…

    From my car I stare at the houses,
    the street sign that must be wrong.
    No sinister palmetto thicket
    remains behind the yards,
    along the dark canal,
    no path back from where I came.

    I turn toward town,
    remembering the way bicycles
    bounced us like jackhammers,
    on the waves of rain ridges,
    making chants from our laughing vowels.

    The trees that remain—consolations.
    My drawbridge gone for a span too high
    to drop a line, no bulkhead for the pelicans
    to rest from their weary circling,
    bellies full of crumbs.

  4. says

    How lovely to see my “third-floor” photo featured here. I miss that old house, and I hear a bit of its heartbeat here today.

    Also, thank you for the invitation to take part.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *