Distillation of Truth

For Poets United Verse First Poetry Prompt: Truth
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

Distillation of Truth

When I was in my teens
someone told me I had
a gift for written words.
I dismissed that missive.

Thirties were spent playing
hide and seek with paper
and pen. Not a single clue
what the hell I was seeking.

Poetry found me in my forties.
Astounded by truths between
margins of single page, finally
began my journey.

Now in late sixties, unwillingly
slowing down, while knowing
foolishness of having left
so much unwritten.

Elizabeth Crawford  5/22/13

MizFit On Remembering

For The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #109
http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

MizFit On Remembering

You wanted to know some things,
asked a lot of questions about
what happened so long ago.
It’s hard to know just where
to begin.

Memory has a touch both heavy
and light. At times nebulous,
a cloud of mist that hovers just
out of reach, yet a strong breath
could cause it to dissipate. Other
times opaque, so solid it might
crush a fragile spirit like a concrete
slab teetering on end, waiting
to be toppled by slightest brush.

Perhaps your timing is right
for I have tonight to tell the tale
of the scarlet red dress, cut from
whole cloth like the blazing torch
of recollection you ignited with all
of your questions.  Before I do, you
should be warned that this isn’t
a heavenly vision, but a bleak tale
of betrayal, pain, and the high cost
of hidebound tradition.

Are you sure you are ready to listen?

Elizabeth Crawford  5/19/13

Notes: Another installment in the saga of Anastasia. A promise to myself that I would see this through. The wordle words were a tremendous help this week. Thank you, Brenda.

From Mizfit’s Mouth To Your Ear

For The Sunday Whirl Wordle # 108

http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

From Misfit’s Mouth To Your Ear

Ole Frank, down at the feed store,
always did know the score. Knew
I never wanted to be just another drone
harvesting a passel of kids while tied
to an angry man with an angrier fist.

If there were any dreams left
in that broken old town they’d
long been withered, beaten down;
like weeds in some control freak’s
garden. Any vow I made with grace
was one that would get me out
of that space.

Learned young to ignore childish
chants; the sly, laughing, look away
glances. Even adults grimaced at my
crooked finger holding a place between
bindings of another book, then looked
away as though I’d done something
shameful.

They had no idea that written words
were a wonderful cave to crawl into.
A secret place of sun-warmed hope,
filled with known and knowable friends,
and a magic elixir that created limitless
possibilities.

Yes, I walked away that night. Never
thought of circling back. Fact is, they
heard a voice. Something that came
with ease and wasn’t work. What they
missed were the words I’d written.
Those were my first compositions.

Way back then, my dream was to be
like that Janis gal: singing freedom,
winging my way to the me I needed
to become. Maybe hitching a ride
with a good looking guy by name
of Bobby McGee, yeah. That was
the me that I most wanted to be,

so I did it.

Elizabeth Crawford 5/12/13

Notes: My apologies, still not feeling well. This is a draft that needs further work, when my head is clear and I am no longer hurting.

Old Frank At The Feed Store Remembers

For We Write Poems prompt #155: A Red Letter Day
http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/

Old Frank At The Feed Store Remembers

She was just a little spit
of a thing, but when that child
would sing she could charm
angels. Bring a thousand
of ‘em down from heaven
just to lean in, to listen.

The first time she stepped
to front of stage there
was some soft laughter. After
all, we’d  known Anastasia
since the day she was born,
and her ways, being different,
we didn’t expect much.

All dolled up in that scarlet
red dress, two sizes too big
and a bit of a mess, had no
idea just what she intended.

But, when she opened her mouth
and began to sing, there was awe
all around and thunderous applause
ringing through that old feed store.

Voices shouting for more,
whistles galore, hands clapping,
feet stamping, ‘til the place
was pulsing with a life it had
never known before.

When she was finished,
she stood still for a moment,
stared into some of those eyes
that had laughed before, then
picked up her trailing skirt,
and without a word, turned,
walked away, and kept
right on going. And for
very good reasons, doubt
she’s ever looked back again.

Elizabeth Crawford  5/9/13

Notes: Again, this is a combination of things. Some of the words from the Sunday wordle, Irene’s prompt, and some coaching from Anastasia herself. She may be a character, but she does seem to know the way of her own story.

Healing Path

For Poets United Verse First: Poetry Heals (100 words or less)
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

Metallic Ink
by
Elizabeth Crawford

Healing Path

I am a poet
following a healing path of words:
sometimes like a lost child seeking safety,
other times like a bold explorer with hope his only map.

The words always lead me
to the me I used to be.
To the me of who and what I am in present moments.
To the me I might one day become.

Elizabeth Crawford  5/8/13

MizFit

For We Write Poems Prompt #154: Who is your protagonist?
http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/

And for Far Write writing group: two words: fortitude, fondness
and phrase: acorn beneath an apple tree

MizFit

Like lone acorn resting in grass
beneath apple tree, Anastasia
never quite belonged. Although
she longed for certain things,
they were not the same as those
wished for by her siblings.

She was fond of saying, “If fish
could fly and birds could swim,
I know deep down I would fit in.”
But, as things were, she never
would and that was fine as long
as she could be left to be

Anastasia.

Then found out that certain
flying fish were born with wings
and saw small gray bird, called
a Dipper, dive headfirst
into rapid Yellowstone River
seeking sustenance. It somehow
seemed to prove that, with watchful
fortitude, a day would come when
she would find someone who actually
understood Anastasia.

Elizabeth Crawford  5/4/13

Notes: This is a combination of things: last weeks prompt from WWP, prompts from my local writing group, and Irene’s current prompt at We Write Poems: To make it interesting, you’d have to give a sense of the protagonist in your piece. Whether you use the first or third person you have to have a protagonist. Give the person a name.  If you’re following this prompt site, then you will have to bear in mind that you’re going to write a series of poems featuring that protagonist. Should be interesting, yes?

Color Therapy

Color Therapy

Color Therapy

Digital painting

after April’s poem madness.

Elizabeth Crawford  5/1/13