Dabbling Gambol

For The Sunday Whirl poetry prompt: Wordle #171

dabble, thrill, whack, hallowed, blasts, stained,
hunt, unfolds, shallow, center, skill, reveal

And For Poets United: Poetry Pantry #211



 Dabbling Gambol

While the babbling rabble
scramble to hunt down
whatever stains their shallow
sense of that which is hallowed,
blasting their wacky beliefs
at innocent bystanders only
to reveal their own ignorance,

she, with minimum skill, thrills

to stillness at center of being


as she dabbles with scrambling colors


to reveal exquisite rambling hues


of ever-unfolding beauty.

Elizabeth Crawford  7/27/14

Notes: Hell of a run on sentence, yes? Had a load of fun with the words this week. The word dabble really caught my fancy and I started trying out different sound a-likes for it. That led to this, which is true of the past week. Have been reading a great deal of violent rhetoric on FB and decided my response to that would be to post beautiful kaleidoscope images each day, using photos my niece took in her backyard garden. Used all of the words, but changed whack to wacky.  The first image here, is one I used from a FB friend (she was pleased with the outcome). She’d been using it as her profile pic. The rest of the images came from that same image when put through the kaleidoscope app.

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Poetic Nightmare

For The Sunday Whirl poetry prompt: Wordle #170

magic, forest, swarm, storming, words, without
hangs, while, thrive, passions, creature, jump, hum

And for Poets United: Poetry Pantry #210


Poetic Nightmare

Words swarm in forest of thoughts,
hang in the stormy air, humming
that low buzzing hum that means
they are up to something.

Soon become magical creatures
that thrive on passions better
left without clear definitions.
Leap and jump from highest branches,

while poet sleeps

Elizabeth Crawford  7/20/14

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Worth A Shot?

for The Sunday Whirl poetry prompt: Wordle #169

eclipse, piece, throat, shot, honors, lackluster,
side, cheeky, manufactured, millions, hike, room


Worth A Shot?

Take a hike
outside lackluster room,
manufactured honors,
cheeky asides,
millions of pieces
of throaty drivel.

Total eclipse of soul
might bring
single burst of sunlight,
or maybe an idea?

Elizabeth Crawford  7/13/14

Notes: These words just wouldn’t come together and make any sense. So I finally decided to just pair them up arbitrarily and got that first verse. Then had to take it somewhere, realizing I was having another one of those stiff upper lip conversations with myself. At the very least, I did use all of the words. Image is a kaleidoscope design made from a photo of a bonfire.

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Someone Mentioned His Name

For The Sunday Whirl poetry prompt: Wordle #168


Someone Mentioned His Name

Memories are ghosts
of time,
blind to present moment.
Simple single mission
to hold us in arms
of a past long gone.
Bind us in ragged cape
of remembering,
longing for candle flame
of “what might have been.”
Bloodless images
without living breath,
yet able to quicken senses
like scent of fresh rain
on tree covered

Elizabeth Crawford  7/6/14

Notes: Recently was told about someone I knew in high school who had asked about me and what I was doing. When told that I was putting together a book of poetry, he asked where he might find some of my writing. Thus the poem. Image is a photo of my nephew, taken yesterday at 4th of July gathering. Put it through the kaleidoscope and really liked what happened. It made me think of how memories are like photos, suggesting other things, yet still holding some essence of truth. Permeating our senses as we explore them from different angles of focus and reality.

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Way of The Wordle

For The Sunday Whirl poetry prompt: Wordle # 167

ex2a2 (2)

approach, key, each, grain, single, scratch,
phase, player, present, glint, level, attach

Way of The Wordle

Perhaps a good approach is to choose
one single word as the key. Attach it
to another, allowing each equal
glints of sunshine. Don’t let either
get scratched out in the process.

Every syllable should add grain to
the whole of final presentation,
bringing it one step closer to level
of almost perfection. Warning here:
at this phase it is easy for poet-player

to pull up, stop, maybe never finish.

Elizabeth Crawford  6/29/14

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For The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #165


Wish I could whistle up
a fortune that wasn’t split
between bad habits
and six foot deep pit
of drilled debt.

Must constantly remind
myself that this porcelain
existence, on edge of crumbling
cliff, still retains moments
of exquisite beauty.

Elizabeth Crawford  6/15/14

Notes: Not satisfied with this one. Didn’t use all of the words. It doesn’t feel finished even though I know it is. Know there is always next week, though.

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Dear Dad

This is an old poem and not written to a prompt. I decided to post it here today after writing a bit of the story about it on another blog. http://1sojournal.wordpress.com/2014/06/10/lost-and-found/%5B/embed%5D

Dear Dad

Fragile black tree shadows
stretch across old country
blacktop, unevenly marking
the distance of time and place.

Filtered sunshine runs lightly
over windshield, playing
touch-soft rhythms on
my face as Lee Greenwood sings,

It might have appeared
to go unnoticed…

I was eight first time
you took me fishing.
Told me I must
bait my own hook.
I did.
Told me that I must
take care of my own equipment.
I did.
Told me I must clean
whatever I caught.
Was relieved when
I didn’t.
But, you told me I must
clean one of yours,
so I’d know how when
I did.

but I’ve got it all
here in my heart.

Trucking through the muck,
in search of a trout stream
you were so sure was only
a little further,
I walked out of my boots.
To make up for oozing mud
you let me drive the Jeep.
Terribly short at age twelve,
I couldn’t get the clutch
all the way down without
using steering wheel
for leverage. So you shifted
gears and never said a word
when I gouged a new driveway
between those two evergreens
in front of Uncle John’s cabin.

I want you to know
I know the truth…

By fifteen I was confident,
out of the car, gear ready,
my line in the water,
while you prepared bait and tackle
for Mom. Putting her to my left side,
younger sister Mary on my right,
then slipped far away, quietly whistling.
You missed all the excitement
when Mary, expecting a perch,
pulled in small-mouthed bass,
swinging around to show us,
landing it smack in my face.
Of course you knew
that neither of them
took fish off a hook,
but I did.

I would be nothing
without you…

Sleepy-eyed seventeen,
I had to be awakened
at least three times.
You said you’d leave without me
if I didn’t get up
at the first call,
I didn’t,
and you did.

Did you ever know
that your’re my hero…

At nineteen, cocky and rebellious,
I challenged you to a game of pool
on our way home in that awful blue Plymouth
with the fishtail fins.
Took several beers and three games
to show you that I could win.
Back on divided highway,
I said I thought the old blue goose
would probably wallow and die
if you ever got her up past sixty.
Then sat back in amazed exhilaration
when needle rose toward ninety.
We both laughed uproariously
when you took your foot off the pedal
saying we’d have to coast
back to town because you’d
wasted so much gas.
We both did.

and everything
like to be?

The silent questioning humor
you shot at me over my new
husband’s shoulder as he
excitedly told you of buying
new rods and reels, taking
me fishing, baiting my hook,
and removing the catch.
I didn’t carry that one off too well,
breaking into gales of laughter
when you tried to make me
feel guilty.
I didn’t.

Well I can fly higher
than an eagle…

You were with me
when I caught my first perch,
then my first bluegill,
bass, trout, and even
a bullhead or two.
But the best was just a few
months ago, when at age forty,
I caught my first Northern.
You came, sick,
nauseated from chemotherapy,
you came anyway
to our rented cottage,
sitting on the dock
in a lawn chair.
You told me I must go
and catch that big one.
I did, Dad.

Cause you are the wind
beneath my wings.

Elizabeth Crawford  6/10/14

Notes: This was written well over thirty years ago, a few months before my father died of pancreatic cancer. I sent it to him and would visit with him every other weekend. He loved the fact that I could sing almost any song I heard a few times and this song was my favorite from the first moment I heard it because it made me think of him. I thought the poem lost, but found it a few days ago amidst all the files I have been sorting through. The story about that may be found here:


Notes: Words in italics are the final verse and chorus of Wind Beneath My Wings
by Lee Greenwood 1983 and may be heard in its entirety here:

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