For The Sunday Whirl: Wordle 209

work, tired, hell, damnation, sunshine, warmth,
rivers, kayak, fun, marshmallows, camping, fire

And for Sunday’s Whirligig: #17

kitchen, coatless, flag, stars, say, thinking,
touch, slices, envelope, roadside, games, walk,

And Poets United: Poetry Pantry #262



Coatless in the kitchen, so damned
tired of all the work. She thinks of slices
of sunshine cutting through forested trees,
touching senses with enveloping warmth.

The fun of roasting marshmallows to golden
crispness over a camp fire, or lying on backs
playing that game of naming stars while
walking fingers through a midnight blue sky.

Wild flowers in roadside ditches and near river’s
edge. Like saying beads on a rosary, she knows
any one of these scents or sights will lift
her flagging spirit, allow her to continue.

Elizabeth Crawford  7/26/15

Notes: Still slowly unpacking, and although I am enjoying the chore, there are definitely moments that I wish I could be elsewhere, doing nothing but taking in the sights and scents that feed my spirit. Image is a pen and ink line weave doodle done several years ago. I titled it Self-portrait because it reminded me of myself dancing through words and images. I checked both The Whirl and Whirligig this week and decided to try both. Used all but two of the twenty-four words. Hope you have a wonderful weekend.

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Prayer At Dawn

For The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #208

 tilt, astray, breeze, awake, bruising, hamper,
instinct, cracks, spirit, staggered, smiled, angle

Poets United: Poetry Pantry #261

prayer at dawn

Prayer At Dawn

Each sunrise awakens
new awareness.
Thoughts once gone astray,
tilted at hampering angles,
no longer stagger in misdirection.

She finds the cooling breeze
that slowly heals bruised cracks
in her once wounded psyche.
Refreshed, she instinctively smiles
at this restoration of no longer weary spirit.

Elizabeth Crawford  7/19/15

Notes: The image is a digital painting that came out of playing with colors, and was done a couple of years ago. The words in the list brought the image to mind and the poem fell into place with a minimum of help from me. I gave it the same title as the image.

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Black All Over

For The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #206

crawled, crows, heart, grain, clay, splintered,
bones, crack, collapse, quilts, escaping, open


Black All Over

Have a crow deep in my soul. Crawled
through small open crack made years ago.
Owns divided, splintered heart. Can not
choose between clay of opposing legends.
Grain of truth in bones of both stories.

In one, he is hero. Bringing fire to the People,
that they might find warmth beneath their fur
robes and quilts in freezing winter, but his feathers
burned in that flight. In the other, fool. Refusing
to share bright rainbow plumage with his own
dark shadow, pecking at it ‘til it escaped, rose up,
and swallowed him whole.

Near collapse from his indecision, worries it
through days and nights because he knows
no matter the choice made, he will always be
black all over.

Elizabeth Crawford  7/5/15

Notes: I mixed two myths here. Both seek to explain why the bird became ‘black all over’. When the idea to write this came into my head, I related it to our human reality of knowing that no matter how much good we might do, the bad always feels so much heavier and darker in texture. I am in my new home, still unpacking but making some headway. I have several huge windows here and everyday the birds come to visit. Among them, a large crow that sits on the fence just outside my bedroom window, leans down and tries to tell me his story. The image is a photo I took last summer during a bonfire evening at my sister’s home.

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For The Sunday Whirligig: Whirligig #212

tremulous, customs, wander, holds, separate, love,
forgotten, traditional, architecture, woman, city, remember



Woman alone, standing between
two separate architectures.

Doric columns of past,
remembered loves held
in cardboard boxes stacked
shoulder-high in two closets.
Black cursive ink on white covers
define suggested traditional destinations

Mind wanders to back country road,
where leaf covered branches arc to create
ever changing patterns of sunlight
and shadow in present moments. Like
old behaviors waiting to be customized after
next week’s move across this
old/new city of my birth.

Only prayer is that nothing
essential will be forgotten.

Elizabeth Crawford  6/21/15

Notes: Have been packing for a move across town next weekend. When I read the wordlist, I felt a close to perfect fit to what I have been experiencing. Filling boxes with old memories, some loved, some still questionable. At the same time, trying to comprehend what the changes will mean in routine matters and all the different new settings and surroundings. Tremulous is a good word.

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Salt Is A Preservative

Sunday Whirligig – #10

salt, fault, touch, much, things, springs,
ache, shake, strength, length, pain, stain

blueSalt Is A Preservative

Pain might be salt
poured over emotional
fault line.

Staining much of its length,
straining strength of unmapped
rift, ’til it springs away
from any touch, flinches from
things that might awaken
original ache. Causing destructive

shake after untold years
of waiting.

Elizabeth Crawford 6/7/15

Notes: Sorry about my absence over the past few weeks. Still using my daughter’s computer and am in the middle of moving to a new place. My new puter is still in its packing box, awaiting delivery to its new home. This piece came straight out of the words and knew exactly where it was going from start to finish. The image is a photo I took and then played with.

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Mythopoesis 30 – Darien’s Poem

For NaPoWriMo  Day 30

burning bush finalDarien’s Poem

This poem is a myth
in the making, a story
unfolding, seeking
a place of its own,
singular space it might
call home.

This poem has traveled
for days, one at a time,
searching for ways
that its words might
be heard, might find
an ear that will listen.

This poem is a song
singing itself from here
to there, breath of fresh
air hoping to inspire,
becoming spark that ignites
burning fire of creation.

This poem is no more
than a whisper, on lips
of would-be poet, who only
knows that which grows
in his heart is a seed
in need of nurture.

This poem is a gift given,
that must be received
before it can truly live.

Elizabeth Crawford 4/30/15

Notes: Today is the final day of NaPoWriMo 2015. Came here this morning and simply sat, thinking and daydreaming of how to finish this closing segment of my myth-making experiment. Lots of thoughts but no desire to write them down. That went on for an hour or so, until I saw the character Darien (from the Counsel of Bards) reading a poem he had written. A few segments ago, Darien admitted that he’d been blocked, unable to write. However, in the last post, he instructs the students within the classroom, to go home and write about all the things a poem might, or could, be. Being a teacher after my own heart, he couldn’t ask them to do what he himself was unwilling to do. As soon as I recognized that reality, the poem started forming and was one of the easiest writes I’ve experienced this entire month. Just so you know, it was never my intent to give the man from Interlude a name. He was to remain “the man from Interlude.” That was until he came to me, in a fragment of a dream, and  told me his name was Darien. The name is originally from the Greek and means gift.

The image is one of my digital paintings.

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Mythopoesis 29 – A Ribbon of Words

For NaPoWriMo  Day 29

3-17-2015 9_15_41 PMxA Ribbon of Words

Earlier, I said that words
are a ribbon that may
become a skein of poetry.

Have you ever seen someone
pick up the end of a thread
of yarn and begin to wind it
over, under, and around itself,
creating a skein of yarn that
might become a sweater, a
shawl, or a blanket that keeps
you warm in the cold of winter?

Poets do a similar thing. They
collect words, like bits of yarn,
wind them together, then knit
them into a poem. With enough
words they might create a skein
of poetry that can change the way
we see our world: how it works,
and our own place and purpose
within that world.

A man* once said that words
are magic, and that they retain
that magic even to this day. Think
how a kind word, spoken in one
moment, might keep an inner glow
of warmth for years after. Might
change the course of a life headed
toward self-destruction, might become
a hand of support in a time of need.

Another man**, a poet, showed us how
taking the time to mend fences, can
make two who might have been enemies,
open the door to potential friendship. Yet
another poet, this time a woman***, helped
us to understand that by celebrating that
person we are always becoming, we
thwart that which has the power
to maim, kill, or destroy us.

Magicians allow us to see a different
perspective. They awaken that sense
of wonder that dwells deep within
our own being. Redefine our world
by raising our conscious awareness
that things, and people, are not always
what they seem to be. Poets, when they
unwind that thread, that ribbon of words,
do the same.

I will be back tomorrow. I want you to go
home and think of Maliah’s poem that
was a kitten, bouncing and pouncing
because it wanted to know, to learn,
and to grow. Then write about all
the things a poem might be.

Elizabeth Crawford 4/29/15

Notes: *Sigmund Freud
**Robert Frost
***Lucille Clifton

Tomorrow is the last day of NaPoWriMo. This myth-making experiment has been an uncanny experience for me. One I have enjoyed and learned from. I have been without my own computer throughout the month, and have been dependent on my daughter’s willingness to share her puter with me. I do have news about that. It looks like I might have a brand new computer within the next few weeks. Keep your fingers crossed? I am only hoping soon.

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