Me? I’m No Good at Keeping ‘Em

For The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #214

worm, stop, here, speak, amber, chirping,
deal, easy, rot, foster, me, secret

For Sunday’s Whirligig: #22

hears, dread, smothers, cane, hobbles, swart,
wanting, disguise, poem, vowels, imagines, uncanny

For Poets United: Poetry Pantry #267


Me? I’m No Good at Keeping ‘Em.

Here’s the deal: a secret fosters
an uncanny urge to speak it.
Disguising itself as an amber worm,
crawling through imagination, hobbling
any vowel of truth it encounters.
Smothering it’s keeper with dread
should any chirp of its rotten wanting
raise its head to be heard.

Never easy to stop leaning on swarthy
cane of deception, once that path has
been chosen. Even harder, if one is a writer
of poems. For the words themselves
have an eerie tendency to weave a fabric
that resembles the white light of reality‘s

Elizabeth Crawford  8/30/15

Notes: I’m simply enjoying the two word list task. Pic is a digital image created on another Photoshop App. Cross your fingers. With some amount of trial and error, I think I have found and fixed the problem of not being able to respond to comments.

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In Search of A Winner

For The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #213

lucid, wine, stain, puzzle, foreign, superior,
feckless, dumb, chiseled, hollow, luminous, winner

For Sunday’s Whiligigs: #21

reach, farming, sprout, dung, enters, corn,
comes, mole, rise, seed, flows, vine

For Poets United: Poetry Pantry #


In Search of A Winner

There were always those times
when words became a foreign puzzle,
and she, a feckless farmer digging
in dung heap of littered letters. Dumb mole
timidly scampering through rows of corn
forever beyond her reach.

Yet sometimes, words entered her dreams,
like seeds eager to sprout, rising lucid,
luminous flow of superior erudition.
Chiseled wisdom hanging plump
on fruitful vines, simply awaiting proper
time for distillation.

But for now, they are no more than widening
stain, red wine spilled on white cotton,
hollow, lacking all meaning.

Elizabeth Crawford  8/23/15

Notes: I used to hold a grudge against wordles, thinking they were a sort of cheat for those lacking words and imagination. Now, here I am, seeking out two word lists because I actually enjoy the challenge and work of putting them all together. They prove that even an old woman can learn new tricks. The image is a pen and red ink line weave drawing done some time ago. Added note: My apologies. I’m not having much luck trying to post return comments today. Know that my spirit is with you, but my puter doesn’t seem to want to cooperate.

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Not A Happy Ending

For The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #212

escape, way, veins, feast, torn, broke,
generate, engine, laugh, sack, ghost, empty

For Sundays Whirligig: #20

mortuary, motor, many, midnight, mouths, mariachis,
mutants, magician, meth, missed, more, maybe

And For Poets United: Poetry Pantry #265

Meth MindNot A Happy Ending

Maybe because the magician used meth,
he spent many hours trying to find a way
to escape the motor-mouthed ghosts
and mutants who generated insane mariachi
type music in his emptied, messed up mind.

Perhaps he missed the laughter and former
feasts he’d once enjoyed with family and friends
that now, only raggedly moved at darkest midnight
through the emptied sack of his torn and tattered

Knew in his veins, that he was broken.
Just a rusted engine rotting slowly in backyard
weeds of life. No more tricks to perform. Final
disappearing act gone unnoticed, never to be seen
by still breathing mortals.

Elizabeth Crawford  8/16/1

Notes: How to explain? I can’t, lol. I’ve been using the two word lists for a while, but when I hit mortuary and meth, it sort of focused in here and didn’t want to leave. So I followed. Used all of the words but substituted mortals for mortuary. The image was created because this piece made me think in these colors so I played with them.


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Sound of Survival

The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #211

plaster, chill, rattle, drum, recede, scry,
thread, web, know, sin, cry, creek

Sunday’s Whirligig: #19

bickering, asleep, floor, hear, breath, soft,
cord, frayed, signal, bed, awake, separate,


Sound of Survival

Back then, just the sound
of your voice was enough
to rattle me awake from floor
of past where I’d been sleeping.

Separated me from softly frayed
cord of remembering, lost in loosely
threaded web of knowing what
could never be.

Sin of hope, signal receding,
a bickering breath heard only by heart
that had forgotten its thrumming drum beat
in rocky creek of living alone.

That single sound became cry that tore
me from chilling bed, let me rise again,
finally bringing deepest satisfaction
to be found in true meaning of survival.

Elizabeth Crawford  8/9/15

Notes: This is the result of several different occurrences during the past week. A phone call from a friend that lasted for well over an hour and ended in snorts and howls of raucous laughter.  A live evening concert at the Botanical Gardens during which I heard an oldie but goodie rendition of Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive. When I first looked at these two lists of words, it felt a bit like they were coming through fog. Something was there but I just couldn’t quite catch it. Went back to my task of trying to organize years of files. In a folder, I found pages of a journal and a poem I had written seven years ago and then never looked at again. And that was when the words seemed to find their focus, so I wrote it down. I used all but two of the words. The original poem was written to the same friend who had called and celebrates that laughter. The image is a digital painting done by an internet friend, Diddums. She may be found here:

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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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