I have some things to get back to on these prompts, the longer flows they came from, and thoughts on concepts. The lub-dub of your mother’s heartbeat is probably understood, but the cooler thoughts on that could fill some pages and engage some bright conversation. But the bright interference is something to word carefully, as is the duality of excitation. I’m continuously surprised when big minds go on their attacks ass they do NOT like to share their toys, I mean the correctness of their conclusions. How many books mention choking off discovery in a stall of absolutes? Three cheers for the quantum _.
I don’t care if this isn’t real I’m just so glad you’re here
Now shake with me Loosen your torment There is a bird like an ibis whose flight is motionless It swims against the vulturish night Carries suffering away to fuel the birth of a new star
Saltatory penetration from the earth back to the #wistful sky Feminine swords of proliferation stir in heart and hands of warriors Necessary pull away from necessary decay
sight scythe sigh, the cut reframed, explained to a t. a lee from your name filling my skin. an exoskeleton dance of #sign ature defeat bows to the wind, spins and sheds its memories
I wrote that the morning of May 16, 2022 on the prompt #sign. Big time gap, right? I’ve done many prompts now. Things have gotten so busy for me that I almost have to choose between prompts and other projects during my morning writing time. And I needed space to know what daily prompt writing is accomplishing. Am I learning enough from presenting to this group in lieu of research? And is my writing style being influenced by an exchange of Likes? Or by the short nature of prompts?
I’m working on some new training in addition to adjusting to new work. Will find a balance and pop back in from time to time. I do love many of the people on there–hearts and souls of poetry. I am around many “brand” writers and often wonder what kind of spell people are under that the realm of poetry too has to be reduced to slogans. I like checking back in on Twitter and seeing growth in people’s writing and love that there seem to be deeper themes and bigger words explored. Of course, anyone can write what they please. I am not judging; I am looking for my arena.
My personal site has been filled with spammers who would like me to mark my own emails as spam or buy their product. I have shown myself that I can keep a consistent schedule and will probably move to a new platform while keeping this one as a type of backup to the backup.
3/22/22 The horse and the elephant and the monkey and me, listen to the forest for the trees. To #taboo, meaning sacred, and came to mean unclean. We #mew about while the falcon molts. Our missions, in a widening gyre, receive and emit. #vssdaily#prompt#vss365
This was an honor. I wish it came before I took my hiatus. I’ve done hundreds of these, mostly under vss365, and earned the respect of the community, but they did not respond to my request. I almost wonder if it was a matter of followers, judging by some of the prompt masters. I did get turned off from vss365 by the political right-wing ranting of a prompt master who put their association in their profile name, so that it appeared that the political opinions could have been ties to the group. Or at least been a platform for divisive cocoa puffs. Write a poem about it, faboo flashneck.
noun: 1-a gull 2-meow 3-an enclosure for trained hawks—usually used in plural 4-a place for hiding or retirement verb: 1-to utter a mew; to meow 2-to shut up; confine (used with up)
I’ve done many prompts now. Things have gotten so busy for me that I almost have to choose between prompts and other projects during my morning writing time. And I needed space to know what daily prompt writing is accomplishing. Am I learning enough from presenting to this group in lieu of research? And is my writing style being influenced by an exchange of Likes? Or by the short nature of prompts?
I’m working on some new training in addition to adjusting to new work. Will find a balance and pop back in from time to time. I do love many of the people on there–hearts and souls of poetry. I am around many “brand” writers and often wonder what kind of spell people are under that the realm of poetry too has to be reduced to slogans.
2/19/22 Jon was starting to feel hangry. “What a stupid word. Do we all just pull up language by the roots and salt the earth? It’s like a destructive child making mud castles while lightening #larrups a tower and all comes crumbling down. The child can’t be bothered to look up.” #vss365
2/14/22
It was a war of attrition. Zno babies were raised as slaves. Sae could feel her child #tremble and awaken at the magic age of 7. In harmonia, she absorbed the tacit vibrations, then #thrust, from her bones and throat, dominant waves of calm resolve back to her child.
2/3/22 Lorn and forlorn are words I can get behind. Forlorn is more common nowadays: to lose, forlost to the point of completion; lost or left behind.
2/2/22
The godforsaken creature reeked of deadly sin or revelation—black sun, blood moon, and starlight stripped from the sky.
Aza, she #breathed. I will find you and set you free.
beacon captive hill mountain balk egg duet rain fall devil
January 18, 2022 to January 30, 2022
from the full to the new moon in Capricorn and Aquarius
The realization struck her like a beacon from the moon; held her captive in its lunacy, in the long trance of night. Flushes of rose and gold reached the earth first, outlining Hemlock Hill in amber glow. There. She’d prolong the scatter of violet light with ashes.
I sang up the mountain, arpeggiating up a balkanized cord. Each step echoed its linear thread. Stumbling chromatic contradictions of blue and scarlet duets key the triad to strike at the top of the whole mountain.
She heard the rain sizzle on their skin before finding them huddled together in the thick fog. Old Harry, Azazel, Belial, and Baal. But who was this new fallen devil? He was wearing an attractive meatsuit. “That’s Skroll,” Azazel said. “He’s in charge of the internet.”
I wrote this poem on a prompt of the word midnight and wanted to share some insights on the word choices. Without getting too deeply into it at this time (though I wish this was my job), I’d like to share a short key.
At midnight, the witches gather and abdicate their veils, revel by the sconce of fearless perception on the winged misdivision of the adder and the newt; sing basilisk elegies and play, then fly away when lore gives way to darker hours.
The Witching Hour is from midnight to 1am, and the Devil’s Hour, the darker lore, is from 3am to first light. The 3am time is thought to be an inversion of the 3pm time that Christ was crucified.
Veil refers to both veiled feminine insight, personified by the goddess, and the veil of perception between worlds, most notably the mortal world and the preternatural world. Veil of perception also refers to mystical insight, studied and learned on the quest for transmutation. Females were long kept from study, science, sacral roles, healer roles; and the female alchemist was moreoften referred to as a witch. They don’t explain this well on the CW channel. Popular culture puts a lot of more work to put into fetishizing the feminine and nurturing generations to assume gender roles.
[I hope this explains to a certain friend of mine why I trailed off when he referred to my work as “witchy shit.” I study all kinds of things and have been writing a long time, so it is annoying to hear my efforts dismissed as being some kind of misunderstood mystical lunacy. Many have hemmed me into self-doubt over the years, by implying or directly saying that my work is too opaque–Dense! Confusing! Baffling! Weird for the sake of being weird! Perplexing! Cryptic! A word spell striptease! You have to slooowly arrive at a plain, relatable idea: the arrival!]
It took me many years to realize the gift of outer critics and how their energy frees up my inner critic.
Okay, it feels like a weight is lifted every time I post about the slights that have chipped away at my energy, enthusiasm, and motivation. I will get back to the short & sweet key. … And not go on about how gender is weaponized, consciously or unconsciously (please do wake the fock up), to reduce competition. The gloves fit differently but they are on.
Sconce refers to light, illumination, discovery, revelation. From Abscondere! Abracadabra!
Hello, Los 😉
Regarding nadder and ewt, the misdivisionreference is about bracketing, or metanalysis. Nadder lost the ‘n’ from spoken ref to ‘an adder’ and ewt gained an ‘n’ from ref to “an ewt.” Spelling mistakenly recorded. I liked how the imagery conjures the idea of treacherous witches stirring their cauldrons and adding eye of newt or tongue of asp. There’s more on why misdivision is winged, but it is work to clarify, and basilisk is next.
Basilisk, adjective, means spellbinding, and as a noun is a lizard; and as noun in lore, a lizard known for its lethal stare.
Kinda cool, right? Cool to reflect and consider language and poetic reference. I do understand the need to give some context and always read the Norton Anthology notes, etc, especially with James Joyce. How cool! But I don’t have a whipsmart publisher. Yet. I’m standing between critics and breakthroughs to new levels. And I am hungry to spill gold.
Time still for gold to spill: the fleece, the bough, and the ratio All those mysteries alive at your fingertips Above as so below
(from a song I lyricized and sang years ago with a talented artist who hasn’t released it yet, probably due to the pandemic. It refers to the golden fleece, the golden bough, and the goldenratio. Did I need to say that? We’ll never know.)
prompts: infinity tranquil solar perspicacity pop yawn hugs crisper dollops midnight
January 2, 2022 to January 17, 2022
from the new moon to the full moon in Capricorn
You soar from sky to infinity in Blake’s grain, glisten like snowflake prisms, vapor altered states: ruby bronze azure chartreuse copper violet-rouge; Ephemeral bloodroot mulls on leaf mold and dew—Listen for the tap of bones when the fertile earth is ready for you.
For each harsh word, I gained another tranquil ruffle on the lake, a solar marvel raring from a grayer day. I am the end intended, take in infrared, hug back the rays, appreciate the symbiotic interplay. You are the link that breaks these atoms into different shapes, my blood picks up the relics takes them to the places where they ionate to give my heart and marrow all the strength you could not spare to spare me. Take. Your best aim.
“It’s called perspicacity. You explore, learn, reflect, and create with a comparably divergent drive. You’ll starve there. Actualize who you are and step into the light.” Maena crisply pierced the apple’s skin, tearing into its pulp before eyeing me. “Hungry?”
Honesty grabs one hand, loyalty the other. Vertebral seams pop, the serpentine column dances toward a new center, landing in perse moments of exchange: phosphene stories of love and pain ignite the mind.
The next words are butterflies.
She yawned and threw the message into the icebox. Yowls, crackles, and hisses flooded the moment before she slammed the door. The icebox kept words chilled and sentiments on ice. Hugs from the crisper were non-existent. She cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed water over her eyes. From what she’d seen, this one could take some time to cool off.
He felt the dollops of ink release and flow from some great telepathy of the sky; heard the phonological claps of thunder and mortal shock rain fractal words of the weary and fallen onto the page, like tears washing particles from a collective mind’s eye.
At midnight, the witches gather and abdicate their veils, revel by the sconce of fearless perception on the winged misdivision of the adder and the newt; sing basilisk elegies and play, then fly away when lore gives way to darker hours.
from the full moon to the new moon in Sagittarius & Capricorn
The salesman used a barrage of charm to disguise his goal of extracting as much money as he could from her. She stood abruptly and announced she would return after lunch. “Wait!” He cried, “$100 off!” But she’d been advised beforehand: Don’t rush, read the fine print, and always be prepared to walk away.
It’s a quiet connection now. Some nights, flashbacks blare and cough, their clamant yawps muffled by a stuffed shift. The redress alters me into a reasonable block of ice; thaw will come, internal, with hope renewed.
The Ram
A spotlight glances across the land, like twinkling stars to passengers headed east; The beast, it flies and reasons o’er the Black Sea.
Ambassador Spectacular, hold on tight, don’t handle her; This chauffeur-alien won’t be fleeced.
Backward, in the nick of sky, in dark absence of moonlight; it scans the clusters searching for its kind.
“Das Zeichen des Bundes” from Genesis section of Augsburger Wunderzeichenbuch (ca. 1552)
Words like tangerine spray glint, peel back a summer day when sunlight filtered longer through the pied air, becoming rainbows.
But he never wants what he has, so he never gets what he wants; then you realize the circle disappears beyond the undying horizon.
I’m proud of us: Strong and conscientious, hard-working; Our love renewals, delight for life, through growth, detach suspicion as we do from feeling what is good about a friend.
We truly are each other’s people Agreed to expect our loyal best; To cast away sorrow.
gravity mantle Smoke & mirrors collect us as royal subjects. In imbalance of power, lateral thinkers bow in gravity
It is not weight, does not dismantle It attracts— defines compromise, value in effort— Willing past the win of resistance
Yet the planets seem lighter than this phone.
steeple
Imagination questions without fear, for no one is listening with an ear to control: to scold as parent or toddler, to ostracize as jailers of faith, or primitive posturing for rank; to be revered rather than injured, to be obeyed rather than swayed.
In our steeple of curiosity, tolerance for ourselves and tolerance for others gains accordance.
constellations starved
She grew up playing in the woods, orienting by sun, trees, water, constellations; but was lost here, starved for organic connection. Many had no use for nature but to consume, & nature had no use for them. They’d gladly choose a virtual life if she could only perfect the forebrain.
strings floated
She sent vibrational strings of thought looping out Tethered balloon animals floated, reshaped, and popped. One transformed into a dove and flew away on a silvery gleam.
She let it go.
paused guide
Trauma paused us. We go back, reenact where stuck. Neural arms, flailing to connect, reflect near easy lovers: fear, unfairness, primitive defenses. Our scarry attempts to block off, protect Disconnect like cell death.
A plan will guide us, laurel us through genesis.
enemy risk
The enemy-risk effect of the virus was isolation and inactivity. Productivity and trade slowed as the needs of survival shifted. But to Hunter, they were the real enemy and the prey. Meanwhile, all the predative profiteers laughed—a nervous laugh.
from the full moon in Scorpio to the new moon in Sagittarius
Jake choked off his last shred of objectivity with piercing confidence and rode off into some kind of loner sunset, with only the curtains to hold his hand. Our shared wonder dismissed as magical thinking, wheeled away for correction, argued away as naive—just to argue.
stuck Kill or be killed, child. 180 shots per intended minute. Unregistered plastic bag. Probable conclusion without a scratch. Presumed protection with intent to mutilate. Murdered property. Insurrection. Hip-hop cowboy, good gang, posse. Annie, Get Your Gun and a permit. Marissa, the wall has rights. Stand your ground unless stuck interpreting the lunatic interpreting the reason interpreting the law
The wandering albatross bow, widen their wings and scream at the sky; they circle, preen and snap at their spouse in a mating dance for life.
Three million miles of soaring the skies, ever to return to the island of their love and birth.
Vulnerable, the reliant pilot hides in a pride of clouds/ seen, the sun comes out/ the complex speaks to the complex/ lowers a bridge open to valuation, closed to faulted criticism/ subject and object scatter, hide in the mirroring sky/ light faces the page, not the eyes
Thanks giving: Let the worry fall away from your clear eyes, For the world turns and we are in it; Should joy escape your mind, allow release to recommit compliments of reprieve from lifelessness.
I am your cherisher thankful for each delicate moment.
Wake and tell us what’s good, love, as the daylight reaches your mind. Promise to snuggle in deeper, cross the heart on your chest and hope to die. Code your secrets in my journal where I can read between the lines.
“I had conversations, but the upper hand of the masher, phlegm, and baffled stranger would not salute. And the agro. Everything I said was ammo. So I gave him ammo. All of it.”
Cere opened the lid to find furry teal blotches moldering the tops of the apricots.
“Worry eats at your thoughts. I needed to be done with it.”
“Recognize crisis mode. Deflection is a way to cope, but it’s pretext. We eventually have to move past it to understand the dissatisfaction that leads to a major life change.”
“Huh. I’ll think about that,” Greg said. “You’re not mad?”
“I’m working on a new perspective,” she said, taping up the last box. The movers would be arriving any time now. “Ultimately, I’m on your side and hope we get to share a better future. Call me after you’ve answered your own call.”
You are shiny, like teeth bared through organic murmuration.
Is it the love shown or the love deserved that makes us worthy?
Two lorn brood recuperate in innate pattern, flockwise; their calls imitate a wildish belonging.
If I were a ribbon, I’d curl around your finger to remind you that I am always there. In spills of ink, siftings of sand, traces, and twisted strands of hair Snug between the wanton hand of death steepling in prayer.
If I were your ribbon.
oracle
She placed her hand on the young king’s chest and closed her eyes: He floated in a river of blood, tethered to a casketful filled with paper money. Fire cremated the land into black ghosts pillowing the lusty blaze. Through the roar, he heard his name as a boy dipped a toe in from the shore.
The oracle opened her eyes and locked gaze with the young king. “You have enough for now. Do not invade. Take a vacation with your son.”
In returning warmth that refuses to leave the season, mistle breaks, disturbs a winter silence. Leave your contortions where misery can find its mirthless tune. I’m here in life’s harmoniacal quietus, a rival of the snow, parched as the ground, threshing its mortal boon.
