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and how terrific it is to write about a memory

i painted that floats in the back of my mind

and how terrific it was to live that memory

when i was there and how terrific it was to

dine in the open –air room that extended

way out over the beautiful azure waters

of Puerto Rico and how terrific were

the native foods of Puerto Rico and especially

the terrific seafood cooked in the terrific

way that only Puertorriqueños can cook them.

And speaking of news, today our prompt (optional, of course) is another oldie-but-goodie: a poem based on a news article.

Hero or Failure?  arlene s bice

acting US Naval Secretary Thomas Modly,

filling the shoes of his fired predecessor,

still new to the job, pointed an angry finger

at Captain Brett Crozier, seasoned commander

of the USS Theodore Roosevelt on the job

for the same length of time, showed wisdom

as his boss did not

to save the lives of 4,000 sailors from the rapidly

spreading COVID 19 disease by bending a rule

the sailors cheered, showing love & respect for

the brave Captain who risked a career to save them

Modly, using profanity, revealing his intelligence level

accused the good captain of being too naïve or too stupid

 to command a ship (or saving the lives of his men)

because his email was leaked (good move, Cap)

boarded the ship without a skipper and again, he

ranted a profanity-heavy diatribe about their former

Captain, the one they had chanted their admiration for

to show gratitude that he was looking out for their lives

not caring about embarrassing the politicals

Modly dressed them down for cheering their Captain

he said stop complaining it made the Navy look weak

after all, the ship was the real importance

Modly was told to apologize, or else . . .

he did, to the Captain, his family and the entire crew

of the USS Theodore Roosevelt.

a new US Naval Secretary has been appointed.

prompt: Bosch, about him or his painting

On Bosch arlene s bice

oh,no. of all the artists of beautiful work

Bosch is not one i consider enough to even

glance at, let alone to gaze longingly into

wanting to be part of the painting or

at least the reality of the time and place

what thoughts ran through his mind and heart

when he picked up brush and pots of paint

what images worked their way into his soul

that would create the end results of his talent

his patrons came from far distances to buy

and commission his work. why? what did

they see that i miss or are they bonded

to the scenes he depicts in depravity

‘the garden of earthly delights’

not for me, thank you.

C’est la vie        arlene s bice

she stood before me like a picture from the past

one half of her young with red ringlets bouncing

one half was the age i knew her, my mother’s age

she was mute but i heard her laughter

sensed her happiness, felt her love for me

it was a cool moment to experience, unreal

it was Annie, the Annie of my youth coming

from Brenwal Avenue from long, long ago

she couldn’t possibly be here in front of me

i just woke, fell asleep over an-after-lunch book

i saw her spirit and with each spirit i came awake

“you know Anna May what comes next”

your perseverance is no longer needed

Annie’s appearance didn’t frighten me

i spoke back to this ghost before ‘little Arlene;’ me

i knew i’d be moving on, but sooner or later?

C’est la vie; before it ends with an image.

Our prompt for the day: write a poem based on an image from a dream. 

Dreams ~  arlene s bice

dreams; so many each night, so many recorded

a repetitive one carrying an important message

i am standing inside my old house in New Jersey

the one where i was a young girl, married

becoming a woman over the 13 years there

the house is falling apart, walls tumbled

the interior nakedly exposed to the world

stairs crooked, lopsided, dangerous

rooms out of square, paint chipped

cracked ceilings, lamp glass broken

a ramp running down from the shiny

black front door  to the sidewalk

i look over and say to then-husband Ken

“we can fix it” knowing it cannot be

repairs foolish to even think of, or try

when this dream comes and it has often

over the years, same house, differently

dilapidated, different appearance

different repairs needed to save it

i know big lifetime changes are waiting

be assured, they are coming without

fail . . .

even after i have been long gone from that

life, an independent me, soaring through life

solo

Prompt: First, make a list of ten words. Now, for each word, use Rhymezone to identify two to four similar-sounding or rhyming words.

a spring day is perfect to take my sketchbook

wander through the forest, find the running brook

settle in under a big old oak tree to be content

where i bring words and pictures together, ferment

i will bring out my supplies of pen, paint and paper

let my imagination allow me to be a shaper

of thoughts, ideas, dreams, images and words

silently i will work, allowing the musical birds

to create a backdrop of gentleness like a friend

who comforts, caresses my work to ascend

as i sketch on my pad and continue to read

this afternoon will certainly be my feed

that’s what life gives to me, especially vital

is the forest, bell, book, candles are my entitle

the breeze blows gently, handles the farewell

ignores and pays no attention to any misspell

of writings, drawings or time to say farewell.

Me and brother Bobby

prompt-write a poem about a specific place —  a particular house or store or school or office

it was a big square stucco house

the gold color of Van Gogh’s

a full front porch; four steps

a Methodist church on one side

a tombstone memorial on the other

we lived in half; the side of the church

the sculptor and wife in the other half

no tree grew on our portion of the block

tho one was planted by my brother Albert

it grew alongside the house, reached

my bedroom screened, double window

i loved that tree, dreamed often

a hero would climb it to save me

from a kidnapper who climbed it first

neither one ever did.

alliteration, allegation, subjugation

words that roll around the tongue

like learning lingua Italiana

enjoying the words of a nation

Because of my own experience of finally opening that old chest of secrets i carried around, heavy on my back, for half a century, my words to others are “write it down and let it go.” Write about the events in your life that you don’t talk about, that your try to smother and not even think about yourself. Write it down, talking about it isn’t enough. The writing of it, even if you don’t plan to publish or even share it, begins to put a scab on your hurts so they can heal. Write it down.

Add the funny things that may not have been so funny when they happened. They will lighten up your piece and will remind you that it wasn’t all bad. Those little moments that happened kept you from going over the edge. I think our journeys must be planned that way.

Keep in mind that you don’t need anyone’s permission to tell your story the way you saw it happen. It may be a different version than someone else’s but it is the way you saw it that makes it your story. You are not responsible for anyone else’s vision. If you are concerned someone else may be upset at what you are writing about them, they should have behaved better. It isn’t your fault if they behaved badly.  Start anywhere. It doesn’t have to be from the beginning. You can always go back in time and add it when you think of it. You can edit your writing later. Just get it out and get it down. It goes much easier once you begin. Remember that the more you write, the easier and better your writing becomes. Your writing will amaze you. You will also see what a wonderful person you are. After all, if it is in print…