This is a prompting Blog

My intent here is to write a poem from the prompt I give to you , the reader, in hopes that it will inspire something and get others to write with me.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Today's Prompt is Cinqku

CINQKU is a fixed-form five line tanka/cinquain image poem without a title in 17 syllables,concise with a surprise or turn in lines 4/5. The form was created by Denis Garrison,an American poet.
In the examples I found several wonderfully written poems, the main rule is that there are no five syllable counted lines,( 2,3,4,6,2 is the common usage of the syllable count)
But our main rule is to have fun !!!


Winter day
Driving cold snow
and what if it were you
freezing ?


A portrait
of youth and love
a walls dust collector




One Shot Wednesday – Poetry Week 31

The others will not understand the need
and in that they will never know the healing.
But the beginning of the telling
has to start for both the healing
and the understanding.
So here, from the child who lived it,
is the insight to what came to be.

The others came from the abuse,
passed down from generations,
the way it was taught and lived.
The only change was their names.
Many years of suffering came to pass
and the others had their own flesh.
That flesh is this child,
the reason the others had pain.
The reason the others other was gone.

As vague as it is in the read
so it was for the child.
A complete non-understanding,
the child is only a child after all,
and the others did not give explanation..
But they did give the anger,
starting with the yelling,
then leveling up to a smack or two.

It's sad that those didn't get through,
to the others or the child,
as a wrong doing.
Even worse that the others found
striking was easier than talking.
Beat them until they no longer cry.
The silence made it okay,
the others could rest without the guilt
if the cries were not heard.
Until the day it went much too far.

That's when the child had decided
Its was too much,
the wrong starting to show,
in the peoples eyes.
Something unseen until now,
but the people said it was wrong
So it must have been...right?
The people try to comfort me,
they say it's not my fault.
The fault lies in the others,
I am only a child, just 13 now.
The others should carry the shame.
But the others know not of shame.
What was stolen from me
and the shame I now carry,
I feel dirty , angry.
Violent in this violation.

Until the people came
I had no understanding of
the wrong the others caused.
It was normality for me, a daily occurrence.
Why do the people say these things?
The others say it is love,
all they ever gave was their best.
The people say it was abuse.

I looked very poor, I guess
the bruises look worse
two weeks after they began.
Being away from the others
the people draw their own conclusions.
They take me, for my own protection
and here I am, imprisoned,
while the others are free.
So here in lies my shame
and my confusion.

I am alone in a sea of children like me,
we are waiting for the hurt to subside,
but we already know it won't.
None of the people allow it
they only seem to want to study it.
'What do you see in this blot',
Another mark on a paper
that's hidden from my eyes.
How is that helping?
Will those marks make it better?

Am given a choice,
Which is really no choice at all.
To be a ward, or go back.
How is that a choice?
I miss my life, I want it back,
Not with the others though
The others still have that look
That 'come back and let me show you' look
That look that scares me
That 'I'll teach you' look in their eyes

But I've already learned that lesson
And opt to be a ward, bad choice.
The others disown, like I'm the pet
No longer wanted, never was anyway.
But the worse part was the rest of the others,
The sibling others,
They left me long before the people came,
but now they side with the others,
This makes it worse, way worse.
They were the one who understood
Now they think I'm bad
For making the others suffer

Maybe I am the reason the others hurt me,
Unruly child, unmannered, unwanted,
but the people don't see me that way,
They still say it's the others that are wrong,
But I'm confused, if it isn't me then
Why am I still here? A prisoner, a foster.
Will I be good enough to keep?
Or am I too damaged to want,
Seems the latter is the answer.
So again I run.

I'm older now, understand more too
I cant think of the others any more
I have to think of me
If I'm going to survive
and I have the desire to.
So I put the others in a box,
Locked up tight, but never far.
They will always be a part,
But I'm finally free, and
I will never be like them...
And so I pray,
please never let me be like them.
I distance myself from the hurt.
The people no longer care where I am,
and I haven't seen the others in years.
I left them far behind, along with all
that the others made me, keeping nothing
not even the given name, all has changed.
Keep praying that I'm not like them,
and grow so that I am not.

I feel again, life is fun and work is good.
It's better, like those things didn't happen.
The dark box doesn't open anymore.
Feeling like I'm worth something.
Another sees me, says I'm pretty,
takes my scars and heals them,
gives me a new kind of love.
We grow together, vow to each other.

But this other changes with the vow,
and now I feel afraid for my life,
for the flesh we made, the tiny life.
My other becomes what I fear most,
the others are back, haunting me.
Only its not the others, its my other.
The emotional ties have come undone.
As has our life together unravels
with each unkind movement and word,
the tiny flesh dies and I'm unwanted.

Beaten and bruised by my other,
causing the loss of our flesh,
I'm torn, beyond repair.
Unable to care, so saddened.
Even my other abusing me has no effect,
so he leaves me broken and finds a new.
Now I fall deeper than deep,
so deep I have to look up to see hell.

Darkness surrounds me, engulfing me,
when I reached out, I found powder.
It makes me not care, it lifts me,
and to it I give myself completely
Yes there were other others but they
didn't matter, only the powder.
Wanting the forgetfulness of the powder.
Seeking more, living only for the power,
nothing else, no one else,
could get through, not even me.
In the powders arms, I feel safe.
All that the others and my other
had done melt away with each inhale.
There is nothing in the world that
matters more than the powder,
I sink deep into it and lose myself.

I become brave, too brave really,
decide that the others should see,
get a grasp of what I've become.
But the others haven't been the blame
for well over fifteen years now,
only I still feel the shame,
carried it in my dark box for so long .
The powder makes me think
I would have been normal
If the other's were kind.
But that wasn't how it was
and the others have to be shown.

But the others don't see,
they only see the powder,
use it as a blame of what I've become.
They don't understand that the powder
is what brought me out of the darkness.
Gave me a reason to be brave,
allowed this showing of the truth.
The truth goes unnoticed.

The others don't care really,
the blame would not be theirs
even if the powder was not here.
The haunting's come back,
'All I ever did was love you'
'You made me do that to you'
'If you were good '
I lash out, angry again,
drive away, blind in every way.

That's when it happened,
the sobering moment.
Someone innocent, in the road,
but I don't see her, I'm powdered up,
in a rage of selfishness.
She goes under the car,
I look back, see her there,
she is standing, I think I must have
just been dreaming it, she's okay...
I drive away....But she is not okay,
After weeks in the hospital, she dies.
The guilt of it consumes me,
and I turn myself in, I
tell all of it, the powder,
the anger, the remorse.
Some how they find forgiveness,
and although I pay for the crime,
the payment was shortened, and
the intervention begins.

The sobering up wasn't hard,
if it's not available, you just live on.
It was the remembering that was so hard.
The tears flowed constantly.
But in the end, it washed me.
The rain in the heart started a growth.
A seed that came from the devastation.
It grew into something I never had before,
a love of my self. I was redeemed.
When I was released I was new, different.

I have forgiveness in me now,
so I pass that on to the others.
They still have their flaws,
but I no longer have the desire
to show them their wrongs.
Now I see through the eyes of
what can be, not what was.
We have found each other again,
new family values, new family.
The secrets go unsaid, like it never happened.

That part will forever haunt me though.
There is still no understanding,
and the box is still in here, holding the guilt,
so I never become them, or what I became
ever again. I know I will never be free,
but maybe if my box is opened
so ones like me know there is worse.
We are not as alone as we feel.
Maybe their others will see,
and it will change the world,
Maybe. We still have hope.
It's up to us all, isn't it?
THE OTHERS- family
THE PEOPLE- the court system, family health
POWDER- Meth, my drug of choice at the time... I have been sober for well over Ten years now... Happily !