Thirty-Seven Cents

I scavenge every source for writing prompts;
the daily news provides exciting prompts.

I list descriptive surnames, aged folks,
to use in stories—plot-uniting prompts.

First names, unusual, go down in ink,
along with asterisks spotlighting prompts.

New places, cemeteries I include;
who knows when I might need foresighting prompts?

I never know about the ‘30s dates—
they might enmesh to scene-igniting prompts.

One chapter’s based entirely on surnames.
Dear Abby’s guilty, too: inciting prompts!

Headlines and captions, quotes—none are exempt.
(No one’s been sued for copywriting prompts.)

So many journals holding so much gold—
With writing time, I mine inviting prompts.

And this, this Star Magnolia tells it all:
Success results from expediting prompts.

According to a UF research team,
inhibiting hormone, ethylene,
when applied to an obedient tomato gene,
dispels the tasteless unripe green
and make riches heretofore, unseen;
. . . may work on many kinds of bean!
(Researchers will no doubt, honors, glean.)

Evening lends a peaceful mood
Which seems to expedite
Calming thoughts and attitudes
In this serene interlude
As time exchanges day for night.

Birds light and settle in the trees
Finishing their evening psalm
As leaves still in the failing breeze
Which reflects diminished energies
As time exchanges busy for calm.

With brilliance the skies explode
In a horizontal arc
A dramatic episode
Before its colors erode
As time exchanges light for dark.

Slanting rays through leaves settle
Like diamonds on the pond they fall
Illuminating the lily's petals
In a fiery show ‘ere day dwindles
As time exchanges bright for dull.

Fading light shines round the trees
Leaving shadows cast far
That stretch and fade in slow degrees
Until they lose identities
As time exchanges sun for stars.

You make me laugh
with your fancy talk.
You hide behind those big words
and long sentences
and try to confuse me.
But I see through your noises
to the evasion,
the uncertainty,
the bluff.
Don't make me laugh.

Sometimes, it's only
the little things that matter--
like the fireflies' flicker,
those low-hung stars
which lit our summer love
with afterlight's last light
on quarter-moons nights.

IN THE AFTERMATH OF
HURRICANE CHARLEY
Harding Stedler

Like Florida
in the aftermath
of Hurricane Charley,
all that remains of your life
is the devastation left
after the passing eye
of the storm:
rubble, debris, and death itself.

I see the trees downed,
roofs blown away,
lives destroyed.
The only avenue left
is to begin anew.
And so you must,
starting at ground-zero.

When the time comes
you are free
to walk through the bars
and into freedom,
you will be years older
than you are today,
and there will be
no semblance of what was:
no home, no husband,
no friends, no job.
The task will be one
of digging out
in search of remnants
from life before the storm
and carving a new trail
late in life.

A Ghazal
THE END
Jean Even

Here’s to freedom, my friends,
May it take us to the end.

From war to peace I say,
“Today will come to an end.”

O how the hour comes
And the minutes too soon end?

Crossing over the road
May take you to a dead end.

It’s a dizzy feeling
Turning circles that won’t end.

All the trees reach up high,
Their branches know where to end.

Rolling balls can not stop
A block brings it to an end.

I know not the way, Lord,
How my life will meet it’s end.

All I know is God’s love
And His grace will never end.

As a friend, Jean even said,
“Find Christ and live to the end.”