Photo and Art Prompts to Inspire Creativity in all Forms
For artists, bloggers, poets, writers and students

ENTRIES: November 23 thru January 17

The following is a list of some of the entries made on this blog. They are entered here in date order only. This list will be updated periodically.

Feel free to leave comments if you wish, and if you'd like to visit the author's blog, click on the name above each entry.

Sarah Copeland
Following footprints
I wander in circles,
deja vu like a
scratched record telling
the tale of my life.
I journey on and curse
the comfortless shade
that conceal my guides

Sarah Copeland
Eclectic Electric

Tattered t shirts mark
unconventional youth,
their frail bodies
a canvas sketched upon
with a permanent ink.
Perhaps they are wiser
than we know, choosing
black they make known
their generations

They crowd dieing parks
and march along main streets
to the beat of their
own drums, their
lamentations dripping from
heavily strummed guitar strings.
Their contorted faces
haunt a world's conscience,
but is their grief loud enough,
worth enough or hard enough?
Is there any love left
for the eclectic electric?

Sarah Copeland
Diablo, a snapshot

Chocolate brown eyes guiltily gazed into mine as she lay on her back all four legs pointing to the ceiling. This would have been fine if not for the fact that she was lying on my kitchen table, all 160 pounds of newfoundland pyrenees cross that shed long black hair like, well like a dog. It was if I was living in a Marley Fowat tale, and had unknowingly bought the dog who wouldn't be. Clumsily she managed to half jump half roll off the table and saunter over to her food dish, looking back at me with her imploring puppy eyes.


Like Sonya's family, our gathering was held in a special place.
But ours was a humble celebration.
No linen napkins, or silver goblets.
Ours, like every year, took place around
an old kitchen table given to us by our neighbors
when we first moved in. We ate only stale bread
and potato soup that momma made from leftovers.
Our gathering was special because we knew.
We knew that our bond was strong and pure. And, that was what we celebrated.

Sarah Copeland

I lay alone, my thoughts
yearning for another.
I lay alone, primitive
and childlike, my thoughts
yearning for another.
I lay alone, primitive
and childlike, abandoned
like yesterdays news,
the lines smudged with
faithless tears, my thoughts
yearn for another.

Sarah Copeland

(Free Write Exercise)

Lights flash orange, the wind whips
like a mothers wrathful tongue,
coming here I thought I could reconcile
but here I cry out in pain as memories
eat me from the inside.
I pedal faster, littering tears along
a frozen sidewalk, I wonder what
the impact of flesh and steel would feel like,
pondering thoughts I continue...lights.
Why do they follow me? I have done nothing wrong,
is it wrong to want to live, to laugh
and understand?
Music fills my ears,
I am slipping away once more,
it is a steady beat with an upbeat vocal,
she soothes my fiery temper, my temperature drops.
"Take it slow, take it easy"
I hum its simple tune.
Returning to delirium I am sane
as I watch the passing people
from my rotting bench, the dedication plaque
has been unreadable for years.
Lights overhead and below,
forever searching, leaning into a tight corner
I grasp tightly the rubber of my handlebars,
narrowing my eyes I visualize brilliance and cunning.
The sound barrier shatters
as someone laughs inside my head
and rain falls from the parched ground,
I straighten body and bike,
pedaling lights flash
as I come to realize the feeling
of flesh and metal meeting.

Sarah Copeland
My skin recoils after each blast of icy cloud we pass through, my tears forming frozen droplets that dissapear into the smog filled abyss. Here we are, the day after tomorrow, the great pattern of life disrupted beyond repair. Dipping below the clouds, below the smog, a broken city appears. Its great towers crumbling below the cries of a humanity extinct. Narrowing burning eyes I search for one last hope, but even the sun's rays barely reach this spinning rock. We turn to head into the sky, beyond the frozen clouds and into the great blue divide. Gaining altitude I am lulled into the realm of unconciousness by the steady beating of wings, heading for a certain death among the twinkling stars.

Sarah Copeland
The stage lights barely register through the smoke
as he picks up his guitar, tuning it down too far.
His voice dark like night rises from within
a hunched over chest hidden beneath his cowboy vest,
he pulls a weathered western hat over his gray eyes
an audience his only fear but he wants them to hear
the words sporadically penned on a grease stained napkin
pulled together by a simple melody; a thought on history.

Sarah Copeland
As a child I lovingly cradled
the robin's blue eggshells
I found underneath the sturdy
forest trees,
carefully I would place them
on a simple wooden shelf
that was hung just below
my molding window.
The lace curtains
always drawn back so that
I might not miss a single
natural scene.

As a teenager I smashed
every reminder of a new life
that I could find,
my resentment
for this world showered
on a bewildered mother earth.
My baby pink walls
that used to echo with innocent laughter
were filled with incongruous thoughts,
neatly penned with a fine tip marker,
the blackest one to be found.

As an adult I sought
the harshest penance to repay
those tender new shoots trampled
below my black lace-up army boots,
the young saplings that
I took my daddy's axe to
in rebellious fits of rage,
the amphibians I locked
in windowless cages,
and the robin's blue eggshells
that I crushed
with my bruised fists.

As an elderly citizen I warned
those whose eyes burned
with a wretched fire
that nature's helpless
could not be blamed
for our own inadequacies,
that no matter how hard we willed
the sun not to rise
it would always come,
barreling over the still horizon,
to interrupt
our seances of self loathing.
Mother nature would continue
to live and flourish
whether we uttered atomic threats
into its fungal ears or
burned its outstretched arms
with cigarettes, puffing
the smoke of raw emotion.

As a memory I imitate
my childrens' conscience
following them
like a forlorn puppy,
reminding of my own penitence.

I used to think that salvation is about becoming a better and close-to-perfect person, which was frustrating because failure happens everyday. Aiming for perfection is setting myself up for failure. Then I discovered that it is not my goodness that will save me, but it is the goodness of a perfect God with a perfect love that will. He is my light. He is my truth. His Word is a lamp unto my feet. And His love never fails.

Sarah Copeland
There are many epiphanies that come in ones life during the ages of growing, some manifesting into an actual enlightening experience. It may be in the form of overcoming an obstacle, such as fear or just testing the limits of ones endurance, climbing towering mountains or running across a country. As I am still considered young, although the lines around my eyes tell a different story, many of the traditional enlightening experiences I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting. Although I have dangled my feet over the edge of cliffs that drop into royal blue satin and thought to myself of the flaws in many of humanities habits. And wished, so hard that my tears fell into the blue below, that I could bring about a change, to be a modern day Robin Hood, taking from the rich and giving to the poor.

Maybe someday.

Sarah Copeland
Lines flow into a sequence,
her pale dress flitting
about chubby limbs,
grace somehow achieved amidst
the awkwardness of new movement.

She slides, steps and twirls
to the nursery rhyme
playing in her head,
eyes closed tight,
the room is large
no need to see the walls,
her legs will not carry her
that far.

She imagines a ballroom
from the peeling paint
and crumbling brick,
and feels the worn plank floor
beneath her feet as if
cool marble below glass slippers;
a princess adorned with
shimmering jewels.

Though others would shiver
with each wave of
creeping draft she continues
oblivious to the world;
for now at least.
Her imaginary friends
will keep her strong
as she rules from her
termite infested throne,
buried beneath the simplicity
of daisy chains.

She is happy, but I am not.
My mind wanders to a deeper
thought, those who see her
seem to be unaware of my
persistent presence
as if I am simply a figment
of her vivid imagination,
but I am seen by those
she lovingly gathers
in her short arms an speaks
her inner most secrets to;
cautiously I pose a question
to myself,
am I her imaginary friend
or is she mine?

Sarah Copeland

Bare feet nimbly pick paths
through a concrete jungle,
their wispy hair ruffled
by the passing traffic.
Curiosity illuminates
their dark eyes while
excited chatter announces them
to a troubled world in need
of simple answers.

From behind white picket fences
and freeway guard rails
they stand silently united
in their views and questions.
They watch and wait,
wishing on stars
and pennies tossed
into road side fountains.
They watch and wait,
for the independence to rule
and govern amongst themselves;
to make a world
where they are equal and free.

Sarah Copeland
When you look into
those deep pools of blue
can you see the light
that is her soul's invite
to say hello and get to know
the curiosity hidden below?

When you look into
those deep pools of blue
can you see the life
waiting to end the strife,
waiting to break free
and say, hey this is me.

When you look into
those deep pools of blue
make them sing, make them ring
with a smile shared in passing.
Don't be shy, those eyes
never judge on outside lies.

Therese L. Broderick

They do.
But differently, just as no two

hats will shade a girl's face
in the same way.

See how black lines and smudges
are almost shutting

the eye on the left
(her right), and yet

the eye on the right
(her left)is washing to white.

Just watch for a single wink
to fit that cowgirl rim.

Sarah Copeland
Eyes shadowed
by yesterdays makeup,
steal a glace towards
an imposing figure,
muted by the candle light.
Outside the cracked window
stars tell of so many wishes
long since forgotten,
promises broken.

He is unhappy today,
he's not high enough
to forget life's pain.

The bruise, that will greet
her tomorrow when
she looks into her mirror
will be another reminder
of a path she can't
find the natural end to.

Sarah Copeland
When I look to my left
there is a reflection,
but it is not my own.

Her eyes are a quiet brown,
steady and knowledgeable.

Music and art flow
from her nimble fingertips,
with patience painted
on her chipped nails.

A crooked smile is
her offering to this
gray world,
and an open heart
ready to love humanity
should it fall.

She stands by my side
no matter life's weather,
together we can do anything.
Together we are brave,
we are cheeky, we are all
sisters should be.

Her and me,
together we'll always be.

Sarah Copeland
The sun makes polka dots
through the grape vines,
settling on her flushed
face like the reflection
of a disco ball.
They kiss once more, both
happy in this tuscan moment
revisiting secret
meeting places of years
gone by.

Their shadows grow longer
as they head towards
the familiar sound
of a dinner bell,
a breeze carrying
summers warmth shifts
the sun's patterns
on their pale skin.
Laughter bubbles up
from their love filled
souls, they are young again
racing up a lane
that leads to the main
house, the one splitting
the vineyard in half.

A Holiday in Tuscany, filled
with red, gold and vibrant
greens rejuvenates their
city hearts, reminding
of simpler times.

Therese L. Broderick

They pluck the souvenirs as they find them
among the hills of Pisa and the ports of Livorno,
the Arezzo meadows and Chianti vineyards,

from the old stone villa and red brick farmhouse,
the pergola in the garden, Santa Maria's church,
one leaning tower, several courtyards with vases.

They take chunks of goat cheese, white grapes
still on their stems, vintage wine from a bottle
just opened, a viola and its love song and its

singer. They take the green from the countryside,
and all but a pair of cypress trees. They leave behind
only their last traces : sunflower yellows, poppy reds.

Therese L. Broderick

Morning will bring another kind
of war here at river's edge
where moonlit fog is gathering
and three sentries keep watch
from one thin, barbed branch
of a cherry tree.
Each bird could have his own perch
but they wait together, one single
last army unit.
And if they sing at all,
their throats open to the contest,
each note playing a sad ballad,
every silence a lesson of battle.

Sarah Copeland
The sky is gray with mist descending upon the inhabitants of this unnamed bay. Most lie sleeping, unaware of this dawn ritual, but three peer through the lifting darkness awaiting their sun's return. They perch together but apart on a twig like branch; it is no larger than those carefully avoided by the predators slowly slinking back into a windowless forest. Silhouetted against a sky slowly acquiring its winter flush, they ruffle black feathers yet to reveal their purple tinges. The air is crisp and small puffs of air can be seen in the air above their curious heads as the sun rises to warm the coming day and dissipate the gray.

Stalking the Light

Brands, wounds, and unbearable agony. I know I should have schemed earlier. It's almost too late to realize my foolishness...

My feet are sore and pushed running away from my pursuers. My body at times crashes to the ground, feeling heavy in pain when finally I found a place, if not comfortable, at least enough to keep my head and neck intact.

I was panting, even in my hardest effort not to make a sound of breath.

I dropped my weight against a tree, my bare swollen skin uncomfortably rubbing against the roughness of its bark. I raised my head to the skies. The moon spreads light heartwarmingly, as I felt a counter strike of cold wind.

I can hear howls, caws and sounds which all seemed to me the calling of death. The cold air worsening my fearful trembling.

Bitter tears trickles through my cheeks as I began asking myself repeatedly, whispering curses between small breath intakes, "What... have I... done to... deserve this?"

Even though it seems I have outrun the enemies, my whole soul is still completely in threat. I am nothing but helpless, if not to my lord's men's beatings and torture, to the prying eyes of predators in this wild woods.

If not by the darkness of night, I might have even caught sight of crows and vultures anticipating my corpse.

"I have... to run... I have to... escape..."

I hardly stood with the help of the trunk, when shortly, I fell. My legs are numb. I can't walk. I tried to crawl. But the countless bruise and wounds kept me from going further. My body fell flat on the ground. I can't drag my body, heavier with my weakness.

I groaned. I cried. "This can't be the end! No... Why? What did I do to deserve this?"

I gave in a loud cry of bitterness, as if I have already been caught and preyed upon. This is it? This is my end?

And before I knew, I was laughing. Laughing shrilly with moistful eyes lustily craving for revenge.

And then it changed to a desperate sob, like that of a tormented woman, incapable and weak.

I am dying... I know I am. That finally, I accepted my stars.

If, indeed, my hour shall come, I will not delay in embracing my fate, ending my misery, which, I believe, only death can ease.

Therese L. Broderick


They skip a generation--clan
features like green-blue eyes
and how they see the day ahead--
dark and narrow, or wide and bright--
and a long tilted jaw preferring
few words, and their slow sauntering
way of speaking. Neither can hear
how like the other he sounds
as they walk down the path
to the school. And their hands--
the same hold on love.

Therese L. Broderick

A young woman so drawn to the ordinary light
coming through her twelve-paned kitchen window
that she has climbed onto the countertop, one leg
resting in the aluminum sink, the other balanced
on the thin formica edge, stretching in front
of a white china plate perhaps already rinsed.
The rest of the scene is dark, less apologetic
than any shaded interior of Vermeer. Unlike those
maids and burgher housewives and recent widows,
this girl need not refrain from getting as near
as she desires to the common city streets beyond
her chores and corners. Nothing keeps her scant
attire proper or demure : no veils or aprons,
bodice or skirt or collar. No suitor is waiting
for her reply. Her simple face, barely visible
as a profile of reflected light, is pearly
enough outside the cage of things too rare.

Therese L. Broderick


Ages before the cathedral's spire
blew down and its tower
collapsed, long before a fire
and then a rare earthquake
sent the stonemasons back to work,

an imp was blown by the wind
from the den of the Devil
through the portals of the church,
wreaking mishief within--
smashing tables and chairs,
tripping the Bishop;

and for his evil deeds, he was
turned to stone by an angel.
On top of one of the columns,
he sits there still, one leg
resting on the knee of the other,
wide-set eyes, heavy brows,

grotesque smile, ears and horns.
He laughs at the folly of men
who make angels in the snow.

Sarah Copeland
There through the mist
you can just see a hint
of beauty and grace,
a little known reflection.

It is drawn from the lines
behind your clever eyes,
stretched like a sturdy bridge
to your imagined paradise.

The contents of your daydreams
carefully painted on a canvas
of rippled reality, every shadow,
scent and sound accounted for.

Sarah Copeland
Frosted window panes
greet her sleep filled eyes,
the snow outside lending
to the cool blue
of her rooms interior.

This morning's colors
are washed over
a silenced land like shades
of watercolors
over cold pressed paper,
even her long blond hair
has been lovingly layered
with winter tinted colors.

As she sits by the frosted window
A cool breeze flows through
Tangling her dirty blong hair
Filling her flannel gown

She waits the passing of time
Screaming in silence
Though she is not ready to listen
Not ready to accept it

The traces are still visible
The marks on her pearly white skin
The food of life still flowing
The pain still throbbing

A fresh scar glowing
As a lifelong reminder
Of what could have been
Of what should have been

Her weeping the only sound
Warm tears in the chill
As she still waits
To accept her fate

Meandering Michael
I'm sitting by the window
The window
The window
I'm waiting by the window
But I can't see outside

A winter blizzard's blowing
It's snowing
and blowing
The vicious blizzard's growing
And it's not safe outside

My love is in the snowstorm
The windstorm
The snowstorm
He comes here through the snowstorm
With something to confide

The wind it blows so coldly
So coldly
So coldly
My lover comes so boldly
Together we'll abide

He comes to ask a question
A question
A question
He comes to ask a question
And I'll reply with pride

I pray that he will make
He'll make it
He'll make it
I pray that he will make it
My light will be his guide

Together we'll be married
Be married
Be married
Oh, God, I'll need a haircut
If I'm going to be a bride

How long has she sat
playing each possibility
each movement forward
countered. Frost on the windows
frost on the soles of her feet
frost in her heart. What can
and cannot be.
Where the dreaming lies
and the sleepers sleep
still inside the center of her storm
her calm, her angel self released.
There is no story told
no hero coming, no beast slain.
Her hair grown over the years,
you tell her age inch by inch.
The forgotten ones climb in,
the sorrow and the sparrow.
Oh, heart of hers shall always
always remember before
the frost laid her soul bare.

Sarah Copeland
Hooded like hangmen
and frightened like lambs
they mill about,
some setting into a pout
as grubby hands thrust
through bars, degrading trust.

The air is no longer fresh
their straw an unruly mess,
but even so they soon lay
in patience a mass of gray
no independence to be found.
Their cries fade trampled into the ground.

Therese L. Broderick
[bins from your deep unparallel]

bins from your deep unparallel,
monks and thieves
stationed in cold north pastures
in waiting for
the sound of Her highness bell,
its mold molasses-
coated, sheer, surface perfectly
cast. Last of its breed.
Monks steal petty prayers from
the silenced peal.
Thieves annoint three of the sheep,
then brand, brand, brand.
Just two and a half are left.
Now only you, awake
to take the final photograph.
You wild wolf,
you last, unkind alternative.

Sarah Copeland
Dancing while dreaming
of a 'forever' freedom;
puppet's strings pull tight.

Sarah Copeland
To each, his own shadow dancer
is appointed to tantalize
the mind, morphing with every
pass of a wavering light.
Always close, if you care
to look in front or behind
of your wandering shoes,
gliding along behind you
changing like a reflection
in circus mirrors.
When boredom threatens
to infest the mind,
your shadow dancer reaches out,
with a polite cough,
to tap on your hunched shoulder
and ask for the honor
of this evening dance.

"Till when shall I remain a shadow of someone else?"

Even together we are
small,inconsequential and yet
all hope lies within this one
gesture, stolen and safe.
This, the kiss.

Sarah Copeland
Here 'neath the opal blue
swims a horse of a golden hue
riding diamond studded waves
rushing forwards without delay,
never for a moment blinking
to clear its vision, never thinking
of the perils hidden in the beige
coming closer like a loose page.
Until at last the horse finds
water no more and for it pines
while withering helpless,
a last gasp brings dreams of a caress
in gentle and curious hands
and face freckled like the sands.
Bright eyes peering, from behind
unruly charcoal hair, for life's sign,
human ear to scaly chest
listening closely for a tiny breath.
Sadness and confusion soon cloud
the child's soul when no life can be found,
walking on thin legs he turns
back t'wards the opal blue unable to discern
the proper course of action
but with a hidden expectation
slowly lowers the small, cool body
into the waves cresting boldly.
With eagerly awaited bubbles
and a flash of scales that startles
the small mind leaning close
to watch as the tiny body flows
away into the open ocean,
but sadness sets in like an incurable potion
and dismayed tears begin
erasing his flowered grin.

Scruffy one eyed
so still a stare
straight through to the heart
none other can see as much with two.

Sarah Copeland
Peering from one eye,
he lowers a scruffy head;
You be my master?

Sarah Copeland
There standing in a mist,
white as mother's flour,
her eyes are dry, emotion
seeping through in a one
syllable question; why?

Why did you clip
my butterfly wings,
why did you chain
my crippled feet
to this cold earth?
You erased my lips,
stealing my smile
like a worthless
candy bar on your way
through this isle of life.

Rub your eyes, let your
heart lift this heavy fog
and restore life
to those inquisitive eyes.

To be continued....

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