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

ENTRIES - November 9 thru November 22

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.

November 9 thru November 22

Look! A carousal.
Colorful horses go up
and down. What great fun.

Sarah Copeland
Monotone memories
startled from reflections
in his faded glass eyes.

He came in with grace
following my whistle
with a noble gallop.

In the shadow of
his restless dreams, he runs
and hides from watching eyes.

Galloping as if
Somewhere it will go;in truth
It runs in circles.

I walked silently along the damp coastline, my bare feet sinking every
few steps into the cold sand, so bright against the shadowed forest
wall. With every gust of ocean air the trees swayed a little further to
each side their groans like a mid-day yawn, all swayed except the
eagles tree. Its bark grayed and peeling, barley covers its thick trunk,
it takes four of my uncles to hug it properly. I smile, my lips cracking,
as I remember games of hide and seek with portly city cousins, all of
us being able to hide behind that eagle's tree. The eagle is just
returning as I sit on the driest piece of driftwood I can find, he is old
now but still as powerful and majestic. After finishing his freshly
caught breakfast he takes to the swirling winds and battles his way
around the corner and into the next bay. Quickly the sky begins to
change, the dreary fog of night lifting to reveal the sun's first rays as
they tentatively peek over a heaving horizon. Slowly my mind
becomes once again aware of time and I unwillingly rouse myself and
retrace my sunken steps back to my mothers house atop the
secluded west cliff, I can see it from here, the blue and white looking
as if they were plucked straight from a photo of Greece. I smile again,
wincing as the wind stings my chapped lips, and sigh as the reality of
a new day slowly sets in.

Who is this mysterious cat?
Eyes wide with mystical sight
What are your thoughts on this celestial night?
Purr Purr to your delight.

Crafty Green Poet
The self confidence of the very beautiful.
The flash of a bird flying past.
Instinct to follow.

Every morning he nudges me awake,
then plops on my belly for a second until
he loses patience at my slow awakening.
Opening the cabinet door, I reached for his favorite food,
then realized I had done it out of habit. My morning ritual
had been broken after five years.
I hope tomorrow I will not forget.

Sarah Copeland
Parting thick fog with
golden fingertips
she peers into
the enchanted forest.

Eerily quiet, it makes
silver tears run freely
from her blind eyes.

She feels along its path
hearing every shade of color,
like a symphony it proclaims
an existence.

Tree trunks, purple like
storm clouds, bend themselves
over her path, their leaves
a gentle pink provide shade
for her parched body. Soon
her path will end and sleep
come to call, her last joy
to be remembered for eternity.

Sarah Copeland
Time it is kicked away
like a crumbling soccer ball,
patched and nurtured
after every game.
We roll along, sometimes
in a straight line,
mostly zigzagging thru life,
never staying too long and not often coming back
as the same person.I think of friends
I once knew
and wish with all my being
to slow this ball,
to pause and remember,
to grab pen and paper,
to say hello,
once more.

Sarah Copeland
Mind rising above
pain and reality;
a neon field of daisies.

Crafty Green Poet
The flower glows
reflecting the sky -
a lightning flash.


To create, to grow
One must see the world askance
Changing hues and shapes.

Read more....

Sarah Copeland

Rebar crosses line main street,
contradictions within themselves
as they emit the cold of death
and preach the warmth of love.

Flowers adorn some, others
sit alone in contemplating
silence...I shiver
...eternal silence? Must be hell.

Quickening my pace the fear
in that thought settles into
the blur of my past, as I
round another corner those
rebar crosses crumble like rust in my memory.

Sarah Copeland

"It's raining again
loud on your car
like bullets on tin."

The spoon inside last nights coffee cup rattled as the bass kicked in
on my stereo, the time, six am, filled my room with an unearthly glow.
Outside the only light came from a winter crescent moon, its silver
light passed on to the clouds, trees and grass, like a disease. I lay in
bed for a few moments watching the tree tops sway back and forth, as
the wind picked up its speed it gained a howling voice as it squeezed
itself through the cracks in my one room cabin. A sharp snap like
bones cracking almost made me sick to my stomach as the green
glow of my stereo disappeared and relative silence regained its
presence. What was the point of paying for electricity when it only
worked reliably for four months out of the year. Darkness was creeping
back in as purple clouds, like angry bruises, began to cover the sky;
the sun’s repression their mandate.
Clumsily I found the light button on my watch, ten after six, I swung
numbed legs over the side of my cot, its regular protesting creeks
silenced by the crashing rain that had begun to bombard the earth,
every drop making its own crater in the thawing ground. I pulled on
jeans and a t shirt then groped about in the darkness until I found a
sweatshirt hanging over the back of my orange and green couch, I was
glad the miracle of power had been taken away as it conveniently hid
the dizzying paisley swirls. I could barely hear myself curse over the
deafening roar of rain as I stubbed my right toes on a corner of the
frozen iron stove. Squinting into the darkness I found my lighter and
the box of kindling, after some pleading and coaxing I succeeded in
lighting a half charred log on fire. With the discovery of light once
again I became aware of a sudden change, I stood for a moment in
front of the stove pondering this, trying desperately to regain feeling in
various places. I turned and began my journey of five steps towards
the kitchen in search of my kettle, the floorboards creaking beneath
my winter weight, I froze. Silence had again returned, slipping
unfeeling feet into damp hiking boots I barged through the front door
and into a blinding world. Almost every trace of shadow was gone,
hidden beneath a blanket of the purest white tinted orange by the first
rays of a winter sun.

Sarah Copeland

The heat of an august prairie afternoon makes his plastic skin melt,
loosening a vintage tie he forces a halting voice to brave the outside world.
My mother, acting equally as plastic, pours another cup of lemonade
with shaking hands whiter then freshly churned butter. I fidget beneath
layers of Sunday dress and tug at pale pink ribbons that almost
disappear beneath unruly blond curls, an older sister's glare from
behind the visitor's shoulder stills
my very soul. With a startling fierceness the visitor speaks;
a narrow tale he etches upon our hearts, the meaning as clear as mud
to my naive heart, as his voice raises with every new truth.
My eyes fulfill the need to stare at something by etching my own stories
on the leather cover of his black book.
Time crept along until finally the young visitor took his leave,
as my mother escorted him to the crumbling front door I once again
raised my eyes to stare at where the visitor had sat, his plate of
cookies untouched and carefully balancing on the thick arm rest. My
simple mind wondered how much of his plastic skin he had shed in
my father's favorite chair, shivering in disgust I tried to push the stern
face of the visitor out of my mind, but it always seemed to reappear.
I remember the cookies my mother made that day, simple circles with
raisins pressed in at random, every year at our august family reunions
she makes them by the dozens, but my mouth turns to desert when
the thought of eating them comes to mind.
That preachers disapproving sniff roars in my ear like a waterfall,
childhood fidgeting masked my fear but now as I remember his plastic skin,
I remember too his plastic words. I remember the hypocrite who
melted in my father's favorite chair that sweltering august afternoon.
The afternoon before the night that, that glorious visitor drank himself into oblivion.


This dinner guest must be someone from my dream. A mystical
creature who came not to haunt me but lighten up my burden.
Unfortunately, I have no much means to repay his kindness, so I
cooked him the last flour cake I could ever make with the few
ingredients that I have. I was only smiling at him as he eats. It made
my tummy full just by looking at him enjoy the simple meal. For him it
was a delicacy, and I'm very glad it was enough to make his heart glad.

Every night I wake up covered in sweat. I can't get those eyes out of
my mind. I can't remember when he first appeared in my dreams. This
horrible, little creature who chains me to my chair, then forces me to
eat rotted food and drink down dirty dish water until I gag for mercy. It
makes no sense, no sense at all. I can not live this way. But, how can
I kill someone who does not exist?
Waves don gowns of gray as they begin to swirl,
their cheeks blushing off white
like a treasured pearl.
Giddy and gay they rush to meet a still sand
only to find silence has plagued
the band...
In the peace of silent night,
Of glaring moon that had risen and overcame the sun,
Let us be one in the memories and live for our perfect future


I am living in my favorite place Hawaii. But a very close second is San
Francisco somewhere with a view of the Golden Gate. It's a warm
Indian Summer's day in November and I am strolling on the beach
near the Marina watching the wind surfers do a dance zig zagging
back and forth on the never ending motion of the bay. Its a glorious
day as the sun warms my face.

He sat there every day playing his guitar with his eyes closed.
The children would come out and gather around him. Quiet for a change.
His music, food for their hungry soul.

Sarah Copeland

His world is tinted in graying yellow
the memories of time, slow to mellow
the horrors never so much as hinted,
in graying yellow his world is tinted

Tables and chairs lean like soldiers
weary and scarred, feeling blurs
floating above on clouds of morphine
like soldiers tables and chairs lean

Word Prompt - Silence
Silence - - a menace
to the musician's ears.


In the deserted alley behind my house, the cats hide from the rocks
and cans that the mean boys throw at them to get their kicks.
The rats used to hang there, too.


word prompt - breathe
In memories...
Breathing death
she barely tasted life,
From horrid struggle hath
redeemed haven for our strife

Breathing hope
we smelled success,
From evil havoc made us cope
we her tough young spirit bless


I breathe in the silence of the night, surrounded by the stars and the
trees. Not knowing where my footsteps will lead me, I edge closer to
the silence that calls out my name.
Headline: Cape Cod's Prize catch of the year.
Caption: Using a secret bait Jonathan Barr lured in the biggest catch of the year,
his nets almost breaking under the mass of flopping silver.

Silver backs flashed
while young fishermen brash
headed into a swirling blue,
and the storm it began to brew;
their boats all washed ashor
eas splinters; nothing more.

First sentence of a book
Camille stole a nervous glance over her snow covered shoulder,
the sun had yet to rise over the silver bay,
but she knew she stood in the market square, the familiar smell of
fresh bait centering her senses; soon her brother too would
venture out into the cold and display his prize cod.

Sarah Copeland

Word prompt - Silence
Standing silently
I almost forget to breath,
a graveyard of old trucks
among the fallen fur trunks
each rusted spot bearing
another tall tale, each growing
a little more with every storm,
for their voices my heart mourns.
But to silent contemplation
I return as shadows turn crimson.

To be continued....

No comments:


Blogger Template by Blogcrowds