20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers

Tag Archives: writing


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Daily Post Challenge

In case you might have an interest in this, I offer the Daily Post Challenge. Just go to dailypost.wordpress.com.

There you will find daily prompts for writers and weekly prompts for photographers. There’s a new writing prompt every day, and I’ve been using it to stir the creativity. I find it a good source.

I’m sure some of you are already aware of it and are even using it, but just in case it could benefit others, here it is. Go for it.

And be sure to share what you’ve written. That’s what community is all about.


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Sometimes it happens-

… so quietly that you don’t even realize it.  There was no alarm.  No bell.  Not even a ringing in your ears.  Nothing lets you know that the moment that just got by you was the one that you should have reached for and held onto.  That it won’t come back again, even if you beg.  That you are left in a permanent state of watching her walk away.

That’s okay, you tell yourself.  There will be another one.

You silently hope.  You wish it to be true.  You hope that life will be kind and you will keep on getting chances just like the one that kissed your cheek, then turned away.

The truth is, we never know, do we?

I am blessed by this community and by the gifts you share of yourself every day.  Coming here always makes me smile, and  I know I’m not the only one that feels that way.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Just took a peek at the stats, and while this is something I usually never do, it feels like a milestone and I thought I would share it with you.

Happy 50,000+ visitors to 20 Lines.  I thought I’d let you know.

 

Cheers, and happy everything,

Melissa


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Innocence returns

I, Davros: Innocence

I, Davros: Innocence (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Youthful innocence not clouded by reason

 

devoted uncaring , tattoos of a demon

 

consciously knowing that all good things end

 

dreaming of days that wont be condemned

 

sleeping in daylight , stalking the night

 

innocence returns with minds full of fright

 

soon days disappear without our request

 

feelings turn black in total distress

 

innocence is funny it returns when were old

 

innocence is precious , should treat it like gold

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Related articles

 


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c u r r e n t

thCATFL0QD

i

walk

these

city streets
leaving

a

q u i e t

reply

in this
discordant
cavernous

world

…..and

……floating

….smooth

…in

my

c u r r e n t

hushed

scribbling

scattered

seed

here
and
there

m u s i c

at my

ear

sowing

d r e a m ing

hoping

an

echo

m e m o r y

return

of

b e a u t y

might

will

r e m a i n

r e m e m b e r

r e s i d e

where
there
was
none
.
.
.


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bloom

thCA42BGX3

with delicate and

slow unfurling

let me savor

then, every

curl and

ruffle.

our

spring

is upon us

i’m here waiting,

an ear to your soil

and listening.

always.


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single ray of light

a single ray of light in the dark room,

static at a particular straight line,

never moving, always staying there,

just fading when approaches the twilight,

and disappearing with onset of  night,

 

making an appearance yet once again,

as sunlight comes through a new day,

faint at first, but reclaiming its shine-

the single light ray in the dark room,

 

where there exists nothing else but

a penetrating darkness all around,

isolated away from life and living,

where the only play is that of the light,

which comes by everyday, day after day-

the single ray of light in the dark.


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renewal

photo tumblr_lqp396S3741qg39ewo1_500.gif

and if i

sound wide eyed,

it’s because

i am.

i’m

a little

in awe of what

i’ve become,

so late

in my

day.

written April 2013


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Better Ending

Better Ending

Oceans are a continuation of sky

drenched and impatient

with brine

in its teeth

 

On brackish waves

whispers are lost

 

While sacrifices                 never forgotten

* * *

Stream and rhythm

are one in

morphological past

 

And there are other words

from dead languages

seen only in

memories of transliterations

passed over.

 

No language is dead

so much as hidden.

 

Words like to run

and do best

when detached from

black skin of text.

 

Clay left with stylus pressings

are footprints

of sounds getting away.

* * *

Mist is metaphor

being carried

with a tribute to Eurydice

and Lot’s wife.

 

Tired of song and sermon

salt seemed

a better ending.


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A Strange Trip

This flu has made me drive the exit ramp,
take strange new roads that led to quiet woods.
For way too long a time the sickness hoods
that fell upon me turned into my camp.

This isn’t where I’m comfortable at all,
and writing took a backseat in my car.
I’ve been so lost, and had to travel far
to lands where creativity is small.


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JUST ONE MORE DAY TO GO

Just one more day to go
Yes February will soon be but a memory
We have broken so many records with our snow
I know I show you pretty pictures but trust me it has been dreary.

As the rains fall hard in our yard today
Birds are eating what I have offered them with added fury
Then I watch as they rush back to their fray
I bet when the sun comes back they too will be in their glory

February has been a lot like winters of past
The snow just kept dumping on us blast after blast
Snowfall records have even been surpassed
I am really amazed with all this snow and ice I did not end up wearing a CAST!

Thank you March for coming along hurry please
I will turn a year older wiser as well I am sure
I am actually looking forward to flowers covered with bees
I guess as I reflect upon these words if it was always spring I would be bored.

JUST ONE MORE DAY TO GO!


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Wishes

I wish that I could be a prowling cat
or, ghostlike in the wall, hear pieces, bits
of whispered conversation. Oh. He quits?
How can this be? I feel my heart fall flat.

I wish my dad had not deserted us.
I wonder what we might have all become
if he’d not gone away and left us numb.
I felt a big subtraction, never plus.

I wish my father had approved of me,
shown his encouragement or his support.
Instead, he and my mom wound up in court,
their marriage then dissolved. He, fancy-free,

married again, then two times more. I saw
him try for happiness. O, how I begged
for his attention, but I had him pegged
right, and I sadly saw the fatal flaw

that kept him locked from free and easy back
and forth relationships. And how I wish
than cancer hadn’t spilled its nasty dish
into his lap to emphasize the lack

he must have felt. I stopped my wishing then,
forgave him, overlooked much, and calmed down.
He, after all, had shared his writing crown.
He’d lived Days One through Nine. Soon coming? Ten.

 


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Dry Spell

My hand won’t write, but worse than that
my mind can’t conjure up the words
that float on air like little birds.
Where’s the magician and his hat?

I’d wish that he might pull a song
from whence the furry rabbits come.
Please give me something, let me hum
a tune, a verse. It’s all so wrong

to be bereft of energy
for writing on this snowy morn.
Suppose ideas will be born
if patiently I wait? O me,

o my, I do not like this state
of wordlessness. Turn on the lamp,
light up the dark of writer’s cramp,
and fill the blankness of my slate.

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