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by Carol Varsalona

http://beyondliteracylink.blogspot.com/2017/05/writing-is-like.html

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Writing’s a tempest
a torture
a pain

a squeezing of eyes
a baffling
of brain

a roundabout repeat
of type and
delete

of stand-up and sit-down
of eat
or don't eat

a chaser of muses
of phrases
begun

an exhale of storm clouds
when writing
is done

© 2017 Renée M. LaTulippe

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Writing,

You swim in a river of words.

Word by chosen word,

The delta nears.

Reading,

You stand in the same river twice,

Seeing deeper as

The water clears.

Copyright 2017 Juanita Havill

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I am never ready.

I become expert at delay.

I need more equipment.

Return with accouterments.

Observe: a clear rectangle of

fearsome pool water.

Better that sun simply

softens my back. I relax.

Curious, I dip a toe.

Ack! Too painful.

Time admiring paintings

of garden pools

misleads me into thinking

I can just dive in.

But haven't I shrugged on

my suit? Yes.

Paisley black swirls from India

dance across creamy white fabric.

Geese fly in formation

overhead, blessed delay.

I should I be doing something, too.

Honking geese mock my hesitation.

I fold and refold

the thick long towel.

Prepare to sit down

at the top step.

Eeek! My digits recoil

from immersion.

It is freezing

in there.

A mosquito pierces my back.

I plunge in.

Keep swimming

to soothe the sting.

I'm in! I'm in!

©JanGodownAnnino

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A book is often likened to

a doorway, a window, a mirror.

But for me it’s

a ladder, a stepstool, a platform

taking me higher,

making me higher

than I was

before it raised

my morals, my outlook, my spirit.

© 2017 Teresa Robeson

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by Mary York

Writing is like birthing your first child.

Painful. Exhausting. Exhilarating.

And then — an idea is born.

You nurture the idea,

Knowing it is not ready for the world.

As inexperienced as a new parent,

You watch. You wait. You’re falling in love with the idea.

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Writing is a hug,
a snug place to unwrap feelings

Writing is the hug
of the young friend as she tells you
her parents are fighting

Writing is the hug
of words you use as a blanket
for comfort

Writing is the hug
that tugs at the heart
when listening to students

© 2017, jone rush macculloch

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Giving birth to a book
Is no ordinary thing;
Like a true living baby
It makes your heart sing!
Right from the beginning
You knew it was there,
And though not all formed
You gave it your care.
You felt as it moved,
And it gave you a nudge,
And even at midnight
You’d feed it with fudge.
Some times this book-baby
Would make you feel sick
But cozying down
Sweet names you would pick:
That name, for a boy,
This one, for a girl,
Then back to the business
Of taking a hurl,
Until things settled down
And it grew and it grew,
Till the “Precious” you dreamed of
Emerged and came true;
That laborious birth-day
Was a day like no other,
For now you were newly
And truly a mother.

©Donna JT Smith, 2017

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Ideas skitter
across my brain
like helicopter seeds
spinning through the air
beneath the maple tree.
An idea plops down
in the fertile soil
of imagination and memory.
Words sprout up
and unfurl their leaves
to stretch toward the sun.
Word by word
the story grows.

by Kay Jernigan McGriff, 2016

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an idea
sudden, surprising
like red peony shoots
the first color in a spring garden

a draft
leafy, bushy
too much green, but with buds
sweet enough to attract ants

a poem
lopsided, fragrant
overly showy, flamboyant, glorious
cut for a vase or for a grave

©Mary Lee Hahn, 2017

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A spider spins

her silken strands

to trap and tie

a buzzing fly

that stumbles in her net.

A writer spins

her skein of words

to hook and bind

a reader’s mind

until her tale is spent.

--Buffy Silverman

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Poems are like Caterpillars
Inching along, munching on words
Growing, changing, maturing
They hide in a modest chrysalis of creativity
Until on wings of wonder they take flight
And share their brilliance with a waiting world

By Janie Lazo 2017

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Step right up and sit right down,
The thrilling Big Top’s come to town!

I wake up, sit down to write…
Some thrilling Big Thought's brought to light!

Juggling rings, plates and balls,
Taming lions, tigers and all,
Throwing sharp knives,
Balancing chairs
Grasping a flying
trapeze in the air...
Swallowing flames,
And other such games;
Walking on tightropes
Lights flash in the dark -
Shot from a cannon
just hits the mark!

Juggling words and phrases,
Taming lines, titles and spaces,
Throwing hands up,
Balancing rhymes,
Grasping a flying
thought as it climbs...
Swallowing pride,
No corner to hide;
Walking a fine line,
Light glows in the dark,
Shot of caffeine that
just hits the mark!

At end packing up tents
And daring events
On to the next town

At end packing up pens
Yet daring again
To write more thoughts down

One must never forget
To set up the net

And, just as important,
To send in
The clown.

©Donna JT Smith, 2017

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Children’s books are pebbles tossed to skim a placid bay.
Ripples spawn imagine-bubbles popping out to play.
Laughter-sprinkled ringlets spread to push despair away.
Let’s make a pile of pebbles. Stack your favs.

Surf with me on ringlet waves to shores that will amaze.
Side-slip bravely into troughs of danger, loss, delays.
Rise with sparkling crests in triumph. Savor every phase.
Now choose another pebble. Catch the waves!

© 2017 by Sydney O’Neill

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A good book
hooks
with a sharp first line.

Its plot wiggles
and pulls and surprises.

Its characters are bait
that wait
for you to bite.

A good book
reels you in

with glistening language
and a splash
of style.

It soaks you with memories
and new discoveries.

A good book
holds steady
through The End—

and then
it lures you in again.

© 2017 Irene Latham. All rights reserved.

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She dips her toe in the freezing water,
A small ripple makes its way yonder.
She climbs in gingerly at first
Then dives right in, with a burst.
She languishes and plays,
She envisions mental plays.
Indulging her fantasies,
Her imagination sings.
When it’s all over she sadly climbs out,
Remembering fondly, what the book was about.

by Angelique Pacheco

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Writing is like parenting.

Dreams, questions, joys, doubts,

You have to let go.

Release your best efforts to the world.

Kathleen Mazurowski

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The weatherman's predictions are unclear.

I venture forth with pencil in hand.

Balmy prose are expected, but I prepare for inclement choices.

My umbrella is a well researched outline.

Writing is a breeze.

Idea clouds swirl above.

The sky opens up.

Lightning strikes.

I throw aside my umbrella, letting myself be drenched in inspiration.

Words flood my mind.

A flurry of letters pelt my paper.

Drifts of pages accumulate by my side.

Then,

As quickly as it came, the storm gives way to clear blue.

All is still except one fresh draft.

A draft carrying with it the promise of sunny skies.

by David McMullin

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Begin with, Madame Mulch, your maaaain character–

Now the where, hmmm . . . Find an inconspicuous spot,

where she’ll break ideas, and all matter into plot–

Entoil Mr. Soil, he’ll supply a sound foundation.

Character him out with dried leaves on his bottom,

sprinkle him with grass clippings here and there,

organic matter is nature’s gems, add ‘em as side kicks anywhere.

All good stories have a problem–Watch out,

dear Mother Nature’s already doing her thing.

Calling her clouds–squeezing some drops–

Ooooo toooo many, wormies holding on for dear life.

But wait–they’re aerating and keep’n all plot lines moving.

Hoooooraaaay earthwormies–They’re keep’n all groooooving!

Time for tea now, grab a biiiig bucket.

The holey one, nah, unless you want another story arc.

Fill the good one up half full with mulch, and

fill ‘er up three quarters o’ water,

snag a big stick, not from that mean dog–

Unless you want him to bark and cause another story arc.

Heck, it’s time to stir–ya know ya otter.

Stir your brew–characters, arcs, plot, and all,

‘bout a week–take a break, go play some ball.

A WEEK! This story’s for the chil’n so will change it to a day or two’n.

Next, gather containers for your brew that’s bubbling, and climaxing too.

Any kind of plastic milk jugs will do just fine and dandy for me and you.

But, we need a couple more items to carry our Tea Mulch’s story through.

Wire mesh, an extra bucket, a hose–

Whoooa! There they go, climbing up the climax hill, and talk’n all in prose.

Steady, ready fit your filter on your bucket,

and pour your brew–and all those characters–right on through.

Watch’ em come out smooth and dark chocolatey, whew!

Load ‘m up into your jugs, and best you label them too.

Presto, bingo, Madame Mulch met Mr. soil and out came Tea Mulch for me and you.

Epilogue–ooops

Remember that hose–a fine extra character . . .

He’ll keep your screen all nice and clean in between!

© 2017 Michelle Kogan

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There are times when
a steady drip, drip, drip
yields nothing of merit.
Other times a tickle leads
the writer to think that
soon to spring forth will
be metaphors and similes
and only the right words.
Sadly, a probing pinky
cannot detach them.
The best writing comes
as an unexpected sneeze.
In surprise is liberation.
Words fly with nothing
to hold them back.
Air passages cleared,
words are wiped up,
finally caught on paper.
The writer breathes.

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.

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You let go

of your trapeze.

You’re flying

over everything—

the crowd, the clowns,

the dancing dogs.

It all looks different

from above,

but now you’re wondering

where’s the bar

you’re supposed to grab?

Can you get from here to there,

flip and twist through open air

with nothing more

than words?

Will the people down below

follow your rise, your rhyme, your spin,

feel the fear, the awe, you feel?

Or will you fall?

Will you land on your back

on a web of string,

bounce up high and find your feet,

and climb the ladder

once again?

© 2017 Elizabeth Steinglass. All rights reserved.

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Each blank page
is sticky and gluey,
trapping each word
that the writer creates.
We the readers,
buzzing like curious flies,
becoming glued to the
pages of imaginings.

poem by Jessica Bigi

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Heat the skillet of the mind;

ignore those white doughy words.

Use dense wheat. Slice with style,

or pumpernickel to seize the lead

to let that flavor linger a while. . .

Butter well with metaphor,

sizzling cheddar, swiss, or jack--

tastes united, layered character

or one theme pursued?

Like a chef, a scribbler experiments,

considers fiery forms,

or plain-spoken fare,

learns from early failures, then successes.

Tasting words hints at adventure.

Imagine the audience who will eat

when offered grilled cheese choices.

Add a pickle.

Cook a poem for lunch,

for the hungry

on an ordinary day

or for a child

starving for adventure.

Linda Baie © All Rights Reserved

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Preheat the oven.

Set a deadline.

Measure flour, sugar, eggs.

Sift emotions, moments, images.

Set mixer to medium.

Swirl words, rearrange, refine, redefine.

Do not overmix.

Avoid tunnel vision.

Insert cupcake papers.

Framework and structure help it rise.

Fill papers to three-quarters. Do not overfill.

Long division, slice away excess.

Bake.

Wait. Garden. Paint sunflowers. Play Vivaldi.

Cool.

Start a new project. Do counter-stretches.

Frost.

Help the original idea shine.

Top with imagination: sprinkles, sugars, monkey smiles.

Add jazz, pizzazz, razzle-dazzle.

Taste.

Take the words inside.

Share.

Sing them, slam them, ping them, fan them.

Repeat.

Copyright 2017 Brenda Davis Harsham

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Writing's like cake.
The ideas have to bake.

Cindy Breedlove

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Grab a cup
So excited

Top it off
Mind ignited

Great big sip
Tale united

Big brain freeze
Uninvited

Wince in pain
Muse indicted

Shake it off
All doubt blighted

Push on through
Ending sighted

One last swig
Scribe delighted

© 2017 Rebecca Herzog

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Excuse me, please! I’m eager to

Address all 26 of you.

I think that I heard someone say

You’d like to form a poem today?

There’s little doubt you’re each endowed

With stellar skills! You should be proud!

I’m not here to suppress your style

But, rather, to enhance it while

I teach you to work as a group.

A lithe and lovely letter-troupe!

First, some warm-ups . . . take your time.

Maybe make a simple rhyme?

Nice job! (Or, I mean, could be worse.)

Now, can you stretch into a verse?

That’s it! Oh, wait – you missed a beat.

No, you don’t have two left feet!

I’d never say that. I’m impressed!

Fine, I can see why you’re stressed.

But stress is needed. Rhythm too.

Don’t choke now. There’s work to do!

So, that’s it? Our session’s done?

I thought that we were having fun.

An artist must stick to her craft!

What if we call this our first draft?

Jesse Anna Bornemann

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Writing is the prescription for the distressing nature of the world.
Writing is the prescription for the distress in nature.
Writing is the prescription for distress.
Writing is the prescription.
Writing is prescribed.
Writer is scribe.

©2017, Bridget Magee. All Rights Reserved.

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Sometimes it comes

with thunderclap and lightning strike

expectant pause

then

wind and rain

persistent insistent gathering speed and power

battering

until

it stops.
The wind that whipped

drives away rain and grey

and the only thing left

is world

fresh and new.

Sometimes it comes with

clouds that blanket the sky all day

and one feels

a drip

here

a drop

there

but            it               doesn’t

quite          start

and then…

nothing.

It fizzles.

And sometimes it drizzles

clouds low and dark and cozy.

Damp clings

even to the air

so there’s no place to

stand without

getting wet

but one can’t exactly say that

it is raining.

Sometimes it comes, perfect,

storybook clouds rolling in

gathering

darkening

giving notice

with first pitter-patter

then heavy and steady

soaking the ground

puddling the walks;

a simple

renewing.

Rebekah Hoeft

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Poems in Winter

Poems in Winter are
Slow to rise,
When storms rattle the window panes,
And wind whistles through cracks,
They shiver and shake and hide undercover,
Not wanting to come out,
Not willing to leave their nest,
Until lured by the snap-crackling of a promise,
Drawn to the warming intoxication of the hearth,
Cold hearts melt as icy fingers thaw,
They curl up by the fire momentarily,
Poems in Winter
Make good kindling.

Poems in Spring

Poems in spring are hopeful,
They start as small shoots to be nurtured
And protected from the whims of nature,
Some germinating too early,
Catching the gardener unaware,
Some awakening from a winter’s rest
Only to die from joyful pruning,
Some growing rapidly,
Taking over their assigned space,
And spreading into others’,
Forcing their presence,
In need of shaping, tending, taming,
They seek attention, consideration, celebration,
Poems in Spring
Rejuvenate the spirit.

Poems in Summer

Poems in Summer
Are a procrastinator’s dream,
They lie about on porches or swings,
Or in the shade of a tree, dozing,
With their eyes closed against the brilliance of day,
When summer breezes blow,
They drift into neighbour’s gardens,
Waiting for someone else to find them,
Caring not for the woes of the world,
Nor if they should live beyond today,
Poems in Summer
Are lazy.

Poems in Fall

Poems in Fall
Explode with colour and embrace their calling,
They drop from leaf-laden trees
Without care or misgiving,
Coming to rest with joy and abandon
They are propelled along pathways and old railway beds,
Moving briskly with stalwart determination,
They gather in piles and heaps, on stoops and verandas,
Impatiently demanding to be,
Poems in Fall
Have an urgency.

© 2017 Jane Baskwill. All rights reserved.

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Verb, noun, adjective, adverb, preposition

Diamond, ruby, sapphire, emerald, pearl

Cut, polished to maximum brilliance

Each gem carefully, lovingly set

Writer’s crown jewel: a poem

© 2017 Mindy Gars Dolandis

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In science I held up a prism.
The sun made a rainbow
on my book.

Our teacher explained
about bending light.
My friends all came to look.

Science is like writing.

A poem takes white light in me
and breaks it into colors
for everyone to see.

© 2010 Amy Ludwig VanDerwater. All rights reserved.
(from The Poem Farm archives)

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When a poem pauses,
she places a hand
over her heart
sensing the matter
and meter of the universe
which is itself,
poetic.

Free verse or rhyme,
sonnet or haiku
form matters less
than the half-life of each word,
each syllable
moving through time, space
and consciousness
settling where it will.

A poem knows those gazers
with telescopes
and butterfly nets
jumping and grasping at
notions to anchor to a page
as finite as a constellation.

Gravity is such a nuisance.

Poem understands
creative arcs are brief
and glancing, fueled by bravado
and as much heartache.

She gathers the ink—
of scribblers—
and sighs.

She knows.

© Linda Mitchell

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Writing is

hearing the birds

wake up the morning.

Writing is

the time between sleeping and waking

hypnagogic, semi-dreamy.

Writing is

a butterfly emerging

then flying quickly away.

Writing is

hosta poking through the soil

announcing spring’s arrival.

Writing is

elusive

and present—

time changing time.

copyright 2017 Margaret Simon

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To read is not like folding socks,
it's like a folding chair
you carry to the garden
to taste the fragrant air.

To write is not like counting words
or seconds on a clock,
it's packing up a picnic lunch
and going for a walk.

A poem doesn't live within
the confines of a room.
You step inside its waiting world
to watch its sunrise bloom.

© 2017 Michelle Heidenrich Barnes. All rights reserved.

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Background image: "Book Edge Texture" by Calsidyrose