I wrote a poem every day but one in November (the prompt was to write a poem before breakfast, and I kept forgetting until one day I didn’t, so I combined two prompts for that one poem). We are continuing on for the first 15 days of December. The only writing I did all November was poetry, and December may be the same.
Here’s what I know. If I write a poem every day, I’ll get a few good ones. If I don’t write every day, I get zero poems.
Here are a couple I wrote in November that I like. Tell me something about your own writing, how it’s going right now.
WORLD VIEW by Sandra de Helen
November 19, 2014
There is a German word (weltanschauung) which means
a comprehensive conception or image of the universe and
humanity’s relation to it. At seven my world was perfect
for me. I had a dad who doted on me, a mom who made
my full circle skirt dresses with underpants to match, and
a little sister who was old enough to play. Just before
Thanksgiving, my dad fell dead of a heart attack when he
stepped up to shoot his turn at a paper target, trying to
win us a turkey. In one breath, I was fatherless, homeless,
even motherless as my mom took on two jobs. We moved
into a fifteen foot camping trailer with no amenities.
Men on the street suddenly looked to me like my missing
dad. Mom was never home. My aunt looked after my
sister while I was at school, then it was only the two of
us. She cried for Mom. I cried for Dad. My world was
Mom started drinking and marrying as her new way of
coping. We had three stepfathers before she stopped
the wedding parade. She drank for almost sixty years.
Her world was sloshy too.
Children of alcoholics are often addicts or alcoholics,
or marry them, or both. I chose to marry a couple of
them before I gave up on marriage. My children were
the ones to go to AA. We’re all recovering now from
that day in November, long, long ago.
HOW TO DEAL WITH BAD NEIGHBORS by Sandra de Helen
November 25, 2014
I don’t know how to deal with bad neighbors
so I treat them the same as the good ones. I
knock on their doors and hand them a plate of
cheesecake. I offer treats for their horrible
barking dogs. When they are in the throes of
a loud argument, and I fear for one of their
lives, I pound on the door, and ask them for
a cup of sugar.
In the city, in an apartment, where the trains
blare long, loud honks twenty-five times a
day and fifteen times at night, where the
lights never go off, and the walls of the
building are as concrete and sad-colored as
the walls of a prison, neighbors can’t help
but be bad sometimes. Just as when the
earth quakes, or fire catches, or a tsunami
threatens, neighbors transmogrify into