home ~ WKWAB vol2 issue5 Prompt 34

Greetings Creatives,

Earlier this week I found a bird’s nest on a busy pathway.

This morning, a baseball diamond conjured memories of my dad coaching me when I was a kid.

Last night this poem popped up in my feed.

https://poets.org/poem/origin-story-1

What is home for you? A nest? A diamond? A memory?


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The link for monthly digital meetups will be shared on the day of meeting. 

Meetups are on the 3rd Friday of each month at 8:00 PM.


Upcoming Meeting Dates and topics

May 21 - Secret stories. Private pieces in public.

June 18 - Light and Dark. Creating balance.

July 16 -  Loved and Lost. Pieces that broke, burned, or bothered you.

August 20 - Supporting people who don't support your Creative.

September 17 - Can I have more ham? Eff you it's called Prosciutto. And other misunderstandings.

October 15 - Ozymandias

November 19 - Baring bones. The structure of a Creative.

December 17 - Polymath
All past prompts are posted here. 

Post your work wherever you feel most safe and tag it with #wkwab.

Feel free to let other peeps know about our circle.

This circle is not just for words, feel free to explore any element of your creativity. Consider the 'Words' in #wkwab to be our ongoing conversation and fellowship in this space.

portum

my house is vast 
and filled with prayers
i’ve made room for you
atop the stairs
the shelves are filled
with things you need
the light’s left on
so you can see. 
if i am asleep and
you need to talk
or you stumble in
and can barely walk
or you reach the door
with little left
from life and loss
and pain and theft;
others are here with
hands to hold
offering warmth to 
shake off cold,
suspecting that you might
need to be told-
you belong. 

soil

from across the aisle i hear rapid percussion. a dull downpour. the grocer, a kid, maybe 16, hefts a wax coated cardboard box to eye-level and tips it forward with the precision of a dump truck. a red onion rolls past my toe. it disappears under a shelf. lucky bugger escaped, i think to myself. 

a memory surfaces of potatoes bouncing into a blue milk crate. crickets and cicadas cut the air into high pitched rhythms, pulses and sustains. my babcia's humming and muttering setting a tempo for the beat. once in a while she glances over her shoulder, eyes the crate, then me, then the crate, 'potrząsnąć'-she says. shake it. the contents roll around each other, some leap headlong tumbling into the dirt trenches at my feet. 

now, i imagine the relief of their roots reconnecting with the dirt. a moment of communication, reconnection. 

then, i just wanted to get the job done as quickly as possible. scooping them up, stealing their hope and sealing their fate, before she noticed. she glances again and i know i have to shake them again. 'cichy' -gently, she reminds.

he watches me for a really long time. i work in gridlines. left to right. top to bottom. i wonder if he wonders what i am looking for. one by one i check, and pile, and order and categorize 100 avocados. i know what i am looking for. uniform brown skin, soft crown and bottom, a slight give to the flesh, a green seat under the loosened stem.

even a potato deserves dignity. it demands an understanding. she understood this.

he doesn't.

i pack up my brood and mention to him that an onion escaped under the shelf. 'no problem, i got it' -he says. i pay and as i pass out the sliding doors i can still see the onion sitting motionless in hiding. the young grocer has moved on to the next aisle likely forgetting his promise.