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A Word Bank Trilogy

Artist, actor, poet, teacher, songwriter & actor with 4,000 poems & almost 1,000 songs written, performed recorded & published on line.

Three tales that are unrelated but worthy

spring

spring

new life

new life

a-word-bank-trilogy
a-word-bank-trilogy
a-word-bank-trilogy

A Word Bank Trilogy.

My challenge was to make three poems out of the word bank below. Each had to be under 150 words, not including the title. --glitter --maize --concession --brownout --dye --shellac --cure --leapfrog --pod --bramble (1.) Blank Canvas Awaits Us. Yearly all that is light and green, experiences a brownout, becoming stark bramble clawing against stormy skies. Summer leapfrogs into the past as leaves begin to fall, passing through red, orange and maize stages of death. Each long empty seed pod quivers in the chilly breezes, as dewdrops on the morning grass take on an icy glitter. Many gourds colored with natural dye and bathed in shellac, help to brighten the porch steps of a vibrant world gone drab. A concession to mother natures draining away of all color, but a poor substitute as a cure for our seasonal blues. Soon even these autumn hues will vanish leaving behind a vast hiber-nation slumbering deeply under sterile white. ` ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (2.) Gypsy Soul. She wasn't a burnout yet, just a brownout, as her escape pod leapfrogged from the isolated space station out across the inky dye. Like a struggling gnat escaping the sticky prison of shellac, she burst free heading away from her fixed position into the great beyond. The glitter of space travel had long since shed its shine, amidst the bramble of wires, monitors, space food blobs, and airtight, connecting ports. She was used to loneliness, had even grown to prefer it But the need for some open space got the best of her in that tiny speck that remained as a concession to someday visiting other planets, The bright, maize yellow, of the sun seldom graced her except through tiny portholes its warmth cold and distant. so she sought a cure. She’s floating on even now, long past Alpha Centauri her corpse still staring into the vastness she sought. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (3.) A Chance Encounter. ` He spotted her in spite of a sudden brownout, at Sunnydale’s Harvest Fair. She sat sipping concession stand cider in the dining hall pod. He remembered her from childhood, the girl next door, his love for her sadly left unspoken. There were changes the glitter of youth dulled by the shellac of years. Her spun gold hair, now a faded maize, but its crowning glory untouched by dye. Her eyes were still a captivating cornflower blue, A cure for empty days on the cusp of eternity. She glanced his way, noting his attention until recognition flooded her thoughts. She flashed a warm smile, mouthing his name He longed to leapfrog, over the wheelchair bramble between them and hold her, but his legs ignored such impulses. Instead they both zigzagged in rickety paths back to yesterday. When the lights came on, they were holding hands reliving moments they’d both thought lost.

© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III

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