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Poetry Prompts

Monday Poetry Prompt: Celebrate

This week let’s write a celebration or celebratory poem. You can celebrate the end of the old year and the beginning of the new or you can celebrate some artist’s work or any beauty you experience Even though it’s Monday morning and things look bleak, there’s still plenty to celebrate so post your poetry in the comments below.

About Bartholomew Barker

Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a collection of poets and poetry lovers in the Triangle region of North Carolina. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.

Discussion

12 thoughts on “Monday Poetry Prompt: Celebrate

  1. Posting a contribution to the prompt here:

    Celebration

    The precession of our love
    became a sign of depth
    what spins may bore
    into the heft of life.

    Season follows season in
    keen exchange, just enough
    to keep us knowing who
    we are,

    Until we do not know
    who we are,
    yet hold immense
    care in our hands.

    Each frost a thaw
    into warm and tremulous Spring,
    Summers languid under pendant sun,
    heavy clouds, rampant weeds.

    The Fall comes always again,
    and Winter in red fruit, gathered green.
    We light a single flame to mark
    the celebration, this ardent spark.

    Liked by 1 person

    Posted by ts19page | December 30, 2021, 8:48 AM
  2. I think you did well not to mention a specific malady as each new year must have something to leave behind.

    Like

    Posted by ts19page | December 30, 2021, 8:46 AM
  3. The earthmovers are all gone
    Graders done with their work
    Out with the old pines
    the broad oaks and scraggly maples
    new in late 40’s
    when the boy who
    would have been
    the old farmer
    did not come home
    from his duty and bondage

    No, now in are acres of Tifway 419
    and spritely little Sky-pencils
    two per lot
    and whatever greenery
    that was available on that day
    from the horticultural wholesaler
    planted on the corner lots
    at the cross of
    Windemere and Piney Ridge.

    Gone are the Catbirds
    Quiet mimics of the damp and dim
    So too are the Pileateds
    Searching for any remaining woods
    Somewhere over the county line

    No, this is no longer the woods
    or an unkempt pasture land
    lying fallow for another year

    It is now the new exciting subdivision
    treeless
    with a fine selection of upscale
    one and two story homes
    sprouting wooden stockades
    and elegant faux wrought iron fences
    multi-color plastic play sets
    brightly colored only until the first frost
    by when the summer sun will have cooked
    the bright reds and blues
    into rose and periwinkle

    And with all this luxurious overabundance
    there is still cause to cheer (literally)
    for now is epoch of the Bluebird
    color stolen from the rainbow
    a rusty chest borrowed
    from this land’s finest tobacco soil

    For a thousand days
    he will rule unchallenged
    Lord of this ecological wasteland
    free to do whatever Bluebirds do
    and to lend their “Chur Cheerily Cheer” song
    to our never-ending workdays
    welcoming us back from wherever
    our duty and bondage takes us

    Yes, the time will come when Robins
    and Mockingbirds will arrive
    the latter to sing all night
    to a bright April moon
    the former stealing the Piedmont soil’s red
    for their own decoration

    And the Bluebirds will all be gone
    Those icons of the happiness
    Like the Longleaf and the White Oak
    and the farm that would have been
    if some soldier’s aim were not true

    But now
    Now is time to be glad
    Because it is the time of the false pastures
    each 1/6th of an acre

    This is the time of the Bluebird
    that carries the color of our dreams on his back

    Liked by 1 person

    Posted by Chris Clarke | December 29, 2021, 11:54 AM
  4. Auld Lang Sine

    The missives arrive by snail mail
    homage to parental relationships
    long separated by distance and now death
    They used to sound like bragging

    When children were young, every achievement was extraordinary
    But in the subtext of their young adults’ passage to maturity
    There is celebration for launching even struggling adults into the world
    They now sound like collective exhalation

    Liked by 2 people

    Posted by Second Act Blogger | December 28, 2021, 11:47 AM

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