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Amazing Sky

The following is by Writers in the Grove member, Patti Bond.

When I look out my window
I see clouds racing by.
Where do they go?
Are the clouds circling the globe or
simply relocating themselves?
In the early morning there is a patch of blue sky,
bringing me a sense of hope
that it will be a nice day.
Five minutes later, I see dark, gloomy clouds.
How can clouds change so quickly?
Giving me the false hope
it will be a nice day.
At moment’s notice there is a terrific downpour,
or a jaw-dropping snowstorm of ten inches or more.
What an amazing thing sky!

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Prompt: I Am From

The prompt this week came from George Ella Lyon in a poem called “Where I’m From.

I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening,
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush
the Dutch elm
whose long-gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.

I’m from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I’m from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from Perk up! and Pipe down!
I’m from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself…

Read the rest of the poem and write a description of who you are starting each line with “I am from.”

The Car Had a Mind of Its Own

The following was written by Writers in the Grove member, Lorelle VanFossen, inspired by Prompt: The Haven, to write an anthropomorphic description of something.

The car had a mind of its own. Warm morning starts were appreciated, purring with the welcome strokes of affection. Cold mornings were greeted with angry whines, coughs, shutters, and sighs, none too eager to leave the comfort of the cave.

On the flat, it raced and roared, a lion exploding from a crouch among the grasses with a burst of speed, seizing the nape of the road with blood thirsty glory.

Hills made it gasp and wheeze, an old man dragging himself, cane in one hand, banister in the other, up each dreaded step, questioning each one, evaluating the true reward at the top.

Downhill, I swear the car held its arms over its head and shouted “Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” like a child tearing down a wintry hill barely holding onto the cardboard under its body. Downshifting to control the free fall brought little result save billowing clouds of blue smoke out the back in protest of being called home for dinner when there was fun still to be had.

The job of the little car was to get me there and back safely. It took its responsibilities seriously, never letting me forget how hard it worked for me. Thus, it deserved its name: Martyr.