Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

July 21, 2018, 09:41:41 PM
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This week's words;

Sunday - Instructions

Monday- Motorcycle

Tuesday- Wildflower

Wednesday- Asparagus

Thursday- Stopwatch

Friday - Confetti

Saturday-Homesick



Word of the Day
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Pages: [1] 2 3 ... 16
1  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Trumpet on: Today at 04:37:14 AM
   I first heard your golden mouthpiece blow in Manhattan, on a hotel floor that smelled like stale cigarettes. Headphones on, it was the first time I ever felt transported to another planet, another time. Miles, your sound hung like clouds covering a sunset. The word “Heaven” kept appearing in my head. The heavily plucked bass strings and the cool calm ride cymbal keeping the soloists honest. We had an understanding.
   Later, we ate flat NY pizza and drank pink lemonade in a little alley joint. The streets seemed to have a layer of dust and more garbage gusting away in the wind than back home. My friend’s dad says, “This city has more beautiful women than anywhere else on the planet, so boys, just enjoy the view.” And although this kind of creeps me out, I can see what he means. A woman budges in front of us as she climbs up the steps of the subway, a backless dress and movie star makeup. I’ve never seen anyone like her, although I can’t say “pretty” is the right way to describe her. The concrete island reflects the heat, and it is with great relief when we walk into the air-conditioned jazz club. I drink more pink lemonade, everyone else drinking soda or beer. The big band is already set up and the conductor steps on the small stage with a slight bend in his back, but a sense of dignity that floods into the crowd. The brass plays syncopated rhythms, the piano player hammers away at his keys. I want to be a part of this, always.
2  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Diary on: July 20, 2018, 02:02:02 PM
Nice use of perspective!
3  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Diary on: July 20, 2018, 02:00:49 PM
   On a shelf, every inch is covered with blank diaries, books that you can flip through the pages and let the dust fan out into your face. But besides the dust, there is all the potential that comes with blank pages. I feel the rush of excitement, knowing that I can create something that is all my own in this space, something that no one else can see or experience until I let them. I feel like a God here, and must do right by that power.
   Of course there is a hesitancy too. There are days when I fret to ruin these pages, like waking up to the fresh blanket of snow, untouched and pure. It feels good to stick your boot out and leave your footprint.  But there is something special about the natural blankness too.
   Smell the paper, old and flexible. It makes that awful smell outside of the paper factories worth bearing. Smell the ink as it begins to seep out of the pen and make words that did not exist seconds ago. Taste the saliva that begins flowing as you write madly like a dancer who’s lost control, all you hear is the beat and the harmony. Run outside into the sunshine and let it reflect on the white paper, glowing to the heavens, write pure poetry or a quick paragraph on how much you hated your day, write lyrics that go nowhere and odes to the decay of the status quo. Flip the pages and imagine the day when it is all filled up and has nowhere left to go than the musty basement or the burning hot attic; when you can forget about it for a year or a century and let the great-grandkids find it and find out what 2018 was all about. They can read your mind, find some sense of understanding – why did people elect this jerk president anyway? It is a gateway to our past, it is a bridge between our primitive post-apocalyptic traditions and their pre-apocalyptic restarts. I feel my imaginary vocal chords shaking and vibrating onto the page as I Walt Whitman myself into the American lexicon. I will not draw the leaves of grass on to this page, I will not write down the perspectives and opinions of anyone else, not even you.
4  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Hammock on: July 19, 2018, 03:43:12 PM
   The hammock was a big net hanging between two giants with big wrinkly faces. They held their sides in their big, cracked palms and swung their long arms, making the net fly high into the sky.
   The children laughed, for these giants were benevolent and would not eat them for dinner. When these giants hungered, they just reached their wide mouths out to their arms and used their teeth to scrape the moss that grew there onto their tongues. When they chewed, it sounded like they were eating a whole bag full of cabbages. It amused the children to see this, and one child, Sylver, followed suit, aiming his teeth at the flies that occasionally landed on his skin. The giants were amused to see that the flies were too fast for Sylver, and their crinkly bark-like faces became more cracked and creviced in their laughter.
   Sylver’s older sister, Von, smacked him for attempting to eat something so putrid and vile. Although as the net swung, Von realized she was getting hungry and that the two of them had been laughing and playing with the giants all day. “Sylver, the Sun is setting,” said Von. The sky was a deep pink in the West, the Sun had become a peeled grapefruit descending on the horizon.
   The giants faces smoothed as their smiles became frowns. They enjoyed the company of the children; they were happy they had decided to spend the day with them. The giants had no children of their own; although, this had not always been the case. However, they understood the worry Sylver and Von might cause their parents if they did not head home now. So the giants slowly brought the net back down to the ground, several hundred feet below.
5  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Spy on: July 12, 2018, 02:46:10 AM
   Clean cut and cool with a blazer and tie out on a patio party drinking something violently red. The Sun is long gone tonight and the conversation is at such a calm level it is almost like listening to light jazz or a soft rock radio station. The smiles spread on every beautiful face, but he can see the lies resonating through their teeth. Pardoning himself, he sips his drink and leaves it on the rim of a table. Stars begin to gain visibility in the night sky. The crowd noise softens as he slips past the restroom and down a narrow stairway. Silence now as his feet move lighter and more skillful than a running back. Darkness, too. He must rely on the rocky walls to guide him, as they grow more damp and decaying. Suddenly a light goes on somewhere several feet below him. He pauses before smelling a roasted chicken being pulled out of an oven. Ah, he thinks, I am nearly there. He feels the weight of the gun in his pants pocket, and slowly reaches for it. Just as he feels the grip and begins to pull it out, he hears, “I think not,” from behind him. Instinctively, he turns his head. He sees a face and a blur before the butt of his saboteur’s gun nails him right between the eyes.
6  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Tent on: July 11, 2018, 02:43:58 AM
Tent
   Poles make a rhythmic satisfying beat as they straighten out. The wind blows above in the pines and birds call out to one another in the canopy. There come voices from up the hill, an excitement like that of a tailgaiting party for a football game. But the season is wrong, the heat tells you that. Dead leaves and twigs crunch underfoot. I could lay down here and absorb the smell. It’s the most natural odor in the world and although the leaves are past their prime, they continue to smell like pure life. The tent unrolls and we look for flat ground. It pops up so easily. We remember a decade ago, the thrift store tent we brought here that had no instructions and no logical order to its parts. We sipped boxed wine and whiskey early in the morning, wondering how the darn thing was supposed to be put together. Like a bunch of kids with a Lego set, eventually we found something that sort of worked. The tent was lopsided and a little more flat than we had hoped for, but we looked and we saw home. I’ll drink to that.
   You feel the adventure in your heart, with a syncopated beat. You think of the smell of soap and couches and toothpaste, and you feel free.
7  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Tulips on: July 10, 2018, 02:44:02 AM
   Feel a little nervous in the flower shop, bombarded by color and a naturally perfumed scent. There’s something Earthy in the aroma, a civilized filthiness, yet overall it is sweet and meditative. Everything hits your eyes in a hot flash and you wonder what’s what. Someone tells you these are lilies and those are petunias. They immediately merge and become one. A purple, red, yellow pinwheel on a green stem. Taste a little leftover caffeine from the morning when you ask for a bouquet. The woman’s glare says, “Who are you buying flowers for? An imaginary girl?” She’s so skeptical it floods out of her before she can regain her composure. You hear water flowing and a CD spinning some easy listening synths and bells. She hands you tulips in a great green plastic bag. It is lovely. It feels heavier than expected. Outside there is a creek that flows through town, a waterfall right here under the bridge. Listen to traffic in this little mountain town, crawling like so many ants to their hills. The Sun is reflecting off the sidewalk creating a warm bath of air. Through sunglasses, the tulips take on a new color tone, dark and pure and real. Suddenly, you are addicted to the smell. It flows into you like a symphony. There is nothing else but these flowers, so intricately patterned when you look at them closely. They feel like velvet when you rub them on your cheek.
8  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Donut on: July 09, 2018, 02:26:20 PM
   It’s early, but I’m too excited to sleep anymore. I’m up and at ‘em as the Sun begins its slow ascent, keys in the ignition and a hot wallet in my back pocket. I am going to Paula’s, because I am an adult who can afford $6 for 6 mouthwatering freshly baked donuts.
   Okay, I’m exaggerating, I really shouldn’t be spending $6, but I do have a 50-cent coupon, so there. On the drive there, I feel a sense of confusion on the twisting roads. Every turn I begin to second guess my memory. Should I just turn on the GPS or go with my gut? I plunge into it at a round-about like a kid jumping off a merry-go-round. HERE WE GOOOOOOOO!
   I listen to some sweet tunes while I look around for a familiar landmark.  And there it is: the weird nut store that has about 1,000 innuendos embedded in its name. Now knowing I’m on the right track, I cruise like a man in command, passing other less-delicious donut shops on my way to Paula’s.
   I pull into the parking lot, bundled in a thick winter coat and trek across the icy pavement for about 30 seconds before I’m back in the warm embrace of my favorite donut shop. There’s a long line, but the people here are real pros.  You can smell the coffee and the icing and I can see somebody loading up the Red Velvet shelf with freshly baked donuts.
   Now is when I really start to panic. You have 6 choices, 2 of which have to be Red Velvet, leaving 4 optionals. Will I go with chocolate? Sprinkles? A peanut donut? Filled with Bavarian cream?
   I’m not too brave, and I leave to bring these beautiful babies back to my sleeping princess at home. Of course I take one bite of one of the Red Velvet and munch slowly, savoring every sugary piece of goodness.  It’s like cake. It reminds me of a birthday party, but only in the morning. It’s gonna be so sweet washing this down with a big gulp of black coffee.
9  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Doctor on: July 05, 2018, 05:31:01 AM
   The desk is towering over me and I listen as my mom checks in for the appointment. The lights are fluorescent, making the building feel about as sterile as the latex gloves that you can smell in everything. We sit and I feel the harsh wooden corners of the chair dig into my thighs. My mom picks up a magazine and I follow suit. Monkey see, monkey do. I like the sound of the flipping pages and the comforting isolation that comes from a nice long article, accompanied by a bright and beautiful photograph of a mountain lion or a painted cartoon of a farm.
   People come and go, seemingly quicker than we do. We become the furniture. We are the ever-present coffee tables that the staff learn to ignore. We are the carpet that needs to be vacuumed, but someone else can do it tomorrow. They call my name, “Alexander.” All four syllables. I get comfortable in a tiny room, sitting on the long paper sheet on the doctor’s chair. Here’s another waiting game. I think about the taste of the popsicle sticks sitting there in a jar. I look at the red container for needles and other unsafe quarantined items. I play the drums on my leg. I start to sing a little song to myself when suddenly I hear the doorknob click and the door swings open. A little startled, I look up at the nurse, prettier than I was expecting. My mind races a little as I imagine our life together, before she starts asking me some rather blunt personal questions.  On our first date??? This romance is over before it’s begun, and before long she starts prodding me with stethoscopes and popsicle sticks and that viewer that goes into my ear.
10  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Sofa on: July 01, 2018, 05:12:41 AM
   The sofa is blue and curved with a velvety softness. It gives you defiant posture on nights when you wanna slouch. See the dust float by in the light shooting through the windows, while the TV buffers on Billy Bob Thorton’s half-closed eyes. The sofa smells like cat pee, because the cat has come to believe that this is a litter box and there seems no way to change his mind. More often than not, you end up on the wood floors with your back leaning on a pillow which acts as a shield to the rank odor.
   The velvety exterior often brings the taste of red velvet cupcakes to mind at that obscure Manhattan bakery that you went to once, when money was tight and the jobs were scarce. But at least there was that rich sweetness below a layer of cream cheese frosting. Yes, at least you could count on about two minutes of flavor to take your mind off the stress of day to day living.
   I stressed out over the big things in little ways. It felt like the blood in my body went cold, my head filled with helium and floated away. A high-pitched hum played in both ears and I noticed with a vague jealousy the laughter of those around me. I tried to be a fortune teller; a gypsy; I tried to be a time traveler, but I saw no paths forward. In stressful situations, the future becomes a blank book after a climactic first chapter. What happens next? What do I do now? If there are no options, then nothing.
11  Prose, Poetry, Music & Lyrics / Prose & Poetry / Re: Homeless on: June 30, 2018, 05:54:58 AM
Nice poem! I especially like the sentiment in the 3rd stanza, which creates a nice sense of empathy for one who is homeless (or really anyone who feels the judgement of being "dangerous" from others).

I think the second stanza could be cleaned up a little by eliminating some unnecessary syllables. For example, rather than "My body is starting to shiver," it could be "My body starts to shiver." It's a personal judgement call, but the rhythm of the second line seems to flow a little bit better.

Hope that's helpful!
12  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Potion on: June 30, 2018, 05:48:26 AM
   She’s got bottles lined up across the table with colorful eye-catching labels and bright dyed liquids swirling around in each. Pink, green, a deep unnatural blue, the color of blood. She treats them like scientific beakers with an eyebrow raised as she tips one over an empty glass. You listen as the ice rises and clinks against the glass walls. Feel an anticipation that is fueled by exhaustion; your legs could collapse at any moment, and your heart has become a panting dog staring at its owner as it pours food into its bowl. Open up the green bottle and give it a sniff.  The strength immediately makes you light-headed as you whiff a synthetic green apple aroma. Is this what human beings think apples smell like now? How did this rumor start spreading around? Her hands are smooth and confident at their task. She twirls a spoon into the drinks. Her magic potions are nearly complete.  She takes a sip. “I think it needs a lemon,” she says, opening the fridge door. Her lab is well stocked. You taste the unfinished drink.  It is strong enough to twist your face into a scowl and make your chest clench up while a warm shock spreads through your whole body. A second later, you feel about 1% happier.  “Not shabby,” you tell her as she begins to slice a knife into the little yellow citrus fruit. There’s a juicy sound while she saws down to the cutting board. You feel the warmth of the night, the fireworks being shot off by the neighbors from the open window. She starts to sing a song about the dog, who lies under the table watching the scene unfold.
13  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Jug on: June 29, 2018, 07:49:30 AM
Hear that "thoot" noise like a pounding bass line blown into the mouth of a jug. Clear hollow gallon container, once swished with sweetest red wine (its real name undefined). Remember the dimly lit parties with crowded kitchens and staggered drunk talk? I remember the bitter winter cold outside and the smell of smoke as we raged nostalgic about some irrelevant 90s films and which branch of indie rock deserved our ears. Emmet Otter's Jug Band playing unwatched on a muted TV. The jugwine tastes like rusty banjo strings that have been marinated in apple juice. And my reflection adds 50 pounds to my face. I could play Gilbert Grape's Mama in the sequel. My body warms with the wine and I feel dizzy, and the smiles that used to feel welcoming and dazzling become gnashed and gnarly. Who can you trust when you've stopped trusting yourself? Where's that music coming from? Who's DJing this party? The jug gets lighter and lighter while my head has suddenly developed a magnetic attraction to the ground. I find it with the label half peeled off, empty in the morning.
14  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Omelet on: June 28, 2018, 04:59:50 AM
   The diner is alive with clinking silverware and mountainous voices.  People try to whisper, get excited and peak, before growing self-conscious and trying to hide again behind the din. Waitresses walk in and out of the kitchen, setting a tempo to the whole establishment. You could imagine Gershwin’s “An American in Paris” playing in the background, busy busy busy, work work work. As for us, it’s relax relax relax, with 14 cups of coffee and as many sugar packets and creamers are on the table. The little plastic containers and ripped open packets are strewn across the table, between the ketchup bottles and silverware. The menu feels like it’s been well-used, the font makes it look like it’s from another era.  This isn’t a decade themed restaurant, they’ve just probably been using the same menus since 1987, everybody getting ready to get out of the Reagan era.  These days we’re real careful about the price. 50 cent add-ons can be bank-breakers, so we tend to order the food as-is. Outside the Sun beats down on the concrete, shiny SUVs surf through the city, pedestrians walk like hunched over hungover gorillas. This is as close to TV as we will get this morning. There are two options on the menu for vegetarians like us: veggie omelet and cheese omelet. We think hard about it before both settling on the cheese. Wait, drink the cream with a drop of coffee, wait, eat the sugar with a drop of coffee, wait, look at the other tables with the people who are decades older than us and wonder what it will feel like to have wrinkled skin and to choose to wear khakis on a Saturday.
15  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Pipe Organ on: June 27, 2018, 04:37:00 AM
The pipes shrink and grow, reaching for the ceiling of the big concert hall. Its muddy tone bouncing off the windows and the ceiling, while people in stuffy clothes adjust themselves in seats that seem designed for slimmer times. It has a powerful sound, light as a feather and heavy as an atom bomb. It can reach in and pull your heart right out of your chest; in a good way, of course. Like your heart is inside an escape pod while the rest of the planet rhythmically implodes.
I feel my shirt collar strangling me, buttoned all the way up to my neck. My Adam's Apple struggles to escape as I swallow several times before giving in to the agony of minor discomfort. Taste the dinner that was too fancy for children. Too much vinegar, not enough cheddar. There's the aroma of old people perfume as they try to hide their decay. The pipe organ shrieks and booms to the small community of spectators. The organist is hidden, back to the audience, immersed in his own gifts and powers.
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