The Poetry Question

Discovering the Relevance of Words

The Daily Prompt- June 10th

Rules:

1. Use the prompt in the way it’s intended (starting a sentence, the title of the piece, theme, etc)

2. You may write in any format you see fit (fiction, non-fiction, poem, song, script, etc.)

3. Post your piece of writing in the comments section of the website to be considered for the ‘Best Of’ section.

The Prompt: Describe your perfect workspace. If you’re there now, describe your surroundings. Otherwise, think of the place of the place in which you’d most like to write. It all starts with the setting. Begin.

About Doran Simmons

I'm a writer and a camper and a keeper of fish. I was trained as a flight instructor and work day jobs and write nonsense for public consumption (hopefully).

7 comments on “The Daily Prompt- June 10th

  1. Emily Jo Pinkstaff
    June 10, 2013

    I can hear him chirping from the garden bench under his favorite chippy old window; cooing and calling to me. The day has risin and I must have fallen asleep in the loft again last night. It is so hard to leave this place, this glorious mix of feminine and industrial.

    The barnwood floors creak as my feet touch them. After all these years of farm life, they are smooth to the touch. My little nook in the loft is so filled with light. The aqua French daybed filled with pillows and plush blankets for those long nights of writing or pulling threads and snuggling close with my boys. I would absolutely live here if Chris would let me.

    Looking around the barn is like looking under a circus tent. There is so much going on and to many it looks chaotic, but to me, everything is in its place. Banners hang from the rafters in the loft. Strips of fabric and lace torn and tattered just so piled high on old doors made into tables – their paint peeling, revealing layers of household choices: pink, teal, cream, green… It is the closest thing to camouflage this barn has seen in years. Absolutely beautiful.

    The whitewashed walls are scattered with salvaged windows and treasures picked from the hunt; pieces too precious too part with. Most would call it junk, but my people know better. The years of wear from the elements provide a patina no paint gun or electric sander could ever do. In a way, you could call us ageists. If it isn’t old, we don’t want it.

    If there were a land where decoupage had come not to die, but to be re-envisioned, this is it. Old dictionaries, children’s tales and books of poetry find their home in nesting boxes plucked from the chicken coop in the field. Their pages are ripped into bits and used to transform mannequin parts and out of date furniture – proof that in kindergarten you learn more than just social skills.

    I make my way down the old oak staircase and head first to the reclaimed French doors where I know Milo is waiting for me. He knows that I can’t resist his charms. As far as alarm clocks go, mine is pretty fantastic. Xav is not far behind. My boys, my favorite shop cats have been basking in the morning garden sun. Flowers and herbs stretch before the barn in rolling beds between the fruit trees, I love to smell the honeysuckle planted under the windows in the morning as it wafts in through screens. The boys scatter, each finding their perfect resting spot while I start my work day. Milo to the loft, where he can perch in the rafters with his bird’s eye view. Xav prefers to be underfoot. For now, he will settle for a spot atop the table I am about to start painting.

    My love for power tools has grown throughout the years and in looking around the barn lobby, you can see that I have put it to good use. The wood shop under the loft is where the real magic happens. Loads of salvaged wood and project pieces needing repaired line one wall. Industrial metal tables saved from an old meat packing plant are positioned throughout the wood shop, each providing the perfect workspace for a different kind of saw. Who knew I would become both my mother’s AND my father’s daughter?

    The courtyard outside the wood shop is where all the painting happens. On sunny days, tables stacked with furniture pieces left to dry are a plenty. On days where the rains come, I extend the canary yellow and white striped awning so that there will be enough cover to get the job done.

    The lobby is staged for clients to peruse. Finished pieces furnish the the showroom and await the next show when they will be hauled away and sold. It really is the most fabulous storage unit ever. Everything is arranged just right. Iron garden shelves placed upon painted pedestal tables, antique twin beds filled with handmade pillows, and re-upholstered armchairs give a glimpse of what happens here in the Vintage Junk and Rusty Love barn. My dream made reality by hard work, perseverance and a very patient partner. 🙂

  2. The Running Son
    June 10, 2013

    “my space”

    Poetic Sin is
    the din of my inanimate clutter
    within. Beginning
    with other messes,
    like dressing a decent poem
    uber-fab, then frosting it frozen.

    This drab cell, I have chosen.
    My cat moseys over, poses
    bad, moves slowly, sits right at
    the crossroad of ALT,
    CAP LOCK and CTRL.
    I write in a mix of cat hair

    and soul.

    ~RunningSon

  3. Kenna Rose
    June 10, 2013

    I am not usually a morning person, yet today, as the sounds of the cathedral beckon me to join the hustle and bustle of the world I stretch and convince myself to rise. There is something awe-inspiring at the sound of the bells. I am sure, that they have incurred many a dozer’s wrath, but as I sit, pondering the hundreds of people they have awoken in their lifetime, I cannot chastise them.
    The hotel, was everything that I was promised. It clung to its historical charm, and yet blended ever so perfectly with modern conveniences that all of the patrons, including myself, would be loathed to part with. Another check was down in my book. Although, I do have the suspicion that I cannot count on the ignorance of the hotel that I am here. Critics, like myself are faceless, and nameless until we publish our findings to the wide world. However, this hotel had quickly been gaining in its prestige, and it would be remiss of a good manager, not to have expected me.
    Upon my arrival I had asked the head of reception, what tours they provided. This was my favorite part. Italy was new to me, and Rome, what a mystery. Thousands of years of passion, of crime, of intrigue and happiness had transpired in this city, and as today was my first day here; I was ready to devour her. Today was also my favorite because today was the day to critique the extracurricular outside of the hotel. Recently, in Spain the hotels provisions for historical tours was deplorable, which my soon to be published critique would reflect. However, it had provided a plethora of night time spots to make today’s youth proud.
    There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t praise this job. Stepping out onto my Roman balcony I watch the ancient, and modern blend before my eyes. The best the world has to offer. A passion for travel met, and a passion for writing about it. The best treatment, the best food, a life of luxury that one still has to work for, so their soul isn’t lost in its pursuit. A hotel critic, about to explore one of the most influential cities the world has ever seen.

  4. Pingback: Running ̊Soŋ – Poems collection pt. 6 | The RunningFather Blog

  5. Bryan W. Pajari
    June 15, 2013

    The spanish moss droops down like a nice clean sheet drooped over the couch flailing to the cool air duck breeze. (the wind) Sniffing the clean cleansing air fufilled by the the mossed trees branched out by the oak, each subject of this earth has its dutie, as I find comfort, I began my dutie to work, write my thoughts on paper. Paper comes from the thing that I find most fomforting to sit on as the water flows down the river it helps my word flow down stream, to end in the big ocean, hoping to be noticed in the big sea of writers.
    “The woeds of a dead man,
    Are modified in the guts of the living.” W.H Auden

  6. Bryan W. Pajari
    June 15, 2013

    The spanish moss droops down like a nice clean sheet drooped over the couch flailing to the cool air duck breeze. (the wind) Sniffing the clean cleansing air fufilled by the the mossed trees branched out by the oak, each subject of this earth has its dutie, as I find comfort, I began my dutie to work, write my thoughts on paper. Paper comes from the thing that I find most fomforting to sit on as the water flows down the river it helps my word flow down stream, to end in the big ocean, hoping to be noticed in the big sea of writers.
    “The words of a dead man,
    Are modified in the guts of the living.” W.H Auden

  7. Genevieve Cammer
    June 17, 2013

    An oak tree stood in the center of an open field of Camas lilies. The looking glass rested on a mossy branch; a stick with a hole through it to see through. I turned towards my tree, looking through the looking glass at it in curiosity. I saw another field, much like this one, but with one difference. There was a house in the center, not a tree. A house made of words. I put down the looking glass and saw an ordinary tree once more. I raised the looking glass back up to my eye and stepped towards the house of words. As I stepped forward, a warm wind rushed past me and I was in the field of the house of words. The house looked exactly like my house, but was covered with letters and see through. The words squirmed around, floated, and dashed as if they were alive. I touched the house and in an instant I could hear everything. A lion’s roar, the buzzing of bees, raindrops on pavement, a mother’s voice. Suddenly I knew what to do. I slid words off the house and into open air, making sentences, then paragraphs, then stories. Every time I took a word off the house, a new one replaced it. I made many things out of letters; not just houses, but dragons and plants, and pencils and computers, kingdoms and worlds. I did not do this all at once, of course. I came back many, many times throughout my life, finding a new opening to this place no matter where in the world I was. I let my creations out into the world sometimes; a butterfly, a toadstool, so that when people found them they would be amazed and understand what I did.

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This entry was posted on June 10, 2013 by in THE DAILY PROMPT and tagged , , , , .

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