Astronomy tells us that it takes eight and a half minutes for a ray of the sun to reach us, so the sun is already somewhere else when we are seeing it.  The lyrics “Look for the silver lining when e’er a cloud appears in the blue. Remember somewhere the sun is shining, and so the right thing to do is make it shine for you,” reflect my innate optimism.  Imagine the effect in our world if our joy could shine out at least every eight and a half minutes.

Jerrice J. Baptiste, AuthenticPoetry.com

Moving into a new house, getting it ready for the holidays is no small task.  I stood in the middle of it all.  Boxes piled up to my waist, unsure where to begin.  Upon waking, I had read Arrogance a poem by St John of the Cross.  A wave of gratitude washed over me instantly as I recalled his words “The real dance, when the soul takes God into its arms and you both fall onto your knees in gratitude, a blessed gratitude for life.”  “Thank you,” I said out loud to life for my beautiful home, but I still had to clean it.

For motivation, I played Michael Jackson’s concert video Smooth Criminal.   I listened, watched a man creating something quite unusual, memorable, leaning so close to life in that famous anti-gravity lean of his, then asking over “Annie are you OK?  Are you OK Annie?  Will you tell us that you’re OK?”  I found myself laughing.  Comparing Jackson’s great concern to St John’s words “…And the man who feels superior to others that man can not dance.”

Falling onto your knees, or doing an anti-gravity lean, it’s the same thing.  They showed how deeply they cared about humanity or equality, to be free enough to enjoy the dance.  Their serious passion for life inspired a new home to be free, be blessed by a lit up tree for family who will gather near.

Jerrice J. Baptiste

Jerrice@AuthenticPoetry.com

          When I told Brent I was going to post a prompt for you all this morning, he asked what the prompt was going to be. I said I was going to work on it but wasn’t sure yet. Then I had the good sense to ask him if he had any ideas. He said, “Well, I think it should be about this place.” As is typical of me, I  jumped too-quickly on him with, “No, I want it to be a broader subject, something deeper.” Thankfully, I remembered our therapist reminding me that I need to hear Brent when he speaks, so I apologized and asked him to say more about what he was thinking. Sure enough, he started talking about why place matters, about why a certain place might cause things to happen, or why certain people would show up at the same place. He used the word ‘confluence’ but I can’t remember why. As he was talking, I thought about Dorothy Allison and how important Place is to her when she’s teaching. Her lecture entitled “Place” is the first essay in The Writer’s Notebook, a compilation published by Tin House in 2009. (Read it!) I’m just scanning it now for something to quote and see that I’ve underlined bits and pieces throughout the essay. But here’s a good line: “Your reader comes into your narrative to steal knowledge – who you are and what is all around you, what you use, or don’t use, what you need, or fear, or want – all that sweet reverberating detail.”  And another: “Place is what that “I” looks at, what it doesn’t look at…Place is feeling, and feeling is something a character expresses. More, it is something the writer puts on the page –articulates with deliberate purpose…Place is emotion.”

Thinking about place, I hereby prompt you:
Where were you when it happened?
or
What was missing?
or
How did he know?

As with all prompts, go where you will, or go somewhere else. 250 words or less.

To read student responses to this prompt, click on “Writing” under the “Student Work” link above.

To contact Bar, send an email to bar@barscott.com

For opening day of our new website, I sent out the following, longer-than-usual prompt:

When I told Brent I was going to be posting a prompt for you all this morning, he asked what the prompt was going to be. I said I was going to work on that today. Then I had the good sense to ask him if he had any ideas. He said, “Well, I think it should be about this place.” As is typical of me, I too-quickly jumped on him with, “No, I want it to be a broader subject, something deeper.” Thankfully, I remembered our therapist reminding me that I need to hear Brent when he speaks, so I apologized and asked him to say more about what he was thinking. Sure enough, he started talking about why place matters, about why a certain place might cause things to happen, or why certain people would show up at the same place. He used the word ‘confluence’ but I can’t remember why. As he was talking, I thought about Dorothy Allison and how important Place is to her when she’s teaching. Her lecture entitled “Place” is the first essay in The Writer’s Notebook, a compilation published by Tin House in 2009. (Read it!) I’m just scanning it now for something to quote and see that I’ve underlined bits and pieces throughout the essay. But here’s a good line: “Your reader comes into your narrative to steal knowledge – who you are and what is all around you, what you use, or don’t use, what you need, or fear, or want – all that sweet reverberating detail.”  And another: “Place is what that “I” looks at, what it doesn’t look at…Place is feeling, and feeling is something a character expresses. More, it is something the writer puts on the page –articulates with deliberate purpose…Place is emotion.”

Thinking about place, I hereby prompt you:

Where were you when it happened?
or
What was missing?
or
How did he know?

As with all prompts, go where you will, or go somewhere else. 250 words or less.

(Click on any image below to open a gallery of full-size images.)

“Remember marraine, you taught me Psalm 6 when I was five years old,” I said, whispering it in her ear.  She still took her role seriously.   Joining in quickly, shouting with faith, “…Aie pitié de moi, Eternel! car je suis sans force; Guéris-moi, Eternel! car mes os sont tremblants—Have mercy on me, God! for I am faint; Heal me Lord, for my bones are in agony.…” Psalm 6 shared perfectly for the last time.

An army of men in long white coats marched in, demanding for her to sign a DNR, just a few minutes after our precious prayer.  I was the chosen one, stroking her softly braided gray hair, moistening her lips with drops of water from a gauze, and explaining in Creole.  I never imagined explaining in any language the words DNR to anyone I love.

In my sweetest voice, I asked her “What would you like the doctors to do marraine if your heart stops beating?  Do you want them to get your heart beating again?“

Her answer was always the same,“Que la Volonté de Dieu Soit Faite. 

May the Will of God Be Done.”

*

To contact Jerrice, email her at goddesspresskingston@yahoo.com

I had not noticed how completely I had been absent.  Time is easily filled and passes with or without conscious consent.  Mirrors frame like photographs, detailing the trappings of bootstrap success and nothing I would trade. Looking back at me I see happy, healthy and well-launched children, a wife who has endured me for thirty-years and doesn’t see it that way at all, friends to fill a Thanksgiving table and work that matters.  I see everyone but me.

It’s not that I was oblivious, just in denial much the same way I am about the hard water etching on my new shower fixtures. It’s more like magical thinking partnered with benign neglect.  Why wouldn’t I want to deny that something invisible, dissolved in the fundamental basis of life, leaves permanent scars?

Saying it out loud makes it real as the photograph.  What was found is me.

*

If you would like to be in touch with Alex, email her at alexnwriting@gmail.com

Our pitcher had had a rocky start and now, in the third, I’m less than a mile down the freeway and we were down 2-0. But when our batter got a fat one down the middle, wanting, like the rest of humanity, just to connect, he belted it into the stands. A beige sedan edged closer to my lane and the driver, a man with silver in his dark hair, rolled down his window. “Why this slow? Is usual?” he yelled.

I threw up both hands and yelled back, “Commute traffic!”  He nodded slowly, disappointed. With exaggerated motions I pointed to my radio. “The Giants—home run. Did you hear?”

He brightened, pointed to his radio, smiled wide, “Yeah!! Go Giants!”

I smiled back. “Go Giants!” and gave a little fist pump.

Still smiling, he rolled up his window and I scooted forward to keep up with my lane.

*

If you would like to be contact with Lynne, please email her at ljerome@mills.edu

It was June. I had sold the house with all the ghosts. We were sweating. There was no air stirring in the unfinished attic room. It was like an oven with no release. But there was the window, wide open, with possibility and air and the rest of my life.

I don’t know what you thought, if you wondered where the hell all this stuff had come from. To you, it may have just been an awful accumulation, a tattered mess of memories come undone. To me it was my whole life.

What I couldn’t give away, I threw away. I had to. Potty chair, old magazines, ugly framed prints, a broken cd player, boxes of college textbooks, ratty baskets, unused, scathingly empty, papers and papers and papers. Junk and trash. My life.

I felt so alone.

I never told you that. I made it seem resolute, like it didn’t hurt. Like falling down and scraping both your knees and trying hard not to cry, despite the blood.

I did not cry.

At least in front of you.

*

To contact Angela, please send an email to angelakburton@hotmail.com