wee writing prompts

Memorable camping trip?

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Nehalem Bay State Park: an overnight hiker/biker site for five dollars along the Oregon Coast where I bussed it from Portland, walked along the 101 to notice all the banana peels and how close the cars really do come to the almost non-existent shoulder, hiked Neakahnie Mountain on no sleep the morning after Gabriel, a bay area bound hiker paced the communal campfire, telling stories of being on a spirit animal journey to recover his stolen laptop and seek revenge upon Andrea? Who Andrea was no one knew; no one asked.  I slept with one eye open in my solo tent, hoping the biker gang next to me would come to my rescue if all went south in the night.  But it was my first solo camping trip and I’d do it again in a heartbeat, me, my backpack and a head full of wonder and slight worry.

What a photo can illicit…

image

“…take a picture of them…”

When I see clothespins I think of your mother,

even though we never met.

She died of cancer when I was just a baby,
when you were slightly younger than I am now,
And at 26 I’m hanging myself out to dry,
it’s been 6 months since I’ve had a drink.
I’m listening to that song, “Pictures”,
the one you said made you think of her when you were a kid, of her hanging the t-shirts on the line.
The image of us lying in your bed,
listening,
listening,
seared in the sides of my mind.

The Title of My Book if I’d Just Write One Already: My Life in Titles

You Know You’re in the Ghetto When & Other Stories East of 82nd

Always Carry a Burgundy Buddha and Other Nonsensical Advice

How Getting a DUI, Poetry and Portland Saved My Life(Insert own less dramatic title here)

Do You Like Pina Rain and Getting Caught in the Coladas?

I Go to Dark Places in My Dreams

One Bloody Thumb, Guerrilla Glue, and Screws: Lessons in Love

Toto, We’re Not in Kansas Anymore: A Day in the Life of My Bike

Toto: Toilets Across the Globe

Wander and Lust

How to Eat Too Many Cherries: Farmer’s Markets Gone Wrong

You Watching Her Watching Me Watching You & Other Awkward Moments

The Lone High Heel: Urban Flotsam

How To Get Out of a Polyamorous Proposition and Other Awkward Moments II

Home:

To Be Continued…

I wrote a poem once that ended in “it’s only 8 a.m.” and have found myself since occasionally murmuring the phrase. 

Either begin or end with “it’s only 8 a.m.”.  See where it takes you.  Have fun with it.

What I came up with: sub 10 a.m. for 8 and a bit of tweaking.  There are no rules:

The day after we “split up”

we spent the morning at breakfast

fondling one another,

under the table,

your brother to our left,

a friend across the pancakes.

We stopped at your garden on Canyon Road,

and you watered it and gave me

the first ripe strawberry of the season,
it was tender, almost too sweet.
I threw the leftover leaves on the ground,                                                                     you reached for another hug

And I let you hug me, longer than normal                                                                   or what felt like normal was going to be,
and I eyed the plants, skeptically,                                                                                                                      they looked too alive, too perky in their morning beds at 10 am,

then off we went down the road,
where I can’t recall if you dropped me at home

or whether we kept driving                      into the afternoon.

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