Poet (an acrostic poem)

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Placing emotions on a page, then folding them into intricate origami dioramas of life

Or pluck stars from the sky and plant them under mountains to grow gemstone geodes

Even distill humanity, boil off the dross, and serve up a potent shot of pure intoxication and misery

Then crumple up the whole thing, delete the file, and try again since the craft was not perfected

Craft (an acrostic poem)

 

Cobbling together something beautiful

Relies on one part imagination

Another part materials

Finally a good chunk of time

This means during this crisis you can level up!

Actor (an acrostic poem)

 

All she ever let them see was her screen face

Cold, aloof, mysteriously beautiful

The fact is she was scared, scarred, and so plain was something to hide

Oh there were times she thought about letting go of the persona and just be

Reality was she was too committed to her craft to let her audience down

 

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Arrival (an acrostic poem)

 

As the alien ship slowly descended to the ground

Rachel tried to hold it together.  She wished Lisa wasn’t late for their date

Reality seemed to warp, making her knees buckle as the craft touched down

It slowly opened to reveal a blinding light

Valiantly she took one step forward, then the second

As she got closer, she could see vague shapes

Later, Lisa looked at the scorched earth and wondered where Rachel was

 

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Space Travel (an acrostic poem)

Stars stare without blinking

Putting me ill at ease as I float here

And wonder if I will ever feel solid ground beneath my feet again

Can’t believe those brilliant blue skies are so long gone

Everything out there is so black

 

To be an interstellar adventurer

Really should be so much more exciting

And it was two years ago, but now?

Viewing the infinite from inside my craft

Everything just seems so small and too large at the same time

Leaving me to wonder why I booked this flight

 

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Writing Craft (a 100 word story)

Tim looked at the shards and fragments of his many broken story ideas.  He poked through their remains.  Each was as pretty as a stained glass window, but every time he tried to hang one on a sheet of paper they would come crashing to earth.  Now they were just jagged pieces of color.

He almost just threw it all away when he had a thought.  He began to nudge the pieces together and laying new prose as the glue.  Soon a new, even more vibrant, picture began to emerge.

Tim wondered if that is why they called it craft.

 

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