Nocturnal (an acrostic poem)

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Nighttime was when he was awake and alive

Observing his domain as he prowled the streets

Citizens were happily in their beds now

They were dreaming dreams of a light-filled world

Under which people like him were just fragments of lore

Real-world boogeymen who cleaned up society’s messes

Now that suited him just fine

As he enjoyed the peace and quiet of owning the blacktop

Lifting another trashcan, he deposited the contents in the back of the truck before moving on

Write (an acrostic poem)

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Words dribble out of my fingers

Raw unfiltered fragments of imagination

Incandescent with flashes of brilliance

Though often followed by long droughts of darkness

Engulfing everything in shades of mediocrity

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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