A daily poetry practice to generate and sustain the Life/Lines among us, for published and novice poets alike
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Write a short poem (rhyming not necessary) that includes each of the following 5 words (anywhere and in any order). Poems should not exceed 7 or 8 lines.
Send us your poem via our Submissions page or post on Twitter or Facebook using the hashtag #lifelines.
Poems submitted for April 1
Out two room windows eyes dash
Left to field of brown and green —
Dash back to screen of white and black
2020 04 01 by Lloyd Klinedinst
Is this, too, light?:
Is light a dash or an endless field
to be stroked with glove-coated hands?
and beneath the sad brown roofs beyond my room
twinkle left-over meals and tennis shoes
mocking skies turn all things blue
Is this, too, light?
Nicci Mowszowski ('21)
In my dreams, time runs in cycles,
Green fields stretch out, lush grass to my right and left.
My past, present, and future intermingle all in one,
Memories from my childhood interwoven with an imaginary future.
Suddenly. Bright light filters into my room,
I’ve woken up late once again.
My feet hurriedly touch the brown floor and I dash around in a haze -
Trying to make up for lost time.
— Tanvi Kohli
season opener 2020
four walls stained nicotine brown, curtains drawn tight
she waits with stubborn anticipation
in her tattered Cardinals cap
#51 MLB certified jersey. Willie McGee.
and cold Bud. get your cold Bud here.
the steal, lightening dash to second base
left field bleachers. always. fourth row from the top.
these, the only signs of winter’s end. . . ever to be trusted
out the left-side window
room where the plants are
kids play driveway field hockey
dash car to car,
brown kneepad freedom
four walls, no body, empty bags left in
corners of abandoned rooms. stain
in the middle off-brown and sin-shine yellow.
dash dream-makers to the field where
roots work and branches bury.
— Sabrina Spence
She nimbly picks the skin off each chickpea,
From far off fields in the Middle East.
The room dims as the sun sets from the left window,
sinking behind a brown apartment building.
Throwing in garlic, onion, cumin, and a dash of sumac.
Soon the work of her hands fades away into warm memories.
A Prisoner Contemplates the Future
Looking out of my room
A rabbit dashes across a brown field.
Thirty days confinement left.
Jo Schaper (c) 2020
the elephant in the room
let’s talk about two birds
attached at the hip
unable to fly
the right wing constantly fighting the left
dashing from one furrow to another
scattering brown feathers
across the field
— Tobias Feldmann
(International Writers Track)
pounding feet and heart,
each day chasing and being chased:
make room, make room. she is
carving parabolas past the ball field, its brown
giving way to green.
her child traces numbers on dashed lines,
marching from left to right.
counting, higher, counting.
They say a dream of empty rooms
suggests vast fields of untapped potential.
My dreams are cluttered
with brown boxes atop grey bundles
a dash of gold threads
twist the paisley-print oilcloth
into Hoarders nightmare.
A room of one’s own suddenly mandatory,
alone, yet uncannily the whole world together.
Our dashing about stilled,
our needs now examined and goods rationed
as we use brown bananas we might before have left.
The field of trust becomes glaringly life-threating or protecting,
one unseen chink in our chain of kin may open infection to our ring.
by Alexandra Brown, age 6
As I look out my room’s window I see our field, as I look left and right there’s just brown grass.
I see my cat dash straight across our pale field, it’s fall.
And yet, outside my torpid room, this too transpires:
The squirrels resume their ardent dash among the trees,
whose branches, once bleakly brown, fulfill their pledge,
offering tiny buds in tones almost forgotten.
These minute fields of fledgling green and demure pink
quicken to a beat no longer dormant.
Spring will not be left unsung.
— Erin McGlothlin
A field of rooms
brown, gray, the midnight sky
I dash off
Who’s left behind?
— Sarah O’Donnell
Awake, sunny room, to deep warmth.
Rich earth, brown dirt feeling
the space of potential beneath a springtime field.
Sunlight blinking, sliding into shadow
like morse code: dot dot dash and dot dot.
Fill up what is left.
— Holly Gabelmann
April 1, 2020
The room smells of my own sweat
After days of self-isolation
I watch the field outside all day long
No one comes to play or plant crops
Not even to sit aimlessly
In the night my room becomes brown
With memories of my homeland I left long ago.
I dash down to my laptop to watch images…
People…. millions of people walking back on highways to their homes
There is no war
Just a Virus went Viral.
PhD Candidate in Track for International Writers who writes poetry only in difficult times.
As you’re dropped into the scene
passing yellow meadows and fields
From freeway distance with with room to spare
drift in the dream of spring
dashed upon the brown earth
How the wind howls.
— dru Parrish
Stuck in a room
Can almost see the Brown School from my home office window
Left alone with a sprinkle of sadness and a dash of hope
In her room
she gazes through dull panes
onto fields of brown
sticks, tangles, dust
A rabbit starts, stops, dashes
Camo and flight
real or imagined
— Sharon Derry
A wish for late morning dreams
Will a field, open blending against a cloudless sky, dry
and brown pierced by waves of bluebonnets left long
alone in the Texas hill country, visit me today?
A phantom to charm air in a long-left room: one table, four walls, dust
sparkling adrift through stale sunlight. I linger, eyes closed.
This chorus alone might ease the morning fever as feet dash
between sheets and cats.
— Cathlin Noonan
I walk the brown field
my hand trailing across
tops of withered blossoms
longing for another dance into spring
another dash into open green summer
no room left in me for winter.
— Steve Givens
A streak of brown against the ground
Across the field the mouse did dash
Leaving little doubt his time was now
Running room both right and left.
No Prodigal Son
I sit in my son's room,
his bed still where it sat nearly a year ago, before he left us.
Our nest is now empty.
His brown jacket hangs in the hanger-filled closet
(he never liked that coat).
In my field of vision, I see all that he discarded,
not useful or wanted in his new apartment.
The house is so quiet. I miss him being here, at least the good parts.
I do not miss the mental illness that caused him to threaten to kill us.
The sick, misguided part of him remains in his brain, awaiting another emotional storm.
I hear my phone ringing, I dash up the stairs - he's calling again.
Jerry J’Asa Mama Moon McCaleb
Her skin a lovely soft brown
A smile that would turn a flower’s head
Energy that would fill a room, a field
She grew quieter and quieter near the end
Till she heard that whispered call and left us
Ahhh, but I see her now
Dashing from one heavenly project to the next
Pulling the angels into her orbit
To teach them about God-Love
And how very worthwhile each of them was
If only they could remember
— Carol Haake
We waltzed in a wildflower meadow,
wallowed beneath a willow, planted
grandiose dreams in rich brown earth.
Head over heels we rolled down the verdant
hillside, spilling youth a mile a minute.
Left sprigs of yearning on our mad dash.
Each spring I fill a vase with daffodils,
and fragrance the room with reverie.
— Linda O'Connell
Gold festoons a field’s
brown room. Sun’s leftover light
dashes across blooms.
— Bernie Mossotti
Behold the field of brown - asleep.
Just beneath the surface colors lay in wait.
Soon new green growth will prevail
With a dash of white and yellow to sparkle.
All that will be left of this time of rest
Is a memory.
— Karen Engelkenjohn