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My Childhood | ||
| by Matthew Zapruder | ||
| the orange ball arcs perfectly into the orange hoop making a sound like a drawer closing you will never get to hold that I am here and nothing terrible will ever happen across the street the giant white house full of kids turns the pages of an endless book the mother comes home and finds the child animal sleeping I left my notebook beside the bed the father came home and sat and quietly talked one square of light on the wall waiting patiently I will learn my multiplication tables while the woman in the old photograph looks in a different direction
Writing Prompt:
Think back on your childhood and your blossoming youth. Write about a positive memory, a loss, lesson you have learned, something you don't want to forget, something you don't quite understand but want to understand more deeply. Write a poem, prose, or list. Be creative.
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Morning Song | ||
| by Sylvia Plath | ||
Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls. I'm no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind's hand. All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear. One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown. Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons. | ||
