The characters in the Broadway show and the movie, In The Heights, chase their dreams and ask: “Where do I belong?” West Side Story is also about finding one’s place, illustrated in the song “Somewhere:” Someday, somewhereWe’ll find a new way of livingWe’ll find a way of forgivingSomewhere There’s a place for usSomewhere a place for usPeace and quiet and open airWait for us somewhere Prompt: Write about a time you felt out of place. A place where you didn’t belong, but there you were. What did you do? What did you feel? Have you found Your Place?
Tag: Writing freely. Just write. Writing Prompts. The Write Spot Blog.
Baba Yetu . . . Prompt #583
“Baba Yetu” sung in Swahili by the Stellenbosch University Choir. The Prompt: Listen to this amazing choir. Then write whatever comes up for you. Or: Write about a musical experience. Or: Write about connections.
Post-Pandemic Songs and Second Chances
By Deb Fenwick After fifteen months, it’s time to soar. A hundred, a thousand, millions of voices are calling, inviting us to share in a common song. There’s a brilliant bright light and an invitation to hope after all the darkness—to hope and to imagine possibilities. It’s a resonant call to lift off and soar. And it originates from that other place. It’s a place of community where we remember our interconnectedness. It’s a place where there’s an agreement to work together to make something that transcends what one individual, no matter how magnificent, can do on their own. It’s a place where you work toward something with others, and it takes on its own magic. You can see it in a choir’s chorus or a road crew building a bridge. It’s there as an emergency room team saves a life, and as food pantry volunteers pack boxes. It’s that…
If you could … Prompt #581
If you could change some things in your history, what would you change?
Shopping at the A & P
By Jonah Raskin My mother always shopped at the A & P in the small town where I grew up. Going there with her was almost as wonderful as going to the Planetarium with its stars and planets in its make-believe night sky, and the Museum of Natural History with its reconstructed dinosaurs. At the A & P I liked the rows and rows of canned goods, and packaged cereals, the smell of the wood floor and the man in the green apron who always helped my mother. I thought of him and the A & P the other day when I went shopping in my own local food market. Like the A & P of my boyhood, my local market is small, clean, and tidy. Some of the smells are nearly the same. Walking the aisles, I’m reminded of the smells in the A & P. Before I know…
Be more, do less.
By Camille Sherman This advice was first shared in a Master Class-style opera workshop where my classmates and I would sing for each other, beginning the long process of working out the kinks in our presentation. The purpose of the vice was to help organize the inner monologue: the running mental news banner that presses into every young performance or audition. Here’s how it goes: standing in front of a dozen peers, preparing to perform the aria you’ve been overthinking all morning, the mind runs wild. Sound good, remember the words, give a compelling performance, impress everyone or face clumsy embarrassment. The music starts and as you stare at a point on the back wall just above the heads of your classmates, your mental tornado flurrying, a thought freezes you into place: what do I do with my hands? Do I move or gesture? You realize as you sing the…
Turtle Regains The Pond
By Lakin Khan Layers of mud kept Turtle warm and secluded all through the winter hibernation. Occasionally a bubble escaped to the top of the pond, but usually, no. A spring sun glanced across the serene surface of the pond, riling up the water insects, generating a small current that brought fresh smells to Turtle’s blunt, beaky nose. Cinnamon, he thought, and hot cross buns, he considered, the memories of days kept at a house weaving into his rising consciousness. Time for business, he thought, and scrabbled against the twigs and leaves that the mud held against him, claws working to free him up out of his encasement and into the cold bottom water and then up, up, up into the gradually warming surface, into the feral spring. Two months ago, wild horses couldn’t have dragged him out of the bottom of the muck, but now Spring itself was galloping…
History Lesson
By Susan Bono I’ve been rummaging around in already full closets lately, trying to find space for all the stuff I brought home when I emptied my parents’ house last May. It’s been rough going, but I stopped wondering why when I realized Mom and Dad lived in their house for thirty-seven years, only eight years longer than we’ve lived in ours. Our youngest son often encounters me staring into space clutching a quilt, wood carving, or photograph. I think my uncharacteristic attempts at organization are making him nervous. “What are you doing? What’s that?” he asks. “Oh, this is some of your Great Aunt Emily’s needlepoint,” I tell him a little too eagerly. “These are my Barbie clothes, and here are the baby rompers your great grandmother made for your grandfather back in 1925. You wore them once yourself.” I give him these family history updates knowing full well…
2021 Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest
Poetry Contest news from Alan Lowe:Inviting All to Enter 2021 Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest Wishing you good health and peace during these difficult and confusing times. Looking on the bright side, the 17th Annual Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest is open to young and old. Contest theme: If Life Were A Game Show, What Would Poets Say? The five contest categories: Let’s Make A Deal To Tell The Truth The Price Is Right Family Feud Who Wants To Be A Millionaire Poets may submit a maximum of three poems, no more than one in each of three of the five contest categories. Everyone is encouraged to enter the contest. Poets do not have to live in Lincoln, CA to be eligible. There is no entry fee. Young Poets, 18-years of age or under, are encouraged to submit poems and will compete in a special “Young Poets” category. “Rules and Entry Form” can…
Calm
By Kathleen Haynie I drive by her turn-out, roll down the passenger car window to greet her with my best whinny. I can see her whinny ripple through the flesh of her sorrel and white soft muzzle. That muzzle will soon be buried in the red wheat bran she knows is coming. This time it is laced with bute to ease her pain from her sprained right knee. I hope the alfalfa sprinkles camouflage the taste of bute.* She is not too distracted with the hay and grain to lift each foot in turn so I can clean out the V ruts of each frog. After seventeen years, we know the drill. The curry comb pulls off twigs of the white winter coat on her back and haunches. Somehow the earth tells her body that it’s time to start letting go as the days grow longer. Yet the nights are…