The writing below is not only for a contest I'm involved in for fifty days of freewriting (@mariannewest), in which today's prompt is homeless, but also a pantoum which is a verse form of poetry that not only lends itself to obsessive-compulsive emotions, but seems an easy one, in my experience, in getting people to write a poem even though they think they're not able.
I was asked to help with a 7th grade career day this morning in which I was sharing a room with artists talking about ways in which career could be aligned with creativity. I decided why not kill two birds, and used the prompt in class.
Anyway, there are some varying versions of how to write a pantoum, but usually when I teach high school kids I instruct them on how to soften their focus and we then listen to a half hour of so of Alan Watts in which students are instructed to collect 10 sentences, phrases, word pairings and then use these in the pantoum pattern. It's sort of a cheat, but can be considered "found," poetry and usually the students are delighted with the complexity of their finished poems and no two are ever the same.
I've written much better than the following, but below is the quick three minute example using the steemit prompt I used to illustrate just how easy poetry can be--at least get the pen/pencil making some initial strokes towards word art.
Our writing contest includes taking a daily selfie (not what I love to do), but this is a picture of me standing in front of the local JC Penney's store, now out of business and the cage the owners have built in front of the covered entryway in order to prevent homeless peoples from sleeping there. Note the No Trespassing signs taped in the doors.
I am not sure how other communities are experiencing homelessness, but in ours methods are varied, but seem limited in really doing much to help, as I see more and more homeless people on our streets each year. And, a year or so ago, I did step on a man in a sleeping bag and had a long conversation with him after profusely apologizing to him. Not that that makes me any kind of saint, just what I thought of first reading the prompt.
Like a caterpillar cloaked in the night,
I tripped over him in his ratty bag.
We talked about Christ for an hour or more,
of bodies, lying, in doors.
I tripped over him in his ratty bag,
Messy, gray hair, he points to a yellowed paperback at his side.
Speaks of bodies, lying, in doors,
My sweater, not enough warmth, for me alone.
Messy, gray hair, he points to a yellowed paperback at his side,
He’d once known a Mary too.
My sweater, not enough warmth, for me alone.
Bid him sweet adieu, flowered, full-moons.
He’d once known a Mary too.
We talked about Christ for an hour or so
Bid him sweet adieu, flowered, full-moons,
Like a caterpillar cloaked in the night