Found this image under “four line poem” and note the 5th column, oh well, nothing is black and white. I am prompter for writing group this week; and i think this was something i suggested from Kurt Vonnegut-the basic idea is to write a four line poem before you good to bed; make it as good as you can and don’t show it; the creativity is the reward, but of course, typical writer, i show; 4 lines on computer different from 4 lines pasted into spot; c’est la vie!

Four lines travel across a page

Does “before you go to bed” mean before a nap because my eyelids droop as I am back
From walking urban blocks, for exercise, a checkout at a consignment store, cough drops and Nan bread at Trader Joe’s – bless me father for I won’t eat more than my allotted

My world is bound by cough drops of the herbal kind, a husband who is tottering, a good sign indeed, tottering rather than near death like a week ago, wanted to stay weak and now in Pasadena uptown that is where the streets are wide, and quiet reigns, I think it’s all a prompt this life; one prompt after another, transforming, plunging, changing.

Ever listen to the Zen noise of your computer on promising you life beyond your borders where communication pulsates or lurches, take your pick and you find, you can bear or bare, oh dear, just about anything even misspelling, as long as you are connected to the chair, the floor, outside a squeaky screen door to the ones you love out there and here?

I’d like a dog, the idea of a dog, maybe like the Tarjay (Target) dog, white with gorgeous red eye, or maybe a beigy French bull whose ears point to Mars, both sides, and whose white tummy needs rubbing or maybe a pug to snort and shed pug hairs around his Napoleonic existence, and this is not to be so – time to cruise pug websites instead

My life is made up of beeping sounds of phone off hook so Bill can nap; and 1-800 numbers and an open cough drop bag, a small book The Hidden Words, open books about 25 of them, witness to the attention span deficit of my ways, and images, lots of images, one of Steve Pulley’s email, reminding me I am prompter; a friend indeed

Gotta go take that nap – white velvet pulls at my eyelids, and my bones feel like candle wax melting, and the bed, flat, smooth, near a half opened mullioned window beckons, even beyond the promise of lunch, crisp hot Nan, with golden margarine swimming over its blackened crust, sleep and then health and then be there calls.

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