Ada Limón

                     BEASTS by Amanda Jernigan

       In my kind world the dead were out of range

       And I could not forgive the sad or strange

       In beast or man.

– Richard Wilbur

Her told me of the Cape Town walkup where

he lived till he was eight; the years were spent there,

he claims, his best,

although he’s range his wooden beasts, some nights,

along the windowsill to watch the fights

outside. At last,

presumably, his folks were reconciled

to moving – this no place to raise a child –

and made to flee.

The family came to Canada, where not

much happens for a lion or an ocelot

or boy to see.

Where I grew up, and entertained myself

with fairy tales from which I’d struck the wolf.

Though now, I found,

I summon wolf and lion, woman, Lord

knows what, and bid that wooden horde

to laager round.

The Painting After Lunch – By Clarence Major

It wasn’t working. Didn’t look back. Needed something else. So

I went out. After lunch I saw it in a different light, like a thing

emerging from behind a fever bush, something reaching the

senses with the smell of seaweed boiling, and as visible as yellow

snowdrops on black earth. Tasted it too, on the tongue Jamaica

pepper. To the touch, a velvet flower. Dragging and scumming, I

gave myself to it stroke after stroke. It kept coming in bits and fits,

fragments and snags. I even heard it singing but in the wrong key

like a deranged bird in wild cherries, having the time of its life.

Reflective writing prompt: Write about a time it wasn’t working for you or what you needed to do to be inspired