I wrote a poem...accidentally...

Spent another wonderful Saturday with a writer's group writing with prompts. I call it essential exercise. What was interesting about this time is that the first two prompts I wrote easily, but the third stumped me. In truth, it scared me. I panicked.

The prompt was this - think of a picture then start writing with the words "In this photograph you are..." Our wonderful host and leader of our group announced the prompt and we all went to work.

Sort of.

I sat and stared at the page thinking, "What photograph?"

In my other two writings that day I had time travelers battling robots with swords and a woman having a nightmare about an eighteenth century Medusa. Fun, active, entertaining. I enjoyed hearing the laughter as I read the short pieces.

But I was there to exercise so I started writing...and kept at it...and then after about fifteen minutes I stopped. Even though I had five more minutes I was done. I thought it was horrible, pretentious, way too serious, the exact thing I hated to write, let alone read.

I read it aloud, to the group, and even though I was nervous and worried that they would hate it, as I read I realized that he piece was the most personal thing I'd written in weeks, maybe months.

So what if it was serious. It was honest. And sometimes for me to be honest I have to just write.

So I thought I'd share here.

In this photo you are free. You are without strings, unhampered by duty or the judgment of others.

You are a tempest. Angry, furious, and deceptively calm; confusing those who dare come near.

You are strong. Stronger than the pull of gravity. Able to latch onto a breeze and have it take you where you will.

You are uncomplicated. Honest. True. Saying only what you mean and only when you mean to say it.

You are deep. Thoughts like a drenching spring rain, full of promise. The world visualizes you when it sleeps.

You are brave. Standing tall when you should be buckling. Fierce, striding forward, standing still.

You are tantalizing. Your eyes hold the key to a mystery. A hidden meaning buried so deep that it may never be revealed.

You are ignorant. You understand that you know only what you’re meant to know. Your curiosity never leads you so far astray that you forget the tether.

You are haunted. Shadows of those you’ve lost hover in your hair; reflect in the glint of your eyes. Their names on the tip of your tongue.

You are alone. Never remaining close to anyone. Content to let your thoughts be your company. Even in a crowded bus station. Even in a crowded city.

You are a woman, sitting on a bench, hugging a worn leather duffle, wearing a skirt and sandals, and letting me take your picture.