the prompt was OVERLOADED

OVERLOADED
My mind was overloaded

I’d jammed it to the hilt

No room was left for gladness

Only misery and guilt

My mind was overloaded

I couldn’t sleep a wink

I tossed and turned forever

There was no room to think

My mind was overloaded

My blankets made me sweat

My toes were cramped and twisted

I could only turn and fret

My mind was overloaded

I tried to say a prayer

Either God was on vacation

Or He simply wasn’t there

My mind was overloaded

My wife began to snore

It brought to mind my lover

Who always knew the score

I poked her in the rib cage

I asked her for advice

She answered me with kisses

No need to ask her twice.

Andy

SOMEONE ELSE

Someone else has sat in your seat. Someone else had had your idea. Someone else has led your life. Someone else has stood in the rain or snow and stared at a discarded bouquet of roses on the ground. Someone else has shed these tears before.

Yet for a moment, that first moment you felt it or experienced it, that hard flat surface beneath you or the bright shocking revelation that 2+2=4 or that indeed this girl is the one and only one for you, that moment is yours and yours alone. And then it’s gone, and you are left with that old proverb’s famous words, “There is nothing new under the sun.”

But I prefer to think to myself, “But what a sun!” and the thought that he and I and you and I and even she and I are looking at the same sun is a beautiful thing, and can threaten to overload my mind. There is nothing new it’s true. The world is very old, but it is also very beautiful. Especially if you try to see it for the first time everyday.

Scott

OVERLOADED

Overloaded

From my hair to my toes

Overloaded

From my guts to my nose

Overloaded

Like a ship about to sink

Overloaded

Like a drunk’s last drink

Overloaded

Like someone in trouble

Overloaded

Like bursting his bubble

Overloaded

By ice and snow

Overloaded

Like a burlesque show

Overloaded

Like an derelict’s yawn

Overloaded

Like a cop’s baton

Alex

STRANGERS AGAIN

The Nash, cut down into a truck of sorts and overloaded, rolled along on three tires and a rim that wailed a constant complaint.  Each expansion joint in the concrete punctuated the protestation with sharp metallic blows.  For all the noise there was not quite enough to fill the big quiet caused by a motor silenced by the lack of gas.  A hot breeze sanded over the sunburned faces of those passengers perched on the patched canvas covered remains of their lives.  Their dirty hands gripped the canvas tightly, their fate on the downgrade, brakes burning.

Al looked over at Floyd, but they were strangers again.  Their night on the Colorado River was a couple of hundred miles ago, and the Mojave had since sucked all the juiciness out of the memory.  Floyd looked resolutely ahead, knowing he was being watched.  The increasing wind whipped at his open shirt and the sunlight counted his ribs.  He was as dark as an Indian, except for his knuckles.

Daniel

ODE TO FACEBOOK

Too much talking

Too many words

You need to stop

You've already been heard

Too many messages

And notifications

Please give it rest

And go on vacation

I guess it's entitlement

I guess it's fear

That makes you think

You're all I want to hear

Please take your comments

Your updates and such

To your own bulging mind

We've all had enough

Emily


OVERLOADED
Weight Limit!
Feeling overloaded!? Some people have figured out how brains work.
Important names, dates, secrets, poems, criticisms, jokes, catchy phrases?
Where have we put these thoughts? In long term or short?
Can I recall or even remember to search out what matters most to my friends and family?
Overloaded equals a full life--or agony & sleepless nights.
I think I'll just watch another movie.
Writing helps.

Liz

OVERLOAD
Information overload
Is the frustration of the day.
Too many stings, and things
That attempt my mind to sway'

Gigas, megas,and other bytes
Filling up our brains
without something else to store them
I would simply go insane.

A simpler life is better
It brings me peace of mind.
And of course, my music,
Which helps me to unwind.

I don't think we're intended
To walk upon this road
The information highway
To systems overload!

Mike

Ode to my Shorts

Ode to my Shorts

By Emily G

My shorts smell like me

They are my badge, my trademark

All summer long

Omnipresent

Except when Eva borrows them.

After I take them out of the dryer

They feel stiff

They smell like laundry detergent

I have to reroll the cuffs

And get them just right.

After an hour or so

They relax into me

They shape themselves around me

Like the comforter on my bed

When I sleep.

The days go on and

These shorts take on more

Of the pictures and sounds of my life.

When they are perfectly fused

With my body

Then the washing machine beckons

And I have to start over.

The Bus Ride

The Bus Ride

by Emily G

Sitting in a crowd of strangers for 5 hours.

Not the way a 12 year old would like to pass the time.

I had to think of ways to make the bus ride bearable.

When you sat down next to me I wanted to crawl away.

Oh no! An old man who would bore me with his anecdotes.

Please don’t ask me questions about myself.

You did start and I was very evasive with my answering.

Yes, I had gotten on the bus in New York.

But I was really from Paris where my father was a film director.

I lived on the Left Bank surrounded by poets and artistic types.

I was an actress and had dabbled in writing children’s books.

I enjoyed traveling around America, looking for inspiration.

Hey this was fun! I could wrap myself up however I pleased.

I’d never see this old man again. He’d never know.

I’d start namedropping – Fellini was my father’s best friend.

He’d never get to unwrap this gift and see what’s inside.

He’d only see whatever wrapping I chose to put on.

He could tell his grandchildren what a famous child he had met on the bus.

The five hours flew by quickly. The trip was done.

I shook his hand with a cocky self-assuredness.

His eyes twinkled with the wisdom of his years.

Somehow I knew that I had not pulled one over on him.

He did know what was inside the wrapping paper.

A bored, self-conscious, awkward 12 year old, yearning to be someone else.

And Then It's Real

The Velveteen Rabbit...Winnie the Pooh...Pinnochio...children's books and Disney movies...imaginary friends...theres something in that phrase, "and then it's real", that we are apparently trying to teach our children but I haven't figured out what it is. For some reason, it sounds like a lie.

Three Good Things

Three Good Things

Write them every day

Three good things that happened

That’s what she told me to do when I feel like ths

Dutiful girl that I am, I did what she said

The price of gas is down

I found a five dollar bill in my jacket

It’s not raining today

You can always find three good things

My daughter called and we talked awhile

The waiter was friendly at lunch

It’s not raining today

It isn’t very hard to find three good things

Today I got a call from my son

I’m enjoying the book I’m reading

It’s still not raining

I think it’s working, writing down three good things

I laughed with the baby on line at the store

I put on some music and danced

It’s raining but I don’t mind

I think there may be more than three good things that happen every day

Time Prompt

Time

Too much and not enough

Stay in the moment

Wrap your arms around it

Don't let it slip away

Don't look back

Don't worry about tomorrow

A step at a time

One foot in front of the other

Live for today

Carpe diem

God! There are an awful lotof cliches about time

Emily Gallo

Dilemma

He watched her ashen, bony face, once so rosy and robust. Her eyes were closed but her chest moved up and down laboriously. He’d watched the nurse clip off the tube enough times. She had gone to the store. She’d be gone for an hour. That would be enough time. Her eyes opened and they pleaded with him.