Posted in Writing

A Surprise

A surprise. That’s truly what it feels like sometimes. This is the Best kind of writing. Sometimes the words just flow from my head to the page. What ends up on the page is as much a surprise to me as it is to you! I sit back and wonder, “Wow! Where did that come from?” The end result is a rush. A high. My drug of choice.

Does this kind of thing happen to you? 

(C) Penny Wilson 2022

Posted in Life, Prose, Stories

Box of Memories

I wrote this in 2018 and came across it today. I like it. I hope you do too. ❤

Penny Wilson Writes

Sorting through that bookshelf, all I intended to do was to gather a few books to donate when I saw it.  The Box of Memories.  The box was something that I had found in an antique store.  The box had been carefully hand made and at one time was someone’s treasure.  It was battered and aged, but had it’s own beauty and I had to have it.

I pulled the box down and wiped the dust off the top. After opening the lid, I lifted an old photo out of the box and looked at it.  It was curled and yellow with age.  I couldn’t remember the last time that I looked through The Box of Memories.  Years.  The picture of my oldest brother, taken just after High School.  He was ready to take on the world.  A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth.  He looked out…

View original post 341 more words

Posted in Life, Poetry

*REBLOG: Dear Poet — forgottenmeadows

This is a REBLOG from Forgotten Meadow’s beautiful blog.  Be sure to visit her site! 

Dear Poet,I see you behind the blue inkof your spilled heartfallen,amidst wordsthat you meant to say,but never did. Dear Poet,I see you… poetry and image copyright neha 2022

Dear Poet — forgottenmeadows
Posted in Poetry

Off the Deep End

I went off the deep end 
with you  

Drowning in my 
blinded conception 
of your love  

My descent 
took me closer 
to darkness 
and further 
from the truth  

You were never mine  

Not really

Copyright (c) 2022 Penny Wilson
*A bit of fiction here, my friends. All is well. 
I've had trouble lately being inspired to write.  
What comes seems to be dark.
Posted in Poetry, Writing

Spark

Moments dissolve under my fingertips
meaningless

The spark

oh, that spark
how I chase you!

You tease me
tempt me

I dream of
the other side of the page 

Blissful
virginal world
of my creation

The rush!
Spark ensnared!

Fleeting
elusive

Fingers fly
across the keyboard
before the
evaporation of
the Spark 

Copyright © 2019 Penny Wilson

*Although this was originally written in 2019, I hope you
don't mind a repeat. Lately, I have been having trouble
getting that 'spark' back. I'm in pursuit again! :)
Posted in Life, Writing

My First Spark For Writing

*I originally posted this in 2018, but after coming across it recently, it brought back some really good memories.  I thought I would share those memories with you.  I hope you enjoy. 🙂 

I was trying to think back to when the first real spark for writing happened to me.  In my teens, I would write those, love-sick, heart-wrenching poems to that boy that would never read it.  I never wanted anyone to see what I was writing because it was my deepest, love-sick secrets.  I also dabbled at keeping a diary at different times as a child, but I never stuck with it for very long.

Then in 7th grade, Junior High, I met my English Teacher, Miss Stiff.

Miss Stiff looked Very Much as her name implied.  She was the stuffy, prim and proper school teacher.  She kept her hair up in a tight severe bun and wore dresses well below her knees.  She ruled her classes with an iron fist and took no guff from anyone.

I didn’t like school very much, especially as a teenager.  I was much more concerned with boys and partying.  But I did well in English.  I had always had a love of reading (thank you Mom) so studying English came easily for me.

I had a couple of advantages in Miss Stiff’s class.  I did well, studied, paid attention and got good grades.  Because of this, Miss Stiff looked favorably upon me.  I guess I was a bit of a Teacher’s Pet.  Most of the kids didn’t like Miss Stiff because she was so strict.  But I got along just fine with her.

Miss Stiff had a way of sparking my imagination like no one else ever had.  In addition to just teaching English, Miss Stiff would give us assignments that allowed our imaginations to run wild!  She would give us prompts for story writing and then just let us have fun with those prompts.  She would do things like write two or three unrelated words on the blackboard and have us write a story using those words.  For example:  she might write, “fish, trashcan & toothbrush”.

I may not have had the best story in class, but there was no one in class that went at it with as much enthusiasm and abandon as I did.  I LOVED it when I was given free rein to write whatever I wanted!

Looking back, I was 14 or 15 years old.  It would take me approximately another 40 years before I found that I really had a passion for writing.  I wish I would have paid more attention to that inner spark.

I have no idea what ever happened to Miss Stiff.  I wasn’t the type of kid that stayed in touch with my teachers.  I hope that Miss Stiff can look down on me and know what a wonderful, positive influence she had on my life.  Thank heavens for teachers like Miss Stiff.

© 2018 Penny Wilson 

Posted in Poetry

I Reach For the Bottle

There is less of me 
now 

Before you
before us

I was more 

More present

Easy 

Today was
effortless

Tomorrow was
expected 

Now
colorless

A bottle of hope
sits on the shelf

I reach
for the bottle
anticipating
the gratifying
descent into oblivion

Copyright (C) 2022 Penny Wilson
 

*A side note here. Richard Ankers used the words "There is less of me"
in poem recently. I simply had to do something with that phrase.
Thank you, Richard, for the inspiration.
Posted in mental illness

*REBLOG-Doing my part to raise awareness about mental health — Minnesota Prairie Roots

This is a Reblog from Audrey’s blog: Minnesota Prairie Roots.  Please be sure to visit Audrey’s lovely blog! 

A hand reaches skyward in a mental health themed sculpture that once graced a street corner outside the Northfield, Minnesota, Public Library. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2019) WHEN HE HEARD ME rant for the umpteenth time about “people just don’t get it, they don’t understand,” he advised, “Then you need to educate them.” […]

Doing my part to raise awareness about mental health — Minnesota Prairie Roots