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A Word Bank Trilogy,

Updated on November 6, 2009

A Word Bank Trilogy. ©-MFB III

My challenge was to make three poems out of the word bank below. Each had to be under 150 words, not including the title.












Blank Canvas Awaits Us.


Yearly all that is light and green, experiences a brownout,

becoming stark bramble clawing against stormy skies.


Summer leapfrogs into the past as leaves begin to fall,

passing through red, orange and maize stages of death.


Each long empty seed pod quivers in the chilly breezes,

as dewdrops on the morning grass take on an icy glitter.


Many gourds colored with natural dye and bathed in shellac,

help to brighten the porch steps of a vibrant world gone drab.


A concession to mother natures draining away of all color,

but a poor substitute as a cure for our seasonal blues.


Soon even these autumn hues will vanish leaving behind

a vast hiber-nation slumbering deeply under sterile white.



Gypsy Soul.

She wasn't a burnout yet,

just a brownout,

as her escape pod

leapfrogged from the

isolated space station

out across the inky dye.

Like a struggling gnat

escaping the sticky prison of shellac,

she burst free heading

away from her fixed position

into the great beyond.

The glitter of space travel

had long since shed it's shine,

amidst the bramble of wires,

monitors, space food blobs,

and airtight connecting ports.

She was used to loneliness,

had even grown to prefer it

,But the need for some open space

got the best of her in that tiny speck

that remained as a concession to

someday visiting other planets,

The bright, maize yellow,

of the sun seldom graced her

except through tiny portholes

its warmth cold and distant.

so she sought a cure.

She’s floating on even now,

long past Alpha Centauri

her corpse still staring

into the vastness she sought.



A Chance Encounter.

He spotted her

in spite of a sudden brownout,

at Sunnydale’s Harvest Fair.


She sat sipping

concession stand cider

in the dining hall pod.


He remembered her

from childhood,

the girl next door,

his love for her

sadly left unspoken.


There were changes

the glitter of youth dulled

by the shellac of years.

Her spun gold hair,

now a faded maize,

but its crowning glory

untouched by dye.


Her eyes were still a

captivating cornflower blue,

A cure for empty days

on the cusp of eternity.


She glanced his way,

noting his attention

until recognition

flooded her thoughts.

She flashed a warm smile,

mouthing his name.


He longed to leapfrog,

over the wheelchair bramble

between them and hold her,

but his legs ignored such impulses.


Instead they both zigzagged

in rickety paths back to yesterday.


When the lights came on,

they were holding hands

reliving moments

they’d both thought lost.



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