This blog is devoted to a select group of poets. We're starting with poets from the Ann Arbor area, but, hey, if you're from Detroit, Grand Rapids, Saginaw or the Upper Peninsula, then that is okay, too. We've even been so generous to accept poets from other parts of the USA and the entire country of Canada!
You may need to have a Gmail account to post in the comments section. Most of you do have Gmail, but for those of you that don't it's extremely worthwhile to open up one now! That way you've got a chance to get your work out there in the world.Today's poem or short story prompt is the world "meadow."
Our goal is to provide you with a prompt every day from which you are to garner inspiration and submit a poem. How to submit will be very easy. Just put your poem or short story in the comments section and hit post. You may not immediately see your post, but it is there under the "Comments" section. You may need to click on "Comments" to see your poem. It is there on another page.
You may need to have a Gmail account to post in the comments section. Most of you do have Gmail, but for those of you that don't it's extremely worthwhile to open up one now! That way you've got a chance to get your work out there in the world.Today's poem or short story prompt is the world "meadow."
Paternal Grandmother Theology
ReplyDeleteShe told the children that when they acted up, God frowned upon them. He had plenty of work to do in this unruly world but he took special note of disobedient youngsters. If those children kept up the hijinks, the rambunctiousness and refused to go to sleep at bedtime then he put a mark next to those childrens' names. No one questioned my grandmother as to why God would need a book to remember our names. Even if my brothers and I had that thought to speak it would be tantamount to yelling at a priest to hurry up with the Mass.
The worst, though, was even if you decided to stop all your foolishness and fly right, my grandmother said that God was so sick of our rowdy and wild ways that He would simply turn his back on us.
There would simply come a point, unknown to us children, when it would not matter anymore. Good or bad--He'd stopped caring.
Catherine Powers
August 21, 2013
Copyright 2013