“An Ode to Marion”
They say my hometown is America's favorite, or at least, that's what the town's since claimed it. "America's favorite hometown," the sign read, as I drove back there, veins pulsing with dread. Once the apple of my young, baby blue eye, She stood tall like tales or scrapers in the sky. Marion was an otherworldly place--a safe haven, with crystal dewdrops and man-made lakes to bathe in, where Galax flowers and wild huckleberries bloomed and I was born too late on an October afternoon. It was there, in the wildest of blue yonder, where fireflies waltz and monarchs wander, my careful, quiet being grew into itself, bringing precious much to place on the shelf; I sense, more than remember, the memories— ballet slippers by the door, near the phone directory, blizzards running in circles, breathless and heavy, the burgundy upholstery of a white lumina chevy, a slight, two-story cabin nestled in a 22-acre wood, dandelion perfume worn throughout girlhood. Marion was the place I once loved more than love, with dogwoods, birches, and poplars towering above. Now, my hometown is more like a stranger, her warmth, once commonplace, is now endangered. Back then, when I skinned my knobby knees, the dirt seemed to whisper hello, to welcome me. Now, I fear my wanna-be blue blood would curdle, like oil in water, it would pool, float, and gurgle. Still this insider, turned runaway, turned stranger, turned foreigner longs to pick up red delicious apples from the ground that bore her.
“The Old Barn”
That time, he took the long way 'round, up and over the rolling hills, northbound. Summers once brought him this way, where sunshine kissed tree leaves and church picnics served lemonade. Through the mist of youth, he could still see it there, the old barn, perched on the hillside, seemed to declare, "You there, my good man, sit down a spell," for in that precious hideaway, renewal dwelled. There, at the end of the road less traveled, so began his descent into memories unravelled. Robert Frost poems danced across his faculties, leaving trace amounts of rhyme and rhythm as casualties. To capture that yearning part of himself again, to write anything even half as meaningful, he prayed, "amen."
What is Paint Chip Poetry?
While browsing an art supply store recently, I came across a small game box filled with small paint chips and prompts—simple building blocks with which to create infinite poems and colorful sequences.
I’ve always adored poetry but never felt particularly adept at writing it. This year, I’d like to try and get better. With it being National Poetry Month, I thought it would be a fun writing challenge to use this game box as inspiration to write a brand new poem every day for the entire month of April.
The Rules
I must choose a prompt and four-to-eight paint chips at random. I get a single opportunity to re-draw a sample if I’m not feeling it, but that’s it. Just one. However, I can redraw if I get a repeat.
I must write a poem using the prompt and all of the paint chip words/phrases within the text of the poem. They must be bolded and italicized.
I must post the poem each day to Substack & include a photo of the paint chips in every post.