“I Predict—”
I predict the pearly gates will open to reveal the long-melted ice caps, standing tall and proud and wide amongst the atmospheric sky. There, in that other place everyone claims to know best, coral will once again blossom in stunning shades of pink, purple, and green. Awestruck, we'll be, not by some humanoid guy in the sky, but by a small nest of robin's eggs, nestled low in a tree hollow. Mountains will rise with the sun and shift with the tides. No single species will be native or invasive there, just a thriving ecosystem built to last, to share. Utopia has never been so arresting, yet so slight. The moonlight won't always shine, but the stars will. From valleys to rooftops, they will shine on, and souls will learn once again how to read them. I predict the hell we fear won't be the land of punishment, but rather, a land of reminders, a memory loop constant-- a place where gargoyles taunt and ghosts haunt, where fires burn, but only in the palms of gauntlets. Just enough light to shine a spot on the mass of regret— the things we'd soon rather forget. Those bottom dwellers will live right side up, watching their worst moments run through a film reel, set to the sounds of those they almost loved. Like Neptune, the surface will never land, never hold; the gasses turned water will keep a chokehold. Forced forever to watch the tiny, lit up screens, they will remain docile, hooked to the dopamine IV.
“You have reached the mailbox of—”
I promise to call you every once in a blue moon and hope I get your voicemail so that I may croon, "Remember the embers? How they danced in slow motion? It was there, in your eyes, I found an entire ocean. Remember the summer we picked strawberries and dandelions? Before I was the quiet one who cried and overanalyzed and every word you said was sharp, quick, and emboldened? In those days, I still knew how to appear golden." Then, I still allowed myself to feel lucky lucky in love, lucky enough to hear Jeff Buckley. We were so young then, so naive, back when we didn't need six feet of distance to breathe. We'll never be those kids again, yet I can't even begin to imagine a life without you in it. So, good night, sleep tight, and please forgive my sleepless, sentimental fit." I promise to remind you on chilly Autumn nights like these that the best things—the richest things— tend to sweep through you like a breeze, Here for a brief moment, gone in the next. I'll be here, sleeping, dreaming of your morning text.
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.
Congrats on being halfway through poetry month! These are beautiful. Two of your best. When you put out a poetry zine, put these two in there.