Write, Wrote, Written discussion

Hi all. I was trying to decide what to write for my first post and thought I'd start with something short, a poem from many moons ago. P.S. If I've posted this incorrectly or otherwise run amok, just let me know.

I Remember...

My hands remember her fingers wrapped in mine. I refuse to recall the times we held each other.

I reach in the darkness to hear her voice. My fingers can still trace the pattern of her number.

My hands remember caressing the small of her back, the curve of her hip... I try not to recall the hours spent whispering together.

I can still feel the softness of her cheek next to mine. Am I forced to reflect on the memory of her tears and wonder...

My hands twitch at the resurgence of the past. The recollections resurface, leave their scars, then scatter.

My arms embrace the nothing - then fall.

And I remember.

Just wanted to make sure I wasn't all over the place or posturing wrong. Thanks for the comment!

Nice! Encourages the reader to imagine many possibilities in the narrated relationship; seems to me a beautiful one at the outset disturbed by some misunderstandings in the later part of life!

Thanks, Yogesh for the comment!

nice poem Deanna, do you write regularly?

hey liked your poem :) would love to see what you think about mine!!! we should talk about this some time coz im trying to find friends who are actually genuienly into this sorta stuff- and that doesnt mind my spelling hahahah

xD same

Lindsey wrote: "xD same" hahahha great minds think alike ae??!???

yasss xD

Lindsey wrote: "yasss xD"
>*< without a doubt ;) words- gotta luv-emm ae!

Hi, all. Thank you for reading and replying!

I don't do a lot of poetry writing, more short story form, postings on my blog, and I've started some longer works. I love to read poetry though! Do you have your own folders and have you posted already?

I wrote this small poem on procrastination

The Infinite Wanderer


Slept yesterday with a promise to do it today

As soon as I sat today, distractions started to play

Playing various notes of varying pitches,

For music is my love, I can't deny

I let my mind to play some more, I can find one more today.

Nice! Thanks for posting! My favorite phrase is "distractions started to play", as if personifying distractions.

What do you think about playing with different rhythms? Sounds like you're a musician so that would probably be a piece of cake for you.

Thanks for the suggestion Deanna.

Can you send me the link to your blog? I would like to read it.

Sure! Not a ton out there, but I'll be posting more often going forward-now that I don't have a day job. :-) It is: DeannaWillmon.com

Deanna wrote: "Hi, all. Thank you for reading and replying!

I don't do a lot of poetry writing, more short story form, postings on my blog, and I've started some longer works. I love to read poetry though! Do y..."
yes mines in the folderless catagory under "my writing......... this is my style"

Hello! I just realized thanks to the Alia's comment, that these are probably better functioning as folders rather than separate posts. Makes sense, so I changed the title of this one to just read poetry.

I keep saying I don't write much poetry, then I wrote by accident yesterday about socks in verse form. The lead up explanation is on my blog, but here's the poem.


And We Wait

Throw away the socks, you tell yourself. You know the ones.

The tireless and lost that haunt each laundry day. Single and alone they appear slowly at first - one then two then three… eleven.

All shapes, sizes, and colors. Loneliness knows no limits.

Listless, they await the day they will reunite with their mates. You wait too. You wait… and wait…

…and wait.



Pairless, sad, these stockings we’ve placed aside.

Some are gray with age. Some are broken, ripped at the sole from hard living.

[ Because your kids refuse to wear shoes outside to play even though you’ve told them time and again… Ahem. ]

Some are mockingly bright in color and whole. Only a few short days separates them from the memory of being first worn side by side with their mate, hope alive in their softness.

…and so we wait.



Those left behind take solace in the heat of the dryer to warm their broken souls.

Sadness abounds, patience the only virtue.

Week after week staring at the fluorescent sun from the bottom of the laundry basket.

But, how does such pain come to be they cry?

…and they wait.



There are legends! Stories of sock eating dryers that attack at random and without remorse.

Fits of heat driven madness, (apparently) consumed by rage.

Some say its misdirected fury at the lack of gum, crayon, or Chapstick to melt with glee.

So they steal the strips of cloths. And leave the survivors to wonder alone…

And wait.



Others blame the relentless swishing of washers that whisk away only the most favorable of the crop.

We reach our hand in grasping at air then peer at the starry slate walls – wary.

The dark holes enlarge and then shrink again in our gaze. We blink.

We slam the lid, admitting defeat, eyeing the dryer with caution.

And then we wait.



We return the widowed stockings again and again through “the cycle”.

Foolish dreams of a spontaneous reunion.

We hope that somewhere from the depths of the Whirlpool, from across the lands of Maytag…

But, no. These are myths.

And so we wait.



We know that their mates are (most likely) somewhere in the house. Quests unimaginable that have separated the pairs.

Puppetry, the saliva of animals, the mismatched pairs stowed away in dark drawers – unknown atrocities!

We can only pray that the wayward missing have taken refuge under a bed or behind a dresser.

And we reassure ourselves that they will someday return.

So we wait.



Occasionally, a pair is reunited. Joy! We are briefly encouraged and begin searching drawers, closet floor… Alas, the search is arduous and uncovers more than we were willing to clean in one day.

We sadly hold the strays, wondering briefly if we should abandon the cause entirely.

Hesitantly, we toss them back to their lonely pile. Summer is approaching and there will be lost sandals and flip flop. We sigh.

And we continue to wait.



The forgotten mateless of winter return to memory as the autumn leaves begin to fall.

We sort and sadly remove the most aged or no longer fitting.

And yet we still don’t give up hope. The mates for the lost will return someday!

Hope is the beacon, compelling us to keep our faith… and a pile of mismatched socks.

And so we wait.

Thank you, Alex! You're too kind. :-)

I agree with Alex. You are a fantastic, writer!

Thank you, Ravanna!

Deanna wrote: "Thank you, Ravanna!"

Ravanna wrote: "I agree with Alex. You are a fantastic, writer!"



Alex wrote: "Okay, I absolutely love the way you're able to take such an absurd idea and make it almost heart-wrenching! Also, the fact that it's about socks adds a lot of charm to this piece. I mean honestly--..."


i love the way that writers like u can make an everyday object mean more than its simple one use! i try to write like that but i love to see other ppl that try to add their touch to it as well :D keep writing ppl are lovin it

Thank you so much! Next week: the bland triviality of toilet paper. :-)

Deanna wrote: "Thank you so much! Next week: the bland triviality of toilet paper. :-)"

hahahaha awesome ill try to remember to look for it :D if ............... if that was not just sracasm hahhahahahahahha idk its trough an computer screen hahah

Yeah, just a little joke. Or... Hmmm. I'm sure anyone could take it and to with it. Pardon the little pun.

Yeah, just a little joke. Or... Hmmm. I'm sure anyone could take it and to with it. Pardon the little pun.

Deanna wrote: "Yeah, just a little joke. Or... Hmmm. I'm sure anyone could take it and to with it. Pardon the little pun."

hahahha yes funny lol. anyway i look foward to seeing ur future posts. gotta go home no its getting late bye :D