This blog is for all who desire to create with words and images.
You are encouraged to participate in any way that is meaningful to you.

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All prompts beneath the photos are only suggestions.
You are free to use the photo to be inspired to write any way you desire.
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There is no deadline on posting,
you may offer your writing to any prompt anytime.
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Write and you are a writer.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

The Musician

Photograph by John Hinten
for more of John's amazing photography visit -
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Suggested prompt...
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Let this image inspire your creativity today.
Perhaps...
A poem about music. A story about why she is playing there. A rant about street muscians.



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With no song to sing
nor prose to tell,
no poetry to utter
or cries to yell,
no words to describe her current state
of lingering in cracks between love and hate,
she goes on with life and a quiet sigh
and hopes to inspire the passersby...

Cynthia

One week after the photo or picture is posted I will pick one offering to put beneath the image. This is a way of celebrating exceptional creativity. Any and all posts are available for your creative mind to make an offering at any time (even ones where a writing has been placed on the front page like this one). If you are new here and want to offer to every image here, feel free. We are writers, WRITE! If this is your exceptional writing posted here on the Front Page Pictures, Poetry & Prose invites you to include the Exceptional Writing Award Button on your blog. Visit the Exceptional Writing Award post for the details and the button to download.

6 comments:

septembermom said...

Compelled to perform,
she breathes each note.

One or many may stop,
she recharges the air.

Beauty and conviction,
she captivates the moment.

Timeless love of symphony,
she elevates the ordinary.

~ Denise ~ said...

There's no explanation.
There's no comparison.
It just is.

A tectonic move within.
A surge of emotion brought forth.
It just is.

Music.

Merriam said...

Every morning, at half past six, my older sister packed her chair and her two cello cases - one empty, one full -, slipped into a pair of grubby tennis shoes, and headed out to the train station, where she set herself up by a dingy cement wall. Sitting there in her pajamas in the corner of the already bustling building, my sister poured herself into a ballad. Passersby paused to toss quarters into the ancient cello case, but my sister never looked up. She kept her eyes on her fingers and her fingers on the strings, with her yellow ponytail flopping to the side like a sun-kissed mop, and her thick dark eyelashes nearly touching her cheeks.

Sometimes I went along and watched my sister's morning.

glnroz said...

Horse Hair and Bow rosin,

With calluses deep and emotions shallow, sleek and fragile appendages press taunt catgut strings tightly against the ebony fret board of the pawn shop cello. One case unpacked, with unanswered hopes of unpacking the second before the sun traded its warmth for moonlit loneliness. She feigned a gentle smile at the irony that her case was actually a total of two cases. One for the over grown fiddle and the other with her life’s accomplishments. Still pressing forward, harmonizing melodies reverberating through the empty subway forest, creating sounds even though no one was there to hear the tree fall.

Cynthia said...

With no song to sing
nor prose to tell,
no poetry to utter
or cries to yell,
no words to describe her current state
of lingering in cracks between love and hate,
she goes on with life and a quiet sigh
and hopes to inspire the passersby...

Dani said...

Beautiful writing, everyone! I love these entries. :)