This Sunday is the first of the month, and all the challenges are over, but I thought I would close with a visual poem guided by a homograph.

Close

I really enjoy homographs that have different pronunciations. Close can be an adjective or adverb; a noun or verb.
Pronounced klohs
adjective – near in space or time: near in relationship: parts or elements near to one another: compact, dense (a close weave)
adverb – tightly: near or within proximity
Pronounced klohz
noun – the end or conclusion (the close of the day)
verb – to cover an opening; shut: (tr) to bar, obstruct, or fill up: to bring the parts or edges of (a wound, etc) together or (of a wound, etc) to be brought together, unite.

I think of: closing a lid; closing a door; cutting it close; That was close!; close ties; close friends; personal space: too close; closing in on a solution.

The Prompts

The April Challenges are over, but there are still plenty of prompts to be found. For today’s poem, I took a look at my WordPress reader and found:

Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt #257 is “Luminous” and to write a poem (or piece of prose) in exactly 30 words.

Pensitivity101’s Three Things Challenge #950 is CROWD, BUSY, RUSH.

E. M.’s Sunday Ramble Prompt #22 This one’s new to me. The Sunday Ramble is 5 questions about a topic to ramble on about. Sounds a little like Stream of Consciousness Saturday, which I enjoy. Today’s topic is “Random Questions to Trigger Imagination” and the questions are:

1. If people get a purple heart for bravery, what do the other colors of hearts mean? (Make up your own heart meanings and colors.)
2. If you were given $5 Million to open a small museum, what kind of museum would you create?
3. if you could build a themed hotel, what would the theme be and what would it look like?
4. What would the adult version of an ice cream truck sell, look like, and play for its song?
5. What animal would be the cutest if it was down-sized to the size of a cat?

Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (FOWC) is “remuneration”–money paid for work or services.

The Poem

When Staying at the Hotel Magique Réal

At my magical
realism hotel where
crowds rush to try
the strawberry pop-rocks
that make them sprout
wings and fly
the first to reach
the luminous-gold
heart that means
a dream will never die,
hanging in the
ceiling sky, is remunerated
an unimaginable sum
in magic hotel money.
And if that isn’t enough
excitement to keep
every patron busy,
they can visit the Museum
of the Fantastical and Silly
with a tank of whales
the size of cats and
giraffes the size of mice
that swish their tails
to swat at pesky
winged-humans
the size of flies.