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From The Wellspring

A narrow path descends through brush
To the bright water of your wondrous pool.
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From Picking Flowers

If you want to pick flowers, you have to hike.
Climbing up, don't worry about your weary bones.
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From The Paper Fan

The hotter you get, the more refreshing.
Wonderful both night and day.
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From The Unwed Mother

Because I was too easy, this happened.
Can you guess the hollow in my heart?
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From Three-Mountain Pass

A twisting pine bough plunges in the wind,
Showering a willow's leaves with glistening drops.
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From Teasing Chieu-Ho

Why flirt with the moon in the middle of the day?
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From Tavern by a Mountain Stream

Leaning out, I look down on the valley,
Path winding to a deserted inn,
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From On Sharing a Husband

If I had known how it would go
I think I would have lived alone.
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From Offering Betel

If love is fated, you'll chew it red.
Lime won't stay white, nor leaf, green.
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From Confession (I)

I haven't shaken grief's rattle, yet it clatters.
I haven't rung sorrow's bell, though it tolls.
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From Autumn Landscape

Drop by drop rain slaps the banana leaves.
Praise whoever sketched this desolate scene:
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Hi, everyone!

This is just a reminder that the July mini-prompts for Ho Xuan Huong start tomorrow!

Amnesty for any and all stories is open, so even if you don't like this poet, you can go back to the other prompts we've had over the years and try those out instead.

I'll see you back here tomorrow! I can't wait to see what prompts get our creativity going.
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From Man

and in the new dominion among the peaks
the tiller of the soil touched the seed
with fingers wounded by the snow.
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From The Rivers Come Forth

you were tattooed by the rivers,
and in the wet heights of your head
filled the world with fresh dew.
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From Madrid

For more than a year now
the masked ones have been touching your human shore
and dying at the contact of your electric blood
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From There's No Forgiving

I'm going to leave their numbers and names
nailed to the wall of dishonor.
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From Chile's Seas

But I preserved my submerged stone
and in it, the pulsing sound of your shadow.
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From Saddlery

Every cut is a hand, every
stitch a life in which the unity of forest live
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From The Tyrants Again

My people concealed my path,
hid my verses with their hands,

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