Songwriting Without Boundaries by Pat Pattison

skin crawls under my touch.
Where we once wove the sheetsin tapestry of our life together, the moonlight now is just a stubborn child that tumbles into my bed and will not leave me alone.
JAMES MERENDA: Moonlight tumbles into the more hidden nooks of the city.
Rolling under the traffic of the clouds, doggedly making its way, twice-reflected, onto the street, weary from its work, it is either romantic, or dying. Perhaps both.
    You can feel the collision between nouns and verbs. A verb like tumble belongs to a pretty active family, which suggests Lia’s “stubborn child.” Note James’s additional metaphor “the traffic of the clouds.” Nice.
    Now, you try.
    Funeral Exhales
CHANELLE DAVIS: The tsunami exhaled a funeral onto the white beach, finally withdrawing to the deep ocean it was born from.
Bodies laying still, twisted like pretzels, some look like they’re sleeping, piles of broken buildings like matchsticks, beached ships, roads ripped apart, black wave overtaking the land …
Andrea Stolpe: The funeral exhaled the stench of greedy family members waiting to collect on the will.
I couldn’t look at the priest so I studied the bare dirt with sprigs of destitute grass lurching around our shined shoes and morose suit pants. I could feel the eyes digging into my back, my brother’s wife releasing her resentment like an IV drip over twenty years of knowing and hating me …
    Note in Chanelle’s response that the noun funeral comes after the verb as a direct object, with another noun, tsunami, providing the subject. That’s the beauty of noun/verb collisions: The noun can serve either as subject or direct object.
    “ Stench ” belongs to exhale ’s tone center, while “greedy family members” is in a different key, creating the collision. Nice.
    Your turn.
    Carburetor Sings
CHANELLE DAVIS: The carburetor sings as they flee down the open desert highway …
High-pitched drone, revving engine, quickly changing the clutch, high speed, see the needle pass 100, leather seat burning hot on my thigh, arm tanning on the window and hair streaming behind me, open my mouth and let the rushing air dry out my saliva …
JESS MEIDER: the mechanic “whisperer” turns the motor, it raps and bumps in a strange ghetto rhythm while the fans squeal in delight and the carburetor sings a wavering, sweet sick melody …
Home beacon, I can see it, little light calling my eyes to its tiny star calling from the mountains. The gas big E pointer finger red and thin, a babbling exhausted metal body chugging as though it will only take a few more breaths, as the carburetor sings a eulogy, swollen and sullen.
    So many possibilities here. So many kinds of songs. And in the mouth of a carburetor …
    You give it a try.
    Autumn Remembers
CHANELLE DAVIS: Autumn remembers you dancing in its fallen leaves and wonders where you have gone.
Raking leaves into a pile under the oak tree, falling in it, waist deep, buried, brown and crinkly they scratch my skin and get in my mouth, spit them out, chasing you round and round the pile till we’re dizzy and fall over …
SUSAN CATTANEO: Every year, autumn opens its scrapbook and remembers the color of decay, turning the page of each yellowed leaf and fondly tracing the sky with bare finger branches …
Leaves kicked up by a childish wind, smoke curling lazily out the brick chimneys, pulling the wool jacket in closer, a ghost of breath comes out of open lips in the morning …
    This prompt personifies autumn. It’s up to you to find the memories. If, on the other hand, autumn is the direct object of remembers , you’ll look for a collision using the form “___________ remembers autumn.” Just make sure the noun you choose doesn’t actually have the ability to remember.
    Now, give it a try.
    Handkerchief Pleads
ANDREA STOLPE: My handkerchief pleaded for allergy season to pass as I released an army of pollen-induced explosions into the worn cotton weave.
I remember my dad’s handkerchiefs, soft from