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 A poem a day keeps the cobwebs off my keyboard. |
| A place for the poetry that I will need to write now that I made a special book for it. |
The clenched fist you wave over me, holds dark words unopened. They fight to be freed, but remain unheard, unspoken. The silence, a tightly wound cocoon, is undisturbed, unbroken. 6 Lines Written for "Cards Against Authors"  Week 3Wild Card: Constraint: Each line must alternate between long and short sentences. |
The world with annoying noises abounds, But in my ear I hear only sweet sounds. TV’s Miss Rachel only mouths the words, Her saccharine warblings will go unheard. For in my ear, you nestle so snugly, And block out all the voices that bug me. There’s podcasts and music and hockey scores, Information, the news and so much more. I can e’en answer the phone if you call, No one will hear you, so you can tell all. People think to myself I do mutter, Or talk to ghosts like some kind of nutter. But when they complain, my head I just nod, And thank Apple for my little AirPod. 14 Lines Prize Prompt: The most nonsensical thing to write an Ode to. |
| It starts with a gurgle, as if it would choke, then it bubbles a bit, so I start to hope - but nothing comes out, no, not yet. A minute a cup? I’ll take that bet. In the icy morning air, a bit of steam, but still from the spout there is no stream. The pot is still empty and so is my cup - I begin to wonder why I even got up. Maybe a pot never boils if you watch it. The coffee may brew if it thinks I forgot it. So, I turn my head and whistle a tune, Andy Griffith Show, but still too soon. To the coffee’s appearance I pretend to not even care, and to the toaster attend. I adjust the dial, and brush up the crumbs. I’ve been standing so long, my leg is numb. I know that it’s working, the light is on. Oh, a drip! a drop! it’s just plopped upon, the lid of the pot and now it’s dripped through! There’s one hundredth of my coffee brewed. 20 Lines Written for "PromptMaster !" Task Prompt: Write a poem that makes the reader wait. |
I know you as a trickster - a whirlwind of painted wings. The Peter Max of insects, bold in your camouflage. Beneath the Bob Mackie glitter - a simple exoskeleton. A common, unsightly pest cold you might be swatted. Away with your lying eyes! Beat your colorful banners. The birds are forewarned and find you distasteful for your display. But humans are easily charmed. Lovers of dreams they still chase you in fields of flowers until they can pin you down. 19 Lines Writen for Cards Against Authors Week Two Prompt Work all three cards into a single poem. Prompt Card: A butterfly as a villain. . Word Cards: Glimmering, Whirlwind (You only need to choose one word to use) Wild Card: Constraint: Two lines in your poem must either use only one-syllable words or no one-syllable words. |
| Your love is like sangaree too sweet to be quaff-able. Your declarations? hyperbole utterly laughable. You say I’m cold, that’s so unfair. You’re too bold, for my icy stare. You’re full of guile and unwelcome flattery. You should stand trial for romance and battery. The tone of your wooing is almost too much, The things that you’re doing lack a subtle touch. Sweet nothings are just that, they drift into the air. But a diamond ring, well, that’s a different affair! 20 lines Written for Promptmaster! Task Prompt: Write a poem that’s almost too much. |
| I cannot tell you that my heart is bro-ken You must seek the pain _____________ betweenthelines hidden in bursts of metaphor camouflaged in cadence (many times misspelled) have you the depth? must I spell it out? fsgrdynstintiwilder? Peasant! Insisting on a rhyme measuring meter tapping in time The cHaOs is the meaning! Poetry must be X-perienced not understood emotions underlined Pain in red and soothing sounds painted blue Read it and weep or don’t Who cares? I sm not getting mu keyBored fixed 23 lines Written for Promptmaster! Week 2 Prize Prompt: The thing that is most likely to cause your poem to be mistaken for modern art. |
The assault is over, and I am spared - or abandoned as unworthy, I cannot know. The ground is hard, but it is not bare, carpeted with cast-off shells, gathering below. The birds unafraid of the giant’s stature, attack his face and make it a meal. Cardinals and jays, it’s in their nature to peck and snatch with hungry zeal. And surviving, I can only fear that I will sprout one day and grow tall, that in the summer of next year I will be the object of their assault. Beneath these empty shells I cower, for now, it is the only safe place. But taking root, one day I will tower and the birds will destroy my sunny face. 16 lines Written for "Cards Against Authors" Week 1 \ Prompt Card: You’re afraid of your future self. Wild Card: Metaphor: Emotional growth as a fragile seed. |
Snow fell silently while I slept Frost feathered the window frame Icicles gathered width and strength Slushy tracks followed every car, but An avalanche of dreams kept me Frozen in my bed Line Count - 6 Written for Promptmaster (Poem 2)Task Prompt: Write a poem where each line starts the same way. Hint There's a loophole here: The task prompt doesn’t specify how each line must start, so don't think it has to be the same single word! While you can use the same word, you could instead use any letter for each line, punctuation, phrasing, scenery, or even an emotion. |
| It’s nights like this that I miss them, when the shingles shiver in the wind and there are no hands to light a fire. No proud puffs from my chimney spout. The garden is pure mayhem, trees and hedges grow unthinned. I have nothing that realtors desire, No “For Sale” sign, just “Keep Out”. Just between you and me Kids take a lot out of you Running up the stairs Sliding down the bannister It’s nothing but noise and baseballs and broken windows But when they’ve grown and gone When no one calls you “home” When the old folks have died or moved on That’s when you’re truly alone. I suppose one day they’ll condemn, replace me with a row of tidy and trim tiny tract houses for young buyers. I will be forgotten, no doubt. Line count- 21 lines Writen for Promptmaster! Poem 1)Prize Prompt: The thing an abandoned house would most like to talk about. |
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