Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 026 (On Thursday)

As I was in the middle of typing up the Wednesday Poetry Prompt yesterday, my Internet service went down. Apparently, some construction crew cut through a cable that disabled all their operations in Georgia. Anyway, I finally got my service around 9:15 this morning. So, here is the prompt I wrote yesterday.


This’ll be the last of the Wednesday Poetry Prompts until December, because we’ll have a PAD (poem-a-day) Challenge through the month of November. I’m excited to kick off the challenge on Saturday and hope that if you usually come here once a week for inspiration that you’ll visit more frequently in November–and, of course, write some poems!

Today’s prompt is to write a good-bye or farewell poem. Write about leaving for a business trip, vacation, or even a trip to the grocery. Write about where you’re leaving or where you’re headed. Write it in 1st person, 3rd person–or even 2nd person.

Here’s my attempt for the day:

“Until we meet again”

He shrugs when she asks him, Are you
coming back? She should know by now
that he won’t share his plans, he thinks,

but she still persists. Will you miss
me? Will you call? Do you even
think about me at all? She balls

her fists and lays her face against
his chest until he pries her loose.
Then he kisses her and walks out

of the house without saying what
she wants to hear, but on lonely
nights, she will imagine he did.

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44 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 026 (On Thursday)

  1. Taylor Graham


    They ask what I’m leaving
    to the family. I have
    no family. Such a pack
    of musicians I married into.
    My wife, dead these 15 years,
    in love with a crooner
    on the radio. Step-daughter
    married to some slider
    of a brass trombone.

    Or was it a saxophone?
    All those woe-tones.
    What good is music? movie-
    scores for Hollywood, nothing
    but make-believe. Or
    playing nights in a smoky
    club. I’d be ashamed.

    At the end of an honest day
    on the docks, I could account
    for every penny. Then
    I’d watch a ball game on TV,
    Sox or the Patriots.
    No country-western wail,
    no big-band swing or symphony,
    no jazzy scat. They ask
    to see my will? I leave
    the family music.

  2. Monica Martin

    Goodbye writer’s block.
    I hope not to see you
    ever again, if I can help it.
    With my poetry prompts,
    new writing schedule, and
    resolve to write no matter
    what, I banish you to
    the lowest level of hell.

  3. Rodney C. Walmer

    The End

    I guess,
    it would be best
    that I should say a word or two
    Truth to tell,
    It’s time we were through
    I can’t remember when we fell
    though, I honestly thought you knew

    So, it should come as no surprise
    that’s it’s time we said our goodbyes. . .

    Rodney C. Walmer, Goodbye Poem prompt 11/2/08

  4. Jolanta Laurinaitis

    Farewell to Youth

    Farwell the days
    Of simplicity
    Where we splashed
    In the blow up pool
    Of our Ignorance
    Where we lived our summers
    Of dreams and imagination
    And where we sat and gazed
    As we donned Mum’s red heels
    And kissed the mirror
    And the reflection
    Of our future
    We bid goodbye to chasing
    Our inspirations
    And saving the world
    From the nightmares that
    Beseech us to return
    We no longer wear the
    Fluro band-aids that
    Make the pain go away
    And no longer do we
    Snuggle into our teddys
    Lightly snoring and
    Peacefully waiting
    for what the morrow will
    Bring with child-like

  5. Sara McNulty

    S.E. Ingraham – Fabulous poem. Iain, Heather, so many great ones.
    Here’s mine. I’m having trouble getting it through.


    The heart of this city beat
    in my own all the years from
    childhood to this new stage
    of life. New York–the thrill
    of Broadway marquees lit
    on dark evenings, the sun
    sliding across the buildings
    like an autumn fire, the magic
    of art in museums and
    galleries, where people
    whispered in awe–it is time.

    Oregon–the greenery of
    wetlands, unspoiled rivers,
    beaches, a calmer life, free
    thinkers, Portland’s hub of
    books and roses–it is time.

  6. Jane penland hoover

    In front of a Crowd – A grateful Song

    In our home
    back there
    before time burned low

    we sat sunggled close
    filled with delight,
    with abandon, without care
    inhibitions gone,
    before a fire crackeling
    so nice and warm.

    Now latent embers
    Ash and dust
    the remnants
    lives once blazing bright
    we nod and touch a hand
    grate full for such heat.

  7. Don Swearingen

    I’ve been doing a lot of things I had to do
    I did the dishes and mopped a floor
    I saved some time to think of you.

    Stopped to have a tea-time brew.
    Read a book. It was a crashing bore,
    I’ve been doing a lot of things I had to do.

    The bank sent a statement addressed to you,
    And I got a bill from the clothing store.
    I saved some time to think of you.

    Went fishing. The sky was blue.
    Caught nothing, fishing from the shore,
    I’ve been doing a lot of things I had to do.

    Flower bill came. Cleaned out the flue
    Where a bird had nested the spring before.
    I saved some time to think of you.

    The stone looks clean and bright and new.
    I fixed the curtain where it tore.
    I’ve been doing a lot of things I had to do.
    I saved some time to think of you.
    Don Swearingen

  8. Heather

    Patti- Wow! Thanks so much. I tried. And, I’m sending special thoughts your way, today, my favorite day of the year. I know it has been a rough one for you and I’m in your corner. Tell me which way to go and I’ll tear them up for you! Got your back, Sis.

  9. Heather

    The Rain

    The rain pounded down,
    Refusing to clear
    And she was sure she’d drown
    Especially since she was in such pain

    Her body
    Weakened by decades of self-imposed abuse
    Certainly couldn’t weather this storm
    Without changes being made

    Her Mind
    Clearly understanding the stakes
    Of surrendering to her fears
    Her insecurities
    Her failings
    Struggles to pull it all together
    Before it’s too late

    Getting hold of herself
    She takes a deep breath
    And goes under
    Away from the surface
    Where the pounding is relentless

    She goes deep
    Knowing her air might not hold
    Taking a chance
    Surrendering herself to every thought,
    Every fear,
    Every bad memory
    Allowing them to wash over and through her

    Acknowledgement forces her
    To become transparent
    Makes it impossible to hide
    Secrets that have taken her to this storm,
    Secrets that have left her drowning
    For as long as she can remember

    The same storm that has threatened her for all these years
    Is allowing her to heal
    She now knows
    It is safe
    To say goodbye
    To the rain

  10. S.E.Ingraham

    Wow – lots of good stuff happening here this week! Thanks to Patti and Michelle for your comments; for my part, that second poem was just something I needed to put down and this seemed the appropriate prompt. Salvatore – I love this – I don’t think I’ve ever told you how honoured I feel to be ‘sharing’that first edition of "Melisma" with you – I always knew you were good but had no real idea of your prowess until I read your bio there. For others interested in this venture and how it all played out, check and click on the "Melisma" link. FYI – this is a site Robert referred us to back in the summer and at least three of us from this site benefitted (Salvatore, Amy Barlow and I). So – thank you Robert, so much. S.E.Ingraham. (Sharon)P.S.Happy Halloween all!

  11. ann malaspina

    Saint of Long Journeys

    He gives me a Saint Christopher
    keychain and I hold his hands,
    cold and dry as
    rice paper,
    knowing this will
    be the last time.
    I go down the stairs
    backwards, looking up,
    and in the open doorway
    he waves his hand
    like a captain
    blessing a ship.

  12. Salvatore Buttaci


    Crowded with those standing there
    already two hours,
    the train station seems
    a fog-laden dream,
    a place for last-minute things.
    Moments pass, heavy like steel,
    like stones, like the ceiling of
    the last darkness.

    A father says “Goodbye” to Vincent
    while the relatives join him
    in a tangle of voices, a roar of weeping
    that awakens the first sunlight.
    Soon the train will snatch
    the love words that escape them;
    its ferocious scream will devour last wishes.

    A father says “Goodbye” to his son.
    “Dress properly, dear young Vincent.
    America is a cold country.
    And write once in awhile.
    Go to mass,
    Think of us and this village.
    Don’t ever forget those who love you.”
    But Vincent–What does he hear?

    His head is filled with the world
    Of America. He is a boy anxious
    To leave childhood behind.
    Around him gather his relatives
    who want to touch him
    as if he were a saint,
    as if this would be the last time
    to look at him forever.

    With trembling lips their kisses
    bathe his face like rain,
    and these relatives pray,
    “God bless you!
    Good luck! Be careful!”
    Yet, Vincent pushes them away
    because now the train is approaching,
    a black dot growing, growing.
    Buttaci / “A Farewell” / 2

    His father says “Goodbye.
    Goodbye,” says the father.
    “My handsome son! Blood of my blood!”
    Then he embraces his youngest son,
    stares at this boy of his
    without batting an eye.
    “My son! Vincent,
    never forget me, your Papá!”

    At last comes the train
    to carry him to the ship
    waiting in Palermo.
    “Vincent, don’t make me worry
    with you so far away. Come here.
    Then he embraces him, covers him with kisses,
    each one a morsel of grace,
    and tries to memorize

    the look of him. His handsomeness.
    Later, Vincent sits at the train window
    and waves at his father,
    at his relatives, at all of his village of Acquaviva.
    Now, many years after that departure,
    his only comfort
    is the memory of that station,
    of that last morning,

    of those gifts of kisses
    His good father gave him.
    He plays the scene over and over
    inside the train station of his mind.
    He has kept the promise
    not to forget the words of his father:

    “Take my heart with you, Vincent.
    Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye!”


  13. Michelle H.

    Oh my goodness, where to start…
    Robert – loved you poem!
    Iain – both of yours were great!
    Connie – glad you enjoyed your conference, thanks for sharing the people you met with us!
    Laurie K. – loved your poem too!
    Sharon – loved your November poem but your Final Goodbyes – Wow! It was like you wrote that for my neighbors who lost their adult son a year and half ago. My eyes were tearing…
    Nancy – Loved your poem too ~ as I was reading it I was hoping the ending had a nice little happy twist and it did!!
    See you all in November!!

  14. Michelle H.


    Silence on a gloomy day
    The world muffled in prayer
    I watch the last leaf drift to earth
    And shiver in the cold
    The naked trees my only company
    My breath the only sound
    I stand still and absorb the healing silence
    And let my cares fall by
    As one by one like drifting leaves
    I shed my lonesome burdens
    Then I turn and leave my pile behind
    To be blown away with the next wind

  15. S.E.Ingraham

    Final Goodbyes- Part One – The Mother

    There is no pain conceived of which,
    Nor sorrow contemplated as fiercely untenable
    As that of the death of one’s child.

    An anguish so all-consuming, it fills the soul
    Of grieving parents and leaves them broken,
    Shattered, almost unrecognizable in their grief.

    The heart – fractured – that organ bleeds itself dry
    Then tries in vain to leech some something, anything
    From the wounded spirit

    Is there any sound
    So wretched
    So despairing
    As that of the parents sobbing
    As they try
    To dispose of their child’s remains?

    Eyes turned inward and at once sightless
    Brim with tears and memories –
    The face, the face
    Never to be looked upon again
    The imprint of its features will stay forever
    In the mind
    Will it not?

    Or will time, that purported healer of all wounds
    Fade the image
    Like drawings in the sand come high tide,
    Until just the barest membrane of his visage
    Can be discerned

    No – she rails against the fates – no
    Don’t shut his countenance
    Away from us forever
    Leave us with him longer
    Leave us with him always
    Lest he should awake

    And she rubs his icy hand;
    If she strokes it long enough
    She knows he will be warm
    And warm, shall surely breathe.

    Will she never waken
    From this nightmare
    Masquerading as her life?

    With aching tenderness
    She moves her palms
    Up the sides of his face
    As if, as mothers often do,
    She might feel him
    Flushed or feverish
    And gently, oh so gently
    Her finger trails the line
    Of lips forever closed

    All too soon, with practised care
    And needed distancing, the death dealer
    Moves to close the coffin,
    “It’s time,” he murmurs.
    “We’re a half hour late starting –
    Everyone is here.”

    Everyone? She screams inside,
    Everyone? Heis not here
    Only this sad remnant
    Of my son is here
    Oh please, please, please
    I need to…I want…I need
    I cannot bear this final parting

    Unknowingly, she cries aloud
    A voice unrecognizable as hers
    Issues a keening
    Inhuman in its anguish
    Inadequate, she knows at last, to change anything.

    Stillness to breath
    Death to life –
    Why wail at all?
    How can she not?

    Final Goodbyes – Part Two – The Father

    As one body
    We rise silently
    To witness
    The sleek progression
    Of a handsome

    As if spirited down
    The chapel’s
    Centre aisle
    It appears to
    Float past.

    How is it possible
    That within
    This furniture-like box
    A man, still partly boy
    Lies cold and stiff,
    And quiet now and always
    Corporeally finished

    The reality simply cannot be grasped
    Perhaps a cruel hoax
    Is being perpetrated
    Upon us all?
    But wait, who shuffles
    So sadly and diminished
    Behind the box

    Behind his son
    He struggles his way
    To the front pew
    A never-ending journey
    Over all too soon.

    This larger- than- life man
    His stature bowed
    His booming cowed
    The picture of defeat
    As if a piece of him
    Is also gone…
    Of course.

  16. Nancy

    Every Goodbye a Hello

    As she backs out of the driveway,
    her trunk loaded with clothes
    to last ‘til Thanksgiving at least,
    her dad presses some money
    into her hand as her mother
    looks away, knowing full well
    her savings from the summer job
    will carry her through a year
    at least. Working has made their
    girl quite frugal with her spending.

    And they laugh a sad-sounding
    laugh, as they tell her to be good,
    to remember who she is and
    whose she is, for what must be
    the millionth time, knowing
    the kind of girl she is, one who
    never would forget. They tell
    her to be sure to call, thankful
    for the link that cell phones
    forge, remembering when
    long distance sounded so
    forbidding, too expensive.

    Finally they wave goodbye until
    she disappears from sight,
    taking no chances that she’ll
    look back in her rearview mirror
    and find they’ve already turned
    to go back into the house, back
    to their new life, the empty nest
    they’ve read about in old copies
    of AARP magazines in waiting rooms.

    A block from the house, she phones
    a friend, laughing wildly. “I’m on
    my way! I’m leaving home! Can
    you believe it? I’m free! Free!”
    She means it and she doesn’t.
    Now she can live for herself, make
    her own decisions, choose her
    own changes. When she returns
    for holidays, she knows, nothing will
    ever feel quite the way it did, not quite
    like home. But she won’t be homeless.

    Meanwhile, her mom and dad climb
    the porch steps, looking back over
    their shoulders at the empty drive,
    the deserted street, the September
    sun shining on maple leaves not
    yet turned to gold. Closing the door,
    they look around, as if to be sure
    she’s really gone. “We’re all alone,”
    her mother says, trying out the words,
    testing for tone. Looking into those
    eyes he’s known so well for so long,
    her father makes sure that he can
    say what he thinks just now. “She’s
    gone—but she’ll be back.” He’s testing
    her, she knows. “But for now, young
    lady, he says to sweetheart, the wife
    of his youth, the one he loves most,
    “for now, it’s just you and me kid!”
    And they dissolve into laughter, not
    even embarrassed to be hurrying
    upstairs in the middle of the day.

    Nancy Posey

  17. corinne

    See, Earl, you are a perfect example of that rhyming thing! It’s a total mystery to me. Well done. Lovely stuff on here today, looking forward to November!

  18. patti williams

    To all – I wanted to comment on my own poem. My daughter is 12 and there’s no scandal at our house – she’s just moody as hell and a bit bitter about everything! I didn’t think this happened until 14 years!?!? Maybe she’s just advanced for her age … by two solid years …

    Anyway, she still hates boys, doesn’t cuss, drink, smoke or chew tobacco – she’s just sassy and moody – quite a bit of the time. And that gets on my nerves. Yes I cried while I wrote the poem.

    Connie – excellent writing.

    Iain – you’re shining again! I think you’re Muse is just messin’ with ya’! She’s really standing right behind you! Both poems showed your talent and diversity.

    Pray for better economic news everyone! Especially for custom home builders!

    See y’all everyday in November …

  19. Earl Parsons


    Say good-bye to lower taxes
    Say good-bye to your 401K
    Say good-bye to stock investments
    Say good-bye to talk radio
    Say good-bye to small business profits
    Say good-bye to smaller government
    Say good-bye to religious freedom
    Say good-bye to low unemployment
    Say good-bye to off shore drilling
    Say good-bye to freedom of speech
    Say good-bye to a strong military
    Say good-bye to victory in Iraq
    Say good-bye to entrepreneurism
    Say good-bye to a balanced Supreme Court
    Say good-bye to bipartisanship
    Say good-bye to the Constitution
    Say good-bye to American sovereignty
    Say good-bye to individual freedoms
    Say good-bye to Christianity
    Say good-bye to the American dream
    And just maybe
    If they have their way
    Say good-bye to America
    On Election Day

  20. patti williams

    She’s growing up
    She is, she is.
    I remember when she
    Was just a little baby girl,
    Demanding and temperamental
    But exclusively Mommy’s, all mine.
    As a toddler, boo boos needed me,
    No one else could help, she was sure of that.
    On her first camp out with Dad,
    She cried and cried
    Until he turned the car around,
    Headed her back for home.
    All of 30 minutes had passed but
    At five years, it was more than my little
    Love could stand.
    She played with baby dolls,
    Painted her dress up world with
    Inspiring kaleidoscopic imagination,
    Believed and loved everything
    Her Mommy said.
    Goodbye to the days of
    Being her one and only.
    Now we have friends, gossip, fashion, sports,
    The popular crowd, drama, People Magazine,
    ‘Things’ to prove, projects, eye rolling,
    Ipods, cell phones,
    Goodbye to the little girl in her
    Princess nightgown, dancing around
    In her room wearing her beautiful tiara,
    Eyes sparkling, heart carefree, agenda-free
    Except for talking me into a late night snack of
    Oreo cookies and milk.
    She’s growing up,
    She is, she is.
    Now she loves camping with Dad, rock climbing,
    Water skiing, she won’t admit when she’s hurt,
    And apparently has decided
    I’m not as smart as she had once deemed.
    We’re embarking on a new
    Stage, territory, universe
    And with luck we’ll come
    Through it all okay.
    But I miss that little
    Dancing Snowflake,
    I do, I do.
    Because she’s growing up,
    She is, she is.
    I just didn’t realize the goodbye
    To that little girl would come so soon.

  21. S.E.Ingraham

    November Takes Another

    The penultimate month November,
    Not much of significance here
    The streets, slick with wet rotting leaves
    Tease us backward with glimpses of fall
    Then frost on the windshield
    Pulls us inexorably forward
    To winter’s unrelenting deep-freeze vault
    Where late afternoon darkness
    And delayed morning dawns
    Bracket grimly determined funereal days
    Before December even thinks of arriving
    November has wrapped up the year
    Delivered it dying, very near death
    Passed on to the twelfth one
    Leaving her free for seasonal pursuits;
    Carols, gifts, holly and such
    While well-spent November,
    Slinks out the back door
    Gone on a blast of Arctic blue air,
    She retreats to her lair,
    another one over and done.

  22. Earl Parsons

    Leaving You

    I find that I must leave you.
    I’ve been here much too long.
    You know that you can’t stop me,
    I must be moving on.
    It’s not that I don’t love you
    My love will never die.
    Something deep is pushing me
    I really can’t say why.
    I won’t cry in front of you,
    I never have before.
    And I hope you won’t shed a tear
    When I pass through that door.
    I’m leaving in the morning.
    I feel the time is right.
    But I have one request of you.
    Love me, tonight.
    You know that once I leave you
    I can’t come back, you see.
    But I can keep an eye out ’till
    God brings you back to me.

  23. Paige

    Glad you made it back online Robert.

    For those that venture over, I have posted my poem at the forum of Writer’s Digest Critique Poetry the title is

    Goodbye Time

    Thank you all and now to read your lovely works

  24. corinne

    Hey Lori, that’s COOL!

    This is the other one I was considering – there’s an echo to your theme as well.

    Learning how to hear “goodbye”
    Without an internal grip of terror
    Has been the ongoing lesson of my life
    Born as I was, into a place where no-one was really there

    At some point, the joke hit me:
    All it took was me deciding to stay, actually touch down,
    That if I could do that well, then anyone could leave
    Any time, and the ground I stand on remains.

    Rachel, I don’t really choose a rhythm, it kinda chooses me, if that makes any sense. Or is it about sense?

    I can’t rhyme worth beans without it sounding so contrived, so I bow in reverence to those of you who pull it off in what seems so effortless.

  25. Rachel

    wow.. great poems everyone. usually i’m a rhymer, so the non-rhyme stuff fascinates me. how do you choose a rhythm if any? I just write what overflows my heart and soul. good stuff.. and Laurie K. that breaks my heart.

  26. Rachel


    i long for peace
    a mountain hideaway
    like Elijah
    when his spirit was grey
    when life was a broken treasure
    in shaking hands
    ready to fall and
    buried in the sands
    of time
    eroding, blowing away…
    plodding on to the peak
    finding a cave
    so quiet
    to hear
    the voice of God speak

  27. Lori

    Farewell to the Base of Operations

    My psychology teacher says we USAians
    Have no official elaborate rites of passage
    From child to adulthood.
    Sad to think we have all these adults running around
    Not knowing that somewhere along the
    Line they were supposed to say Goodbye to
    Childhood. Should we have a day when
    All the little kiddies clap their hands and say hooray I
    Am all grown up now? Or should we continue to listen to
    The silent screams of freedom-seeking adolescents
    Or the triumphal celebrations of the few lucky ones
    who figured out that freedom comes from security.
    That having a base from which to travel makes for
    A wider radius of operations.

  28. corinne

    Oh, my, you are so 17 and beyond these days,
    So discarding of your girlhood and its perceived chains
    You have bid it a huffed goodbye,
    Left it tattered and forlorn in a corner:
    Free at last, in your own estimation.

    I am still drawn to that huddled heap, I want
    To gather it up and sink my nose into its essence,
    Sweet soft bum and giggles,
    Painted faces and trick-or-treat
    Not orphan, but anchor, root and wellspring of all dreams and visions.

    I will treasure it secretly, sustain its rich textures
    And offer it back to you in the years ahead
    The pleasure ripening in the saving, and the telling.

  29. Michelle H.

    Hello fat
    I like you not
    I ponder what to do
    Exercise is the key!
    But you know me
    That is hard to do
    But I WANT Thin!
    So Good-bye fat
    Exercise is in!

    LOL – just for fun, I think I have a more serious one brewing in my brain – I’ll be back again later!

  30. Iain D. Kemp

    I still haven’t really found what I want to write today(ironic after yesterdays poem) so in the meantime here’s this…

    Adiós Jorge

    So goodbye George W. Bush.
    The time has come to bid you
    farewell. ‘Tis harsh I know but
    not many will miss you. Sadly
    you leave a legacy of war and
    chaos. Economic crisis looms
    large as you step off the stage
    and slink (one hopes) with your
    head drooping and your shoulders
    hunched. Eight long years come
    to a close and now we wait to see
    who will claim the mantle. It must
    surely be for better as it could hardly
    be for worse. Adiós Jorge (and good
    luck with the book!)


  31. Sara Diane Doyle

    Robert–how could you? Don’t you know that November is National Novel Writing Month? And many of us will be pounding out 50,000 word novels in November? There is no way I can add 30 poems to the top of that. But I’m sure I’l be around to snag your wonderful prompts!

  32. Connie

    Goodbye Glorieta Conferees

    Goodbye lady who ate a dessert,
    with such a heaven-struck expression,
    you convinced our whole table to eat
    a slice of peanutbutter chocolate pie

    Goodbye Rose and Ruby who I laughed
    with till we cried about designing a
    line of confidence-inducing underwear
    for writers too shy to pitch proposals

    Goodbye lady who’s writing the book
    about moving and gave me your card
    to get my insights and words of wisdom
    since I’ve moved twenty times in my life.

    Goodbye little old lady who’s “me
    twenty years from now,” who patiently
    read and commented on each of my poems,
    and who I wanted to take home with me.

    Goodbye Kent Whitaker who I had
    just seen on Oprah because of writing
    about the terrible tragedy in Death by
    Family. You signed, “See you next year.”

    Will I see you or any of the fascinating
    people who I met this week? I’ll mark my
    calendar. What fun to interact with people
    who understand why you do what you do.

  33. LKHarris-Kolp

    WAVE Goodbye to Marriage

    In and out,
    back and forth,
    she watches the waves
    lap at her feet.

    The salty air,
    wind in her hair;
    she says goodbye
    and admits defeat.

    The lies, the hurt,
    are like the waves,
    and she throws it
    all away.
    And hopes,
    just like the tide,
    her life will be
    cleansed one day.

    Laurie K.

  34. Iain D. Kemp

    Hi, this isn’t really about leaving (unless you count saying goodbye to the Muse) but I wrote it yesterday whilst wasiting for the prompt so I thought I’d share… I’ll be back later with another more appropriate poem.

    Keats, Cohen & Wes Magee

    Like a solitary poppy lying crushed
    on Flanders fields, I am exhausted.
    The weight upon my shoulders compresses,
    condenses and all the literary greatness
    that has gone before me and driven my passion
    to achieve the same is set to confound
    and confuse me. I feel as though having once
    had so much to say I am now empty,
    a used and discarded toothpaste tube caught
    up in the rat-race, constrained and fettered by modern
    life and now useless. I cannot compete with the past.
    The burden of poetry once written that inspired so much
    in a young man has weighed down upon the yearning soul
    of middle age. I strive to find my inner Betjeman, my bitter
    incisive Cohen, the love of Keats eludes me and barely can
    I rise to imitate the wit and charm of Wes Magee. I am resigned
    to echo only one of my inspirations: I am not waving but drowning
    in a muse-less sea hoping Stevie Smith will save me.



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