For this week’s prompt, write an empty poem. The poem should somehow play off the idea of empty–maybe empty rooms, empty containers, empty threats, etc. Or maybe you could empty the poem of vowels or prepositions. Your call.
Here’s my attempt:
“Will Strikes Again”
The popcorn box is empty of popcorn packages
replaced with five Hot Wheels; the emptied Pop Tart box
conceals several green plastic army men; and
hidden within the bottom cupboard is a laughing
two-year-old emptying the giggles from his lungs.
*****
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*****
- 2012 Poet’s Market, edited by Robert Lee Brewer
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ALLEGORY
They walk single-file
as if in sequence up the dark corridor.
The first with her unlit lantern lacking oil.
The next, with a bloodless knife
held tenderly as a small bird. The third
with arms outstretched before her,
bearing a chalice fashioned from a sieve.
You might think them nuns or seers
in chiaroscuro, how life shoots swift
through all the lightened, reaching limbs
as their figures disappear into dark
and distance
DENTAL GEOLOGY
Gap between tooth and
cat’s cry, night-black empty
but for disintegrating
stars – a lost molar
crown-treasure of the dumb
mouth’s sparkling dark
keeps me from sedimentary
sleep. Layered rocks’
fossil-vertebrae, ferns, teeth,
songs aeons-old beyond
our poor
mouths’ mortal singing.
fumes
by juanita lewison-snyder
sometimes we take the wrong fork in the road
and then, end up with nothing to show for all our troubles,
lest maybe a black eye
and an empty gas tank in the middle of nowhere.
but i suppose nowhere is as good a place as any
when you’re sixteen going on fail.
empty is the sound your gut makes
when your cup runneth hollow
and the buzzards are circling.
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Aperture
She collects the bottles
as if these fragile vessels
might hold some secret,
some tiny liquefied vestige
of hope way down deep
some fully steeped and savage
alchemy of change and right and reason.
This season of her soul knows no
fill, as wonder and will wrangle
tangled tongues
and tired lungs exhale words unspent.
Now unsent, faith unfeathers,
unfetters abandoned cage
until there is nothing left but hollowed heart
spilled out over empty page.
Vessel
Empty me
that You might fill
every corner
with Your will.
Repost from last week -lost in the ether!
VOID
It’s not in the detail,
the detail was lost long ago,
it’s not where are my glasses?
or what time is it?
it’s who am I?
the whole, the entirety,
the big picture,
the past,
has gone.
The light that shone is extinguished,
the voice of right and wisdom,
that sounded deep inside since the dawn of time,
is silent,
gone,
not a whisper remains,
drifted away on the comet tail
of forgotten memories.
The shell functions,
as a shell,
on auto-pilot,
motor-neurons have purpose
and work still to do,
unknown work,
unremembered purpose,
the visual cortex is blank,
as is the stare,
a smile curls at the lips edge:
the visitor is the person in the picture
on the bedside cabinet,
yes! that’s who it is…
…who is?
Echoes of dream fragments stutter into
conversation
and falter and fail
and tail off into…
…who did you say you were?
The mirror is blank,
no light enters here,
no shadows are cast,
no one,
no thing,
no sound,
no thought,
that can be formed into words enters here,
the void,
and if yesterday,
or today could be remembered,
then lungs would fill with air,
and lips would open wide
and a booming voice would scream
and scream
and scream
and scream
I AM STILL HERE!
who am I?
who are you, dear?
it’s so dark in here
it’s so quiet in here
almost as if…
…as if…
…what was I saying, dear?
Iain
EMPTY OF OTHER VOWELS
i
Jim sits thinking
in the drizzling mist:
Will I win?
e
He feels he’s hedged
the bet.
a
Days pass.
A pal prays.
o
Who knows
who won!
u
“unlucky” hurts
#
I’m late this time–mine has been the empty place as I spent a wonderful week at the Swannanoa Gathering.
Empty Seat
At sixteen they understand the missing man formation,
resisting their teacher’s well intentioned efforts to move
his seat out of the room, its constant reminder
of his absence a looming presence. And so the desk
remained—empty—in the same row where he’d sat
all year, almost invisible even then, plot his own
disappearance into nothingness. Even at sixteen
none was naïve enough to try to read some clue,
some answer in the hieroglyphs he’d carved there.
Maybe next year, when they all moved to other
rooms, other desks, new assigned seats, his too
could simply disappear, but for these next few weeks,
it remained, nudging them to pay attention, never
again to mistake quiet, eyes making no contact,
for any lack of human need, for self sufficiency.
The empty seat—his desk—their lasting lesson.
Amy
Music is empty now.
Amy took her voice,
flavoured of salty liquorice,
textured of velvety smooth
sandpaper and she’s left
us empty but for scratched
memories on shiny silver disks.
A Week of Empty Days
Away from the grind,
a mind at rest and loving
the stagnation.
It is rejuvenation I am after,
and so walking off in the pursuit
of mystic pipes and a search
to debunk the dreaded
Lough McIllwain Monster
seems to be my solitary quest.
A journey unplanned
but well taken, forsaking
electronic enslavement
and social kinship
for a sip of whiskey and
nothing else over which
to concern myself.
Holidays always end.
How unfortunate this is so.
~ Empty Gossamer ~
(or, Gossamer Gossip )
I can read you like a butterfly —
wings wide open
with gossamer promises
See a flap from my diary on my blog. Just click my name to see these winged words…
~ MT Tx ~
The monologue
should be a dialogue
but the diagnonsenser
is on a log
Oh, I miss my spell check. Of course I meant bubbling.
Hee Hee… what are you babbling about? ;D
Again…
This is the age that falls empty upon the stage,
and tumbles in a roll bouncing backward as it goes,
then falling in the hole, from where black coal,
distills into rich, rich, bubbeling crude oil.
Again…
Mamihlapinatapai
They gaze into each others eyes.
They know not what to do,
to move beyond the here and now
and past the déjà vu.
They seek a similar delight,
but neither one can start.
They take a step, but it’s away
and move farther apart.
By Michael Grove
Very interesting. Could you comment on it a bit?
Mamihlapinatapai – an empty feeling or look that 2 people share but fail to communicate. Both people want the same thing. Neither one moves on it leaving both empty.
This 16 letter word is listed in The Guinness Book of World Records as the “most succinct word”, and is considered one of the hardest words to translate.
Posted two last week that I hope Robert is able to retrieve along with everyone else’s who posted prior to the site change.
Here are two more–same title, different forms:
(form: lune)
Empty Vows
space between their bodies
is dwarfed by
space between their hearts
(form: shadorma)
Empty Vows
nowadays,
“til death us do part”
no longer
refers to
eternal love, but rather
until the lust dies
Shazbat! I changed the lune as I was entering it into the form here and missed that ‘bodies’ now makes it six syllables… changed it back to what I originally had here:
space between their beds
is dwarfed by
space between their hearts
Your original opening line is better. It ties the begining of the set of poems to the end of the set and gives the poem a story line. The use of lust as the concluding thought calls for such an opening line. Lust dies when bridled, married to rules, customs, and ways of life – not to the pleasure of being with one another.
Almost panicked when my regular link to Poetic Asides did not work. Now I’ve found the site, registered, and find the poems are all missing… Here’s mine once more from last Wednesday’s prompt.
More Empty Than I Thought it Would Be
My youngest son
moved out,
moved on.
(Of course, he left a lot of his stuff behind.)
And now, instead of
empty plates
and cereal boxes
and ice cream containers
the house is very empty now.
And instead of
full laundry hampers
and waste bins
and family room
the house is full of silence now.
Or maybe it’s just me that’s empty.
Here are my three from the “empty” prompt.
Empty Meanings
Empty does not only feel sad.
I stood on the bare wood
floors of my swept clean house,
where I had spent twenty-three
years of my married life,
but seven more as a guest
in this former home of my best friends,
watching their children crawl,
walk, and grow up. Now, a broom
and dustpan leaned against
a bare wall. I said a tearful good-bye
and when I planted my feet
on the floor of my new home,
nearly three thousand miles
away, there was nothing
to look at except two
beach chairs. The house
was empty, yet I felt
an anticipation of fulfillment.
————————————————-
July 21st
I cannot give you a birthday present
today. I cannot watch your gnarled
knuckles bend to tear the paper
from my gift. I cannot watch for
your smile of delight, eyes filling
with joy, loving any gift I give
you, declaring it perfect. There
is no ribbon, no purple paper,
no box, large or small. There is
no more you, and my empty
heart aches for my Dad.
———————————————
The Mallowmar Thief
The box sat
in the steel bread box
right up front,
one sleeve left
of Mallowmars. I reached in;
Cardboard box felt light,
far too light.
I’d make do with two.
Oh horrors!
Empty box.
Brown paper crackled inside,
sister’s handiwork
empty promises
empty words
nothing can fill the void
empty ring box
empty church
broken heart
Thank You Linda.H. Awhile ago I was reading some of Eve Brackenbury’s beautiful work and she had so kindly given me her thoughts and perspectives on the use of “Enclosure” in poetry to frame or bracket the piece with repetition. I used it here. I can feel the stuck lump in you poem, “My Empty Mouth”.
My Empty Mouth
It is now more than physical distance
that separates the two of us.
I search for a way to mend this rift,
to find the perfect things to say
to express my deepest dispare
but my mouth is empty.
Those exact words I long to speak
have yet to surface, not lost
but slipped from beneath my tongue
and down my throat, bunched up.
Perhaps they are the lump
I feel stuck within my heart.
Why not look inside?
You might be surprise
at what you find.
Love this, Linda! How often I have a lump of words stuck inside!! ~Paula
A Haiku
Empty
actions
in an
empty play.
Good poem, Dennis, though I wouldn’t call this a Haiku. But then I’m not familiar with every form of that designation. I could see it as in the Haiku family. It does stand for me as profound. Liked it a lot.
I learned, years ago, there are two forms of the Hiaku. There is the 13 syllable “Hi” aku and an 11 syllable “Lo” aku. This poem fits in the later category.
Thanks for the compliments!
Empty
A morning cup, the meditating self
A moonscape, Mother Hubbard’s shelf
A B-list seat, a mathematical set
A lazy man’s day, a misplaced bet
A teen’s wallet or piggybank
An unfortunate traveler’s tank
A recycle bin, a frugal man’s cart
A candy box, a jilted heart
Insincere promises, Dopey’s head
Poor men’s pockets, a worker’s bed
Outer space, skinny jeans
Flattery, a blocked writer’s screen
Mid-age nest, backsliders’ pews
A boring life, a toddler’s shoes
Pursuit of money, a barren womb
A drunkard’s bottle, Jesus’ tomb
This one says a ton. So true with many clever phrases. Enjoyed this immensely.
I simply love every word of this one.
Does this mean are empty poems were emptied?
Where did all the comments go?
Sorry for asking.
When will I ever learn?
When will I ever learn?
;D
Where are all the poems for the prompt? I can’t find anything.
Shirt Pocket
He crossed the street and the street
crossed him. It was all there for him
to take to the bank. It was enough
to last him forever. He kept it in
his shirt pocket where it was closest
to his heart. On his way to the bank
with it he stopped to have some candy.
Then a delicious frozen treat which
melted in his mouth and on his tongue
and lips and ran down his chin and
dripped onto his shirt where it stained him.
He spotted something shiny in the
dirt and he stopped to pick it up.
As he bent over and inverted
himself, part of which he had held so
near and dear to his heart in his stained
shirt pocket fell out and to the ground beneath him, and he moved along.
There were so many shops and stops
along side his path on his way to the
bank. He found a warm snack, then
a hot meal and unsafe shelter from
the storms that always surrounded
him but were never above him.
When he reached the bank he did not
realize but he did discover that his
shirt pocket which was closest to his
heart was now empty. That which he
had held there had been lost on his
way to the bank. He went outside
once again and he crossed the street
and the street crossed him.
By Michael Grove
Nice one, Mike. I like how you began and ended with “he crossed the street and the street crossed him”.
Mike, I have to say this one speaks as many volumes as the first you posted. Love it. It says so much about how we’ve come to be sometimes. Good piece.
Thank You Both Linda.H and Claudsy. I still have to get used to the new comments link at each posting. That is 1 good feature here at the new PA. Further comments 4U below Linda.H. Loosing all we have along our way “to the bank” is a sad state of affairs, especially that which we hold the closest to our hearts. I never feel that my free verse poetry is all that great, but I am rather pleased with this piece and I do feel that “Judge No More” above is one of my best short rhymers ever. Thanks again to both of you. I sure hope that others can get our new street figured out and come and join the party here.
Lol…do not know where that ” pit of empty ” tag line came from since there is no longer automatic preview…
Robert, think your vacation has come at just the right time, hope you are enjoying,…and know how much you are valued.
There once was a writer from WD
That could not the true bottom line -see
Who thought it was ads and chatting one to another
That made more successful a blog come to be
The braniacs there who decided
to change a successful format and editor unique
will find I fear
that many walk off
from here
sad as might be
keenly empty
deprived of a poetic family
with a pit of empty
Empty heart
Once upon a midnight perhaps dreary
Stumbled upon a site unweary
Where an editor encouraged
writing freely first to share
A prompted poem each day submitted
No competitive edge with one poet against another pitted
Instead a word of welcome, perhaps a comment or two
And watched we in mutual confidence as we grew
But more than even the inestimable writing pleasure
Became a community where one could treasure
A place often referred to as a safe home
And on writing and posting one’s own poem
And yes, looking for a favorable mention
Time and time again read through
Original poets and posts that were new
Led always by Robert Brewer editor and poet too
Now a change, a dilution of the fellow who gave his all and all their due
This is not fair the strollers of PA Street roared
We will not have our street nor our leader “whored”
A young professional man always truly loyal and productive for WD
Deserves elevation to a far higher state, never to be treated so shabbily
I do not get the blank white page
I do not get the log in stage
I do not get the erasure of a particular feel of Robert Lee
Who is now forced into editing a site bearing his name
But, of him, empty!
Empty Street
There only memories of verdant trees
white blossoms showering
The Street with melodic musing
Stolen souls sanitized, emptied, compartmentalized
corporatized, in a banal attempt to coral
the creative poet editors
humiliating show of poetic license abused
Poet Asides, never was, nor will be an “aside”
Beware!
Creativity is not easily contained
Somewhere verdant trees toppled and torn will push saplings
through the concrete of this parking lot where once a
poetic community formed and flourished
EMPTY NIGHTS
I’ve come to the end of my day, feeling quite empty.
I look for what can fill me, discovering my night’s empty.
The longing for love is strong, like an addiction,
Like an addiction to what once swirled in this bottle, right empty.
Early on in this search, I looked for who could fill me.
My search for the best quality red, rose’ or white: empty.
And then my standards lessened, as desperation set in.
I consumed it all, whatever I might empty.
Now alone, I jiggle the door to that last locked cabinet.
I catch my reflection in the glass, Paula, what a sad sight: empty.
2011-07-21
P. Wanken
* There are extensive “process notes” on my blog for this one. The form: Ghazal.
~Paula
Empty
Tequila
One shot, two, then three
Drowning stress;
Troubles blur
And fade until my head hurts
And my stomach aches.
Just one more
Hoping for comfort,
Finding none;
All I have
Are empty bottles and dreams
I never reached for.
Caren E. Salas
Judge No More
When we can look at one another,
taking direction from above
and leave it all to fate
finding unconditional love
thus accepting all as one
and ending every war
while living with compassion
then we will judge no more.
By Michael Grove
(This may be the only time I’m in the first slot. Takes a site revamp to do it)
Caroline
who always wears purple on Thursday
because it makes you feel cheerful, and
God Knows, Thursdays need cheering
up
Caroline, that Caroline,
would never complain
but
Caroline
Feels old.
because she remembers life
without boneless Buffalo wings?
without yoghurt granola and brunch?
or because this morning she sat
on the floor for five minutes, wondering:
when was the last time
she cleaned under the sofa, without
having to plan how to get up again
Caroline
remembering Mr Anthony, who brought
television checks from The Millionaire,
wishes.
By the Pint
Rattle, rattle.
Tossed aside for another round.
Is the ground tilted?
Feeling jilted and quite
unstable. Unable to keep
my feet. Any more malt
and whatever happens
will not be my fault.
Walking a fine line
although not a straight one.
What a party! Yea, a great one
as empty bottles and tins can attest.