Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 146

For this week’s prompt, write an “everything is against you” poem. That is, write a poem in which everything seems to be conspiring against you. Work, family, the government, the ice cream man, the local grocer, etc. And the you in your poem doesn’t have to be the narrator, it could be another person, animal or object.

Here’s my attempt:

“Staring too long at the sun”

A young couple enters a movie theater
well before the main feature. The young woman picks
her seat and says, “I expected a little more
darkness in here.” To which her companion then says,
“It’s never night on the sun; there’s constant burning.”
She smiles and says, “Can’t you ever get your mind
off romance.” As they lean in close enough to bring
their lips inches apart, a loud sneeze from behind
startles them. “Bless you,” says the man to the woman,
“I’ll get popcorn.” “Hurry,” she says, “extra butter.”
He rushes to wait in line, counts the minute hand’s
slow march around the clock and, when his turn, mutters
his order before scrambling to the now dark
theater searching soft for his companion’s spark. 


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182 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 146

  1. Dan McGarry

    Art Forms-
    Between the rise of the tidal wave, there came awareness.
    Enveloped in the truth of impending doom and subsequent demise, there could only remain but one thought.

    Life, masked in all perpetual sadness now appears one last time.
    The beauty of the gaze into that which I have only dreamed, now ascending in shattering crescendo.
    First haloed in black, fading into a spectrum that surpasses concept and shapes a colorless art form.

    Taken under in theory but unaware of the movement, I no longer belong.
    Time speaks relative fear to recoil emotion but I have gone beyond myself.
    Spiritual longevity is a shallow escape, yet remains the only one I have left.
    Between the flickering imagery and the slow haunting reverberation, I fall.
    Down into the infinite gaze wrapped beyond where the stars lay dead.

  2. Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    en contraste con mundo
    (against the world)
    by juanita lewison-snyder

    you and me
    against the world
    baby sister,
    always and forever
    you and me.

    as first graders
    when we were forced to
    the back of the bus
    because of our skin tone.
    “chingadas,” you muttered
    under your breath,
    “i’ll show them brown.”
    before the school year
    was out, everyone learned
    what a scrapper you were,
    and how desperate I was
    for befriendment.

    later as adults
    constantly defending
    one another against the
    villainy of our own kin,
    who’d just as soon steal
    your milk money as
    set you up as a patsy.

    a lifetime of swimming
    with gators taught us to
    always carry a knife
    but not you,
    never you.
    looking back
    all these years
    through these bars
    of this poetic cell,
    i realize you’ve always
    had my back, little mama
    and i, yours.

    come hell or high water, chingada
    you’ll always be welcome at my table.

    © 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  3. taylor graham


    America 1865:
    ¶ President Lincoln shot in the head.
    ¶ Two horses from the livery stable not returned.
    ¶ Secretary Seward stabbed in his sickroom.
    ¶ Decapitate the government.
    ¶ Those two horses ridden hard into foggy
    bottomlands of the Potomac; shot; carcasses sunk
    in the swamp.
    ¶ Booth hunted down, smoked out, shot.
    ¶ Four accomplices hanged.
    ¶ Nation in mourning.

    Birmingham, England 1868
    ¶ U.S. government cuts pay to consular agent.
    ¶ Agent appeals to Seward for just compensation.
    ¶ Is the Secretary quite himself, after
    the assassin’s knife?
    ¶ What matters a consular agent’s wages
    in so much grief?

  4. Dennis Wright

    Not everything is against me, just FeedBlitz. They told me they have “changed” and bounced me around in cyberspace getting me nowhere. They also have not responded to any of my numerous e-mails. The move to went equally as problematic and nonresponsive. I have been closed out of the blog for five weeks. So far I am not impressed or pleased with either set of changes.

      1. MiskMask

        Dennis, I forgot to mention that I cancelled my FeedBlitz thingie a long time ago because of the same problem you’ve described. I’m not interested in receiving notifications that lead nowhere.

  5. MiskMask

    A special scene from Tom’s Beach, exploring who Tom is and his unique, autistic perspective of his world. It’s my plan to continue writing about Tom but probably privately on my blog rather than here. Tom’s stories can be rather long and mystifying.

    TOM’S BEACH, Scène Fourteen: A View Inside Out

    Tom’s mother knew the doctors wrong,
    of this she had few doubts. Her
    love for Tom was long and sure.
    He wasn’t broken, as they said.
    He wasn’t fragile, as they’d led
    her to fear. He was her Tom,
    and every word spoken she
    knew he heard. Her Tom
    was a universe on to himself.
    He’s awoken by their clattering
    again. They’re spinning,
    these two busy toys.

    … And today is his birthday …

    He calls one toy mum,
    who looks like the letter B
    set upon skinny sticks.
    The other one’s much bigger,
    fussing and fretting,
    and Tom’s bored watching
    this one spin and make
    such screechy noise.
    Noise noise, his head echoes
    with it and it shakes him out of bed.
    Tom’s impartial. An observer of shimmering
    shadows that bring their stride up short.

    … Cake and ice cream for breakfast …

    He doesn’t care what
    makes his mum toy fret.
    He’s a spark in his own universe.
    He’s that rabbit-shaped cloud,
    that sparkling speck of dust
    in the sunlight, and he dances
    with moon beams on the wall
    when the house is asleep.
    He’s the centre of his universe,
    and he twirls through words that
    curl like the waves in his hair.
    He closes his eyes, mesmerised

    … and unlit wax candles. He doesn’t like those …

    by sparkling colours
    and numbers splashing like rain.
    1-2-3 Tom only counts colours.
    Number sums are for counters,
    and he’s not a counter. He’s a boy,
    and he spins like a planet
    as his throat strums
    the sound of his name.
    Tom Tom Tom
    His name is the beat of a drum.
    And his lungs bellow out
    the sound of a trombone,

    … He’d wished for a bucket of stones …

    as he hums a staccato
    happy birthday song.
    Tom casts a glance at the toy
    he calls mum, and then he
    dashes off arms and hands linked
    with bright humming colours
    and small running numbers,
    a periwinkle and a whelk,
    all of them chasing after waves
    that kiss and hug the edge
    of his beach – It’s Tom’s Beach.

    … Adorned with smiley face stickers …

    Hope to see you at Misk Writes

  6. PKP


    infant cheek against my breast lying free swirled in that soft air
    cream chocolate pointed cat curled round  those bare ankles there
    fingertips drift brush a shepherd dog gentle sleeping guardian exhalation
    bare skin on laundered sheets hold frangipangi scented sun drenched exultation
    beneath eyes lashly falling in suckled slumbered milky trance
    turquoise sea reaches  to  swaying palms in endless sparkle glitter dance
    childhood carousel dreams behind, underwrite  each unknown future day ahead
    every thing against me there on the forever revolving carousel callioped bed 


  7. pmwanken

    Here’s a link to my poem “Who’s Winning?”….

    And here’s the poem pasted without its formatting:

    <strong?WHO’S WINNING?


    thing after

    another, and then

    one more after that.

    The world and its many

    things have kept me from my

    writing. Which is why this poem will

    likely be the last one posted before Robert

    posts the prompt of the week at Poetic Asides.

    It’s me against the world; the world is winning. Today.

    2011-08-30 12: 21 a.m.
    P. Wanken


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