Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 157

For those who participated in the haiku challenge over the weekend, I just want you to know the results are still coming. I’ll make a post as soon as I’m able.

For this week’s prompt, write a magical poem. There are many varieties of magic: good magic, black magic, Harry Potter magic, the magic within our hearts, magical realism, etc. Find a bit of magic and work it into a poem.

Here’s my attempt:

“Substitiary Locomotion”

There are times I wish I could
conjure a spell to make my pen write,
my computer type, and my words
edit themselves while I sleep at night.


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Check out my other blog–loaded with advice about the writing life: My Name Is Not Bob.


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189 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 157

  1. writerdeviant

    Your kisses are hypnotic brands of
    magic realism that blend the surreal
    with a sensuality of seduction and evanescence,
    your lips bewitching my senses in mystical
    enchantment of numinous desire.
    Your whispers of passion and pleasure
    are the mantic prayers that rise up
    to the hedonistic god in hermetic
    incantations, heated sound waves
    that travel over my body in undulating
    quivers sufficed only where your hands
    wander with mystical mastery and exploit.
    I fall under your bawdy spell in willing
    surrender to the raunchy beguilement
    that forever holds me captive in your arms.

  2. Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
    (for my mother who first told me)

    light-skinned mestizo beauty,
    –part currandera
    –part chilote witch
    Petronila treated both victim & entity
    as honored guest in her home,
    with homespun chants & spells,
    prayers & candle magick,
    botanicals, amulets, and charms
    –parsley for fertility
    –nettle to banish
    –a little rosemary for protection
    –jasmine for true love
    and a pinch of slippery elm to quelch gossip.

    tormented then celebrated
    then persecuted time over again,
    Petronila tired of the flip-flop games and put
    into motion the following hex:
    that by man’s ravenous appetite for progress
    one plant species become extinct every year
    along with the knowledge which shamans
    have passed down for generations.

    And we’ve been paying for it ever since.

    © 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  3. Willy


    I thought of you, and you appeared, silently.
    I wondered about you, and you answered, softly.
    I joked with you, and you laughed, sweetly.
    I feared aloud for you, and you inhaled, sharply.
    I blinked, and you dissapeared, suddenly.

  4. DanielAri

    where the soul moves

    come in this room
    and all but now
    stays at the door

    back needs its stretch
    spine wants the floor
    feet have to move

    come in this place
    and all but self
    stays out the door

    heart loves its speed
    blood sweet in flux
    my meat, the beat

    here in this place
    where what’s not me
    stays at the door

    up go these arms
    sound from the lungs
    whirl of we two

    through this good place
    and what’s not me
    stays out the door

    talk of our steps
    gets the junk out
    oil for our lives

    here in this room
    all’s here and now
    here in the door

    you, you and i
    dance two by none
    love move trove true

    this is our place
    and all by we
    stays at the door

  5. foodpoet

    Weave magic
    Weft of elements
    I pull my hands
    elements, called, caress
    the fingers. I shed off
    anger let fire go.
    I float and cast away
    air, swim and
    let water flow away.
    Rooted in earth
    I reach, pull
    tones of amber from
    the ground below,
    healing green, woven
    into a
    rooted life.
    I look up and
    watch elements
    weave magic.


  6. Walt Wojtanik


    You call it magic.
    I call it faith; a belief that says
    no matter what, you’re on board.
    You can afford to extend your hand,
    for in the grand scheme of things
    the feeling this season brings
    soothes your soul. The main goal
    of every man, woman and child
    is to hold the love in their hearts.
    It always starts with love. A love of life,
    a love of fellow man, a love unconditional
    that positions you to do great things.
    Peace on earth in goodwill and love;
    the Magic of Christmas, a treasure trove.
    You call it magic.I call it faith.
    I am Santa Claus, if you believe.

  7. Hannah


    When I close my eyes I can see them still
    So many snowflakes taken on the wind.
    The ungraspable things of this life
    Like laughter, the scent of the sea
    The long and loving look in your eyes,
    I hold them all in an immaterial place.
    Softly, I sense them in my heart.
    It is that which brings to fruition;



  8. The Happy Amateur


    Real people, not cardboard figures,
    Working their black and white magic,
    Living their imperfect lives,
    Filled with overbearing loneliness,
    Loving, and breathing, and dying,
    Destroying themselves,
    And rising from ashes.
    Oh, the forgotten glory
    Of watching a good movie.

  9. Mary Mansfield

    Decided to take another swipe at this prompt, ended up with a series of haiku. Enjoy!

    The Magic of Mom

    A mother’s magic
    Can transform skinned knees and tears
    With only a kiss.

    Kitchen sorceress
    Conjuring tempting meals from
    Her meager pantry.

    Dishes washed. Laundry
    Folded. Mysteriously
    The house cleaned itself!

    Tooth Fairy, Santa,
    The magic of childhood made
    Possible by Mom.

    A magic potion
    Able to cure any ills:
    Mother’s chicken soup.

    Her mystic wisdom
    Proves the old adage is true:
    Mother does know best.

    The one magical power
    Mothers just don’t have.

  10. Bruce Niedt


    Everything holds everything together.
    We will never understand the scope of it –
    our brains can never take in the sheer
    size of a galaxy, how all that black space
    can condense into suns and turn on itself,
    how a cosmic hub holds cosmic spokes
    and waltzes through infinity.

    How our world, that living thing,
    cuts ellipses around the same star
    and never flies off like a doomed rock
    into oblivion. How we are just far enough
    from it to survive, how we were cooked in a stew
    till we wriggled free and discovered ourselves.
    How diverse we are – dragonflies and carp,
    raccoons and emus, mushrooms and sequoias.
    How some of us became wonderful and terrible,
    could love and destroy and build and hate.

    How I am the only one seeing through these eyes,
    and you are the only one seeing through yours,
    how we dance and fight and laugh and conspire,
    how the synapses fire in our brains and tell us
    what galaxies and sequoias are, even if we
    never completely understand, and all the while
    we move like little galaxies through our universe,
    our cells held together with miraculous glue,
    the molecules, the atoms, the subatomic.


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