Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 179

Last night, I had the honor of leading a workshop and then reading poetry in Hickory, North Carolina, as part of Scott Owens’ Poetry Hickory reading series. Tammy read her poetry too. It was great to finally meet Jane Shlensky, Nancy Posey, Helen Losse, Jessie Carty, and other PA readers face to face. 

For today’s prompt, write a poem about meeting someone. It could be a first time meeting, a routine meeting, or a reunion after a long time apart.

Here’s my attempt:


Sometimes a kitchen is the best place to discuss
how to find new readers. Let the coffee drinkers
drink their lattes and eat their muffins–unaware
we’re making elaborate plans to sell books filled
with line breaks, metaphors, and traditional forms.
How long we’ve worked out how to turn phrases and find
the correct word to describe this desire: to share
and be shared, to inspire and be inspired. After
we finish in the kitchen, our poetic plans
tucked deep in our pockets and purses, we get back
to what feels the most natural. We read poems,
share stories, and fall into our human natures. 


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151 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 179

  1. Walt Wojtanik


    Strangers on the shores,
    more than poetic piasans.
    Thrown together by chance,
    a serendipitous dance
    across the Grand Hall.
    The call for poetic writers,
    fighters for the cause
    for better or for verse.
    Destined to become
    best friends; partners
    in rhyme and only time
    will tell just how well we
    will gel. But, we’ll continue
    to support and nurture;
    poetic futures looking bright,
    right until we meet.

    © Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012

  2. taylor graham


    I thought the black cat had disappeared, the one
    who for years would curl in my computer chair
    until I’d throw her off; turn around to pour
    myself a cup of tea, and she’d be curled in my
    chair again, then in my lap, claws ever so gently,
    or scattering important papers from the desk,

    but this time she wasn’t there, not in any corner
    of the house, and I found her out-back under sage
    gone from blossom to end of season like old cats
    do, lying so still in sunshine, how could she
    be purring no matter how close I listened, just
    the tip of her tail twitching to my voice.

  3. tunesmiff

    Well, being a songwriter / poet (or is that poet / songwriter?), here’s a song in the “Fogelberg poetic” style… (if that makes any sense…)
    (c) 2012 – G. Smith (BMI)
    “Hey, it’s me;
    I’m gonna be…
    Up your way in
    And do you think,
    We could share a drink,
    And catch up on the time that’s past?
    Funny how it flies by so fast?
    Can it be that long since I saw you last?
    It can’t be that long since I saw you last…

    “So, what’s new?
    How are you?
    Got minute to tell me
    A thing or two?
    How’s your sister, your brother,
    Your daddy and mother?
    My folks’re doin’ fine;
    Still livin’ on the county line.
    I still think about when you were mine…
    I still think about when you were mine…

    “At night I see your pretty smile…
    It still fills my heart…
    Like it did from the start;
    And all the words I dream that I would say,
    Are much to small…
    They don’t begin to tell it all…
    No they don’t begin to tell at all…

    “So it’s a date?
    I won’t be late.
    I’d like to meet your husband,
    He sounds really great.
    Yeah, it’s been too long;
    Too late to say that I was wrong,
    But I will still apologize,
    When I finally look into you eyes,
    I’m sure you’ll find that a big surprise…
    But sometimes getting older really does…
    Make us wise…

    Sometimes getting older really does…
    Make us wise…”

  4. renfield67


    Take off
    your foil helmet―it’s a sign―
    of bad faith―

    and we don’t want to send a message―of distrust―
    for that matter, consider―the past―the Mayans

    the Aztecs, Egyptians and Greeks―
    the wonders they must have
    seen―all these races of people from afar―

    flung themselves here―through the unfathomable
    void of space and the crippling―grip of time―

    open your door―
    and partake of the light that calls―to all
    living things―

    step onto the porch―if you have one―look out―
    look up―look as far as you can―

    to welcome these visitors―
    bring them pies and cakes―and all
    the delicacies of the world―

    show them we care―show them
    we’ve been waiting to be found

    like friends who have been separated
    by so many years―
    and by so many miles―

  5. Connie Peters

    Family Reunion

    We met in Sedona
    where the red rocks hover and cuddle the town,
    Oak Creek gurgles through providing hours of entertainment,
    where a steep path leads up to Devil’s Bridge
    and children worry mothers,
    where we wonder if we’d meet Javelina,
    those lumpy creatures with stick legs and long tusks, along dark paths,
    where sky is brilliant blue and hot sun burns, browns, bubbles skin,
    where houses match the rocks and lights are dim to allow the stars to shine,
    where we shop on shady pathways paying far too much for hand-crafted trinkets
    where we bounce along in gaudy pink jeeps
    and learn agave makes tequila and prickly pear cactus makes ice cream,
    where we gather on a mountain top with a cross
    and memories of the one we lost and release white helium balloons.
    Then after a week of marvels we go back to Ohio, Pennsylvania,
    Nebraska, Colorado, Arizona, Texas, Louisiana, California
    and plan to meet again two years later in Delaware.

  6. Miss R.

    First Meeting

    What really counts
    As the first meeting?
    Was it that long-ago
    Casual greeting?
    Was it when I first saw you
    But didn’t recognize
    The goodness I now think
    I see in your eyes?
    Was it that evening,
    Though we barely talked?
    (If we said more than ten words,
    I know I’d be shocked.)
    Was it this morning,
    When you spoke a kind greeting?
    What really counts
    As the first meeting?

  7. Jane Shlensky

    Loved your poems, Robert, and Tammy’s. A fun evening in Hickory. Thanks for the poem here.

    First Meeting

    I don’t remember meeting you
    but I recall a picture snapped,
    the two of us playing piano,
    smiling, and the stories of elders
    about our having fun together,
    hitting it off from the start,

    when I was two, almost three,
    my brain distracted
    with pinks and deep blues,
    thoughts ricocheting
    like grasshoppers
    on summer grass
    from one new thing
    to another.

    How could you
    compete with that?
    I remember
    not remembering
    meeting you but
    knowing you just the same,
    looking at that picture
    and inventing a first time.

    Is memory more real
    and lasting than
    a good story
    well told?


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