One of the cool parts of the challenge is having the chance to be included in the second volume of the Poem Your Heart Out anthology. The book includes each prompt, the winning poem for that prompt, space to put your own poem(s), and more. The first volume rocked, and you can get a discount by pre-ordering volume two before May 1, 2015. Click to continue.
For today’s prompt, take the phrase “How (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: “How to Write a Poem,” “How Mechanical Pencils Work,” and “Howling at the Moon After Midnight in the Middle of a Thunderstorm.”
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2015 Poet’s Market
Get Your Poetry Published.
Writing poetry is one thing; getting it published is something else. Take advantage of the best print resource for publishing your poetry today with the 2015 Poet’s Market, edited by Robert Lee Brewer.
This annual reference includes new articles on the craft, business, and promotion of poetry, explanations of poetic forms, poet interviews, new poems, and hundreds of listings for book and chapbook publishers, print and online publications, contests and awards, and so much more–all for poets!
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Here’s my attempt at a How Blank Poem:
“How Words Work”
words, you say, more words,
and, yes, i get what you’re
getting at–my words
don’t do the laundry
or the dishes or spark
forest fires in the middle
of an ocean anymore,
but what else do i have
to express my heart,
my soul, and you smile
and say, open your mouth
only to kiss me.
*****
Today’s guest judge is…
Ruben Queseda
Ruben Quesada
Ruben Quesada is editor of the forthcoming volume, Latino Poetics: Essays from University of New Mexico Press, author of Next Extinct Mammal and Exiled from the Throne of Night. He is poetry editor for The Cossack Review, Cobalt Review, and Luna Luna Magazine.
A fellow of CantoMundo, Napa Valley Writers’ Conference, Vermont Studio Center, Squaw Valley Writers, and Lambda Literary Retreat, his writing appears in Guernica, Rattle, American Poetry Review, The Rumpus, and The California Journal of Poetics. He is a professor of English and creative writing for the performing arts at Eastern Illinois University.
Learn more at RubenQuesada.com.
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Poem Your Heart Out, Volume 2
Poem Your Heart Out again!
The prompts from last year’s challenge along with the winning poem from each day ended up in an inspired little anthology titled Poem Your Heart Out. It was part prompt book, part poetry anthology, and part workbook, because each day includes a few pages for you to make your own contributions.
Anyway, the anthology worked out so well that we’re doing it again this year, and you can take advantage of a 20% discount from Words Dance by pre-ordering before May 1, 2015.
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Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems.
Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.
*****
“How to Make Her Blush”
Restless night, tossing and turning
To-do list brewing, dreams yearning.
Lost in thought, what is the date?
A full day of tasks and stress await.
She sits down in the dining room chair
Runs chipped fingernails through her wet hair.
He hands her coffee and a scrambled egg
Puts his warm hand on her left leg.
Looks at her face, with eyes so sincere
Whispers, “you are beautiful” into her ear.
By: Mandy B. Fernandez
Very sweet.
How to Throw the Sun
I was never taught how to perceive death
as a child. I started writing poems as letters
to my heart explaining how I should feel.
I was careful to include enough enormous,
conspicuous, unquestionably poetic words.
I would read it as I caught myself smiling
at the wake while the other kids played tag
in the viewing room. I smiled simply because
I wished to be one of them, to be carefree,
and oblivious to the death surrounding us.
I often read out loud at the funeral if asked
for a few words in memoriam. As a poet,
I was often asked, and I’d smile as I spoke
because for a brief moment we all needed to
be oblivious to the death surrounding us.
I would read it after tossing a few too many
understanding glances towards the bereaved.
It reminded me just how little I had to say
about the deceased. I can remember vividly
when my father passed away. I went through
a thousand poem drafts in a week because
they all included some morose variation of
tickling his foot to make damn sure he wasn’t
playing possum. Come the day of his funeral
I carried the simplest, most honest, quite
frankly the worst poem I had written to date.
I refused to write the bit about the feline
psychopomp at his feet, clawing my fingers.
I didn’t mention that the room temperature fell
and what sunlight there was sought shelter.
I didn’t include the fact that I felt him move
through me to follow my brother to the porch.
And I certainly didn’t speak of the butterflies
that rose up from the railing and hovered
between us before disappearing into the sky.
I left out dad’s lifelong love of lepidoptery.
I didn’t tell anyone that he’d twice fooled me
into thinking he was dead over the last month.
I didn’t speak about how I felt or how I should
about his death. I spoke mostly about his life
and all the joy that world would miss. I learned
to write poetry as my father’s surviving son.
by Matthew H. Freeman
typo — last stanza, second line: “joy the world”
Matthew that is one of the best poems I’ve read in a long time, thank you, it said everything, I loved the psychopomp cat, your smiles through other poems, all you left out and all you felt and all you carried with you til this day.
That’s high praise indeed. Thank you, Kimmy!
This is so wonderful. When I spoke at my mother’s funeral I told how she gave me poetry.
Thank you, Reatha. It’s a blessing, for sure, what gifts they leave behind.
This is amazing.
Thank you, Kim. =)
Beautiful!
Thank you very much.
Full of lovely heartfelt emotions beautifully described
You’re so very kind, Uma. I appreciate it.
How Our Lives Became Entangled
When people ask, I tell them
I picked you up off a street corner.
They give me this weird look, like
What are you? A hooker? Or is he?
I can’t resist that part, especially the look.
I tell them about picking up a girlfriend,
Cruising the main drag of our town
In my father’s new Chevy.
We did a 180 and started north.
As we sailed past the movie theater,
She saw her boyfriend standing in front
Talking with a man. That was you.
We went back to talk to her friend,
Who wanted to ride in the new car.
You both piled in. That was the beginning.
Who says good things can’t happen when
You hang out on street corners?
HOW WORDS CHANGE
By: Nurit Israeli
Have you noticed how often
we say “remember” these days?
How we lead off
with “once,”
or “in the old days”?
Remember how readily
we once pondered “why not?”
How invincible we felt,
when time was just a word,
not a stalker closing in?
Remember how naive
we looked way back when?
How softly we gazed
into each other’s eyes,
before the years took their toll?
We once tossed “someday”:
“Someday, we’ll do this.”
“Someday, we’ll do that.”
As if a great many somedays
were awaiting their turn.
I don’t say “someday” anymore,
or “eventually,” or “in due time.”
Now, I say “still”: ”Still working.”
“Still driving.” “Still dancing.”
“Still…”
No, I no longer say “someday.”
I don’t have the confidence I had then.
Today, I say ”yes, please,”
I say “now, please.”
Yes. Still. Even so.
Wistful. Some wonderful thoughts behind this poem.
Thanks, Kjean.
Thanks for this Nurit, A very thought provoking piece!
Thank you very much, Walt! Your feedback is greatly appreciated!
How to Do
The greatest insult
my mother ever spoke
she said with such disgust
it would turn your stomach
in shame:
She doesn’t know how to do.
How to do, what? I wondered.
I heard my mother apply
the phrase at a bridal
shower when a short-skirted
bridesmaid dug into her plate
before the bride lifted her fork.
Again toward each sorority girl who
failed to return the engraved reply card
for my wedding. Again every time
we visited a house in disarray. Or if
a thank you note arrived
on stationary with the text
thank you
on the cover.
How to do, how to do, how to do.
Make a casserole or a vegetable stew
for a friend in need, let older ladies lead,
and say Yes, M’am, and wear a dress
on Sunday.
But never, ever where white
to a wedding unless you are the bride,
or you may hear my mother whisper
under her breath from her usual pew,
She just doesn’t know how to do—
Southern.
woops! wear not where
wow, I bet that is not how she wants to be remembered, but boy you nailed it. You know how to write a poem!
I totally understand your mother. You captured her so well.
I love this!
Thanks! Y’all made my day!
How to share an orange
One perfect sphere cannot be shared
cannot be tasted or revered
Slice
Through the protective shell starting at the navel
Golden blood sprays the air with promise
Sweet times ahead
Small people lured by the scent of sunshine gather
Eager eyes filled with “can I’s”
I divide and they barter over uneven wedges
Joyful anticipation lost in the fear of “not enough”
They leave content.
Digesting their spot of sweetness.
The fruit of the day is gone
Leftover juices evaporating from the plate
Next time. Set a piece aside.
lovely, I can taste it
Yes, indeed.
What a beautiful way of depicting something so simple!
Thank you!
how do i do life
day by day
i take Your hand
lead me
guide me
comfort me
help me
walk with me
this thing called life is hard
How Does Molecular Science Work?
The title came out of left field
Not my area of expertise
I better hit Wikipedia
to try and save some face
I can’t go and change the title
I am already committed
Let’s see if divine inspiration
can impress the scientific field
This science covers everything
that gives life, as we know it, matter
It’s what keeps our world spinning
Molecular science in a nutshell
I’ll spare you all the details
You probably won’t understand it
Safe to say it’s pretty important
That amazing science stuff
How to Miss A Deadline
First, give your idea some thought
Dwell on how you’ll frame it
Close your eyes and picture it
Take some time to meditate
Do not mind the sound of the clock
Pay no attention to the ticking
Block out the world for inspiration
No need to rush ingenuity
Relaxed, you’re ready to pontificate
on how to make the world a better place
You sense a masterpiece in the making
Your poem, bound to be chosen for display
Have a bin nearby for second-guessing
toss aside anything less than a Yeats
If you reach the point of overflowing
take it as a sign you’re on your way
A blank page is a bit of a problem
if it stays that way too long
But it’s early now, there’s still some time
to let creativity flow through your veins
Start and stopping, still stuck in first gear
your motor appears to be stalling
Time for a fresh pot of coffee
to wash away that writers block
Your focus, now, is impenetrable
You furiously write til you stop
The silence suddenly rattles you
What happened to that ticking clock?
Only 11am? That can’t be right
I’ve been sitting here for hours
Your heart sinks as you come to realize
the battery seems to have died
!!! wonderful.
thank you.
Oh no, how sad!!
How could you ?
How could you ?
To forget those long nights
Those insane interal fights
How could you ?
To erase the lives lost
And forget the expensive cost
How could you ?
Live in vain
With one motive and that’s monetary gain
How could you ?
Listen to silence of night
and not hear the screams that hide from the light
How could you ?
Lose your red heart
To get green and a false start
How could you?
Come from a city where bodies decorate the street
And remember that place and it’s desert heat
-Rahel Hadish
How The Magic Fades
Furtive afternoons
stolen from life
squandered in a hotel room
whose faded yellow curtains
and dirty white sheets
I never did notice
That funny musty odour
disinfectant mingling
with a strange scent
didn’t bother me
All I could see
was the spotless shirt you shed
The tan lines on your skin
I inhaled your clean fragrance
mingling with the cologne
you always wore
I revelled in the feel
of your fumbling fingers
as you undid the buttons
on my dress
I thrilled to the smile
playing on your face
when you finally succeeded
I couldn’t breathe
as you reached for me
We melted like the candles I lit
But now
as I wait for you
I see all that I had missed
fading paint on the walls
scuff marks on the carpet
grime on the windows
chipped wood of the table
The sun streams
into the room
highlighting every flaw
its rays touch
They fall on me too
The magic fades
Uma Venkatraman
Very nice range. I felt the rise and fall in my chest as I read.
Thank you 🙂
How to Cook in the Bedroom
Start with satin sheets
rose petals strewn about
moonlight shining through
the stained glass window
strawberries in champagne
and chocolate roses on her lips.
JW Laviguer
Ah, I love the sheer sensuality of this one.
such a repast
don’t eat too fast
try and make it last
have a blast
the die is cast
remember the past
the cook pot is vast
How To Catch A Star
Step outside on a clear summer night
Cast your eyes upward to see the light
Of a million stars in the dark firmament
The glow of lost planets already spent
Close your eyes tightly, breath in, breath out
Empty your mind – erasing all doubt
That those pinpoints of light are too far away
For your small earthbound fingers to stretch out to play
With the sparkling wonderful magic in space
Trust your heart, look at me, find your star in my face
Oboyoboy…. I’m posting this one on the icebox.
This poem calls to be memorized and repeated around a campfire.
Just so lovely.
Thanks all
How Does He Know?
It is uncanny
how good he is
at knowing when
I’m nervous
I’m down
I’m in need
of a shoulder
to lean on
How does he
know when I
need you
And why does
he assign you
the night shift
every
damn
time.
How does he know?
How?
I like the twist you present in this poem… Clever, indeed!
Skilful bait and switch, this. Big smiles here.
awesome
How do you hold
on to life when
breezes become gusts?
How do you solve
the world’s problems
when leaks in the pipes of peace
burst open
anew
with each day’s dawn?
How do you know when enough
love is really enough?
Or can one’s love ever sate?
Ho do you know when
to stop
forging ahead
when everything around you,
blatant as billboards,
shouts “Turn Back!”
How do you
decide
when life is done?
YOU don’t…
Oops. Fourth stanza should have started with “How”
I wondered how that happened. I love this poem. Thanks for posting.
I appreciate you taking the time to read it…
We were on the same wave length today! Love the ending!!
I agree
How You Hide Your Feelings
how you hide your feelings
that’s beautiful
how you hide your love
that’s sweet
how you hide your tears
pains me
how my world would be
if I could talk with you?
how your world be,
how our world would be
if I could talk with you?
– (c) Mohini Puranik
Bittersweet… 🙁
Quite.
I hope it isn’t autobiographical…
How Do You Say It?
Algo mas?
she said, smiling.
“I’m sorry, what?”
I said, “She means do you want anything else?”
“Oh,” he said. “No, thank you.”
“See, ‘mas” means “more” and “algo” means something.”
He tells her, in Spanish, that he is learning to speak the language and that he is going to start reading La Prensa, El Diario, and El Mundo.
She tells him, in Spanish, that she doesn’t speak English.
I just listened intently for the nouns and the verbs. The last time I tried to converse in a Spanish restaurant I said “tetas” after two minutes of asking the waitress for rice and chicken breasts. Pero, I got my meal.
I said, “Gracias.”
She said, “De nada.”
I said,”That means you’re welcome.”
He said, “That I know.”
I said, “I understood everything she said to you and everything you said to her. I just can’t speak it.”
It was almost two a.m. in Spanish Harlem. We each had a small plate of frijoles negros y arroz and talked about being in our early forties. My son. The clowns I dated on the internet. Real estate. How he knew the Jungle Brothers and A Tribe Called Quest in high school.
It took us a little while to find that friendly little Mexican joint with the yummy black beans and rice. I just wish they had some platanos, tambien. But hey, it was almost 2 a.m. in Spanish Harlem.
The first spot he had found had a little raton running around by the door, and the next three were about to close.
We had been driving around because he said we should break bread. He ate before the movie, we both had three small bags of popcorn during the flick, and I had said I wasn’t hungry. I don’t like to eat after eight.
“Come on,” he had said. “You can have a little something. Rice and beans.”
He just wanted us to keep talking, because after three years, I finally said yes.
Me gusta. El muy romantica.
What a wonderful little story.
!Que bueno!
Loved it all, language, dialogue, food, descriptions.
Aw, thanks everyone!
How I Lost Everything During the Great Sugar Crash of 10:15 a.m.
Perhaps it was that third donut or maybe that last handful of M&Ms
but somehow my blood sugar missed the message that it would be needed
all day long and decided to drop out for a rest break
Because I was at my desk composing a very important report when
everything turned sort of grey and I had to lean back in my
chair and take some deep breaths the monitor blurred a bit
Anyway I may have let my fingers stray over the keyboard a little
because when I looked up my report was gone and twenty minutes had
passed I must have just drifted off for a little while dammit
yes, it must have been that third donut I really ought to have had
more protein some eggs and bacon or oatmeal but gosh that donut
was so tasty and by god I’d eat it again if the situation arose
Smiles 🙂
Oh, yes.
Frustration at its best!
Love your title.
Thanks. I’ve had this poem in mind for a while.
Been there, done that.
brilliant–i’m a sugar junkie, so totally relate. thanks for this
Step away from the donut
How Is The Least Important
Question, in my opinion,
Superfluous really because
What will pretty much answer How it happened, and
When will pretty much say the time Who did it, and
Who will pretty much confess Why he or she did What, When, and Where.
I don’t really care How things work.
I want to know What it does and Why, and
Secondarily, Who can use it and Where and When?
Pretty much my philosophy on life.
How did I get here?
Why do I ask?
Who am I to question?
Just Where and When am I coming from?
What are my thoughts?
Are they all superfluous too?
How so?
By John Bauer
Invites thought, this does.
Very well written, extremely sharp!
Just great
How Much?
Tortured souls howl from darkened cells
Dragged from earth to the bay of hell
Newspapers their sad tales did tell
Nations from moral heights fell
What is the life of one man worth that another’s may be sacrificed?
Spot on.
Stunning.
Howsoever Effectuate
Narrate
Tremendous odes
Paint profound masterpieces
Sculpt immaculate, unfettered
Create
For me, this Crapsey cinquain is fun, partly because, for some reason, it makes me think of that old song about the sloth that could do so much but just didn’t have the time.
I used “unfettered’ in my poem too. What a good word. As are all the rest in your piece.
How Is The Answer
How do I
is the question
often asked
Typed in search bars
asked in minds
Look closer, it’s a trick
How is not the question
How is the answer
Turn away from yourself
Look out into the world
Right there, that child
Hungry, homeless, on the brink
of despair, of death
How it happened
is not the question
How you reach out
is the answer
Look again, over here now
Missing legs, a wheelchair
Struggling to reach
things, ideas, desires
beyond the fingertips
How the legs were lost
is not the question
How able are your legs
is the answer
Down the road, that family
they’ve lost their loved one
So sad, so tragic
Struggling each day
to go on; how do we
go on
How they died
is not the question
How strong are your shoulders
is the answer
The burden is large
Their burden, maybe yours
How it got so heavy
is not the question
How strong is your back
is the answer
When asked correctly
How is no longer
the question
You become how
which is the answer
I like this very much. Good poem; good philosophy.
Nice. I like the answer.
Love, love, love this! It reaches forward to the essence of life.
Love the last stanza.
How do I haiku?
The deadline approaches fast,
At midnight, I’m doomed.
Big smile here.
thank you very much!
Very clever!
April 10, 2015
Prompt: Title: How ________
How to Fillet a Draft
Using your pen point, carefully place your words flat
on a piece of paper. Contrary to popular opinion,
the paper does not matter.
Study them from all sides and angles,
which are not the same thing.
Slice verbs diagonally at their tense,
carefully remove unnecessary adverbs
and check the translucence of your adjectives.
Any color is fine, but look for clarity
that illuminates, rather than clouding,
meaty nouns. As long as your poetic license
was current when you caught the words
you may take a lenient approach
to punctuation, Capitalization and
even line breaks,
though we’d recommend
you always consider clarity
for your diners.
Parenthetical phrases and cliches,
it turns out, can be perfectly acceptable
if used with purpose and/or wit.
A draft that is difficult to read
due to margin notes, streaks
arrows, carrots, impossibly small lettering,
abbreviations you must strain
to remember and a STET here and there
is probably ready to cook.
Linda Voit
This should go in the Fanny Farmer edition of Strunk and White. Love it.
Excellent! 🙂
Excellent concept, excellent play with words.
I’ll read this again tomorrow, whatever the prompt!
Me too!
Thank you for this lovely comment. And thanks to all — very much appreciated!
HOW TO KEEP CALM
Before you fly
clear off the course
and dim your eye
with deep remorse,
take time to think
of alternate courses.
Avoid the brink;
just hold your horses.
William Preston
Good advice!
It is, indeed.
Love this! Sage advice!
Words to live by
Wish I’d done this many times!
Sage wisdom, William!
How does it work?
There she is, snug in her mind,
covered in a blanket-fantasy of worlds
created for murderous mystery—
how does it work? this
mystical alignment of chance,
when she realizes the reality of irrelevance…
she wants no bright lights to penetrate with
truth, yet just now, snug in a place somewhere
else, she wishes quietly that this escape
truly helped…
April 10, 2015
By: Lucy K. Melocco
The phrase, “snug in her mind,” captivated me. Wonderful piece.
Thank you kindly!
Wow. Really makes me think of a variety of scenarios… Very deep.
Thank you! I wasn’t expecting such a good response for this piece…
How I Wish
She doesn’t understand
what it is to be tired,
and I admire her quantity
of hands-on exertion.
The effect of fatigue excites her,
brings on more fervid work,
and she’s attentive to family –
her lambs, chicks hatching,
calves and bobbies, and I
witness daily that she’s off
like a lark – flying through
chores and fresh as a secret
just told. But mostly she has
a delicate heart, essential
to such work. She is how I wish
I’d be, if I’d chose a farming life.
//
(c) 2015 Misky Braendeholm
I love this, mainly for the understanding about that delicate heart.
Excellent! This poem goes beyond the “farmer.” It draws on the eclipsing life of those around us who choose to do everything possible; using every iota of breath in every day. I know and admire many people like this. They make me tired just knowing or hearing about what they did in one day…
Metaphorical affection
I was kissed by a metaphor,
his lingering smile sending me spiraling
into oblivion: complexity’s gravity so
heavy that my heart screamed for it to stop—
just stop, before my eyes weep the unsaid…
before my fingers curl around unreasonable
tension and I bleed the color of obscurity;
his unending riddle is an enchantment upon
my mind, and I find myself stashing meaning
between crevices along the precipice of
misunderstanding; I was kissed by a metaphor,
a passionate dereliction of sense – he was
once real, yet now he is merely in pieces,
lurking clichés in my mind: I can never
see his composition as it once was, when we
were young hearts infused and entwined with
joint suffering, yet sometimes I wish it were
not so – but my metaphor is truly selfish,
and undeserving of attention—
so how can I still yearn for his affection?
April 10, 2015
By: Lucy K. Melocco
I’ve always had poor understanding of metaphors, and now I know why: never been kissed. Another wonderful piece, in my opinion.
Haha, thank you. Well, the only drawback about that kiss is that all your sentences suddenly require a great deal of patient head-scratching – yet I love metaphors regardless!
One word comes to mind: adroit. You perfectly planed this creation with the words you chose…
Thank you! That’s very kind!
I so enjoyed this.
Thank you, I’m glad you enjoyed it!
Lovely imagery. Awesome!
Thank you!
How I Write
by Valeri Paxton-Steele
With honesty and truth.
Humbly, beautifully.
With an open soul,
And an open heart.
With raw passion.
Graciously, easily,
And with intensely
Great fear
Of myself,
My own open book.
This probably applies to many of us. Well put.
Well done!
better open then closed
better gracious intensity
than posed immensity
Thank you, all. Hugs. -V
HOW DO I LOVE THEE
How do I love thee?
depends on who thee are
there’s a difference between he and she
or someone met in a park or a bar
Why do I love thee?
if I can’t figure out how
if you’re beside above or below me
I’ll try to be there and here right now
When and where do I love thee?
time is quickly running out
location has relativity
caring counts without a doubt
How do I love thee? this is it on it
quickly I guess with my seven minute sonnet
What a delight!
Very clever. I especially love the first line “How do I love thee? depends on who thee are.” Really drew me in! Lots to think about in this poem…
HOW ‘BOUT THEM DAWGS
G. Smith
———————
How ‘ bout them Dawgs?
How ’bout those Jackets?
Not Tigers or Gators or Arkansas Hawgs.
How ’bout them Dawgs!
The sure do raise a riotous racket.
How ’bout them Dawgs?
How’bout those Jackets!
g if dawgs run free than let them be
when they get hot skip the bun
Santa’s in Atlanta having fun
I’m full and that’s no bull – Dawgs and beer
Cricket teams?
I s’pose it’s a possibility… but my intention was THE religion of the SE USofA… College Football~!!!
University of Georgia (Dawgs), and their foremost rivals:
Georgia Tech (‘cross state – Yellow Jackets)
Auburn (Tigers… or War Eagles… )
University of Florida (Gators – and the world’s largest outdoor cocktail party)
and University of Arkansas (Hawgs – well, Razorbacks, but they go by that name from time to time…)
All that to say…
ROLL TIDE~!
🙂
How Can You
begin each day as if the past
had never happened or
retire to the comforts of night
knowing the pain you caused?
How can we
keep burning dinosaur remains
as if there are herds left, when
sun, water and wind offer the world
energy that never ends?
How can they
call themselves leaders
as they bankroll billions,
yet deny the funds to keep
families, the elderly and our vets
from the perils of poverty?
How can I
bring change to this world
simply by writing words, which
may or may not dive deep into
the dark, unlit consciousness
to heal the pain you bear?
your words will heal “the light, well lit conscious”. They need it as well.
Keep em coming. Word strumming night and day, well intended word play,
that’s how you can, keep up your plan, rags to riches, you can’t reach all
the suns with witches underneath or above . except with poetic love.
forgive my doggerel rap, sometimes can’t shut my tap
Pepe, I appreciate your rap so much…what a wonderful way to comment. Thank you, thank you!
Words need listeners, I guess. Hence the questions.
🙂
The world needs more writers like you!!
Thank you so much for your kind comment. I am honored.
How to Write a Poem in Ten Minutes
Start with a weird question, like
Where have all the cacti gone?
Then list possibilities, like they’ve
run away with pincushions, cut
themselves in half for the water,
tired of being green and painted
themselves orange. Then ignore
the list, come up with something new:
they’re in heaven with the angels,
being de-pricked. Describe how
it’s going down: the beautiful creatures
use pliers to pull out the spines,
the cacti cry whatever moisture
they have stored, even God feels
for the poor plants. Then end
with something philosophical,
and an image: Not even the Lord’s
most perfect creatures can make
his oddest beings perfect. Placed
back into the desert, they mourn
thorns, feeling bald without them.
The sun glimmers off their skin,
which others think is crying.
Oh wow…the deep philosophical ending is actually quite thought provoking! Well done!
For me, this stream-of-consciousness (or so it seems to me) process is at the heart of creativity. Wonderful.
Absolutely brilliant!
Exquisite! I laughed at first, but then the poem drew me into the depth of meaning of this poem. Well done!
Yes, indeed. Wonderful.
Wonderful!
“How Sunday Feels on a Windy Afternoon”
Suddenly I felt like I was a pinprick
on a map so vast that I was invisible to the naked eye,
And my heart was beating strong and heavy in my tiny chest
But I didn’t feel quiet
I thought that maybe if I smile I could blow ripples,
That by the time they reach the opposite end of the map
They might just be tidal waves.
Lucy Dowling-Brown
Another good poem, Lucy! The last three lines really got me.
This reminds me of the butterfly that causes a tornado somewhere. I like it much.
Well crafted!
Amazing images.
How Sweet You Are
Ghoulish numbers on the clock:
it’s three.
Farewell sleep, I sigh,
and finding slippers
shuffle past
sleeping spouse,
squeaking boards,
whining hinge,
and then,
the thumping starts.
Sprawled like a tart on vacation
I find you on a couch,
“Silly goose! Let the belly rubs begin!”
Frenzied wags,
as if it’s been months,
my cheek on your unbearably soft muzzle,
your sleepy eyes look into mine,
your tail,
beating the crap out of the couch,
and I think,
how sweet you are, My Silly Goose.
I’m so glad
of all the gin joins in the world,
that you came into mine.
(Kimmy Sophia Brown)
second to last line, “joints”
Kimmy…what a picture! One that is easy to see and relate to – love the ending!
Big smiles here; “gin joints,” indeed!
I love this, especially “Sprawled like a tart on vacation”. Just like my dog!
I absolutely love this!!
Me, too.
thank you everyone 🙂
How sweet this is!!
How does silence work?
Pretty words like a midsummer eve,
silken night air caressing, the sky open
beneath vibrant leaves parting, leaves
dampened by the dark to silhouettes:
just so, your words flow over me;
and I know somewhere in your whispers
there is meaning I ought to hear, but
right now I prefer to just dream…
How do your murmurs compare to
the comfort of castle walls? they seem
built for war, ready for a siege—
they shower force and prestige, cold and
immovable; such are opinions that
you relate to me… here on the grass
where I peer through the looking glass of
the universe and catch glimpses of
infinity…
Your words are pretty in my unheeding
ears, like an indefinable, tangible breeze
that simply washes over my tired mind,
and I wish only to enjoy the romance of
the moment on this midnight hill in your
company – but you just keep talking…
beautiful voice, chiseled face dampened
by the dark to a mere silhouette with
bright gem-eyes reflecting moonlight—
but what you said escapes me…
I summon the fantasy and wrap myself
inside it: a shell of stoic quiet that
I wish held you close – but all your
fears and inescapable wants loom heavy
like rainclouds chasing my clarity…
and I wonder: how can you have
such tenderness, when all your words
are so bathed in bitterness? how can
we see the sunrise when all we do is
analyze what it means?
Pretty words on a dark, cool night
sitting on a hill, enjoying false starlight,
my imaginary castle of your words
crumbling into the knowledge that
you do not want this – I am lost on
a frosty cloud, to which your stone
is impervious – and I am left alone
to listen to your soft murmurs…
April 10, 2015
By: Lucy K. Melocco
Lucy, this is awesome! The imagery is perfect. (Having known this pain, I speak from experience!)
Thank you – it’s an unfortunately familiar feeling of late.
Lucy, the imagery here is perfect! For those of us who know this pain, your poem touches deep.
Thank you again!
Mesmerizing, this.
Thank you. 🙂
Wonderful.
Thank you!
Beautiful.
Thank you!
APOLOGY
How was I to know?
It was just sitting there
in front of my nose.
all ready for my jaws
to wrap themselves around.
It wasn’t just the sound
that the machine makes,
nor your attention that it takes
away from me.
It was more
that I was bored.
I know it was new,
but what else could I do?
You say it cost a packet
and you would deduct
the cost from
what you spend
on my treats,
but it was there,
making a racket,
annoying me with its
whirr, whirr, whirr.
If we had a cat
I could blame it on her.
How could I imagine
that the knob would come off
and render your dryer
totally useless?
I want your forgiveness.
I’m contrite.
I know it wasn’t right.
Please don’t frown.
I’m sitting with my head held down
trying to look as small as I can. 🙁
Another Doggy Ditty using my theme “Only Human” which I hope to be able to use throughout this April PAD. Read more at https://jezabelmyschka.wordpress.com/
should have been “drying machine” not “dryer”.
I just wish I could put the associated photos on here, but they are on my blog.
Another delight.
So accurately writ! 🙂
I’m smiling.
How We Arrived Here
Out of my blue
You
Gave me the key to the castle
Where my dreams came true
You took my wary hand
Firmly grounded in Wanderland
To the quicksand
Of Ampersand
The castle there
Gleaning in the distance of my foresight
Reaching
It would take more than might
One must fight for the castle beyond first sight
The journey was long
But together we sang songs
Along the way
To keep at bay
The well hidden predators to slay
Seeking to take our breath away
There were times
I feared that
We would never arrive
Others sought the same path and failed
Many lost wind as they sailed
Determined to survive
Finally
Discounting anomaly
The castle reached
We still prevail
King and Queen
Our castle still gleans
How we stayed this long—
Ding Dong
Not to be carried astray
Answer if I must
It is just
Another poem away.
I admire this, especially the ending.
How did I know?
A slight difference in your voice
as you call my name.
Small changes in the way we
touch, refrain, avoid.
That brief moment of impatience
almost hidden.
Something no longer comfortable
in our shared silence.
A calm expression that betrays
emotion held back.
The laughter that suggests
release of tension.
An almost imperceptible relief
at parting.
Subtle movements in the undercurrents
of our lives.
Shake the sensitive needle
of the seismograph.
Alison Williams
observant and painful, well done!
Excellent
Bingo! This is superb, in my opinion, especially the images thrown up by the final word.
Perfect description.
How there is no in between
Bring everything up,
or everything down.
What’s the use of waking up early,
if you are of no use?
Don’t bring the coffee down,
It’s for everyone in Hal Far,
but us.
What she says,
in these days,
is law; no buts.
There is no in between,
Tick the box,
between either … or.
For me, this is a succinct picture of depression.
“How to Stop Asking”
How to stop asking is a pretty tricky business
For in order to know how, you’ll need to have to ask first
(lol, I’ll come up with something else)
Robert, your poetry is not normally this wordy; I’ve paraphrased the moment’s title. I am not a howler, except of course in the stated circumstances. It’s fun, losing it in the middle of a poppy field, drenched and waiting for the cracks to hit. I however, adore words. Their power to describe, or not. To be mundane. To destroy. Who really howls nowadays? We don’t even get to shout on FarceBrook or TweetWorld. And why only once a month? The legends of wherewolves have mutated to college campuses, and rape – OK here’s the real subject now – needs no specific time of day or night, no clear, cloudy or otherwise skies. The act itself creates enough turbulence, thunder and lightning all at once. And in the real world, electrical bolts falling from the sky rarely fall on the backs of quaterbacks humping an early tween blonde (male or female) on the field. Nature is not well organized, not tuned enough to the needs of victims. Were that the case, there would be no more clement skies, nowhere in the world, at no moment of the day or night. Scientists have instruction manuels to do many things. Teaching the weather to come and go still reads like fiction. But can they invent an anti-erectile drug which reacts immediately if a horny guy hears the words stop or no? Put it in beer. Yeah. Beer.
after Robert Brewer’s “Howling at the moon during a midnight thunderstorm”
[2015.10.4…b]
How They Knew
Because she never got over
his death. Because she drank.
Because she was born that way.
Because of poetry.
Because she left a plate,
Blue Willow,
broken in half at the beaks.
This was the rumor.
Because someone on the other side
was writing a tragedy about her.
This was the rumor.
Because she was born.
Pamela Murray Winters
Yes!! I like it from the start to the end! ..because of poetry
Great poem
I agree.
Wow. Excellent.
How To Speak to the Dead
Don’t hurry. Compose your thoughts. Assume
they know more than you do, but avoid
pointless questions. Use your own language,
even if it’s not theirs. You don’t have to whisper,
but if it feels right, do.
Don’t wait for an answer. Like the living,
they may be diffident, mysterious, or rude.
Or there may be other sounds in the way.
Listen for sounds of all kinds, as well as
things that are not sounds.
You should not have to pay for this encounter.
Nor will you receive an invitation.
If you love your voice, love your voice.
They, too, would love it, if they could.
Pamela Murray Winters
I enjoyed this, beginning with the first two words.
I really like this!
How come
You can raise only one eyebrow
And make a palace crumble.
How come only I know
– Notice
That you don’t keep your heart where your voice is
That you don’t walk through the desert to find an oasis
That you only use instinct and spit on the checklist
That you don’t like all the emphasis others put on reality
{ People think they know what is sexy
Until liquid glass drips from their mouths
When they understand what is sensual
/all the senses can get some/
When you feed us with meaning and all you were saying was:
Nutritious }
How come everyone thinks they have the key to your riddle?
/Title: How come/ Camilla Dalerci
This poem draws me in. How come?
How nice
How nice it is to know you
with your determined energetic face spurring me on
to have another go across the pond and beyond
Responding to your invitation is a good start to my day.
For me, the mystery of who this is, and what the invitation is, draws me on.
“How Poetry Of The No Might Read”
by David M. Hoenig
I’ve smelled baking bread during its flying Dutchman approach
into shallow dreams which flee before waking.
I see majesty in its every line, though it’s all charitable curves
as if allergic to straight edges.
It has nothing so pedestrian as color;
it begs worship, but cares for none.
It beggars my imagination,
while only able to be imagined.
Intangible as a soap bubble,
it feels like the answer to every need,
as though it once fed a nation in the wilderness.
It’s like the quantum foam- there/not there-
and it has no name with which to label it:
but it lives, still, at the edge of what I know
and what I never will.
Spot on!
“How Hope Fails”
by David M. Hoenig
Wings pinned to cork,
suffocating behind glass:
the metamorphosis led to beauty, but not joy.
She’s no trophy butterfly,
dessicated and dead-
she just wishes she were.
Aridity is not her problem,
as oceans have fallen from her eyes
to be dashed on the worn precipices below,
but she feels the same isolation,
as though mummified and isolated,
the husk of her on careless display.
The pills don’t work,
talk is empty of meaning,
and hope is a Golgotha.
She has forgotten how to dream better days:
there is no ‘perchance’,
there is only to weep.
Wonderful. Those last lines are a perfect fillip, in my view.
So many powerful images, the husk of her on careless display, wow.
How You Made a Monster
Your words poured out with thunder
and sudden jolts you chose to strike,
until I surged with new emotions
that you Frankensteined to life.
I’m a patchwork of mixed feelings
nearly busting at the seems.
You’ve unleashed a monster
so get ready for the screams!
Love it, especially “Frankensteined.”
Thanks PressOn : ). It’s therapeutic to make fun of our own tempers.
Love this!
Thanks Jannelee. The comments make me smile : ))
p.s. I clicked on Jannelee’s name & it links through to her poetry. I love, love, love her poetry. Check it out.
RETIREMENT
How amazing it
is to awaken to a
Monday without stress
Yes Jezzie it is nice to be retired and to have you with us again
Oh yes!
Oh, how amazing indeed! I can’t believe they still won’t let me retire… thirty more years, they say…
Yes!