Tomorrow is the final day of the challenge! How did we get here? One day at a time; I know, I know.
For today’s prompt, write a haphazard poem. The poem itself could be haphazardly put together, I suppose. But it could also be about a haphazard situation. Or whatever haphazard thing you can bend the poem into.
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In addition to the listings, there are articles on the craft, business, and promotion of poetry–so that poets can learn the ins and outs of writing poetry and seeking publication. Plus, it includes a one-year subscription to the poetry-related information on WritersMarket.com. All in all, it’s the best resource for poets looking to secure publication.
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Here’s my attempt at a Haphazard Poem:
“organization”
half the time i write
about whatever
pops into my
head without
another thought
zipping from one
adjective to the next
regardless of any
designed meaning
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Robert Lee Brewer has enjoyed writing poems this month, not only on this blog but in his notebooks too. These poem-a-day months always seem to produce more than the 30 poems that make it on the blog. Plus, he’s been reading a lot of poetry this time around, including Barton Smock’s first traditionally published collection, Ocean Vuong’s debut collection, and more.
Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community, which means he gets to do a million things to help writers find more success with their writing (including this blog). He’s also the author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53).
Connect with him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.
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Find more poetic posts here:
- Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 347.
- Michael Dylan Welch: Poet Interview.
- The Many Faces of Persona Poems.
Zag Zig Life
My life zags when it should zig
a haphazard collection of days
teetering sometimes on the
brink of disaster
no routine in sleep patterns
staying up late and waking up late
avoiding the morning
for the morning holds discomfort
haphazardly getting through the days
moment to moment balancing
finding no rhyme or reason in the
spacing of things and still never
feeling balanced
as if I were playing a long game of
Jenga and losing badly
pieces pulled suddenly from the
wrong place and hoping the whole
thing won’t cave in and fall on the
table of my life
copyright 2016 by Barbara Ehrentreu
Stupid Tent
I bought a fancy canvas tent from a good friend of mine
I fancied that the money spent would make our camping fine.
But we can’t get the damn thing pitched and it’s begun to rain.
I’m thinking that the thing’s bewitched, or cursed to cause us pain.
But still we grapple with the poles, we wrench and pull and lug.
We cannot match the frickin’ holes no matter how we tug.
Of course, I tried to call my friend to rail and to berate,
For him to help me comprehend, but he’s moved out of state.
And so we wrestle in the storm, the canvas getting wetter,
The poles keep slipping to new forms and nothing’s getting better.
And as we go, we start to see that purgatory’s torment
is naught compared to a beastly, horrid, fancy canvas tent.
“What are you doing?” he said to the guy sitting on the bridge with his legs
dangling over the interstate.
“You know.”
It took a moment for the passerby’s words to get in front of the labyrinth
of thoughts twisted in doubt.
“When’s the last time you kissed a girl?”
The thought to carry on with his plan detached a bit from his mind
like gum being stretched between a shoe and the sidewalk.
Cough “It’s been a few days.”
“Man the last time I even got close to a girl; I’m talking personal space,
was a few years ago.” “Do you have money in the bank, a job?”
The blue-eyed guy who felt his soul was oddly short
for his 6 foot frame answered yes.
The passerby was locked into the young man’s situation
for the infraction of being in the same place at the same time.
“You don’t want to do this. You have more going for you than I’ve
had in years. Our stories may be different but I know what it’s like
to feel life is done with me.”
The young man turned to look at the bald passerby
who looked like he’d been wedged inside a bottle
of whiskey, and felt a strange bead of pity rise within.
But pity for himself or this middle-age guy with a birthmark
on his hand shaped like a bull’s-eye?
The air was deep as a grave. The sun was almost
done caving in.The oily guy gave the young man
his hand. They walked passed a sign rocking back
and forth: Auto Body Shop: we fix you shocks and breaks
And a ball jar rolled in their path until it captured
the remains of daylight.
hazard a mayhap
haphazard went the rhyme
timing was all off-beat
fleet-feeted wrongly pluralized the rurals. urbans too
city folk spent the dime
climbing. big fall. repeat
we humans think ourselves above. we’re only part of zoo
we stoop, bent from the slime
griming. appalled. discreet
and posture. pose omnipotently farther from what’s true
hazard the guess. hint. mime
prime wherewithal. compete
don’t give up spirited response replete with derring-do
gpr crane
Well done! Such a unique rhyme scheme… end rhymes, internal rhymes, end of one line-beginning of the next rhymes. Really like “we stoop, bent from the slime” – primeval.
On waking
Morning finds me
slaps me into living
even though where I was
before is living enough.
Morning blares
even in this duskiness
of fog and bare branches
of cold wood floors
and quietude.
Morning yanks me
from memories
of past present maybe
strips off my quilt
of not knowing not caring
lays me out, naked.
ay 29
4/29/2016
disambiguation
I am a house on fire–
look at me
shipwrecked in the middle
of life, mom-less
nothing more, less
or different than any of
these other orphans
My bones suspicious
of everything–
earthquakes, dementia, the dark,
commitment– falling in love
with everything again.
Maybe I am crazy
or need to take a nap
but this homeless heart
is collecting scraps–
looking for faces in the
sea like a riptide-knight
or some jeweled fantasy
will hold my hand and guide
me back into the light.
Brie Huling
Haphazard
Papers, papers everywhere
on floor, on desk, on table.
Time to sort, to separate
to toss or keep, create
some order out of chaos.
By accident I also tossed
my family address list.
I emptied out the sacks
of trash, sorted stacks
of papers I had kept.
Luckily, I found the list
that I had lost but also
recreated all the chaos.