It’s funny how much difference one little letter can make in a poetry prompt. For instance, take day 9’s “(blank) of (blank)” prompt. What if we made just one small adjustment?
For today’s prompt, take the phrase “(blank) Of (blank),” replace the blanks with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: “Gangster of Love,” “Lee of the Stone,” “Eclipse of the Moon,” and my personal favorite “Kicker of Elves.”
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This e-book covers more than 40 poetic forms and shares examples to illustrate how each form works.
Discover a new universe of poetic possibilities and apply it to your poetry today!
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Here’s my attempt at a Blank Of Blank Poem:
“Maker of Prompts”
They don’t always come
as easy as the poems–
just as building a trampoline
is more complicated than jumping–
and yet, there’s a satisfaction
in finding a point of discovery
that spreads in a multitude
of destinations yet to be written.
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Robert Lee Brewer
Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of the poetry collection, Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He edits Poet’s Market and Writer’s Market, in addition to writing a free weekly WritersMarket.com newsletter and a poetry column for Writer’s Digest magazine.
He loves writing poems, of course, but he also loves seeing what poets do with his prompts–often taking them in directions he never anticipated.
Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.
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Find more poetic goodies here:
- 2017 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Guidelines.
- Rimas Dissolutas: Poetic Form.
- Why I Write Poetry: JR Simmang.
Traveler of Time
If I could have any wish granted to me
by bottled genie or the Lord Almighty,
I should wish to be a traveler of time,
to wander through history would be sublime
To hear Paul Revere’s shouts break the silent night,
or, witness the Orville brothers take first flight
Watch as costumed patriots dump crates of tea
into the Boston harbors of a night sea
Oh! How awe-inspiring to see the trains
of covered wagons stretching across the plains
To hear of the bravery from those that fought
for the American liberties they sought
To hear the words of great presidents of past,
Washington, Lincoln with legacies that last
Witness Andrew Jackson settling the score
against redcoat soldiers from a distant shore
Feel the sadness of hearts across the nation
as Kennedy fell to assassination
Know the anguish as soldiers head off to war
after attacks on Pearl Harbor rocked our core
Why should I want to experience this pain?
To know the importance of freedom we’ve gained
History is excitement and lessons learned,
a knowledge of independence that was earned
The yarn of the past I long to unravel
as I seek to experience time travel
GRIEVING THE LIVING
She tries not to do it, not to shed bitter tears
over those she knows still draw breath
but just not in her vicinity, near her person
And usually, with what she perceives as strength
she didn’t think she possessed until this occurred
She is successful, able to pretend her life is perfect
That these ones she loves as much as her own life
and maybe more, have departed for good, no longer
walk on the earth, amongst the living, might be seen
by her again if she would just be patient, just believe
that such a thing as a child of hers walking away
could not be true, she would be rewarded, it would
be over, this hell on earth – this terrible nightmare
she kept waking to would not be the same as always,
it would be done, and she could go back to her real life.
Game of Thrones
on a morning over breakfast bagels and
and the smell of fresh ground coffee he reads
the newspapers and smiles
publicity is like heroin in his veins
he’s on the front page
she picks her way down the steps outside a
conference hall. The named and the nameless
would like her to slip up…again
the smile on her lips doesn’t reach her eyes
she’s not on the front page
he stares at the sky tracing a plume of smoke
if missiles could travel further by the sheer
application of his will and desire
his enemies would be destroyed one day
he has the double spread
they play their games soothing their supporters
pandering to the money makers and movers
pouring scorn on their opponents
ignoring the voting public because
it’s not an election year
and they all sit on thrones that are shaking
Heart of Stone
Heart of stone
Leave me alone
Cease to beat
Do not mistreat
Or just belie
the love that froze
I’d rather die
Than let it grow.
–ShennonDoah
Toys of the 70s
“I feel like a little boy who is constantly offered new toys.” ~Placido Domingo
December is a time for ‘those’ lists:
Holidays. Good girls. Good boys.
On looking back, like an old 8-track,
here’s a list of some seventies toys…
…like, Magna Doodle, Rubik’s Cube and
Simon, and also, Nerf Balls.
Like an old 8-track, on looking back,
Rock’Em Sock ‘Em Robots decked the halls.
Evel Knievel Stunt Cycles were
(like Weebles) in high demand.
On looking back, like an old 8-track,
Pong warmed the white winter wonderland.
Mrs. Beasley (from Family Affair)
was the doll in stocking’s sock.
Like an old 8-track, on looking back,
she was joined by that clever Pet Rock.
And don’t forget the best thing: skateboards!
Charley’s Angels loved those ‘rides’.
On looking back, like an old 8-track,
they were on everybody’s gift guides.
Here’s just a few more: the Etch-A-Sketch,
Barbie, Lego, Mastermind.
Like an old 8-track, on looking back,
most of those toys are now hard to find
although Legos are still around, and
that seems to be comforting.
On looking back, like an old 8-track,
these were the toys that Santa would bring.
###
A Game of Chance
How serendipitous life can be
when two roll the dice
and both win.
#seventeensyllablesfortwentyseventeen
Time of Death
I awoke to silence,
startled,
gripped by an expected fear.
I held my breath and listened
to silence,
yet I was sure you had cried out to wake me.
For a moment I lay in silence,
my head on your chest.
You did not rustle the sheets
You did not whisper my name.
You did not break the silence with the beat of your heart.
It was cold in the darkness,
lifeless
in the silence
shattered by my screams.
The digital clock glowed
12:17
time of death.
Lorraine Caramanna
Proof of Life
At my mother’s place,
the last before hospice,
you could tell where
she spent her time.
The table by the blue chair
held tissues, inhaler,
the current book, lip balm,
cigarettes, a cup of water:
everything within reach.
Ten years she’s been gone
and I still think, Oh,
I should remember this
to tell her, still think
of her when I see
the nest of things
on the table by
my rocking chair.
darkness of country
the scent of old pine trees
wafting on the calm
of crystal clear air…
shadow of a tire swing
cast by the milkyway glow
and sparks of meteors…
the chirrup chirrup of
singsong crickets tell
the secret legends
of country darkness…
One of Nine
One of too many
One of nine in a crowd
One of a chorus, an army, the faceless
One of the scrawny kids
One of food from boxes and cans
One of hand-me-down clothes
One of of pity party fame
One of rush and hurry
to grow up, to get out of the house
One to marry and escape
One in no rush to have children
One of a too-large family
One of Nine
One of too many
One of nine in a crowd
One of a chorus, an army, the faceless
One of the scrawny kids
One of food from boxes and cans
One of hand-me-down clothes
One of of pity party fame
One of rush and hurry
to grow up, to get out of the house
One to marry and escape
One in no rush to have children
One of a too-large family
Valkyri, these images are lovely. Perseids and crickets make me think of August, and sometimes we get the first breath of autumn then, with its clear, cool air.
POEMS OF LOVE (OR NOT)
The time has come,
the last Tuesday in the challenge.
In the melange of prompted verse
we know the routine like Chapter and Verse.
So gird you loins and get your popcorn
ready. Love or Anti-Love is the ploy.
Find your joy in a loving way.
Or not!
I knew you’d be on it, Walt. 🙂
A Quick Synopsis of Fatal Attraction
Once faithful husband seduced by nutter,
then the bunny’s boiled with salt and butter.
HAH
And Tracy too!
Builder of Legos, a Shadorma
He can’t read
or remember what
Mama told
him to do, but he knows which
set each tiny piece belongs
to. Priorities.
Courtney O’Banion Smith
@cobanionsmith
this is just so touching – and true
I did a different version.. of Bruce Niedt…. I played my favorite bit of jazz… from the 20s … Rhapsody in Blue… and wrote this poem…
Love of Jazz
The saxophone
Slowly spills out notes
Tumble from somewhere on high
Warm and hot and sultry…
Then the piano takes over
You are on the streets of New York
In an age when women were flashy,
Men wore fedoras, and
Cars were the new craze….
Passing by the tall buildings
The strings reach high,
And the car speeds by, and
People rush with a purpose…
Then the horns speak
A new language to each other…
Take over, but the piano
Sets a melody leading
You fast uptown.
There you are walking, almost skipping
With ropes of pearls, fake eye lashes,
And dangerously short skirts
Batting your eyes… in flirtation
In time with the music… then
With purpose, you go your way…
You stop, and the strings guide you
To swing on a lamppost caressing the smooth coldness.
There is romance in the music… there is possibility… there is desire…
The music yearns with you, and
Carries you away to a new stage
When you did not notice it.
There you end in a crescendo…
It is why I love Rhapsody in Blue,
And why I love jazz…
Nothing gets under my skin
As completely.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
November 27, 2017
the opening instrument should be a clarinet… I had been listening to Boney James… when I decided to change and write it on an old classic piece… Rhapsody in Blue was written in 1924… when I used to could dance.. I often chose this piece to dance to after a hard day at work… helped me lose myself.
Been dealing with this evening… someday I am going to put together all my poems I have written about rescue cats… I am a bit frustrated tonight… and I will read thru the poems tomorrow… Y’all are great… but I digress… here is the poem
The Sorrow of Animal Rescue
Eighteen cats abandoned
In a house by owners
Who left them there.
Six have ended up at Animal control-
Overcrowded from owners who surrender
Their pets due to holidays,
And can’t be bothered…
After Christmas…
A new puppy or kitten
Can be found free
On Craig’s list, but
Those who go to homes
Will be the lucky ones…
For many free kittens or puppies
Are bait for dog fighters or
Food for their snakes.
The fate of those cats
Depends on those who
Will work tirelessly
Finding a foster or
A rescue… if they don’t
They will die.
There is not much time for grief…
For tomorrow there will be others
Needing help somewhere.
Why in Hades don’t the owners
Get their animals neutered or spayed?
Mary Elizabeth Todd
November 27, 2017
So true. It’s amazing how cruel people can be.
The Year of 2017
So many ups and downs
Back-and-forths
I feel like a ping pong ball
These Aches of Ours
These aches of ours
lie deep within the bone
deeper than the marrow even
buried inside the blood cells
that collide and join
then split and run
to and from the heart
and sink into the solar plexus —
These aches with weight
unmeasurable can still find
a way to lift a heart, a breath, an arm,
carry them through the yearning,
in search of the me and
the you of us
On Top of Spaghetti
I lost my poor meatball,
When somebody sneezed.
– old Scout song
We have lost our ever
-lovin’
(meatballs)
(meanings)
minds.
You will find us here,
tryin’
to use our noodles,
find some new way
to say
God bless you.
::
love this and tune is from the song ON top of Old Smokey…
which has some lovely lines in its own right…
My favorite lines (IT IS A VERY LONG SONG)
:So come all you young maidens
and listen to me
Don’t place your affections
On a green willow tree
Oh this is fun–and sweet.
PREMONITIONS OF CONVERSATIONS WE MIGHT HAVE SOMEDAY, LONG AFTER I AM BORN
Someday I will tell you that I am scared
of skeletons and the dark and the floppy clown
on the wall of my room, hanged by a loop in its neck.
Someday I will tell you that some boys
made fun of my glasses, my frizzed out hair
and my high spelling grade.
Someday I will tell you that I want to make art
because something happens when you
join ephemera and eternity.
Someday I will tell you that I want to play guitar
and grow my hair long and go on tour
to get away from myself.
Someday I will tell you that I can’t go back to school
because of the beatings and the grief
of some things I will tell you later on.
Someday I will tell you that I am ready to go back to school
having learned to love others a little more
and that compassion is the most human thing.
Someday I will tell you that I like a girl
and she will give me my name and tell you what dog to get
for the times when you will feel most alone.
Someday I will tell you that I am sick
and I don’t know what it is or why
but my body burns and I am scared to die younger than 21.
Someday I will tell you that I met a woman
and I want to marry her because she makes me feel
like I am not so strange to myself.
Someday I will tell you that I am leaving home
because I think I may be able to see the future
better from a distance.
Someday I will tell you that we are trying,
spending all our money and patience
but that it doesn’t look good for grandchildren.
Someday I will tell you that she is leaving me
for another woman and I will break
and stop telling you things.
Someday I will tell you that I am not safe alone
anymore and that I need to come back home
to escape the dark and self-harming.
Someday I will tell you that I am too scared
to tell you what I have been running from
since I was young.
Someday I will tell you that I am your daughter
and always have been, but never had the words
to know it is possible to live up to other than expectations.
Someday I will tell you the name she gave me,
and ask you to remember me as “she” when you
tell stories or text the family to make plans.
Someday I will tell you that my body is changing,
that you will soon feel breasts pressed against you
when we embrace, if you still will hold me close.
Someday I will tell you that I am happier, and what saved me
when dying seemed like the thing to do,
was every time you told me, “I believe you.”
So brutally honest and aching. Thank you for this!
Thank you, Anthony! : )
PREMONITIONS OF CONVERSATIONS WE MIGHT HAVE SOMEDAY, LONG AFTER I AM BORN
Someday I will tell you that I am scared
of skeletons and the dark and the floppy clown
on the wall of my room, hanged by a loop in its neck.
Someday I will tell you that some boys
made fun of my glasses, my frizzed out hair
and my high spelling grade.
Someday I will tell you that I want to make art
because something happens when you
join ephemera and eternity.
Someday I will tell you that I want to play guitar
and grow my hair long and go on tour
to get away from myself.
Someday I will tell you that I can’t go back to school
because of the beatings and the grief
of some things I will tell you later on.
Someday I will tell you that I am ready to go back to school
having learned to love others a little more
and that compassion is the most human thing.
Someday I will tell you that I like a girl
and she will give me my name and tell you what dog to get
for the times when you will feel most alone.
Someday I will tell you that I am sick
and I don’t know what it is or why
but my body burns and I am scared to die younger than 21.
Someday I will tell you that I met a woman
and I want to marry her because she makes me feel
like I am not so strange to myself.
Someday I will tell you that I am leaving home
because I think I may be able to see the future
better from a distance.
Someday I will tell you that we are trying,
spending all our money and patience
but that it doesn’t look good for grandchildren.
Someday I will tell you that she is leaving me
for another woman and I will break
and stop telling you things.
Someday I will tell you that I am not safe alone
anymore and that I need to come back home
to escape the dark and self-harming.
Someday I will tell you that I am too scared
to tell you what I have been running from
since I was young.
Someday I will tell you that I am your daughter
and always have been, but never had the words
to know it is possible to live up to other than expectations.
Someday I will tell you the name she gave me,
and ask you to remember me as “she” when you
tell stories or text the family to make plans.
Someday I will tell you that I have been an alien
as far back as I can access memories
of that time a boy abused me when I was six.
Someday I will tell you that I believed I would die
of AIDS from age eight to seventeen because early 90s
health education in the South blamed it on gay men.
Someday I will tell you that I am still scared of clowns
while we change the strings on my guitar and wait
for the paint to dry on my biggest canvas.
Someday I will tell you that my body is changing,
that you will soon feel breasts pressed against you
when we embrace, if you still will hold me close.
Someday I will tell you that I am happier, and what saved me
when dying seemed like the thing to do,
was every time you told me, “I believe you.”
These Prompts of November
These prompts of November
Cause us to remember
Things thought long lost
In the vastness of our brains
Like sorrows and pain
Or walking in the rain
Some happy smile thoughts
But others, maybe not
These prompts stir the mind
And we struggle to find
The right words to express
And make sense of the mess
So day after day we all
Stir the brain to recall
Memories worth telling
Or we simply create one
Some prompts stimulate
While others emasculate
They help us remember
These prompts of November
We should all try to make the best
Of
The life that God has given us
#seventeensyllablesfortwentyseventeen
Sink or Swim
this poem is floundering
trading water without
its floaties
swimming for shore –
up a creek without
a (doggie) paddle
down for the count
until your heart throws
it a lifeline
Sometimes when I’m stuck i use one of my favorite prompts: Use your favorite mode of listening to music (iTunes, Spotify, a CD changer, your favorite radio station, etc.) and in a random or “shuffle” mode, write down the titles of the next five songs played. Use those titles in a poem.
A Photograph of Us
An old girlfriend from Amsterdam says hello,
wants to friend him on Facebook.
Remember that summer of 1976, she says,
when we hitchhiked across Europe,
slept under bridges, and once,
that nighttime in the switching yard
where we made love? I still have
a photograph of us. He remembers
like it was yesterday, but that was
another life, another continent.
To open up this avenue,
he would have to dig up concrete,
so he doesn’t accept the invitation.
And so it goes.
[My titles were Amsterdam Says (Bell X1), Photograph (Ringo Starr), So It Goes (Nick Lowe), Nighttime in the Switching Yard (Warren Zevon), and 1976 (The Baseball Project).]
what a grat idea! it sure worked for you with this poem.
Excellent idea! Excellent poem!
Once in college… our Creative writing teacher… a wonderful teacher…..called out words and we had to write a poem in class… and read it…sort like something Robert does… sometimes when I get stuck… I will tell FB friends to give me some words… and the first six from whomever I will write a poem on each word…
My variation on this theme: I grab the titles of the albums these songs came from and use them as inspiration. These get even more creative and spark different images. Love this piece, Bruce.