Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 195

For this week’s prompt, write a sudden poem. The poem could be about something that suddenly happens. Or it could be just whatever words suddenly spring from you. Or… I’ll let you decide what a sudden poem means for you.

Here’s my attempt:


He digs his fingers deeper into his forehead
than they’ve ever dug before. He reclines until
he’s facing the ceiling. He stares at the ceiling,
exhales. Then, inhales. The world completely silent
waits. And waits. And waits until the engine ignites
and his fingers type faster and faster as if
the words (given the chance) might try sneaking away.


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123 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 195

  1. SapphireSkye

    Four minutes…
    Four minutes left.
    It’s okay,
    Take a breath,
    No one cares if you don’t finish,
    Just go on with their lives and
    Probably never notice
    You were here.

    Next line…

    Next line…

    Next line…

    Stop hyperventilating.
    You’re being silly.

    Two minutes left now
    Before the bell.
    Keep typing –
    You’re almost there.




    Revel in the feeling of creation.
    Write some more.

    Less than a minute now…
    I should hurry before the


    (written at school, in the last 4 minutes before my class ends)

  2. taylor graham


    A fist, no, a knee in my back, a hock-
    joint to the jaw. The puppy’s leaped on top
    of bed with us asleep. Knock and snuggle
    cold nose in the face. Mack truck of comfort.
    I grab and hold. No slack. But then, a sigh,
    she licks my finger, tries to creep inside
    the sheets, the heap of pillow; hide herself
    in a slim crack between my hands and voice.

    What nightmare had her frantic? Now lying
    on my feet, she breathes deeply, ribs a harp
    of dog-lullaby. Who’d guess such bad dreams
    in a pup – what mind-sight we think reserved
    for humans? What terror teethes there?
    I touch her chest. Her heart beats dream.

  3. Bruce Niedt


    I carry a pocket-sized notebook
    for the times when a sound or an image
    hits me over the head, when a snippet
    of conversation between two women
    waiting for the train amuses or intrigues me,
    when I startle a deer at the edge of the wood
    on my morning walk, and she startles me, and
    we stare at each other, her black eyes to my blue;
    when the morning is so crisp, the evening so serene,
    the sunset so full of clouds and creation,
    that I must get it all down. So many times
    I have witnessed something striking and thought,
    if I only had my camera. This pen, these small pages
    are my snapshots, doing their best to snatch
    a sudden moment out of the world, one that lasts
    only as a memory, or as words on a page.

  4. tunesmiff

    (c) 2012 – G. Smith (BMI)
    Like a shooting star across a velvet sky,
    Like the sparkle in a pair of pale green eyes;
    Like a lightning bolt from out of the blue;

    Like a smile across a crowded room,
    Like that first spring morning when the dogwoods bloom;
    Like a heart you discover is true;

    Day to day,
    The same old thing;
    Stumbling through,
    The same routine;
    Will I find
    Anyone new?
    Then suddenly;

    Like a baby’s laugh in the middle of the night;
    Like a touch that says everything’s alright;
    Like finding love makes one from two;

  5. cstewart


    The wind picked up and blew sandy dust and leaves
    Over the land that had been waiting for a storm.
    The trees swirled round in honor of the static emissions.
    The air changed to ozone and refreshed the lungs.

    The dark clouds pushed fast and rushed into the languid
    Heat of the previous climate,
    The wheat bent down in the field and the rain
    Began to pelt its curves with huge drops.

    Pushed by the wind, a late crow crossed the road’s gap,
    And fell into the poplar tree, giving up a feather.

  6. barbara_y

    The weather man is laughing. Montana 
    has snow.  After a dry tightwad summer, 
    a forty-fifty degree swoop, and Fall connects, 
    knocks the socks off of summer smashes that pinata all to hell.
    Snow falls like charms and candy. And we, manic oddities, applaud. 
    We mysteries; we crust-where-the-pan-met-the-lasagna lovers; 
    pent-up, penny-wise, pound-downright-silly 
    performers of nothing important, applaud.
    It doesn’t take much. Rain. A few red maples. In the breeze
    willows, hanging, wave; grasses, standing, rustle.
    Leaves. Sheaths. Chill. And Wham! the brittle, 
    unbearable, beautiful Fall is piercing 
    our summer-fever balloon, and we explode
    into mending, laughing like the weatherman.

  7. missab5

    It happened all of a sudden.
    He was a stranger
    just stumbling down the street.
    His bumping into me
    seemed avoidable on the mostly empty sidewalk.
    Yet somehow our collision occurred.
    That in and of itself wasn’t the strange
    part, but his teeth sinking into
    my shoulder seemed quite peculiar.
    As I attempted to stop the blood flow
    he continued on.
    It all happened so fast.
    My eyes began to fog over and
    I had the strangest craving for
    Of course that would mean he
    was a
    zombie and therefore
    I am now on my way to being
    a zombie.
    Since that is

  8. Michele Brenton


    I shout at you, you shout at me.
    If we had thought bubbles
    they would be black clouds
    with the wrong sort of pooh
    and no honey bees.
    I cannot believe how it is possible
    to hate you so much.
    My blood pressure is up
    and I am shaking with furious
    How dare you argue with me?
    But you are you and I am me.
    And then I say something
    so completely bonkers
    it makes the unspoken thought about
    the wrong sort of pooh clouds
    seem pedestrian.
    And we are laughing
    and I can’t remember why we were shouting
    and neither can you
    and the storm is over.

  9. Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    A Poem Escapes
    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    I’m sitting by a large window,
    reflections staring back
    through the reds and browns
    and golds fluttering
    just beyond melancholy,
    their outlines darkening
    in the cold fading light
    of an October moon,
    a sliver of which curls
    itself like a cat in my lap

    and suddenly, a poem escapes…

    © 2012 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  10. taylor graham

    on opening the prof’s own slim book of verse

    Each page is white space interrupted
    by brief dark lines of type –
    a trellis or a scaffold; thin frame
    for the eye to climb down, word by word.
    An iron grate of filigree abruptly
    closed. Inside, a sudden spill of light
    through leaves – Two kittens glimpsed –
    just an instant snapshot, without
    the ballet of their leaps – A snug tuffet
    of moss in a doorpost corner –
    whose door? – The sky blank polo-
    mallet white on foggy mornings
    without a horse’s sudden
    whinny from the paddock.
    What’s the poet’s role in all this?
    To keep the reader out?
    A mask pulled unexpectedly
    over the face? He never cast his
    shadow on the page.


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