Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 203

OK. Here’s the better late than never Wednesday Poetry Prompt. Beginning with my grandmother passing away on Friday morning, this past week has been a whirlwind–and I only realized today was even a Wednesday about an hour ago. Sooo…

For this week’s prompt, write a poem which loses itself. Perhaps, the narrator loses track of time, loses track of emotion, or something else completely.

Here’s my attempt at a lost poem:

“Losing Track”

First, a call and a scramble
to get everything together
and leave. Second, driving
through one state and another
(always another). At midnight,
it’s okay to cry. And still, there’s
so much (so much) to buy
and wrap. A speech, a casket–
the race against a sleigh.
There are no winners,
only survivors. All the bells
ringing, the carolers singing.
At least, we’re all together.


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81 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 203

  1. chait4me

    I sit this day, with thoughts of a poem.
    My mind on a journey, as it begins to roam.
    Abstract in theory, are my poems of ryhme.
    My thoughts and theories are as vast as time.
    Yet the written word sometimes lost in prose.
    When all of a sudden, I happen to dose.
    Thoughts now gone, senior moments at hand.
    The best I can do is a haiku on demand.
    A journey of time.
    As body and mind collide.
    No winners emerge.

  2. julie e.

    Better late than….well, it’s late.


    all I ask of grief is this
    that when I lose my fragile hold
    on missing you
    and sadness overtakes
    I would look a bit more like
    a Hollywood starlet, glowing,
    tragic and dewy
    and less like me, snotting,
    wrinkly and red
    and that it would not come
    to visit at inopportune times,
    like when I’m preparing for

  3. bxpoetlover

    A Lost Poet
    by Carla Cherry

    Of course I have lost people and things.
    The people, I could do nothing about.
    They either chose not to stay or were wrenched away.
    But the things—
    four folded up twenty dollar bills,
    an ID card holder,
    desire to get another degree,
    myself at times–
    I have gotten over them all, except
    the keys to my parents’ house—
    given to me when I was 14
    after our house had been robbed.
    I lost them one night, and since, repeatedly
    cull through memory
    recall every step
    search for the clang of falling keys.
    Before I threw them out
    I sat on my bed with two old pocketbooks
    ran my fingers over every crevice
    and only found crumpled receipts from ATMs or dinners out.
    Pulled up my mattress,
    got on my hands and knees with a flashlight under the bed,
    pulled back sofas and the dresser.
    Every corner has been vacuumed.
    Even after I moved out
    those keys let me in for my mother’s and niece’s hugs
    my sister’s smirk and rolling eyes
    treats in the fridge
    and to my parents’ bed to cry when Daddy was dying.
    Like any stranger, now
    I have to ring the bell.

  4. Mike Bayles

    Lost in Hey Jude

    I wrap myself in lyrics and melody
    as I play the song.
    I close my eyes
    when the song with piano chords,
    and Paul’s voice
    a simple tune
    resonating inside me.
    Drum is added
    and harmonies,
    and I let this song take me
    where it wants,
    memories stirred
    and fantasies of love.
    The song builds
    through measures
    until it crescendos
    and leads to a long refrain,
    while I lose my sense
    of time and place.
    When it’s over,
    I play it again,
    to take me to another world again.

  5. susan budig


    I am tired of lost
    dogs, cats, patience
    tempers, memory, chances
    children, bets, races
    hope, relatives, desire
    hearing, eyesight, limbs
    wars, teeth, trust
    weight, figures, rings
    pregnancy, accents, paper-clips
    library-books, marbles, letters
    senses, orders, page
    causes, trophy-fish, and

    But I’m not tired of losing all
    track of time when spending it
    with you

  6. penney

    Lost and Found

    A crown.
    A clown.
    An upside down frown.

    One snicker.
    One skate.
    One mitten.
    No cape.

    Ah, my piggy bank!
    My favorite rubber snake.
    There’s my secret thing that escaped.
    Best of all, now I have a new treasured ball.

  7. RJ Clarken

    Holy Curiosity

    “Never lose a holy curiosity.” ~Albert Einstein

    They say that curiosity
    kills cats with great velocity.
    Despite my fears, I do not want
    to ever just be nonchalant.

    Losing self should not be proem*
    even if well-meant. This poem
    vibrates loudly, “Blasé! Don’t taunt
    and do not just be nonchalant.

    Instead, inquisitiveness proves
    that underneath the doubt, what moves
    the hand and mind, like a savant,
    is ever don’t be nonchalant

    and question every one – and thing
    and don’t back down. Those queries fling
    my thoughts to stars, in twelve point font.
    I won’t be holy nonchalant.


    *Means prologue, preface or introduction.

  8. rustydude


    By David De Jong
    December 28, 2012

    Lost in a dream the year fades away
    It only started yesterday
    Tears and sorrow for stranger’s dismay
    Yet kindred of hearts kneel to pray
    Desperate for words to say

    Lost in a dream as the branches sway
    Missing everything of May
    Department stores rid their posh display
    Christmas over just yesterday
    No decorous words to say

    Lost in a drive homeward stray
    Certain this is the way
    Deep blank snow, falling all through the day
    Erased landmarks of yesterday
    No subtle words to say

    Best wishes for the coming New Year to all!

    Condolence – to those that have lost
    Joy – to those that have gained
    Hope – for those that have strayed
    Grace – for those that we have prayed

  9. Nancy Posey


    Turned loose upon the page, the poem circled
    around like an old dog settling down to sleep,
    not wishing the freedom to run wild and loose,
    unleashed, preferring instead to wind itself
    into the familiar comforts, the safety of stanzas,
    order chosen, not imposed, where dreams arrive
    invited, welcomed as the same twenty-six letters
    arrange and rearrange themselves, looking up
    just before dozing into doggy dreams to ask
    for a gentle scratch behind the ears, a “good boy.”

  10. Connie Peters

    Morning Bustle

    Tea in the microwave
    Bread in the toaster
    Eggs in the pan
    Milk in the microwave
    Him in his chair
    Her wheeled in place
    Sausage in the microwave
    Butter on the toast
    Sliced banana on the plate
    Milk in the microwave
    Toast in his mouth
    Cut up the sausage
    Bell goes off
    What’s in the microwave?

  11. Sara McNulty

    When The Track Split And Time Quit

    She was soaked in sweat
    nerves tingling
    skin on fire
    He, in that room, was her world.
    Then she remembered

    there was someone else
    she married,
    still lived with.
    Her marriage lost long ago,
    now, her sense of time.

  12. elishevasmom


    She arrived by ambulance—in
    ambulance, actually.
    There was this big bump
    in the road, and she fell right
    out, caught in mid-air.

    She arrived in turmoil.
    Her mother was unwell,
    could not breast-feed her.
    Everyone took willing turns
    with the bottle.

    She arrived in trouble.
    Cried all the time—allergic
    to the formula, it turned out.
    But Mom had to figure
    that one on her own.

    She arrived in a strange place,
    where all doctors were on
    strike (except for the ER),
    and a baby who cried and
    threw up was not an emergency.

    She arrived in her new home
    when she was ten weeks
    old—in the middle of the night,
    while everyone else slept.
    She was finally at peace.

    She was lost to her mother,
    who still cries every once
    in a while prompted by some
    random thing, even these
    twenty-plus years later.

    Ellen Knight 12.27.12
    (write a ‘lost’ poem)

        1. elishevasmom

          El (like the letter “l” ) – ee-sheva (short e short a) I’m sure there are doodads that will let me write that, but for lack of that knowledge… btw, the name is Hebrew, and means God is seven. The mystical teaching that 1/7th of the Torah is numerology.

  13. PowerUnit

    I’ve emptied my mind
    of thoughts about you
    of my anger unkind
    regret, and love too

    Our arrangement’s not working
    like we expected
    the ball is still turning
    forgotten, neglected

    When I come home
    will dinner be ready?
    Will you be on the phone
    talking to Eddy?

    I don’t know why I bother
    to put up with you
    I should go home to mother
    she’ll know what to do

    You’re sorry you say
    I say it as well
    you plead me to stay
    you say it’s all swell

    We spend the night talking
    and drinking some wine
    I forgot about walking
    I’m feeling just fine.

  14. laurie kolp


    into temptation, a passage
    through the revolving door
    outside your one-man cave
    between the umbrage
    of Xanadu illusion and reality
    beyond etcetera
    across the drawbridge
    into the 21st century
    before darkness swallows you whole
    unless darkness swallows you whole
    in the 21st century
    beneath the blocked bridge
    via etcetera
    amid reality and Xanadu illusion
    through the umbrage
    inside your lonely cave
    as the revolving door becomes a closed door
    barring passage, temptation

  15. Andrew Kreider


    Eight schools in eight years, a clutch of eastern
    Europeans turned into D-two studs
    and an angry scowl that argues with the
    PowerPoint about his love of teaching.

    But perhaps most telling is this one line:
    “I’m not a rules guy” – a giant red flag
    that screams, “You’ll never know what to expect.”
    Forget about consistent discipline.

    The team goes out and plays like frightened cats
    and my son says that he hates basketball.
    All I can think is, This is what it’s like
    to live with an alcoholic father.

  16. taylor graham


    The hospital is lost, a ship aground
    and sinking in a sea of seismic waves,
    so many other ships already gone –
    the bank, a dozen highrise offices, apartment
    houses, factories.
    Here on the hospital’s back-
    side, your search dog finds her way
    down a makeshift tunnel dug
    between chunks of broken concrete; lost
    from view, you hear her scratching
    at rubble. Then,
    from the front-side of ruined edifice, a cheer!
    A baby,
    pulled out alive! And here on the backside,
    your dog comes back, waving
    a chairleg lost in masticated concrete:
    her sign, she’s caught the scent
    of someone buried, lost alive!
    But all the energy of men and backhoe’s
    on the front-side, the lost birthing
    center. There’s no help here
    for the backside doctors’ quarters. Here,
    a living doctor’s lost.

  17. Catherine Lee


    Remember when clouds were elephants
    and every rainbow was traced with a finger?
    We spun until we fell to watch them
    swirl in a world always in motion.

    Morning dreams slipped through our wakings
    Like silken realms on the edge of thought,
    chasing the echoes of music box lullabies
    and morning beams of sunlight.

    Epic cities were raised by imaginations
    filled with colorful princes and princesses,
    cops and robbers, dragons and knights.
    We always knew who the villains were.

    We reached for everything beyond our reach
    until what we held in our hands was not
    the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,
    but a reckoning of dreams lost and left behind.

  18. The Wired Journal

    I write this poem with a lost intent
    I know not where it will end
    Truth be told I’m already astray
    Just can’t seem to write a poem this way.

    Unredeemed the words are not clear
    I can not find a stanza anywhere
    I Gaze out the window at the falling rain
    In search for a stanza which I can claim

    Like words at sea adrift in me
    My stationary paper is so empty
    Off course and obscured I can’t find my way
    Not a single stanza have I written today

    Perhaps I shall scrap this prompt today
    Put it off for another day yea I say
    Surly my thesaurus
    Will show me the way

  19. Marie Elena


    Not all little lambs breathe earth’s air,
    finger blanket’s silk,
    rock-a-bye with Grandma,
    hold Daddy’s hand,
    sleep with a sibling,
    laugh with their poppa,
    or lay against Momma’s breast.
    They never know sadness or hunger,
    failure or pain,
    the loss of a loved one,
    or fear of the dark.
    Some breathe Heaven’s sweet scent, and nap
    in the arms of the Lamb of God.

    I write of my granddaughter Sophie often. Her momma (my sweet daughter Michaela) miscarried Christmas night. In the middle of the night, she and her husband wrapped the teensy, fully formed baby in tissue, placed him in a Christmas lantern, and buried him beside a rose bush in their garden. I can’t say I understand the hows and whys of a new and deeply wanted heart that was beating strong last week, suddenly halted late Christmas night. But this I know — God knows the baby’s name, and its life is in His hands.

    1. PKP

      Oh Marie – I certainly do not understand the “hows and whys” of this Christmas night for you, your daughter and the rest of the family. I want pretty words to come to comfort – but there are no pretty words – just a hug across this strangely intimate cyberspace world in which we walk all sorts of paths. Now, I offer you my shoulder to lean on, my arm to take, — tears form no words — your poem stands as the exquisite tribute. With all my love.

  20. Misky

    A Waltz with Bubbles

    We waltz with bubbles –
    Steps seemed to curl
    and unfurl from our embrace,
    and I long to feel you wobble
    and pop, soft tints of pale
    opalesque spasms, tightened
    and stretched to a clench.

    Ssssh. Stick me. Prick me.
    Wake me; I am lost in your

    pearls and bobbles to burst.
    Spacious jewels insistent
    on spin, dervishing swirls,
    rapid beat our hearts that
    spread thin into moonlight.

    Ssssh. Move me. Sooth me.
    Wake me; I am lost in your

    bubbles that whisper
    of waltzes on cool breezes,
    Spherical enigma, be thee
    my bubble. Rustled
    round and plump by scented
    luminescent soapy song.

    Ssssh. Stick me. Prick me.
    Move me. Sooth me.
    Wake me; I am lost
    and waltzing with bubbles.

    (c) Misky 2012

    1. Marie Elena

      Yes. Your poem captures the sadness, chaos, love, and relief of this time for you. I don’t even want to think of the day coming when my own grown children will lose the grandparents they love SOOO deeply.

      Hugs to you and yours, Robert.

  21. emmajordan


    Are you kidding me?
    No, it didn’t happen.
    I would have some recognition
    of things you are saying,
    something would spark
    inside me
    letting me know it was real.

    I am weary of this.
    Day after day I face
    this loss this enormous cavern
    empty of things past.
    I fear this nakedness
    I feel when you know
    so much more of my story than I.

  22. PKP

    In honor of Robert


    One red lipsticked and henna haired
    High heels clicking on her way to this
    or that friend’s final “bon voyage party”
    We were on the way back so she’d stop,
    expect and receive coffee and danish
    served by my mother
    as she prattled on about people
    we had never met
    laughing loud, leaving quickly
    with only a trail of perfume and
    dirty dishes to remind us she had been
    when she finger waved and left –
    I could never have imagined following
    her into the car waiting at the curb
    sitting beside her as she gaily
    set off for another cemetery party

    The other silver haired and hatted
    Just a bit of powder from an immaculate
    puff on her gleaming dresser
    At her home all shoes stood inside the door
    Her hat sat back in its box
    Each bureau drawer arranged as carefully
    as a department store display
    Her velvet carpets bore not a single
    footprint, welcoming the little girl
    I was, to enter and after dinner to
    wear a silken
    slip as an evening gown twirling
    before her long mirror to her high bed
    in a sleepover tucked into her crisp sheeted
    bed scented with cashmere bouquet

    Both gone
    as a laugh
    or a soap bubble
    song in the air

    Like a dream

    1. Misky

      “Vanished as a laugh” … reminded me of my own grandmother, memories of her thick pile carpets, the scent of powder and lavender. I hope to leave such warm and loving memories with my grandchildren, too.

      A lovely piece of writing, Pearl. I also envisaged bubbles for my poem.

  23. PKP

    My Self

    That hard bodied
    Raven tossed hair
    Sexy kitten

    A true legend mirrored
    Shining in my
    Own mind

    Faded now
    to misted memory
    Facing clear mirrors
    and a mind’s
    naked realities

  24. PKP

    Lost Lovers …

    I was going to write about
    a man and a woman
    who started as a
    boy and a girl
    in a green sunshined field
    dotted with dandelions

    until the night wind blew
    rain pelted windows
    hard and the image flew

  25. De Jackson

    Robert, deepest condolences for your loss, and many prayers for your family, especially over the holiday season.


    Half Baked

    Gonna write me a poem. Got
    some verbs all lined up, strong and
    fine as you please, got a sweet cool
    breeze blowing through my nouns,
    participles all dangling just right
    from these trees. Geez, this just might
    be the best poem I ever did write,
    you’ll see. Hand me that article,
    and we’ll get started. Time for some
    prime poeming and word playing,
    yep, that’s –
    Wait, what was I saying? Oh,
    look! Cookies! Yum!
                        Can I have some?


  26. emmajordan

    I am truly sorry for your loss of a grandmother. No matter how grown up we are, these things always hurt. Sorrow was interrupted by travel, Christmas, and life in general. Please be certain you allow yourself time to grieve.

  27. emmajordan

    I am a lighthouse
    standing on a foundation of rock,
    surrounded by ocean
    and heavy, damp, grey fog

    In need of paint and repair
    I stand alone
    in heat from the sun
    in rain and wind.

    Waves come with the never ending storm,
    waves much taller than I
    knock against me,
    growing more furious through the hours

    Hard-slapping waves
    smack me like angry, open palms
    working toward my destruction
    breaking my glass.

    Palms turn to fists
    cracking the mortar between my bricks
    beating me over and over
    with the strength of a boxer.

    My light is out.
    I crumble, large chunks falling
    until I tilt,
    then fall silently

    lost in the sea.


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