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    Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 203

    Categories: Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

    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.

    *****

    Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer

    *****

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    About Robert Lee Brewer

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    81 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 203

    1. chait4me says:

      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. Arash says:

      Here is a poem
      that loses itself.
      Here is a poem.
      Here it is.
      A poem.
      That loses itself.
      That loses itself.

    3. julie e. says:

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

      ASKING A FAVOR OF GRIEF.

      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
      company.

    4. bxpoetlover says:

      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.

    5. Mike Bayles says:

      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.

    6. Tired

      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
      love

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

    7. stepstep says:

      My condolescences regarding your grandmother. If she was anything like mine, you have lost a very special gem.

      My prayers are with you.

      LaSteph

    8. penney says:

      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.

    9. RJ Clarken says:

      Okay – and now the poem is back up – but at the top of the page. What?!!!

    10. RJ Clarken says:

      Wow. I posted a poem here – and the site actually took my post on the 1st try. But, when I refreshed the screen – it was gone – just like last week’s work. I give up.

    11. RJ Clarken says:

      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.

    12. rustydude says:

      Lost

      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

    13. Poem

      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.”

    14. 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?

    15. Misky says:

      Lost to Think

      Lost in your thoughts
      so shiny and new, brought
      me from innocence
      to a license
      to think.

    16. 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.

    17. Sorry to hear about your grandmother, Robert.

    18. elishevasmom says:

      Elisheva

      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)

    19. PowerUnit says:

      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.

    20. COME

      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

    21. *So sorry about your grandmother, Robert*

    22. Hannah says:

      I leave with you all for this Wednesday a “Side of Catch-Up,” three weeks worth of responses!!

      Christmas has kicked my behind this year…are things finally slowing down for a minute?!

      Warm smiles all around poetic friends!!

      http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/12/27/a-side-of-catch-up/

    23. pmwanken says:

      SLIPPING AWAY

      Blind to the light reflected in tinsel
      and the shining eyes around her,
      numb to the feelings expressed
      in each holiday greeting;
      she stared blankly at
      each passerby,
      unaware
      that
      each
      passing
      moment brought
      her closer to the end.

      # # #

      Better viewed as centered on the page, as found on my blog:
      http://whenwordsescape.wordpress.com/2012/12/27/slipping-away/

    24. Hardwood

      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.

    25. TRADEOFFS OF LOSS

      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.

    26. Lost

      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.

    27. 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

    28. LITTLE LAMB

      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.

    29. Misky says:

      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

    30. Misky says:

      Robert, very sorry to hear about your grandmother. Condolences to you and your family.

    31. emmajordan says:

      Memory

      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.

    32. PKP says:

      In honor of Robert

      Grandmothers

      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
      vanished
      as a laugh
      or a soap bubble
      song in the air

      Like a dream

    33. PKP says:

      My Self

      That hard bodied
      Raven tossed hair
      Unshakeable
      Confident
      Sexy kitten
      Purring

      A true legend mirrored
      Shining in my
      Own mind

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

    34. PKP says:

      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
      softly
      away

    35. De Jackson says:

      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?

      ..

    36. emmajordan says:

      Robert,
      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.

    37. emmajordan says:

      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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