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    Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 206

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

    For this week, write a measured poem. I’ll let y’all decide what that means. Possibly the poem takes physical measurements or measures one person vs. another. Perhaps it is measured in syllables or stanzas.

    Here’s my attempt at a measured poem:

    “Tercets, Tercets, Tercets”

    Three lines is plenty
    if you know where you’re going
    but maybe not that good

    if you’re lost. I’m usually lost
    or trying to be. I wander
    down roads I’ve never traveled,

    looking for nothing
    in particular. A rusted metal sign
    and a message from God

    outside a church is all I need
    to pull over and see
    where I’ve lost myself this time.


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    About Robert Lee Brewer

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    109 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 206

    1. Finding Peace in Trust (Fibonacci)

      One step
      Small movements
      Forward must be kept
      To bring the truce that words have slain
      Broken and bloody, the words trampled beneath our feet
      Can there ever be peace again?
      Trust – to be rebuilt
      Small movements
      One step

    2. Marjory MT says:

      I want
      to run
      and hide
      so deep
      my own
      to be
      that me
      I want
      to be

    3. tortoogal says:

      Here’s one I’m submitting at the request of one of my students.


      codes past intention.
      Dead season for dark-skin sunset.

      By Jo Lombard

    4. tortoogal says:



      Let’s start.
      As you write,
      you remember more.
      Empty memory starts to fill.


      nights waking,
      days of vertigo.
      Writing again, words start to fly.
      Pages written, sudden midnight.
      So much time gone by!
      Ask Einstein
      how speed

      Rosemary Douglas Lombard

    5. Judy Roney says:


      I’m more of a whim kind of woman.
      Nothing measured, researched, fretted over.
      I decide, talk it over, look to friends
      who’ve been there before, then
      go full steam ahead. I find
      unmeasured decisions bring good results
      as often as the situations I agonize over.

    6. rustydude says:

      And now these three remain: faith, hope and love.
      But the greatest of these is love. (1 Corinthians 13:13)


      By David De Jong

      We measure all and all hope to measure up
      Simple things we measure by spoon or cup

      Each to their own scale seem to fit the bill
      Others compared to ours we find lacking still

      Our riches we count but never meet the goal
      We’ll sacrifice our friends, family and soul

      We measure our accomplishments at end of day
      But ignore its true cost, working our life away

      We measure our time in minutes, when we must wait
      But have no time for others or we’ll be late

      We measure our value in dollars, never enough
      But always have plenty to buy ourselves more stuff

      We measure our possessions by size of our spread
      But their number is meaningless when we are dead

      We measure our happiness with laughter and a smile
      But we hide our empty brokenness just for a while

      We measure our toil with bruises, sweat and stain
      But our work falters, compared to fresh summer rain

      But if we measure what we do with love
      We accomplished our purpose from above

      Love to our family, provides joys till we’re old
      Love to the lonely, worth more than rubies or gold

      Love to the broken, raises their fortune of soul
      Love to the forgotten, carries hearts to the goal

      What we accomplish with love will far out weigh
      Any task completed for mere earthly pay

    7. BDP says:

      Elemental Starbuck’s

      Crumbling is not an instant’s Act…

      –E Dickinson (997)

      Nor is drinking lattes…

      –B Peters

      You mourn when it’s all gone, the whole
      steamed milk, espresso brown
      event you savor in the tall
      or grande size, pure swoon.

      Then left without. Finito. Done.
      A cup, a top, a slit
      the plastic straw is wriggled in—
      your morning sippy kit

      kaput. There’s one thing you can do:
      alarm is set, rise up—
      the shop’s just miles away—then coo
      and relish each hot gulp.

    8. Arash says:

      Time of Death

      There now I see a water clock in the woods,
      to a discolored water wheel a widow,
      amid wild life confined to its fated lair
      and an astray locomotive, scorched, stripped bare.

      I feel my way, tender, now into the cab,
      stench of grease…can’t be this…a fractured femur!
      (Here’s nothing but silent dream of the dead sound.)
      Here’s no one, but identity, lost and found.

      Forms in my throat a lump, yet no night stars stare,
      Bursts something! A distended cable maybe.
      A cesious fire glints at once, crickets plead.
      Primum non nocere. In maker’s name, read!

      Yet the greedy death regurgitates, slowly,
      memories, on my operating table,
      with no witness to record a life, each breath,
      and no doctor to read out the time of death.

    9. Ber says:

      Measuring Minds

      As she lay awake
      measuring his face inside
      the tunnels of her mind
      his deep breaths
      lay down paths of wonder
      for her mind to ponder

      Breathing in and out
      his silence meant something more
      than the words that came the hours
      they had shared before

      Emotions of new
      filled her up inside
      her fantasies
      ran away within her
      flowing mind

      As he turned away from her
      she smiled so gently
      knowing he was dreaming
      of her and all he knew

      She has skipped so many hearts
      threw arrows in empty directions before
      but now love had truly come
      knocking on her door

      Leaving her flushed
      light headed and freely bare
      her mind was a wondering dream
      he was always there

      As she measured all who had come before
      who had stayed and went
      he was her statue of concrete
      no one else would compare
      the time in which they spent

    10. Linda.H says:

      Size isn’t Always a Number

      Wow, an A!
      she yelled as she held
      her test paper high
      and waved in around.

      Only an A,
      she complained as she tugged
      at the strap of her bra,
      wearing a teenager frown.

    11. Long, Short And In-Between

      The long and short
      of dogs is loyalty,
      trust, and friendship,
      no matter size or breed.

    12. RobHalpin says:

      When Weighed and Measured

      In all things,
      show your true worth. For
      when it’s time
      to be weighed
      and measured, it’s never good
      to be found wanting.

    13. PSC in CT says:


      Can a poem be too fat? Is it even likely that: if you put one on a diet
      (just, perhaps, I ought to try it), it might whine – or better yet…
      maybe snipe – like an ex smoker who craves a cigarette?

      Can a poem
      be too thin –
      with its cheeks
      all sunken in?
      What might help it
      fatten up?
      (Adding adverbs
      to its cup?
      Heaping adjectives
      on its plate?)
      Maybe give its verbs
      more weight?
      (Don’t say “sad”
      but: “melancholy”) –
      or is THAT just silly folly?

      Now, you understand my plight
      (seems my fancy’s taken flight,
      and I just can’t help but mull
      if perchance it’s possi-bul:-)

      …if someday Goldilocks might
      write a poem (or some night),
      would it, maybe, weigh “just right”?

    14. De Jackson says:

      Shards and Shekels

      Let’s measure time
      in smiles,
      not dimes. Let’s
      make more love than
      money, and consider
      ourselves rich when
      we color outside the lines.

      Let’s look deep into each
      other’s eyes, instead of
      staring at screens. Let’s
      remember that today means
      being present, each
      word a gift. Let’s lift
      our eyes
      our hearts
      our hands
      to help and hold
      and heal. Let’s deal
      more in dreams,
      weigh only whim
      and wind
      and wishes,
      sing our own scales
      and walk on,
      soft into a limitless dawn.


    15. Tick Tock
      (minute poem)

      1 cup of rice, ½ cup of beans.
      My skinny jeans:
      That is the goal.
      That crescent roll

      adds to my own. The bleeding stops.
      No more pork chops.
      Good bye, French fries.
      Must exercise

      at least an hour every day.
      Yes. Come what may,
      I”ll lose this weight…
      …‘fore it’s too late.

    16. SharoninDallas says:


      Careening, crashing, tumbling, falling
      Over you and me and all
      Opinions, stories, brags and glories,
      Dramatic, sublime or tall.

      Always first or fast or last or perfect or totally the best!
      Always leaving everyone, the pitiful, the poor, the rest
      With none, not one, no single shred, of any chance to be.

      We the bludgeoned listeners ask,
      O Pompous Ones, we pray,
      Stop. Wait. Ponder your words.
      Let others have their say.

    17. Hi. this is not a new poem. It is from my doctoral dissertation, but it was the most interesting experience I’ve ever had with measuring!


      In Monasterevin
      for the Gerard Manley Hopkins
      conference, during a break
      I walked into the laitres
      and found the usual
      commodes and sinks.

      After washing my hands
      and combing my hair,
      I turned to leave.

      But there
      tucked into a corner
      by the door
      I saw the scale.

      Shoes removed, set
      side by side, stuffed
      pocketbook, canvas
      sack full of notes
      and other books
      left on the floor –
      in my stockinged feet
      I stepped on the scale.

      The surface
      beneath my weight.
      The rubber mat
      impressed my soles,
      creased my flesh
      like corduroy.

      My eyes
      locked on the needle
      spinning inside the dial
      like fortune’s wheel
      snagging on numbers,
      finally catching one.

      Impossible! I thought.
      Does it use metric measure?
      Bending closer to decipher:
      I read
      Stones –

      as imprecise as feet were
      when the British still used
      the literal length
      of each new King’s tracks
      as the rule, causing
      a “foot’s” measurement to grow
      or shrink
      from one reign to the next.

      After the break I sat,
      my ears filling with words
      spilled from the mouths
      of Hopkins scholars.
      My thoughts wandered
      to my feet, now shod,
      no longer feeling.

    18. claudsy says:

      I’m not sure of the meter here, but at least I’ve got something that might work for the prompt.

      Dusting 1-2-3

      I will not do this thing I see,
      A chore for me
      With no reprieve.
      I know! A sleeve!

      But others would know if I left
      Tracks oddly deft
      In wordy dust clumps
      And tell–the chumps.

      When I see finger trails, I know
      My inside snow
      Must disappear,
      Reveal veneer.

    19. RJ Clarken says:

      At My Father-in-Law’s House Two Days Before the Closing*

      I’m sitting in an empty room
      but there’s no gloom,
      just echoes of
      the past. I love

      the stillness of this old abode
      where time has slowed.
      Some ghosts drift by.
      I can guess why.

      In just a few more days this will
      be gone. Until
      that happens, I
      won’t say goodbye.

      Yesterday, I went up to the old house to wait on a couple of service people to do some final, necessary things.

      Tomorrow is the closing on my father-in-law’s house. It’s the house that Rich grew up in. It’s the house where we had my bridal shower. Over 40 some years, there were the obvious ups and downs – and if the walls could talk…well, you know. But how do you measure time? A laugh? A hug? A family dinner? My father-in-law has come to terms with it all (I think) and so has Rich. But that may be just brave words. I guess time will tell.

    20. The Measure of God’s Love

      (I pray you will) grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ. Ephesians 3:18

      God’s love is wider than the Sahara
      His compassion is longer than the Nile
      His grace is higher than Mount Everest
      And deeper than the ocean by a mile

      “How much do you love us, God?” humans cried.
      Jesus said, “This much,” stretched out His arms and died.

    21. A Folding Mirror poem, measured in two identical halves of words divided by a folding middle line:

      ATM in the AM: Atacama Thought Mission in the Morning

      high in the Andes
      on an early morning sojourn
      passing lakes of clear cerulean
      nestled amongst snow capped zeniths
      our bus plummets

      through the moon valley plateau

      into fertile Camanchaca
      hydrated by marine fog agua
      vizcachas bask in golden sun
      follow the rays for fun
      low on the Pacific


      Poetic riddle here for you.
      Clues below, in lines of two.

      I’m a red hot mama here,
      And I braved a new frontier.

      I was born in New Orleans,
      But I can’t eat red rice and beans.

      When I used to croon my tune,
      Cops might show up in platoon.

      Though those cops might collar you,
      They could not arrest me, too.

      Red hot mama? Yes, indeed.
      But the “mama” might mislead.

      Some who knew me in the day?
      Two kings: Bolden and Bachet.

      Is your party not a hit?
      I could jazz things up a bit.

      Music in a Dixie cup?
      Stir me in – I’ll heat things up!

      Tenses messing with your head?
      Am I living? I’m not dead.

      Living being, I am not.
      Give inanimate a shot.

      Have I managed to confuse?
      Tune your brain; re-read the clues. ;)

    23. stepstep says:


      Against ther clock I raced
      Facing the wild wind,
      Catching rays of sunshine
      Looking up, as if in a dream.

      No longer would I have to prove
      My long-lasting love that
      I’ve held precious to my soul
      Shaping the terms, setting the goal

      Of an honest attempt of this emotion
      From the beginning such serious devotion
      Every day in every way
      I knew I would have to pay

      High cost, everlasting, measured by time
      Never will it decline
      But last forever in my heart
      Created from a concrete start

      Though no one knew except me
      How solid could this love be?
      One-sided but still tender and real
      In this dream oly I would feel

      LOST LOVE.

    24. pmwanken says:

      (a shadorma)

      How does one
      measure the value
      of a kiss,
      the weight of
      a stolen glance from across
      the room? They’re priceless.

    25. seingraham says:

      Still Coming Up Short

      Intellectually, I know you breathe no more
      So why do I wake, trembling in the dark
      Worried that I still don’t come up to some
      Standard you’ve set, some unrealistic mark
      Pencilled on a pad of paper only you can see

    26. Lately, I more about not measuring up, or having excuses for why I haven’t met someone else’s expectations.
      Fewer curtains, fewer secrets, fewer worries… I’m happier here.

      throwing rocks at these glass walls
      celebrating the shattering confetti
      fresh air rushes in without excuse
      life is so much sweeter when
      you have nothing to hide


    27. Mike Bayles says:

      An Hour Allowed for Dinner

      My grandmother once said,
      “Chew slowly,”
      but I don’t,
      because she’s not here.
      I count out three dollars
      to play three songs,
      and I start counting the time
      until my dinner arrives.
      It will be six dollars,
      and with a tip,
      it will be eight.
      There are two girls
      sitting together
      at a table,
      and The Bulls
      are ahead by ten.
      I shovel down my food
      to make it home soon
      while I count the number of songs played.
      My grandmother once said,
      “Chew each bite one-hundred times,”
      but I don’t have the time.
      It takes five minutes
      after I request the check
      for the waitress to get it to me,
      and I give her a ten dollar bill
      and ask for change.
      She spends two minutes
      talking with an older patron
      before getting the change back to me.
      I thank her for rushing the order,
      but sit and wait.
      My three songs have not played yet.

    28. Mike Bayles says:

      An Hour Allowed for Dinner

      My grandmother once said,
      “Chew slowly,”
      but I don’t,
      because she’s not here.
      I count out three dollars
      to play three songs,
      and I start counting the time
      until my dinner arrives.
      It will be six dollars,
      and with a tip,
      it will be eight.
      There are two girls
      sitting together
      at a table,
      and The Bulls
      are ahead by ten.
      I shovel down my food
      to make it home soon
      while I start counting
      the number of songs played before mine.
      My grandmother once said,
      “Chew each bite one-hundred times,”
      but I don’t have the time.
      It takes five minutes
      after I request the check
      for the waitress to get it to me,
      and I give her a ten dollar bill
      and ask for change.
      She spends two minutes
      talking with an older patron
      before getting the change back to me.
      I thank her for rushing the order,
      but sit and wait.
      My two songs have not played yet.

    29. PowerUnit says:

      I measured a glass of whisky
      With my eyes
      An indistinguishable dose
      To cure my interminable ailments
      And just enough extra
      An additional oiling
      To lubricate that door
      Blocking my pen

    30. Juanita Lewison-Snyder says:

      the measure of love
      by juanita lewison-snyder

      the day i confided
      that i loved you,
      you asked that i
      break down
      the price per pound
      in order to gauge
      the amount of tread
      yet left
      on this old goodyear
      still beating within.

      © 2013 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    31. Jane Shlensky says:

      Small Increments

      Inching, he thrusts himself
      face-first along a line of leaf,
      dragging his lagging past
      into his present, launching
      again, progressing negligibly,
      past and future conversant
      along his middle, accordion
      self, measuring where he
      walks by what he is, where
      he’s headed by where he’s
      been. I watch him move
      for long minutes, admiring
      his resilience in the presence
      of birds, then resume my
      estimation of myself,
      of love divided by time.

    32. sashagladb says:

      BE FREE

      From dirty slippery puddles
      And ignorant looks in the crowd
      That make me so cold I’m Free.

      I’ve learnt how to speak out loud
      And not just to look at the things- but to see!

      To see what really does matter
      And what as noise considered should be,
      To see when one can be little
      And other only belittled to be.

      I’m going far to the South,
      Where I will be loved – You better don’t look for me.

      From overwhelming wrong judgement
      That comes from the top of your voice I now will be Free!
      I’m Free, because I want to be!

    33. Cinderella’s Step-Sister Complex

      Truvy: In a good shoe, I wear a size six, but a seven feels so good, I buy a size eight.
      –Steel Magnolias

      The numbers make no sense beyond small, medium, and large,
      and even that is suspect these days. I could bath a baby
      in the small Coke cup at the movie theatre concession stand—
      if, that is, I’m willing to cough up five bucks. And how can tall
      be the smallest coffee size, the next sizes, grande, venti,
      sounding more like a Texas ranch or a compact Chevy?

      Why don’t shoe sizes match sock sizes, forcing me to read
      the chart printed on the thin plastic bag in inscrutable type?
      MIghtI escape to some other culture with standards
      reversed: big feet—good; stability, balance. Big bra size—
      bad; back pain, stretched sweater sets? No glass slippers
      for me. Barefoot suits me fine. In some tropical paradise,
      I might wear one-size-fits-all for pleasure;
      then I might be fitted for joy beyond measure.

    34. elishevasmom says:


      Always felt like she never
      quite measured up.
      Started walking late – and
      talking late, too
      (but she fixed that one by
      never shutting up).

      Always had this deep fear
      that everybody else
      would finally figure out that
      she was a fraud, a wannabe,
      just laying down the big con—a
      poseur, bogus, counterfeit.

      Had that knack of talking
      herself up way too high,
      (there’s that talking thing,)
      up where she had no place
      being. Just a big balloon full
      of hot attitude altitude.

      Then, feeling failure perched on
      her shoulder, would hang on
      with all her might to the knot
      in the rope, and ride the
      thrill to the next stratosphere—
      never seeing bottom

      in the blur on the way by.
      Always loved the feeling
      of the wind in her hair, blowing
      past her ears, the voice of her
      scream lost in the slipstream.
      Always loved that last-minute

      rescue from the fall, before the climb.
      But what happens when your
      talk gets tired, your tongue
      tangles like a broken slinky—your fingers numb,
      your arms succumb to weakness,
      you turn your head and realize

      that the fear perched
      on your shoulder is a gargoyle,
      mocking you as it
      pushes you down so hard
      that the frayed rope snaps
      when it hits bottom?

      What happens when
      the pit that you’ve dug yourself
      seems bottomless?
      Well, she discovered that taking
      measure of yourself, all
      the different parts of yourself,

      can be done anywhere.
      In the end, the only
      measure that matters
      is yours.
      All you have to do is show up,
      and bring your yardstick.

      Ellen Knight
      (write a measure poem)

    35. RJ Clarken says:

      A Short Measure

      Hemidemisemiquaver –
      What’s to savor?
      It’s much too quick,
      not quick a tick-

      ing of a clock. So what’s this beat?
      A note that’s fleet
      or fast? A blink?
      When played in sync

      within the context of a song
      it does belong.
      So after all,
      it’s not so small.


      • RJ Clarken says:

        I so hate when I make a typo. Grrr!

        A Short Measure

        Hemidemisemiquaver –
        What’s to savor?
        It’s much too quick,
        not quite a tick-

        ing of a clock. So what’s this beat?
        A note that’s fleet
        or fast? A blink?
        When played in sync

        within the context of a song
        it does belong.
        So after all,
        it’s not so small.


    36. De Jackson says:


      I forgot this: measure twice, cut
      once. See, your touch inched in

      and cinched tight and I lost all
      sense of direction, decorum, de

      -light. I held the foundation in
      my hands, but neglected to we

      -igh the cost. And I lost.



      The sun rose, a shy slow curve
      innocent of warmth

      but worthy of geometry and thermometer,
      if I’d thought to put on gloves.

      Freezing! I went to check the hose we keep
      going all night so the pipes won’t burst.

      I heard a hiss like harpies spitting
      a fine spray (how do you measure harpies?)

      instantly freezing against chain-link
      fence, heaping ice caps/crystal-balls for sun-

      light to sparkle-shimmer atop sheep-
      droppings black as molasses.

      It was way too immeasurably cold
      for me to stick around for a second sight.

    38. Domino says:

      Let me say, my friends, please forgive me in advance. I just couldn’t help myself! ^_^

      Mete your Measure

      I’ve been in and out of
      since I was a

      Too much sax and violins,
      no doubt.

      Let me take a minuet
      to explain my

      I’m a musician
      and a music
      I’m no lyre,
      and I try not to
      say anything off-key.
      I really don’t want to
      but here goes.

      I will make my pitch
      with no trumpeting of intentions or
      snares to entangle.

      I just believe,
      with all my harp,
      the importance of working
      in concert,
      and if anything
      my need to be vocal,
      it is the fact that I always try
      to reach a high note,
      guitar act together,
      and stay in tune
      with what is going on.

      Maybe I should just
      give this a rest,
      if you can’t Handel it, that is.
      But then again,
      if it ain’t baroque,
      don’t fifth it.

      Diana Terrill Clark

    39. Groupie Antics

      gyrating lewdly in skimpy bathing suit
      her sopping performance of sexual innuendo
      was perfect accompaniment to his lecherous ego
      coolly delivered, a roadie’s sharp pounding riposte,
      back handed slap in the face formality,
      between predator and prey
      softened her craggy attitude.
      lipstick waiting to be blood
      but then again, she’s a leo
      banished from the island of herself
      bottomed-out shadows are all that’s left.
      a fast-paced combustible atmosphere
      nippy and aloof with shivery words.
      a cranked up rock bands dressing room.
      party time in gulps and twitches.
      saucer-like eyes of other groupies
      stare unfettered, askance of after show prospects.
      around centered marble altar the intimate crowd
      lines up to receive sacrament from samovar full of
      ice cold electric kool aid and other party favors.
      but the party favors others,
      coldhearted notes pointing the way out.

    40. Billie says:

      The sex of our baby.

      The day we found
      the sex of the baby.
      you were upset.

      I cried for tiny toes sticking in my ribs.
      I cried for lost sister giggles.
      I cried for hockey sticks, and warm dirty kisses.

      The day we measured tiny toes and
      his tiny heart beats.

      you came around in the form
      of a name.

      That day we found our son.


      Sacrificed on the altar of reason,
      pages ignite; an incendiary conflagration
      of words and rhyme – metered and meted.

      Ashes strewn, windblown; sown upon
      the fertility of a mind left wanting to be heard.
      Every word burning like midnight oil to ravage

      all this savage heart has toiled to achieve.
      Like decayed leaves these poems smolder.
      Line by line, they feed the fire; burning.

      Learning that poetic purity is akin to obscurity,
      remnants of thought filling the air
      like sparks off to incite the masses and high grasses

      in smoky simile; nothing is left unsaid.
      Laureate at the stake burning, take the time to learn.
      There is rhyme enough to burn.

      * Note: On being selected the 2010 Poet Laureate for the April PAD at Writer’s Digest.com/Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer. I seemed to be in a hurry to get there, and humbly find I still have much to learn and accomplish. Ever grateful for the honor and life lesson to stop and smell the proses, Robert.

    42. PressOn says:

      I was aware that my offering violated the rules, but couldn’t resist the “Howdy Doody” time. I appreciated the definition of minute as being a poem in 60 seconds, because I wasn’t sure if the pronunciation should be “minit” or “mine-yoot.”

    43. Red

      We counted months throughout the year
      that brought us here,
      then weeks, then days.
      We kept our gaze

      upon the calendar, this prize
      before our eyes,
      marked out in red.
      It’s often said

      that love is blind. But it is strong
      as time, as long
      as dreaming night
      as fast as light.


      He weighs his words; the gravity
      of which is a burden, quite beastly.
      It would be easy to blurt and blather,
      work his mind into a lather
      and foam at the mouth, but he doubts
      that any would listen to his rants.
      Flying by the seat of his pants,
      was never his suit. Never one
      to shoot from the hip. Thoughts sit
      upon his lips until their purity
      is assured. When they are heard,
      you will know how they show
      that thought was given to words
      driven my inspired muse. Take your time,
      to convey what it is you want to say.

    45. I’m back! I’ve been in a creative funk for over a month now and trying to snap out of it. These “minute” poems got me inspired. (There’s an idea for a future form challenge, Robert!) If you don’t know, the “minute” is a poem of exactly sixty syllables (as in 60 seconds – minute, get it?) It breaks into three stanzas of four lines each in iambic meter, the first line with eight syllables, and the others with four, usually with a rhyme scheme AABB, CCDD, EEFF. The only other minute poem I ever tried was published in The Lyric poetry journal. Here’s a new one:


      The January forecast: warm,
      above the norm.
      Light jacket’s fine –
      it’s forty-nine.

      A racket, chick-a-DEEDEEDEE,
      from this oak tree,
      those little birds
      with winter words.

      They seem to ask with some distress,
      my friends all dressed
      in white and black:
      Will snow come back?

    46. Measure me luscious,

      not dismal;

      the longer, the better

      no waffling, just lots of butter please.

    47. So that’s what you were talking about… smiles.

    48. Misky says:


      Once upon a long fingered day,
      people saying,
      people pointing,
      double jointed,

      Gossip, chatter, chitter-patter,
      tongues a natter,
      fingers wagging,
      whispers lagging

      Behind every accusing glance,
      and yet we dance,
      we love, no mind
      to those unkind

      because –
      we are the measure of ourselves

    49. PressOn says:


      When I was small I could not tell
      my Auntie Nell
      the clock display
      for time of day.

      The hands and numbers puzzled me:
      did ten to three
      mean gamblers’ odds
      or timely prods?

      Frustration marked my days and nights
      from dawns to lights;
      my mien was moody
      till Howdy Doody.

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