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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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*****

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About Robert Lee Brewer

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109 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 206

  1. Michelle Hed says:

    Finding Peace in Trust (Fibonacci)

    One
    Word
    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
    One
    word

  2. Marjory MT says:

    I want
    to run
    away
    and hide
    so deep
    within
    my own
    being,
    to be
    that me
    I want
    to be
    without
    another
    seeing.

  3. tortoogal says:

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

    HANGINGS

    Tree
    spell,
    human
    memory:
    codes past intention.
    Dead season for dark-skin sunset.

    By Jo Lombard

  4. tortoogal says:

    TWO FIBONACCI POEMS

    KIM STAFFORD”S COUNSEL

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

    THE MEASURE OF TIME

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

    Rosemary Douglas Lombard

  5. Judy Roney says:

    Measured

    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)

    Measure

    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. Sara McNulty says:

    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:

    WHAT SHOULD A POEM WEIGH?

    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:

    WordPerfect

    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!

    Stones

    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
    depressed
    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

  22. Marie Elena says:

    BRAINTEASER

    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:

    LOST LOVE

    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:

    CALCULATING THOUGHTS
    (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

    http://laughinghereonearth.blogspot.com/

  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
    quantify
    measure
    weigh
    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. Nancy Posey says:

    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:

    Yardstick

    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:

    Blueprint

    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.

    .

  37. SPLIT-SECOND SIGHT
    BEFORE I WENT BACK INSIDE

    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
    treble
    since I was a
    minor.

    Too much sax and violins,
    no doubt.

    Let me take a minuet
    to explain my
    tone.

    I’m a musician
    and a music
    appreciator;
    I’m no lyre,
    and I try not to
    say anything off-key.
    I really don’t want to
    repeat
    myself…
    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
    cymbalizes
    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.

  41. LAUREATE AT THE STAKE

    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.

  44. MEASURED AND CALCULATED

    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. Bruce Niedt says:

    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:

    Chickadees

    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. laurie kolp says:

    Measure me luscious,

    not dismal;

    the longer, the better

    no waffling, just lots of butter please.

  47. laurie kolp says:

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

  48. Misky says:

    WE ARE THE MEASURE OF OURSELVES

    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:

    A MINUTE POEM

    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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