Editors Blog

Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 233

For this week’s prompt, write a poem about something in the room (or space) you’re sitting. The poem could be about a physical object in the room (or space). It could be a remembered or imagined event. If you’re outside, then you’ve got plenty of possibilities. However, I imagine a poem about a poet in a white room with a laptop (and nothing else) could be equally interesting.

Here’s my attempt:

“Two-Dollar Bill”

Seriously, why? Who
needs you? For some reason,
the penny’s existence
is debated more than
yours–as if proving your
lack of utility,
but still, a gift to Will–
like a silver dollar–
technically something
that’s worth keeping around.


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Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and a practicing poet. He edits books, writes blog posts (and a magazine column), manages a free weekly newsletter, and other fun stuff. Voted 2010 Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere, Brewer’s debut full-length poetry collection, Solving the World’s Problems, will be released by Press 53 on September 1, 2013. He’s married to the poet Tammy Foster Brewer, who helps him keep track of their five little poets (four boys and one princess). Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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154 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 233

  1. veronica_gurlie

    If you don’t believe me, then try it,
    push yourself from within, as hard as you can
    and see if it will pop out,
    but I tell you,
    once you got love
    for someone in your heart,
    it’s not easy to get it out from the inside.
    The love is in there tight
    and carefully preserved in some way,
    you’re not sure how,
    like they put it on ice,
    in a zip lock bag.

    1. veronica_gurlie


      If you don’t believe me,
      then blow yourself up til your ready to burst
      and see if it will pop out,
      but I tell you,
      once you got love for someone in your heart,
      it’s not easy to get it out, especially from the inside.
      The love is in there tight
      and carefully preserved in some way,
      you’re not sure how,
      like it’s on ice,
      in a zip lock bag.

  2. veronica_gurlie

    He looked at me
    and told me I was hyped up like a rock star on smack
    and then I crashed face down on a daydream
    of potato chips and pretzels dancing around my head.
    When I awoke, my mind was full of mixed nuts
    and I swore I will never drink it again-
    so much of it, til I can’t stop- soda pop,
    like it’s the only love in my life.

  3. Andra Negroiu


    Silent companion,
    what am I to you that you should
    bear my ghosts upon your lap?

    Cloistered stranger, can my heart
    enlivened by your hunger,
    my hands
    by your gaze drilling its way beyond my shoulder,
    the loving way you grasp
    and hide
    what names and tattered tales you find
    cavorting on your velveteen facade?

    You creak your loneliness
    beneath the twitches
    of holographic butterflies
    until it sounds like friendship,
    as I drape my ghosts
    along your wooden arms
    and light them paper candles.

    The smell of fresh rain
    clings to the azaleas and the pavement
    is strewn with silver footprints.
    The moonlight
    chases ’round its tail on folding wings.

    Upon your cushioned lap,
    I sit and write.

  4. Julieann

    The Calendar

    An ordinary thing, really,
    Just a calendar on the wall
    The specialness it carries
    Is for one and all

    Each month displays pictures
    Of his wedding, and his bride
    They promised to cherish and protect
    As they stood side by side

    His best friend performed the ceremony
    To each other, they vowed to cling
    He gave his heart and love to her
    Along with his great grandma’s wedding ring

    Family and friends all gathered ‘round
    To witness two so much in love
    Wishing them peace, happiness, a long life,
    And blessings from above

    This simple little calendar
    Hangs upon the wall
    Its pages covered with their love
    To show to one and all

  5. EfrainThePoetK1n9

    The river wallows over sediment
    Crafting a ravine,
    Within its’ melancholy gait
    I find a sentiment serene.
    Beneath a crystalline sky cold stars seem to gleam
    Suspended in time.
    And to the air my breath is steam.
    Vigilant the long night where ice melts at dawns light
    Dreams reveal an insight
    I sleep plotting contingencies
    I mastermind my plight.
    Stepping through the looking glass
    Atop a precipice:
    The valley, the heavens, the almighty mist,
    The alchemist enchanter, the arthritic wrist.
    In the summer of my life
    I dream of winters ravenous
    Where the mountain streams become a dead ravine
    And skies illuminate less
    As stars lose their luster;
    Orion dies a hunter,
    Sirius becomes ill,
    And here, I a hopeless writer die asleep upon a hill
    Into a river where it wallowed
    Inside a lost ravine that cold winds have hollowed
    Beneath a dry grim.

  6. stepstep


    Bubbles up
    All kinds of lips,
    Puckered up
    All kinds of hues,
    Solid, spotted
    As quietness is kept
    Good company.

    Illuminated environment
    Brightens each room inch by inch
    To accompany the noise or silence,
    Ultimately satisfies the sense of sight
    My aquarium.

  7. karenmcc

    the yellow and white afghan
    that hugs the couch across the room:
    crocheted just for me
    so many years ago.

    others see a warm cover,
    but I see so much more…

    I see the loving hands
    that taught me to love their art
    and sometimes when I’m working my own yarn
    I feel the remembered softness of their touch
    as they used to guide my hook into the stitches.

    Pictures on the wall across the room
    display your warm smile –
    it lights the room even on the gloomiest
    of days.

    1. Julieann

      Afghans or quilts or anything made with love brightens a room and one’s heart with a love that cannot be explained. You did a most marvelous job. Congratulations!

  8. Clae


    I see you there, hidden where you think I never look,
    Small dust-bunny.
    I wonder why I call you that;
    Why not dust-monkey, or dust-cat?
    Words are funny.
    No matter what your name is, you can’t stay in that nook.

  9. David

    Empty Room

    By David De Jong

    Scanning this empty room quietly in despair,
    While memories reciprocate throughout the air.
    Photos of children dancing in autumn’s fresh leaves,
    All the colors of fall, stuck to their tiny sleeves.
    Elegant feathers, gifted by birds on the trail,
    Iridescent blue, crimsons, and earthly brown shale.
    Antlers found shed in the grove of winters gone by,
    Cast off for new growth, without a question of why.
    A flag from a war fought in lands deserts away,
    Carried back to freedom, where it stands on display.
    Cards too precious, too proud, to hide in the drawers,
    Full of; crayon scribbles, stickers, and tear smudged cores.
    Books leaning on the shelves, scrambling for more space,
    Tired of their work, their struggles, yet expounding grace.
    Flower petals plucked with small, loving, finger tips,
    Collected during one of many, backyard trips.
    More photographs, moments paused eternal in time.
    Second hand buttons, Grandma bought with a just dime.
    Now my heart’s been lifted, shifted from its dull gloom,
    Captivated by the love, surrounding this room.

  10. Angel Villagomez


    Spilt salt spoils luck
    but sprinkles season meat
    and shrivels up the slugs
    and erodes healthy teeth.
    Salt makes you sneeze
    and makes wounds sting
    and flavors your tongue
    with words that spice
    up life with a savior
    but still burn when thrown
    in someone else’s eyes.
    Salt resides in seas
    inhabited by schools
    and inhabits mines
    occupied by kids,
    then transferred to stores
    in family-friendly packages
    to preserve factory meat
    of genetically modified sheep.
    Salt softens ice
    and hardens fruit
    and seasons lies
    with supple truth.
    Salt lives in our flesh,
    our bones, and in our mouths,
    but the salt we crave most
    comes from the clouds.

  11. taylor graham


    Is it a gargoyle? But, niched
    into a wall, it’s useless as a rain-spout.
    At first I took it for a book-imp
    sitting atop a pile of volumes dusty
    with wisdom. But now I see
    those are bricks or cinderblocks
    on which the creature sits. Winged
    like mythology. But the face is bulldog
    grimacing its teeth. A heavy-link
    chain around its throat, the loose end
    dangling between wide-set paws
    taloned like a hawk’s. Its niche
    in the backdoor wall of business, alley
    behind Main, is shuttered green,
    the pegged slats flung open
    so the beast stares out, guarding
    from within. Its viewpoint is high.
    Sidewalk passersby step underneath
    oblivious. For the first time,
    this morning, I notice it. Genius
    of the backside, watchful second-
    story eye, a silent presence we’re not
    aware of as we walk the day-to-day.

  12. james.ticknor

    I Hate Pennies

    I hate you, penny.
    I can’t call you worthless,
    but I can call you a waste of space.
    I can not destroy you; law forbids it
    But it is pointless to save you
    I banish you to the couch cushions
    Only to see daylight when I look for the remote
    A penny doesn’t get you anything.
    Everything is mostly a dollar and up
    If I pay a 100 pennies then maybe…
    But who wants to count 100 pennies?
    Even a bum would be insulted by a handful of pennies

    I hate you for many reasons, such as:

    Being the only monitary face that faces right
    Being the delay when an old lady pays for a Big Mac with change
    Being the uncomfortable, bulky rattle in my pocket
    You’re the only thing I grab when I reach for change for the parking meter…
    (oh, the joy of finding a quarter hidden amongst pennies…)

    The only thing worth less than you
    Is coupons redeemable for 1/100th of you
    But they still have more value than you, in a way.

  13. swatchcat

    The Bar Stool

    One stool takes a stand.
    Making its way around the island.

    The most uncomfortable place to sit
    Everyone relies on it.

    The kids like to sit and spine.
    The cushion held together by pins.

    It is a family friend.
    Useful to all rear-ends.
    It will never end up in the bin.

  14. Misky


    There you are,
    in two photos on my desk.
    I smile as you
    smile at me.
    My heart warms as you
    always warmed me,
    but your voice
    is gone. That sound
    that your soul claimed
    as its own, stolen when
    you flung your weary bones.
    Gone, beyond,
    but you still smile
    in two photos on my desk

  15. bxpoetlover

    My Bedroom

    Each thing I love has its own corner.
    Bookcase with books for, by, and about teachers and writers in one.
    Computer is adjacent to that.
    My journal sits on my nightstand.
    TV for watching movies and “Mad Men” across the room.
    Walls painted the color of brilliant sky, set off with black furniture.
    Because I am selective about who comes in,
    the door requires no lock.

  16. paulo24752

    Wine and Cigarettes

    Cool eyes gazing through the front door at the leaves on the japanese maples
    Gently float down to the cold green grass
    Days drone and drown by rather quickly when submerged in vivid closed eyed dream landscapes
    Delluted half-past actions determine the ferocity of what the day brings and holds
    Bone dry as ezkiel trying to mediate but too stressed as the nuns knees
    Coercing habits run rampant, break the levees, spoil the time the semi succulant sounds of the clinking of The empty bottle, cold silence and faintly through the wind, jazz
    Way on past the empty sound stage, vacant parking lots and municiple buildings
    Further out than long rides down the interstate, by truck stop gas stations and 24 hour diners
    Beyond the farms with pastures of mushrooms on top of cow shit;
    Out past all the restless requiems of dilluted and shattered dreams of hope
    holy nag champa insence permeates the still and stagnant room masked in pungent perfums
    the final gulp of the cooking marsala tastes like 20th century Paris sprinkled with anti-depressants
    Cigarette smoke hangs loosely
    the record spins around
    just another splash of wine

    [Wine and cigarettes]

    Jean-Paul Orleans

  17. DanielAri

    “Bad ideas”

    Paul used to say—like if I suggested
    going up to the F sharp and ending
    the song there—never returning to D—
    he’d say, “That’s a horrendous ideas.
    Let’s try it.” One advantage of our band

    identifying with Dadaism:
    how wild experiments tended to stick
    around, fermenting into mind-bending
    sonic liquors that could thrill or sicken
    audiences. My squeezebox case is closed

    these days and my creative output picked
    into safe and nit-free desolation.
    It’s been years since I grabbed a trout and whacked
    it on a piano in a passion
    of Art. The cleaning staff hasn’t minded,

    it seems, the less explosive expression
    of my most reckless, misguided notions.

  18. Jerri

    Thank You

    Pile of thank you notes
    Sitting on my desk
    Needing to be written
    Addressed and sent

    But their reminder of
    My dear one’s death
    Make them untouchable
    For the moment

    I sigh before
    The obligated niceties
    Of uncivilized

  19. Iain Douglas Kemp

    The Case in Point

    Soon you will open again, old friend
    and gorge yourself of my attire
    my bits, my bobs, my books, my life
    and far-flung around the globe
    we will wander in search of who knows
    what we will find for it matters not
    the destination is not home again
    that is foresaid
    the journey itself is the destination
    the adventure
    the blank page to be filled
    with poetry
    and ramblings
    and random thoughts
    and photographs…
    …memories to share and treasure
    but rest still my old friend your time is not quite yet
    I have a little more to say and do
    a little more to teach
    a lot more to learn
    until I will say Bon Voyage!
    Fare thee well and do not desert me
    my loyal,
    my faithful


  20. Billie

    do you see this space, this place
    am living in?
    Broken dreams,blank screen,
    lifeless brain that once beat poetry.
    I thought I had it in me
    I use to be so tough
    So strong
    I was such an original
    now everything I dreamed about as a child
    Has crumbled in the sea..

  21. priyajane

    The Kitchen Zone

    The center of a home is working
    Breathing life in every room
    More than what we feed our tummys
    A taste in the head, is what it grooms

    Some childish fingers play with butter
    Kneading castles with the flour
    Magic yolks just flow with tappings
    Slimes with zesty burning power

    Wisks that synchronize a rhythm
    Conversations rise and fall
    Some grandma pots are filled with treasures
    Mem-o-ries, sweetened with salt

    The stove, a witness to life’s drama
    As veggies spin bright colorful tales
    And coffee beans can dream and linger
    Spicing up the day’s details

    A crafty gentle touch of herbs
    While knives just slice and peel some wounds
    A kitchen sink that’s full of dishes
    Stirs, some soothing soulful tunes

    Invisible elves, skill- fully maneuver
    Simmer-ing with fresh insight
    Just when things,seem bent and broken
    Together, bind some cooking ties

    This homemade space just rules my kingdom
    Hearten-ing, and bustling on
    Adding flavors to my learnings
    Comforting, with loving arms——

  22. PressOn


    My dog is lying in the rocking chair.
    He knows full well he ought not to be there
    but he, like I, is old,
    and I am loath to change his favorite lair.

    His coat was once the color of spun gold
    and he once loved to frolic in the cold,
    but things have changed for him
    and now white hairs are rampant in the fold

    of paws and nose. I whistle, on a whim;
    he glances up, but does not change the trim
    of leg and head and tail.
    He is content to moderate his vim

    for, after all, he, like I, is frail
    and time, once such a friend, is now a jail.
    His lair remains the chair
    and I am glad to let his way prevail.

    1. Susan Schoeffield

      This tugs at my heartstrings. Two Aprils ago, we lost our 12-year old basset hound, Simon. He, too, had a favorite chair and we were loathe to scold him. Maybe because he was older, maybe because we were. This was clearly written with love and it’s beautiful.

  23. ndokken

    Interesting how many of our poems are inspired by the ho-drum corporate world. Mine is too and please nobody take offense to my references on those who carry an MBA – it’s just, many of them who I work with have this “Better than thou” complex which makes me utterly disturbed.

    “Opinionated Silence”

    “Please, tell me your thoughts.” He said to me.
    His sharp grey eyes pressed into mine deeply,
    The kind of eyes that demanded an answer at once.
    His ruffled lips pursed tightly together after a gentle nod,
    Because my silence, mind you, seemed quite odd.
    At least to him.

    Then a cold chill swept through his office
    And felt like I was wading through a sea of ice,
    But really it was his smirk so high and pompous
    That it didn’t feel right for me to be honest.
    Oh the horrors to stroke his ego and the humility
    To be overshadowed by his omnipotence!

    But then he stood up and towered high above me
    Until I was smaller than a wingless ant or even –
    Smaller than the cells that made the prick firstly.
    He pointed towards his Master’s Degree behind him
    And reminded me about success in a smug tone of monotony.
    “In Business?” I thought. This Think Tank of arrogance!
    Nobody really cares about it let alone he himself!
    Successful? To me he’s like a small boy lost out at sea
    Worried and fretting as I am in his presence –
    ‘cept he’s thinking about his own mortality

    “What are your thoughts?” He asked once again.
    “I really want to know.” He smiled to defend.
    He doesn’t care to listen to my opinionated cries!
    Why would he listen to a poor dumb sap like me
    Who lacks an entitlement of a Master’s Degree?

    What was he really trying to solve with me anyway,
    Inside that meeting about the last meeting
    When we discussed about meetings on future meetings?
    Oh Mister Man, you’re the prideful cock of the walk!
    Talking the talk using fancy corporate acronyms
    Like they’re some kind of sacred religious hymn
    You hope will one day set you free.

    But, and yes another but –
    I’ll just bite my tongue and complain internally
    And pretend that I have nothing real to say.
    After all, nothing is what he wants to hear.
    But if and only if I dared to be as daring as he
    Then I would have a lot more to fear than me being me.

    1. PressOn

      I have found that most younger MBAs tend to be like that; most older ones, less so. Telling me that they, like most young folks, including those with doctorates, still have a lot to learn. Anyway, you poem struck home for me, and is well done, in my opinion.

      1. ndokken

        Thank you…many of the arrogant ones (or at least who I perceive to be anyway) work at Target Corporate in Downtown Minneapolis as they prance through the skyway system flashing their target corporate badges, and most coudln’t be any older than my age which is 28). I agree with you too that the older ones are a lot different than the younger ones.

        Again thank you.

  24. ewdupler

    I had some more fun with this form and expanded a bit on what I wrote, yesterday. Thank the clock for the inspiration :)

    A Day at the Office

    Hearing a tick and then hear a tock.
    Up on the wall, I see the round clock.
    The hands move too slow, I wish I could go.
    No leaving now; my pay they might dock.

    Monitors glow without any hype.
    Messages read, with nary a gripe.
    No paperwork trail, it’s all in e-mail.
    Fingers find keys, as they start to type.

    My window frames the clouds in the sky.
    An open door, co-workers walk by.
    There’s things to be done, I’m not here for fun!
    Constant distractions! Focus, I’ll try.

    Then the phone rings; my boss on the line.
    Watching your work, he called it “so fine.”
    I did not believe, he said I could leave.
    Full day of pay, I made the day mine!

  25. Sara McNulty

    Afternoon Tea

    A tea party is taking place
    above my head. Alice pours,
    the dormouse snores, Mad
    Hatter speaks to White Rabbit.
    The silver serving cups
    and plates seem to be set
    for ten. I am not invited,
    but I do listen in.

  26. Cin5456

    It’s a Silly Thing

    Two pieces of molded yellow
    plastic. Joined together they make
    a stick eighteen inches long. Black
    elastic string – fourteen inches.
    Purple chicken feathers bundled
    with thin blue and red foil strips glued
    into black molded plastic. These
    cheap pieces are components of
    a silly toy. When feathers and foil
    are whirled about through the air
    they become irresistible
    fun for my silly cat and a
    daily source of laughter for me.

      1. Heather

        Thanks. I stand by my choice of symphony because (almost) anything can be music. However, that said, I think you’re right, cacophony would work better, especially with the ‘c’s in electronic. I will revise it on my website.

  27. Never2L8

    Book Shelves

    Arranged on my shelves,
    Neatly stacked in colorful rows.
    Drawing me,
    Like hummingbirds to sweet nectar
    Pooled in the throats of trumpet vine.
    Sweet thirst.

  28. SharoninDallas

    Everyone’s poems are so wonderful today! So much depth and emotion. I, alas, am not so productive so I am posting the following light silliness.

    I am in my office, haphazardly trying to work, and having tea, with a charming, pot-bellied porcelain pot, cup and saucer, with trailing vines and tendrils, lady bugs and bumble bees. I am lazily posting a poem I wrote several years ago, about having a birthday tea with friends, and these same cups and saucers in beautiful Arlington Hall at Lee Park, in Dallas.

    Tea for two. Tea for three.
    Tea for you. Tea for me.
    Cups are poured, secrets shared.
    Cares depart, lightness dared.

    Hail Marilyn, Hail Frannie, Hail Patty, Hail Kay,
    Hail Jane, full of grace.
    Hail Southern girls and silver sets,
    China cups and lace.

    Hail tea for two. Hail tea for three.
    For eight, for ten, for charming men,
    For golden girls, for you and me.

  29. Connie Peters

    The Atlas

    Red vein-like highways
    Yellow splotches of cities
    Green blotches of national
    parks marked with tents
    Blue almost-straight interstates
    Light blue blots of lakes
    and snakes of rivers
    On the end table teasing
    and tempting me

    1. IrisD

      Connie, I enjoyed visualizing this and wanted to get my Atlas off my shelf. Maps do call us to other places. Your imagery is great,” yellow splotches of cities”, I especially liked.

  30. elishevasmom

    What You See…

    When she first moved there
    it was opening the door
    to new life, unexpected life,
    life for which she had
    no frame of reference,
    no road signs or directions.
    A life not knowing
    if this new existence
    was a chute or a ladder.

    Public Housing—a rest area
    on this new path.
    Words from the past life,
    always spoken with derision,
    delivered with a sneer
    and heard as a curse.

    What with the waiting
    list of anywhere from
    3 – 5 years, might just
    as well get on the list.
    When after just 8 months,
    getting THE letter, saying
    that her turn had come—
    definitely no frame of reference
    for that feeling.

    The neighborhood not
    so bad—but,
    discomfort walking past
    the shadow-life outside,
    feeling the x-ray stares
    of their intrusive glares.

    In the office, explanation of policy:
    With refusal of this apartment,
    only one more would be offered.
    Rejection of that one
    guaranteed residence
    at the bottom of the list.

    Old expectations met now.
    Dirty hallways, paint-etched
    light out in the elevator,
    climbing each of 15 floors,
    the gravity increasing.
    A lot riding on the yay or nay
    of this studio.

    Trepidation as the door
    opened into a a single
    large room, a galley kitchen
    to one side.
    On the wall opposite,
    twin adjoining windows,
    looking due west—a view
    of the valley with the
    highway below.

    And beyond that, a view
    of hills, houses and trees—
    with the almost green of
    almost Spring.
    And a view potential, of lightening
    cloud-to-cloud—and a blizzard
    from the top down.

    A view, framing from June thru
    September, sunsets rivaling
    each other in beauty.
    A view—giving her a
    frame of reference for home.

    Ellen Knight 8.21.13
    write a poem about something in the room

  31. Jeep Walters

    Palpable Fear

    inside, a rotting, lurking in shadows
    of darkened thought. Confidence
    takes a powder and all that remains
    are the knock-kneed jitters of
    these failing nerves. Seldom brought
    out to play; never wandering past
    nose’s end. The journey of a thousand miles
    ceases before that first step lands.
    Needing a leap of faith
    to allow flight to commence.
    Waiting for fear to subside.
    And yet, inside, a rotting.

  32. Glory

    The Letter

    It sits upon the table,
    the white closed letter
    as I contemplate
    shall I, shan’t I, over and over
    until my mind gives in.

    My hand moves forward
    clutches at its white innocent
    outer coat to reveal within
    then stops, fear feeding every pore
    my hand stilled.

    Good or bad, the news it holds?
    Would I know? Or maybe live today
    and all my tomorrows with only
    the knowing it sits upon the table
    the white closed letter.

  33. taylor graham


    Before a first black cup of coffee,
    in the dark pre-dawn lit only
    by a computer screen, that rare
    blue moon stares through the window.
    Perfectly round, not yet flattened
    like a Lovers Moon blinded
    by reflected light, the self as seen
    in the eyes of the beloved. No,
    this is a literal moon: orbit, season,
    phase. Beyond mythology, here’s
    the moon’s other side: insomniac
    poet at a dark window, turning
    a lunar image like a coin in the mind.
    No digital approximation of this
    once-in-a-blue moon; pale, pocked
    face superimposed on black.
    Here is my troubadour moon caught
    by the tale of its light, filling
    my room before the first chirping
    of birds, before the morning’s dawn,
    with a poem: words.

    1. Marie Elena

      Thank you so much, both. This happened today as I helped clear and sort through the home of my aunt/Godmother, who lost her husband and son within 10 weeks of each other in 2010. She is now in assisted living, and we are readying her house to sell. She was a rock through the deaths. Unbelievably so. Today I discovered her journal, and I’m having trouble getting the overwhelming sadness out of my mind. I can’t stand the thought of her feeling she needed to be so strong for everyone else, and then wrote her grief in the silence and loneliness of the bed she and my uncle had shared for six decades.

  34. danceswithhorses

    I should move it.
    The thought flashes through my mind
    I looked up, once again
    Just to see it there, mocking me
    Reminding me of another time.
    I should get rid of it.
    But if I do,
    I’m afraid I might forget.
    It’s just a cup.
    But never just a cup.
    Your hands touched it
    As it passed from yours to mine.
    It was the last thing you gave me
    The last thing you handed me
    And I love it like I loved your smile.
    So it sits, innocently,
    Where it can’t help but catch my eye.

  35. De Jackson


    They look like ordinary
    everyday things:
        a worn rug
          an etched table
              a tiny window
      a quiet teapot.
    But she can hear them
    trumpeting their presence,
    shadowing the slanting
    light of morning’s wake.

    They know to be still
    and wait, hold their
    own heartbeats,
    count the seconds found
    in muffled birdsong
    and breeze,
    wrestled rustling trees
    but she can feel
    their wrinkled skin
    graying her shallow edges.


  36. Nancy Posey


    Driving up the mountain, the small motel
    comes into view long before I reach it.
    From the road far below, I contemplate
    the window view, imagining myself
    inside the tiny studio apartment, alone
    with nothing but my paper, pen, the tools
    of my trade. The desk, the chair face
    the view, mountains, valley, clouds and fog.
    Perhaps a sofa faces a fireplace,
    on small table holding a lap, an ashtray.
    Surely a braided rug lies on the floor,
    pine planked, tongue-in-groove lumber.
    No phone. No television set. Quiet.
    Passing the gravel entrance, I reach
    my true destination, grab lunch and drinks
    with a friend, then drive back down
    with just a glimpse toward that dream,
    a place to write, to read, to sky gaze.
    Instead, a reach the parking lot, too late
    to find a spot near the door, trudging
    instead up the hill, climbing stairs,
    arriving at last at my office door, light
    still seeping underneath. Turning
    my key, I enter, move the books piled
    in my chair, sweep aside the papers
    that wait for my attention, digging
    through the drawer to find a pen, a pad,
    at least a scrap on which to take a note,
    the line of a story, a poem, maybe a song
    that nagged at me as I drove. I jot it down
    for later, pick up the first essay in the stack,
    red pen in hand, and start to read.

  37. foodpoet

    Poetic Asides and Weekly Writing Prompt – still dry

    Poetry first dipping into the blog
    Over a quick sandwich,
    Eating words and grilled cheese.
    Today, a flush of CIS creepiness, wishing
    I could write fiction flash or not.
    Capturing word for verses.

    Always wanting to find time to write,
    Sifting family job and writers block,
    I hold pens that do not move.
    Daily I struggle to capture
    Even a single line..
    So for another day I put down the pen.

  38. JRSimmang


    We got a dining set as a wedding gift
    some oddly numbered years ago.
    There’s a place in it where we stow
    away our fancy china. It came from a thrift

    store in Houston, got a fresh coat of wood shine,
    and five matching chairs, a face-lift
    for furniture, I guess. The rift
    between us and her in-laws was somewhat fine.

    Four chairs, they tell you, is enough. So, you buy
    four chairs, thinking that in due time
    a fifth is added, that a line
    of chairs will decorate the sides. Tell me why,

    then, one chair remains folded in the corner.

    – JR Simmang

  39. Susan Schoeffield


    With dark green walls, now painted red,
    this room is where she laid her head,
    was where she spent her final days,
    her mind adrift in mental haze.

    Her husband toiled day and night
    to find a way to save her light.
    This challenge he fought hard to meet,
    but even dads can face defeat.

    This room was filled with daily prayers
    not for release from all his cares,
    but for the soulmate through his life:
    my mother and his treasured wife.

    So in this room are memories
    of love so strong it never flees.
    Today, I look beyond its gloom
    at love that still lives in this room.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  40. Yolee

    Cubicle Chronicle

    I have a need for: family
    within snapshots, reading
    glasses and purified water.

    On the other hand, the computer,
    phone and deadlines need me to
    tap their inferior power.

    Desiderata on my wall: “in the noisy confusion of life keep peace within your soul”

    Quote from Desiderata by: Max Ehrmann

  41. Jane Shlensky

    Cat on Desk

    He goes for small intrigues,
    a hiding paper clip
    or sneaky pen,
    his eye drawn to
    its potential for mischief.

    And if the big blue eye were alight,
    he would slap that nosey arrow
    right off its face.
    If he gets weary,
    he can nap on the printer
    or keyboard, waiting for mice.
    Oh, the desk chair is plush
    as his behind.

    He’s in charge here
    when no one is around
    to discipline the desk,
    tame post-its,
    and smack at snaky cords.

    He’s not just for show.
    He’s security,
    a working cat
    with a job to do.

  42. Jackie Casey

    “A Quiet Space”

    Where prayer so muted
    as the humming-bird
    whose pause is heard
    among her hurried ohm.
    Her wings seem stilled
    tipped over open bud
    yet hover; huddle home.
    Silent are her poem’s words.

      1. PressOn

        I agree. I’m reminded of the old BOOK joke, meaning Basic (or Bound) Orderly Organized Knowledge. It gets revised every so often to accord with current technology or conventions; the latest I’ve seen seems to use acronyms (PAGE, LEAF) similar to the faux words used for texting, but the idea is always the same. I first heard the joke almost 50 years ago, when names like UNIVAC and ENIAC were still being bandied about.

  43. Andrew Kreider

    The Virgin and Child with St Anne and St John the Baptist

    For starters, it’s not clear to me
    whose legs belong to whom – is Mary
    sitting side-saddle or on-the-stool?
    I get that Jesus is blessing his cousin
    but how come he has a receding hairline?
    And that hand – the oversized one pointing
    at the sky like it’s just dredged something
    improbable from one of the kids’ nostrils
    – did Leonardo forget to draw it first time round?
    Then there’s Elizabeth’s black eye – no one
    is talking about that – but it’s pretty obvious.
    And why, oh why, is no one wearing a shirt?
    With that much gauzy fabric hanging around,
    the least Mary can do is cover up a bit.
    They call it a cartoon,
    but I don’t think it’s very funny.

  44. PowerUnit

    Robert, you ‘Muricans need to learn to let go of your old, pointless traditions, your uni-colored, paper money. The “tooney” is my favorite coin. Can’t wait till they start minting fivers up here.

  45. PowerUnit

    Miss Flatron

    She’s getting’ old, and fast
    Square as old Mr. Welk and about as fun to watch
    The dancing gets a little fuzzy, the longer I sit and watch
    Old fashioned retro-stripes, body-fitted
    Bleached picture tube colors
    Yet who am I to complain?
    She’s been my companion for seven years
    Without her, I’d still be bashing that old box around
    Trying to keep her lit up, keep her fresh
    Trying to find lost words hiding in the corners
    Miss Flatron has not lost any of my words, yet.

  46. Arash

    Saturn Peach

    by Arash

    When it was my turn at last
    And she looked right into me,
    I reached for each Saturn peach
    That had rolled, one after each,
    Down the wet conveyor belt
    Into her frozen fillet
    And put it back with my fruits,
    While she, in her Chelsea boots,
    Must have not known, even felt
    That force which hitched me away,
    The deep horror that made me
    Pay the man and move past,
    As my eyes filling up fast,
    Into a world where we all
    pretend we stand up so tall.