Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 244

I hope everyone had a fun and successful November of poeming. I know I did. Now, it’s time to get back to our Wednesday poetic gatherings (until April’s poem-a-day challenge).

For this week’s prompt, write a fog poem. The poem can be about a fog. It can incorporate a fog. Or it can delve into concepts like the “fog of war” or “foggy intentions.” Fog up the windows of your poetic spirit this week. Another prompt next Wednesday.

Here’s my attempt at a fog poem:


Fogs remind me of your footsteps
fading from me and how I let

you leave. The moon veils and unveils
intentions (some good, others not)

on a monthly cycle. Mirrors
scare me for what they might reveal,

doors for what they conceal. When you
leave, I have to say a quick prayer

and have faith that you will return.


Master the craft of writing fiction! Learn how.


robert_lee_brewer_1Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and a person who likes fogs, moons, and the sound of footsteps. He’s not so big on mirrors and doors. He’s the author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53) and a former Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere. Robert is 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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88 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 244

  1. dford

    Without You

    The cool, moist air rose from the concrete as I exited our house. The moon, sharp and white. The stars providing much needed guidance as my course was unknown. It would be the first time we separated; our first time alone. The fog was thick and intimidating as I attempted to lessen the glare. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, contemplating destinations in my head.

    I drove for hours, until I spotted a hotel. My eyes were weary, my psyche burdened. I glimpsed my phone. You’d left several messages, a few missed calls. My hands shaking, I began to read the words, certain there were more verbal assaults coming my way. Instead, it read: “I miss you. Come home, and please stay!”

  2. Kristie Ray

    The Fog’s Lady

    Cursed with whirling thoughts,
    I rose to find some comfort
    in a cup of warmth.
    Sitting at my table,
    I moon-gazed; dreaming of sleep.

    Outside the window,
    bright moonbeams pointed
    to an open field,
    where a pale, lady in white
    danced; smiling in the spotlight

    Her gold locks glittered
    as she twirled with the moonlight;
    the beams like ribbons
    extending from her fingers;
    like the light flowed out of her.

    Then the fog crept in
    and reached out to her
    with his ghostly arms,
    as if he owned the lady;
    Her dance for his eyes only.

    She hesitated
    and the smile left her pale face.
    She quit her moon-dance,
    wrapping the fog around her;
    and he embraced her. Hid her.

    Then the fog rolled out
    and the white lady was gone;
    swallowed by darkness.
    Sadly, her dance was finished.
    I saw the moon’s light had dimmed.

  3. Walt Wojtanik


    Misted and mystical,
    all statistical weather models
    can predict the external tumult,
    but it catapults my insides awry.
    Here’s this guy, mired in misfired
    emotions and with the notion that
    these cloudy thoughts ought not
    perplex me. Love had headed south
    and without ever leaving my roost,
    I get a boost from its departure.
    A heart sure in the ways of melting
    malaise and other such misplaced
    melancholy, will be more than jolly
    when the holiday draws nigh. This guy
    will be blessed in the love that’s gifted.
    The fog has been lifted nearly,
    and I can see so clearly.

  4. Cin5456

    No News

    At the end of the day
    I watch the news, eat a meal,
    read the paper. I could not say
    from one day to the next
    that I recall the headlines.
    My mind is otherwise
    occupied thinking of you.
    You are a clear day
    unlimited visibility.
    All else is fog and rain.

  5. De Jackson


    fog rolls in around the edges
    on sharp little cat feet,
    claws out and ready to


    no match for salt
    or this raging sea,
    she seizes only that
    which she can see

                                         His light.


  6. RJ Clarken


    “…the yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window panes…” ~T.S. Eliot

    The talking head on the television
    drew Sharpie lines to show the bad weather
    coming in, in whorls: no rescission
    either. It runs free without a tether.
    My small dog would like that analogy,
    but even more, I think he might desire
    liberation; an ‘on-the-prowl-ogy’
    or any such freedom he could acquire.
    So…snow, rain or Eliot’s yellow fog:
    Like dog kisses, they mar the window pane.
    It could be in New Jersey, London, Prague…
    or anywhere: it happens, fog, snow, rain.
    Did the forecasts once matter? Fog, now deep,
    curled once about the house, and fell asleep.


  7. writinglife16

    Through the Fog

    Ignorance was a thick fog.
    It had seeped in.
    Blinded hearts and minds to the truth.
    Mandela lit a light in that darkness.
    The fog could not stand against it.
    It gave way, as fog inevitably does,
    to the light of
    a new day.

    Rest in peace, sir.
    Rest in peace.

    p.s. No politics, just acknowledgment.

  8. uneven steven

    That most beautiful of lies
    dulls the senses
    to what is
    the way a watercolor
    bleeds the lily
    and the stream
    distinctions blurring
    hard edges
    this love a fog
    we shuffle through
    feeling our way
    until confident
    we are being called
    running headlong, fearless
    past walls and curbs and graying buildings
    losing ourselves
    thinking it all looks
    the same

  9. PressOn


    A poet, whilst out for a jog,
    had decided to start up a blog,
    but his blog was a bust
    for his poems were just
    plain inscrutable, penned in a fog.

  10. JWLaviguer

    Comes the Fog

    The fog lingers
    like a lover’s kiss
    on a cold, winter morn’
    the mist invades
    deep and damp
    it probes and searches
    for a chink in your armor
    you close the windows
    to the past, yet
    a crack in the pane
    stirs feelings long forgotten
    drawing the curtains
    hiding in the dark
    running from the
    knock at the door
    left unanswered
    as you throw the bolt
    and break the key
    in the lock of your heart
    and pray for the fog
    to envelop complete.

    JW Laviguer

  11. Nancy Posey

    Onward Through the Fog

    To know a place, visits its graveyards.
    Main Streets revive in cycles, windows
    no longer boarded up as new owners
    strip the brown paper off the glass,
    breathing new life into the storefronts.

    Brick-walled bistros may fill narrow spaces
    Where as kids we once sat frightened,
    waiting as the man with the metal contraption
    measured our feet for Stride Rites or PF flyers.

    The old train tracks sprout grass patches
    once the whistle is silenced one last time.
    One after another, big box stores sit
    empty, as bigger, blander buildings
    spring up, developers’ evil magic.

    On the main boulevard through town,
    gray gravestones sit in lines, metal vases
    all alike holding plastic fading flowers.
    But outside Madrid on a dusty hill,
    a cemetery sits, no two graves alike,

    each a work of art, a story in miniature.
    No one here remains “Gone
    but not forgotten,” no room
    for sloppy sentiment–“Heaven
    needed a new angel.” Instead,
    sculptured markers commemorate
    a different breed of lives lost:

    Placed by the final resting place
    of Steven L. “No Job” Soltow–
    a single flower in a pencil jar,
    teacup and saucer, left untouched,
    a simple epitaph: Onward Through the Fog.

    *I was in Madrid, NM, this summer (along the “Turquoise Trail”) and got to visit one of the most interesting graveyards I’ve ever seen. The markers were sometimes sculpted of metal. One was a cross formed by Corona bottles. This one caught my eye. I’m going to try to post a photograph of the grave I mention here on my blog (when I recover my password!)

  12. Heather

    No Repetition

    During the haze of the day
    tasks beckon.
    They stand in line,
    little sentinels
    marching ever forward,
    whether I’m ready
    or not.
    Identical in nature
    there’s just enough difference
    that complacency,
    villain of time,
    must be fought.
    The end of the day
    comes and goes
    as I wade through
    the soupy fog of my mind
    wondering just what I did today.

    ~ also published at

  13. Cin5456

    Forest Morning

    I walked a trail through tall trees at dawn
    The fog drifted between boles above my knees
    and swirled away as I moved. The squirrels
    scurried up and down red bark teasing each other.
    The busy chirping and twitter of the morning
    bug hunt cut the hushed forest air. Still,
    I thought I could hear the sun rising out of sight.
    It sang a high soprano note of awakening
    answered by the harmony of wild flowers.

  14. seingraham


    Child of winter pays attention
    to changes in the weather,
    The variations in snow
    and they are many
    Although to a newcomer or
    an outsider, they may seem
    inconsequential or so subtle
    as to be unnoticeable

    Skies range through all the
    shades of white: from ivory
    to cream to sheet-rock to
    hazel-nut heart to fresh snow to
    edge of night lace…

    But one of the prettiest things
    found in winter’s sky is the
    sun-dog, the vertical pale
    rainbow barely arcing,
    beside a hammered disc
    bearing little resemblance
    to old Sol
    It has to be extremely cold
    for one of these to put in an

    The same with ice-fog…
    Usually produced by the
    exhaust from cars, or
    as a by-product from
    refinery row
    One of the few happy
    off-shoots of pollution,
    I guess…

  15. writinglife16

    Foggy Weather

    The first time I saw him,
    I was amazed.
    He seemed to be walking in a cloud.
    He walked up and smiled down at me.
    I heard his words.
    I couldn’t understand them.
    I felt surrounded by his presence.
    He seeped into my pores.
    I felt damp, but warm.
    I could not seem to see him anymore.
    I only heard the sound of a fog horn
    as lips brushed mine.
    I turned around, looking for him.
    He was walking down the street,
    or was it the mist?
    I knew I would miss him.

  16. JRSimmang


    On these days,
    I walk through the
    clouds that have fallen like
    angels, bathing in the mists of

    -JR Simmang
    Funny thing is, yesterday, when this prompt was put up here, the fog in Austin settled into everything. Robert, you must be psychic.

  17. deringer1

    Foggy Bottom

    they call it Foggy Bottom
    but is the fog at the bottom?
    or is it at the top?

    they play chess there
    but no players know what move to make,
    and what, exactly, is their state?

    can anyone explain the revolving door, the
    labyrinth where bureaucrats come and go
    and shuffle papers until they can retire?

    I think there used to be statesmen there.
    perhaps they all escaped from the swamp.

  18. Benjamin Thomas


    Things are not as they appear
    When reflected through a mirror
    Obscured by imperfection
    What emerges from the fog
    Of misty perceptions may
    Cause a delay in traffic
    Collision of thought
    Mind benders
    Altering the course
    Of action
    Until the final
    Is unattainable

  19. Jezzie

    Lost in the Mist

    Walking the dog out in the wood,
    my head was well under my hood.
    Leaves underfoot, frost in the air,
    in a day dream, without a care,
    I was kicking up leaves, oblivious of fog
    descending the hills while I was walking the dog.

    Each step I took, there’d be a tree
    with arms reached out to capture me.
    Mystical faces, gnarled and dark,
    peered from the trunks, carved in the bark,
    contorted creatures with strange eyes that seemed to look
    back at me curiously as each step I took.

    There was no sound, no sun, no breeze,
    I was spellbound by magic trees.
    Each tree had a live persona
    and its own cosmic corona.
    Arms open wide they beckoned to me and my hound,
    as if they were calling us, but there was no sound.

    Sylvan Sage, so wise, so old,
    how many tales you could have told!
    Many centuries you’ve stood tall
    shedding your leaves, every fall.
    How solid is your trunk in your infinite age,
    with its mystical carvings, oh Sylvan Sage!

    You mighty oak, with branches wide,
    where squirrels find acorns to hide.
    Birds build nests way up in your heights;
    you shelter owls out here at nights.
    You have rescued our people from getting a soak,
    as they shelter from rain under you, mighty oak.

    Venerable oak, your tough boughs
    have sheltered man, our sheep and cows.
    You’ve watched life change throughout each age,
    you’ve stood there strong while wild storms rage,
    protecting those who are weak and vulnerable.
    Oh dignified, noble oak, so venerable!

    From in my dream I then awoke
    I said farewell to the old oak
    and sought the path that I had crossed
    then realised that I was lost.
    I listened in vain for the meandering stream
    that I had wandered far away from in my dream.

    Lost in the mist, deep in the wood,
    but it seemed my dog understood.
    He took the path that led us back,
    until I recognised the track.
    The clever lad had remembered each turn and twist,
    while I was deep in daydream, and lost in the mist.

  20. rosross


    Fog descended artlessly across mind’s harried hills,
    creeping into corners, holding shattered edge,
    folding through the memories, shielding old beliefs,
    hiding sore realities; gripping reason’s pledge.

    In the depths of drifting thought, hope chilled,
    huddled on horizon’s grappled breast,
    with vision clouded through the mist of fear,
    logic crucified; truth wore terror’s dress.

  21. Juneberry

    My mind is blank
    My skin is cold
    Yet every movement
    Feels so bold

    I cannot think
    I’ve lost my mind
    My head feels empty
    Without a single grind

    My walls are thick
    Covered in ice
    Do you have the knife
    To cut off a slice?

    I lay silently still
    Hidden in a fog
    I dream of darkness
    As I sleep in silence
    Still as a a log.

  22. bclay


    heavy –
    you weighed the night
    clouds and all
    down to the surface,
    I knew the feeling too,
    not being able
    to rain my tears
    from cumulus cries,

    its you –
    the little liquid perforations,
    the little persistent beads,
    the little molecules clinging,

    because water is so sticky,
    it reabsorbs itself
    into larger and wetter
    harder to forget memories,

    thats why our fingertips stay wet
    after we wash them clean,
    and our breath covers even
    the transparencies of glass,

    and when it is real heavy at night,
    and you can step out into a thickness
    of fog you have to push yourself through,
    it will collect on the surfaces of everything,
    forming tears all their own,
    and even though its not raining,
    you’ll still get soaking wet
    beneath the trees that are weeping.

  23. Janice | PoeticPonderings

    I once broke someone’s heart
    And shattered all his dreams
    All the plans he had for us
    Were washed away with tears

    The sun exploded from his sky
    And his world bathed in shadows
    He couldn’t bring me back because
    I’ve left his space and galaxy

    I saw his broken heart was bleeding
    I heard his many pleas
    But too much time passed by
    Someone else had captured me

    And he poured his rage into the night
    But I was but the fog
    He couldn’t hold me close
    Nor open my heart again

    Poor soul, I flew farther away
    And in his heart is left a door
    And I posses the only key
    Which I’ve lost for eternity.

  24. taylor graham


    Between the landing where they turn native
    cedar into carbon pencils, and the wreckage
    of a great madrone felled for its red burl,
    I’m wandering in my fog of human blindness.
    Eyes are a lockbox for what little the eyes
    can see. The map tells me nothing except
    where I am; no X to mark the spot
    we’re headed, guided by my dog who’s
    accountable only to her nose. Here’s
    the confluence where inversion joins a down-
    draft rich with the scent of a lady who
    yesterday went to pick mushrooms. My dog’s
    nose unravels whole narratives, these
    messages mailed from the Land of Lost.
    Clear as if written by a carbon pencil: “This
    way, through the fog. Just follow your dog.”

  25. Julieann

    Morning Fogs

    Low ground-fog lingers
    Over cattails and pussy willows
    Blanketing them in soft haze
    Before drifting away
    Leaving plants and ground exposed

    Morning sleep-fog lingers
    Over my consciousness
    Blanketing it in forgetfulness
    Before reality sets in
    Leaving pain and suffering exposed

  26. Jane Shlensky

    Sorry to recycle one from last week. I’m sicksicksick and meds are making me, um, foggy.

    Day Breaks

    In early milk glass fog,
    the trees
    stand half obscured,
    last leaves
    in puddles at their feet.
    They greet
    secretive day. The way
    they wrap
    their heads in cloud,
    you’d think
    no perching birds allowed,
    but we’re
    just biding time until
    a fist
    of sun breaks through
    dense mist.
    And there’s the sky.

  27. elishevasmom


    Ships colliding in the light of day,
    cars running off the road,
    massive pile-ups on Interstates,
    with tail lights and flashers
    providing insufficient warning
    in the near-zero visibility.

    Birds crashing into unseen objects,
    pedestrians stumbling on the sidewalk,
    conversations snatched from mouths,
    unsure of where to go, the air, laden
    with moisture unsure where to carry them.

    All because a cloud
    is afraid of heights—
    a lesson to be learned
    on the power of fear.

    Ellen Evans 12.4.13
    a “fog” poem for PA

  28. elishevasmom

    I guess with these two juxtaposed, the idea is taken from one extreme to the other…

    Nebulaphobia (Fear of Fog)

    En-wrapped in the
    Magician’s cloak,
    left bereft of confidence
    in our crippled senses,
    blindness in our visual field,
    perception of direction twisted
    and with it grasp of self.

    Decisions uninformed
    by normal physical signals
    become fearful, lonely—
    claustrophobic by the
    shifting ephemeral
    of not knowing.

    Ellen Evans 12.4.13
    write a “fog” poem for PA

  29. priyajane


    Some things in life come
    neatly wrapped ,
    Singing loud and clear
    from the front row
    Others, like gray shadows
    in dusky light
    saunter in
    from the fog in the throat
    Deepening our voices–
    All are welcome

  30. priyajane


    It slowly descended from the folded clouds
    Swallowing light along the way
    Leaping through his veins and neurons
    Taking charge of his bouquet
    Now he struggles not to lose
    Th sparkle of his gamma ray
    Lifting fog with with pen and paper
    Shining, what the heart displays —

  31. Walt Wojtanik


    Chestnuts roasting,
    this fire is toasting my frigid toes
    and frost nipped nose.
    Carols sung in season’s tide,
    there’s no harm staying warm.
    ‘neath the mistletoe
    I’ll kiss all comers. and
    will brighten the night
    with colored lights and tinsel,
    the kids know their wide eyes
    will find little sleep.
    Sleighs aweigh loaded
    toys for boys and goodies
    for cuties who are good.
    Reindeer fly, take my word,
    never seen; always heard
    thunderous hooves and rail
    grooves on freshly fallen flakes.
    What I offer is based in simplicity,
    which old and young can grasp.
    No matter how it’s said and how often,
    Merry Christmas to you!
    So, stoke the fire and toss a yule log,
    I’m listening to the “Velvet Fog”!

    Yes, a long way to go for a Mel Torme reference!

  32. Earl Parsons


    Daily we stumble through obscurity
    Some call it life
    Some call it fate
    Some call it destiny
    But to where it leads is a mystery

    Nothing ahead is clear to the eye
    Some things almost
    Some not at all
    Yet we ask why
    Why can’t we see what ahead lies

    The future is foggy for everyone
    That is a fact
    Nothing we can do
    Forward we must run
    We must finish this journey we’ve begun

  33. Clae

    Morning Fog

    Foamy frothy white, a cloud that slipped and fell to earth
    Onto the lowest patches of ground. damp and dense you hover,
    Glimmer in the palest early light. once touched by the sun ascend again.

  34. Glory

    Each Foggy Night

    Misty, murky, gloomy fog
    covers the night with instant depressing
    darkness to impede the buses
    as they silently glide, a walking guide
    with lantern in front.

    We with hands clasped, a winding line
    of well wrapped giggling
    home goers crowd the
    pavement with feet unseen, hands groping
    for solid lamp posts.

    London smog, again descends
    to snarl the traffic, dismay workers
    homeward bound, yet within the foggy
    mist see the dim glow of torches,
    hear cheery voices whispering low.

  35. taylor graham

    I’ll have a new fog poem a little later. But, here’s a prose poem from my new book of dog poems, just out: What the Wind Says.


    Through the fog I’m following my dog, from point-last-seen where yesterday an old man disappeared in fog along a winter bypass wallow, unmapped muddy road that swallows footprints as I walk shadowed in flashlight-halo. Fog shuts the world down. Nothing here but fog’s illusion of a missing man. Thick voices or is it water trickling through fog? This midnight search hollows possibilities in the mind as fog forms images of man-tree and tree-man drowned in fog. He could be anywhere, along with dragons and tall masted ships so far from navigable waters.In fog’s illusion the deep channel shallows. Still I follow my dog as fog swallows the world and its lost old man, and leaves only this: everything to the imagination.

  36. Domino


    floating, dreamily
    filling hollows, creases, and
    overflowing. Flooding thoroughfares with cloud wadding
    lowered to earth this once, as if mist were sentient
    and wanted a glimpse of life here,
    making it as whim
    -sical as
    one could


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