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Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 256

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

The temperature is supposedly bottoming out today (20-ish degrees colder than yesterday). I don’t know, because I haven’t been outside yet. But it does “sound” cold. Before jumping into today’s prompt, I want to share a link with you for the final issue of Hobble Creek Review; I was fortunate enough to have four poems selected for it, including poems inspired by Night of the Living Dead, Bryan Adams’ Reckless album, and more. Plus, there are a few folks in this issue who’ve been interviewed and/or otherwise featured on Poetic Asides over the years. Click here to read.

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “My (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles might include: “My Sharona,” “My Two Left Feet,” “My My My,” “My Little Prince,” and so on.

Here’s my attempt at a “My Blank” poem:

“My Side of the Bed”

My side of the bed is constantly invaded
by small children and their wild animals,
caught and stuffed. My side of the bed
seems to always be growing smaller, or
perhaps, I am the one growing larger.

Last night, I had a dream that my side
of the bed did not have any children
or wild animals. No small feet pressed
into my back or heads resting across
my legs. It was a wonderful dream.

Do you remember, dear, when we had
the entire bed to ourselves? There was
my side of the bed and your side
of the bed, yet we always seemed
to meet somewhere in the middle.

*****

Publish your poetry!

Click here to learn how.

*****

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and daddy to five children (four boys and one princess). As a result, he’s no stranger to waking up with more people in his bed than when he fell asleep. Sometimes those people (little people) choose his side of the bed, sometimes Tammy’s, but usually they find a way to sprawl over both. Robert is the author of Solving the World’s Problems and can be followed on Twitter @robertleebrewer.

*****

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About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

181 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 256

  1. pduran says:

    My Goodness!

    You are in, you are out
    You are loved without a doubt.
    Sometimes great, sometimes small
    At some point we all fall.

    What can we do, where can we go
    Do we have more friends than foes?
    Sometimes up, sometimes down
    Life keeps going round and round.

    Where will it stop, and when will it end
    This vicious cycle of rotations.
    Sometimes weak, sometimes strong
    We must keep moving forward for ever-how-long.

    As I hold my head in one hand
    My goodness I think what’s happening.
    Sleepless, and trying to be positive about the days ahead
    My goodness, My goodness
    I am hoping and praying for direction instead.

    Oh My Goodness!
    Pamela Duran

  2. sthmadry1 says:

    My Life
    My life dances,
    dances on many lives,
    like they are a pile of leaves.
    carelessly carving paths.
    leaving beautiful waves
    in the lives
    my life raves through.

  3. anushray says:

    Voice

    Have you stolen my voice,
    My voice is clear but the song is lost,
    The shrill in my voice has lost its pitch,
    A baritone dusted away in a cacophonic melody.

    Have you stolen my voice,
    I am unable to hear myself,
    Yet dumb with perfect ears.
    I yearn for my own words.
    Am I living amongst a crowd,
    Or lost in a paradigm shift.

    Have you stolen my voice,
    I need it back.
    Without it I am lost.
    The whispers have stopped,
    The symphony that guides me is lost.

    Have you stolen my voice
    I yearn for it,
    Without it I am lost.
    I can only hear a shreik of myself,
    Not sure whether its a plea or a warning.
    The voice I lost is what I need,
    The sound of my soul is what I plead.

  4. gdecker1025 says:

    My Bipolar Princess

    Twinkling Stardust,
    Pretty and useless,
    Falls with awe inspiring life.
    Forgotten when she hits the ground,
    Whirlwind of wonder.

    Why?
    Why what?
    Am I pretty?

    Lost in the wrong subject…
    Floating on clouds,
    Deep beneath the pits.

    What?
    Did I miss something?
    I think I’ll…

  5. Clae says:

    My Familiar Enemy

    winter
    and I are enemies
    it’s cold cruel and contrary
    leaves my hair limp mind weary
    I am unforgiving
    of winter
    turns the land dry
    turns my skin dry
    until both crack and peel
    until I bleed
    so winter
    and I are enemies

  6. MY MIND WORKS THIS WAY

    Here is my experiment in Advanced Poem Technology. A poem embedded in a QR scan. If your cell phone has scanning capabilities, you can read the poem.

    http://wojisme.wordpress.com/2014/03/04/a-p-t-advanced-poem-technology/

  7. My Chalkboard

    I write down the name of the flower
    the seller shows me out of the bulb
    the size of a cauliflower in little amethylst
    invisible at the corner stone of my garden
    where a vine of spruce petunia lend off a way.

    I dig enough the winter deep
    long settled in the west,
    in the forecast of sleet these dreams
    my eyes with drops of moist breeze
    look over the earth dark in compost.

    On board, I draw the life
    that is always mean, I remember
    five harvests of last season
    few with older siblings dry out
    for next yield and popping through fences.

    A beautiful jade sings
    through the spine and olive and lime another
    over the tiny bushels it could be lilac
    and giving a rush to purple, spring flower
    I ran out of color.

  8. lionetravail says:

    “My Rules”

    Courage is neither master nor slave.
    It does not choose between wrong or right.
    Of each of us it is a part,
    enabling us to face the grave
    and yet retain stoutness of heart,
    while we yet walk within the light.

    No measurement’s exactly right
    to gauge how full might be one’s heart.
    At given time, when mind is light,
    and spirit’s joy could find naught grave,
    why courage, then, might play the part
    of absent moon or runaway slave.

    And yet, on battlefield, a heart
    just might be found to face the grave
    without a trace of fear. In part,
    this might be just God-given right;
    to deny the illusion of being fear’s slave,
    to make life count in day’s last light.

    For on mummer’s stage of life, the part
    we’re forced to play might need us grave.
    And though to learn our lines we slave,
    we cannot always get them right.
    And so, instead, we must take heart,
    even when our play’s out of spot’s light.

    Truth, this tragicomedy called life lends grave
    countenance to both Lord and Slave.
    And when our eyes see their last light,
    who is to say what’s done was right?
    Just know when soul and body part,
    what stays with soul’s what filled the heart.

    And so come we to matter’s heart-
    served we Dark or served we Light?
    And we may ask, one foot in grave,
    were we Master, or were we Slave?
    What role played we, what clever part?
    Our lives lived wrong, our lives lived right?

    Rule one, the heart, be not fear’s slave!
    Rule two, choose light, dark means the grave!
    Rule three, our part, fight wrong, affirm right!

  9. Jane Shlensky says:

    My Word, in four movements

    I.
    I put pins in exploding expletives,
    hobble and humble my swears
    as best I can, tribute to animals,
    gods, and working hands.
    I’ll be darned doggoned
    a monkey’s uncle, dadgumit,
    drat and rats, dag-nabbit,
    I keep my gol-darned mind
    docile as a dad-burned cow
    and herd my twitchy words slowly
    around the burning deserts of fury
    to fertile funny places.

    II.

    Truth be told, I want my words
    to be truth. Told. Even hard truths
    carry healing that a heart can handle
    by and by. Most words need not be
    said, she said, so fragile, inexact,
    workaday are they. Like these,
    for example. Be true
    would have sufficed, actions
    speaking louder…

    III.

    My word is my bond, my belief,
    imagination puzzling out meaning,
    my hope, my fantasy, my walk.
    My word is often yes, sorry,
    I love you, forgive me, please,
    bet on me. I carry My Word
    to sanctuary, kneel, and pray
    that my word reveal the best
    in me, do no harm, sooth
    like a balm, climb to God’s ears.

    IV.

    My word, will you look at that?
    For goodness(es) sakes,
    can you believe that?
    Good gracious, just imagine!
    Beat that with a stick, will you?
    Holy cow mackerel moly crap—
    mysteries surround us.
    My word, my very word,
    isn’t that miraculous?

  10. lionmother says:

    I’ve been away from here a long time writing prose and living my life without writing. Now that I am back here I feel compelled to contribute something. So here is my offering:

    My Time

    For years my time was spent tying shoes and picking up toys
    Arranging and cleaning and spending the day
    Lost in the mundane sameness of breakfast, school and home.
    Groceries bought and cooked and children brought and retrieved
    Then the years when only work filled my life and others
    Were forced to wrap themselves around my times

    Now I spend my time thinking of you and how we used to be
    When your two strong legs propelled you into the legal world
    And your booming voice loomed large over my life
    When your two strong arms held me in an embrace
    Before I slept and the world seemed small in that
    place I love between your shoulders and your neck

    Now I spend my time visiting you in various beds
    In various places where your arms are not so strong and
    Your voice has a huskiness
    Where your movements are tentative and your step
    Not the bold stride of an impatient man

    You reach for my hand and there is still the sweetness
    I felt so long ago and there is still the brightness in your smile
    As you recount your time to me
    Dreary hours spent trying to become the person your were
    Existing in yet another place not your home

    When I leave this last place the ache in my heart
    Resides and reminds me that you are not here
    I reach my hand across the expanse of our queen sized bed
    As I spend one more night without you.

  11. seingraham says:

    MY ALTER EGO

    is ballsy and unafraid of everything
    and will be found, like Leo, spread-eagled
    on the front of doomed ships
    screaming at fate but, unlike Leo
    will not die…

    My alter ego
    is armed with bon mots, and swords
    keenly sharpened on witticisms
    that I am convinced will slay armies
    and bring peace in the most
    desperate situations

    My alter ego
    knows the nature of darkness,
    the life-force of animals and the reason
    and need for light…

  12. PKP says:

    My Poetic Friend …. Dr. Nurit Israeli, whom some of you might know from Beyond the Dark Room, is a simply wonderful poet with a fabulous vision of life and its journey. I’ve encouraged her to post some of her work here and finally she gave it a go and registered only to be rejected by the dreaded AutoEditor… and a repeated message that told her that her poem was duplicate (although it had not posted). :( It would be a shame for our community to not have a chance to read Nurit Israeli’s work and so I am going to post a poem for her. I have alerted RLB and perhaps he, in his adminstrative wisdom can untangle this glitch. :)

    • PKP says:

      POSTED FOR DR. NURIT ISRAELI ….

      *******************************************************************************

      MY ARCHIVE OF MEMORIES

      My archive of memories is kept deep within,
      in long-term storage.
      Shelves filled with storybooks,
      layer-upon-layer:
      All that once was, and all that almost was.
      All that really happened,
      and all that could have been.
      Rich tales, with full-color images,
      sorted through year-after-year,
      arranged and re-arranged.
      Some perfectly preserved.
      Others missing pages.
      Some, forever on a front shelf.
      Dearly beloved. Retrieved untarnished.
      Others faded. Shrunk. Slowly disappearing.
      In bed, at night, I turn off the lights and pull out
      a book from a memory shelf to revisit a story.
      Sometimes I edit. I might add chapters.
      Or images. I may omit. Or devise a new ending.
      Sometimes I force a memory back, to create a new tale.
      Enchanting tales in the dark of the night.
      And I never know for sure where the memories
      end and dreams begin…

      • seingraham says:

        Nurit! – How wonderful to read your work here…I hope whatever administrative tangle is gumming up the gears on the street gets untangled so we’re able to see you visit often. I love the idea of memories being archived the way you describe, on shelves, like books — some new and in good condition, others faded, slowly disappearing…so evocative.

        Thanks to Pearl for playing the intermediary and bringing Nurit’s work onto the street this week.

      • ina says:

        This :

        ” In bed, at night, I turn off the lights and pull out
        a book from a memory shelf to revisit a story.”

        I love it.

      • lionmother says:

        Nurit, so happy to see your work here! This brought me back to that time in between waking and sleeping when you lie there recounting. Beautiful poem and welcome to what Pearl calls, “The Street”. Can’t wait to see more of your work.:)

  13. MY OWN MAN

                 I
          am me,                                                a guy
       who always                                          tried to be
    everybody’s ev-                                     erything. Mar-
                        ch-                                 ing to every other
                         dru-                                m beat, but not
                           me                                 eting my own
                            exp-                                 ectations.
                             Here’s                     my epiphany; my revelation…
                              this st-           ation in life is rife with a need to make
                               the time     for me to reach the heights to which I aspire.
                                Battered and tired, if I were to expire now, I       would go
                                  unfulfilled. Of this I am not thrilled. I have            shilled
                                   for bosses      and cut my losses when         needed
                                     and ha-        ve succeeded to some ex    tend, but
                                       al-             ways with an eye to impress those
                                        be           st left alone. If my light has shone
                                         on        you in any way, smile; be glad.
                                          It’s    not that bad. I have too many
                                           fires left un-ironed.    I’m just trying
                                            to find my niche      and quit bitch-
                                           ing about things       I cannot control.
                                         I’m staking my             claim and will be
                                      taking the blame.             I know in my soul,
                                        that I Can’t plea                 -se the world.
                                           My banner’s                     un-furled
                                              “Open For                        Business”,
                                        Being my                         own man
                                    I am.                                 Me.

  14. imofftoheaven says:

    I don’t understand why my poem wasn’t approved and then my reply to someone else’s poem, in which I was praising them, also wasn’t approved. Writer’s come from all different backgrounds and have different styles. This should be a community for promoting a writer’s uniqueness, not ignoring it.

  15. docrobb says:

    MY FIRST TATTOO

    Once obsidian
    now sooty grey
    ashen charcoal lines
    of post-adolescent rage.
    A god forgotten,
    a lover betrayed,
    a child abandoned
    seething acrimony
    and umbrage,
    enduringly emblazoned
    in dermal canvas.

  16. foodpoet says:

    My Escape

    My words ramble in
    Yet another attempt to to to

    Escape this workpile
    Shuffling in place
    Counting down time
    Always stuck in
    Place never
    Ending up ahead my words ramble…

  17. ewdupler says:

    My Insides Out

    For all to see,
    I’m plainly there.
    Not quite normal,
    but no one cares.

    On the surface,
    a stoic ripple;
    underneath,
    emotional cripple.

    In black recess,
    abyssal deep,
    no light of day,
    in dark I weep.

    My voice is weak,
    while hurt is strong.
    There are no marks,
    just feeling, wrong.

    I’ll never ask
    for what I need.
    This loneliness
    makes my heart bleed.

    If you should look
    you’ll never tell,
    but insides out,
    would look like hell.

    You don’t know
    who I might be,
    unless you spend
    some time with me.

    Take that chance
    and be a friend.
    If you don’t,
    how will it end?

    • livvyrose8 says:

      I have a 23 year old daughter, who I adopted when she was only a toddler. She is slightly mental handicapped from fetal alcohol. She is however a wonderful loving person with a beautiful free spirit. Far too many people judge her before they really get to know her. Her high school years were particularly painful. As kids can be cruel to those not considered normal they are more so. Your poem brought to my mind how she felt and how I ached for her.

      • livvyrose8 says:

        I wish I knew how to edit my replies I meant to write mentally handicapped not mental.

      • ewdupler says:

        Over the weekend, I had a chance to see our local high school youth volunteer for a major Special Olympics event. It was beautiful to see a side of young people who could put away their conception of “normal” and touch each other in a heart-felt way. Too often, we see the other side of humanity that thrives on causing emotional pain.

        I truly hope that your daughter is able to surround herself with people that break through those stereotypes and love her for the wonderful person she is.

        And to you, thank you for being a caring mother who remains connected and caring for her daughter.

    • PKP says:

      Lovely, aching and ultimately hopeful poem.

  18. drnurit says:

    My archive of memories is kept deep within,
    in long-term storage.
    Shelves filled with storybooks,
    layer-upon-layer:
    All that once was, and all that almost was.
    All that really happened,
    and all that could have been.
    Rich tales, with full-color images,
    sorted through year-after-year,
    arranged and re-arranged.
    Some perfectly preserved.
    Others missing pages.
    Some, forever on a front shelf.
    Dearly beloved. Retrieved untarnished.
    Others faded. Shrunk. Slowly disappearing.
    In bed, at night, I turn off the lights and pull out
    a book from a memory shelf to revisit a story.
    Sometimes I edit. I might add chapters.
    Or images. I may omit. Or devise a new ending.
    Sometimes I force a memory back, to create a new tale.
    Enchanting tales in the dark of the night.
    And I never know for sure where the memories
    end and dreams begin…

    Nurit Israeli

  19. lionetravail says:

    “My Dark Desire”

    How foolish and majestic is my desire for the dark,
    moments on my lips and tongue, one salacious bite!
    For white and light, more plentiful, I feel no desire spark-
    how foolish and majestic is my desire for the dark?
    Bittersweet, and edged with teeth like vicious shark,
    sin incarnate- I reject the common out of spite!
    How foolish and majestic is my desire for the dark,
    moments on my lips and tongue, one salacious bite!

  20. MY MIND GROWS WEARY

    My mind grows weary from the news.
    I scan the screen to pick and choose
    between the harsh realities
    and bits of pure banalities.

    I read and think the world’s gone mad,
    which leaves my heart both hard and sad.
    The brain is too small to absorb
    the nonsense from this earthly orb.

    I struggle with humanity
    and fear its loss of sanity.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  21. livvyrose8 says:

    My Olivia

    Just a pup you came to me
    Fast friends and constant companions
    Years passed us we didn’t notice the changes
    For everyday was as the first
    Then one day your pain couldn’t be ignored
    We realized together
    So wrapped up in each others company
    Time had stolen your youth
    Now we had to say goodbye
    A new road you had to follow
    One I could not walk
    I stayed behind
    You crossed the bridge
    Not to leave me
    But to wait for me rejuvenated

  22. Nancy Posey says:

    My Son
    for Shonda

    I know to you he looks like all those other boys,
    dark and brooding, ropy muscles just visible
    beneath the cutaway sleeves of his jersey.

    I know although you’re loath to admit it, you want
    to step aside, to cross the street at his approach,
    his face a mirror of those you see on the news.

    You cannot guess what he carries in his backpack—
    not guns or drugs, but books. He wears no chains;
    those shoes he worked long hours to buy himself.

    I try to fill his head with hopes and dreams;
    I tell him to believe in himself, to look eye to eye
    and smile, to offer a firm handshake, to speak up.

    The world is tough enough for all of us, without
    making it more so. I want to give him everything,
    but know full well, he’ll have to struggle for success.

    This isn’t just any young man, raised the hard way,
    on his own with no one to care. Give him a chance.
    Don’t take away his hope. This boy is my son.

  23. MY KEY TO LIFE

            There are keys to a life
           well lived. It starts with the
         heart. As long as it’s beating,         y            o          u’            r               e
      defeating the odds. The gods smile   up          on       you,        and           have
    that        drive, it’s what keeps you alive. You    drea   m of a    scheme    to achieve
    that        end, acquiring friends and acquaintances who maintain your connection to the life
      you’ve chosen. Even a frozen heart can find it’s pace when it is faced with these choices.
         The voices in your head are based on what your heart dictates. A collaboration most
            welcomed. It seldom lets
               you down. That’s key.

  24. My Side, Her side of the Bed

    My side–
    –Your side
    Makes a whole

    Two halves–
    –Who stole
    Each other’s heart

    My side, hers–
    –Her side, mine
    Our love, is in the middle

  25. My Two Lefts

    My right hand
    Prompts me to prose
    While my left is indisposed
    My left eye is posed
    For the task at hand
    While my right one is closed
    I suppose I own two left feet
    And left the right one at home
    Or perhaps they switched them at birth
    As a cruel practical joke
    Which wouldn’t be right anyway
    Guess I have more lefts than rights
    Hope I don’t get into any fights or flights
    Where I’d have run with these two left feet
    Although that’d be quite a feat
    Cause two lefts certainly don’t make a right

  26. PressOn says:

    I loved your poem, Robert, especially the ending.

  27. Cin5456 says:

    My Name is

    Mother named me
    for a moon goddess.
    My father named me
    for legacy’s sake.
    I name myself
    for happiness.

    Someday…
    the day after I find my heart
    I will find my name.
    What that will be
    is as yet unknown.
    The truth of who I am
    will come to me
    eventually.

  28. PressOn says:

    MY KIND OF TOWN

    Smaller than
    yours,
    and no stoplights.

  29. PKP says:

    With any luck, Nurit Israeli, a wonderful poet, will soon be posting here. I’ve sung the praises of RLB’s Street here… If she does manage to negotiate posting – I am sure you will enjoy welcoming her and her beautiful poetry as much as I (and some others here who know Nurit) .

    • drnurit says:

      Dear Pearl, I have tried repeatedly: scrolled to the bottom of the page, found space, typed poem, pressed “Post Comment,” and — nada… Now I am getting a response that reads: “Duplicate comment deleted; it looks as though you’ve already said that!” So sorry for my technical limitations. But, let me try to post a poem as a reply to you (after all, in many ways, you ARE the wind beneath my writing wings…) With your powers, you can probably move a poem to the right place…

      MY ARCHIVE OF MEMORIES

      My archive of memories is kept deep within,
      in long-term storage.
      Shelves filled with storybooks,
      layer-upon-layer:
      All that once was, and all that almost was.
      All that really happened,
      and all that could have been.
      Rich tales, with full-color images,
      sorted through year-after-year,
      arranged and re-arranged.
      Some perfectly preserved.
      Others missing pages.
      Some, forever on a front shelf.
      Dearly beloved. Retrieved untarnished.
      Others faded. Shrunk. Slowly disappearing.
      In bed, at night, I turn off the lights and pull out
      a book from a memory shelf to revisit a story.
      Sometimes I edit. I might add chapters.
      Or images. I may omit. Or devise a new ending.
      Sometimes I force a memory back, to create a new tale.
      Enchanting tales in the dark of the night.
      And I never know for sure where the memories
      end and dreams begin…

      Nurit Israeli

    • drnurit says:

      My archive of memories

      My archive of memories is kept deep within,
      in long-term storage.
      Shelves filled with storybooks,
      layer-upon-layer:
      All that once was, and all that almost was.
      All that really happened,
      and all that could have been.
      Rich tales, with full-color images,
      sorted through year-after-year,
      arranged and re-arranged.
      Some perfectly preserved.
      Others missing pages.
      Some, forever on a front shelf.
      Dearly beloved. Retrieved untarnished.
      Others faded. Shrunk. Slowly disappearing.
      In bed, at night, I turn off the lights and pull out
      a book from a memory shelf to revisit a story.
      Sometimes I edit. I might add chapters.
      Or images. I may omit. Or devise a new ending.
      Sometimes I force a memory back, to create a new tale.
      Enchanting tales in the dark of the night.
      And I never know for sure where the memories
      end and dreams begin…

      Nurit Israeli

  30. drnurit says:

    My archive of memories

    My archive of memories is kept deep within,
    in long-term storage.
    Shelves filled with storybooks,
    layer-upon-layer:
    All that once was, and all that almost was.
    All that really happened,
    and all that could have been.
    Rich tales, with full-color images,
    sorted through year-after-year,
    arranged and re-arranged.
    Some perfectly preserved.
    Others missing pages.
    Some, forever on a front shelf.
    Dearly beloved. Retrieved untarnished.
    Others faded. Shrunk. Slowly disappearing.
    In bed, at night, I turn off the lights and pull out
    a book from a memory shelf to revisit a story.
    Sometimes I edit. I might add chapters.
    Or images. I may omit. Or devise a new ending.
    Sometimes I force a memory back, to create a new tale.
    Enchanting tales in the dark of the night.
    And I never know for sure where the memories
    end and dreams begin…

  31. Sara McNulty says:

    My Time

    There used to be
    all the time
    in the world,
    youth so hopeful.

    Uncertainty
    grows with age
    nags at brain,
    how much is left?

    Enough to see
    new places,
    treasured friends?
    Best to make time.

  32. drnurit says:

    Trying to post for the first time — in response to today’s prompt (I apologize: not sure I am posting in the right place, but cannot see any other open space…)

    MY ARCHIVE OF MEMORIES

    My archive of memories is kept deep within,
    in long-term storage.
    Shelves filled with storybooks,
    layer-upon-layer:
    All that once was, and all that almost was.
    All that really happened,
    and all that could have been.
    Rich tales, with full-color images,
    sorted through year-after-year,
    arranged and re-arranged.
    Some perfectly preserved.
    Others missing pages.
    Some, forever on a front shelf.
    Dearly beloved. Retrieved untarnished.
    Others faded. Shrunk. Slowly disappearing.
    In bed, at night, I turn off the lights and pull out
    a book from a memory shelf to revisit a story.
    Sometimes I edit. I might add chapters.
    Or images. I may omit. Or devise a new ending.
    Sometimes I force a memory back, to create a new tale.
    Enchanting tales in the dark of the night.
    And I never know for sure where the memories
    end and dreams begin…

  33. pmwanken says:

    MY INSECURITIES
    (a piku)

    motivate
    yet
    debilitate

  34. Bruce Niedt says:

    My Job

    I have been married to you longer
    than most people have been married.

    When we first met I never thought
    it would be a long-lived affair.

    But as I got better at knowing you,
    got comfortable and more adept

    at figuring you out, I settled in.
    You welcomed me every morning

    and let me go every evening just in time
    for dinner. For thirty-seven years

    you have been my livelihood,
    my focus, my pride of expertise.

    But I’m tired now. I’ve had enough.
    What was once thrilling is tedium.

    I show up every day, but my heart
    is somewhere else. I go through the motions.

    If you love me, you will let me go.
    If my happiness means anything to you,

    you will understand when I say goodbye.
    I know you will carry on without me,

    and though you will miss me for a while,
    soon you’ll find someone else to take my place,

    someone else to seduce with your charms
    and then slowly suck them dry.

  35. MY PIANO

    Eighty-eight keys defines your scope. Every note
    I
    I
    A MESSAGE EXPRESSED—————————-
    I
    I
    IN A MUSICAL NOTATION—————————–
    I
    I
    played in syncopation and a duration so written .
    I
    I
    MELODIES THAT LIFT &——————————
    I
    I
    FILLING THE AIR WITH——————————-
    I
    I
    THE SOUNDS HEARD——————————–
    I
    I
    with lyrics that join a composer’s heart and mind.

  36. De Jackson says:

    My Goodness,

    But she can’t find the end of her story,
    can’t feel the buzz of glory above all

    this din. She spins words on their
    tails but somehow fails to give them

    any solid, silent place to begin. Give
    her a fulltime job, a bank to rob, the

    hectic pace of a coffee shop at noon,
    anything but this graceless plodding,

    pleading with prideful letters perched
    high on their ebony thrones. She’s

    scribbling down the bones and open
    -ing a vein and doing all the things

    they taught her when she decided
    she wanted this extraordinary mad

    -ness, but somehow she’s less than be
    -fore, scored only by her own skin. But

    give her a fresh page and a new pen,
    and good gracious, there she goes again.

    .

  37. MY BROTHERS

    when we are four, we become
    and extension of our father’s will.
    some bearing his wile, others
    his skill. a few have his nose
    and a few chose to bury
    hatchets once flinty and dull.
    coming together to weather
    any storm presented, and any
    resentment we shared had been
    pared to a shriveled core.
    no more divided; much pride
    in our connection and kinship.
    our ship, now righted is a sight
    as we trim the sails of brotherhood.
    it is good to have found our stride.
    there’s no hiding the fact we’re brothers.
    we’ve been long overdue.

  38. Chris says:

    My Ladies

    Her eyes are as bright as the full moon at night.
    Her laughter just might turn darkness to light.
    Her smile invites such a wonderful sight.
    Her voice can soothe in spite of all strife.
    By her I mean twice my daughter and wife.

  39. writinglife16 says:

    My patience

    My patience
    had come to an end.
    Shooting flames
    fed my rage
    While the blowtorch melted ice.
    The cops were not pleased.

  40. MY COUNTRY

    You said “no dogs” in your wilderness.
    And so I found a different
    trailhead to a farther-off wild range, unleashed
    my four-leg partner and off we went
    beyond the designated signs,
    into a wilderness less traveled,
    my dog scouting out-of-bounds adventure,
    a trek under lava cliffs
    to find a creek that glittered flecks of mica,
    quartz in granite – fool’s gold, you’d say.

  41. imofftoheaven says:

    do the comments need to be approved first or are mine just not going through?

    • When you’re new to posting to the site, your posts go into a folder and need to be approved before they get posted–and I’m the one that has to approve them to confirm the posts aren’t spam (we get a TON of spam). Once I approve the first couple, you won’t have problems anymore and the posts will show up automatically and immediately. Often, if the first posts by a new user are on Friday afternoon or over the weekend or on a day I’m not in the office, I won’t be able to go through the folder until I return.

      Anyway, you are now approved and can post away! Welcome to the Writer’s Digest community.
      Brian
      Online Editor

  42. imofftoheaven says:

    I never really write poetry. I’m more into writing short stories/fiction but I liked the prompt so I figured I’d do it for fun. So I wrote a silly/honest poem about myself :P

    My Weirdness.
    I love getting voicemails on my phone
    I get bladder shy when I’m alone
    I’ve never been good at writing poems
    This is my weirdness
    I may be slightly OCD
    I’ve had a song in my head since 2003
    I think my dog has a crush on me
    This is my weirdness
    I have a chronic fear of swallowing food
    And I’m scared that I’m misunderstood
    But despite all this my life is good
    This is my weirdness.

  43. Hannah says:

    Here’s my scribbles… :)

    http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2014/02/26/my-signature/

    Thank you Robert and boy can I ever relate!

    Happy writing poets!! :)’s

  44. DanielR says:

    MY MEMORIES

    My memories chase me,
    eager to grab my attention
    My memories tap me on the shoulder,
    in crowded airports and
    empty hotel rooms
    My memories gaze at me,
    in my mirror’s reflection and
    in fading photographs in frames
    My memories call out to me,
    in the laughter of small children and
    the melodies of love songs
    My memories fill me with joy and
    cause me to weep
    My memories, precious and treasured,
    They are mine alone, my memories.

    Daniel Roessler

  45. priyajane says:

    My Perspective

    My perspective
    Is tinted with my sunny glasses
    Is weighted as my pocket blooms
    Is clouded with my misty views
    Is swaying in my winded tunes

    Is flying with my bird envy
    Is blending in my black and blue
    Is bleeding in my dusky light
    Is reaching for my silvered moon

    Is drifting on my frothy waves
    Is searching for my velvet beacon
    Is running in my vicious circle
    and, changing with my colored seasons
    How about yours?

  46. Azma says:

    My shoes

    My shoes are worn
    but not so well.
    They have tread miles
    but have got enough fibre
    to stride farther
    and look beyond.
    My shoes have been fashioned carefully
    to resist chafes
    to climb
    to trek
    and also to tumble.
    My shoes are not the best
    They haven’t walked through the best
    But I would still never exchange them
    with yours.

  47. lionetravail says:

    “My Grandparents’ Music Box”

    When I was small, still yet a child,
    I’d visit with my Nana and Popop.
    They were survivors,
    of the Holocaust,
    and I didn’t understand just what that meant
    at the time.

    Now I do, of course.
    I understand, now, what the personal cost to them was,
    and how heroic they were to bring sons into the world.
    To be ever-present for grandchildren
    who were naive to loss, to pain, to humiliation,
    to personal tragedies beyond counting.

    To be able to go on.

    I don’t ever recall seeing them sad. Or crying.
    Or angry.
    As hard as that might be for me to now imagine.

    In their living room was a music box,
    black, and with a ballerina trapped inside
    a glass case.
    When you freed her by opening the door,
    she twirled, dancing with the beautiful music
    which haunts me even to this day.

    How lonely she was,
    the ballerina,
    and how inanimate she was
    when ignored,
    parodoxically resonated with the melody
    to which she moved.

    It made me sad to see her.
    It made me sad to think about her,
    alone and lonely and unmotivated to do anything.
    It made me sad when she danced,
    because she did so only to the same,
    hauntingly sad,
    music, which I can still almost hear today
    when I think back on those times.

    The ballerina in the music box
    still tries to make me cry,
    though not for her.
    It’s for the waste of time as a child who knew no better,
    to not get to know better my grandparents.

    And though they never showed their pain to me,
    my heart breaks for them and all they suffered in their lives
    when I think back on the girl in the box
    and her lonely little song.

  48. PKP says:

    Some great ones here… Back later to read and comment :)

  49. MY HEART SINGS

                   A sad lament     sent forth from     ♫
               deep in the bowel  s, are the shrieky
          howls of my heart. It started when the recent     ♫
      -ly departed moon crept between the reaching bra
    nches; twiggy fingers pointed skyward and the melody
       heard in whispers and whistles betwixt the thistles.
           Love decided to hide inside the boisterous
               beating ballad of that cardiac crooner
       ♫           and the sooner it was through   ♫
                         it would have a clue; my
             ♫               heart can’t carry
                                     a tune.        ♫
                                        ♥♥

  50. lionetravail says:

    “And Why Wouldn’t It?”

    Older, understanding comes hard,
    so against gen gaps I’m on guard.
    But milkshake’s recipe-
    so tasty, you’d agree-
    why wouldn’t it bring boys to the yard?

  51. Michelle Hed says:

    Here is my silly offering for the day…

    My Bladder

    can make me dance,
    it tickles inside my pants.

    (For every parent who has ever seen their child do a “pee-pee dance” on their way to the bathroom.)

  52. PKP says:

    My Secret Love

    Once I had, as the old song sang
    a secret love
    trilling in a room into which I
    peeked, a small child in a long
    night-gown, I, up and out of bed
    listening as a young mother
    my mother sang in off key
    clarity of her love, that secret
    love that spilled me out into
    their world to stand and listen
    to her sing wiping the kitchen
    counters until they gleamed
    folding a dishtowel and leaning
    against the sink smiling
    at songs’- end as
    my father slept softly
    steps away arms flung
    off the sides of the small couch
    and as she walked toward him
    I crept backward with soft feet
    back to my bed
    the song of my family
    playing on
    no secret any more

  53. Amy says:

    My View Beyond the Pane

    Apocalyptic
    sunrise shrouds in ashen gray,
    bound by tyrant clouds.
    What would the captive sun say,
    relegated by midday?

  54. My games master

    Look sharp, he laughed,
    using my last name as a whip
    keep working and you’ll get
    that antelope yet. I hated him

    he was probably barely shaving
    but he loomed large in his Adidas
    strutting with the diamond-hard pace
    of a man who fell into a fortune

    I didn’t want to hunt big game, sir,
    didn’t want to be outside in shorts
    and a rugby shirt, sir, not on the
    playing fields by the council flats, sir

    didn’t want to take a shower
    with forty other boys, all nervously
    clutching our towels on the cold tile floor,
    looking anywhere, anywhere but there

    We loosened our ties with grim humour
    and sang “So Lonely” while the West Indian
    kids swore about him in accents thick as syrup.
    And no one ever got an antelope.

  55. Domino says:

    Myopia

    It’s not so bad, being as blind
    (uncorrected) as I am, even though,
    for instance, my nearsightedness
    is so intense, doctors inevitably say
    of my astigmatism, with a little laugh,
    “That’s the least of your worries, honey,”
    which, to be honest, can be really annoying.

    Glasses and contacts are never on sale for me.
    (Note, some day, the asterisk in every eyeglasses sale flyer*
    *Only good for prescriptions within the realm of normalcy,
    and most definitely not for freakishly blind people with
    really thick glasses. Or something to that effect.)

    And yes, all that glass is heavy;
    even when one pays extra for the super-thin
    super-light, super-non-reflective glass,
    the curvature viewed from the front,
    reduces a person’s eyes to dolls eyes.

    Contacts are a miracle, and allow me the freedom
    of a glasses-free face. But they have their drawbacks too.
    They are never in stock and must be special ordered.
    And they cannot correct completely, so I admit,
    I sometimes squint or put on reading glasses.

    The real benefit comes when I must do tiny detail work,
    pulling out a sliver, embroidering something,
    a dropped stitch in knitting, checking to see if something
    is in someone’s eye (besides their finger).

    When I take off my glasses, the world transforms
    into a fairy haze of shape and color and blur,
    containing all possibilities.
    The microscopic world comes clear. (It works
    at least as well as Sherlock’s magnifying glass.)
    I can read any small print, almost indelible
    to even the youngest, healthiest eye.
    I can thread any needle in a single bound,
    retrieve any eyelash from the brink of catastrophe!
    My super-power at last comes clear.
    Superman, stand aside:
    Myopia=microscope vision.

  56. elishevasmom says:

    Robert, nicely done in The Hobble Creek Review. Love the poems.

    My Side of Beef

    The world gives me grief
    about so much stuff
    just guff
    and gaff really.
    But still nothing
    to laugh at.

    Stuff like sticking
    apostrophe’s in front
    of all the esse’s
    whether they belong
    there or not.

    Stuff like not using
    turn signals
    on the highway.

    Or stepping out into traffic while texting
    (with ear buds in).

    Or getting on the bus
    and only then
    start
    looking for their bus money
    in every
    single
    pocket.

    I could go on like this
    for hours.
    But in the end I guess
    they really only
    get my goat.

    I guess I should
    beef
    about more important stuff.

    Ellen Evans (c) Copyright 2014
    [2.26.14 – a “My_____” poem for PA

  57. My Travels

    Wander lust
    All states minus one
    Cross country
    Many times
    Wore a path on I80
    Hawaii awaits

  58. PKP says:

    My Side of Our Bed

    Over here there are dandelions
    dotting Elysian fields and
    sweet wine in crystal goblets
    sun struck rainbows and
    quick lit passion evermore
    Over there on the other side
    Your side my friend, my love
    A quiet snore

  59. Bruce Niedt says:

    My “famous poet friend” Jane Hishfield is currently working on a series of poems, probably for her next book, whose titles are “My __________.” You can find her eading one of them, “My Skeleton”, here:
    http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/639
    As for me, I’ll whip up something later.

  60. RJ Clarken says:

    My Yellow Legal Pad – A Mystery

    Still,
    when most people think legal pad,
    they think yellow paper and blue lines.
    The true origin of the yellow hue
    is actually a mystery.
    As far as we know…

    ###

    (A found poem.)

  61. Azma says:

    MYSELF

    Friends I have and trust are plenty
    But to myself I bequeath utmost certainty

    She is much of a muchness like another being
    knows and affected by what she is seeing

    Even so she has no flesh or bone
    My heart and mind she uses with a wiser tone

    She listens to whatever I have to say
    Keen, composed and always there

    When I express pain and pour out my sorrow
    She makes me feel like it will be gone tomorrow

    I can almost sense my head caressed
    my anguish lighter and emotions at rest

    When I look into the mirror, ‘gorgeous!’ she says
    Hence all flattered and confidence raised

    About people I’ve met or times I’ve made merry
    I talk to myself like a little kid heartily

    We let ideas soar and give imaginations a chance
    Like partners in crime plotting preposterous plans

    Friends I have and trust are plenty
    But to myself I bequeath utmost certainty

  62. JanetRuth says:

    Bob, your poem is perfect! …but oh, I miss those days! My bed seems much larger when listening for the sound of tires on snow and shoes being kicked off inside the door as it is ‘eased’ shut…

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