Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 256

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.


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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 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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181 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 256

  1. pduran

    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

    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


    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

    My Bipolar Princess

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

    Why what?
    Am I pretty?

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

    Did I miss something?
    I think I’ll…

  5. Clae

    My Familiar Enemy

    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. Neelam Dadhwal

    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.

  7. lionetravail

    “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!

  8. Jane Shlensky

    My Word, in four movements

    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.


    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…


    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.


    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?

  9. lionmother

    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.

  10. seingraham


    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…

  11. PKP

    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. 🙂

    1. PKP




      My archive of memories is kept deep within,
      in long-term storage.
      Shelves filled with storybooks,
      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…

      1. seingraham

        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.

      2. lionmother

        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.:)


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