• THE
    Writing Prompt
    Boot Camp

    Subscribe to our FREE email newsletter and get the Writing Prompt Boot Camp download.

Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 259

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

For today’s prompt, write a poem from inside another person’s skin. Sound icky? Well, I’m talking more like metaphorically. For instance, pretend to write a poem from the perspective of Walt Whitman, Amelia Earhart, or that strange looking guy on the bus. Use this prompt to get outside of your own persona and into the persona of someone (or something, I suppose) else.

Here’s my attempt at writing a poem inside another person’s skin:

“Bug”

I’m not trying to creep you out
or, dare I say it, bug you.

It’s just getting to be spring,
and, well, you got easy pickings.

That is, until you start putting
all your food in plastic baggies.

Then, it’ll be time for me to move
on and, yes, bug your neighbors.

*****

Write better poetry than Robert!

You don’t need an Advanced Poetry Workshop to write better poems than Robert, but it sure doesn’t hurt to get feedback on your poems from other poets and a great mentor.

Click to continue.

*****

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and the author of Solving the World’s Problems, which does not include any poems from the perspective of a bug delivering horrible puns (promise!). A former Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere, Robert has published poems in Hobble Creek Review and The Pedestal Magazine–as well as several other online and print publications. In April, he’ll be reading poems at the Austin International Poetry Festival with his wife, Tammy Foster Brewer. Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.

*****

Find more poetic posts here:

You might also like:

  • No Related Posts
  • Print Circulation Form

    Did you love this article? Subscribe Today & Save 58%

About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

149 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 259

  1. lionetravail says:

    “Since I Came Back From Vietnam”
    by David M. Hoenig

    You don’t really want to see me,
    but there I am, less than a ghost
    of what I was, and I scare you.

    I smell funny, my hair’s crazy,
    my eyes roam, and my lips mutter
    apologies to people long dead.

    I lived and fought in Vietnam,
    served the country I felt I owed,
    and was hated for what I did!

    I saw things there that you, in your
    world of safety, light, love, order,
    could not believe, never handle!

    Limbs- not of trees, but friends- flying
    in splashes of blood like thrown paint,
    as one you knew lost all he was.

    Stalking darkness, terror at night,
    never knowing if your killer
    was hiding behind the next tree.

    Shells, men crashing through heavy brush,
    horrors screaming to fray your nerves
    thinner than the clothes I now wear.

    It’s not that I won’t work, or can’t,
    but that I can’t even face what’s
    there inside: grief, fear, and shame.

    Because I came back! Others didn’t;
    they were better as dead heroes
    than as living ‘baby killers’.

    I was young once! I loved movies,
    and girls, had dreams of what I’d do,
    before I knew how death would taste!

    I’m not crazy, but I’m broken,
    thoughts bent, straightened, bent again- snap!-
    like my glasses, wire-framed and taped.

    I can’t relate to you at all!
    You never had a brother bleed
    onto your lap as you held him!

    Never had to tell him bad lies,
    like, he’d make it, wasn’t so bad,
    as his life dripped between your hands!

    We lived and died so far from home,
    came back to home so far from us,
    and lived, only to lose ourselves.

    Try to forget you saw me here,
    scary, sorry, ghost of a man,
    who must suffer demons each day.

    Demons which ask, why did you live?
    Why did we fight? Why did I die?
    Why did they hate their own, poor sons?

    Now I am not smiling at you,
    talking to you, thinking of you,
    you who goes there, in freedom’s grace.

  2. veronica_gurlie says:

    The Train

    To long she has been smoking, to fast to blow her horn
    she’s been dirty, dark and moping and obviously to worn.
    people don’t ask about her or stare at her no more.
    lovers have left her happily, other have stayed with a scorn.

    She use to be unstoppable, could push against the wind,
    now she sits and moans and groans, as if she’s at an end,
    but old girl still has some heart in her, and won’t be down for long,
    she’ll go places, move again, that’s if she will go on.

  3. REBECCA MARSH says:

    My Mask

    Most days I put you on,
    covering up so others dont see,
    the person that I really am, me.
    To everyone else im the happiest girl,
    whose energetic, cofident and fun,
    I seem like it all together,
    I wish I was that one.
    when I get home I have to be myself,
    I take you off, placing you on the shelf,
    beside the door for the next time I leave,
    I wouldnt want to lose you,
    you hold the perfect me.
    i wish i could wear you all the time,
    for i have a family who sees me cry,
    they wish that I was who I was before,
    but I cant find her, she is no more.

  4. REBECCA MARSH says:

    The young barista

    Who is that man, and
    will I see him again?

    A skinny double shot expresso,
    even his order is in my head.

    What is he like and
    is this how it feels?

    fate doesnt exist,
    yet this curiosity is so real.

    I’ve never felt
    this enticing feeling before.

    What could it be and
    why do I want more?

    Why today, why now,
    and will I see him again?

    Who could he be
    and what just happened?

  5. lionetravail says:

    “Out of the Box”

    Occasionally, a good leeching is good for the soul.
    And when the spirit is polluted with the vicissitudes
    of Sodom and Gomorrah,
    the red gold must be weighed before perdition collects its tax.

    When one is a visionary, it is rare for others to share
    in the unique clarity with which the one is blessed.
    But the work of a prophet is to cry the word of God loudly,
    even into the wilderness of sin,
    and regardless of whether the guilty listen.

    And when the cry is not enough to turn aside Judgment,
    well, then the ripping begins.
    And continues,
    until the fear of God returns to the Godless.

    And if not of God, then of death, which is a reasonable surrogate
    when punishment for transgressions goes lacking.
    To spare the rod, when the jingling of tuppence and guineas
    rings up the blight on the spirit like a whore’s bill,
    is no matter of mercy.

    Oh yes, sometimes a good leeching is needed:
    and while I walked the streets with my tools and righteous rage,
    even His ministering angels sang hymns along with me
    as Whitechapel bled her disease into her ugly, cobbled streets
    in a futile bid for purification.

  6. PressOn says:

    GETTYSBURG IN NOVEMBER

    Everett is still talking.
    He has been talking for two hours.
    Well, he should.

    The people expect this of him:
    to take this field in Pennsylvania
    clear back to Thermopylae.

    Men, living and dead,
    struggled here
    that a nation might live.

    They will little note nor long remember
    what I say, but they must remember
    what the men did here.

    I have a few words
    to say about that,
    Will they hear?

    They are tired.
    I will make this short and sweet,
    like the old woman’s dance.

  7. stoland1999 says:

    Forced Caution

    Out for my morning walk, did those people stare at me too long?
    Likely not, just need to keep moving on.

    One foot in front of the other. Keep the pace, soon I will be done.
    Just one more small victory that I will know I have won.

    Jake strides beside me, sole companion and friend.
    He means so much more to me than most would comprehend.

    Supposedly safe and tucked away, waiting for the call.
    When I will be in front of everyone and bare my past to all.

    Unable to make real connections, living a life of lies.
    Trust is a luxury I can no longer afford, a fact that I despise.

    There, that man… He makes my instincts flare.
    Must get back inside, there is no time to spare.

    Hurry, Jake! Quicken the pace, I know you feel my fear.
    You brush against my side, reassuring me you are near.

    Back inside, I make the call and report what I have seen.
    They understand my situation, a life living in between.

    Hidden, but not safe, living a life of constant fear.
    I’ve given up everything to keep safe those I hold dear.

  8. Michelle Hed says:

    So she told me about her MRI…

    Starting slowly, just twenty seconds
    a few whirls and beeps prick at my ears.
    Then longer, two minutes, then three, five, back down to three,
    the noises get a life of their own, helping pass the time as I can’t move.

    An animated one-legged drinking bird with a suction cup for a foot
    hops, sticks and pops over and over within my brain;
    The drum beats of a ritual powwow
    send their rhythms through my mind;

    Then a jackhammer with the monotonous drip of water
    into a metal pail perform a duet along my synaptic waves;
    Finally, it’s over.
    Sliding from a tube with no water, I wait.

  9. veronica_gurlie says:

    I have been getting into writing triolet poems:0) It says 8 lines and this rhyme scheme. slant rhymes are suppose to be okay to. I tried to keep the punctuation to my way of speaking in the meter:0).

    A Poem Written from the Perspective of Maryln Monroe

    I was good– I was best,
    yet still the men just let me go.
    I held their heads on my breast,
    I was the good– I was the best.

    My outside looks was oh so blessed.
    boy, I had charm, I had a glow,
    I was good– I was the best,
    yet still the men just let me go.

    • veronica_gurlie says:

      sorry everyone, I fixed some punctuation. Please read this one:0) did my best at punctuating to go with my voice.

      I was good– I was best,
      yet still the men just let me go.
      I held their heads on my breast,
      I was the good– I was the best.

      My outside looks was oh so blessed,
      boy I had charm, I had a glow,
      I was good– I was the best,
      yet still the men just let me go.

    • veronica_gurlie says:

      one more try at fixing this poem up.

      MY FINAL WRITE:

      I was good– I was the best,
      yet still the men just let me go,
      I held their heads against my breast,
      I was good– I was the best.

      My outside looks, was oh so blessed,
      boy I had charm, I had a glow,
      I was good– I was the best,
      yet still the men just let me go.

  10. lionetravail says:

    “There, But For The Grace”

    You don’t really want to see me,
    but there I am, less than a ghost
    of what I was, and I scare you.

    I smell funny, my hair’s crazy,
    my eyes roam, and my lips mutter
    apologies to people long dead.

    I lived and fought in Vietnam,
    served the country I felt I owed,
    and was hated for what I did!

    I saw things there that you, in your
    world of safety, light, love, order,
    could not believe, never handle!

    Limbs- not of trees, but friends- flying
    in splashes of blood like thrown paint,
    as one you knew lost all he was.

    Stalking darkness, terror at night,
    never knowing if your killer
    was hiding behind the next tree.

    Shells, men crashing through heavy brush,
    horrors screaming to fray your nerves
    thinner than the clothes I now wear.

    It’s not that I won’t work, or can’t,
    but that I can’t even face what’s
    there inside: grief, fear, and shame.

    Because I came back! Others didn’t;
    they were better as dead heroes
    than as living ‘baby killers’.

    I was young once! I loved movies,
    and girls, had dreams of what I’d do,
    before I knew how death would taste!

    I’m not crazy, but I’m broken,
    thoughts bent, straightened, bent again- snap!-
    like my glasses, wire-framed and taped.

    I can’t relate to you at all!
    You never had a brother bleed
    onto your lap as you held him!

    Never had to tell him bad lies,
    like, he’d make it, wasn’t so bad,
    as his life dripped between your hands!

    We lived and died so far from home,
    came back to home so far from us,
    and lived, only to lose ourselves.

    Try to forget you saw me here,
    scary, sorry, ghost of a man,
    who must suffer demons each day.

    Demons which ask, why did you live?
    Why did we fight? Why did I die?
    Why did they hate their own, poor sons?

    Now I am not smiling at you,
    talking to you, thinking of you,
    you who goes there, in freedom’s grace.

  11. Heather says:

    Growth

    Though my skin thickens
    a new sense of awareness
    permeates my being.

    Though my surroundings
    expand around me
    they feel tighter, snug,
    and offer comfortable resistance.

    As I press against my boundaries
    they gently give way
    rearranging to accommodate
    my growing self.

    Most days, lulled to sleep
    by the constant rocking of carriage
    I feel the gentle touch of something warm
    pressing to see if l am there.

    Though I hear the comforting sounds
    of a gentle soothing voice
    I can’t call back, yet,
    in time l will be known fully to all.

    ~
    also posted at http://heatherbutton.com/2014/03/20/growth-poem/

  12. foodpoet says:

    Feel my coldness
    I am bitter
    Relentless
    Eternally cold

    Feel my coldness
    I freeze you out
    Leave you cold
    Without hope

    Feel my coldness
    Bones brittle
    No snap left

    I
    Am
    Polar
    Vortex

  13. writinglife16 says:

    I am cat

    Human.
    I am cat.
    I rule.

    You want me to prove it?
    You worshipped me.
    Man could not have built the Sphinx
    without four legged influence.
    You are not that imaginative.
    You now feed me.
    You love me.
    I love you.
    Unconditionally.
    As I did when you built
    the Sphinx.

    Human.
    I am cat.
    I rule.

  14. seingraham says:

    THE HIGH LEVEL

    Admired by all, I am an architectural wonder
    I span the mighty North Saskatchewan
    and in so doing unite the north and south sides
    of this province’s capital city here on the 53rd
    parallel
    Built over one hundred years ago, I am a feat
    of engineering prowess and able to carry cars,
    a street-car (on my very top) a train (on my lowest
    level),bicycles, and pedestrians too
    On special occasions, there is a mechanism that
    allows a spectacular waterfall to spill off my side in
    a very natural way, splashing to the river far below
    And soon, there will be tiny lights outlining my whole
    frame to celebrate my existence, put there by
    citizens of this city who raised the money to
    commemorate me by lighting me up!
    All of these things are great, and I love and relish my history
    It’s not what I’m most known for though…

    No, if I’m honest, and edifices—not unlike people of my era,
    that still stand in such magnificence —are nothing if not that…
    I must confess, albeit reluctantly, that when people think
    of me, or mention me in passing
    It’s usually because someone has used me as an instrument
    in ending their life…
    Yes, it’s true, unfortunately…no matter how many safeguards or
    precautions the city has made
    The truly determined suicide has always found a way to climb over
    or around them, and ultimately plummet to their death
    I used to feel quite terrible about this, but it has happened so often
    and as I say, the people using me are so determined
    I finally realized I am offering a service in a way…after all, it’s a relatively
    neat way to end things
    Far kinder to those left behind than having to deal with the aftermath
    of a loved one’s brains being blown out, or their wrists slashed…
    Even hanging can be quite gruesome, or so I’ve heard; mind you…
    Those who go missing and aren’t discovered for some time, or never
    Well, let’s just say, spending long periods of time in a body of a water,
    even one as cold as this, does not enhance the appearance of the human body
    Still…perhaps a view of a metropolis as fine as this one, or even the winding
    brown serpent below me…
    Maybe things such as these provide a modicum of solace to the wretched
    who leave the earth by way of my girders; I like to think so.

    • PressOn says:

      I just love this piece. I often wondered at that “first robin” notion too, especially since so many robins, and bluebirds, winter in the part of New York where I live.

  15. Cin5456 says:

    Professor Emeritus

    My students aren’t kids anymore
    like they were when I started teaching.
    Now I lecture more often to adults
    no longer naïve about their futures.
    I see middle aged men and women -
    serious, studious, persistent -
    who hope to learn a profession.
    They are tired of changing jobs
    every four or five years, cast off
    at the whim of callous managers.
    The mass-classes of a hundred or more
    have a share of teenage mutants, too.
    They still goof off as if life is a lark,
    just like they did in my first years.
    Soon I’ll retire, while my peers are here
    trying to become professionals.
    They understand the value of knowledge,
    and discard nothing as unimportant.
    If the teens worked as hard,
    with intent to retain,
    teaching college would be the joy
    I looked forward to. Instead,
    I dread retirement; its idle days
    haunt my night-scares – in which
    I morph to marble, and these lessons,
    carefully planned, begin as oration,
    but die in my throat – a gargle of stone.
    In the dream that terrifies me most,
    from which I often wake screaming,
    no one here notices my sudden silence.

  16. Chris says:

    She has a heart, my favorite part; in fact she’s got mine too;
    sexy thighs, and perfect eyes with a most amazing hue.

    Her arms are strong, her legs are long, her hands can calm a storm.
    Her laugh excites, her smile lights a room and makes it warm.

    I do rejoice to hear her voice as it falls across her lips.
    Other sounds from all around are soon to be eclipsed.

    Even though her splendid glow is one I can’t forget.
    I have a way, seems everyday, to bring her excess fret.

    The stunning place upon her face from forehead to her chin,
    Turns misaligned about the time I get under your skin.

  17. Sara McNulty says:

    In Her Skin

    What alien form has assaulted my mind?
    I hear the words as clearly as day
    in my head, but my mouth does not obey.

    People are kind to me here, the building is clean,
    outdoor surroundings are pleasant.
    Activities are offered, but I am not always present.

    My independence dwindles week by week.
    I use a walker, dress myself, brush my hair,
    except on those days when agitation flares.

    After sixty-four years of marriage,
    my husband was gone–eight years now.
    I bear the depth of my losses–somehow.

  18. De Jackson says:

    How to Write a Poem from Inside Another Person’s Skin

    Sound icky?
    It’s tricky,
    really. Hard enough
    to grab that pen with
    your own hand, stand
    tall, sans serif, and spill
    your heart to snow. But
    to blow open someone
    else’s vein, strain some
    other sting into song?

    Let’s begin.
    Strong, first you must peel
    yourself to center, let the petals
    flow, go where they may. Clip your
    tongue to hold your own words
    at bay, and listen long for a
    distant sorrow’s sigh.

    Put on weird
    shoes, and lose your fear
    - fling it far and wide and
    steer yourself down a road
    you’ve never been. Go barefoot
    if you must, trust the dust to
    guide you past the stranger
    scars. The stars know nothing
    of outward hue, dark or light
    or restless. Recognize their
    shine? We’re not all that
    different really, if you plunge
    deep enough into rhyme and
    reason,
    rind.

    .

  19. lionetravail says:

    “Incomprehensible”

    Day 9-9-3: captivity-
    I don’t understand my jailer.
    She croons with repetivity,
    but hurls curses like a sailor.

    She feeds me twice a day on food
    she wouldn’t even feed her dog.
    (Oh he is one annoying dude;
    he gets his own, but tries to hog!)

    Take yesterday: she cut my claws,
    when they had finally grown out fine!
    And weekly mouth-rape must break laws,
    which she calls “Toothy brushy time”!

    I bring her mice which never squeak,
    as gifts to offer sincere thanks-
    she throws them down her stairs of teak
    and compliments my “little pranks”.

    She’ll pick me up to cuddle me,
    and wake me from my beauty sleep.
    But rub my side against her knee?
    That’s why the roller tape she keeps!

    I hate the dog- he tries too hard,
    and won’t help me in any caper.
    He gets poop scooped out in the yard-
    I use my tongue as toilet paper.

    I tried to kill her just today,
    by getting tangled underfoot
    while on the stairs, but, what to say?
    It failed, but still, the plan was good.

    And so day 9-9-4, methinks,
    will suck some bouncy, puffy balls.
    I’ll catch my twenty hours of winks,
    and ponder how much prison galls.

  20. PowerUnit says:

    Douglas Glover

    His brain cells fire on all ten trillion cylinders
    At once
    It is hard to keep up
    To his variations and urges
    He overflows with elaborate and conflicting literary devices
    Which he deploys recursively
    An endless loop of prosaic stimulants
    I now see why his characters all seem savagely insane

    [i]*I attended his reading tonight. I’ve been reading him obsessively – his ‘Attack Of The Copula Spiders’ might be the best book I’ve ever read. I attend his writing workshop tomorrow.[/i]

  21. Amaria says:

    The Wife

    When I said I do
    I did not know
    that one day you
    would leave me alone.

    As the years pass by
    you have slowly drifted
    far away from home
    leaving me ice cold.

    This house that you built
    has become my prison
    trapped inside this tomb
    with no way out.

    As you slowly drive off
    I close my eyes
    and pray that I
    could just fly away.

  22. LeeAnne Ellyett says:

    Captured at four,
    Not knowing anymore,
    Mom, my family, all cried for me,

    Taken away, scared today, to a new home,
    Introduced to the place, plenty of space,

    Swimming with the girls, they don’t like my swirls,
    Raking, biting, isolation is my salvation,

    Training and aiming to fit in, to begin,
    I’m going to be a star,
    To entertain you all,

    I’m also going to be a doner, giving sperm,
    Producing offspring, that I never see, they will sing,

    Soon to cry, as I say goodbye,
    You too are separated, oh my genetic jeans dance,

    And then the anxiety and the depression set,
    Day and night, alone with fright,

    I grew and became a man, bigger and bigger,
    Than, some ever thought I would, should,

    In a cement pond, no magic wand,
    But the show must go on,

    And as the years go by, I cried, cried,
    The sound didn’t travel on the ocean floor,
    Only the walls of a cement hole,

    No one heard, the trainers listened,
    But the message was unwritten,

    Then at last, I somehow cracked,
    Took a life, thrashed and smacked,
    I hang my head in shame, I’m not to blame,

    We are feared, killer whales,
    But really to no avail, we are peaceful creatures,

    Now, what can be done, to save me, No “Shamu”, or the Zoo,
    Explore nature and the wild,
    Be free and object to Captivity.

  23. julie e. says:

    BUT MAYBE

    I kind of hate
    seeing the mess I’ve made
    of this marriage
    my anger my pride
    –maybe
    but maybe
    I can convince the children
    it’s their mother’s fault
    after all she should have
    taken my bullshit
    she’s my wife.

  24. Azma says:

    BEING TRODDEN

    It was eleven summers ago
    when they first laid me
    in front of their door.
    I remember the ‘welcome’ on me then
    being a brighter yellow.

    I’ve watched their son grow
    from stumbling and clumsy steps
    of two or sometimes four
    to muddy clomping
    so full of vigour.

    Now my time is done
    as my appearance has withered
    I’ll be replaced by a brand new one
    to impartially welcome
    and invitingly be trodden.

  25. Domino says:

    I’m Not Old

    Beneath the powder, the botox, beneath
    the rouge and lipstick and beneath the scars
    from the surgeries lies the truth. The truth
    that I am not getting any younger
    and that truth terrifies me. See, if I
    keep my body as toned as a young girl’s
    and if I keep my face as tight and trim,
    the truth will not be evident. It will
    be as if those movies I made when I
    really was young, forty or fifty years
    ago were illusory, not really
    me. I’m still young, dammit, and I will look
    as good as I did then, no, even bet-
    ter. I am thinner and everyone knows
    that nothing tastes as good as being thin
    feels. Nothing. This is how I hide from that
    truth. I hide behind the mask of my face.
    I hide behind the busy-busy life
    that makes me look important and if I
    dress in the latest fads, trendiest clothes,
    if I go to all the openings and
    smile (with all the flexibility of
    a stone), I will still appear to be young.
    Photoshop is my favorite thing of all.
    Everyone will say, “There she is, as young
    as ever.” All the while, time passes,
    and the inevitable creep of age,
    the crepey skin, sunken eyes, it draws me
    back to apply again to doctors to
    lift this, tuck that, dye or moisten or hide
    or whatever it takes. I berate them
    for failing me, I know I don’t look right.
    And I berate my (younger) self for the
    years in the sun, back when I was that young,
    that girl I don’t recognize any more.
    I want to kill her sometimes, and, in fact,
    I kind of have killed her. I take off my
    glasses to look in the mirror and I
    won’t read what they say about me because
    I am not old. I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.

  26. priyajane says:

    I’m Just A Gardener
    Please don’t yell at me, like its my fault !
    I don’t control this nature’s wrath
    All I do is, play with children
    tending to them, like my own
    planting ideas in their beds
    caressing their fingers and growing heads
    breathing in, the same fresh air
    loving life, and taking care

    Please don’t use big words I don’t understand
    Speak softly, and gently, just like I do to the plants
    Look at me, not down to me
    my legs do tremble with that glance
    my skin has travelled with the sun
    and nails have soaked in earthy fun
    I’m not as manicured as you
    but trust me – I’m real, –from this world , too
    and know a little bit more than you
    of tenderness, and velvet rue

    Don’t expect me to do all your dirty work
    No paper green can mend red hurt
    let me help you feel these plants
    show them respect, instead of demand
    Please, please don’t yell, it’s not my fault !
    I’m just a gardener, doing more than my job

  27. THE BIRD-BANDER
    That one with the double-fast heart
    still beats tattoo against my hand
    that held it palm-up to the heavens;

    lifted it, fledgeling, from the nest
    and with one breath across feather-
    wings, urged it to fly. Not fly –

    to soar and swoop over April pasture-
    land on back-swept wings, zinging
    insects in flight above a confluence

    of creeks – their spring flow a trickle,
    and by August dry. That tiny bird,
    iridescent blue-green-violet as if

    to encompass earth, water, and sky –
    when summer goes, it will trace
    a thin-line flyway to the under- half-

    sphere of our globe. And I, who held
    it in his withered hand, will shiver
    through his winter, waiting its return.

  28. Jane Shlensky says:

    New Member
    I’m sociable and knowledgeable;
    I’m competent and smart.
    I like to show that I can have a heart.

    I’m insightful and analyze—
    it didn’t take me long to see
    the problem with this group: no me!

    You clearly need a leader to take charge,
    to tell you what you need to read and think,
    to guide you to be (more like me) distinct.

    They say God will fulfill all needs
    and that’s why He sent me to you,
    to be your teacher—prophet too.

    It seems you’ve let each person speak,
    but why? You must forgive my zeal.
    Listen: I’ll tell you all I feel.

    I’ll take the reigns and manage you.
    Won’t that be fun to book club right?
    I’ll be assigning what I like to each of you tonight.

  29. lionetravail says:

    “Out of True”

    Just once, I wish the sky at sunrise
    was the same as the day before it.
    Just once, that the new dawn showed the same
    as the sunset last night, when Terri and I started up the beach.

    It’s my nightmare, my living hell,
    but she thinks its just schizophrenia
    and will get better with the medications they prescribe.
    I know better, of course.

    The ocean’s careless muttering is to our right,
    like every night we walk,
    like every night I can remember.
    It seems we never sleep, our walks forming an unbroken chain of memory.

    “How romantic,” she says, smiling.
    It is, and isn’t, because I know that daylight
    will show a sky which is different from what it was
    a thousand years ago for me: blue and normal.

    As the sun rises, my heart does that little horror jig it always does,
    and I want to moan with my fear and loss,
    but Terri is with me, unaware we’ve just walked
    into a new day farther from home.

    Because every morning we somehow slip
    even more out of true, and we walk off the
    beach more lost than ever, no matter how many pills I choke down.
    Terri thinks it’s just schizophrenia. I know better, of course.

  30. docrobb says:

    I wrote this one from the perspective of the infamous Fred Phelps of Westboro Baptist Church, who is reportedly on his deathbed. The opening lines are drawn directly from signs his church members have used in the past.
    -rlh

    “Pastor Fred’s Deathbed Prayer”

    Pray for more dead soldiers.
    Thank God for IED’s.
    God hates your tears,
    God is your enemy.

    It was God who sent the shooter
    To kill those pagan kids
    Because you let queers get married,
    Just like Sodom did.

    Thank God for AIDS
    To kill those queers.
    All fags burn in hell,
    I’ve been saying it for years.

    But now as the twilight
    Of life closes in,
    I need a God
    To forgive all my sins.

    I hope I’ve been wrong
    In what I’ve said in my past.
    I hope for forgiveness
    And mercy that lasts.

    A god filled with hate
    Is no god at all.
    O God please redeem me,
    And don’t let me fall

    Away from the grace
    I so badly desire.
    Please take my hand,
    And pull me from the fire

    Of the hell I’ve created
    Where others could burn.
    In exchange for my hatred,
    It is a hell that I’ve earned.

    The only God who can love me
    Loves gays and people with AIDS,
    Fallen soldiers and innocent children,
    And everything else God has made.

    If I had a new sign
    It would say, “GOD HATES NOTHING”
    And “GOD IS LOVE”.
    Then I would finally be saying something.

  31. Hannah says:

    From the perspective of a granite stone…

    http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2014/03/19/risen-one/

    Thank you, Robert for the prompting to try on new skin.

    :)’s to everyone!

  32. PKP says:

    Song of My- Selfie

    In years past I wrote on, in ribboned words unfurled
    Now, returned for just a moment twirl each lock uncurled
    Stroke my beard – white as snow
    and stop in reminiscence glow
    struck as with a meteor, now I know
    for thou and thee the truest of all majesty
    I turn, take and post a vibrant, vivid selfie of me

  33. Nancy Posey says:

    After spending a week in Haiti, I was haunted by the idea that we, in our well-intentioned efforts, might fail to recognize the dignity of these people who want hope and who want their children to be fed and educated, thinking our way might be the best for everyone.

    Marc

    I speak your language well, I know,
    and so you never even try
    to learn the very basic words,
    hello, and please, thank you, goodbye.

    You blithely flaunt your ignorance;
    I find it hard to disregard
    your attitude toward me and mine.
    I bite my tongue, but it’s so hard

    to keep from saying how I feel.
    I thank you for your kind concern.
    You want to help my people—sure–
    but you’re the ones who need to learn

    that we survived before you came;
    and we’ll live on when you are gone.
    We may not have the things you have
    but still somehow, we get along.

    Do you know,–underneath our skin—
    we’re not so different after all?
    We both have pride, we both want to
    succeed, to get up when we fall.

    We want to keep our children safe,
    we want to see them grow up strong,
    without the fears their parents knew,
    with simple sense of right and wrong.

    So put away your camera, please,
    and put away your cellphone too.
    If it’s my world you want to see,
    I’m glad to show it all to you.

  34. amgarwood says:

    I’ve never really attempted poetry, at least not for public. I wanted to write this without announcing what I was writing about; so it may be obvious, but feel free to guess what it is. Any constructive criticism on my writing would definitely be appreciated. Enjoy.

    ——————————————————-

    I flow, endlessly, giving myself
    Over and over, never stopping.
    Long fingers of my life
    Reach deep into dark jungles.
    Ripples at the edge of my
    Existence fold on crowded beaches.
    My emotions vary, quiet and smooth here,
    Angry and tempestuous there.
    I bring destruction to the unsuspecting.
    I bring relief to the needy.
    I even give of myself to
    Those that may never see me.
    And I am mistreated by those
    Who use me the most.

  35. Cin5456 says:

    Cheap Hair Cuts

    Lord, she’s a chatty lady.
    Grey hair and a grandchild
    for each one. Of course,
    she has pictures I should see.
    For all my cooing and compliments,
    Not even a dollar tip. Oh well -
    Shake it out, sweep it up – next.

    Does this child know how to sit still?
    Cute dimples, but I’m about to lop off an ear.
    He’ll get cake in his hair at the party.
    Shake it out, sweep it up – next.

    Cute guy – a bit cold, though, and
    picky about his sideburns.
    I wouldn’t mind seeing him smile.
    Shake it out, sweep it up – next.

    Poor girl, with acne and freckles -
    Let’s see if I can help her feel pretty.
    Such silky hair and bright brown eyes;
    I bet she turns heads in a few years.
    Shake it out, sweep it up – next.

    They come to me for a quick fix
    hoping to look their best.
    A job interview, a birthday date,
    or a husband returning home.
    They tell me about family
    or school, sports, or their job.
    I hear about hair disasters and
    how excited they are about some event.
    Most of all, I see their insecurities
    laid bare by my scissors and comb.
    Shake it off, sweep up, go home.

  36. JWLaviguer says:

    It’s a Dog’s Life

    I’m so happy to see you!
    You’ve been gone forever!
    Don’t leave me alone anymore!
    I don’t know what you’re saying
    so I tilt my head to the side
    I recognize that thing you say!
    That’s me!
    Feed me!
    Let me out!
    Why are you picking that up?
    That’s gross!

    JW Laviguer

  37. From Matthew 23:37

    America, O, America,
    you who abort unborn babies,
    imprison the innocent,
    and set the guilty free,
    how often I long
    to embrace you,
    like lovers,
    yet you
    won’t.

  38. Cin5456 says:

    Grocery Cashier

    I see human angst
    in checkout lane 6

    while running groceries
    over the scanner I watch
    life’s miseries cross their faces

    too many have too little
    to spend on too much need

    I see it in children’s thin faces
    and in small hands clutching
    a package of bologna as if

    that is all they will eat
    for the rest of the week

    angst comes in all sizes
    not reserved for parents
    kids understand empty shelves

Leave a Reply