Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 322

For today’s prompt, write a little poem. That is, write a poem of 10 lines or fewer. If you normally write long poems, do so in the first draft. Then, start deleting lines. Don’t worry; you can always save the longer version on your computer (or in your notebook).


Recreating_Poetry_Revise_PoemsRe-create Your Poetry!

Revision doesn’t have to be a chore–something that should be done after the excitement of composing the first draft. Rather, it’s an extension of the creation process!

In the 48-minute tutorial video Re-creating Poetry: How to Revise Poems, poets will be inspired with several ways to re-create their poems with the help of seven revision filters that they can turn to again and again.

Click to continue.


Here’s my attempt at a Little Poem:


It is a lot harder to count up
than count down. Ten lines
and a wedding gown. Birds

huddled on a power line
just out of town. A smile
that hides a bigger frown.

I don’t know the question
but I’ve felt the answer
longer than most. Do I have

the faith to count it up?


Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.


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286 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 322

  1. Mike Bayles

    A Little Dying

    summer’s last breath
    cornfields taken on a shade of gold
    a leaf turns colors
    a kind of sadness
    in a fading slant of light
    silhouetted birds on wires
    offer somber conversations
    cast shadows on the ground

  2. grcran

    New Silver Celtic Ring

    Not little, this thing
    This trysted lover’s knot
    That’s not what holds us
    We enfold us gently
    A soft taco of togetherness
    Flavours of trust and lust and it’s just us
    Tightly tied
    Knot little

    by gpr crane

  3. Walt Wojtanik


    Like a slap to the back of the head
    the awakening begins. Illusions
    become disillusionment, but
    reality is a great professor.
    The lesson is clear; that my
    expression is mine and
    competes with no one. My
    feelings steep within with a fire
    only a muse can stoke. The Great
    Tender of the great pretender.

  4. ppfautsch24

    Writer’s Lullaby
    The need to write today
    Get such joy and delight
    In what I have to say.
    Tiredness drifts and ambles
    Over my eyes,
    Lids shuttering softly closed.
    It was a blessed day;
    They seem to whisper
    With each sweep of lashes
    That caress my cheeks;
    It is time for sleep.
    By Pamelap

  5. PressOn

    Robert, your poem is softly stunning, or so it seems to me. The inner rhymes are like chimes, calling attention to the ultimate question. The tension between knowing (or not knowing) and feeling captures me further. This piece invites many re=reads, which I’ve done. Thanks for this.

  6. Walt Wojtanik


    Marcel Marceau never saw walls,
    he feigned containment. Hands
    reaching, feeling, searching.
    A panicked face comes to
    a screeching halt. To vault over
    the wall would call for faith
    that it’s there. Dare to be free.
    See past your self-imposed cell.
    You’ll do well to feel free,
    and not feel walls!

  7. Walt Wojtanik

    Death is a thief in the night,
    come to take life as his valued prize.
    Spend all good assets while alive,
    death will leave unfulfilled.

    This is my first attempt at a Sumathi poem. Sumathi like Naani, is one of the famous poetic forms in Telugu. The last line is the moral of the poem as written. These poems are educational tools used to improve the moral values of the children in Telugu schools.

  8. Walt Wojtanik


    Hey Venus, goddess of love
    you are the epitome to me.
    I can see your beauty clearly,
    your image is dearly cherished.
    Baby, you’ve got it,
    be you Shocking Blue,
    or in Blue Jeans. So if you will,
    thrill me with a love
    who shares your charms.
    (But be sure she has two arms?)

  9. Walt Wojtanik


    This night is not silent.
    Nights are never truly silent!
    Raucous. Rambunctious.
    Lights are not muted,
    New York City is always bright.
    And bright is very loud.
    Sight and sound conjoined,
    joined to be hip. Nipping
    the big apple in the wee hours.

  10. seingraham


    In the beginning, I didn’t believe in any of it: the doctors, therapy, medicine.
    I only knew that I wanted to sleep forever and not have to think anymore.
    And if I couldn’t do that – I wanted to die, just cease to exist.

    It sounds so clinical when I write it down, and looking back,
    I know; it wasn’t that cut and unadorned.
    No – not by a long thought. I hesitate to look at those years too closely

    even though I grasp the whole life left unexamined and all that.
    But, it would be catastrophic if digging into the soup that was
    my insanity helped it resurface in any way.

  11. Cynthia Page

    Little Low Town

    How little is a little town?
    How sad is a little frown?
    How effective a little crown?

    The monarch’s crown was sad
    enough to make me ponder. Had
    his crown been larger, just a tad,

    and moved his town to higher ground,
    then frowned at them from atop a mound—
    were his subjects saved instead of drowned,

    would his reign have been profound?

  12. Bushkill


    By this
    Strange request of
    Poetry arranged in effigy
    Through efforts great and sometimes
    Small to coalesce into artistic form.
    What right have you to chain me?
    What right to shackle me with such structure?
    I long for the freedom of verse you have
    Confined to a mortal coil of but ten small lines.

        1. Bushkill

          A little existential perhaps. I tried to match the number of words per sentence to the line in the poem. Some of the middle lines are not quite tied down as well as I would like and I need to pay better attention to those types of things.

  13. G.Wood


    I felt more Ginny than Juliet
    the night the pebbles hit my window,
    each chink an aggravating, awakening appeal
    to talk it out, one more time.
    But even with your soccer-field-bleached bowl cut
    and your calves and cleats,
    your pebbles couldn’t crack the leaded weight of my panes
    coupled with venetian blinds that held the dark inside
    and helped me hide from the glaring courtyard light
    reflected off your Umbros.

  14. Ann M

    Why Are the Leaves Are Turning Early this Year in New Jersey?

    Leaves are dropping early
    like dead insects
    in the dry grass
    while we bow our heads
    at Ground Zero
    and children climb fences
    into Europe and drown
    and the yellow rose is blooming
    in the parched garden.
    Why, anything?

  15. strandedmoon

    A thing

    On the road I had forgotten
    I found my dream that wasn’t true
    The results were longline and anchor
    Yet I don’t have a thing to follow
    Still waiting something to achieve
    From personal effort and leaving
    To shut the door that came along
    It seems I need to stay alone
    In putting up the pieces for my whole

  16. barbara_y

    A Time of Drought

    Rain is a dragon in a YA novel.
    Love is a unicorn.

    Someone back in geologic time, some tourist
    –bored with the drizzle and the fiery swarms
    trapping her indoors, tired of the hotel room
    with its ferns and musty Pre-Cambrian mysteries
    and endless games of Go Fish–
    wished: It Would Just Stop!

    Before YOU go wishing for love–
    build me a boat.

  17. Stephanie H.


    Just a little
    If you don’t mind
    A moment
    The dive bomb-
    Of kamikaze
    The pause before the hammer falls
    Is never long enough

    By Stephanie H. On twitter @Anna_Machova_

  18. Stephanie H.

    One Moment, Please

    Hope is a thing that rings
    lines stretched through dreams
    Humming with possibility

    Hope is a thing that brings
    Untethered ends that sting
    Frayed with reality

    Hope is the thing that breathes
    But never speaks
    forever holding

    By Stephanie H. On twitter @Anna_Machova_

  19. charmuse

    Iota of Time

    After we shared the smoked mackerel,
    olive bread, and wild rice we sautéed
    with fresh sweet pepper,
    you played your symphony in four parts
    − music strung together while caring for your
    failing mother still sporting a crown.
    Her tempestuous reign plays a little too long,
    scoring no surprises. But you orchestrate
    a chance that the last second, at least the last,
    may kindness be her finale.

    ~ Charise Hoge

  20. lsteadly

    My two cats left their lethargy at the door
    as soon as that humidity crushed us no more
    if they were judged, they’d manage to score
    perfect tens for their stunts across the floor


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