Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 337

The past few weeks, I’ve been able to share recently published poems with the week’s prompt. That’s been fun, but all I have to share this week is that I’ve received some new rejections. However, that doesn’t get me down, because I know rejection is part of the process. Time to get more submissions out.

For today’s prompt, write a persona poem. Susan J. Erickson wrote a great guest post on persona poems yesterday. In persona poems, poets write from the perspective of someone (or something) other than themselves. For instance, write a poem narrated by Ronda Rousey, Ron Burgundy, or a Bob Ross painting (yes, inanimate objects are fair game too).

*****

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 Persona poem:

“my name is bob”

& i paint happy little trees
happy evergreens & creeks
that snake out of mountains
under happy little clouds

reflected on the surface
of a soothing little lake
& my happy little brush
dabs the colors to canvas

& my voice soothes
like the lake like the sound
of a brush crunching
& painting is a joy

*****

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.

*****

Find more poetic posts here:

You might also like:

  • No Related Posts

136 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 337

  1. Rasia J. Nole

    With a name like Love

    I only
    Lead to
    Loss.

    Like a
    Little bird
    I will
    Fly away.

    I is
    In all
    The parts
    Of life

    But I
    Live to
    Hurt and
    Lose the
    Best of
    Us in
    this lively
    Crew.
    I am
    A living
    Breathing thing.

    I exists
    To literally
    Crush our
    Little hearts
    In the
    Blink of
    An eye.

    I am
    Not to
    Be trusted.

  2. Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    bad ley lines
    by juanita lewison-snyder

    got a truckload of hurt deep down in me
    the kind aint nobody can reach,
    pain that won’t heal, a bad juju
    a slow poison which does nothing but leach.

    there’s a black dragon running right through me,
    magnetic, bipolar, and mean
    an invisible force that swindles, exploits,
    and torments both innocent and fiend.

    i’m a roadmap for spirits & demons
    manifestations that slither and rage
    a vault full of sickness, depression, insomnia
    and parasitic nightmares that gauge.

    i’m a fault line of geological formations,
    the planet’s arteries and veins
    an energy vortex crisscrossing a nation
    with mosquito minions at the trough, restrained.

    i’m a portal to a whole ‘nuther dimension
    a wormhole of travel interstell
    a landmine of lost paranormals
    an underground paradox of hell.

    © 2016 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  3. stepstep

    Le Butterfly

    I fly freer than any bird
    Higher than the skies can hold,
    No thoughts, ideas, or imagination
    Enter the essence of my soul.

    No one knows how I exist
    Yet, freedom holds and molds me,
    Never, ever to let go
    Until I’m seen no more.

    LaSteph

  4. SarahLeaSales

    A Persona of Grace
    Grace Anna Goodhue,
    a persona of grace.

    Twas never church creeds,
    but the spirit of the sermon
    that lit the path beneath her feet,
    leading her in music and song
    that were her forms of worship,
    education, her edification.

    She taught those who could not hear
    to read lips—
    to learn the language of the perfect pitch.
    She taught them how to live not just in their world,
    but in the world around them,
    so that they could be a part of both.

    With an unspoken understanding,
    she was to marry another,
    but then she met Calvin
    whose presence and poise
    was most gentlemanly
    with his quiet dignity.

    She knew he needed her
    more than she needed him,
    and for seven days,
    in the land of Montreal,
    the man Calvin proved himself to be
    ice to her fire.
    She was his babbling brook
    that bubbled over his still waters,
    which would ripple all the way to Capitol Hill.

    With her husband who spoke in silences,
    she followed him,
    even as he followed her.

    As she listened to yarns on politics
    behind closed doors,
    she knitted away her anxiety,
    ticking away the quiet.

    The President’s equal, was Grace Anna—
    his Florence Nightingale—
    this lady with the knitting needle,
    mightier than a sword.

    She was a kindred suffragette—
    a word that had always sounded
    like a battered woman in a tattered dress.
    When the right was recognized,
    giving women the voice of men
    to elect those who would rule over them,
    she was there,
    filling out an absentee ballot,
    the flash of cameras dazzling in her depths.

    An English rose, was this First Lady,
    coming into the bloom of her time,
    shining as the morning dew.

    Like an archaeologist searching for an ancient language,
    digging through tomes,
    brushing them off like old bones,
    she searched for a slice of herstory—
    knowledge about the former mistresses
    of the great, White House;
    but, like the Bible in ways,
    it was about the men who won the elections,
    with the wives supporting them from behind,
    raising their children,
    doing what they did
    so that their husbands could do what they did.

    Though he never spoke of the issues of women,
    he showed his respect in so many words,
    in so many ways.
    While he served the public,
    she served the private,
    her influence shielded like the veil of a widow,
    a little light filtering through in times of his need.

    Threads of conversation would unravel,
    and she would pick up the ends,
    knitting them back together.
    Never did she want another to hear in him
    what was unspoken—
    a man in the greys of melancholy.

    Like Cinderella,
    she was the princess of the American palace,
    with the mice family her friends—
    a love for the underdogs,
    be they mice or women.

    And then, in July of 1924,
    the smallest thing,
    unseen,
    killed her son,
    leaving her with one
    who would live to the New Millennium.

    It was Grace who would wipe her husband’s tears
    with the lace of her handkerchief.

    Of an open door, she would write,
    her spirituality shining through it,
    banishing the darkness that was her grief.

    When Calvin said a depression was coming,
    she thought of all people,
    he would know.

    When she became a widow,
    spending the next quarter of a century of her life as such,
    she spoke no longer of the man
    whose voice she had been.

    “For almost a quarter of a century she has borne with my infirmities, and I have rejoiced in her graces.”
    –Calvin Coolidge

  5. grcran

    Where There’s Stink, There’s Deny-er

    Below your street you know i know i’m gross.
    You make me flow. Your nasty excrement.
    Too bad i go to waste. Hell bent. Well sent.
    Too many folks proximity too close.

    This poem in pieces circles round the bowl.
    Come join me in the pipe. Give me a flush.
    With microorganisms we all blush.
    So sue me. I’m your sewage. Pay your toll.

    by gpr crane

  6. RJ Clarken

    Voice of a Mom Who Steps on a Lego Piece in Her Bare Feet

    O anguish on my rug!
    It dug
    into my poor bare sole,
    a hole
    that was quite vast, it seemed.
    I screamed.
    Yes, Legos double teamed.
    But what can you expect?
    My foot was sorely wrecked!
    It dug a hole. I screamed.

    ###

    1. ppfautsch24

      Oscar, Golden Statue
      I am golden, beholden to rise to new heights.
      But, what to do about this new plight?
      It continues to be a blight
      on my red carpet night.
      As some don’t get the invite
      that leads to a boycott.
      Feeling slighted that one’s color of skin
      doesn’t seem to be inclusive or fit in.
      Or be recognized in some eyes.
      So, they continue to fight
      to help make things right.
      As it should not matter the color of ones skin
      or what movie they are in.
      That a nomination is within.
      I shall stand tall and on my shoulders
      bear the results
      that yet again it is an insult.
      To Denzel, Will, and people of color or ethnic
      backgrounds.
      That show power and zeal; where is the nomination justice found?
      For years many have held me in their hands
      clutched tightly and spellbound.
      Stared at delighted and not believing
      or expecting me to be theirs.
      Thanking many; forgetting some.
      I may be the standard by which they are judged or snubbed.
      I am the golden statue.
      By Pamelap

  7. RJ Clarken

    Ovillejo for a Snow Plow Driver

    Snow Plow Truck Driver

    The snow was piling high.
    That’s why
    with plow, I soon ‘decapped’
    (it snapped!)
    some mailbox from its post,
    almost.
    The owner yelled, “You’re toast!”
    He witnessed my mistake.
    I didn’t swerve or brake.
    That’s why it snapped, almost.

    ###

  8. tunesmiff

    BRIDGE DWELLER
    G. Smith
    ——///—–
    I hear you passing overhead,
    I feel your eyes unmake my bed,
    I smell your fear as you rush past;
    I see you look away with dread.

    How I got here, no one’s asked,
    My tiny world, your world so vast;
    Cardboard, blankets piled high
    To shield me from the wintery blast,

    And though not warm, at least it’s dry.
    I watch the seasons roll on by.
    You do not know the things I see,
    When dreams flee and angels fly

    Romanticize it- yes, I’m free,
    But is this any way to be?
    Alone, you say, “I’m not like he,”
    But my demons keep me company.

  9. PressOn

    GETTYSBURG IN NOVEMBER

    Everett is still talking;
    he has been talking here for two hours,
    as well he should.

    The people here expect this of him:
    to relate 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 never forget
    what the men did here.

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

    Here, everyone is tired;
    I will make this short,
    like the old woman’s dance.

  10. seingraham

    GRIEVING IN PUBLIC
    (for Celine Dion)

    There has been so much talk, gossip
    Mon Dieu – if Rene was here, he would
    be laughing with me
    “Only a manager”, they’re saying, he was
    “only a manager”
    He was my everything and they know that!

    Look at the lines outside the cathedral
    – so many weeping for my love, my man
    Who is that woman so near the limo?
    Oh, Mon Dieu – it is my own naked face
    stares back from the tinted window
    I look so pale, so old, so haunted
    It matters not – I am all that, and more.

      1. seingraham

        Thank you so much, William. I have admired Celine for many years, believe her adoration for this man was genuine and think the hole his absence will leave in her life more immense than most people might imagine. He was with her since she was twelve years old! Mortgaged his house to get her career going (and just so people don’t think he was some kind of pervert – her parents, especially her Mama, were very much involved with what was going on until she was older; they didn’t marry until she was 26, I believe). Even with all her success, they still struggled to have children – eventually having one son, then some years later twins. Just watching her standing by his casket (it turned out for 7 hours!) – no makeup, hair pulled severely back, I thought how large her grief was writ, plain for all to see. Thanks again for your kind comments.

  11. Karen

    Who are you?
    Do you even know?
    Act one way in public
    act another way at home.

    Do you give your best
    to those you hold dear
    or could you give a shit less
    what they feel and fear?

    Are you filled with hatred
    you cannot release
    seeing nothing but red
    the anger unleashed

    creating heartache untold
    blaming everyone around you
    as sheer chaos unfolds.
    Time to accept you don’t rule

    the roost or the nest
    other people have a say
    be respectful at its best
    it will return your way

    creating a new feeling in your chest.

  12. De Jackson

    Dragon Song

    There’s a longing trem
    -bled within her, a bitter embered
    fire, an unquiet wanting.

    She aches to feel exquisite
    in her own fine scaled skin,
    dance within some happy
    web of wings. String
    her tail with syllables
    of treble, fret,
    adagio kisses
    breath of breeze
    quiet psalms.

    The sky is calling. See
    that distant cloud? Watch
    her stretch her silvered
    throat and whisper lull
    it close,
    sizzle her way
    to the stars.

    .

  13. woodpeckerduo

    Your Choice

    You should read this. You have no choice.
    I’m your destiny. I’m the voice
    Which preordains the way things are.
    Your fate. Your ship. Your guiding star.
    These times when you feel sure you opt
    For one or the other you are stopped.
    I’m fate. Tis done. Just play along.
    Try to enjoy. Sing a glad song.
    There’s no free will. You’re sold. You’re bought.
    You’ll learn to live with me. Or not.

    by gpr crane

  14. Jane Shlensky

    Call Me Kitty

    I hate the way
    he calls me
    Kate,
    a name as sharp-edged
    as he perceives me.
    Battle ax.
    Cleaver.
    Heavy as a machete.

    “She needs a man
    to tame her
    mouth
    and parts
    south.” Laughter ensues.
    How jolly
    the idiots are tonight.

    I hear the kinds
    of jibes they hurl
    as if a girl
    were a toy
    for their joyous
    frolicking
    from bed to bed.

    Tame indeed.
    A man indeed.
    Let them find a real man, then,
    for a real woman
    and they shall see
    love is not so meek
    as Katherine, nor so
    sharp as Kate,
    reforms itself
    to be regarded
    kindly, equally.

    Every woman
    is a snake charmer.
    Let them be mindful
    of that.

  15. Shennon

    White Rabbit Tempts Young Girl

    Follow me
    If you dare
    to trust a half-clothed
    wily hare.

    But first we must
    Adjust your size
    Remaining large
    Would not be wise.

    You’ll meet all my friends
    Including each twin
    You might glimpse the cat
    With the guiltiest grin.

    Any style of hat
    You desire at all
    Our Hatter can design
    Without defect or flaw.

    But steer clear the queen
    For each game that she plays
    She creates her own rules
    And particular ways.

    Her temper is fierce
    Her manners ill-bred
    If you cross her just once
    She’ll have your blond head.

    Our acquaintance now
    I must antiquate
    For you see, my dear,
    I really am running late.

    –ShennonDoah

  16. Sara McNulty

    The Queen’s Rules

    That young snippy miss
    is far too brazen
    for a mere visitor.
    She must be dismissed

    at once, I say.
    She is curious and stubborn
    when everyone knows
    there is only one way.

    Where I rule
    there are no tea parties
    with crazy folk.
    I am nobody’s fool.

    Off with her head, no delay
    off with yours, if you disobey.
    Now I am off, eager to play
    a outstanding game of croquet.

  17. Beth Henary Watson

    Baby Goes to Europe

    One day there were lots of people
    And I ate and slept on Mom’s lap
    Before we ran down a long hall,
    Me in Mom’s arms, all day in fact
    They held me all the time
    Until I ate some potatoes
    And slept in a room with two beds
    By myself. Then Dad put something
    New on my toes and I couldn’t
    Move my arms much even though I
    Got a new stroller with no tray
    So I could see all the people
    Who walked past us in the cold.
    And I ate bread and sausages,
    Lots of bread that was hard to chew.
    I rode in my stroller a lot
    Different places and in the car
    With Grandmama playing with me.
    One night I did not have a room
    Like I usually do to myself
    And it was hard to go to sleep,
    But we did not go there again
    After eating sausage that hurt.
    I liked being outside so much
    Even though I could only crawl
    Around at night before bedtime
    After I ate banana and
    Muffins sitting in my Dad’s lap.
    Then we got in the car again
    And I sat with Mom in her seat
    So I saw new things going by
    And it was my favorite car ride.
    Then we stood still for a while ‘til
    We ate milk and cake for breakfast
    And I went to sleep in Dad’s lap
    Before we walked back down the hall
    And stood in line again and sat
    This time for a really long time
    And ate more bread and bananas
    Before I went back to daycare.

  18. PowerUnit

    The Dawn of Democracy
    (Pericles’ Lament)

    Learning comes at a cost
    An inner strength lost, a sacrifice
    For technological advantage
    Superior ships and knowledge
    The pleasure of arts and love
    For a weakness of soul
    Better armed soldiers fodder for the atavites
    The hoplite no match for the Myrmadonites, swarming, stinging

    Our council defends its democracy, the only course of freedom
    Forced supplication is nothing but the slavery we long to avoid
    Even the blind can see some lies
    Rule with a key in on hand and a lock in the other, cannot stand the test of time
    Will future civilizations hold our glory in reverence or disdain?
    Will they continue the lie or adopt a more Spartan existence?
    How can we rely on allies we abuse for our own liberation?
    The Lesbians have decided, will others pull their knives?
    When our backs are turned?

    Life is such a poetic existence

  19. woodpeckerduo

    Frigid Air

    Side by side, I open my arms
    Turn me on, I’ll show you my charms

    Here you’ll find a food paradise
    Burritos to chicken fried rice

    Milk and brie fresh from the farm
    Hormone-free, they’ll do you no harm

    Doors ajar may trigger alarms
    Unplug me, you’ll get no more ice

  20. Colorado Brian

    Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 337
    Persona Poems

    A Syrian child of only 4 yrs old thought the photographers camera was a gun so he raised his hands in Fear he was going to be shot. When I saw the photograph of the child, I wrote;
    – Tears of Terror –

    Living in Fear, I’m TERRIFIED
    I want to sleep through the night
    But I’m too scared
    My eyes open wide

    It’s been like this since the day I was born
    This is my Reality
    This is my norm’

    One day I asked my mom, “Where is my sister?”
    She said she’s gone to heaven
    And I really miss her

    We never go to school, so we’ll never learn
    What it’s like to get an education
    All we feel is the burn

    I hear the explosion of another bomb
    I run outside and now
    I can’t find my mom

    My dad has been gone since I was about two
    A victim of Violence
    Now I don’t know what to do

    The family around me
    Everybody is dying
    Now I’m standing here alone
    And I can’t stop crying

    © brian crandall
    03/28/2015

    This poem is about a soldier on the battlefield, and he’s Terrified:
    – Emotions in Motion –

    Fighting. Lightning striking. This is not exciting.
    Igniting. Rage inciting. Who are we indicting?

    Crying. Men dying. I’m lost in confusion.
    Unwilling. Bone chilling. This ain’t the solution.

    Cursing. Mind bursting. Morals are blurring.
    Rockets are launching. War machines burning.

    Senseless. Relentless. People are running.
    Breathless and helpless. Images stunning.

    Can’t focus. Feel hopeless. Muscles are tense.
    Atrocious. Psychosis. This doesn’t make sense.

    Killing. Blood spilling. To even the score.
    Bleeding. I’m cheating Death knocks at my door.

    Greedy. Power needy. That’s what it’s about
    Clock strikes the hour. A terrified shout.

    Fighting. For reasons I don’t understand.
    Unjustified killing. Man versus Man.

    © brian crandall

    It’s shocking to see reports of homeless people being beaten, even set on fire as they sleep. So I wrote;
    – Helplessly Homeless –

    Ragged Clothes. Need sewn. I haven’t a home.
    Dark night. No sight. I cower in fright.

    Confused. Misused. A life of Abuse.
    Sought help. Refused. Beaten and Bruised.

    Starvation. Malnutrition. I have no real food.
    Recession. Deep Depression. A sorrowful mood.

    Cold rain. Disdain. Nowhere to retreat.
    My pain. In vain. No shoes on my feet.

    Angry people. Stare at me. They see me as dead.
    Desparation. Condemnation. I only want bread.

    Apprehension. Foreboding. Danger is near.
    Exposure. No closure. I tremble in Fear.

    I’m freezing. They’re teasing. They punch me and kick.
    They leave. I grieve. Wish death would come quick.

    © brian crandall

      1. Colorado Brian

        Thank You Reatha. I just discovered ‘Writers Digest’ yesterday. Looks like a lot of good content to read and learn from for somebody like me who is new to writing.

  21. De Jackson

    “Last time, I imagined myself as the kid. This time, the skeleton.”
    ― John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

    The Significance of Skin

    For now,
    we’ve covered everything we can
    with these veiny shrouds, this
    masquerade of muscle, sinew,
    blood. We’ve danced about in
    moonlight,
             hidden.

    Unpeeled, are we nothing
    but ivory stones, scattered
    scaffolding, rattled
    cages forsaking
             freedom?

    We have grown
    tired of bruises, the
    crimson bashing of
    fall and fire and fist,
    but hey, let’s be
    honest here:
            without it,
    we are nothing
    but dust.

    .

  22. candy

    Neighbors

    I call out whenever
    I see them in their yard
    playing ball
    blowing bubbles
    grilling
    but they just look at me
    then turn away
    never return the greeting
    never invite me to
    join them and if
    I call out again
    they call my owners
    to complain
    woof!!!

  23. deringer1

    TO MY DEAR MARIE

    I do love you, you know.
    I always go to you when
    I hear you call to me.
    I long for your attention
    and your touch. I’m always
    here for you, do you know that?
    You often go out to play, I know.
    I like to play and run too.
    Please don’t forget how much
    I need you to play with me.
    None of your friends will ever be
    more loyal than I am.
    Thank you for always giving me
    food and water, but I need
    so much more from you.
    Will you be there for me?

  24. Anthony94

    Margaret Hill McCarter
    1860-1938

    1888, and I was suddenly head
    of the English Department in a
    place called Topeka, Kansas.
    The girl from Indiana who’d
    only dreamed of college; maybe
    a good position teaching school.

    Kansas filled me, the wide sweeps
    of the Flint Hills, the jutting rocks
    rising suddenly from the stark
    pastures, and I began to write and
    write. Stories first, poems, books.
    But it was a pure and joyous compulsion:

    to chronicle the native tribes, the
    farmers, the cattlemen’s drives across
    the prairies. The Kaw sang to me like
    none other, not even the Solomon
    could produce the music I merely
    penned in As a Tale is Told. Therein

    my favorite refrain: “the Kaw runs to the Missouri,
    the Missouri runs on to the sea,” or sometimes,
    the Kaw told its own tales, to be carried down
    river over and over. Oh, the words spun out
    of me like the very water itself. Writing, I hoped
    that years later, somewhere, someday, someone

    else might see what I saw, and opening
    a book, track back to Pawnee Rock,
    trace the ruts cutting a path to Santa Fe,
    watch the engorged swell of a lazy Kaw
    and scribe new stories to prove the measureless
    glory that I’ve come to live and write, with love.

  25. De Jackson

    Jan

    I am December’s darker sister, unspangled,
    halls decked only in hope, resolution, a fugue

    of fog and chill and willpower oft broken by
    the halfmark. I am deep in debt and the un

    -veiled threat of days spooled out like empty
    boxes waiting, wishes wanting. I am dead

    of winter, splintered into icy mapless roads.
    I am cotton threaded sky, the why of days

    spent, new dawn pondering the what that lies
    ahead. I am born with a party, put to bed

    with a sigh. I am long. Longing. Built slow
    of sober cobbled gray, but great with child.

    .

  26. taylor graham

    MUSTELA FRENATA (Long-tailed Weasel)
    Foster Meadow, Eldorado National Forest

    Forget my tiny legs and delicate
    paws, my low-slung body. I’m a wave flowing
    not walking on moving earth.
    I see you, human, on your perch of logs,
    Pursing your lips to make squeaky
    noises of animal distress, to call the birds
    so you can add them to your list.
    I see you in daylight, my eyes black-bright
    for nosing around in the dark, finding
    birds asleep, lizards, shrews.
    My formless babies bide their tiding inside
    me, evolving sea creatures to land,
    to mountain meadow, rocking on my waves.
    Nine moons of my life, and I’ll cast
    them loose in a den of feathers and bones.
    I see you, and change my path
    no more than the snowmelt creek would.
    What does a weasel dream? To flow
    from daylight to dark, become its living
    killing stream. I’m an imp, a genius
    of the forest. How awkward
    you are in vibram boots and birdlist, your
    Saturday deadlines, glancing at your
    watch, time to go.

  27. Al

    “Adam’s Regret”

    My seed could have been perfect men,
    if I had been faithful back when,
    God told me, don’t eat of one tree
    and pain and death no one will see.

    But the one given me as mate,
    said to me, of the tree I ate.
    So God I forsook for my wife,
    and we lost everlasting life.

    So out of Eden we were cast
    and before to much time had past,
    my son, Cain, slew his own brother,
    because of uncontrolled anger.

    I lived over nine hundred years.
    In that time I saw many tears.
    It was a harsh lesson to learn
    that God’s word we shouldn’t have spurned.

      1. Al

        Actually if you read the account in Genesis, he isn’t blaming the woman, he is blaming God with these words: “The woman whom YOU GAVE to be with me, she gave me fruit from the tree, so I ate.”

  28. Misky

    The Old Walnut Tree

    I lost a bit into the wind
    last week. An outreached arm,
    farewell, my gnarled limb. Fell
    deep into January moss. Splintered,
    lichen-covered and hollow-aged.

    Knuckle-rough as weather,
    but I wear these months like leathers.
    Cracked and stubbled, frosty day.
    Found a bird in my crown, gem
    that I am – soon emerald again.

  29. Connie Peters

    Blessing Bird

    I’m a wise old owl
    with a hole in my head
    and an empty belly.
    I’m fed with slips of paper
    expressing good happenings.
    At the end of the year
    my belly’s emptied
    and the slips of paper read.
    January starts the refilling.
    Despite the hole in my hollow head,
    I’m a wise old owl.

  30. barbara_y

    Amanda Joyner

    I am Amanda,
    soul of the whole.
    Stitch
    in the circular seam.
    A wanderer:
    home. Where hands join,
    each one
    makes of twelve, thirteen.

    We are a lace, a wed, a weld;
    dance covenant,
    oath conspiracy.
    We are leaves and forest, woven
    weavers. We
    are candles and our light,
    points and star.

    I am Amanda,
    breath of the song,
    syllable.

  31. Amartei

    First off stop the nonsense about me losing my fire
    I only lost one match in my life I’m not about to retire
    All these haters who want to see my legacy cut short
    I’m the woman who single handedly created a sport
    Carried women’s mixed martial arts on my shoulders and back
    I fear nothing and no one so you’d be a fool to attack
    Get up in my face and wind up on your back
    I’m still the best female fighter on the planet it’s just the belt that I lack
    These chicks were scared to death in the ring praying to lose
    The fight quickly hoping to only escape with a bruise
    And any chick talkin’ trash at the prefight, what kind of stuff was she smokin’
    I guarantee by the end of the night the fight ends with her arm nearly broken
    Went to Hollywood held my own with the action hero elite
    I’m just getting warmed up my career isn’t close to complete
    Any comments about my body will probably result in your harm
    I’m not some do nothing b—ch who’s just gonna hang on your arm
    If you’re the kind of dude that can’t stand a female as your boss
    You wanna see my downfall and laughed at my loss
    It doesn’t mean that I’m washed up, done, I’m not super powered
    I’d rather lose a fight on the attack than win it being a coward
    From the beginning of the fight ‘til I wound up on the ground
    I stayed heavy on the offensive every second of each of the rounds
    Scumbags will say what they will say whisper and pray for my fall
    They don’t matter I know that I’m the best so how I feel is f—k ‘em all

  32. ReathaThomasOakley

    I am Ella Mae…

    I lived my life good as I could,
    ‘ccordin’ to what my papa said,
    and the scriptures,

    ‘cept for when I went and
    married who I wanted, Papa
    was so mad he tried to have
    Louie arrested, but we’d waited ’til
    I was twenty-one and Papa didn’t know
    Louie’s cousin was the sheriff.

    We had two children, only two ’cause the
    Lord says, we won’t be tempted more than
    we can bear, Louie lived to see ’em grown
    though he feared he wouldn’t.

    I lived way longer than
    three score and ten, maybe
    longer than I should of.

    I liked to wonder ’bout folks who lived
    in houses where I’d never been and
    believed ’til the day I died poor folks
    in little towns were happy when
    they got a Family Dollar store.

  33. Walt Wojtanik

    WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME?

    Dank, Dark,
    depressing and I’m guessing
    you have a good reason to bring me there!
    Where the hell are we going?
    Your slip has been showing for a while now.
    How in the world do you function?
    You used to be so cogent,
    a regular fine gent hellbent on poetic purity.
    It was a surety that my brilliance
    would shine through your words; your expression.
    But my bulb has dimmed of late
    and I wait for the switch to be thrown
    and be shown you still have an clue.
    What’s wrong with you?
    Every Jim has his whim,
    every Sue has her rue…
    why can’t a Walt have his faults
    and not be tagged as hagged out
    or downright nuts? No “ifs”, “ands”
    or doubts about it. I’d scream
    at the top of your lungs
    if it would shake your malaise,
    the toughest I’ve ever faced.
    And I’m a terrible thing to waste!
    Let’s head back before I start to like it here.

    A Persona Poem

  34. Walt Wojtanik

    THE SOUL OF A WOMAN “SCORNED”

    I find myself debating,
    sitting. Waiting for a ring
    on the phone. Or any kind
    of tone or alarm to ease my angst.

    I haven’t heard from the one
    that I thought was the one and only.
    I feel alone and lonely when he goes
    days or weeks into hiding,

    sliding into his deep, dark despair
    as if he didn’t care about me; my feelings.
    I’m not sure what he’s dealing with or
    even what he’s thinking. I’m sinking

    into a desolation of my own.
    With him, I have grown so much in a short while.
    Was I duped by his eyes, his smile?
    Was I taken by his tender verbal dance?

    Now, all I feel is distance. He will not share
    his fears and turmoil… it’s as if I didn’t care
    or it would spoil how I feel. I’m finding it
    hard to be the lady in waiting,

    I find myself debating, wanting to bolt
    or jolt him into letting me help him.
    I find my heart is curious, and hell, I am
    furious from this scorn. All my love

    in all ways, I give completely.
    I want to believe he is fully reciprocating.
    Meanwhile I’m left debating.
    Sitting. Waiting.

    A Persona poem.

  35. Stuart Peacock

    Wow, am I really the first? Ok…

    The Face of Time

    I’ve silently observed all that occurs
    Within a house where I am master
    And dictator of each daily ritual.
    I don’t will this myself, you understand,
    But they watch, willing my hands to move
    Or leap after looking at my face in panic
    (If they haven’t watched closely enough).
    Always at me, the judge of early or late.
    It will never cease to amuse me so
    Just how much control I have over them
    With numbers tied in an endless knot
    And the ticking hands they cannot ignore.

COMMENT