Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 340

Well, I’m pretty excited to announce that we’ve got all our winners from the 2015 April PAD Challenge finally. I will post more on this tomorrow, including naming the Poetic Asides Poet Laureate. Read the results here.

For today’s prompt, write an “at last” poem. Or a “finally” poem. The poem could be about finally receiving a promotion, a proposal, a letter, an award, etc. Or it could be a poem about reaching a goal, like climbing a mountain or finishing your taxes.


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Here’s my attempt at an At Last poem:

“the time has come”

after the final song
of the final encore
& all the lights are on
as we march to the door

we attempt to discuss
the performance we heard
but we just hear the buzz
of their echoing words


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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92 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 340

  1. Rasia J. Nole

    “Stay Strong”
    She told herself day after day
    Always looking for a pair of blue eyes,
    Always searching for a mass of blond hair
    In the crowds of soldiers.

    The first thing she thought of,
    Every time she saw the soldiers embrace loved ones
    She thought of him.

    She held onto the memory of his
    Masculine laugh,
    His scruffy chin,
    His blue eyes,
    His perfectly built body,
    His sideways smirk.
    His everything.

    She abandoned the thought that he was gone forever
    Never to return.
    She did the tasks of the day remembering what he had told her
    “Stay alive. Do the little things,
    I will come back.”

    He should be back,
    He should be home,
    But he wasn’t.

    She stayed strong, and did the little things.
    She washed the rags,
    And scrubbed her anger out onto the towel.

    She swept the floor,
    And let her tears fall freely.
    She missed him.
    She cleaned the horses pen,

    And then sat outside and waited.
    And waited
    And waited
    The first thing,
    And the only thing she needed to see
    Was his sideways smirk,
    And the only thing she needed to hear,
    Was his masculine laugh.

    She stood up running,
    Her feet running fast,
    Her blond hair flying,
    Her green eyes shining,
    Her smile spread wide across her face as she sprinted to him,
    And tossed her tiny body into his open arms.

    -Rozlyn NeVille

  2. taylor graham


    Castanets and midnight voile, the strict
    insinuating music punctuated by black-heel
    stomp repeated repeated to the beat –
    centuries of courageous flourish
    hidden in the hollow of the chestnut shell,
    in the blood – till duende flares, leaving ashes
    on the tongue, a sheen of roadside
    toad-dust in the throat; of fate, of chance
    at last sunlight flashing to consume the dance.

  3. ReathaThomasOakley


    Six long days
    five long nights
    uncounted hours
    gone by since
    the prompt I spied.
    Brain left desert dry
    thoughts escaped
    like withered leaves
    blown across a barren land
    by the Sirocco.

    I waited hoped
    then prayed
    still no answer came
    no rain no snow
    to quench my thirst
    for the perfect poem
    ’til just now in the last
    hour of my search
    the words appeared
    but before these fingers
    could tap thoughts out
    into the world
    they were gone.

    1. ppfautsch24

      Saying Something…
      Tired to write; wanting something to say at last
      before the night’s end.
      Something that will be lasting and hold us both together, but something that will set us free.
      Not wake in the quiet noise of not knowing what to say.
      Something to capture our attention and captivate
      our hearts.
      The touch of your hand in mine, my sigh wrapped in your kisses.
      Finally, something to say…
      By Pamelap

  4. RJ Clarken

    Asked and Answered

    “Which would you rather be if you had the choice–divinely beautiful or dazzlingly clever or angelically good?” ― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

    It is a question, I suppose.
    Three choices: what to choose of those.
    I don’t think I’ll reply too fast.
    The implications might well last.

    So, beautiful. Would that I’d see
    a thing divine. Could that be me?
    clever. Let me but contrast
    the implications. Might well last.

    I think I’m good, ‘though angel-ish?
    I doubt it. Should that be my wish?
    I fear I’m at a strong impasse.
    Thus, I won’t choose just one, at last.


  5. tunesmiff

    G. Smith
    Floating line
    Lays the fly
    On the spot.

    Silver flash,
    Quick green splash;
    Sets the hook.

    Drag tighten’d,
    Trout fights, and,
    Dinner’s served.

  6. tunesmiff

    G. Smith (BMI)
    Sitting alone with the ghosts of my past,
    Wondering how long this heartache will last.
    I made some mistakes, I know that it’s true,
    I could’ve, I should’ve done better by you;
    I could’ve, I should’ve done better by you.

    Sitting alone, the silence so loud,
    Wondering how I thought being so proud,
    Would lead us to a different kind of end;
    I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, go back there again;
    I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, go back there again.

    When will I say, “Finally”?
    When will I not notice,
    The pain any more?
    When will I say, “Finally”?
    When will you come back
    Through that reopened door?
    Will you come back,
    Through the reopened door?

    Sitting alone with just my regret,
    No sign of sunshine showing up yet,
    I know it’s right, I know it’s fair;
    That I wouldn’t, I shouldn’t, expect you to care.
    I wouldn’t, I shouldn’t, expect you to care.

    When will I say, “Finally”?
    When will I not notice,
    The pain any more?
    When will I say, “Finally”?
    When will you come back
    Through that reopened door?
    Will you come back,
    Through the reopened door?

    1. teeguante

      Hello G

      I am new to this site.. Unfortunately, I am a grieving mother. I truly enjoyed your poem, it touched my heart. GREAT JOB!!!!
      I have many poems that I would like to share and mine is all about the loss of my son.

      I am trying to figure out my way around this site so I can share my poems as well.


  7. shellcook

    Darkly Broken

    Breathing at last, i feel the release
    Of my spirit, as it slips back,
    Darkly, down into the broken body
    That lies crushed on the LBJ freeway.
    Unnoticed by those speeding past
    In their hurry to be where
    They think they should be
    On this, oh so lovely, spring day in Texas.


  8. SarahLeaSales

    The Diner Hour

    Once upon a time in Pensacola,
    Ella May Cinders—
    a waitress of generous proportions—
    lived with her evil stepbrothers,
    Randy the Handyman,
    who was anything but handy,
    (just randy),
    and Andy Jack-a-Dandy,
    who disdained her fashion nonsense.

    Jeb, her evil stepfather,
    who liked to hedge funds,
    had expected her to take over
    his late wife’s wifely duties—
    save those in the bedroom.

    Eking out a hardscrabble existence
    amongst the one-percenters that frequented
    The Shiny Diner—
    known as Scenic 90 Café—
    she never lost hope that a single tip
    would change her life,
    as it was against the law in this parallel universe
    for a woman to leave her father
    without a husband—
    to be “uncleaved”.

    Ella Mae’s auto was a Caddy from the last Millennium,
    having not seen an oil change in 5000 miles,
    the white paint chipping away like eczema.
    Her black uniform was soft and thin
    from so many washings,
    and her shoes had holes in the soles and toes.
    She was a mess.

    Every day, when she went in to work,
    there was Ashton Prince at Table 25,
    who was looking for a wife.
    Thirty to her twenty,
    and a Mormon at that,
    he was gloriously unmarked—
    piercings and tattoos had he none.

    But alas, this prince saw her only
    as a server willing to chitchat,
    for she was known as “The Comely Backwater Kid”.
    Though her hands were clean,
    her hair needed a cut,
    for the ends split every which way.

    Pale and wan,
    she was often tired
    from cleaning up after her father and brothers.
    She never thought of her mother,
    who’d only married the miser for his money,
    thinking it would benefit her daughter.
    She laughed miserably at the irony
    that she was poorer than she had been
    when her 99-percenter father had been alive.

    So there was Ashton,
    ordering his usual—
    the Steak Diane—
    with Rosy, the waitress,
    a riveting one, at that,
    with her Italian charm and French perfume,
    talking him into some dessert.

    Ella still had twenty minutes till her shift,
    and so she went to the picnic table out back,
    where no one was smoking for a change.
    She started to cry,
    pulling an old napkin—
    smelling of brown gravy—
    from her apron.

    Then suddenly,
    a man she had never seen,
    wearing the uniform of the diner,
    came up to her,
    sooty as a coal miner.

    “Hello,” she said, sniffling,
    and he smiled and said,
    “I’m Harry, and I’m here for you.”
    Ella looked around,
    but he told her not to fear,
    for her fairy godfather was here.

    “I’m here to make your prince see you
    as you really are—the Daughter of a King.”

    Since it was Halloween night,
    he dressed her up as the Duchess of Cambridge;
    her Caddy was now a mint-green Minnie Cooper,
    her shoes making her feel ten feet tall.

    “T’will be when the diner closes at nine,
    the spell will be broken,
    and you will be as you were,
    so you’ve but four hours to make this man
    fall in love with you, Ella unseen.”

    He sprinkled some dust,
    ground from the seeds of forget-me-nots,
    so that none would recognize her.

    She walked through the front door—
    no longer “the help”—
    breezing by the hostess.
    She went to the booth where her prince
    was soothing his sweet tooth,
    and asked, “Is this seat taken?”

    So taken with her he was,
    over the course of an hour,
    and three courses in,
    that he pulled his mother’s engagement ring
    from his pocket.
    “Whosoever this ring fits,
    that will be the girl for you,” she’d said.
    He let her try it on,
    and it fit like a Trump in a tower.

    Suddenly, it was closing time,
    and she said, “I have to go”,
    but the spell broke before she could get away,
    and he saw her as she had been,
    and as she was now.

    “Forgive me, Ella, for being such a dolt,
    for you had my heart at ‘Sweet or Unsweet?’”

    He took her away from her evil brood,
    and they were married in the temple the next day
    She got to know her Heavenly Father,
    and knew through Him,
    she would be reunited with her earthly father,
    and would be sealed for time and all eternity
    to her prince in a shining Mercedes.

    As for Randy, Andy, and Jeb,
    they eventually each ran for mayor,
    using the Princess of Pensacola,
    Mrs. Ella Prince,
    as their claim to the seat.

    At long last, Ella was happy—
    happy to not endorse any of them.

  9. charmuse

    Her Property

    At last,
    the collapse.
    Caving in
    as walls are too thin.
    A membrane
    this tenement of lies
    defeats the skies
    to a squalor
    unbecoming her.
    How how how
    fate kisses her brow,
    arcs her backwardness to a rainbow.
    Gold streaks of hair are remnants
    of the treasure
    she hasn’t taken the time to count,
    an amount
    more than enough for supplying
    the cost of living.

    ~ Charise Hoge

  10. Shennon

    A hint of warmth.
    First breath of spring.
    Moisture forms
    Atop the ice.

    Deafening rumbles
    Belch forth from below.
    Irrefutable evidence.
    At last the lake will thaw.


  11. Nurit Israeli


    And just before
    the final

    on her last legs –
    a last burst of fire,
    a final fling:
    her last hurrah.

    And she holds on
    for dear love
    to every last

    and she pays her last
    respect to life:
    at long last,
    she gets the last word.

    ~ Nurit Israeli

  12. Jane Shlensky

    False Starts

    I think I know what daffodils think,
    the bulbs barely entrenched in earth,
    a few late-falling leaves their comforter.
    Like hibernating bears, they sleep
    through snow and ice, cold rains,
    and killing frosts, using their stores
    of light tucked away, breathing
    shallow breaths all winter long,
    longing for spring, aching to bloom.

    I think I understand how it could come
    to be that the first golden heads
    spring up surprised, surrounded
    by deep chill, a wintry mix filling
    their buttercups, how profound
    wishing can become true need
    until we’re willing to brave
    the worst of times in deep
    desire for the sun’s touch.

    I’ve been caught in the cold
    more times than not, assuming
    a warm morning was as real
    as a kiss, kind and loving,
    mistaking sensation for love,
    my heart suddenly too full
    of green shoots blooming
    golden into harsh realizations
    and cold stares, my only friend
    a dwarfed crocus with a humbled
    smile. Shallow-rooted souls
    may leap too soon toward love,
    thinking, “Finally—my time is now!”

  13. Michelle Hed

    I Will Never Grow Old

    Flipping through the picture album
    I remember him telling me
    he was twenty when he went
    white water rafting.

    Flip, flip, flip
    on and on
    go his adventures
    and he ages in the pictures.

    Then there is this one.
    He’s sledding
    with his grandchildren,
    a look of pure glee on his face.

    We had to help him up
    when he got to the bottom
    of the hill
    but then he did it again.

    He died last week
    at ninety-three
    and he was right…
    he never grew old.

  14. Michelle Hed

    When The Dawn Comes Creeping

    In those early morning hours
    when your body starts to stir
    and you struggle to stay asleep

    it’s so easy to feel you there
    right next to me,
    your warmth, your touch

    but then dawn intrudes
    and brings reality with her
    and there’s nothing there but memory.

  15. Sara McNulty

    Immersed in Nothing

    Written by an author whose books I love,
    this new one was impenetrable.
    I waited in vain for a plot
    to emerge. My eyes were strained
    at page three hundred, half-
    way through. I plodded
    on, nothing changed.
    At long last,
    the end.

  16. Gold_Debby96

    Met in the hall
    On a cold bright day
    She wouldn’t stay
    Because of a fall

    Tried to reach my heart
    but caught my hand
    in stead
    despite the lights

    Pretense fluttered itself
    like an eyelash
    we knew it wouldn’t last
    but still we tried
    At last
    She lost me
    And lost indeed

  17. grcran

    Wet At Last

    I met my true love it was finally
    We went and got baptized quite brine-a-ly
    All wedded in bliss
    Immersed in a kiss
    Assuredly it was not whine-a-ly

    gpr crane

  18. grcran

    At Last

    When finally finding one’s mate
    One hopes that it isn’t too late
    I said i love you
    The same time as you
    And knew we’d been kissed by glad fate

    gpr crane

  19. darthlaurie

    To A.M.
    Exasperation in emails
    No longer hails
    Or enmity.

    An empty vessel cannot give
    More, more and live.
    You were greedy
    At last I’m free.

    The angry scar will remind me
    To leave quickly.
    No job’s worth it.
    I’ll say, “I quit.”

  20. De Jackson

    fin ally

    this maid? she’s mer.
    see her spangled tail,
    her eyelash salt? she
    swims, she skims the
    surface with her syll
    -ables and song. give

    her a moon spilled
    dark, the quiet spark
    of waking sun. she’ll
    thread her lack
    of toes into all this
    black sand, hand you

    the sky, all cobalt and
    agreeably sane. you’ll
    wish you were a fish;
    she’ll long for legs, and
    make herself a fine
    fast friend in between.


  21. Stuart Peacock

    To See the Stars Again

    And now at long last,
    After so much time spent
    And sanity spilled like seeds,
    Our toil turns to flowers
    That show our arduous efforts
    In a more alluring light.

    To retire from that routine
    Is to revitalise ourselves as well.
    The twinkle returns to our eyes
    The clouds of unease clear
    Shining light on things missed
    And seldom-seen stars in the sky.

    Finally the pieces come together,
    A project’s purpose made plain
    After all of the senseless jargon
    And every wasted breath and word
    The road to escape is here,
    Back to the real selves once lost.

  22. Anthony94

    Finally Picking a Topic

    Shall we write about the
    butterfly’s finally emerging
    from the perfectly spun cocoon

    or be truthful and write about
    what finally happened when
    you missed the A flat and

    led the congregation astray
    on that fine spring morning?
    Or should we tackle those

    pictures in the cedar chest that
    show you smiling in spite of
    it all, your dad helping you

    blow out the seven candles,
    both of you pretending that
    in the end he wouldn’t leave.

  23. Yolee


    No one did a thing. No one walked with me the day after
    or the day after that hoping to catch the kid, his comrades
    and their we’re-going-to-settle-a-score moms.
    I was left to the parchment of years to fill in reasons why
    I wasn’t good enough to see the eagle trap and lift foes up
    high to disarm and drop. It was my beloved green coat
    with silver snaps down to the knees that impaired
    fast blows to my arms.

    At the time I didn’t know about love languages.
    Acts of selflessness.

    But sure as snow in a Chicago alley, something hadn’t been plowed.
    After being mistaken for another skinny Puerto Rican girl who slapped
    a kid half her age and after closed fists tenderized my blindside,
    every day after school my heart would race barefooted across my bones
    and hunkered inside my soul. I just knew they were going to comeback
    and remind my 12 year old face that revenge looked like swells of red clay.
    But the avengers never came back.

    Time was a hand scratching the scab of memory keeping fresh
    blood under its fingernails. But one day I let it go. Just like that.
    I forgave my older brother who was there that day walking in front
    of me. He was just another skinny kid impaled by great fear.
    I forgave my mom who loved me like I was the house of her dreams
    words could not furnish. Time gave us our own modifiers.
    I forgave my dad who was always frying big fish for his family.
    I forgave the preteen for weeping too much over a season
    and not looking to see poppies lift their head
    from the giving ground.

  24. taylor graham


    The empty theater yearns
    for words. The speech of players gone
    silent, an abandoned structure
    has no voice for memories. But today,
    passing the cracked-open door,
    I heard a chord. A single
    guitar from the dim that used to be
    a stage. Cold
    space between walls, roof and
    foundation. A young man with his
    fingers on the tensile strings,
    hand pulsing the hollows inside
    a body of wood.
    He made the air stir and riff.
    I thought words were what we need.
    But music fills
    the husk around its seed.

  25. Connie Peters

    At Last

    At age 59,
    when I walk down the aisle
    wearing my purple gown
    and graduation cap,
    along with much younger students,
    I’ll snatch my diploma
    from the professor’s hand
    and say,
    Ah, but two more years to go.

  26. De Jackson

    As this day takes its final breath

    , awash in crimson scrim
    and curdled sky,
    I hope that I
    will have been still,

    leaned into the hammock
    of Your will,

    and held my
    self with gentle
    (mostly empty)
    hands. I hope I will

    have sat and listened
    to the breeze, stood
    for what is true, knelt

    to breathe
                     thank you.


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