Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 349

For today’s prompt, write a “running its course” poem. Whether it’s for good or bad, things often run their course eventually (except for Saturday Night Live and The Simpsons, which apparently keep going no matter what). Often, that phrase means something comes to its natural conclusion, but it could also mean a marathon runner running his or her course, or a raft following a river, or any number of other creative interpretations.


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Here’s my attempt at a Running Its Course Poem:


the doctor says he’s sorry
but there’s no medicine to give
“it will just have to run its course”

of course i understand that’s the case
but i think what a great gig
to tell people there’s nothing you can do

“expect a bill in the mail”


Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He does not expect the prompting and poeming on this blog to run its course until he runs out of numbers for the Wednesday Poetry Prompts (when it gets to “000”), which shouldn’t be until sometime in 2030 or 2031. Until then, follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.


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202 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 349

  1. LCaramanna

    deep end

    rivulets trickle down my cheeks
    as grief cascades
    over the course of life
    tears pool in depression
    with blood from my broken heart
    at the end
    a puddle of love lost
    deep enough
    to drown my sorrows

    Lorraine Caramanna

  2. Julieann

    The Mighty Mississippi

    Raging flood waters
    Twists and turns
    Shifting current
    Shifting channel
    Cargo ships
    Float down
    Run aground
    Lifeblood of
    Villages and
    Towns along
    Its banks
    Day in, day out
    Coursing its way
    From its slow moving
    Humble beginning
    In Minnesota
    To the Gulf of Mexico
    Always running its course
    Often straying from its
    Always constant
    Always dependable
    Always there
    The Mighty Mississippi

  3. Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    When the river within
    runs its final course,
    and I tire of the rapids
    that have enabled this Cancer,
    when the platelets in my bloodstream
    have begun to gather and bump
    like tiny coffins along
    the banks and spillways
    of veins and arteries,
    may the Poet that once
    rallied this failing body
    under a bruised sky
    have the clarity to discern
    the difference between
    Surrender and Truce,
    and the Faith to embrace
    the Divine.

    © 2016 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  4. Shennon

    Of course
    It makes sense
    That the horse
    Runs his course
    Although we do not endorse
    The ill-timed divorce
    But acknowledge the source
    As one might suspect
    Straight from the mouth of the horse.


  5. James Von Hendy

    Oh, strange. My poem didn’t post, along with my comment on having missed you all. The new job has cut into my writing time and I haven’t yet regained my equilibrium. Trying to post again.

    Bedtime Story

    Where, in the end, was the story we began
    with the blindness of desire?
    Where, bedded down with us had it ever been?

    No, really. Hunger had no time for the words
    we threaded between the sheets
    as if forever was an excuse for now.

    What we retold bore no likeness to what was,
    not that we noticed how thin
    the soul played out against the richness of mate,

    belief a certainty of flesh we cleaved to,
    salt sweat and semen a myth
    of becoming when already our stories

    were departures we took with blindness, desire
    ever a looking forward,
    behind us a trail of pillars, rock hard and salt.

  6. qbit

    A single hair, one
    Of your
    Have I inhaled
    And lies across the inside
    Of my nose.

    As I am currently
    Your loving prisoner –
    One arm under your pillow, the other
    Over your shoulder, you
    Long at sea following the whale roads
    Out from Nantucket –

    If nature cannot
    Take its course here
    In the next few seconds
    And I sneeze,
    I may

  7. SarahLeaSales

    When Friendships Sail

    The friendship had run its course—
    through elementary, junior high, and high school,
    through the Brownie Girl Scouts and countless sleepovers,
    through shared, unrequited crushes,
    and the occasional mutual friend
    who was always the friend to one
    more than the other;

    but then college, marriage, and motherhood,
    softened one,
    divorce, remarriage, and the loss of a child,
    coarsening the other,
    so that when they met at the reunion,
    they were simply strangers who shared the same memories.

    They questioned themselves,
    what good was any friendship,
    if it didn’t last forever?

    But so few good things do—
    a Drumstick ice cream cone,
    the daisy corsage from a school dance,
    the friendship bracelets made in pairs,
    the old house one grows up in,
    sticks of Fruit Stripe gum…

    And yet, the memory of those things live on,
    for the memories are what is of value,
    sustaining the one who makes them,
    at the time they were made.
    They are timeless, priceless things
    that cannot be held in the hollows of one’s hand,
    but rather the chambers of one’s heart.

    1. ppfautsch24

      Night twisted with dreams
      and solace that bumps in the dark.
      When morning wakes,
      leaving nightmares behind.
      Night has run its course.
      By Pamelap

    2. ppfautsch24

      This was a poignant prompt for me, but I have loved and appreciated many of the poems submitted. So many that I was not able to comment individually.

    3. Juanita Lewison-Snyder

      Wow…..really beautiful…..and moving for me. Some really great imagery there, and unspoken truths. This poem really spoke to me. Nicely done, Sarah!

  8. grcran

    and the heat sets in

    mosquito greeted me
    repleted with my blood it
    splatted but could not run
    mustard greens had bolted
    yellow gold orange tall strong
    not on hot dog yet
    and water had rivuletted
    pirouetted round the squash
    but not running now
    summer impending
    carrots changing
    sweet to spicy
    spring rain has run its course

    gpr crane

  9. _Kirk_

    Successor Failure

    I am a drought, and
    she is a desert,
    a grainy river running,
    its coarse banks abrasive,
    scraping at the skin
    deep waters of want
    unfilled by salted tears
    stinging weeping wounds
    a wash, awash with blood
    spilled and never gathered
    into a new name, given flesh
    a dry bed, a grave, and we,
    the last of our line.

  10. Jane Shlensky

    Road to Emmaus
    “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course, I have kept the faith.” 2 Timothy 4:7

    It takes a mighty light
    to turn a man around
    to take away his sight
    and help him look within
    searching for what is right
    there hidden in his shame.
    So temporary night
    that kneels him to the ground
    may raise him to take flight.

  11. Jane Shlensky


    When time in classes leaks away
    somewhere in June or end of May,
    students can feel sun, surf, and sand
    erode lessons. They understand
    a little of the mass they learned—
    slough off the rest, like ashes, burned
    and spread atop rough fallow ground
    as fertilizer. I have found
    fragments of knowledge in my mind
    recovered after years, refined
    and polished for some present use
    I did not know back then—obtuse.
    So teachers must live by long run
    to chart their worth by what’s begun,
    for races run inside the head
    are not completed ‘til we’re dead.

  12. Jane Shlensky


    The shallows cloud as they step in,
    mud and silt like batter. Be careful.
    There may be sharp stones or dips
    so deep you drop like rocks. He moves
    as if he sees what’s there
    and pulls her forward where
    the flow is at her thighs then at
    her waist, a gentle current around
    them curled. He speaks softly encouragement,
    his breath of coffee,
    musty, dank. He looks toward
    the people gathered there along
    a knobby bank, squinting at sun,
    swatting at gnats, as he says words they know
    by heart. She shivers but he holds her
    fast lest she should splash
    and float away,
    free as a duckling
    pulled by an invisible force,
    gathering speed, dappled by light.
    He tells her she will be made new,
    this muddy water wash her clean.
    She knows already this white dress
    will never be the same again,
    stained by river
    the way she will be stained
    by God’s will, marked as believer
    who hefts her cross and follows the course
    to its end, rain or shine,
    ebb or flood.
    Her mouth sets like her mama’s.
    She nods, resigned.
    Let’s do this thing, she says.

  13. MikeGill

    Nine Months

    It seemed like forever
    From when it first started
    But it was only three quarters of a year
    Less when I consider it was a month before we knew

    We went with the traditional route
    No ultrasounds, not tests, a midwife
    No scheduled C-Section or induced labor
    We decided to let Nature run its course

    Near the end, it all changed
    Pre-eclampsia came to visit
    Induced labor was deemed necessary
    So we went to the hospital

    There, we found the baby
    Despite all reason
    Had flipped in the sac
    And was breech

    The end of the pregnancy went
    From bad to worse
    My wife’s nightmare
    Was coming true

    Our child would not be born as she dreamed
    The process had turned less than perfect
    Yet, after a short time, I got to see
    My perfect child’s life begin

  14. Arash

    When love is very powerful and pleasant, we may not mind letting it run its course, but when its about to depart and leave in its place much destruction, it is then that one, in a certain mood, might just wonder….

    If Love
    by Arash

    I sometimes wonder if love
    detests itself. How else
    its sole
    fixation on others?
    Perhaps if love could love itself
    we’d suffer

  15. foodpoet

    Running the Course

    A river like a family tree runs flows
    Through channels and leafs into delta of generations
    I pause on this bank and recall the flow of time
    And miss you sister, branch spirt root and grounding.

    Through channels and leafs into delta of generations
    Children flourish threefold
    I miss you sister branch spirt root and grounding
    Backbone spine and thoughts of remembrance

    Children flourish three fold
    Eldest branching out learning training
    Backbone spine and thoughts of remembrance
    Middle full of freedom standing together

    Eldest branching out learning training
    Youngest spreading wings flying
    Middle full of wild love of freedom
    Joining husband and mate

    Middle full of wild love of freedom
    I pause on this bank and recall the flow of time
    Joining husband and mate
    A river like a family tree runs flows

  16. Nancy Posey

    Children of the Creek

    Brush Creek ambled away from its slough,
    deep into the low-lying woodlands, past
    a tree bent centuries ago before settlers
    claim the land. The boundary it marked,
    uneven between our land and theirs,
    sometimes dried to little more than ditch,
    but in summer, we’d meet, dip net
    in hand, turning over the big rocks,
    ready to scoop up crawfish, skittering
    away, trying to conceal themselves
    in unsettled mud. Too shallow for fish,
    the creeks, little more than a branch,
    ran so cold in July our teeth chattered
    as, barefoot, we waded through
    at points we could easily have jumped.
    With closed fingered open palms,
    we lapped up the cold water, tasting
    faintly of watercress, certain even
    the gods envied us our mossy drink.

  17. Anthony94

    The Coloring Book

    After the fever had run its course,
    and the word contagious had ceased
    to be murmured in hushed voices he
    brought me a Lassie coloring book at
    least two inches thick. Sat on the edge
    of the bed and told the story, paging
    through the black and white drawings
    and explaining how Lassie would
    always need to look the same; that
    I needed to decide how to correctly
    color a collie and then keep to it,
    although I might change the color
    of its collar now and then. He
    suggested I go through and read
    all the pages; divide the book into
    action over a few days, dress the
    characters the same, follow along.
    It was something to keep, he said,
    along with his boyhood copy of
    The Last of the Mohicans and his
    series by Thornton Burgess with all
    the animals. Time finally ran its
    course, too, and the cover fell off
    and the pages yellowed, then got
    brittle until even the waxy crayon
    couldn’t hold together. But I
    remember that first art lesson,
    the one that taught me about
    writing and life, so that when
    Daddy’d run his course, I still had
    The memory of a blue cover, a
    beautiful collie, a caring dad.

    1. Jilllyman

      Beautifully painted…colored, picture! (I once wrote a poem about getting through college on cheap port and a Winnie-the-Pooh coloring book. Such therapy!) You always write with tremendous depth, thank you for sharing your talent! Jilly

  18. Azma

    Fool’s Risk

    Always a thrill
    to have an icy drink
    on a chill morning.
    Like giving a glare
    to health rule books
    toppling them
    into ditches
    meant for superstitions.
    But the rules
    are too adamant
    to fall prey
    as they bounce back and stare back
    until they bring you
    to be congested with regret
    that you went down that road.

    -Azma Sheikh

  19. Bushkill

    (Aside: we hada 17 yo students present at our school on her battle with cancer. It was moving. This is a reflection on what I witnessed.)


    Playing joyfully.
    Racing and running
    While snowflakes fall like
    Sky-born frost kisses.

    Life is a pallet
    Of choice and chance for
    All to bask in self-
    Made castles of glass.

    But glass is fragile
    And some choices are
    Made by others. They
    Tear down barricades.

    Invading with a ruthlessness
    That knows no boundary
    No rhythm.
    Life crashes from order to chaos in an
    Entropic tail spin.

    Out of control

    Broken shards of a shattered past
    Cut deep and leave scars on flesh and
    Stains on memory. The prism view of the fallen
    Virgin searches for sanctuary in an upside down world.

    Cold holds new meaning.
    It is in the eyes
    Of those that offer
    Help and hope. It’s dark.

    Not blanketing mist,
    Shrouding the future,
    But where monsters prowl;
    Like the dark of night.

    Foreign and distant.
    With needles of hope
    And sweet nectar of
    Life giving malice.

    Still clinging to a
    Broken view and hope-
    Ful of life’s bounty.
    No savior. No knight.

    ‘Till spirit from the
    Ashes rises to
    Burn the cold and chase
    The dark, doubt, away.

    Warm hearts help gather
    Shards of shattered dreams
    And give them new life
    New vision, new sight.

    Life is a gift worth
    The living, whether
    Shy-like and sheltered
    Or hard-fought and won.

  20. RJ Clarken


    “Folly will run its course and it is the part of wisdom not to take it too seriously.” ~John Lancaster Spaulding

    Recklessness? Sheer madness? Folly?
    I take it in and keep my stride.
    If I could not, then melancholy
    would be the only course remaining that’s still a thing.
    Instead, I aim and then I volley,
    that is, I lob all (most?) detritus off my track.
    And yet, and yet. There has to be
    a little bit of it. So, I guess I lied.
    Despite all this, I can still find the jolly.


  21. uvr

    bubbly brook
    trips and tumbles
    over pebbly pearls
    twirls and traipses
    down the hill

    growing girth
    slows her
    frisky freshness
    as she turns into
    a resplendent river

    her wiser waters
    steadily swirling
    she pours herself
    into the stormy sea
    She’s finally run her course

  22. taylor graham


    While I put on the coffee, someone
    is jacking up his car on the shoulder of a road,
    but there is no shoulder on these narrow,
    winding country lanes, he’s precarious
    as a man washed overboard into traffic;
    or like that robin perched on the bird-bath,
    wary glance, glitter of eye as a hawk
    stares down from the power-pole, waiting
    its chance. Each day is a risky
    course, an edgy dance. My morning coffee,
    a hex-sign on the kitchen counter,
    that at least for today,
    the shadows pass over, and away.

  23. Sara McNulty

    Seven Years

    I understand.
    Situations on television
    do run their course.

    I find it rare to care about
    seeing a drama, each week
    and being amazed

    at a blaze of brilliant writing
    that glues me to my chair,
    not wanting an episode

    to end, much less the series.
    The Good Wife has grown,
    become her own person,

    matured. She is out in society,
    and where does one go
    from there? Who will fill
    her shoes, snap out witty

    retorts, laugh, or cry,
    make me root for her?
    I miss Alicia.

  24. PKP

    Forty Four Years

    It was sizzle for
    the first two- she
    boss’s girl – always
    champagne nights
    and supressed
    flirtatious days
    It was steamy for
    the first two wed
    the huge house
    sleeping in their
    own bed –
    Years tumbled as
    years will do
    some tears,
    some kids – his
    and one shared,
    and in their ways
    they surely cared
    somewhere it
    slowed to a walk
    from a sweaty run
    still there was
    some fading fun
    fading was the
    seminal hue
    she grew up he
    stayed the same
    who – she had
    revered for his
    silent power –
    months now flowed
    in one-sided glower
    his eyes saw things
    were just as they
    should be – slowing
    dimming naturally
    it was not just age
    that had her run
    through each day
    squeezing any drop
    of fun – as parents
    vanished into dust –
    days blended blandly
    one into one
    the next –
    she, no longer
    vixen, he no
    longer man of
    steel – after forty
    four years it
    became too
    real ..
    and so when
    others looked
    with shock
    and asked
    what was
    the source
    she said
    it all had
    simply run
    its course

  25. mschied


    a golden child a
    girl with a zigzaggy
    curl in her hair a fair
    crown upon which a
    gentle lady smiled an
    angelic blessing filled
    with unending bliss and

    draped in dark
    shrouds of dolorous
    dirges, disrupting her

    childhood’s first steps
    teenage false moves and missteps
    adult mornings begun in solitude and finished
    with tear swept pillowcases and trembling lips

    all because death
    never finishes
    only interrrupts

    1. LCaramanna

      From “zigzaggy curl” to “tear swept pillowcases” your poem cascades down a cliff of emotions. Your words brought to light idea of death as an interruption. Powerful, my friend!

  26. madeline40

    Clothed in khaki’s
    and a white shirt,
    he sat himself down
    in the bathtub,
    leaned his head
    against the glass door,
    and slashed his jugular
    with a box cutter
    bought for $1.98 at Home Depot.
    For thirty seconds or so
    his blood ran its course
    down the drain.

  27. Amaria

    “the end of the course”

    is this the end?
    have we run our course?
    will this be the ending chapter
    of this love affair?

    I’ve been down this road before
    but it doesn’t make it easier
    my heart forms a new crack
    each time I have to say goodbye

    by Arcadia Maria

  28. Charley


    A foal is birthed spindly, uncertain on its legs. The river begins uncertain, hesitant. Before long both are trying out their legs, wild, without direction.

    I lived near the course of a mighty river. Where I lived, the river was brash. Spring floods took flight upon the plains while I looked on in safety from the bluffs of my hometown. A roiling, galloping mess, the river appeared unbreakable. I thought no one would be able to bust this wild animal. Yet my river was contained in the chute of the bluffs, daring the first rider.

    Later I would travel to see the adult river, broad-chested and powerful. A deceit lay hidden beneath the sheen of its placid coat. If you looked, you could see nervous muscles twitch, and a mighty courser stood ready to run.

    Further on, the river left its horseshoe marks on the landscape. No one had ever successfully tamed her. The wildness of its course left communities cut-off from its life’s energy. Horseshoe lakes and stagnant meanders were the marks left behind as she ran.

    When finally she reached the wide open spaces, you could tell she never suffered a saddle. No bit was ever placed in her mouth.

    leak becomes a great courser
    Mississippi, y’all!

  29. tripoet

    the end of a little life that had barely started

    wings spread on the ground
    as though performing push ups
    little beak titled up as if readying to sing
    after a storm that ran its course
    but not before marking nests
    and taking the first born

  30. writinglife16


    When we met
    our friendship was
    a deep pond.
    Full of giggles and secrets
    that sank like pebbles.

    Now we’ve grown up,
    more strangers than old friends.
    The pond is dry.
    Dust mimics the laughter
    that echoes among the ruins.

  31. deringer1


    I wanted him to be there forever.
    He had other plans.

    I expected a friendship to last,
    but she hurt me, so it had to end.

    I have cherished many friendships, but
    some are taken by death or the moving van.

    So I do not now expect any forevers.
    Things and people have their expiration dates.

    Even life itself runs its course.

  32. Jilllyman

    running its course

    and may is here again
    my seniors are running
    from course to course
    grasping at straws
    and hall passes
    spreading panic
    all too soon
    it will be june
    they will tassel
    and fly this
    crazed coop
    allowing dust
    and delicate debris
    to fall on summer

    1. Charley

      I love the smell of scurrying seniors in the morning…
      it smells like… graduation! [add a maniacal laugh]

      You captured it and captured it well, Jilly! Funny thing: as I was reading your poem I heard a Mraz uke strumming in the background. It has a frantic rhythm.

  33. Connie Peters

    A Zap of Grace

    When life detours, yes, worries gnaw.
    And you’re on edge and nerves are raw.
    You wish this blitz would run its course.
    Yes, worries gnaw, when life detours.

    Fear rams your joy down in the ground.
    Then doubt joins in with its harsh sound.
    And then you feel like broken toy.
    Down in the ground, fear rams your joy.

    A zap of grace. It’s what you need.
    And joyful thoughts, now, you must feed.
    A prayer or two to seek His face.
    It’s what you need, a zap of grace.

  34. mjdills

    My Personal Hijab

    Sometimes I wonder, if I was a guy, I’d get more respect if I was a drug addict, alkie, street scum.
    As a female, I get less respect in any corner standing next to any man.
    I shake my head when I hear scornful talk about “those poor women who are forced to wear a hijab.” Besides being a religious preference, a hijab actually makes a statement in many ways. It says *I am not a man.* Just call it; tell it like it is. Let me wear my egg on my face and you can know what I am.
    In my personal world, my hijab is invisible.
    It doesn’t matter if I’m in a discussion about the NFL; NBA; construction; traffic; electrical systems in foreign autos; building management… I am talked over, ignored, looked down on, and I’ve felt it all my life.
    All my female, second class citizen life.
    It’s going to take a long time for this treatment to run its course.
    Am I voting with my vagina? You can bet your balls I am.

    1. MikeGill

      Very strong words and imagery. It builds nicely to an unsaid proclamation that you, as a woman, matter. I talk to the inmates I work with all the time about the power of words–and you have a great example here. One I point out to them all the time is reducing a person to a gender (woman to female). I always end with asking if they would be ok with their daughters being seen and talked about that way.

      1. mjdills

        Thank you, Mike. Yes, that’s a good way of pointing out to men their disdain for women. As you probably know, they see it in a different light then….sometimes. On the other hand. there are those who consider their daughters just a part of the world they are allowed to trample.

  35. trishwrites

    On the things your mom said

    Some things need to run their course
    wise words
    I didn’t understand back then
    Wise eyes, wide
    with lives already lived
    as the certainty of
    autumn brilliance
    on the old maple
    in our backyard
    But never telling
    the side splitting kind
    Pick yourself up from
    the road side
    Saying Nothing
    People remember you
    For all that and more
    I understand now
    Looking in your
    granddaughter’s eyes
    When I repeat your words
    back to her questioning gaze

  36. De Jackson

    In the Long Run
    In the Long Run

    I was a girl of dashes. Half
    Morse, no marathon. No 440.
    50 yards at best, 100 in a
    stretch. Heat. Lashes

    laced with sweat, spent.
    Everything left on that track
    in just a few seconds. Flat.

    Light. Sound
    (and silence)
    signals caught,

    for someone to dot


  37. taylor graham


    It’s dry now, the old tailrace that glittered
    with snowmelt – even in summer, upcountry-cold

    and bucking boulders on its course down-
    stream, swarming with memories, swift bold

    and wild as mountains heading down to sea,
    tangled tributaries that fold and unfold

    through canyons – creating canyons as they go,
    losing bits of granite, quartz, the same old

    story of erosion, time, life. This morning
    the sawmill stands wooden, as if to withhold

    its history; how it turned sawn lumber
    into fortune, such luck who’d have foretold?

    It stands quiet except for visitors who come
    and go; that man with gold-pan, pantlegs rolled,

    feet in the flow, hoping for paydirt among
    gravel, silt, rocks crammed, buffed, and scrolled

    in the current that releases rock buried by ages.
    River of ghosts. Listen. “Eureka! behold!”

    Or is that an echo, a down-canyon wind?
    The day’s course run, sun sets on the river, gold.

  38. ReathaThomasOakley

    Running the course

    How will I know when
    my course is run, when
    I’ve reached the end
    of the race, the end
    of the road, the sentence,
    the line. Will there be a
    sign, I-4 Exit 1 mile
    Ahead, or portents glimpsed
    in the eyes of a stranger.
    Or, will I look over my shoulder
    in disbelief and see the end
    of my story is already behind me.

  39. PowerUnit

    The Installation

    Click download, click run, finally click yes.
    What it does is anybody’s guess.
    Options, themes, reassuring memes,
    it should be going, already, it seems.

    Blue boxes, green lines popping at you,
    task bar pulses, what’s it really up to?
    The endless chugging of worn out processor,
    progression once again, takes forever.

    Just five more seconds, or so it claims
    A half a coffee later, it releases its chains.
    One click, two click, but you can’t yet shoot,
    now it says you have to reboot.

  40. Piddleville

    What Happens Next

    I always ask “What happens next?”
    when I meet another ending
    because there are no endings
    only turnings into other stories
    that may be short or long but always
    have an end that is no ending
    but another turning leading
    to what happens next.

    William Wren

  41. Jo

    A Meditation on Life and Death

    has no
    to run.

    Life does.

    It either
    like an
    in a
    with a
    a bird
    hitting a

    of a
    life is


    on its
    at the
    it leaves


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