Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 393

For today’s prompt, write a pieces poem. For instance, you could write about picking up the pieces (after a broken relationship), putting together puzzle pieces, eating Reese’s Pieces; or pay tribute to this Janis Joplin song. Piece your poem together however works best for you.

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Here’s my attempt at a Pieces Poem:

“piecemeal”

a word here & line break
there & perhaps a simile
thrown in like a square

peg in a diamond-shaped
hole or even a metaphor
flying across an ocean

in the sky & then i say
what you’ve tried to piece
together from one source

& then another before
throwing your hands
in the air like you just

don’t care

*****

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). Sometimes his poems come out whole; other times, he has to piece them together.

Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.

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191 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 393

  1. Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    shrapnel
    by juanita lewison-snyder

    shrapnel
    has this way of digging in for the long haul,
    little souvenirs clinging to flesh like an unwanted houseguest
    bidding its time, clearing out your frig
    taking the keys to your car without permission
    then returning, proud of all the dings and scratches.

    however,
    if the shrapnel is on the inside, it is far more insidious.
    it builds cities of scar tissue in which to war guerilla tactics,
    ambush and sabotage, harass and raid
    advance, retreat, advance, retreat
    until your blood begins to seep and harden like lava,

    trauma waiting for the kill shot another day.

    © 2017 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  2. SarahLeaSales

    Lifelike

    I’m a porcelain doll,
    all cracked up.
    I’m a rag doll,
    the stitches loosening
    from too many washings.
    I’m a paper doll,
    all torn up.
    I’m an Amish doll,
    my face sometimes blank
    when someone says two words
    that sound like one.
    I’m a Barbie doll,
    all glammed up,
    carrying two heavy weights.
    I’m broken,
    in need of repair.
    Who can fix me,
    but the one who collects dolls
    and puts them in his dollhouse—
    so pretty to look at,
    for no one else to touch but him?

  3. Jane Shlensky

    Ironies

    Patsy Cline is singing from the jukebox
    how her lover wants her to pretend,
    ok, to lie about their relationship,
    how his very proximity breaks her down,

    but his mind is skipping here and there,
    his girlfriend facing him tight-faced,
    saying, “I don’t think we work as a couple.
    Maybe as friends.” He smiles, remembering

    the teacher who taught him figurative language,
    saying, “You have to love a good irony.”
    One day, he will chuckle about how well
    in tandem the song and her words arrived.

    But right now, he hears a crash from
    the kitchen and mistakes it for his heart,
    fragile as a wine glass, hurled with purpose
    against a concrete floor.

  4. qbit

    Piecemeal

    There’s a whole
    In my pocket
    That I worry
    Like a prayer.

    Maybe the opening from a
    Crown of thorns
    Or roses
    That will prick my thumbs.

    Or an oculus
    I can use to
    Peer through
    And see the firmament.

    Perhaps a rent from a shard of time,
    A splintered second
    Left behind in the wash
    Like a piece of glass.

    Curious, I turn my thoughts
    Inside out and shake. But only
    A key, some coins,
    Regret.

    1. ppfautsch24

      Pieces of Him
      Rico Suave a hint of him walks by.
      I fall; to gather pieces of him.
      Mellow and passion course through
      his hands sensual creation for this
      cherished man.
      Eyes fajita sizzling hot, and expresso hues
      a simple complexity of him.
      Rich and delicious his essence coats the room.
      Smooth and deliberate; wearing his heart on his sleeve, twisted and twined like licorice vines.
      His vibrant quest for lovers passion and connection.
      Rico and Suave stir my heart and touch my soul.
      The pieces of me that smolder and flame, when they say my name.
      By Pamelap

  5. Uma

    A piece of blue sky
    sparkles on silver ripples.
    Clouds give way to sun

    illuminating
    strewn shards of a broken life.
    Love’s soothing fingers

    smooth jagged edges
    fix the scattered pieces
    Make you whole again

  6. taylor graham

    ONLY PIECES OF IT LEFT
    the old Lincoln Highway

    I’ve known this stretch as Hwy 50, loneliest
    road in America; road that for decades
    has taken me most of the way home. But
    there I was on Clarksville Day, when the old
    ghost highway welcomes guests.

    A crowd of the living walked hundred-year-
    old concrete, crossed the little bridge
    over a creek banked with pioneer rock-wall;
    stepped aside for a team of Percherons.
    A parade of classic cars tootle-whooped me

    out of the way by the old Wells Fargo
    ruins almost disappearing in thistle and tree-
    of-heaven. When Hwy 50 got re-routed,
    the march of commerce passed this way-stop
    by. The town of Clarksville died.

    What if I just kept walking this piece
    of ghost-highway? Might I climb to where
    the fenced buffalo once roamed? fly
    right up Hwy 50 (no pedestrians allowed)
    all the way back home.

  7. Maria Grace

    The Feathers

    How strange the unravelling
    Of this tiny creature,
    That living, might nestle,
    Whole and completely,
    Within the hollow
    Of my hand.

    Death’s reaving
    Enormously scatters
    The bright bars and dapples
    Til winnowed finery,
    Made birdless and hollow,
    Widely rings the empty land.

  8. De Jackson

    Shrapnel

    She left pieces of her life behind her everywhere she went. It’s easier to feel the sunlight without them, she said. ― Brian Andreas

    This poem is
    my missing pieces.
    The grief. The shame.
    The same small dreams
    I drowned in my own
    salt. The regrets, the
    frets and troubles,
    the doubletalk and
    triple-white-washed
    lies. The futile tries
    and the fruitless flail.

    This poem is
    a kite tail of ribboned
    rage and page after
    page after page after
    page of words spilled
    to will my shredded heart
    to beat again.

    It’s shard and
    shred and wedge and
    slab and slice
    and scrap of
    this
    and
    that;
    some old photographs,
    a tattered note. A rote
    memory, rearranged
    to resemble something
    that might someday

    {sing.}

    This poem is a thing
    that no one sees, a tree
    in a forest of too many
    fallings and not enough
    ears, the fear behind the
    eye of the needle, the
    center of the storm.

    It’s warm
    in its own bright blood,
    a crimson trail of murmur
    -murdered gore; more guts
    than glory,
    but enough stories
    for a wayward sky.

    This I,
    this me,
    this what’s-left we,
    she’s streamlined
    you see. Smaller.
    Spit-shined. More
                     refined.

    ::

  9. Arash

    Pieces of Me
    by Arash

    In my math instructor’s heavy hands in fall
    and tulips rising among the rocks in spring
    ones I tore to pieces and threw away
    Between parked cars under mulberry trees
    along the back alleys filled with presence
    of boys of endless football games
    Behind the newly washed windows
    and in tiptoes into construction sites
    in Panchatantra and Jules Verne
    in goodnight kisses at night….
    But here now I’m loose skin only
    wrapped around absences
    that fester here and spread
    like a nameless disease
    that tears through the past.

  10. thunk2much

    soon

    Soon we’ll be done
    you and I and the rest,
    resolved at last, long last
    to ash on the tongues
    of creatures with less
    at stake, less to prove
    but more sense and senses,
    and the rivers and the trees
    won’t notice that we’ve gone
    because they have always
    danced heedlessly along
    and they’ll twirl and leap
    magnificently still
    around the fish and the foxes
    that we finally left in peace.

  11. PowerUnit

    Here is a ‘Found Poem’ from The Watchmen, a graphic novel.

    This city is an animal
    fierce and complicated.
    To understand it
    I read its droppings
    its scents, the movements
    of its parasites.
    I watch its trash cans,
    and the city opens
    its heart to me.

  12. Walter J Wojtanik

    PIECES OF PABLO
    (or I’M NOT BEING RUDE, I’M READING NERUDA)

    I find a voice in my poet of choice,
    I am conversing Neruda.
    The dude had a style, and while
    I admire him greatly,
    lately I find much of him in me.
    I am no Neruda, no poetic Buddha,
    but Pablo’s odes and sonnets are honest
    presentations (never lost in translation).
    I have become a student of him,
    on a whim and not by surprise,
    this guy’s poems move me.
    It behooves me to find bits
    and pieces of Pablo to blow
    my mind, to remind me that poetry
    has a purpose to communicate,
    to elated, sometimes sedate
    and placate a burdened heart.
    From my start I have been ensconced
    in this need to read Neruda.
    Please, don’t find me rude.

  13. carolemt87

    May there someday be peace *

    I watch the evening news
    another shooting
    after Paris
    in San Bernadino
    innocent lives taken.

    How can we know this kind of enemy
    and the cause of all this hate?
    Ploughshares paradise sprouts
    a garden of silver swords,
    beaches riddled with bomb craters
    and spent bullets, the copper taste
    of blood and bleached brittle
    bones of broken boys.

    How, I ask you, did we cause this venomous hatred?
    We are foolish if our leaders think that we can fix
    what ails these troubled nations.
    Perhaps I am foolish thinking that we can
    hold up a bright flame of kindness
    and peace for all human life.
    Once again, mothers and fathers mourn
    and fear grips the heart of another town
    and I think about my upcoming choir concert.
    For the first time, I realize how easy it would be
    for a gunman with an automatic weapon
    to spray the risers with bullets while
    a hundred and twelve singers exclaim
    May there someday be happiness
    May there someday be love
    May there someday be peace.

    * Inscription of Hope: Z. Randall Strope

    Carol Carpenter 2/10/2016

  14. writinglife16

    WHERE DO LOST PIECES GO?

    The nurse frowned at me.
    Do I tell her what I think?
    Decided not to.
    My mind is like a puzzle.
    I can’t lose another piece…
    and live.

  15. De Jackson

    Pieces of 8

    First things first:
    gotta give you a piece
    of my mind,
    of this stupid stormy sky
    of the reason for my salt
    of the way it’s not our fault
    and yet it somehow still
                             quite is.

    Second things ring
    true, treasures won and lost
    to the deep
    to the sleepy soul
    to the weepy center
    to the wisest one who
    no longer knows yet somehow
                                      still does.

    ::

  16. grcran

    dna pieces

    opened up a dialogue with Ernest
    wanted him to know what he’d been through
    toured the key west house the six-toed kittens
    found some fresh ideas in his milieu
    pieces of the man he was a boxer
    war reporter fished and hunted big
    put together pathos in his novels
    injured he could zag but wouldn’t zig
    movable he feasted watched the sun rise
    tolled the bell said farewell to the arms
    shot himself but hemochromatosis
    really killed and liquor added harm
    wrote no meaning would not prose emotion
    let the reader figure that stuff out
    won the nobel prize pulitzer also
    lost to genes in final title bout

    gpr crane
    (and yeah Robert, the Janis song is great, singing it all day since you brought it up, but there’s also Patsy Cline’s I Fall to Pieces)

  17. Uma

    pieces of me

    network of veins —
    glowing blue-green of a forest pond —
    imprints itself on parchment skin

    it divides me into pieces
    — too many to count —
    each spinning its own yarn of grief

    I tire of sad stories —
    tell me, how much misery can a soul endure —
    I wish I was made of mud
    and dissolve in a deluge of distress
    flow far from my surroundings

    Under a more benevolent sun
    I could dry out
    into dissimilar pieces
    coming together in a pristine pattern
    to narrate a happier tale

  18. Sara McNulty

    Neighborhood Fear

    Neighbors knew he carried a piece,
    prayed his lease would soon be up.
    all they wanted was a little peace

    Bully since childhood, he did not cease,
    becoming a gangster–ruthless, corrupt.
    all they wanted was a little peace

    Storeowners fell victim to his fleece.
    Pay protection or they’d not see sunup.
    all they wanted was a little peace

    A sting was arranged by local police;
    a shoot-out ensued, bully wound up deceased.
    Finally neighbors got a little peace

  19. EllaT

    Her first time watching a storm roll in on the porch

    a green plastic gem
    caught in her wild ringlets
    her warm body wrapped in a baby blanket
    now much too small
    we sit on the concrete steps just past dusk
    watching the sky flash between the leaves
    branches bobbing in the gusts
    faint low rumble growing louder
    pieces of grass and flower petals
    rush past in waves
    we feel the first pin drops of late spring rain
    on our arms
    “do we go in now?” she asks with wide eyes
    a veteran myself, I assure her we have another
    minute or two
    and I hold her closer
    before the sky breaks open

  20. Nancy Posey

    Pieces of Silver

    We consider how to mark the twenty-fifth,
    a quarter of a century together,
    remarkable these days, we’re told.

    The cost of treachery, of betrayal
    has too often been measured out
    in pieces of silver, we remind ourselves.
    What gift can we give each other as proof
    of loyalty, fidelity, promises kept?

    We search through the coins accumulated
    through generations, stored in leather pouches,
    some worn smooth in pockets, some sealed
    in mint condition. The face of Lady Liberty
    strikes us as too metaphorical, while Kennedy
    feels too tragic. Instead I sort through salad forks,
    butter knives, tiny demitasse spoons, prized
    but rarely used by brides and grooms before us.
    I choose one for you; you choose one for me.

    With just the right degree of heat, we bend
    them flattening the bowl, curling tines,
    until we make new from old,
    remarkable these days, we’re told.

  21. Jrentler

    Spoke Folk

    we/they pronoun
    country-men, neighbors
    unstablers
    some in capes
    rise to the mike
    & report

    P. from the press,
    I/they/gender-queer
    whatever the-f
    Act-up
    get over it rails

    C. of the Valkyrie
    they/them
    will lead the march
    on a motorcycle

    White-haired M.J
    she/her squeaks,
    The die-in at town hall
    was a hit!

    Banners & standing ovations
    before
    New Actions proposed,

    D.
    he/him
    representative lawyer
    against nuclear manufacturers, warns of an end

    Hey Hey J.
    Gender Queer & he/him suggests a mirror protest
    of Chechnya
    synchromodized with San Frans’

    Seconds & straw votes
    two hours passed
    in a calvary sactuary
    at a Terrifique Tuezday
    Rental-rate
    allies recruited

    we/they of the US of A
    Diaspora split
    up-down-all-around
    fingertips sparking

    Buddha says:

    we all be
    spokes in the wheel
    togethered

    but its the center hole
    that makes the wagon move

  22. mschied

    Seeing in Slivers

    One hundred eyes stared back
    at her
    unblinking as she
    flitted from one
    to
    another searching
    for the true reflection
    among
    the lies
    but all she saw
    were the
    sharp edges of
    broken dreams
    waiting
    to tear her future
    to shreds

  23. Anthony94

    Beneath Cloud Scud

    Leaves fracture in this roaring wind
    everywhere pieces flying to bruises
    on concrete, the odd chair on the porch.

    Suddenly the supple is become like glass
    a pane of pin oak, the helter skelter hedge,
    the flying fringe of trembling mimosa all

    lodging in the threshold in front of the barn.
    How neatly wind shears across veins
    stealing xylem and phloem like some

    suckling calf intent on self satisfaction. Purple
    shreds of iris sail by and green scimitars slash
    at emerging stalks of lilies. No putting back pieces

    scattered by this three day blow, no unshaking
    walls, recoiling the air pushing at dampered
    chimney. How does it sound to the denned rabbit,

    the tiny shrew and will they, too, harvest pieces
    into dark homes to prop on tiny mantles, marvel at
    such works of art, lick and thumb the odd piece?

  24. lsteadly

    Fragments

    there are pieces
    of me
    scattered across
    the sky the land the water-

    pieces I’ve left
    with (out)
    knowing
    I’d be leaving
    them
    there
    where I’ve touched
    a jay a doe a stingray

    fleeting moments
    that shifted
    me
    them?
    among the fragile
    pile
    of dreams

  25. Angie5804

    trying yesterday’s form, the Cyrch A Chwta Poem

    A Walk in the Woods

    there in pieces of sunlight
    through pieces of shadowlight
    cardinal swoops down, takes flight
    filtered memories alight
    anchored by sound and by sight
    lifted by a breeze so light
    scamper of chittering squirrel
    dreams unfurled are not finite

  26. MET

    The Stain Glass Maker
    Born to a mother too young,
    Deadbeat dad who never bother to see you,
    You were born like all babies- lovely, and
    You grew a darling dark eyed girl.
    That Mother too young had to have a man,
    And married a bastard
    Who cracked your window to the world.
    I came to be a Stain glass maker
    To take the ugliness and create beauty.

    I was young naïve-
    Thought I could change the world,
    Thought all it took was someone like me
    To make all the pieces fit.
    I was handed your window to the world;
    It was shattered and crushed.
    How could I fix that window
    For the light of Peace to get to your heart.

    The B*a*s*t*a*r*d beat your young mother,
    Made her old and broken.
    Your five-year-old self stood still crying silently
    As the chair slammed into her head.
    Brain matter landed on you.
    The B*a*s*t*a*r*d shattered your window,
    And you knew as they buried the young mother
    The dark side of Domestic War.

    I met you in a darken room of your home,
    Walked into danger not knowing, and
    Brought back your stuff from school
    Stabbing someone was an expellable event.
    I felt the cold blade of the knife
    Held by the teenage boy who came up behind me.
    Your eyes had a cold set on doing me harm.
    “Do you believe he will cut you?”
    I said, “yes,” and
    The beginning of trust was born.
    I took the black piece of your anger
    And fit it against a piece of yellow glass of trust.

    The B*a*s*t*a*r*d’s family took you for their own.
    No one came from the young mother’s family to claim you.
    They beat you, called you names, told you no one wanted you, and
    Looked the other way when the Bastard raped you again and again.
    Defiant strong you fought back,
    Attacking any who tried to help-
    All you felt was anger smashing your Heart
    To fill it with hate and war.

    There you sat in front of me.
    I had begun to learn that it was not easy
    Repairing a broken window was not easy.
    Our paths had crossed again,
    This time your baby was the reason.
    You remembered the trust.
    I saw your anger that you were here.
    So I added a red piece to the window.
    One day I heard you laugh;
    I added the color green for joy.

    The B*a*s*t*a*r*d busted your lip,
    And the rope burns would leave a scar on your wrist.
    Your eyes begged for this to stop;
    You were tired of it all.
    You refused all offers, saying,
    “You can’t help. You know he will kill me.”
    I heard the glass of the window
    Being crushed with your tears-
    The hopelessness of domestic war.
    I got the calls at three in the morning
    Your tears had sought me out.

    I listened to your despair, and
    Gave you a glimpse of a better day.
    I had faith in you. You listened, and
    Began to know also.
    I picked up the purple glass of faith,
    And added it to the window to your soul.

    The nightmare came- your baby girl died.
    No one believed but it was an accident.
    You had another baby girl- she needed you,
    But those that were supposed to love you,
    Only pointed fingers and said you were bad.
    They ground what was left of the window to your heart.

    I had to ask the hard questions.
    I also cried over the loss,
    Of a little girl we both loved-
    I added the color of blue to your window
    In many shades from the light blue of love
    To the dark blue of grief.

    The struggle was always there.
    The fast anger- the hate
    Never really died…
    And the marks of the B*a*s*t*a*r*d
    Of beatings and assaults
    From the domestic war
    Always kept from mending the broken window.

    Each year on your birth day
    To remind you of that time
    When you were a perfect babe,
    And your young mother loved you,
    I gave you a small gift a token of that love.
    I just wanted you to heal,
    Wanted the stain glass window
    To bring you beautiful light,
    And I added the crystal light of hope

    Just in case this year was the year.
    The news was bad.
    You were dead-
    Beaten like your young mother.
    The B*a*s*t*a*r*d had won.
    Everyone believed it,
    But no one could prove it, and
    He moved on to build a domestic war somewhere else.

    I stood at your funeral
    Cried my heart out
    For all I could not mend.
    I had failed as a stain glass maker,
    But it is hard to build a window
    When the pieces were
    Cracked, shattered,
    Smashed and ground into dust.
    I put the last piece into the window that day.
    The white glass of peace-
    Too late for you to see, but
    Not too late for you to feel.
    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 8, 2014

    1. MET

      This based on the life of one lovely young woman who had so much more she could have done with her life, but there were others who harmed her young life and broke it apart… When I met her she was in her late teens…. another worker and I got her to graduate from high school and we attended her graduation… no parents could have been prouder of their child… We taught her manners and how you don’t hang out the window of a card and yell at people…. she called me at home often even when I was not her worker… and she told her African American worker at that time.. that I was the only one at DSS who was not a honkey…Her murder came 11 months before my father’s death… she was on my thoughts yesterday and I revisited this poem… I think it was the best I ever wrote on brokenness… Blessings on you… wherever you are… I visited her grave on her birthday for ten years after she died… I also visited the grave of her daughter…both in many ways were my children.

      1. MET

        I wish you joy in your new endeavor… it is a worthy cause for which I have much love for….

        Yes this was one of the more heart wrenching stories of my career.. and it covered from 1978 until January 1987… even when the case was closed… I would go find her to remind her that she was important…. and just as she witnessed her mother’s death.. her oldest child witnessed her murder… and sadly for her… but good for her children… they were adopted by loving families… so maybe the violence has ended…

        1. lsteadly

          Oh my gosh, this is such an incredible story. I love how you wove the colors of the stained glass into the events they signify. So so so tragic but I love how you still hold on to hope through all of this pain. Thank you for sharing this.

          1. MET

            thank you and I did hope for her… and her death and her daughter’s death both hurt my heart deeply…

  27. MET

    The Old Hickory Tree

    The old Hickory tree lays broken on the ground.
    It will take a decade for it to turn to earth.
    Forty Years I watched this lovely tree grow…
    Tall, resilient, and lovely….
    In the fall, it could be seen for miles…
    The gold of its leaves
    Proved that all gold
    Indeed does not glitter.

    It fell not due to growing old, but
    Because a young man wanted to climb
    To its lofty height to see how far he could see.
    He stuck spikes to help him climb, and
    Saw those wonderful sights, but
    Killed the old Hickory just the same.
    For the injury brought on more hurts
    From others like drought and bugs.
    Like a person, when their soul is injured,
    Others often see their pain and
    See a chance to bully.

    I missed its beauty this autumn.
    Instead of the beautiful tree
    I see laying on the ground
    In sawed and broken pieces
    What was once majestic, and
    Is now lost.

    We care so little for the life around us.
    Most would have made the broken pieces go away
    To keep from reminding them of the broken promises
    We made to this creation.
    I chose to keep the broken pieces
    Of a Hickory tree, I loved
    To remind me of those promises
    To take care of the earth.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    May 17, 2017

      1. MET

        yes they are… and I love trees deeply… it was my nephew who did this to the tree, and later he told me that he thought he had killed it… and he had…

  28. PowerUnit

    A cackling of raucous birds
    And I want to sip my beer, and read
    Their lips, a tossed handful of Lifesavers
    I’m drowning in noise, picking
    Their names, film star headliners
    Tina and Jennifer
    Marilyn and Scarlett
    Gina and Natalia
    My story forgotten
    All escape routes dammed

  29. Walter J Wojtanik

    LIFE IN BITS AND PIECES

    We live in bits and pieces,
    a junk drawer full of memories,
    moments held close to heart
    that start to fray on the ends
    and sends you careening into fits
    of rage and bits and pieces.

    It never ceases these bits
    and pieces of fleece that smell
    like her perfume all these years
    here after. Shards of laughter
    stuck in the rafters of a mind
    in which he would come to find

    words and scraps of paper,
    pieces upon which he had written
    skits and bits of humorous falderal!
    Post-its hosting numbers and names
    gone up in the flames of a pathetic pyre,
    a fire that was once desire and is now

    not long for this world. A dervish of a girl
    spinning in a whirl of dust and debris,
    and me ready to steady the tumult,
    a Walt at the ready to repair what was
    laid bare, a life rife with a smattering
    of tattered thoughts and ideas, pleas

    for a quick end (please give me a quick end)
    and a friend with which to trade barbs
    and count carbs as the passage of time.
    Lengthy rhymes that were once big hits now spread
    as bits and left in pieces of peace
    praying for a new lease on these bits and pieces,

    or a bigger junk drawer to hold this shrapnel
    well meant to be moments held close to the heart.
    Always a good start. We live in bits and pieces.

  30. headintheclouds87

    Diamonds of Intent

    The ambitions and big ideas
    That chatter away in my head
    Are quickly and ruthlessly broken
    Into petty, incomprehensible shards
    When cast out into reality,
    Merely becoming minute pieces
    Of a fabled master plan
    That I am unable to assemble
    Or indeed, even recall the path to,
    As these evanescent half-concepts
    Are inevitably carried away
    Up to the vast, confusing sky
    Before becoming lost in the clouds
    Never to be seen again,
    Their fragile and fleeting nature
    Ultimately meaning it is futile
    To attempt that final cohesion
    Until the mind seeks and finds
    Those rare diamond intentions
    That the world cannot so easily shatter.

  31. Jason L. Martin

    Fly Swatter

    My mother never cleaned up corpses
    of flies she swatted. Magazines and shoes
    the weapons. Microscopic guts the proof.

    No one was given the chore
    of window sill cleanup duty. All those years
    of legs and odds and ends piled up to prove

    to fly family and friends to stay away or else
    the unmatched aim of my mother will befall
    any insect stupid enough to set flight in our home.

    Today my daughter pulls back the curtain,
    realizes what has been our dark family secret.
    This stash of skeletons and stains, a legacy of murder.

    I’ve got the same unmatched aim of my mother
    and I’ll pass along that talent to my daughter, with this fly swatter
    and our window sill a laboratory of entomological wonder.

  32. deringer1

    PIECES

    My mother cut pieces from material
    we had used to make our clothes.
    Carefully sorting them, she arranged
    them in a pleasing pattern and sewed them together.
    Then came the large piece of material
    for backing and some batting in between.

    And now, many years later, I have
    a priceless keepsake of memories
    that keeps warm both soul and body.

  33. tripoet

    Janis

    She exploded
    onto the scene
    leaving pieces
    of herself
    everywhere,
    in her songs,
    her friends,
    grieving family
    and fans
    in the drugs
    she couldn’t
    leave behind.

  34. Eileen S

    Broken

    I wanted it my way.
    You wanted it your way
    What we used to have
    cannot be that way again.
    .
    A relationship in pieces.
    shattered like delicate eggshells.
    Never mended or put back again.

    I’m Humpty, you’re Dumpty.
    No, you’re Humpty, I’m Dumpty.

    All the King’s horses and all the King’s men
    Cannot put us back together again.

    Two grown adults
    now in a relationship
    reduced to a
    nursery rhyme.

  35. De Jackson

    Unspangled Dragons

    They crave sequins and spark
    -led shine, bright pieces of sea

    and fractured stars. Gray scales
    ache for ribboned river, milky

    way canyon scars and the sheen
    of sea glass. We comb the shores

    in search of strings and strands,
    shanty songs. We stick them

    fine, with candled wax and
    raspberry bubblegum. How

    splendiferous they are in their
    new skin, ready to hum-rumble

    the day into some semblance
    of spectacular. We watch, gather

    our own small stones and stam
    -mered syllables. Sprinkle them in

    whispered wild, fragile book spines
    and dandelion parachute hope.

    ::

  36. Daniel Paicopulos

    Picking Up the Pieces

    My heart knows the way.
    I plan to follow it.
    What else can I but do?
    Oh, it’s been broken
    into pieces more than once,
    by sadness, anger, regrets,
    but it always finds
    a means of healing,
    a map to sharing,
    a path to kindness,
    a line to love.
    My heart knows the way.
    I plan to follow it.

  37. Walter J Wojtanik

    INNER PIECE

    I find my piece within my words,
    and express the way that I feel.
    My words can either hurt or heal,

    they can make sense or be absurd.
    Rhymes that I fashion have passion
    without a thought to go unheard.

    I try to present them with zeal,
    I find my peace within my words.

  38. Walter J Wojtanik

    PEACE OF THE SKY

    An echoed song will call right back,
    and the sky will be resplendent with peace.
    Look to the horizon. No cloud, no smoke stack,
    just an echoed song that will call right back.
    There is nothing that you will lack,
    as long as that song will not cease.
    An echoed song will call right back,
    and the sky will be resplendent with peace.

    Picking the last piece from De’s last “Forever” Triolet
    to start the new week’s play!

    1. De Jackson

      Crying Out to a Clueless Sky

      The sky will be resplendent with peace,
      though my heart’s just splintered, dented, spilled.
      Oh, will sunrise wonders never cease?
      The sky will be resplendent with peace.
      Oh, for some rain to bring me sweet release
      from all this pain that’s fallen, fractured, filled.
      The sky will be resplendent with peace,
      though my heart’s just splintered, dented, spilled.

      1. Walter J Wojtanik

        MENDING CEASELESS PIECES

        Though your heart’s just splintered, dented, spilled,
        let me be the glue that mends your pieces.
        You seem to enter this thing less than thrilled,
        though my heart’s just splintered, dented, spilled.
        It seems your joy for life has been weakened or killed –
        let me “fix” you, remind you how good peace is.
        Though your heart’s just splintered, dented, spilled,
        let me be the glue that mends your pieces.

        1. De Jackson

          Jigsaw Heart

          Let me be the glue that mends your pieces,
          puts you back together once again.
          You’re a puzzle; I’m a girl whose love is ceaseless.
          Let me be the glue that mends your pieces.
          Settle in and let my joy increase this
          place that you’ve been living. Let’s begin.
          Let me be the glue that mends your pieces,
          puts you back together once again.

          1. Walter J Wojtanik

            A MENDER OF HEARTS

            I put your pieces back together once again.
            And once again you’re somewhat close to whole.
            It’s hard to tell where I end and you begin,
            since I put your pieces back together once again.
            The key to love is starting out as friends
            and from the start that’s been our only goal.
            I put your pieces back together once again.
            And once again you’re somewhat close to whole.

          2. De Jackson

            (He)Art Supplies

            Once again, you’re somewhat close to whole.
            (Scotch tape is useful, when it comes to matters of the heart.)
            I took the Elmer’s, applied it to your soul,
            and once again you’re somewhat close to whole.
            I’ll grab more duct tape, stack it in a row
            so we’ve got all we need for this life healing origami art.
            Once again, you’re somewhat close to whole.
            (Scotch tape is useful, when it comes to matters of the heart.)

          3. Walter J Wojtanik

            (HE)ARTS, (SHE)ARTS

            (Scotch tape is useful, when it comes to matters of the heart.)
            But Duct Tape, not so much.
            Painter’s tape is great when making art,
            (But, Scotch tape is useful, when it comes to matters of the heart.)
            Rubber bands are in demand if your pieces come apart
            or lose a certain part or such,
            (Scotch tape is useful, when it comes to matters of the heart.)
            But Duct Tape, not so much.

          4. De Jackson

            Does That Come With Bananas?

            Duct Tape, not so much
            a help as it is a big sticky mess.
            Masking (tape) has just the right touch,
            but Duct Tape, not so much.
            Let’s get some Gorilla Glue – we’ll go Dutch.
            (I find the Super Hold type to be the best.)
            Duct Tape? Not so much
            a help as it is a big sticky mess.

          5. Walter J Wojtanik

            CHEWING CHICLETS IN BED

            Discarding your gum at bedtime is a help as it is a big sticky mess
            if you try to keep chewing through the night!
            You could swallow and choke on it, and I confess
            discarding your gum at bedtime is a help as it is a big sticky mess.
            A throat lozenge could have the same effect, I guess,
            but it will probably dissolve eventually (it might!).
            Discarding your gum at bedtime is a help as it is a big sticky mess,
            if you try to keep chewing through the night!

          6. De Jackson

            It’s Not Chic,Let’s Spit It Out

            If you try to keep chewing gum through the night,
            I shall never have any peace.
            All of that snapping and smacking ain’t right,
            and if you try to keep chewing gum through the night,
            I’m telling you now, I’ll put up a great fight
            and you won’t like the results in the least!
            If you try to keep chewing gum through the night,
            I shall never have any peace.

          7. Walter J Wojtanik

            BEATS AND PIECES OF LENNON

            I believe we shall never have any peace
            if we refuse to even give it a chance.
            Take all your pent up anger, give it release,
            or I believe we shall never find any peace.
            Imagine what it’d be like to have a new lease,
            it’s easy if you really try. Join the dance.
            I believe we shall never have any peace
            if we refuse to even give it a chance.

          8. De Jackson

            All The King’s Men Gather Their Gumption

            If we refuse to even give it a chance,
            Humpty Dumpty will stay scrambled.
            We’ve got to give putting him together a glance,
            for if we refuse to even give it a chance,
            it’ll be over (easy), and he’ll never dance.
            His whole future will be gambled!
            If we refuse to even give it a chance,
            Humpty Dumpty will stay shattered.

          9. Walter J Wojtanik

            LET’S HAVE BREAKFAST, SHELL WE?

            Humpty Dumpty will stay shattered,
            he cannot support his weight on those spindly legs!
            When he was unbroken, he was flattered
            but now, Humpty Dumpty will stay shattered.
            For staying intact was all that mattered,
            but to make an omelet you have to break some eggs!
            Humpty Dumpty will stay shattered,
            he cannot support his weight on those spindly legs!

          10. De Jackson

            That’s All, Yolks.

            He cannot support his weight on those spindly legs,
            so now he’s oozing all over the place.
            No matter how much he cajoles and begs,
            he cannot support his weight on those spindly legs.
            They’ve picked up the shell and left the yolk dregs,
            so now all the king’s men have egg on their face.
            He cannot support his weight on those spindly legs,
            so now he’s oozing all over the place.

          11. Walter J Wojtanik

            EGG – HARSHLY BEATEN

            So now he’s oozing all over the place.
            with a snout full of ooze and silence.*
            Fractures and bruises all over his face,
            so now he’s oozing all over the place.
            Humpty eggs could make a strong case
            how Nursery Rhymes are rife with violence.
            So now he’s oozing all over the place.
            with a snout full of ooze and silence.*

            * Borrowed this line from Pablo Neruda’s “The Dictators”

          12. De Jackson

            Picaso’s Pieces

            With a snout full of ooze and silence,
            we paint our ears where our noses should be.
            In an act of pure artistic violence,
            and with a snout full of ooze and silence,
            our eyes turned sideways, a slanted alliance,
            we’re melting, for all to see!
            With a snout full of ooze and silence,
            we paint our ears where our noses should be.

          13. Walter J Wojtanik

            STAINED GLASS ABSTRACT

            We paint our ears where our noses should be,
            And we’ll certainly add an extra eye.
            Folk will wonder what this could be,
            we paint our ears where our noses should be.
            And why render an elbow that looks like a knee
            and a third hand sticking out from your thigh?
            We paint our ears where our noses should be,
            And we’ll certainly need an extra eye.

          14. De Jackson

            Spare Parts

            We’ll certainly need an extra eye
            (or an elbow, or kidney, or spleen.)
            We’ll search for body parts low, and high
            cuz we’ll certainly need that extra eye.
            No bonus parts? We’ll moan, and sigh
            and wish you could see what we mean.
            We’ll certainly need an extra eye
            (or an elbow, or kidney, or spleen.)

          15. Walter J Wojtanik

            PARTS IS PARTS

            Let’s see. An elbow, a kidney, a spleen (all exploratory.)
            as I harvest and collect human bits and parts.
            I’m at work in my laboratory
            with an elbow, a kidney, a spleen (all exploratory.)
            My regeneration theories are explanatory,
            all “Frankie” needs is a brain and a heart.
            Let’s see. An elbow, a kidney, a spleen (all exploratory.)
            as I harvest and collect human bits and parts

          16. De Jackson

            She’s Got Guts

            I harvest and collect human bits and parts
            (would you like to buy a bowel?)
            It’s a sacred science, a long lost art:
            I harvest and collect human bits and parts.
            Investin’ in intestines is just the start.
            Hey, can you grab me a towel?
            I harvest and collect human bits and parts.
            Would you like to buy a bowel?

          17. Walter J Wojtanik

            VANA WHITE’S A DIRTY BIRD!

            Would you like to buy a bowel?
            How that one letter makes a difference?
            Who would want to? An owl?
            Would you like to buy a bowel?
            Would you think any other fowl
            would? Would my windshield mind its essence?
            Would you like to buy a bowel?
            How that one letter makes a difference?

          18. De Jackson

            Alpha-Bits

            How that one letter makes a difference!
            They’re all important, from A to Z.
            To think otherwise is just ignorance;
            oh, how that one letter makes a difference.
            There’s no need to get belligerent.
            They’re all essential to you and me.
            How that one letter makes a difference.
            They’re all important, from A to Z.

          19. Walter J Wojtanik

            THERE, ALL-IMPORTANT

            They’re all important, from A to Z.
            Every poet and all their words
            from aardvark to zymurgy,
            they’re all important, from A to Z.
            At least they’re important to De and me,
            from expressive to absurd!
            They’re all important, from A to Z.
            Every poet and all their words

          20. De Jackson

            Synergy

            Every poet, with all their words,
            is a piece of this poetical street.
            We gather here, quiet quilled birds.
            Without every poet, and all their words –
            from free phrase-spirits to us word nerds –
            this place just wouldn’t be complete.
            Every poet, and all their words
            is a piece of this poetical street.

          21. Walter J Wojtanik

            MOMMA RULES!

            We are all a piece of this poetical puzzle
            (I don’t play in streets like momma told me).
            Our poetical prowess is warm like a nuzzle,
            We are all a piece of this poetical puzzle,
            (I’m sure some folk wish that I had a muzzle)
            and just like momma, they’d scold me!)
            We are all a piece of this poetical puzzle
            (I don’t play in streets like momma told me).

          22. De Jackson

            Mama Knows Best

            I don’t play in streets, like Momma told me.
            (You can wind up in pieces that way.)
            I do step on cracks, but stand up, boldly
            and don’t play in streets, like Momma told me.
            I save play for parks, and the back yard, solely,
            so as not to go SPLAT, and ooze away.
            I don’t play in streets, like Momma told me.
            (You can wind up in pieces that way.)

          23. Walter J Wojtanik

            I FALL TO PIECES

            (You can wind up in pieces that way.)
            But don’t fall apart on my account.
            You seem to be having a lousy day
            and you can wind up in pieces that way.
            Keep your chin up come what may,
            you won’t fall apart (you won’t).
            (You can wind up in pieces that way.)
            But don’t fall apart on my account.

          24. De Jackson

            Quite a Catch

            Don’t fall apart on my account,
            there are plenty of fish in the sea.
            One fish, two fish, bass and trout –
            so don’t fall apart on my account.
            You can catch any one you’ve found,
            so long as it isn’t me!
            Don’t fall apart on my account,
            there are plenty of fish in the sea.

          25. Walter J Wojtanik

            CATCH ME IF YOU CAN

            There are plenty of fish in the sea.
            But most aren’t taking the bait.
            Fish as far as the eye can see,
            there are plenty of fish in the sea.
            You can catch all you want but you can’t catch me,
            So I’ll just slow down and wait.
            There are plenty of fish in the sea.
            But most aren’t taking the bait.

          26. De Jackson

            Mollusk Madness

            Most octopi aren’t taking the bait,
            no matter how much chum we tender.
            With smarty-pants brains and legs of 8,
            most octopi aren’t taking the bait.
            They’re winning this thing right out of the gate –
            these cephalopods won’t surrender!
            Most octopi aren’t taking the bait,
            no matter how much chum we tender.

          27. Walter J Wojtanik

            DON’T BE SHELLFISH

            No matter how tender we become, chum,
            we will share this life together, friend.
            We will cherish every day as it will come,
            no matter how tender we become, chum.
            And no matter where we shall roam
            we will enjoy each moment to the end.
            No matter how tender we become, chum,
            we will share this life together, friend.

          28. De Jackson

            A Patchwork of Friendship

            We will share this life together, friend,
            in pieces both easy and not.
            Though storm and sorrow try to rend,
            we will share this life together, friend.
            The good, the bad, it all will mend,
            and we’ll be thankful for what we’ve got!
            We will share this life together, friend,
            in pieces both easy and not.

          29. Walter J Wojtanik

            A FRIENDSHIP QUILT

            Some puzzles come in pieces, both easy and not.
            But either way you have to figure them out,
            it doesn’t matter how many pieces they’ve got,
            Some puzzles come in pieces, both easy and not.
            Some are quite cool, others are not,
            but that’s all that puzzles are about.
            Some puzzles come in pieces, both easy and not.
            But either way you have to figure them out

          30. De Jackson

            Puzzle Confuzzlement

            Either way, we have to figure out
            where to find the missing piece.
            You check under that floral couch –
            cuz we really have to figure out
            what this picture puzzle is all about.
            It’s driving us crazy, to say the least!
            Either way we have to figure out
            where to find the missing piece.

          31. Walter J Wojtanik

            CONFUSED PUZZLEMENT

            Where to find the missing piece
            Is not as easy as you think.
            It will bring you to your knees,
            but where to find the missing piece?
            So do not let your searching cease,
            you just might find the missing link.
            Where to find the missing piece
            Is not as easy as you think.

          32. De Jackson

            Falling Apart Might Be Easier

            It’s not nearly as easy as you think,
            holding all these pieces together.
            Sometimes they weep, sometimes they leak,
            and it’s not nearly as easy as you think.
            It can take you right up to the brink,
            holding it all together, whatever the weather.
            It’s not nearly as easy as you think,
            holding all these pieces together.

          33. Walter J Wojtanik

            FALLING TO PIECES AGAIN

            Holding all these pieces together
            is like trying to squeeze pebbles into a rock.
            They’ll go their own way, whether
            you’re holding all these pieces together.
            And it’s much harder in freezing weather
            for your hands will be cold around the clock.
            Holding all these pieces together
            is like trying to squeeze pebbles into a rock.

          34. De Jackson

            Poem Pebbles

            It’s like trying to squeeze pebbles into a rock,
            or trying to get blood from a stone.
            This gigs got its joys, and its hard knocks –
            it’s like trying to squeeze pebbles into a rock.
            But it’s not your first time ’round this writer’s block,
            so at least you know you’re not alone.
            It’s like trying to squeeze pebbles into a rock,
            or trying to get blood from a stone.

          35. Walter J Wojtanik

            COCOA PEBBLES

            Trying to get blood from a stone
            is like trying to get chocolate milk a bull.
            You’re best served to leave things alone
            when you’re trying to get blood from a stone
            or eating ice cream from the bottom of the cone!
            You’ll be pushing all your problems uphill.
            Trying to get blood from a stone
            is like trying to get chocolate milk a bull.

          36. De Jackson

            Well, That’s Bull

            Trying to get chocolate milk from a bull
            is a little like trying to hold the sun.
            A bowl might work, though it would be quite full.
            It’s like trying to get chocolate milk from a bull.
            Surely you’d need a special milking tool,
            (and a trip to the emergency room – no fun!)
            Trying to get chocolate milk from a bull
            is a little like trying to hold the sun.

          37. Walter J Wojtanik

            A CHORUS OF TAURUS

            Trying to hold the sun is a little like
            sipping the ocean through a straw!
            Or teaching a pig how to ride a bike,
            that’s what trying to hold the sun is a little like.
            Try putting a bunch of bulls in front of a mic
            and let them sing ’til they’re raw!
            Trying to hold the sun is a little like
            sipping the ocean through a straw!

          38. De Jackson

            Pieces of Ocean

            Sipping the ocean through a straw?
            Watch out for the salt!
            While others sit and watch in awe,
            are you sipping the ocean through a straw?
            Filter it first, or your throat will go raw.
            (If you choke, it’s not my fault!)
            Sipping the ocean through a straw?
            Watch out for the salt!

          39. Walter J Wojtanik

            SALT LICK

            Watch out for your sodium intake,
            keep your pressure quite at bay,
            and please stay healthy for heaven’s sake,
            so watch out for your sodium intake.
            All that salt is a big mistake,
            that what your doctors say.
            Watch out for your sodium intake,
            keep your pressure quite at bay.

          40. De Jackson

            Kicking the Habit by Kicking Back

            Keep your pressure quite at bay
            by eliminating stress.
            Develop the attitude of come what may
            to keep your pressure quite at bay.
            Hakuna Matada is what we’ll say –
            No Worries at all is best.
            Keep your pressure quite at bay
            by eliminating stress.

          41. Walter J Wojtanik

            FIGHTING THE HABIT BY FIGHTING BACK

            You can eliminate a lot by eliminating stress.
            Splurge when you are on the verge
            and you’ll never have to deal with the mess.
            You can eliminate a lot by eliminating stress.
            But it’s easier said than done, I guess
            just do it when you’ve got the urge.
            You can eliminate a lot by eliminating stress.
            Splurge when you are on the verge.

    2. PressOn

      LIKE THE MORNING PAPER,

      a journey of a thousand words
      begins with a lone triolet
      by Walt or De. Like hummingbirds,
      a journey of a thousand words
      excites, and the sheer brilliance girds
      the soul for the course of the day.
      A journey of a thousand words
      begins with a lone triolet

      1. Walter J Wojtanik

        ALL THE MUSE THAT’S FIT TO PRINT

        It all begins with a lone triolet,
        just a nudge to give us a start
        at our attempts at word play.
        It all begins with a lone triolet,
        I start, or De starts and we’re on our way
        (it gets hard to tell us apart!)
        It all begins with a lone triolet,
        just a nudge to give us a start

        1. De Jackson

          Extra, Extra (Poem All About It)

          Just a nudge to give us a start
          (triolets make the very best muses).
          We each take turns and do our part,
          with just a nudge to give us a start.
          Delivered daily via Triolet Cart,
          These fun rhymes don’t confuse us.
          Just a nudge gives us a start.
          Triolets make the very best muses.

  39. SarahLeaSales

    The First Mr. DeWinter

    His wife had been a mystery to him,
    and he searched through everyone she had ever known,
    getting secondhand memories that seemed to contradict,
    thirdhand accounts of those she had allegedly wronged,
    and rumors of those wrongs she had sought to right;
    he found himself more confused than ever,
    for she was,
    also,
    to them,
    a mystery.

  40. Danny Ballan

    Pieces

    A hand filthy and spoiled but clean
    A sooty shake won’t smear a heart,
    the legs look muscular but lean
    The miles must have been way too smart,
    journeys ahead with eyes so keen
    tardy yet never missed a start.

    A neck too long to hold the thoughts
    above the clouds, it hardly sees
    two feet so steady on the ground
    until a while, a little while
    striding by chance in the wrong place
    when to pieces all blew apart.

    The blast left just too much behind
    collect them all or recollect
    To fantasize what those pieces
    Would possibly mean whole alive.

    May 17, 2017 ~Danny Ballan

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