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 A poem a day keeps the cobwebs off my keyboard. |
| A place for the poetry that I will need to write now that I made a special book for it. |
| Here comes the horse and cart, the horse and cart, the horse and cart. Here comes the horse and cart to take our Tom away. The driver rings his little bell, his little bell, his little bell. The driver rings his little bell to tell us he’s on his way. The cart is filled with all our friends, all our friends, all our friends. The cart is filled with all our friends who are going to go today. They caught the plague, now see their spots, see their spots, see their spots. They caught the plague, now see their spots. They all died today. The townsfolk gather to weep and wail, weep and wail, weep and wail. The townsfolk gather to weep and wail for those who leave today. Here comes the horse and cart, the horse and cart, the horse and cart. Here comes the horse and cart to take our Tom away. Written for "Monsters Under The Bed - CLOSED"  The goal of this contest is to take the innocent Nursery Rhyme provided and turn it dark, twisted, and scary! June - Here We Go Round The Mulberry Bush |
| spring pollen tickles tiny stickles invade my nose it blows Task Prompt: Write a haiku that breaks the rules of traditional Western haiku—but still feels like a haiku. |
| A whisker twitches as the dust mop swishes and stirs the air under the bed. In the corner they gather by the lost antimacassar holding onto its unraveling threads. “It’s not the Hoover, there’s time to maneuver” the dust bunny leader said. He was collecting the crew with plans for a coup when the mop dragged off part of his head. Then the next big push blew off part of his tush no more a bunny, just a dust ball instead. The mop blazed a trail through the cottontails, those left were filled with dread. They panicked and ran right towards the dust pan, and got swept up at the edge of the bed. But still the dust gathers by the lost antimacassar, where the next dust bunny army is bred. Written for "PromptMaster !" Prize Prompt: The most nefarious thing dust bunnies are likely to plot. |
| You screamed the whole night when we brought you home Your ear-splitting wails, they rattled my bones. Downstairs, a neighbor pounded on the ceiling “C’mon, get that baby to sleep, will you?” Then a toddler with some bumping and bruising Knocking knick knacks while crawling and cruising Soon the padding of stockinged feet in the hall The pen scratched each year’s height into the wall The giggling of girls' secrets on the phone About boys and shopping, my, how you’d grown! But the phone barely rang once you were gone Then only text beeps from your college dorm The wallpaper flowers silently bloom and memories echo in your empty room. Task Prompt: Write a poem where each line is quieter than the last. |
| A chicken is often content with a coop surrounded by fence. But to keep her from feeling pent, make a run for it If you find yourself parked by the bank engine running, with a full tank and waiting for friends - Let’s be frank, make a run for it! If you’re unhappy with government and have suspicions about its intent maybe you should be president - make a run for it. Written for "PromptMaster !" Task Prompt: Write a poem in which one line repeats — but its meaning changes each time. |
The question escaped my lips, but the words, shy and unsure, stopped and begged to turn back. I wanted to scoop them up and swallow them down, such rash emotions unbidden rushing forward, demanding to be heard trying to land on your heart. Instead, they fell into the chasm between the seconds and were drowned in your indifference as you deftly stepped out of the way. Written for "PromptMaster !" Prize Prompt: The thing that lives between the seconds. |
| Down the lane where the daisies grow There’s a place where my heart still goes In a grassy meadow, buzzing with bees With baseball games and the climbing of trees Sweet, summer days when we ran so free The best of friends, you and me There’s a place where my heart still goes Down the lane where the daisies grow Down the lane where the daisies grow There’s a place where my heart still goes The best of friends, you and me Sweet, summer days when we ran so free With baseball games and the climbing of trees In a grassy meadow, buzzing with bees There’s a place where my heart still goes Down the lane where the daisies grow 16 lines Task Prompt Write a two-stanza poem where the second stanza is the first stanza in reverse order. The poem should still be interesting (and make sense) in reverse **Because the last two lines of the first stanza are the same as the first two lines of the first stanza but in reverse order, the first two lines of the second stanza appear to be the same as the first two lines of the first stanza but they are the last two lines in reverse order which means they end up in the same order since they were already reversed once. So, if you reverse the reversed verse, it looks unreversed but it’s just reversed twice. Yeah, that’s it. |
| If you've read Agatha Christie, You know murders can be elegant things, If accomplished with the right kind of poison, Not with guns, or garotting strings. One can find the substances needed, Growing right at home in the garden. Or perhaps, in the gardener’s shed There is something to control the vermin. But one doesn’t expect to be felled, By a craving for dessert. Or to find one’s fate written, Like a warning or alert. Yet in the broken cookie, Instead of some tidbit of wisdom, Was a label describing the toxin Of which I was now the victim. Caution! the label read, Toxic to humans and pets. (My dog died years ago But I’ve no time to digress). My fortune was most unfortunate A hard fact for me to digest. Prize Prompt: The thing you’d find most ominous if it were inside a fortune cookie. |
| I search for inspiration in the sky, but it looks as tired as I, no fierce dragons or angels overhead, ragged and torn the clouds are spread. The parched grass is serrated lances, twixt belt and shirtwaist it spitefully dances, as I lie here in this lifeless field. The flowers withered, only seeds now yield. The hapless bee drawn by a false sun, doesn’t know his season is done. He has scarce begun to hum, before the cool of evening will come. The trees prepare to say goodbye, for songbirds and leaves soon will fly. Task Prompt: Write a poem focused on any season using only sensory details (sight, sound, smell, touch, taste). |
| When it comes to toddlerspeak it’s all Greek to me Substituted consonants vowels bent “I am fwee” (does that mean three or does that mean free?) Who understands the toddler lexicon? it’s only Mom and we Simply smile and say yes to toddlersaurus rex Prize Prompt: The thing that sounds most like a secret code but isn’t. |
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