Writing Prompt, Day 17

Write a poem with the word "love" hidden inside it. "Love" could be hidden inside a single word, like "glove," or within two words, like "palo verde."

Have fun!

Writing Prompt, Day 16

Write a poem where the last word of the first line begins with the first letter of your name, and the last word of the second line begins with the second letter of your name until you have spelled out your first and/or your last name.

A Survey of Sidewalk Chalk in Five Kilometers and Seven Stanzas, by Ed Kline

A Survey of Sidewalk Chalk in Five Kilometers and Seven Stanzas

April 15, 2020

a sunflower in pink and blue

blossoms from a sewer grate

at the intersection of 43^rd and Taylor;

a blue shark, teeth bared,

lurks nearby, blithely oblivious

to the lack of water.

one message tells me i’m

Pandemicing like a boss

and another reminds me

Kindness is Contagious, so i

smile beneath my mask at fellow

walkers as we stay six feet apart.

yellow, green, orange, and blue

easter eggs litter a driveway,

fading after a few days’ play.

hopscotch boards abound, from

one to forty-two, interrupted with

spins and jumps and downward dogs.

a pair of mosaiced hearts

intertwine, a chalk-art hug

in lieu of a human embrace.

Writing Prompt , Day 15

Make a list of 7-10 things you've seen in the last 24 hours. Try to use all of them in a poem.

Poop on the Sidewalk, by Brayden Thomas

Fresh shoes

Sharp suit

New cut

Best dressed

Then there's a poop on the sidewalk

Smelly shoes

Sharp suit

New cut

Best dressed

Then there's mustard on the sandwich

Smelly shoes

Yellow suit

New cut

Best dressed

Then there's a flame from the heater

Smelly shoes

Yellow suit

Burnt hair

Best dressed

So now you're cautious... 

But then there's a man in need

Black socks

White undershirt

Burnt hair

Barely dressed

Change heart

And a man with

Smelly fresh shoes

A yellow sharp suit

The same haircut

And the best pieces of clothing he's had in his life

All because there's a poop on the sidewalk

I See Nothing, by Brayden Thomas

A red shining car

A pink boxy house

Inside there's a cat

chasing a mouse

A silver rocking horse

A black dusky moon

We, the people,

look like such fools

A green painted sky

An orange colored tortoise

The mouse and the cat

didn't even notice

A purple shining sun

A brown colored flower

We, the people,

must stop letting color determine power

A big yellow rock

A bright blue chair

The mouse and the cat

don't even care

A cleansing white fire

A neon green shelf

We, the people,

need to get over ourselves.

[A day that is supposedly unlike any other], by Savannah Richmond-Breeding

A day that is supposedly unlike any other 

Can easily be summed up like any other

Easter

Either a day to celebrate a savior OR

A day for spoiled children to get high of cheap bunny-shaped chocolate

Or it can be both. 

Wake up. Church. Home. Breakfast. 

Watch little kids search in earnest. Watch older, greedier kids search in lust.

Dinner. Children fight. Resolve. Bed.

It is a day of tradition nonetheless.

Each decision easily predicted the day before.

The tradition lies not in the celebration or even the day itself

The tradition is to give a day like any other some sort of extraordinary quality

Some excuse to believe that there is meaning to life

When all it truly is is a day like any other.

In My Closet, by Ed Kline

In My Closet

(a pair of septolets)

April 14, 2020

a stack of

khakis

sits on

the shelf

two dozen

flannel button-downs

hang neatly

the Cons line up,

two pairs

per week,

waiting for

a distant

school day.

Writing Prompt, Day 14

Today's prompt is built around form rather than content. Try writing a septolet (sep-toe-lay) today.

Here are the rules for a septolet:
1) A TOTAL of 14 words in 7 lines.
2) No one can have more than 3 words.
3) The poem should focus on a single subject, object, thought, or feeling.
4) The first for lines should be a single thought.
5) The last three lines should be a second thought. (You may add a stanza break between lines 4 and 5, if you wish).

I'm going to try to pair two septolets, for a total of 4 thoughts, 28 words, and 14 lines. Sounds tough.

Luck Poem, by Lillian Lawrence

April 13, 2020

 

Clovers and horseshoes are given high praise,

Rabbit feet and pennies too. 

But what ever happened to the straw?

Not the physical plastic kind that clogs up the ocean,

But the kind that decides fate. 

Some straws are long, 

And some are short. 

Some straws contain vibrant hues

And some have dull beiges. 

Some straws hold stripes 

And some merely dots.

Some straws have loops

And some are just straight. 

Fate has been long-thought to be decided by

Animal paws, 

Backyard plants,

Even the simple coin. 

But whatever happened to the straw?

Leaving fate up to a little game of chance,

Banking on a friend’s misfortune,

Hoping that you might escape the clutches of the shortest among them. 

One risks it all for the simple straw. 

Thanks, Branch, by Ed Kline

Thanks, Branch

April 13, 2020

luck, he said,

is the residue

of design,

so i sit here

on the side

of the road

drawing

designs

in the residue

coating my car,

wondering who

designed

this day.

Every Year, by Ed Kline

Every Year

April 12, 2020

One must go in the mail slot,

and one must be hidden in the

lamp shade. Every year, one

must be hidden just out of reach,

a little higher than the year before.

We have to tell the story of the egg

hidden in the garbage can, and

we must find the picture to prove

it happened. And Dad – I mean,

the Easter Bunny – always brings

just the wrong kind of gummy worms.

The hunt always ends in

hotter and colder, each parent

hoping their egg is found last.

Then we crack the eggs and

sort the candy, and eat fresh biscuits

warm with the glow of tradition.

Writing Prompt, Day 13

Ack! Sorry this is late. I went to bed early last night and forgot to post.

Today's prompt: Write about bad luck (or good luck, if you prefer). Aim for 13 lines, but don't force it.

Shavasana, by Ed Kline

Shavasana

April 11, 2020

My fingertips rest in a sliver of sun –

barely enough to bathe a pad’s width –

radiating warmth throughout

my shade-soaked body as

I contemplate nothing but breath.

Writing Prompt, Day 12

Write a poem about a tradition. It could be a real tradition or an imagined one; it could be a family tradition or something broader; it could be present day or long ago.

Fact: Honey is the only natural food which never spoils, by Savannah Richmond-Breeding

April 10, 2020

There is a food beyond compare

Those which hold her, savor her luscious flavor

Honey, so smooth, so golden, almost cloying, but not quite

Too perfect.

Her perfume clouds the beholder in a feeling of bliss

Alas, it is true. She cannot be broken. She cannot die.

Her golden swirls live beyond eternity

There to haunt the world with her purity

Almost as Felurian herself

Honey, the everlasting lover

Writing Prompt, Day 11

Write a poem of exactly five lines about something very small. This one seems very difficult to me. I wonder what I'm going to write about ...

Little-Known Facts, by Ed Kline

Little-Known Facts

April 10, 2020

It is a little-known fact that

lines from a tv show

can be so strongly imprinted

on the human memory that

they will outlast even the

sturdiest of plastic bags.

It is a little-known fact that

the sturdiest of plastic bags

contain atoms that once

swirled and bounced about

in the body of Democritus,

inventor of the atom.

It is a little-known fact that,

Democritus cobbled together

the first atom from a combination

of stone, spit, and sophistry.

Prior to that, all matter consisted

of guesswork and heroic couplets.

It is a little-known fact that

guesswork and heroic couplets

laid the foundation of all history,

from times unimaginable

to the end of plastic bags, and

all the lines from tv shows between.

Writing Prompt, Day 10

Write a poem based on a weird fact or some odd bits of information you know. The rarer or odder or falser that information, the better!

[Hear the thundering chatter], by Savannah Richmond-Breeding

April 9, 2020

Hear the thundering chatter boil up in the stands

Hear the dull beat of your heart as all noise seems to fall away

Feel the shaking of your hand as you get called up as starter, even though you’ve done it a million times

Feel the familiar leather ball sit perfectly cupped in your hand

Don’t hear the thunderous round of boos all trying to distract you

Don’t feel the butterflies rising in your chest as all eyes sit on you

See the open hole, see it and take it, watch your opponent miss it

See your family in the crowd, waving wildly. See the coach on the sidelines, motioning the next play

Smell that hard earned perspiration fill the gym with its aroma

Smell that sweet smell of victory

Friends Don't Let Friends Climb Slab, by Ed Kline

Friends Don’t Let Friends Climb Slab

April 9, 2020

Be still. Simplify. Eliminate extraneous movement.

Don’t even breathe – but don’t forget to breathe.

Keep your weight on your feet – no, your toes.

Balance. Think yourself lighter. Balance again.

Slowly reach right; extend your arm from your

core, not your shoulder. Curl your fingers around

the crimp. Shift your weight, an inch and an ounce

at a time. Suddenly find yourself on the floor,

after a scraping of skin and an explosion of breath.

Look up. Swear. Do it again.

The Smell of Hard Work, by Ed Kline

The Smell of Hard Work,

April 8, 2020

Sawdust tickles your nostrils,

the smell of cedar chips and pine,

which reminds you

of hiking the gorge,

sweating in summer heat,

huffing and puffing uphill,

cursing the switchbacks,

even though they bring you

to the sun dazzling on the river

and then back into the shady

incense of duff on damp trail,

which reminds you

of dirt clods breaking between

your fingers as you root out weeds,

the smell of soil rich with future food:

sweet peas and bitter greens and

tomatoes warm with the smell of

the setting sun. You lean back,

rest on your heels, wipe your face,

smearing the scent of sweat and

twilight across your cheeks,

which reminds you

it’s time to put down the pen;

you’ve written hard enough

for today.

Sunshine, by Taylor Hendrix

April 8, 2020

It warms your skin 
Like a hug from your dearest love
You can feel it seeping into your soul
Healing you from the outside in

The birds chirp above
Faintly in the distance the sound of a child laughing

You close your eyes
Around you the world comes alive
A living breathing entity not unlike yourself
You can not touch it but it can touch you

The tickling grass under your legs
Softly your hair blows in the cooling breeze

A peacefulness graces your face
All of your worries are carried away
As you drift off into the place between reality and fantasy

Your checks have turned a pretty pink
Freckles have began to blossom across your nose
The slight sheen makes your smile glow

You smell like sunshine

Friendship Poem, by Lillian Lawrence

April 9, 2020

Friendship smells like sunshine,

Like waffles for breakstfast,

Almmst a tangible thing.

Friendship smells like cupcakes,

Like the thud of a volleyball,

The mintiness of a peppermint Patty.

Friendship smells like similar soundtracks,

Like video games until 2AM,

Joking around en español.

Friendship smells like projectors and popcorn,

Like rico-o-roni on cold nights,

Kind words eternally abundant.

Friendship smells like a worn-down toy,

Like big brown eyes full of love,

Tail stub forever wagging.

Friendship smells like a fur-covered blanket,

Like yellow eyes glinting in the night,

Content purring for hours.

Friendship smells like love,

Like long-lasting memories,

Light in the dark.

Writing Prompt for Day 9

Describe an activity you enjoy in great detail - but be as concise as you can! Limit yourself to exactly five stanzas of two lines each (that's ten lines total).

"'Jack and Diane,' by John Mellencamp," by Savannah Richmond-Breeding

April 6, 2020

Turn up the volume dial, blast it louder

Can you smell it?

The dew of the forest blades punching through the air 

The fresh pine scent whizzing past your nose

The who-knows-how-old tropical scented car freshener 

Sits idly as the overwhelming showers of forest scents

Fill up the dull blue truck, riding by on the old highway

The warm, cheesy smell of the doritos sitting on your lap

Just waiting to be devoured

Or the sweet, sour scent of the gummy worms in the console

Just waiting to be spilled along the floor

The smell of your mom in the driver's seat

The fresh, breezy odor flowing out from her tied up hair

That comes from that shampoo you like to steal all the time

The minty-fresh aroma of the gum you and your mom so carelessly chew 

Taking over the smell of the worn-out suit cases in your packed truck

Can you smell it? 

Turn the volume up higher

Drive a little faster

Roll the window down a little lower

A Light Through the Dark, by MacKenzie Hood

April 6

I laid down, letting the Darkness wash over me

With its effortless and mighty currents.

The icy water chilled me with a bitterness

That made my bones ache, my skin scream in protest

To only be silenced by the numbing wave that consumed me. 

I so desperatley wanted to resurface, 

But a thin film above me seperated the two worlds,

And something held me captive,

Refusing to let me escape

Despite my tortured soul begging to be released. 

But a Light, shining with an eerie but sacred beauty,

Cut through the deep Darkness of the night 

With an edge that broke the surface. 

Setting me free and breaking my chains. 

I was on the outside, looking in,

But now I’m on the inside. 

I let the Light bask over me, 

Warming my frigid heart and drying my tears.

I’m home, and saying my goodbyes.

Writing Prompt for Day 8

Write a poem that describes the smell of something that doesn't actually have a smell. What's the smell of a song? Or the horizon? Or love? Or ... anything you can think of.

A Guide Through Anger, by MacKenzie Hood

April 5

If you decide to stop at the broken city of Anger along your ride,

You will find that your visits are always accompanied by the 

Beginnings of an unforgiving storm.

The hot and humid air will feel like weights placed on your shoulders,

Dragging you down lower and lower.

The firm gusts of wind will push and pull at you, 

Begging for your attention, in hopes of slowing you down.

The sky will let out deep and painful groans, shaking the unstable ground

Crumbling beneath your feet.

But you must keep pushing on.

As you continue, you will come across a deserted town.

And although buildings are rotting from neglect, abandoned and sorrowful,

Shattered glass and garbage litter the ground,

And overgrown weeds twist and pull at your feet, 

You will not be repelled by its unsightliness.

Instead, this broken and miserable dwelling 

Will feel safe, comfortable.

You will wish to stay and wither away in this pitiful place.

But you cannot, because those who stay here 

Will also die here.

Hatred and self pity will fill their hearts,

Like a glass filled to the brim, 

And one day, they will overflow.

So leave quickly, keep your visit brief. 

And continue moving forward.

The First Bite, by Ed Kline

The First Bite

April 7, 2020

So long ago,

I’ve lost most

of the image:

the time, the place,

but I’ll never

forget the fruit:

its red skin

shining like evil,

like a warning,

like a stop

sign screaming no,

but how could

I say no,

with the fruit

round and heavy,

resting in my

palm like a

baseball,

no, better – like

a globe, like

I was holding

the whole earth

in my hand?

The first bite,

the only bite

worth mentioning,

so crisp it

felt like the

apple bit back,

juice running

down my chin

like tears, tears

rich with the

knowledge of

sugar.

Writing Prompt for Day 7

Write about eating something - delicious, perhaps, or disgusting - in great detail.

After "Origin of Love," by Ed Kline

After “Origin of Love”

from Hedwig and the Angry Inch

April 6, 2020

some words can only be understood through feeling:

crescendo, for example, doesn’t mean a thing

until your heart starts pounding in your fingertips

and your fists start pounding on your desk,

until song rips from your throat like a scream,

head tilted towards a heaven that won’t listen

and love, perhaps, can only be felt through its loss,

through the crackling silence after the crashing crescendo,

the adrenaline ebbing, leaving arms and chest hollow and heavy.

Loss leaves a shadow, a shape, a negative space,

an ugly emptiness that can best be understood as love.

Writing Prompt for Day 6

Listen to your favorite song. Several times. Oh, go on! One more time. Write a poem about anything in the world while you're still filled with the feeling of that song.

A Place Unknown, by Savannah Richmond-Breeding

April 5, 2020

 

There is a place I’ve heard of 

Where fighters go to make peace

Where haters go to love

There is a place that I will go to breathe

It has a mountain range encircling the big, turquoise ocean

The sun beams down all day, digging into the narrowest crevices of your mind

The wind carries the smell of hyacinth flowers past your salt warmed skin

Sunbaked orange color sea stars line the edge of the tide

The rolling hills of sand reaching just beyond vision

It has a silence of three parts

The first is the slow, rolling sounds of the waves crashing in,

So rhythmic that you don’t even notice it

The second is the sound missing

There are no people there to run around

No people to shriek with excitement or call out to friends and family

In a way it is lonely, but more so calming knowing that you are unseen

Laying on the beaches of your mind, knowing you will never be found

The third sound is bigger than all the rest 

It lays within my rapidly unwinding mind

It hides within my unmoving body, giving it the chance to breathe

It is a place I hope to one day find