Alliteration, consonance, and assonance. The brain buzzes, beleaguered and bombarded
by input pushing in on all sides and senses sending synapses searching for a place to put it all. It is human to consume, we assume, but it is also human to create, created as we are in the likeness of the Creator. Be not content with content carefully curated and crafted to capture your attention. Attend, instead, to your own head. Seek stillness. Silence. Beg boredom to bestir your thoughts as it ought. Find in your mind what you sought. Then play with the clay until you make something to share before, once more, you take.
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Write a poem that begins with a line from another poem. I know why the caged bird sings.
I know why the telephone rings, Reaching out into the void Making introverts annoyed, Attempting to bridge the infinite space To the soul that's trapped behind the face. Why can my soul not touch yours? Why do bodies not have doors? Using words to link two minds, Hoping what meaning the other finds Is the meaning you meant to imply. Our wings are clipped, still we try to fly. Existence is so solitary When the soul's a caged canary. We seek the comfort connection brings. Oh, I know why the caged bird sings! Write a poem involving a superhero. There are three student archetypes in a lockdown drill. One kid
tries to keep it light. He pulls faces and tries to draw illicit laughter from his classmates. I can't tell if he is intentionally trying to boost morale or if he's just happy for the break from the academic drudgery I apparently inflict on him. One kid finds it pointless and boring. He slumps and rolls his eyes at the whole practice, because what good does closing the curtains do against a broken soul with an automatic weapon and no regard for human life anyway? And he rolls his eyes at the kid huddled and shaking under the desk, because, "dude, it's a drill." This is archetype number three: the sensitive kid, the kid who fears for the day when it's not a drill, and wonders if we, if I will be able to keep them safe. I wonder myself. But you, Peter, you broke my heart today. You were not any of these kids. You did not make light. You did not roll your eyes. Oh no! You were alert, focused on points of entry. You were analyzing our defenses. You did not wonder if the adults would protect you. You knew we would not. I am sorry, Peter, for how grown-ups must have failed you in the past, that you feel the need to prepare to be the hero. I'm sorry you are growing up in a world where we think these drills are necessary. I'm sorry society has failed you. I'm sorry you expect me to fail you too. You are a child. You most likely have another growth spurt ahead of you! You don't have to be the hero, Peter. If it ever came to that, I would do my best to save you, to save all of you. Write a poem that focuses on a color The warmth or red, the chill of blue
Softly meld in a neutral hue. No need for complicated reflection, Purple looks good on every complexion! Summer, winter, spring, or fall Purple is suited to them all! In olden times, how could they bear it To only let the royals wear it? Purple is for all, not some - The ultimate on the whole spectrum. My favorite color, far and away. Just one more thing I'd like to say: People are strange - I find it stranger The OGs lacked a purple ranger. Today's prompt is to write about what haunts you, then change "haunt" to "hunt." I am hunted by a figure
Lean and lithe. She is faster, Stronger, And smarter than I. So I know She will catch me. She is passionate, And maybe I can use that to my advantage, But she is also Driven And wears her confidence like wings. I cannot Compete, But maybe She will fall Like Icarus before her. Though, I do not wish it, Not really. I am hunted by a figure Patient and kind, And maybe I should stop running, For I know (Because I know her Because I was her) She would only love And accept me As she loved And accepted everyone Else. So I yield, Weary, And bend to catch Our breath. A poem in which the speaker expresses the desire to be someone or something else. Then I should like to be a diamond;
To recycle this carbon corpus knowing Every carbohydrate consumed Only increased My value; To be crushed beneath the crust, Compressed under comfortable pressure For a thousand years With the Earth, herself, As my weighted blanket; To emerge Hardened and strengthened From my chrysalis, Perfectly crystalized Like a previously half-formed Idea Fully realized; To be sought after And fought over, My value ever inflated, Not negated Or belated, Evaluated By the jeweler's Cutting gaze, My grandfather's necklace - A gold occlusion - The only clue To who I was before; Or to remain A flawless elemental structure Untouched, Unchanged by human hands Or human ideas of beauty, In the bowels of the Earth - Under - A wonder For God's eyes Alone. Write a poem that shares a name with a song. Also, today is International Haiku Poetry Day. Therefore, I give you: The lawn needs mowing.
I draw the curtains and nap. Sunday is for rest. A poem inspired by the postage stamps found here. The post-beagle totes his post-beagle bag
If it's windy, hot, cold, wet, or snowing With his mouth a-smile and his tail a-wag. There's no true bad weather, just bad clothing. It's nice to get paid to do what you love. He completes his route daily without fail. Suited to this job, a hand to a glove, Cheerfully the pooch delivers the mail. What else would he do while Chuck is at school? Should he just lie around and sleep all day? Hounds like to work as a general rule, And this busy beagle has bills to pay. A Sopwith Camel costs money to keep. Plus, Baron-bound bullets and gas aren't cheap! Today is an exercise in anaphora. Write a ten line poem where each line starts with the same word. Water breaks beneath a stone thrown in boredom creating ripples to break the monotony of a smooth surface and a dull day. Water breaks beneath a stone thrown in a challenge creating ripples which mark the distance achieved. Water breaks beneath a stone thrown in anger creating ripples to soothe a hurting heart. Water breaks beneath a stone thrown absentmindedly creating ripples that travel unnoticed across the surface. Water breaks beneath a stone thrown out of curiosity creating ripples which radiate with geometric regularity. Water breaks beneath a stone thrown by accident creating ripples to alert the thrower to the incident. Water breaks beneath a stone thrown in doubt creating ripples to reassure the thrower of their mutual existence. Water breaks beneath a stone thrown in hope creating ripples which summon a sleeping plesiosaur. Water breaks beneath a stone thrown through a wormhole creating ripples that still follow the laws of this universe. Water breaks beneath a soul entering the world creating ripples that will expand for all eternity. To be honest, I don't like this poem. I find it drags. Too long, too boring. I was really stretching to make ten lines, and they are not all good. I think I don't mind this pared back edit though: Water breaks beneath a stone thrown in boredom
creating ripples to break the monotony of a smooth surface and a dull day. Water breaks beneath a stone thrown in anger creating ripples to soothe a hurting heart. Water breaks beneath a stone thrown out of curiosity creating ripples which radiate with geometric regularity. Water breaks beneath a soul entering the world creating ripples that will expand for all eternity. Don't you feel silly now? A one-liner inspired by my Mom's cat.
In past years on this date, I have written about my wonderful husband, as today is his birthday. However, the prompt today specifies an ode to an everyday item, and he is neither mundane, nor an object. Since I am currently living out of a suitcase, but also brought a bunch of laundry to my mother's like a broke college student trying to save a few quarters, I find myself acutely aware of the value of the humble hamper. TARDIS of the laundry room
with greater volume than one might presume Simple basket, squat and wide with room for all my clothes inside with slats for air to circulate allowing odors to dissipate My room would be a spectacle without thee, humble receptacle. You handle my hands with gentle care while carting contents from here to there. If at home you feel squandered, Know: absence makes the heart grow fonder. I think the prompt today was something about unlikely things coming together, but I am down here in Indiana where this afternoon we got to experience the amazing phenomenon that is a total solar eclipse. It kind of fits, and if you disagree, well then, screw the prompt! Eclipses rule!
Today's prompt asks for some postcard poetry. The Sphinx is old.
The Pyramids, grand. The desert has a lot of sand. Streets are narrow. The art, sublime. We're having such a lovely time. The wine is good. The food's a dream. Gelato always beats ice cream. The water's warm. The sky is clear. The sand is soft. Wish you were here. Today we write about "weird wisdom." I know a woman, weird and wise,
And it should come as no surprise What I here tell you, she's its source. I'm talking of my aunt, of course! If you enjoy those summer nights, But Deet does not deter bug bites, Garlic supplements will prevent Vampiric skeeters' malintent. One more cure that you should know If hiccups have you feeling low, Drink some water while bent double. This will soothe your diaphragm trouble! Last but not least, if you harbor fear Regarding the size of your derrière, Surely you'll feel better knowing Your butt isn't big until you stop ...and it keeps going! Today we could either choose to write about how three disparate entities perceive a blessing or how the old woman, the tulip, and the dog perceive a particular idea. "Freedom," sighed the old woman,
"Would be waking to bird song, not bladder pressure, absent the aches of age, and seeing the day fanned out before me in infinite possible paths, pouring myself a cup of tea and choosing the least path-like of them all, a few mere steps leading to a sunny spot and a good book." "Freedom," sighed the tulip, "Would be taking wing and visiting all my floral friends like the lucky butterfly." "Freedom," said the dog (for dogs aren't wont to sigh), "Would be opposable thumbs to open all the places where the good food hides and a field to run and a stick to chew and a rabbit to chase and to be with you." Today we draw inspiration from The Strangest Things in the World. It's easy to be faithful
when one whole gender's gone. It's easy to be stoic with months before the dawn. It's easy to keep silent when it's all been said. It's easy to be emperor when all the rest are dead. Why do you fight to live when life is mostly pain? It really is a miracle the emperors remain. Today's task is to write a surrealist prose poem...um...oKaY? "There is not a surrealist bone in my body," I thought, palm-sweating panic setting in, as outwardly bored and inwardly uncomfortable as the rest of the patients sitting in the sterile waiting room pretending to watch two local news anchors prepare salmon en croute on mute. I am generally more of a hyperchondriac, chalking symptoms up to "aging" or dismissing them as "something I'll get over naturally," but this. Not a single surrealist bone? I found myself dreading the inevitable infusion of Kafkanian beetlejuice the condition would necessitate, or the possible persistent memory transplant. A shudder rippled its way through my body at the thought of the trepanning drill piercing my skull. I swear I saw it take root in the poor soul four seats down when I rose at the sound of my name to timidly follow the wearied nurse with the old wooden clipboard.
"Your full body x-ray came back," the doctor said by way of greeting as she entered the room, not bothering to look at me, but heading straight for that light frame thing where one reads an x-ray. "And?" I asked, not being qualified to read an x-ray myself. "And I can see why your were concerned," she said, a boulder spontaneously forming in my stomach. "However," here she paused for dramatic effect, but for whose benefit, I know not, "you have a surrealist stirrup." The boulder converted itself into a clew of worms that wriggled their way down hoping to escape out from under my kneecaps. At my lack of verbal response she continued, "one tiny bone. In your left ear, but it's enough." Today's prompt is to write about platonic love addressed to the target of said love and including at least three interactions with the same. You baked brownies for my birthday.
I hardly knew your name then, Not yet a friend. You would burst through the door of our shared bathroom Making an awkward entrance - entrancing - Making some pronouncement Your hand on your hip Drawing a smile to my lips We sat in the fragrant summer grass Weaving wildflower crowns As if we could make up for a childhood not shared, Invent a history we knew Befit a friendship so true I love how you told off the professor who made me cry, My brain twin, But you had more confidence than I. Husbands, homes, and children - Our lives are so different now 450 miles away. I'm grateful for every second Thursday. Today, without opening it, we write about the plot of a book we read long ago. I will always recommend this book (and the rest of the series), but for the life of me, I can't remember much about it except how it made me feel...and the FOOD! A hare with distinctly patterned speech-
A general, I think, wot wot Zigged and zagged through no-man's-land Dodging arrows from the enemy band Whether defender or aggressor, I know not. Allies or enemies, I cannot say, But birds were plotting in a keep. I believe a spy was in there too, A squirrel it was (or perhaps a shrew?) Listening to every scheming peep. How marvelous banquets fit in the war For my life, I can't recall. Still I dream of those sensual feasts Laid before tiny courageous beasts - The salient memories of REDWALL. NaPoWriMo officially begins tomorrow! I come to you this Easter Day (Hallelujah, Christ is risen) with my quick haiku response to the early bird prompt. Let's go!!! A dead instrument
You breathed in me, and I sang Cease not, Life Giver My cheeks flush with fever
Contrasting with the porcelain pallor Of my surrounding complexion. My gently chapped lips are Shiny rose petals. This pestilence has Augmented the beauty of my face As effectively as any Cosmetic application could. So it is With Earth. This February day Of sunshine and warmth is A beautiful symptom. We are lovely, But we are unwell. We were prompted to write a love poem that "names at least one flower, contains one parenthetical statement, and in which at least some lines break in unusual places." I hope it is not too sacrilegious to rewrite the Bible... I was thinking about how good, true love is like a perennial that with some care continues to grow stronger and more beautiful year after year rather than annuals which are more of a fling born of lust, beautiful for a season, then gone. Anyway, the opportunities with I Corinthians 13 were just too good to ignore. Love is not impatiens,
Love is clematis. It is not celosia (which straight up sounds like it should be Spanish for Jealousy, but actually means "lattice"), [Love] is not pansies, It is not any annual, It is not ranunculus, It does not drain the gardener's resources, It is not snap- dragons It does not bloom over Injury, It does not root over Wrong doing, But roots with the truth. It blooms all season, Blossoms all season, Grows all season, Endures all season. Love is a perennial. If there are propagations, They will be brought to nothing; If tubers, They will cease; If foliage, It will be brought to nothing. For we grow partially And we propagate partially, But when the perfect comes, The partial will pass away. Today's task was to write a review of something that you wouldn't ordinarily review. I ordered
A restful night's sleep, But The one I received Was defective With three rude awakenings (if I wanted/ that I would have bought the newborn night experience for half the price) I contacted the Company For a refund, but They claim I Voided the warranty With my abnormally late Bedtime. Now I'm stuck Using Sleep Subsititute until My next order arrives. Um, so today we were supposed to write a poem with numbered sections which are in dialogue with one another, set in a place where we used to spend a lot of time.... I wrote a poem with numbered sections? I forgot about the rest. Whoops! Part the 1st
A piece of the whole some A fraction, decimal, percentage Part the 2nd A line on the head visible scalp Center, side, zig-zag Part the 3rd A role to be cast and played Acted out on stage or screen Part the 4th The action of breaking up a verb To separate, distance, divide |
AuthorHi, my name is Ember. Yes, like the glowing bits at the bottom of the fire. Archives
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