Poetry Writing Prompts: The First

  1. Peel from your eyes their woolen ennui.
  2. Melt your soul softly into the horizon
  3. Now sunset flamed, all scarlets, violets
  4. And corals – your numinous projections.
  5. Absorb the glistening hues and listen
  6. To the unfolding of your hurts, entombed
  7. As they were in the moldiest heart corners.
  8. Inhale the cerulean vigor as it washes
  9. Over and among the encrusted passions
  10. Dormant, subverted in the daily drudge.
  11. Savor the tang as your senses, once
  12. Deadened, warble to life in a building
  13. Crescendo.  At the climax, faculties tingling,
  14. Are the sparks that ignite the poem.


I was dropped from a black hole

part hurt fledgling

Wild Thing

bird of swift wing

part hothouse flower



in the desert


I am square peg

in round hole

way too dense

of emotion


I do not fit well

in the world


my spitfire tenacity

ruffles too many feathers

while my soft underbelly

is ripped raw

from the teeth of daily




as an overly plump raindrop

plunking cold and abrupt

on a spring sunned bosom

it slides anfractuous

joined apace in feigned ennui

Flow Apiece


were I an ailing spinster

downtrodden in whalebone stays

pale and pince-nezed nosy

would my verses flow

\snake oil slick\

along with river Thames?

I find I am much too hearty

to sit abed and scrawl

longhand iambic pentameter

with dainty perfect pen

so my words trudge

stagnant in the sludge.

were I an artiste avant-garde

flouting dilletante conventions

skirting societal hems

with off-color threads

\malcontent connection\

would my stanzas stitch

themselves permanent press?

I find I am much too staid

a slave to stoic strictures

to scribe poesy astride

a horse of different colors

so I scrawl off-kilter odes

to a life of stodgy standard

mayhaps the day will dawn

when my morphemes will march

with motoric locomotion

utterances in extremis

emotive brave locution

Nothing Catty on this Roof

we are a scrappy pair

we two

as we scratch and claw our way

from under this dung heap

into which society

shat us out.

you shred skin

as you shed convention

laboriously hefting

lifting you

from beneath the shadows.

I reinvent myself

rewriting the future

on the blunted nib

of frenetically wielded quill

revising me

into a long cool

draft of summer breeze.

we scrabble together a moment

amongst the endless scramble

a breath, a bite, a word.

deadlines loom

thunderheads gloom

your steadfast grip

lifting me

trembling rooftop helpmate

barefoot hammering

racing the clock

while a storm rolls in.

you find me cheeky

up here

skittish and determined

give an appreciative wink

at my disheveled skirted squat.

we giggle at hot footed dance

you secure my safe descent

lifting us

beyond the hectic humdrum

and I tuck this moment

sweaty and dusty

with my windblown locks

behind my ear

where I will hold it


Trees in Winter, Siberia

(This piece was prompted by today’s NaPoWriMo prompt, using Adrienne Rich’s “What Kind of Times Are These” as my inspiration)


in winter, trees are stark naked, like my truths

when they creak and groan in the howling wind

your ears prick up, fixated and keen

living under them, as you do.


I know my truths are hushed, silenced and quashed

shriveled scarlet maple leaves, flaming in shame

peeking, hide and seeking, from their burial spots –

hidden ‘neath the blizzard banks, ‘tween I can’t tell and you won’t ask.


it’s funny how I disappear a little more each day

in this wasteland of muzzled testimony,

gagging on marinated bear paws, downed with guzzled vodka

as I wonder how I landed in this Siberia of veritas, right here at home.


I am a shadow of myself, disappeared with my truths

lost, until I stumble upon the gathering place, brimming

with diademed women – walkers of the shadowed roads –  who conjure

now the midday sun, glittering experiential jewels, scattered in hilltop shouts.

Things Rosy


Monika Rinck


in allen phasen der faltung nisten die büschel,
geballte pakete, dicht, eng und stumm
hockt in knospen das drängen nach fetten
vermoddelten zentren in purpur und/oder weiß
wohnen rücken an rücken hinübergebogene blüten
auf krautigen stengeln und blühen sich rund.
als es zu regnen angefangen hat, ich am halm
in meiner großen hand den schweren kopf
gehalten habe, zog kindheit in die feuchte luft,
spitze schreie, habenwollen, pfingstgelockt
zum hang geworden. sehnsuchtsarten stiegen auf
und tauchten wieder ab. wie ich das flüstern
ihrer vielen tausend blüten hörte, wollte ich
die regennasse rose strubbeln, knüllen, fleddern
wollte ihr die blüten rupfen, um mich werfen,
und zertreten, freunde rufen, kommt und schaut
das fette große blütending, was ich da hab
katzenkopfrund weiß und ohne augen, ich, ich,
ich will den katzenkopf, der keine katze ist
durch’s irre rudel meiner wünsche treiben
kaputtgemacht und angefaßt, nein unversehrt
lass ich die hehren rosen reglos starr inmitten
jener bahnen stehn durch welche kindheit schnellt.


Things Rosy

in all phases of finding fault with that which I hide under bushels

I think of the pecks upon the cheek

slobbered in drunken barroom moments

those verboten moments of purple gazes/ under water

when I wreck and I wreck all that has not been blessed

of feminine strength and the bludgeon of seeing red,

as is the right of angels in wide brimmed hats, I am cool

in my sunglasses that craft my life in their mirrored lenses

exalting what has been, as kindness in the face of failure,

spritzed with glee, woolen underwear, finger lockets

that hang on our words, the sutured stitches of

our widest taut paths. when I am flustered

in the pulsing veins of the bluest hordes, I roll

with renegades wearing crimson glasses, kneading, floundering

among with aisles of the ruby slippers, and with warfare,

and regret, women refuse, orders and shouts

that fit with gross pretending, as all I had was

catastrophic and blithely undone, I, I,

I will then catastrophize, knowing the cat’s tongue

which is rude no matter how hard I try

all is kaput and angst, no universal

woman am I when I wear rose colored glasses and lipstick

swearing that I babble truth while the children run.


your world is ablaze


you guarded those smoldering coals

\steaming hurts and smoking resentments\

convinced yourself

you were the watchman

lest a conflagration rise.


you stood in the gusts

\intrusions and degradations\

eyes shuttered

as if stinging sparks

were of no concern.


you felt the bonfire billow

\swallowed bile now volcanic\

while Hestia whispered

power surge sweet nothings

that brought your blood to boil.


you exhaled as a dragon

\savored the bite of rage\

dripped fuel from mangled fingers

threw that Molotov

just to watch it burn.

Unwritten Runes

on occasion

verses attack me

faster than I can speak

tongue twister vortex

more frantically

than my fingers can type

keyboard pounding.

they tumble pell-mell

from my synapses

and I am helpless

under the tumult.


on others

I am dragging the words

from the page

fiber by fiber.

I strain verses

from amidst the paper grains

reading between the lines

like the rings on the stump

of a drought-stricken tree.

the fiercest

of my sorcery spells

falls jangle-mangled


of the end of rhmye


this parched poesy

will be the rune

of me