let's let it out
Write a poem about your most secret guilty pleasure. We won't judge. It will be therapy! :)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Each week, we post a new poetry prompt and share the resulting poems in the comments section of the prompt post. You may also post the poem on your own blog and share the link in a comment.
about
We invite you to contribute your poems.
poetry and writing prompts
contributing poets
want to be added? post a poem in response to a prompt with your blog or web site as the URL.
commute
ReplyDeletei steal into a window seat each evening
on the wmata red line train to glenmont,
someone’s greasy face print on the glass
blurring my view of the outside world.
the metro slowly wobbles into motion
lulling me into a b-movie dream sequence,
where your smile widens back to the molars,
making a chiaroscuro of my ill-lit mind.
WRITING POEMS IN THE NIGHT
ReplyDeleteIs writing poems in the
middle of the night a
"guilty pleasure" after all
when the fly that wants to
get out the screen door and
circles round and round and
crashes sometimes into the lamp and
the sound of crickets out there in the
night calling for mates or whatever
they may play those rhythmic
castanets for may ultimately be
the only audience however inter-species
after all to all my
pen scritch-scratches in the night and then
me reading back to myself in the
morning what drowsily or deep-consciously
I might have writ?
Is my own "guilty
pleasure" the only reason for it?
fuzzy wuzzy, amber and inchworm
ReplyDeletenaming a few
nostalgic scents
shivers a slight smile
waxy, stale, bitter
tobacco tin hides pipe
soap, hot magenta and dirt
a gulity pleasure, indeed
an anamnesis
that's mine to keep
aw stink, on a reread... it should be guilty not gulity, argh!
ReplyDeleteFlashing lights in geometric patterns
ReplyDeletePuffs of man-made fog cloud the dark room
Obscure European melodies pound through cheap kickers
Blurred bodies and misguided movements
I take my place among them
Moving lesser goers to the side
Cheap beer wetting my feet
Sweat oozing from every pore
I dance, until I cannot dance anymore.
children's books
ReplyDeleteare for children.
arriving home to the end of day
ReplyDeletemail still clinging to the slot too fat to fit through
catalogs - the grease of my secret longing
to covet colors and fit
which shoes to get, how much
the angst of credit
and terminal want