Category: Prompts
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AprPAD Day 5
Platform Number 4 Legs crossed like the number 4, he reads a book, sets a backpack at his feet. Eats rolled lettuces that drip red sauce. Home is wherever he removes his shoes. Intelligent eyes, and a face like old lava. There are some people you just beg to know. It’s National Poetry Writing…
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AprPAD Day 4.1 Pantoum
A Case for Cake (a Pantoum) It was a party, after all, a clown, raspberries and noise. I can still taste the cake. I can still see the red balloons. A clown, raspberries and noise, and we ate on pink paper plates. I can still see the red balloons. The clown had flipflop feet.…
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AprPAD Day 4
A Case for Spring (Villanelle) Has gone, be gone, I said, this weather’s all wrong. Winter’s too long, its wet months spread. Has gone. Be gone with a blackbird’s song. Unsung. Unsaid. This weather’s all wrong. The wind’s too strong for March has fled, has gone. Be gone Rain. Rain, all nightlong. Falling silk,…
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AprPAD Day 3.1
Periodic I’m reading the Periodic Tables. I learned all this useless stuff in school, but forgot it all. Anyway, it seems that I am a saline nothingness, a chip off the moon, a muddy spring day, I am mundane, maiming, an uneaten fruit, the sound of speech, a comforter, comforting, dusty, flaking, bone white…
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AprPAD Day 3
I. Lilies I stood tiptoed, looking down the throat of a white trumpet flower. It was open. Wide. As a hungry child, or a belligerent baby bird. Stamens bright as a sunset, deep as a vein. Lilies. Spilling white everywhere. All over Grandma’s coffin. Couldn’t stop looking at them, haunted by flowers. I was…
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Twiglet #67
In the Rain You’re out on flattened water, fishing — rain slashing the car window in long trickles, tracing like wizard fingers, or seahorses. Rain does that. for Twiglet #67, and extracted from the American Sentence post earlier today
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Red Wolf Prompt 362
The Bones of Sickness Her complexion is gusty grey. She’s the face of rooted weariness and boredom — the bones of sickness. She closes her eyes on her own froth, darkness filling her ears as she sleeps with captive shadows. Sickness is a dark strife of crumbling candles. Her lustre is uncoupled, a stammering pale…
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For Sunday Whirl & RWJ
At Least for Now She folds sheets, snaps their rasping frozen weave against the gusty breeze. It’s hazy, monotonous work. This life is a poverty, likely a saint’s holy calling, but she keeps at it. At least for now. Life is a long twisted rope, so said her mother, and she’s glad for a warm…
It's Still Life 