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Poem 1 | Poem 2

The poems are on deviantART because...well...viewing difficulties :V .

Prompt 1 Use a discarded poem to create a new poem, or finish/revise that discarded poem.

Jerusalem
oracles
situated in a historical sense
move in small movements—
shuffle.

recognition—
stripped of illusions.

live coal to lips—
leading to repentance.

forgetting | fidelity | disobedience

oscillate
on this path—
redeemed in
‘exile’
suffering in
‘spirit.’

“Renew the spirit of my
country: we suffer.”

'Learning through suffering.'

might’ve been retrojected.


Prompt 2 Judge a book by its cover.

Ghrey
actually,
this is a misnomer—
this is a world based on color—

where the flight of vultures
and the call of whales
is an art of interpretation

where history is counted
by the number of stanzas
in a long, continuous song

where vision is seen with the ears,
and
where singing and writing and thinking
share the same word,
‘being’

Prompt 1 Get a random country through a generator, then write a poem on it based on the pictures found in image search.

Umag
My waters—condensed mists
that slide across the river beds
like liquid,
lining the smoothed stone beaches
and walkways snaking
out of little city alleys—
empty,
except for
a widowed bicycle.

Prompt 2 Write about the elements in an unusual way. I am a sucker for elemental stories, so this is ttly restraint on my part x: . I'll do a full poem later kukuku.

earth
scraping the dragon-imbued
stick of pigment
into a pitch black ink pot
add water
and and you’re free to create
masterpieces
with the excrements of an octopus—
how marvelous
are the elements!

write two stanzas to the tune of a previously shitty poem:

in the event of
something
worthwhile:

what a fine and
deadly
game it is!

-

connect the last line of your last poem to an image. "I was [last line] but am now [image]." For bonus points, try a rondeau. Which I did exceptit'snotinmeterlol.

tap
I was alive, but now I dream—
my night sky lit with cerulean,
casting passive glow on land
unfamiliar yet grand
while its lakes teem

with fish’s gleam
under deep water’s seam
where Luna stretched her hand
to touch a distant world

and on dull scales leave
a mark of moonbeam
a temporary brand
reflected on the sand
all things as I seem
here in this waterworld.

Prompt: 1 + 2 + this image

Eggshell

i am empty decimated to nothing except these shattered shells my innards stolen all

what you left in your first breath a discarded cocoon with unbridled joy in watching your first glimpse exploring the world as a warm-blooded creature live.

Prompt One: Write a nonsense secret code poem.

heirographa
the
affirmatively capable
lamprey eel
disclosed a panopticon
in the center
of a brokenhearted orchestra

“Plethoric!” shellfish jingled,
“Fullcolored fatihah!
“Our shaitan overpoise
“will entrench this electuary!”

Prompt 2: Find a picture related to your favorite writer and write a tribute relating the two.

i am leaning
back on the faded wood
looking at insects
leap among the wheat

I have no role model!
i think
Except in the things
that i am trying my best
to talk about!

like this,
the bar is high enough
to go up
as a wisp of smoke
in a
half-hearted attempt
to dissimilate
among the spacious heavens.

haha, the first one is ttly based off of a dream i had that was so extremely blatantly metaphorisoijdfdskfjl i just made fun of my subconscious for days. the second one is a ballad [read:bluh] detailing what's happening in a picture and it needs better lines and about two moar stanzas. Alsoneedtofigureoutwhattenseiwantahaha.


Hello,
it’s been a good while
since I skipped that ride
(to stargaze, ha!)
and you know
the view is still better
here.

-

At twilight when the sun’s just set,
fatigue not yet within,
a day fairy and night owl meet
to weigh the better kin.

“I eat sunbeams in acorn bowls,
“I prank beast, fish, and fowl,
“I plant seeds where the ground’s without,”
says the fairy to the owl.

“I flap my wings without the flap,
“I live in high eyrie,
“I maintain the meadow’s food chain,”
says the owl to the fairy.

And so it went beneath the dusk,
until, hearing the fuss,
the lace and feather wings were chomped
by a clandestine puss.

Prompts: 1 [1,2]; 2
second one has no title lalala

The Oracle
oh prophet of the sea—
what words can you bring to us?
we have the courage to discuss—
what are our losses then?
we want to sail free
where have our stories been?

all seas sailed are treacherous
but for you luck makes this less
and she will test your consciousness—
but your patience means little to the wind;
perpetual sailing will prove no godsend.

[so she wrote this on the veined leaves
where ink overflowed there came a missing piece
but regardless she gathered them again
and in their faces scattered these to the wind.]

one day maybe a world for sailing
one day maybe another story
even with the sea’s worst
here your name will live a bit.

-

the house is empty
except for one tv and an internet router
and a lot of dairy products
stuffed into the garage
(since there is no fridge)
and a lot of sleeping bags
and everyone
scattered in the living room gambling
to decide where tomorrow’s lunch would be
eating twelve grapes in a minute
as the clock ticks down one more year
and the announcers screw up the countdown.
(there is only space to fill.)

The second poem was intent on having an italic title.
Prompts: 1, 2 [1,2]

Open my eyes, I see sky
a hawk flies from the fringe of a chimney,
gold torching the bleak gray sky,
talons carrying the marionette
body of a ground walker--

the wind bruised his feathers
with each flap;
the smell of the nowdistant          chimney
massaged his nose

he closed the tomb of his wings
and settled on the branch
of a golden wattle
whose roots reached into pumice.

today, he thought, i will turn things to color.

-

i was borne
out of the center of a spiderweb
with spiderstring hair
and six invisible
spider eyes
but today
i think
through a misconception
i’ve grown a set of non-spider wings.

The Prompts: 1 2 (the links to the images I used are here)

love/anemone
move any closer
and it stings

-

behind forestwork, the dusty silhouette of a building with no walls—
its numbers are crooked
its angles are cursed—
a dismal monotone slowly eaten by the forest roots
while its construction cringes on the eidolic
nature, cursing its birth.          “I have no eigenvalue—
buildings have no characteristic roots—          My eighter
companions have since crumbled—          I am a bastard eigne.”

This is a cinquain inspired by these two images: 1 2

good dream
home-brewed flavor
poured generously as
the comforting aqua vitae
of minds

silver butterfly
drifting on the spring wind
lighting on a glass tabletop

spreading
your wings

silver antennae intricately
spoked and listening
360* facet eyes          alert

you thought the umbrella
was a flower
and tried to hide your frustration

your wings
already covered in
dust.

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I did not go with today's RWP prompt, and instead went with one on deviantART. I used this image as inspiration. Ufufu. It's mostly about silver butterflies and not about super pretty ladies...or...is it? |Y