We’re off to a great start. Let’s keep going.
Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer …
Take the phrase "The problem with (blank)" and replace the "(blank)" with a word or phrase. Make this the title of your poem and then write a poem to fit with or juxtapose against that title. For instance, you could have poems with the titles of "The problem with government," "The problem with advanced mathematics," or "The problem with bipolar penguins." You know the drill: have fun, be creative
Our selection from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books) celebrates the creative potential of the US economy:
“I’m sorry. Your position is being eliminated.”
I’ll post my six in the comments later. Post yours in the comments, email them to me, or hide them under your mattress. Happy writing, everyone!
Bearing Witness--The Wall
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Today they started building The Wall. When I woke this morning and went
down to the kitchen, Mum and Dad weren’t there. I followed the low murmur
of the ...
7 years ago
11 comments:
The Problem With You
"The prolem with you,” he said, the vodka taking full control now, “is that … is that you lack the nessary vision to sthee beyond the brooder scheme of things.”
The conversion had already lasted thirty minutes beyond the five I originally gave it, and glancing over at the professor’s daughter, seeing the I’m-so-sorry look in her eyes, I knew she was ready for it to end, too. But this was part of the game: being an educated man, he was privileged enough to take up my time with a discussion about my lazy attitude toward life, as demonstrated by my baggy jeans and Motley Crew tee-shirt, and seeing as how I wanted to date his daughter I was obliged to listen.
“You need to thing about the future,” he said, adding that I needed a plan, a long-range projection on what I wanted and how I would get it.
Later, wrapping one arm around mine as we walked toward my car, she said she was sorry and hoped it didn’t push me away. I told her not to worry, that all was fine; and yet, I wondered just how long the old man would live, because if it was beyond five years this relationship would amount to nothing more than a couple of beers and a few laughs.
The Problem with Uncle Mort
“I want to talk to you girls about your uncle,” Daddy said a few days before Uncle Mort came to live with us.
Lucy and I sat on the wicker sofa on the porch, had sat there all that long hot summer, waiting for something exciting to happen.
Daddy told us Uncle Mort had seen terrible troubles, that he needed help, that we were honor bound to help him. He told us not to sit on Uncle Mort’s lap, not ever, not even if he gave us candy, because Uncle Mort was a man and a man had needs.
Summer faded into sweltering dog days and Uncle Mort stayed behind his closed bedroom door.
We watched, me and Lucy, but he never said anything, not about laps or candy or problems, just mumbling “Thanks, ma’am” to the tablecloth when Mama passed his plate and twisting his napkin until it got fell in shreds under the table.
Sweet take on the prompt, Stephen. The title and first line are wonderfully IN YOUR FACE. Right up my alley :)
Thanks, Greta. And yours is wickedly disturbing. The girls' father strikes me as the kind of man who could warp the minds of his children, leaving them to question what is true in any situation.
Problem with haiku
Is that they are addictive
And don't let me rhyme
Something I thought I'd never see: John getting in touch with his inner poet. :)
And yes, haiku are addictive.
Hi everyone! Cool and diverse work! Kudos to y'all.
Here's mine:
Freshly Canned
I sat down at my desk this morning and Olive, in the next cubicle said, “Oh, you’re not supposed to know, but your position is being terminated.” She crossed her ankles and picked at ear wax. She examined the results as I grabbed up the photos from my desk, kids and Paul smiling from our yard in the green summer shade. The kids grinned, brown-limbed and toothy, and the yard’s pinchy smell of dandelions rose up over Olive’s arthritis ointment; for a moment I thought I felt the heft of a home-grown tomato in my palm.
Olive scritch-scritched her scalp with a dirty fingernail.
I squirted on a glob of hand sanitizer, picked up my things, and said, “Thanks, Olive” and I danced a running-through-the sprinkler jig to my car.
I can feel the tomato, Jane. You have me yearning for one sun-warm from the garden.
Yes, yearning for warm things, and snow predicted for tomorrow....
Greta, for your nefarious purposes, do you care which of the two prompts we follow?
Stephen and John, it's nice to get to know you through this venue. Thanks for starting this, Greta!
jb
Jane, my nefarious purposes are happy, no matter which prompt you pick. And I'll bet that has the guys wondering :)
Stephen and John, it's nice to get to know you through this venue.
Ditto.
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