Poem 1: again
I’ll pick up my pen and write once again.
Pick up my pen… and write once again…
Pick up… my… wait…
What was I going to write on again?
I’m sure there was something I wanted to say…
I know I had it… it was right in my head…
What was on my mind just then?
What was thought but never said?
Why can’t I remember it?
Why?
I almost had it… it would’ve been great…
if only I’d gotten it onto a page…
Oh well.
This fleeting memory shall surely
come to me eventually.
Until that time, I’ll do what I know best:
I’ll pick up my pen and write once again.
Pick up my pen… and write once again…
Poem 2: misaligned
insufficient means
allocated to convey
that which I must say
though I know not how
i wish to portray
this fragment of my thoughts
a segment of my dreams
a world of possibilities
yet i cannot speak
for autonomous
complex systems in play
serve as blockades
guarding my close secrets
so the unauthorized can’t see
the state of disrepair
in which my pieces rest
peace of mind in shambles
scattered in brambles
planted by mechanical hands
aligned at my command
i can’t let you see
what’s become of me
and so you know only
that which I let you perceive
Poem 3: Shredded Ace of Clubs
On the ground’s a shredded card
which I never got to play.
How it ended up this way…
that, I dare not say.
I guess it doesn’t really matter.
Either way, the card is battered,
its tiny pieces scattered,
soon to be carried off
by the callous winds of fate,
never to be seen again.
Sure, I could buy another…
but it won’t be the same.
How could I ever replace
this card which was
from my hands untimely plucked,
my shredded ace of clubs?
Poem 4: Truck Day
Every Wednesday comes a truck
with clothes and goods all loaded up:
So much stuff to unpack,
so much taggin’ to do,
dresses and shirts out the wazoo!
Luggage and accessories
as far as the eye can see;
a never-ending train of cardboard
comes a’rolling out the cargo doors,
final destination: the salesfloor.
At the end of the day,
the goods are sent along their way,
and the following week,
the routine repeats again.
Poem 5: One Word
Each story starts with one word
which gives rise to an identity.
Then there’s a second, and a third,
and more, connecting roughly.
A sentence thus come together.
It could end right there… if the writer wanted.
A sentence, and therefore plot, exists…
or it can be expanded.
More sentences may merge as
a set, creating a paragraph section.
A richer tale thus unfolds, born as
ideas form meaningful connections.
Rough structure is crafted into clever wit,
as dialogue is granted eloquence.
Bound no longer by brevity,
the flow reinvents itself
to match the whims of the author.
Rhymes, metaphors, simile;
Tropes, story, hyperbole;
With practice, it comes more naturally.
All of this, born from a single word;
one prompt which opens a world
full of limitless potential.
Poem 6: SkyBridge
The power of possibility
is a marvelous thing, you see…
but why build a bridge
that leads to nowhere?
Suspended in mid-air,
thousands of meters
away from civilization,
and for what?
The vision of a metropolis?
A possible paradise?
The future is promising, sure,
but shouldn’t we worry about the present first?
We’ve got too many problems already
to put our hopes on a maybe,
haven’t we?
What if catastrophe strikes?
All that work, reduced to nothing.
Let’s not raise a bridge to the skies
when we can’t help but burn down
what we’ve already got here on the ground.
Tyler DeWriter 