Click! What is your name?
I think that I’ve forgotten.
Tap! Tap! Fingertips whisper.
Bloody, bloody fingers.
Can you tell me why you did it?
At DVerse, the prompt today is to write a poem in the wayra form, incorporating onomatopoeia. I have amended this and written a short story in the wayra form.
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The dark chocolate echoing of dusk
against the Ferris Wheel
overlooking the fairgrounds
That bittersweet evening
Is on my lips
And the errant air
Tastes like apple-crisps
Though cotton-candy conversation parched,
as if by design
Your hands are water
And your lips wine
Photo by Stanislav Ferrao on Unsplash
At DVerse today, the prompt is to write a Quadrille poem consisting of 44 words exactly (not including the title) in response to the challenge. The word today is ‘Fair’ and it must be used in some form within your poem.
That old swing-set
was young when I was young,
its shoulders fresh painted
and its swings not yet deep rust-set.
We made fast friends,
that old swing-set and I,
though he sometimes threw me from his shoulders
knocking my knees and dusting my hands
That swing-set’s hands are splintered
and I visit my old friend with calloused hands
to find his swings gone and his paint chipped
from when I was away those many, many winters.
I climb his side with a book in hand,
as I once did when I was younger,
and I read all afternoon with my old friend
in the shadow of the boy I was – now a man.
At DVerse, the prompt today is to write a poem recalling some specific thing or things from the past OR more generally about what evokes a memory or memories in you.
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Like cigar ash
my memories of you long linger,
tight packed in my heart
and in my head.
When my lungs make room
for new memories,
the ash burns as warm
as your smile,
smelling of cedar
the soft-sweetest spices.
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The prompt on DVerse this evening is to write an ash quadrille – 44 words, including the word ash.
It is human
to gather moss
on things that matter
and on things that do not.
It is human
to settle too soon
to sink into hillsides
that feel like home
to be a stone unrolled
but somehow still happy
Photo by 许 婷婷 on Unsplash
On DVerse today, we are carving a poem out of the word stone, and making it precisely 44 words long, not counting the title.
Her lips taste like cigarette smoke
even from a thousand miles away.
Her eyes smolder whistfully in my memory like tobacco ashes,
ashes that her eyelids would flick deftly from her cheeks
to the pavement at random intervals
under both cloudy or clear skies.
Her soul burning slowly down to the filter
until there is nothing left
and whether cloudy or clear
the ash-touched sky
tastes like regret.
Photo by Peri Stojnic on Unsplash
On DVerse the prompt is to write about an emotion or abstract concept. What does it taste like?