Trapping Women

For today’s prompt, write a trap poem.

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Trapping Women

I dug a hole with my verse,
covered it with a blanket of metaphor,
laid out a little picnic like a simile—
soft cheese, French bread and wine.

I stand nearby reading a chapbook
of poems with mere hints of eroticism
and recite in my best stentorian bass
until some innocent falls.

I put a pedestal down there,
tall enough for them to be perfect
in my poetry but not so high
that they could escape.

Besides, why would any woman
want to leave the pit of my love?

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Step into my Parlor

Again one prompt clarifies the other.

“For today’s prompt, write a moment poem.”

“It’s Day 5 of National Poetry Month and today’s poem prompt is Twisted.”

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Step into my Parlor

One pungent morning, I was flying—
that’s what I’m called to do
and I do it well—
then my wing sticks,
jerked by clinging threads.

I sputter and twist
but more sticky attraction,
more delicate moments ensnare
until I’m immobilized
by a web of your words.

If only I’d taken a different path,
I wouldn’t be watching the inevitable
prepare to encompass me in trust
and be consumed by love.

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Tiger King

I combined two prompts into one poem tonight:

“For today’s prompt, write a wish poem.”

“Today’s National Poetry Month prompt is all about tigers.”

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Tiger King

I wish I had a tiger.
I’d ride him to school—
make sure he wouldn’t bite
nobody ‘cept for that bully,
Donnie— he’d get eaten
and I’d be a hero.

At night my tiger would sleep
in my room. I’d cuddle
up in his warm soft fur—
I betcha his purring would tickle.
He wouldn’t need a nightlight
and he’d scare away the thunder.

We’d shrink down real small—
go hunting viruses in the yard.
My tiger’d eat ’em up. Rwoff!
Guard the house, keep Mom, Dad
and Grandma safe from the germs
then back to regular in time for dinner.

And life could go back to how it was
but I’d have a tiger and a friend.

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Follow the Money

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Follow (blank),” replace the blank with a new word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem.

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Follow the Money

Deep Throat’s insight
into political corruption
is more true in today’s swamp
than it was in that parking garage.

Scum rises to the top
and a senator
is the best investment
a corporation can make.

But money doesn’t motivate me.
Business is boring,
finance frustrating,
politics puerile.

Should I disappear without explanation
or you find my corpse in a ditch like Poe’s,
don’t follow the money.
Cherchez la femme!

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Spaced Out

For today’s prompt, write a space poem.

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Spaced Out

Singing Happy Birthday
hands slick with soap
I lost track of myself

Like a greedy movie villain rubbing
or opening the doors of the church
to see the people— I cleansed

In my vision— the thermometer
on the sink in the mirror
but not in my thoughts

First or second Happy Birthday Dear
I don’t remember
I slipped between my fingers
Don’t know how long— gone
seconds
maybe minutes
without a thought
just warm hands
in orbit
around
each other


How long has it been
since I held your hand
Far too long

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From the New World

For today’s prompt, write a new world poem.

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From the New World

Dvorak’s Ninth could have only been written in America,
far from his Bohemian home of mountains and forests.
Clear-cut farmlands from New York to Iowa, wide open spaces
inspired music to be played under summer stars.

Location informs creation, the way airborne yeast
infect the sourdough starter or stormy castle nights
with Byron and Shelley conceive Frankenstein.

Going home triumphant to Europe,
his reputation confirmed,
Dvorak would never leave Bohemia again.

I’ve been to Iowa but never Spillville,
where he completed the symphony
except when I listen through his ears
and then I’m native.

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Online Poetry Workshop

 

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We just finished a global poetry workshop with Google Hangouts and it was a success. There were only three poets but we had representatives from both hemispheres so I was enthused. All the poetry was strong and the reviews respectful. Thanks, Flicker of Thoughts & The Prolific Pulse! I’ll definitely host another workshop soon.

But not too soon because National Poetry Month starts tomorrow and I’ll be writing and posting a poem-a-day for the next thirty days. I encourage all my fellow poets to take up this challenge. I can guarantee your poetry will improve by May.

And then you’ll have lots of poems to submit to my next workshop.

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Our Nocturne

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Our Nocturne

Like Endymion, I worshipped
Selene— my perfect muse—
enticing yet unobtainable,
and then you landed.

Our time together—
brief as a shooting star—
concludes with this dance—
before morning carries us apart.

But we’ll still see the same moon
so when she glows porcelain
in the evening sky, I’ll remember
and blow you a kiss

to be delivered by the moonlight
caressing your cheek.

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I could use some help

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I firmly believe that best way to improve one’s poetry is to get feedback from other poets. I’ve been facilitating a monthly Living Poetry workshop for about ten years now and we’ve recently had to shift our meetings online due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

These workshops have gone more smoothly than I expected and since I know most of my readers here are fellow poets, I thought I’d offer a workshop to all of you.

I’d like to have four or five poets in each workshop. Each poet would submit a poem five days before the workshop. Each poem should fit on a printed page. Each poet would then review the submitted poems, indicating what they liked and making gentle suggestions for where there could be some improvement. Then we’d meet in a Google Hangout at a prearranged time for the workshop proper and go over each poem in turn. Based on past experience, the workshop would only take between an hour and ninety minutes.

So, if you’re interested, indicate as such in the comments below or send an email to bart.barker@gmail.com and we’ll figure it out.

I look forward to working with you all.

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The Omelet

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The Omelet

I unbroke that rotten egg
right before it dropped
into the bowl thus saving
the omelet.

It was just a fevered dream
that my fellow voters
insisted they loved the smell
of sulfur

and black spots in the yolk
were nothing to worry
about— just some added
seasoning.

But there’s no awakening from this nightmare.
I’m doomed to eat a poisoned breakfast.

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