Log in

Have some poems! Anyone still read this? - The Emptied Pen [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
The Emptied Pen

[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ archive | journal archive ]

Have some poems! Anyone still read this? [Sep. 13th, 2007|08:42 am]
The Emptied Pen


Hey! So I'm taking Poetry Writing again, and every week, he gives us a prompt for a poem. So I thought I'd give you all the same prompts and then show you what I came up with! So everyone, you have three weeks to write three poems. Sound fair? DO THIS! Hehe

Prompt #1: Write an ode to an inaminate object.

Prompt #2: Write a "dramatic monologue" poem in the voice of someone other than yourself.

Prompt #3: Write a poem in stanzas, less than 21 lines in length, about a color. But either don't name the color at all in the poem, or name the color A LOT in the poem.

Ode to Carpet

Lying on a sea of
tiny fabric worms,
an island surrounded
by wrinkled clothes,
scattered, used books,
and classic rock albums.
It's an ugly shade, somewhere
in between
off-white and brown.
The cats have shreaded a patch.
It tries to emerge so
I push it back down with my toe.

My hand slides across
coffee stains
and splashes of red wine.
Your worn pieces
provide little comfort
from the stone foundation
I remember you from nap time,
awake in a class room,
staring at blue paint,
counting to 100.

You brush against the goosebumps
on my arms
as I recreate snow angels
in different shades.

Three Hours to Memphis

It’s the old diner at 3:00 in the morning.
Sipping coffee when that old song comes
on the jukebox,
and the waitress with the Marilyn dress
and the long, red curls
smiles at me through her red lipstick.

Packing up
fragments in
the back seat of my teal 1954 Bel Air and now
I’m gone.
Yellow and white lines
on black pavement
zooming underneath me
and I listen to that same old song
the entire three hours
to the golden streets.
Shoo bop do bee doo wap
Shoo bop do bee doo wap.

Oh, how I miss
white milk shakes with the cherries on top,
rolled up jeans, grease in my
jet black hair, cigarettes in my sleeve.

The sun rises as I find myself
in the parking in lot,
staring at you,
the way the Million Dollar Quartet did. I can’t believe
his lips touched the microphone that
stands inside of your walls
when rock n’ roll was born
long before I was.
And I feel less at home than ever.

The traffic light tells me to move forward
and I’m still choking on this herbal haze
trying to forget the shade your eyes turned
when you saw her.

I stumble out of the car onto sharp blades of grass,
and the pine trees look so vibrant in contrast with the sky.
Grasshoppers dance around me and I almost forget
the picture of your lips on hers.

I remember the pack of menthol cigarettes
she grabbed them from pocket of your corduroy pants
and her fingernails were painted to match your eyes.
You thought no one was watching. You were wrong.