24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I imagine that a lot of poets right now are ready to sleep. So that is the theme of the final prompt. Write a poem about sleep. What it is like to sleep, what it is like to dream, what you are dreaming about. But don’t fall asleep until you press Publish!
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Sleep, dead on arrival. Dreams,
missing in action. Growing out
of my pineal gland, my spirit
reaching up for a starlight ballet;
finding only the soft pillow kiss
of midnight moon clouds.
‘The worst enemy to creativity is self–doubt.’ – Sylvia Plath. I love this quote. Doubt is something almost all writers face. However it is rarely something we write about. Your prompt is to write about a poem about doubt. It could be self doubt, it could be doubt in terms of creative writing, or it could be about doubt in general.
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Riding up my fantasies, a pitch black
flame, twisting and scorching my hope.
I’m holding the lighter and the fuel
but for some reason I want to see it burn.
I want the dreams I longed for to go up
in smoke, and their ashes to form a nice
coffin for my wishes to rot in. Doubt can
sever mobility; make me a quadriplegic.
Write a non-traditional love poem. Both the words non-traditional and love are open to your interpretation.
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Losers falling headfirst into
a puddle of mucky love.
Lapping up the sweat from
each other’s brows, hairy messes
of armpit hair braided into one.
Thick thighs are walked by
chubby little fingers seeking the
geyser spout. Worms wriggle
under the soot in the bottom of
the cave, they reach their long
lips up out of the mud to reach
for another kiss. Lovers sip from
a molded chalice of memory.
Write a poem inspired by a writer that you admire. The poem should mention the name of the writer explicitly at least once. The writer’s influence should be seen in the content or the tone of the poem.
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Crazy Cloud;
Koan completer—
they think I’m mad too.
I’ll opt for
stars and streams,
waves and
grass—we’ll
find lovers
in her blessings.
Zen vagabond,
are you
down,
where demons stir,
searching for enlightenment?
Or are you up there
laughing in awe?
Did the winds blow you over
cold mountain?
I think I saw you in the
morning hour…
Crazy Cloud—
Denouncer of Ossified Masters,
will you join me
for Shikantaza?
Listen to the song Your Hand in Mine by Explosions in the Sky, and write during it. If the song is up before your poem is finished, play it again. It is a good song to write to in part because it has no lyrics.
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Trekking through the snow and lights of
December’s magic hours— my heart turns
to look into the air, where glittering blackness
resides and time stops, that’s where I meant to be.
Parting words: Remember me as a time of day.
Remember me as a song for our fathers.
And when it’s time to great death,
lie in a bed, made of Yasmin the light.
Close your eyes and watch; the moon is down.
Have you passed through this night? In
through a poor man’s memory, lying still
with tired eyes, tired minds, and tired souls,
We slept
Resurrected, that first breath after coma,
finally, the only moment we were alone. I
would have lived there forever, but we only
had six days at the bottom of the ocean. So
for you these words are a memorial of your
hand in mine.
The last known surrounding of our love
could only be measured in human qualities.
We held weights and measures with trembling
hands—telling our monkey minds: be comfortable,
creature. And slipping away we’ll recover that
postcard from 1952. Please let me back into
that golden age of ignorance.
Grab a random book from your shelf. It can be a book of any genre. Use either the first sentence from the first chapter or the last sentence from the last chapter as the opening line of the poem. Make sure to note the name of the book and the author in a footnote to the poem.
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For centuries,
societies around the world
adopted the view that
sex means just one thing;
penis in vagina
intercourse within
the context of marriage
for purposes of procreation.*
Nowadays,
sex is everywhere
sex is hiding in plain sight
sex is the secret currency of life
sex is Disney channel midday
sex is car insurance advertisements
sex is an officer wielding a baton
sex is celebrity tabloid gossip
sex is glossed up night-weather correspondents
sex is vulgar lyrics in pop-music
sex is drunk thirteen year old kids exploring
sex is rooted in a yearning for attention
sex is diluted by lust and nefarious intent
sex is not strangers bumping uglies
sex is not fucking
sex is not home base
sex is not Love
*
The Psychology of Human Sexuality
Wiley Blackwell
This prompt is to take a common proverb, such as “don’t count your chickens before they hatch” and turn it into a poem. You can choose any proverb or common saying. The proverb can appear as it normally does in the poem, or you can twist it. It can be a small part of the poem or its core.
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Actions can be tough, I know, but get it together folks.
Speak with authority, with conviction, or keep it in.
Louder, be like a foghorn, yelp your truths unto the night sky!
Than to have died spiritually, better to have lived.
Words can shape, more erosive than raging torrents.
Too much talking, too little saying, too much nothing, too few Actions.
Mind rests on its doing, thoughts stay on what the tongue may Speak.
No matter the depth of shadow, light always shines Louder.
Thankfully we don’t have to even know the meaning, other Than
that it all revolves around the energy resonating from magick Words.
What one physical object (I am not talking about your dog or cat or baby, but a possession) would you save in case of a fire? Your prompt this hour is to write a poem about that possession.
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It saddens me to think
that if the fire came today,
would my guitar or laptop—
music or words—go my way?
Write a sestina! A sestina is a poem with six stanzas of six lines and a final triplet, all stanzas having the same six words at the line-ends in six different sequences that follow a fixed pattern, and with all six words appearing in the closing three-line envoi.
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I came in the back of the line, always Last;
They thought they were going the right way, only I came Home.
I will see them again before long, in our final Grave–
We will shake hands and take our kiss from Death.
Because after all, we did what we meant to in Life,
We came in through nothingness and again were Born.
In us every galaxy of the cosmos was Born,
the light from those pulsars will always Last,
even after our eyes rot away in Death.
it’s not that bad at all, the shelter of a Grave,
Always searching for a place to rest, and finally finding Home.
A struggle no longer at the end of Life.
Wickedness absolved and sins sanctified through Life.
when angels and demons crept onto our shoulders to be Born.
as if the light from heaven would peak through the clouds at Last,
we eagerly await the gentle grace of transient Death.
Jesus holds my hand walking me to the Grave;
I’ll follow no one, because only I know my way to my Home.
In between my eyes, deep in my mind, that is where I find Home.
Pity be all those lost and searching never finding True Life,
Samsara will wrap them back around, another chance to be Born.
And from that first, hopefully timeless breath to last
A thousand lives met in a single moment at Death.
Laying beside every manifestation of Life, a universal Grave;
We’ll climb our way, as spirits, from the Grave.
ascend a ladder of lightning to find Home,
and when our fate is gone, we’ll finally be at peace at Last,
but the relief will be fleeting, because it is our nature to be Born,
to suffer through Life,
and savor the release of Death.
Do you long for the kiss of Death?
To dive into your forgotten Grave,
So you may finally know the warmth of Home,
Be rid of your aching Life.
and maybe take on a new form once you’ve been Born.
Can you remember the life you lived Last?
Or is this the Last time you will welcome Death?
Find your Spirit-Home beyond your Grave,
and if you never take Life for granted, you will be Born.
Write a poem that has a chance of being very meaningful to someone you are very close to, or someone you want to be close to.
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Gone from all we were
together we sat at night
watching the same moon.