Right there on the chair Flowers that must have been for me. An orchid corsage atop a box. Inside, a white dress – my size. His jacket draped over the chair and a seat cushion from an airplane. I waited by the window, where was…

Below is a list of ten words. Please pick at least five of them to use in your poem. If you want to use all ten, please do so. beet jacket tremor bayou elbow lightbulb cinnamon bucket elk carport   Quake the tremors deep in…

We walked by a statue every day for a hundred days never knowing what lay inside   We walked over a bridge every day for two hundred days never knowing what lay beneath   We walked under a tree every day for three hundred days…

Victims wash up against the shore from upturned boats making summer passage on quieter tides. The dead are blamed, perpetrators of their own demise, whilst the reasons for their leaving lie unquestioned, uninvestigated. Who would leave their home and family? No-one’s asking.     Author:…

They say the small town life is the quiet life And word travels fast when something happens out here But now that someone’s missing, someone’s murdered, and something’s been stolen Everyone is claiming an alibi or to be in the clear Now mister Buffet, eager…

I knew not where I traveled When I took upon the road The path was lit by moonlight Through clouds it barely showed And although I had forever Although I had the time I knew Charon asked a price Something not yet mine Ah I…

Hillside dark, water calm A single lantern floating Veil shredded, flowers dead A sudden, rotten, bloating Bride alive, Corpse husband A shovel with sticky coating Crunching earth, shifting waves A victim left ungloating. Crime unseen, story untold The lantern no longer floating.

There’s a strange cottage in the woods it lurks just beyond the tree line, out of sight. Even the heat of summer cannot affect the cool atmosphere around the cottage. Sometimes when I’m overheating I’ll zoom past the treeline to the lake the cottage rests…

Original Text for Erasure Poem:  The Breath of Life by John Burroughs As life nears its end with me, I find myself meditating more and more upon the mystery of its nature and origin, yet without the least hope that I can find out the…

As evening turns to night, the fireflies come out to play, as do children, their mason jars in hand.   But in my distopian world, firefly-hunting kids are a mystery, because it’s the children that glow in Steampunkland. (Prompt: Choose 5 words.)