There’s only 26 of them, but…
No matter what he writes
or how hard he tries
to overcome the outcome,
every draft always contains
far more letters than words.
Try as he might (and he does)
he can’t pare things down;
can’t seem to, um…
even if he…
even if…
but
no
——[||]——
Ragtag Daily Prompt
RDP 03.24.26
~FECUND~
Here’s a new (to me) Syllabic verse style: The Hautt. Six unrhymed lines (4-5-2-2-5-4 syllable count) with a “wisdom / truth” intent. Big thanks to Melissa Lemay for the prompt!
——[||]——
A well-armed man:
more likely to die.
Drop out.
Disarm.
Live a longer life.
Give Peace A Chance.
——[||]——
Tanka Tuesday Poetry
Challenge #57 – 03.24.26
~ The Hautt ~
It’s Quardille Monday over at the dVerse Poets Pub, where Promptmaster / Drinkslinger Lillian asks us to create a poem of exactly 44 words, using the word “SILENT” or some derivative thereof…
——[||]——
All he knew for certain
was what everyone else
already knew:
since midnight there had been
nothing but silent silence,
followed by even more silence
until just before dawn
when there was only a long
almost silent
moan
a single extended scream
then nothing
——[||]——
dVerse Poets Pub
Quadrille Monday 03.23.2026
~ SILENT ~
I know I used to be somebody
you were glad to know;
somebody worth knowing;
somebody you could count on
to be worth being with;
to be worthy.
Some things
can be restored
but only
some things.
Sometimes time runs out.
I know.
I know I know.
——[||]——
Ragtag Daily Prompt
RDP 03.23.26
~ RESTORE ~
Another day to
Meet The Press
Face The Nation
turn the journal page
wish you had another pen
Another day to
coffee up and
watch the TV wildflowers
wish the snow would melt
hope the snow will melt
Another day to
not say too much
not think too much
not write so much
that you run out of ink
or words
or thoughts
or energy
or desire
or…or…or
umm…
He watches his pen slide
across the cover of his
(closed) journal.
The pen’s not
in his hand; not
under his control;
it moves on its own
sideways
like there’s an
earthquake or
some invisible
astral visitor.
He watches.
The journal opens itself.
Cautiously.
“What?!? No gooseberries?!?” he shrieked in disbelief. He loved her madly. She was beautiful beyond description. Sexy. Loving. Kind. But when she neglected to top his birthday morning’s pancakes with gooseberries he knew —even after decades of adoration— it was over.
——[||]——
Sammi Cox
Weekend Writing Prompt #460
~GOOSEBERRY – 41 Words~
What difference could it possibly make
that now, on the day of the dogged sun
beneath which we, swaying and pale, faint,
approach at last the end of roads? We take
the paths we can, or dare; we leave undone
the rest. Where we have shown reserve, restraint
has won us no great prize; where we had gone
with true bravado, then, we now regret
we went at all. So this is where we are:
mired on the road and more than half undone
by time, wasted by the early pace we set,
and less than proud to call our tattoos scars.
We are those whose nation has such oceans
we lose our taste for salt, our lust for motion.
——[||]——
Poets and Storytellers United
Friday Writing #219
~LOOKING BACK~
I’m (joyously) sharing the news that Irene Toh, Editor at Red Wolf Journal and its many associated literary projects, has chosen 2 (TWO!!) of my poems for the upcoming “Blown Open” anthology, which you can READ ALL ABOUT HERE.
Poems will be published at the Red Wolf Journal site and as a PDF compilation.
Release date will be early April. I’ll keep you posted. Meanwhile… JOYDANCE!!!
I’d like
to think that thoughts
reveal themselves to prove
the thinker thinks; but it’s not true.
It’s not.
I think
our thoughts occur to hold the space
within our empty minds
and prove we just
can’t think…
but wait…
——[||]——
Ronovan’s Weekly Cinquain
Prompt #44 – 03.18.2026
~ THINK ~
.SCRAMBLED, NOT FRIED 