PROMPTuesday Exercise #1

Here we go! It’s out first PROMPTuesday! And remember: ANYONE can participate. This is for fun. Even if you don’t care a hill of beans for creative writing prompts or, for that matter, creative writing in general, you are welcome in this place of non-judgment and happy color rainbows! Yeah! Miss Mary/Barry Sunshines all over the place!
(I’ve gone ahead and gotten a head start on making no sense.

See below.)


SO, let’s make it easy today: Write a nonsense poem. Make up words. Create silly sentences. Whatever. Just make it all a bunch of make believe and not making sense-it-ness.


And DON’T second guess your work. No head games on yourself. Just write whatever springs to mind and go for it.


So when you can today, set a timer for 10 minutes and write whatever pops into your brain. Keep in mind the 150-word limit. Then post your work in your blog, or in the comments below.


When you’re done with all that, pay a visit to Mr. Linky below and write your name and the link where we can find your post.


That’s all! Let’s get to it!


Here’s my submission:


Hippity hoppity doop

The pea is in the soup

I asked it, please, get on your knees

Like good peas always do

He told me no, it’s time to go

And then he flew the coop

I watched him fly

Green hue and all

But no wings to be found

I wondered then, how can he soar

He’ll surely hit the ground

Sure ‘nough he did

Just like a smid

Hippity hoppity goop



17 thoughts on “PROMPTuesday Exercise #1”

  1. Stalactite fingers, a
    thread drawn in your flesh,
    the start of an L,
    the breath of a word,
    Lingonberries, Lionel,
    Lead, Love. Before the air
    blower screamed
    like ungreased
    garages in fall, after
    you left, there
    was only morning and
    the heavy press of your
    pillow. Thoughts like
    firelies. No more: There was
    toast to be made.

  2. Orange juice pants make the best camps
    Darwin flutes have the worst cramps
    Made it like an animal played it
    Sat on top, wished you a belated

    When do I
    Where do I
    How do I fly?
    If the trees were up low could I climb so high?

    Clouds eat the moon
    Can’t tip the spoon
    Cereal ran dry – hearts awry
    Some rhymes are too easy
    but Moogle is queasy
    “Mlefulous crockept” is hard to pronounce
    Add another tongue and the sounds could just bounce
    (with ease)

    When do I
    What do I
    Who do I try?
    If I ran too slow, would you reply?
    What next?
    Fantabulous craptacular
    words that soberly resonate with vernacular…
    What does booze matter when the words run dry…

  3. I ended up with a limerick. Must be the Irish in me:

    I am old and my bones are all rickety.
    I move slow and my joints go “crick-crickety”.
    But when in my car,
    I drive fast and far,
    And hope the police don’t feel tickety.

  4. this was so much fun! thanks for the prompt! i can’t believe i actually came up with something. it’s so much fun reading all of these posts.

  5. Said Heathcliff to her long dry tresses,
    “I feel like hippopota-messes.
    Under the moors your teeth are dust,
    your frilly buttons turned to rust.”

    Said Heathcliff to her cold crevaces,
    “Come dance with me upon the grasses.
    With Venus now eclipsed with Mars
    I’ll watch your eyes reflect the stars.”

    Said Heathcliff to her at the dawn,
    “Your whalebone hoopskirts turn me on.
    And all the little things you brave
    Like eating mushrooms from your grave.”

    Said Catherine as they lay together,
    “Your skin, Heathcliff, is supple leather.
    Just shut your mouth and kiss me well
    It’s cold down here, as cold as hell.”

    — Paul R. Wade

    P.S. I cheated. 18 minutes.

  6. Oh my goodness, Paul’s poem rocks! “Your whalebone hoopskirts turn me on” It doesn’t get any better than that. Awesome.

    Writing the prompt was actually harder than I thought it would be. Can’t wait for next week!

  7. Your hair’s so short
    He said,
    Like when we first met.
    Radiating spikes of
    Fleshtonic heart bursts
    Flew from his startling
    Blues to black. And I thought I knew what he thought
    But instead
    The angles pierced my wrongfled thought bubble,
    Filled with waves as his hand migrated
    From the razor shorn neck
    And seared my low back
    Where it came to rest and pressed and I sucked in a stony breath
    Filled with our story-ness and us-ness of who we were then.
    And we took long strides
    Pushing against the concrete fast where
    Other lovers once scratched their
    Promises into our land
    With a fragile cocktail straw.

  8. Dead Writers

    Pope said to Milton,
    “I think I’ll put my kilt on
    and go for a stroll through the heather.”
    Milton said, “Pope,
    don’t be such a dope.
    Have you taken a look at the weather?”
    But to Milton’s disdain,
    Pope strode out in the rain
    and scarcely had taken a step when
    Milton called out, “I bet
    you come back soaking wet
    and no doubt you’ll wish you were Dryden.”

  9. The mountaineers have hairy ears
    and likewise have no trifles
    They hang their balls on mountain walls
    and shoot ’em off with rifles.

  10. Franklin’s Fingers-

    Franklin is just nine-years old,
    too young to know
    just why the world is so unfair.
    Franklin was born with nine fingers
    on his right hand
    and only three
    on his left.
    Being a net two-over-par
    in the digit department
    makes Franklin a very bad juggler.
    But he’s a precocious typist.
    You see, Franklin,
    All is not fair, but it’s not all bad.

  11. Shoestrings and butterflies,
    Rabbits and figs
    All sit in a basket
    Atop an old matted wig
    The crickets were jumping
    The fish swam around
    The beaver looks smart in this wig that he found

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