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Kitchen Sink

PROMPTuesday Exercise #1

April 21st, 2008

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



« « Inaction    |    For Me, This is Just For Me » »

On April 22nd, 2008, workmonkey said:

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.

On April 22nd, 2008, Carrie said:

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…

On April 22nd, 2008, Cocktail Maven said:

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.

On April 22nd, 2008, taking me so far out of my comfort zone it’s not even funny. « said:

[…] of my comfort zone it’s not even funny. so when sandiegomomma says she’s offering writing prompts on her blog to get everyone’s creative juices flowing, i say, “sure i’m […]

On April 22nd, 2008, myra said:

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.

On April 22nd, 2008, Paul Wade said:

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.

On April 22nd, 2008, Amanda said:

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!

On April 22nd, 2008, aaryn b. said:

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.

On April 23rd, 2008, » Blog Archive » Too Much Talent for My Little Blog said:

[…] you to those who participated in PROMPTuesday. I loved reading your poems with and am wowed and cowed by your […]

On April 23rd, 2008, I’m better at reading it than writing it said:

[…] Deb over at San Diego Momma just launched the first writing exercise of what she is calling PROMPTuesday. Each week—on Tuesday, hence the name—Deb will be offering an idea to get the poetry […]

On April 23rd, 2008, Cheri said:

What fun Deb! Thanks.

And now I’m gonna go check out the others . . .

On April 29th, 2008, » Blog Archive » PROMPTuesday Exercise #2 said:

[…] here is the first PROMPTuesday exercise from last […]

On May 3rd, 2008, Tony said:

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.”

On May 5th, 2008, Tony said:

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

On May 5th, 2008, Tony said:

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.

On May 5th, 2008, Tony said:

(Best blog game EVER.)

On September 10th, 2008, A Medley said:

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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