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
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.
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
(birthday)
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…
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
What fun Deb! Thanks.
And now I’m gonna go check out the others . . .
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.”
The mountaineers have hairy ears
and likewise have no trifles
They hang their balls on mountain walls
and shoot ’em off with rifles.
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.
(Best blog game EVER.)
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