Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #441: Notice

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When This Little Twiggy Went to Meat Market (Notice: All Sales Final)

Twiggy Piggy, a foxymoronic sow,
went to look for a smokin’ hot mammalian beefcake
with whom she could cook up something tasty
(like a litter of mini meatloaves).
She turned down Monsieur Filet Mignon
after he made the piggist comment
that his preference was Kosher.
When Ground Biff said he needed a little pink slime
to beef him up,
she sunk her teeth into Sir Porterhouse–
liking the largeness & tenderness of him.
But she realized her haste
when he cornered her in her sty
& said
that after he was well-done,
all that would be left would be her squeal.

http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/wednesday-poetry-prompts-441

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Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #440: Generation

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Party of Five

In a three-bedroom house
lived a gentleman and a lady,
a boy and a girl,
and a woman of The Sandwich Generation.
This woman,
fully-formed,
hadn’t lost her other half,
but a whole part of something greater
they had built together.
And while she cared for those who had treated her
as a daughter,
and cared for those as she had once been cared for
by those whose daughter she had been,
there was no one left to care for her.
For one man came and left,
and then another,
and another.
But never did she leave her father and mother in-laws,
nor the children that had first belonged
to the love of her life,
to cleave unto one of these men.
Rather,
she lived her life,
and when the right one came,
she knew,
for he stayed.

http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/wednesday-poetry-prompts-440

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #439: Heart

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The Storyteller

Her heart was neither in the mathematics nor the sciences;
she didn’t need to know how things worked,
for it was enough that they did–
to experience the magic without knowing the tricks.
Her heart was in the histories and in the literature–
the truths and the untruths.
Her heart was in the languages,
in the communications that drew
or withdrew
people from one another.
But it was into the words she wrote–
words that bridged these three–
that she poured her heart.

http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/wednesday-poetry-prompts-439

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #438: Pool

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Ned’s Folly

(based on the short story, “The Swimmer,” by John Cheever)

For Neddy Merrill,
swimming the Lucinda River
ages him in dog-years,
while his four little women at home
remain nameless.

Yes, they had all gathered at the river
that flowed by the throne of inebriated suburbia,
the adults committing merry debauchery in the cabanas—
adultery and drunkenness mostly—
while their Wonderbread-complexioned children splashed
in chlorinated summer bathtubs.

In and out of Lucinda,
Neddy only comes up for air to find Shirley above him,
giving him CPR from drowning in the depths
of marital servitude,
until he breaks away to chase
that next body of water,
each one becoming colder and less welcoming than the last.

When he comes to the river’s end,
the seasons have made haste,
and there is no petrichor to cheer him,
but rather, the dank odor of clothes
left in the washer too long.
Did he jump into the deep end,
or did he fall in,
only to find himself in an empty pool?

For the short story this is based on:

https://loa-shared.s3.amazonaws.com/static/pdf/Cheever_Swimmer.pdf

http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/wednesday-poetry-prompts-438

 

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #436: Comprehensive

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Assembly Line Blues

For a time,
they’d known how to put all the pieces together,
until it became more profitable for the Conglomerates
for them to know how to make only one piece.
Then came the day that none of them knew how to make anything,
for the robots did everything.
And so they built the robots–
until the robots were taught how to recreate their own kind.
And the Conglomerates owned the robots,
until the robots owned them,
turning them into what they had been,
even as these bots became what Pinocchio had always dreamed of becoming.

http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/wednesday-poetry-prompts-436

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #435: Reserved

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The Bookworm in the Big Apple Tree

Pippin Applegate’s reserve of library books numbered the stars
(the kind that danced on reality TV),
but she hadn’t the time to read them,
for though her textbooks didn’t outnumber that stack,
they outweighed it by twenty pounds,
and she,
by significantly more.

Those textbooks–
as dense as her aunt Bobbi Dean’s triple butter buttermilkfat 5-pound cake,
(and Aunt B.D. herself)–
made her feel just as weighted down,
like Mr. Jonathan McIntosh when he was sauced.

Once she’d learned what she needed to know for a semester
(rather than a lifetime),
she returned to a life of wine, men, and poetry,
and,
when she was feeling fat,
spent her sweet tea breaks noshing on the cake pop version of that pound cake,
to which her frenemies referred as “her daily dozen.”

Then came along Little Miss Honeycrisp,
demanding loads of dough from all who craved her,
making Pippin feel even more rotten,
for she–
a wannabe tart who’d been trying to pass as a Granny Smith
(the best for baking)–
was,
sadly,
more suited for mincemeat.

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