For today’s prompt, write a sevenling poem, a 7-line poem that features two tercets and a one-liner in the final (third) stanza. The first two stanzas should have an element of three in them that can either play off each directly, work as juxtaposition, or have no connection whatsoever. The final line should work as either a punchline, weird twist, or punctuation mark.

Dancers: A Sevenling

This one flounces and struts across the floor
like a peacock, her black pants stretched thin
by round hips, her lacy top holding breasts firm.

That one glides on hardwood like a swan
on a peaceful lake, her neck long and poised,
her mouth pointed and silent—like her eyes.

I long for the song of the common nightingale.

Prompt: Write a post poem

Postpartum

You walk along the side of the road with stone-faced
determination, dusty gravel clinging to the sweat
of your calves, your arms held out and bent
at the elbow like the borrowed cradle that used
to hold your sleeping baby girl.

She’s old enough to walk, to feed and dress
herself, but you let her get too much sun, caved in
when she whined for cotton candy after the funnel cake
you shared. After all, she got gold stars for helpfulness
everyday this week and walked all the way to the street
festival singing made up songs without one break.

Even now, her logic astounds you as her limp body bears
down on your ulnas and the sun tracks its heat
across your strained shoulders. Even now, you know you’d hold her
for this long and longer like you did the time she pounded
her two-year old fists on the toy store floor when you pulled
her away from the doll she desired.

You were being a good mother, weren’t you? Teaching her
that life will not always go her way? You reasoned she needed
to learn disappointment early, but collapsed under the cacophony
of her wails. What is a mother to do—then and now—
when every whimper brings you back to your daughter
at four-months old, how her coos melted into cries that day her ears
were pierced, how you taught her what it meant to feel pain?

Prompt: Write a plus poem

When I Tell People I’m Still Single

Jaws unhinge,
foreheads crinkle,
eyes commence
the full body scan
she seems nice
looks healthy
speaks well
as if these things
should add up
to a husband, boyfriend,
or custody arrangements
at the very least.
So they try higher-order
math, search their minds
for that x-factor to solve
the mystery of me—
the criminal or crazy
in my genes, hidden behind
the gleam of my 32 good
teeth. The why must equal
the exponential growth
of some flaw, compounded
by time and bitterness,
like having standards
out of proportion with reality
or the vector of unavailable
and ne’er do well men that surely
have intersected my heart,
compressed its’ openness
to the smallest natural number.
I am an anomaly:
educated,
pretty,
hard-working,
pleasant,
single—still.
The simple answer is:
I have no clue and I’ve stopped
trying to figure it out.

~Pamela L. Taylor © 2013

Special thanks to my colleague for suggesting the title and some of the imagery of this poem. Who says poetry and work doesn’t mix?

Prompt: Hold that <blank>

Hold that Hot Potato

But not too close to your lips
because my heat burns
through this tinfoil shell.

Take your time peeling back
my russet brown skin, savoring
the hidden virtues of my flesh.

Don’t try to change what I am
by baking me halfway, twice, or thrice,
by turning me into fries or tots,

by mashing me with milk
or whipping me into a fluff.
I’m best served whole,

dressed up however you please:
sour cream and chives,
four-alarm chili with cheese,

pepper and salt with butter
churned to match my perfection,
or simply nothing at all.

~Pamela L. Taylor © 2013

Thought I would try a villanelle for today’s prompt: Write a tentative poem.

Tentative

All of life’s plans are unlikely to be kept,
but we push forward and stumble in the dark
unsure, urgent like a baby’s first step.

I cannot remember the last time I slept
soundly in a man’s arms. My mind’s at work
planning ahead, hoping our promises are kept.

You say taking it slow is better, except
my desire is left hanging like a question mark—
unsure, urgent like a baby’s first step.

But my only fear is that you’d rather let
our time wind down in a natural arc.
No need to make plans unlikely to be kept.

I’m used to giving my all and receiving neglect,
reaching for true love (an arbitrary benchmark?)
that is urgent and unsure like a baby’s first step.

It would be easier for my heart to accept
your goodbye kiss and not this irreverent spark
that plans for a future unlikely to be kept
like the unsure urgency of a baby’s first step.

~Pamela L. Taylor © 2013

Prompt (Two for Tuesday): Write a bright poem. Write a dark poem.

Bright/Dark

We worship suns,
shoot for stars,
land on moons.
Light shapes our days
adjusts our moods,
drives us to walk down
life’s cold and lonely
tunnels, led by outstretched
hands, stumbling over
our own feet. We’d rather seek
hope’s pale flicker than live
in a darkness that obscures
our vision, forces us
to hands and knees
in its presence, until
we are frozen in place
by the fear of solitude
and the internal mysteries
we long to embrace.