Writing Prompt
    Boot Camp

    Subscribe to our FREE email newsletter and get the Writing Prompt Boot Camp download.

    Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 252

    Categories: Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

    Before today’s prompt, be sure to check out this interview with me over at the Poets and Artists website, in which I’m asked 10 questions, including which poem I’d like read at my eulogy, the saddest poem I’ve ever read, what I’ll never write a poem about, and more. Click here to read the whole thing.

    For today’s prompt, write a building poem. The poem could be about an actual building, such as the Sears…err…Willis Tower in Chicago or Fallingwater house in Pennsylvania. Or the poem could be about building something, such as a mashed potato replica of Devils Tower in Wyoming or a papier mache mask. If you can build another interpretation, go for it.

    Here’s my attempt at a building poem:

    “Blue Mountain”

    Will starts with a wooden track and then another
    before adding a wood block and then another.
    The track rises and then rises even higher,
    and Will calls it Blue Mountain, his train track on fire,
    before pushing it down, the entire track destroyed,
    because the fun is in the building for this boy.


    Build an audience for your poetry!

    Click here to learn how.

    Robert Lee Brewer

    Robert Lee Brewer


    Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems. Today, he’s enjoying the beauty of snow in Georgia, while the roads are a complete mess (click here to see what a couple inches can do). Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


    Find more poetic posts here:

    You might also like:

    • No Related Posts
    • Print Circulation Form

      Did you love this article? Subscribe Today & Save 58%

    About Robert Lee Brewer

    Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

    144 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 252

      “Flying Fox,” Van Gogh, oil on canvas, Nuenen 1885

      Again and again he painted the old tower –
      what had been a church; its brick ruins nothing
      but gaps above gravestones; dark sky, bat-
      flight overhead as the only sign of life.
      Could this place give his brushstrokes wings?

      Dark clouds brooded over old bat-
      tle grounds, the graved church, his young life
      neither solace-art nor sermons; nothing
      illuminating like the peace-dove’s wings.
      On Sundays stood his father like the tower

      of God. A son’s meager canvas, nothing.
      Later, he’d come to paint flowers like wings
      of rose, iris, the light of his mother’s life,
      and, even brighter, sunflowers tower-
      ing over their plain vase. Wheatfields, bat-

      like crows foreshadowing a darker life.
      The Rhône, each reflected light like a tower
      but uncertain, wavering on water-wings.
      Above the graveyard, this live bat
      with its arms outstretched toward nothing

      but night. And yet, not dark these wings.
      Who could imagine amber-golden in a bat?
      as if it caught sunset. The tower
      is an absent void; a silent “no!” Nothing
      that sees through the dark to life.

      One day, no tower; nothing but this bat,
      stained-glass glow of life in its wings.

    2. Julieann says:

      Building Blocks

      See Dick run
      See Jane run
      Dick and Jane are reading
      Building blocks

      A to Z – 26 letters to
      Spell every word in the
      English language are a writer’s
      Building blocks

      One and one is two
      Two and two are four
      Simple basic math
      Building blocks

      3-Rs – necessary basics of
      Stories, history, science, theories
      Come together as fundamental
      Building blocks

    3. LexiFlint says:

      Road blocks, a poem by Lexi Flint
      Trying to move forward
      holding on to the past
      yet unfulfilled.
      Road blocks
      in my mind
      in the form of
      stop the flow of creativity
      from my brain
      to my fingertips
      from my keyboard
      into your soul.

    4. lionetravail says:

      Building Blocks

      A and C and G and T,
      from C and H and O and N.
      With luck and electricity,
      we came from sludge, back when.

      Genes, genes, they’re good for the heart-
      silent, nucleic, the only game in town.
      Genes, genes, the blueprint of art,
      and each one a hand-me-down.

    5. PressOn says:


      young architects
      studying with masters
      develop a large edifice

    6. Cin5456 says:


      I tried to build a life based upon
      the concept of not like her.
      What I got was more like her
      than I knew at the time.

      I did not know her childhood, but
      later I learned ours were identical.
      I only glimpsed her marriages
      through the eyes of a resentful child,
      but later acknowledged ours were identical.

      I vowed to avoid her pitfalls,
      her mistakes, her later years alone,
      but now I know we are identical
      in our choices and our outcomes.

      I tried to build a life.
      Instead, I duplicated hers.

    7. David says:

      Regretful Builder

      By David De Jong

      I once heard a tale of a middle aged man
      Who earned his living hammer in hand
      The homes he built were beautiful to view
      Each miter cut perfect, each column held true

      His mind was tired and his body torn
      As he worked for another, he felt forlorn
      He told his master, he just couldn’t go on
      Began to collect his tools, soon to be gone

      His master begged him, please just one more home
      Reluctantly he agreed to build just one
      Soon he regretted his changing of heart
      Dreamed of finishing before he could start

      His skill wasted, as he labored in furry
      Each board upon board assembled with hurry
      Some doors could not open, some doors could not close
      His craftsmanship neglected that’s what he chose

      The home was completed his task was done
      Brought the keys to the master feeling he’d won
      But he felt so foolish and started to weep
      When the master told him, it was his gift to keep

      Now as we labor, we build and we toil
      We’ll reap what we plant, as from the soil
      May we use our gifts as best as can be
      While our homes are built in eternity

    8. PressOn says:


      I miss
      department stores
      and long lines of busses
      and all the buildings on Main Street’s
      broad bridge.

    9. james.ticknor says:

      House of Memories

      This house of memories, that I built myself by hand
      Out of my armories, a fortress built to withstand
      Love’s heart-taking assault, memories that are guarded
      Making it difficult, to fall in love if bombarded

      Waltzing on battlefields, break way past my defenses
      Sprinting past my minefields, giving yourself all chances
      To find your way to me, risking yourself to tear apart
      ‘Cause I am all you see, and all you want is my heart
      Memories in my blood, some to try to take my pride
      Not this time- no flood, I will not ever be allied
      To take anyone’s side

      I’m in this house of memories without one
      Of how I got here. How had all this begun?
      It might kill me. I wanted nothing if to be true
      I wanted nothing else. I wanted nothing else but you
      Come, come break me down and bring yourself around
      Come, come tear me down and try not to make a sound

      My house of memories they do not control me
      But I will not be the one this time, not the one to die
      My house of memories they do not control me
      But I will not be the one this time, not the one to cry
      My house of memories they do not control me
      Come on dear and fight your way to me.

    10. Teena Brueggemann says:

      I wrote this on the first anniversary of my fathers passing. I’m new to this though –

      A Single Grain of Sand

      The tide laps greedily at the shore,
      Then retreats and repeats to renew
      Stealing grains, those we love, and more –
      Leaving emptiness and sadness in lieu

      So like grains of sand on the beach,
      Into our lives, loved ones come and they go –
      Our hearts learn to yearn and to reach
      Then sadly realize that time is our foe

      We long for what time strips away –
      But the tide, never ending, keeps pace
      We dream of a long ago day,
      Ever nearing the end of our race

      Look forward! Some say that’s the key
      Over the years, the wounds will be healed
      Looking backward you will NEVER see,
      The new grains the waves have revealed

      Teena Brueggemann

    11. seingraham says:


      When I was sweltering
      in southern Italy
      a friend sent me a song
      and the refrain
      “Jesus, Jesus
      can you tell me
      what it’s all about?”
      stayed with me.
      It built up all
      summer until I needed
      to hear that damned
      song almost every day
      and me agnostic
      but still,
      I had to hear those

    12. Margie Fuston says:


      Build me a nest
      out of the scrap of paper
      you first wrote your number on,
      the green thread from the sweater
      you gave me when I shivered,
      a stitch from the yellow sundress I wore
      the first time you called me beautiful,
      a square from the mismatched quilt
      we huddle under with popcorn on our laps,
      the strands of hair I leave on your pillow
      every morning,
      and I will call it home.

    13. lionetravail says:

      Deconstructing the Dazzle

      Bright, hard sunlight, spearing from a clear and wintry sky to glint softly in your hair
      Roy G. Biv, white as a ghost, coaxing flirty reds from your brown, like Diogenes
      Particles piercing nearly ninety three million miles to point out highlights
      Waves weaving back and forth, sines and signs of celestial regard
      Playful photons, energetic as children, teasing chromophores
      Unquantifiable quanta dancing among molecules
      Spin absent mass, dervish-whirl among atoms
      Gamma’ and proton’s sub-atomic billiards
      Radiation and up-down quarks
      Energy, and energy
      Me and you

      (PKP totally inspired me to try out a decrescendo go at an ‘unbuilding’ poem- thanks!)

    14. Anne says:

      Spires, columns, gables and gargoyles
      Flying buttresses, arches, too
      All enclosed in wallpaper coils
      Waiting to be layered on walls

    15. cmariee says:

      Traditions and routines emerge as
      Santa needs his cookies.
      Then, sunny days of friendship spark
      during kickball and candy necklaces.

      But wands are for a fairy
      And baby teeth begin to leave.
      Each life a brim of expectations
      Still only youth knows what is true.

      One’s nerves, one’s tears take shape at twelve
      Via braces, bangs, and clothes.
      Movie dates with popcorn fights
      and pizza… always pizza.

      Competition then sets in
      As we learn we are on our own
      And friends and family stand helplessly by
      Because we’d rather be bitter. We’d rather be alone.

      (Then music helps)
      The yelling sobs becoming a rhythm
      And laughter is the best result, the best defense.
      We find ourselves are not ourselves
      But each a shadow with a broken heart.

      And for the lucky we emerge
      Through ashes, we dust off the pain.
      We right our wrongs, accept our faults
      We find our friends have somehow, some…how remained.

      But survival’s not a victory
      It’s a pledge, a hope towards change;
      A way to look past so many tragedies
      No matter what the TV plays.

    16. NoBlock says:

      We laid the foundation
      You and I, strangers at the beginning
      We agreed on the blueprints
      Of which our life would be built
      Together we constructed the overbuilt walls
      Picking up pieces, adding to our crew
      With blood, sweat and tears we tirelessly continue
      Completing one phase at a time
      Occasionally admiring our work
      We build this thing together
      Unconcerned with what others will say or think
      It bonds you and I like cement to rebar
      Thank you my love for building this life with me

    17. elishevasmom says:

      How to Build a Poem

      will now
      attempt to
      build a poem that
      shows exactly how to write a
      fib, always increasing the number of syllables
      in each line by adding together the number of those in the two preceding lines.
      Of course, if I were to choose to write a reverse fib,
      the result would be a poem
      that is top-heavy
      and ready
      to fall

      (c) Copyright 2014
      [ 1.30.14, a “build” poem for PA]

    18. JRSimmang says:


      We lost our father.
      As he laid in his smoke-filled coffin
      with hand-crafted nails,
      my mother hugged me close.

      My brother was still in wonder of death.
      He couldn’t figure out how dad could
      hold his breath for so long.
      He tried and passed out.
      At least he was quiet on the ride home.

      I learned how to cook eggs first.
      Then meatloaf,
      then pizza
      and fish
      and soups.

      I learned how to tie shoes,
      and drive,
      and drop off
      watery-eyed little men
      in little suits,
      and kiss goodbye,
      and be proud like a good father.

      I learned how to fight
      and slam doors,
      and drink too much,
      and rely on black coffee.

      I learned that my brother
      knew that I was always going
      to be older than him,

      I suppose

      that meant I would
      always be wise…
      I learned what it meant to
      truly cry,
      and know that I would
      never live up to his
      greatest expectations.

      And as I sat back, wishing it all
      to go to hell,
      I remembered that,
      when I cradled his head
      in my lap
      and felt him fall asleep,
      we were both still children.

      -JR Simmang

    19. Life

      Leaping, loving, living
      in your arms and out
      filling my lungs with life, with
      every step I take.

    20. writinglife16 says:

      “Castle Building.”

      We decided to build a castle.
      Yes, a castle.
      In the front yard.
      We got paper and crayons.
      Drew a picture of our castle.
      “We’re building a castle.”
      Granny laughed and Mama shook her head.
      Went outside and got started.
      We started digging.
      And digging and digging.
      Dragged the water hose to the front.
      We stopped to get lemonade.
      Granny laughed some more
      and Mama shook her head.
      We kept digging and using the water.
      We went to get more lemonade.
      Granny snorted and Mama screamed.
      “Why are you covered in mud?”
      We told her, every good castle has a moat.


      Two towers stood in graceful stance
      as inspiration at a glance
      to all who genuinely believed
      that anything could be achieved.

      By making aspirations real,
      these buildings made of stone and steel
      were beacons for the world to see
      the inner strength of our esprit.

      The engineering marvels born,
      to die one sunny, blue-skied morn,
      created dreams that touched the skies
      misunderstood by spiteful eyes.

      Those cowards, in a fit of pique,
      had wrongly judged our nation weak.
      The giants fell at quite a cost,
      but freedom never once was lost.

      © Susan Schoeffield

    22. Sanctuary

      Not a moment or twenty of them, not a single
      room or one of those heavy old buildings
      sloping against the sky and gulls.

      I could measure out the feeling,
      in the minutes before coffee, a first cup,
      but I am not a storyteller. And the other girls still sleep.

      Their somnolence velvets the air
      on the stairs and hangs like lights
      from my rafters. My little room, and the largeness of small moments:

      Don’t hearts always break for the big ones,
      how they’re always found wanting?
      Graduation at the Cistern, a dance on some boat,
      grand kisses behind the flowerboxes,
      but our lips are always dry.
      I want nothing but small sips I’ll pantomime all day.

      Not difficult to know which I prefer:
      the beauty of morning and mug,
      routine over residue.

      Coziness can mean more than carpe diem.
      Never just a moment, or a place.
      Only a small, reaching calm that could be joy.

    23. Cabin at the Ocean

      I see a log cabin,
      sturdy, sitting on top
      of a hill, wildflowers
      poking up pink and yellow.
      You climb a sand dune
      leading from the sea to arrive
      at the front door. Knots
      of dark wood complement
      lighter shades, glowing
      in summer sun. Outside
      the cabin, a screened-in
      patio, equipped with rocking
      chairs, books, and lanterns
      in case a significant storm
      blows in. I see myself
      in this log cabin, gazing
      down at the blues
      of the ocean. These are
      the building blocks
      of my dream.

    24. priyajane says:

      Building is really about starting from wherever you are
      Once you have decided to inhale—-
      Chlorophyll will reach you
      Oxygen will nourish you
      Your nucleus will teach you
      Electrons will surround you
      Carbon will connect you-
      DNA will hound you
      Hydrogen will guide you
      And quarks will shine on you
      ‘Tis as fundamental as that—

    25. Hannah’s “Twitter poem” inspired me to try one myself:


      my words
      are taller
      than yours
      a tower of
      steel- frame
      syntax glints
      in the sun

      at least
      when they
      you’ll have
      to fall

    26. A Building Poem

      A skilled carpenter,
      thrilled to build
      a home that fulfilled
      his sweetheart’s dreams.
      He began building,
      totally yielding
      to her every whim.
      It became a tower
      of power reaching
      high to the sky.
      He finished with a sigh.
      Inside, he tried to reside
      but he was tied to his bride
      whom he could no longer abide
      so he left and she cried.
      There were too many rooms,
      then the fumes,
      the flames and the blames.
      The building’s gone now.
      Life resumes.
      A flower blooms.


      He still feels it through his boots –
      three stories standing
      after the rest of the building fell down.
      After earthquake – no stairway
      anymore. They’d hammered a hole
      into brick wall from the factory
      next door, for him to crawl
      behind his dog, searching for
      survivors. His boots shook with every
      aftershock through rubble.
      His dog disappeared under
      a hanging ceiling – chunks of concrete
      suspended on chickenwire –
      and came back with that look of
      “alive!” in her eyes. Years later
      he still keeps those boots,
      leather stiff as brick-wall; cement-
      dust worked into seams and laces.
      Not to wear, but to feel
      a quiver up through earth, through
      all the stories of a building
      no longer standing.

    28. PressOn says:


      They’re tearing down the old ballpark.
      They’re tearing out the dugouts;
      they’re tearing up the playing field where
      there used to be ball games;
      they’re tearing out the bleacher seats, where
      there were rows and rows of white pine, and
      they’re tearing down the grandstand and all the memories where
      their parents and grandparents used to cheer
      They ought to be ashamed;
      they say they’ll build a sports complex somewhere else.
      They don’t seem to know about the soul of the land.
      They need to be forgiven, for
      they don’t know what they’re doing out

    29. JWLaviguer says:


      and excitement
      are one and the same
      she can wait no longer
      heart pounding in her chest
      as he holds her hands in his
      pressing her against the wall
      she turns her head
      exposing her throat to him
      he leans close and breathes her in
      their hearts beat in rhythm
      as he tastes her skin
      she pulls him closer and whimpers
      too long has it been

      JW Laviguer

    30. At first, I thought you were talking about the “will” of a person….then it turned out to be a little boy. I’m not sure if you meant it that way, but I loved it. Quite playful!

      And here’s my interpretation…

      a million steps
      across the room
      twenty bottles
      of water
      watching the clock
      watching the door
      a few minutes more

      a thousand scenarios
      in my head
      lines I’m not sure
      will knock ‘em dead

      heart beating to
      the rhythm
      of my steps
      carpet stained
      by coffee spilled
      by hands that
      won’t rest

      and i talk
      some more
      to myself
      building confidence
      convincing the ego
      to go, go, go

    31. De Jackson says:

      Less Structured Castles

      Hold her
      when the wind
      blows and the pull of blue
      is loud and strong and
      full of liquid truth.

      Spin her
      a web of silken song,
      play its strands
      for a lonely moon

      Ask her
      why she wakes
      at 3am to the
      of her own heart.

      Give her
      some quiet place
      to start a tiny
      garden, watch
      hope bloom.

      Bid her
      room to breathe
      and leave her
      to her ink.

      her hand, some sea
      and salt and sand
      and build her a tower;
      babble something into her ear
      that she might actually long
      to keep.

    32. Hannah says:

      I wrote my first twitter poem of 140 characters…it was a challenge. ;)


      Thank you, Robert…excellent interview!!

    33. PKP says:

      Wedding Night

      she said
      close he leaned
      eyes gleaming over her
      heart pounding pulsing through-out
      heat steaming the room walls whirling
      faster, dizzying, rising, filling-feeling ere unknown
      waves suspended about to crash in maddening crescendo


      Wedding Night – In Reverse

      waves suspended about to crash in maddening crescendo
      faster, dizzying, rising, filling-feeling ere unknown
      heat steaming the room walls whirling
      heart pounding pulsing through-out
      eyes gleaming over her
      close he leaned
      she said

    34. lionetravail says:

      The Most Terrible Poverty

      It began innocently enough, I suppose:
      good fences, after all, are supposed to make good neighbors.
      But what keeps “outside” out also keeps “inside” in,
      and awful, silent loneliness can oppress as the loudest din.

      If he who is without sin is to cast the first stone,
      why are those who lack compassion the first to cast it?
      No matter-
      enough to say it was cast,
      because someone seems to always be ready to cast that first stone.

      Would it surprise you that
      he at whom it was cast picked it up
      and pondered its weight,
      its size,
      its obdurate purpose
      and set it in front of him as a tiny piece of shelter?

      Day by day, decade by decade,
      many stones were cast.
      Each was pondered and then placed on top, or to the side,
      of the one before it.
      In time, mighty castles might have envied such a wall,
      could they but experience emotions as strongly as its builder.

      Eventually, the wall was high enough that nothing cast could penetrate,
      and only the gentle patter of stones hitting it was audible,
      and this was easily ignored.

      It was safe behind this awesome wall.
      No harm could breach it to touch he at its heart.
      But neither could the warmth of sunlight, nor
      the caress of a summer breeze, nor
      the voices of those who might have cared about him.

      One day, he realized just how alone he was-
      secure in his protection,
      suddenly insecure in his solitude,
      behind the wall made of the slung stones of his outrageously unfair fortune.

      Only then, at the end, he understood:
      To be unassailable, one must be unapproachable.
      To be unapproachable, one must be apart.
      To be apart is to be alone.

      And loneliness can kill.

    35. Jane Shlensky says:


      From flat of his back,
      he curls into a sit
      and concentrates on
      tipping to his knees.

      It’s right
      that he should kneel,
      should crawl,
      until his feet
      are under him.

      It takes some skill
      to flatten soles
      against a floor
      and balance them.
      He clings to rails
      to chairs, to hopes.

      He lately won’t accept
      my hands, but scopes
      the room for verticals,
      his jaw squared off
      like it’s a fight,
      like I made gravity
      a blight.

      I stay the course
      applauding, glad
      he’s strong and independent,
      he’s building skills
      that help him walk,
      to send him soon
      away from me.

      • PressOn says:

        I imagine this could refer to a child or an injured adult. I don’t think it matters; the image is strong in either case, and the ending could be ominous or inevitable, depending on how the reader reads. I’m especially drawn to your line, “like I made gravity / a blight..” Nice job.

    36. About the thing

      It happened
      It was a May heat
      That did it?
      Trips back, forth
      Got foot to move, then fingers
      Mind’s are pretty things

      also published @ http://wp.me/p2CQD-cE

    37. Unanswered Questions

      one reason at a time
      I build my case,
      question why
      winter kills

      but the answer
      remains a mystery–
      you don’t deserve
      this wanting season.

    38. bclay says:

      “The great peril of our existence lies in the
      fact that our diet consists entirely of souls.”

      Hunting the “Illusaq”

      The animal skins are howling
      stretched over sleds of their bones,
      so cold we have to stop often to break
      away the snow covering the eyes of our dogs.

      Winter came too early chasing
      away the caribou weeks before they
      normally dissapear herding calves south,
      we have lost their tracks and dung for our fires

      Another three long days he said,
      the shaman talked to the ancestors
      last night they were so bright in the sky,
      were joyous we are returning to sacred waters.

      There is only food for seven days,
      and the wolves are one nights behind.
      and when we arrive we will have to hunt the
      “Illusaq”, cuting him into the pieces for our homes.

    39. priyajane says:

      Building Again

      I duct taped my broken heart
      Moistened it with tears
      Sprinkled some salt
      And sealed it in dirt
      Sun warmed it up
      With air and care
      The moon and stars
      Then built a stair
      New dreams they blew
      Some seedlings threw
      And breath by breath
      A garden grew!!—-

    40. annell says:

      He Was a Building Man
      My studio
      Like a love letter
      Began with a
      Few scratches
      On a piece of
      Blue paper
      Ideas took form

      A contractor was found
      Someone mentioned
      A man named Glen
      I called
      He told me about his dog
      Where he was from
      How much he loved
      His wife
      I knew he would
      He could do this job

      The crew arrived
      A band of willing
      Young men
      Strong and skilled
      Poured the foundation
      Began to stack the
      Adobe bricks
      Made by hand
      Dried in the sun

      At last he said
      You may come in
      A sacred space
      A place of my own
      Created by a
      Man named Glen
      Who’s gone now
      But not forgotten

      In gratitude
      I think of him still
      Building the studio
      Where I spend my days
      Thanks to a man
      Named Glen

    41. PressOn says:

      Robert, I read your interview and Laurie’s, and enjoyed them both. Given how accomplished you both are, it always surprises me a little to learn that you began with some feelings of doubt, or at least, trepidation when starting out. I guess it’s the same for everybody, but I tend to forget that.

    42. PressOn says:


      Of little things is grandeur built:
      nothing fancy, nothing gilt,
      but nonetheless, what’s great persists
      forevermore, and will not wilt.

      Mighty castles fade to mists;
      Gibraltar someday will be schists,
      but love, eternal to the hilt,
      will still be grand when Venus lists.

    43. Nesting

      Not the cuckoo bird alone will steal
      the nest of other birds, laying eggs
      cunningly camouflaged, nature’s magic.
      Other birds discover snug, safe nests.
      Screech owls, barn swallows, bluebirds
      move into homes hammered into trees
      then left by woodpeckers. A solitary
      sandpiper will raise its brood in nests
      abandoned by a thrush or blackbird.

      I too was quite content, moving all
      I owned into cozy spaces inhabited
      still by the lingering ghosts of lives
      lived before me. Someone else hung
      the coat hooks, chose the chimes
      for the doorbell’s song. In attics,
      I find remnants so inconsequential
      to others they were left behind,
      overlooked or quite ignored, no use
      to me: a hat still aromatic, the scent
      of Aqua Velva one I remember well,
      keys to cars now rusting in fields,
      newspapers, crackling into dust.

      Now, though, I visit the site each day,
      appraising the progress, the skeleton
      of the house emerging, handiwork
      of carpenters, hammer, level, nails.
      Walking through rooms’ invisible
      walls, I recite like a liturgy, This
      is the living room, the fireplace there,
      the door opening out to the hall.
      There will hang the stairs, leading
      to the rooms where we’ll dream
      in spaces not occupied by other
      souls, flown South so long ago.

    44. Hey, Robert. I’m interviewed at PoetsArtists, too… and I mention you and Poetic Asides… http://www.poetsandartists.com/laurie-kolp/

    Leave a Reply