You are George Bailey. Write a poem of the world without you. Draw on your accomplishments and tell the effect not achieving them had on you or people around you. Tell how your life has touched another in some way. Be boastful. Be self-deprecating. But remove yourself from the equation that solicited the life you have lived.



18 thoughts on “PROMPT #180 – “IT’S A WONDERFUL POEM!”

  1. SHIPS

    The seas maintained their state,
    less one ship, no more;
    all others sailed their courses straight,
    steaming as before.

    copyright 2014, William Preston


    The man would not be saved
    from the fury of the undertow
    He’d go down three, four times
    then finally vanish from the sea
    without me there to rescue him

    The child whose daddy died
    would come to school depressed
    hear not a single word of comfort
    Or be treated to the movies
    Without me there to understand

    The woman whom someone fooled
    whose heart like porcelain shattered
    into jagged shards left lifeless
    would have surely pined away
    without me who brought her true love

    The poems and stories unwritten
    their plots and notions condemned
    to dark conditional worlds unborn
    neither music nor drama unveiled
    without this pen, this life, this heartbeat


  3. angels among us

    I haven’t saved a single life,
    even my bone marrow insufficient,
    but there might have been
    a student or two, a smile or two,
    a mind or two, a gift or two,
    a simple truth, friendship or two
    that changed a world bereft
    of beauty, love. I cannot know
    if some bright spark lit up a space
    forsaken, dark, or if I’ve helped
    dispel another’s hell, if my small
    bell will ring outward like wings,
    but I know well those who helped me,
    not so much for the things they did,
    as for the things they were and are,
    and kindness makes lives sing.

  4. Without Sara

    Humor and laughter
    are not up to par
    someone seems to be missing

    A good friend is hard to find
    One less shoulder to lean on
    someone seems to be missing

    She is an only child, no sister
    to laugh or fight with
    someone seems to be missing

    Men whose sex lives are so-so,
    dinners and desserts, lacking
    someone seems to be missing

    Less heartache for mom and dad
    No black sheep, no problem child
    someone seems to be missing

  5. A World Without Me

    It’s hard to think what life would be
    If mother dear never carried me
    The lives I’ve touched and those that touched me
    Who’d fill the void of my absence?

    In truth, however, not much would change
    Oh, some lives would be rearranged
    But overall, the world would be unchanged
    Regardless of my absence

    Of the overall picture called life
    Each of us is such a very small part
    But if we all just spread love and joy
    We’ll make a difference in many hearts

    © 2014 Earl Parsons

  6. Pingback: The Gift of the Poet | Metaphors and Smiles

  7. The Gift of the Poet

    The shelf in the kitchen
    it doesn’t harbor the neat line of eleven periwinkle shells
    the bookshelf in the living room
    it only holds books –
    there’s no neat row of striped stones
    holding nature’s place in their lives.
    And you ask what of all the sea glass?
    Well, it stays in its rightful place
    sipping at the breast of sandy shore
    in all their cobalt glory and gleaming green.
    Feathers lost – would stay lost
    stray in whirlpools of wind,
    they still find lasting flight…
    as for the duck family on the nearby pond
    they swim – unaccounted for
    no poet to note how neat Vs’ ripple outward behind them
    no one to notice the increasing cold
    and wonder for their well-being.
    The house is missing the certain sound of clickity-clacking –
    busy poem-fingers typing –
    it’s empty of the silent sudden awe
    when muse moves
    when her look is distant,
    she’s deep within gray folds of mind
    searching for just the right words…
    gift of the poet – her absent far away gaze,
    the mystery of the maze in which she’s entwined.
    If there weren’t a writer-heart there residing
    there’d be no black ink smudges on the side of her left hand
    thoughtful crease-furrow to her thinking-brow –
    or beauty found in the crystal-thrown rainbow
    shards of color collected – undulate on a dusty wall.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

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