For today's poetry prompt, let's write a poem about finding something. You can find an old award, photograph, or sense of humor. You can make it something funny, sad, or angry. In the process of finding something, I hope we all find ourselves with another poem.

Here's my attempt for the day:

"Goggles"

He discovered them half-covered by a bush
as he walked his dog in the morning. They were

lined with blue and looked brand new. But
no owner in sight. No sign of why they might

end up beneath a bush. His dog immediately
tried peeing on them, but he said, "No, Kilgore,"

and picked them up. Attached to the rubbery
strap was a note that read, "The man who picks

up these goggles will today meet the woman
of his dreams." "These goggles are not meant

for me, Kilgore," he said, "I'm not meeting any
one today." But he still carried the goggles back

to his apartment and laid them on his kitchen
countertop. Then, he got to work by writing

copy for his garden gnome stock photography
business. As he waited for a mail merge to finish,

he heard a knock on his door. Thinking it may
actually be the woman of his dreams, he grabbed

the goggles and opened the door. In fell a woman
who he'd dreamed about multiple times, a woman

he had never actually met until now. She was
struggling to breathe. "I looked for you at the bush,

but you weren't there," she said. "But I had work,"
he said, "I had spreadsheets and mail merges

to complete." "I don't want your excuses," she
said, "I want you to save me." So he did what

was needed. He put on the goggles, held her
close to him, and swam them both to safety.

This morning, I was contemplating different poetry delivery methods, thinking of the obvious ones first: print books, chapbooks, journals, broadsides, websites, blogs, e-mail, PDFs, CDs, DVDs, etc. And finally, I thought of text messaging.

On my cell, one page is defined as 160 characters, and I'm unable break my lines. So I started wondering if there might be a cool new poetic form to play with on a Tuesday morning. Of course, without line breaks, these would be miniature prose poems on any topic under the sun.

One additional rule that could be added (to help give these focus) is that they should deliver some message.

So to recap the rules: Poem must be 160 characters or less and deliver some message (and yes, a message could be delivered in one word).

Here's my quick attempt (at around 150 characters):

A boy and girl raced each other along the sidewalk this morning waiting for the school bus to pick them up. The days are growing short and shorter.

Sometimes, it's healthy to have a nice long rant about something. Ranting can become painful for those around you if it's all you ever do. But taken in moderation, it's a nice way to let off your own steam--and it can also open a window for others to let off their own steam (if they've experienced a similar situation). So why not apply the rant to poetry?

For this week's prompt, I want you to write a "rant" poem. You can discuss politics, religion, global events, weather patterns, that guy who cut you off on your way into work (not speaking from experience, mind you), or whatever.

Important note: I expect everyone to act like civilized human beings in the comments below and not attack each other over what they decide to rant about. If you wish to point out a spelling error or line break suggestion, that's one thing; but please, don't attack someone's political or religious views. On this blog, we are all poets.

With that said, here is my attempt for this prompt:

"It never fails"

It never fails: Always around eleven--
in the evening, mind you--there is a new
mother ushering her young children into
the laundromat, telling them to quit whining
and running around. Never fails, always a
different mother, around eleven. Now
I'm not one to stand on a pedestal or
pick up a nice stone for casting, but come on,
where are these mothers coming from, and where are
their husbands? But we all know the contents of
that Pandora's Box, don't we? Dad done run off
and left momma with the baby and mortgage
payment. Dad done run off and wash his greasy
hands. Always around eleven, a new mom
walks in and eyes me, wonders if I'm some Prince
Charming who's good with kids--after all, I fold
my own clothes and even Dad could not do that.
But it never fails: By the time that mother
labors into the laundromat, I'm folding
my clothes and trying my best to just get out.