Editors Blog

Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 255

For today’s prompt, write a handheld poem. Whether it’s video games, smart phones, or soft tacos, the world is filled to the brim with things that can be held in one hand (or both). Consider the handheld and write your poem.

Here’s my attempt at a handheld poem:

“Two Hands”

In one hand, I grip a rolling ball pen;
the other holds a spiral-bound notebook.

The world won’t notice the notice I took,
capturing every quick noun and verb–

as for the adjectives, I try to curb
my enthusiasm (and mostly, I fail).

I anchor images before they sail
into choppy metaphorical seas

of self-conscious lines, rhymes, and similes.
There is a spark and a fire that burns bright,

but when the words come, they never come right.
Still, these two hands will try and try again.

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Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and a poet who usually starts with pen and paper. Outside of his cell phone, his last handheld electronic device was one of those bulky Gameboy consoles (like the first iteration of it with the green screen). His addiction to Tetris forced him to make a decision–either he could sit around in his mom’s basement stacking pixels on a screen or sit around in his mom’s basement breaking lines. Either way, it’s not good money. By the way, check out his collection Solving the World’s Problems and follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.

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128 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 255

  1. avabutler

    Grenade

    There is a box in my hand
    That is small and square
    Tied up with a bright red band
    Could it be so unfair?

    A clip from my grandma?
    A strawberry pie from past me?
    A bullet from grandpa?
    What could it be?

    My hand has a heart
    My head has no thought
    “Just pull the pin you old fart
    Your country has fought!”

    But the pressure has built
    I don’t want it no more
    If I open it now,
    I won’t be here no more.

  2. Domino

    her
    hands
    spotted
    with the years
    hold the infant close
    recalling her baby’s first days
    remembering similar eyes peering, myopic
    the years melt away and tears flow
    an old woman weeps
    full of joy
    cradling
    the
    past

  3. foodpoet

    I guess this is more touching than holding but it’s what I came up with

    the keyboards, an ensemble of shackles
    wait to suck our individualities
    leaving only blank eyes and
    obedient fingers clicking away our futures
    every day another report for the betterment
    Of electronica is filed away in bites and bytes
    And the teeth only grow longer

  4. Dishaa

    A special Hand

    There was a hand when i was born
    That protected me from pricks and thorns

    Then come a hand which shaped me through
    Though stubborn and tough,
    But its intentions were true.
    The twains are still important to me,
    But they no more listen to my voiceless plea.

    Then came a hand that made me wise,
    Taught me everything and raised my price.
    But there are still some hands
    Which pat me, beat me, tease me to hell
    But together when they come
    They form a precious band,
    In short we call them friends.

    There would be still more hands
    Which will use me, help me and will make me some space
    But that one hand is so special
    That none would fill its place.

  5. Neelam Dadhwal

    At The Wits’ End

    I ignored this all time
    how my fingers spread on these tiny chips
    I begin the life of putting words
    into memories.

    In my lap and sometimes
    could clutch back in my palm,
    few keystrokes I remember the moments
    that gather.

    One fine evening, I am left
    with my new Apple with screensavers
    of her, the ones I designed
    out of my fantasy.

    How strong the waves
    crash back out of scene
    I lament my muse gone
    in the wild, where I cannot find.

    Now I talk to winds
    and scare the people away
    with my thoughts but once
    I pride her rushing back to me.

  6. Neelam Dadhwal

    At Wits’ End

    I ignored this all time
    how my fingers spread on these tiny chips
    I begin the life of putting words
    into memories.

    In my lap and sometimes
    could clutch back in my palm,
    few keystrokes I remember the moments
    that gather.

    One fine evening, I am left
    with my new Apple with screensavers
    of her, the ones I designed
    out of my fantasy.

    How strong the waves
    crash back out of scene
    I lament my muse gone
    in the wild, where I cannot find.

    Now I talk to winds
    and scare the people away
    with my thoughts but once
    I pride her rushing back to me.

  7. Jacqueline Hallenbeck

    Hand-Held Poem

    Robert held it first and thought that it was fly.
    He handed it to De who simply said: “Oh, my.”
    In Marie’s hands it found a temporary home.
    She held it like a prayer (this sacred hand-held poem),
    then passed it on to me, this poem that knows no rest.
    I look around the room… I believe that you are next.

  8. PSC in CT

    (Must have known this prompt was coming, as I wrote this poem 1 day prior….)

    For You Today:

    these fingers, this hand
    (which can’t be seen
    by the naked eye)
    clasp yours snugly.
    These invisible arms
    embrace, swaddle, envelop
    both of us together
    in a blanket of comfort
    and strength.
    Make no bones
    of their mystical truth:
    not corpo-
    (but none the less
    oh so very)
    real.

  9. lionetravail

    “I Read the News Today, Oh Boy”

    It was nine
    A.M.
    when I read the news,
    and I stopped

    reading.

    It was nine
    millimeter,
    the size of the handheld
    which is today’s
    first equalizer and
    last argument of kings.

    It was nine
    years,
    the age at which his whole future
    died.

    It was nine,
    it was nine,
    it was nine-
    Tailors, Circles, Wraiths, all-
    and I found myself holding my head in my hands,
    the text on the page transformed
    to a lump in my throat.

  10. priyajane

    Between My Hands

    I hold between my hands–
    Ashes blazing a gaze—

    What once, like a lotus
    lit my sun and moon
    Now, desiccated and charred
    Into a dust of memories
    gathered in an earthen pot—

    Coarse, untainted truth
    that I hold between my hands

  11. Susan Schoeffield

    LOST

    A fragile thing I used to hold
    began as something fresh and bold
    then slipped away on shifting sand.

    Perhaps my fingers, holding tight,
    released their grip, so it took flight
    to places it believed more grand.

    An impasse I could never breach
    has moved forever from my reach
    the heart I once held in my hand.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  12. Connie Peters

    Multit-loafing

    I hold in my right hand
    a Kindle named by brand to read
    so many things I need and want.
    And then to left and front, I hold
    my slightly beat up, old laptop.
    From Kindle I then hop to it;
    I hear prerequisite loud ding
    ‘cause Words With Friends the thing I play
    so often night and day.

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