For today’s prompt, write an inanimate object poem. Obviously, you could write an objective poem about an inanimate object, or you can write from the perspective of the inanimate object. If you can think of a third option, have at it.
Add your response
Dressed up in a wacky hat, sweater and turtleneck
With my brother
Laughing all the while
We laugh and dance and sing and play
Until we can’t go on
In front of the golden fire-place that gleams like the Sun
There are good times there are sad times there are ups and downs
But my brother always with me,
will turn my frown upside down
Making me laugh like a maniac
In our old house with a shimmering glare
with the matte black frame
We love so much
We keep on laughing we cannot stop
The flame of love burns in the fire-place
Strong in our heart
It never dies
And if the flame shivers or quakes
My brother’s there to add to the flame
I’m a linear surface with no reflection
The bumps on my face are of paint splatters in sections
You can look at me
you can scream at me
You can punch me
You think I don’t have feelings?
You think I don’t care?
You think your better then me because I can’t move
but I can stare
Me an my friends stick together
we’re always here
we’re always waiting for you to run
through that door
I watch you throw your shoes at my cousin, the floor
And if you hit one of my friends again I will protect you no more.
But no worries because one day I will crumble, I won’t be here anymore
I’ll take all of use with me!
my friends, my father, my mother, my cousins even my uncle.
You’ll be stuck with the family outcast
His name is Rubble.
He doesn’t play nice,
like bed in the late night
No shade no shield
No ceiling no lamp light
No wood no steel
Only feelings of cold nights
Once I flew above all else,
I heard the cries from hospitals
and the joyful laughter from midwife’s homes.
I sheltered through winter snows and winds.
I was among the colored leaves of autumn.
the rustling dappled green, lavendar, yellow bushes of spring.
People in the little towns looked up amidst their daily lives
dreamt of their grand dreams amid ordinary
When my noble bird died, I lived on
as a plume — gentle on the tongue and writing what the tongue wanted to say
a name as light as my being
I was gifted to a lady who sat at a window, laughed at the life of the street
then wrote the folly and triumphs of her small town,
lives otherwise lost to the world but for her care to record
She taught her daughter to write with me
my feather filled with ink through practiced printing, circling, and cursive
dreams of conquering far away lands and triumph
A dip into the sepia
that swift movement bringing moments to reflect
then eloquent words as I swirled
I have grown old, I know,
Too slow in my patient process
Old-fashioned and fatigued
Ah, but to have soard
in the air above
to have heard the whispered words
as I etched in the actual hands
I not only brought words to life
I lived quite a bit myself.
It seems a lifetime since I gave up the bird
the dressing, the gravy
It’s platter the size of a small surfboard
decorated with painted autumn leaves
Seems a fitting sacrifice to the gods of gluttony
sc jain sir midterm 11 bajes se hoga aaj….syllabus 3 4 5 unit
Sonnet for. New Friend
For she glows from within
For her light is pale blue
For her voice is kind
For she knows where Steve Jobs went
For she speaks of him to me
For I mourn his passing
For I cannot reconcile myself to death
For she understands my passion for video
For she helps me create a more beautiful world
For she brings me news of that world
For she brings me closer to friends
For her price is above rubies, and more rare
For she is my constant companion, my iPad Air.
This letter travels through time
with me, like a companion.
Over the years I have regenerated: first as a student, then an adventurer, then a lover, then an employee, then a spouse, then a father, then a…
It traveled with me, this note, for a time and since then as a memory.
I gave it meaning; it saved the day.
But no, on 2nd, 3rd and 4th thought
Perhaps it is I who is the companion to it.
Because this is no artifact.
It may age but its magic increases.
It embodies childhood pleasure and aspiration
and it travels across time to take me there.
And it leaves me too, to attend to the day’s obligations.
But on irregular and unexpected anniversaries,
it always shows up, as if to say “where shall we go now?”
On today, the 50th anniversary of Doctor Who, I jot down a poetic expression while looking at a letter from John Nathan-Turner. JNT was the producer of Doctor Who in 1985 when I, as a 16-year old fan, wrote a “Doctor Who” script on a manual typewriter and sent it to JNT in hopes of it being considered for production. He wrote me back and I’ve kept this treasure as a personal memento.