Peter
June 11, 2026

at the first showing of Peter Pan, I am told Barrie
concerned at a key plot point, asked the orchestra
that they stop playing and clap, in case the children
when asked to if they believed faeries, did not do so
which proved unnecessary, as the young audience
moved, perhaps, did bring their hands together

while I, a small growing thing, sang hymns
of battles blaring down the walls of non-believers
listened to edutainment and news for rage
pulling parents and teachers alike into call and response
thinking how songs and stages might uplift imagination
across plank, and block, and tackle, and leverage

enforcing the word
a shame, a shame of weeping
to those whose hands
remain still

while we seed studio audiences with applause signs
professionals clapping on cue in case the word goes ignored
until our daily affirmation, fully out of chill, speaks
in words similar to modeled pattern, not quite matching
but close enough, reinforcing anything whatsoever

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#ChallengePoem #poem #poetry #writing

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Challenge: Leverage

Blossom Eyer
May 13, 2026

dose’d bully pulpit pushers sayin’ come now, cunne now
‘signed red blooded ‘merican pastriot at birth, read out

red scarification in acts un ham heirican, cun now
hard thing like ‘oo should already ken enemies alle

peerse owt, sacrament of self, no cow heards among us
brave fling to ‘er font, every bavin thing well cut

‘gon bile up in bubble ‘n ferment a righteous leavening
no matter we just want less spider-bit, est told fo’rrede

by hour or by quarter a stoking ting, our honor none
lest stroking set truth in sell-brushed carpet sting

balm ‘pon hour’s stele-lubricated sunders, agonal
feile’n se slay saul-selves’n all cunye to o-ven, gas’d

in peat and solder poison, slave-most ‘t slit-trench
‘t swell-lit tile-light, selt sanctimonious self-cleaning

‘at we know better, been s’long, ‘n call a doctor
ain’t no pule’n venom now, but cut so’ll bude out

‘nough lead’n’all fur’ya, hand t’pollen flag er’ya
slack’n spill’n flag’ya, ash’n root’n spall’ya

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#poem #poetry #writing #ChallengePoem

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Challenge: Political Priapism

I asked, "Are you sure?" Twice. "Don't hold back on harsh language." OK, we can do that. But. Might should'a asked three times.

Un-Fun Pokings
May 2, 2026

I do not want our beasts to fight
my beast is not for fighting, yours
though clearly powerful and bright
might also need a snuggle

we wander round the countryside
observing sights, not fightseeing
obliteration improves no tours
yet to travel may indeed be struggle

here 'side fumarole, dressage
by buffle-least and buffle-most
challenges at every sight
tourists, who want pets to smuggle

a child, holding plush – now kiss –
a water beast, a fire host
has better honored chance than this
our closest lost to honey-fuggle

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#poem #poetry #writing #ChallengePoem

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Challenge: Dummestreitereien

My German is terrible, and I hope petty/stupid bickering is was the correct take.

Effective Passives
April 16, 2026

people generally have scripting for threats made their way
presuming they deal with threats with any regularity
puffed up loudnesses offering empty violent benedictions
becomes background noise against exhaustion
being threatened loudly, taken as common, sings empties

but sir, I wish you to understand, your proposition is unwelcome
and that should you continue, my wrath will fall upon you
in the manner of a kitten at the end of day one’s food change
a mewling conflagration of pinpricks and diarrhea
which you claim you want under your direct observation

I do not beg you to consider the poo, nor do I find pressing
your own directed retaliation, I simply note my observation
that few of social standing care to whiff invasive stank
the wrench of rank you’re waving in second-hand offering
to my mild inconvenience where your subordinates relax

it’s the cat tax, sir, memetic
I do not claim you’ll regret it
but I’d be happy to experiment

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#poem #poetry #writing #ChallengePoem

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Challenge: Weaponized Cuteness

Dilly Beans
April 9, 2026

my inheritance, aside from land and money
was a house-full of crystal figurines
from a grandmother who didn’t know
how I was the anathema to their stance on purity
telling me to my face how good I was
at keeping my pants on

speaking non-stop venom of the loves
I’d otherwise have brought in for her pot-roast
a slow-cooked marvel served with beans
both green and black in dilly garlic
while I kept polite, no-one needs ‘em
those Friday night fights –

hey kid – the will – you’re the only one
not passing yourself around – while I
having brought three loves to the reading
trade expressions as I get, just, everything
a fortune in pasture and orchard
to which I invite the ones she left out

mine, you say, pure pants, you say
grandma, your sway’s inspired me
we’re turning this entire land-ship around
everyone in, everyone fed, everyone welcome
and a cat, released by shelves every spring
to do what cats do to figurines

while I give away her recipes, come get some
whether or not you’ve got your pants on

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#poem #ChallengePoem #poetry #writing

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Challenge: Kitsch

Skevinage
April 9, 2026

in another world, that thing is not a monster
tired flesh striking at anything it can
wielding tomorrow as retribution
for the small-mind double deuce hand

some version of it loved under galaxy light
held close by those who knew it, before fall
blocking poison privilege, teaching
in the virtue, not of the other, but of their being

while cages in signal-cut faraday spread
our loves named criminal, named criminal kind
while of kindness, there be but leaf repetition
entire stick-naked tree on carpet bled

until we sip finest whiskey, high-browed
melding in the upper middle camp-surrounds
crematory ash filtering singly malted introductions
to hold in our mouths what we could have been

in another world, that thing is not my ancestor
tiered flash sucking gold foil fill
where my fingers bind basket-wire completions
holding in what we could have been

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#poem #ChallengePoem #poetry #writing

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Challenge: Skun

Bespoke Idyll
March 15, 2026

thy hand be stayed, o useless bag of flesh, o horror torn of eld
we do not cry thee stay thy hand, we harsh deny thy stationing
we stand upon thy new-dug grave, to bury what we’ve felled

your carriage flayed, your garnish-fist has long enough withheld
by starvelings and creelings, manipulation binding rationing
thy hand be stayed, o useless bag of flesh, o horror torn of eld

scabrous be frayed, thy grasp delaying mesh, of signal lost in weld
who’d blind entire arbitrations, who’d hide in blandished fashioning
we stand upon thy new-dug grave, to bury what we’ve felled

know history, writ violent and large, stings low and quick to geld
who’d proud their name in ashen wing, retire soft to fash’n sing
thy hand be stayed, o useless bag of flesh, o horror torn of eld

no amnesty, no quaint upstaged retreat, shall grant surcease thy velde
where languishing share-cropped a-dust, do durt a-wash o’er everything
we stand upon thy new-dug grave, to bury what we’ve felled

then justified, who so our crops betrayed, who ‘pon a pittance seld
we’ve come unto thy rangled rust, frowst empire scoured fawning
thy hand be stayed, o useless bag of flesh, o horror torn of eld
we stand upon thy new-dug grave, to bury what we’ve felled

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#poem #ChallengePoem #poetry #writing

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Challenge: Villanelle (Poem Style) (Why would you do that to me), Ides Of March

And, complain as I might, that was a hell of a lot of fun. Not often I feel compelled to swing my grandparents' language like an axe.

This Is A Tank
March 8, 2026

we’re trying to tell off adventurers again
going into the dungeon, those negative doofs –
you need a tank, you need a tank, you need –
no, we need you to listen

our tank is just a little guy
they’re built five one and agitated
your colossi with their shattered legs of bone
know nothing of their finest stance
nor their untroubled visage

then laughter, because of course
discount the lass, discount dodge tanks generally
get all up and personal, maybe she should
tank this, until Ellodia, pissed
signs form seven

which is where we jump-scare our tank
unleashing our strongest essential violence
backstabs, hammer to head, lightning
while our innocent little guy
not dodging in the slightest
holds out a raw chicken
glum look on their face

damnit, guys
I thought you were going fire
you know I’m weak to salmonella

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#poem #poetry #writing #LitRPG #ChallengePoem

Short Life
March 8, 2026

my therapist-in-a-box tells me
life is a laundry list, wash something
my laundry, in neat stacks, clean
lines shelves where other folks
perhaps less organized
would have a dresser

I didn’t ask for a therapist-in-a-box
it arrived in the mail from an acquaintance
henceforth referred to as that idiot
with a note that said –
it helped me so much –

my

this name is too long
let’s go with short-life
for, y’know, reasons

interrupts my meditation
to inform me that meditation
is a healthy and functional activity
life is a laundry list
let’s check that off

it has interrupted me
seventeen times since I plugged it in
no power switch, no off
decal smile and happy tones
self-inserting

life is a laundry list
let’s check something off

unplugged, I can hear it
voiceless, banging away in the dryer
and I have to admit
the therapy is working

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#ChallengePoem #poem #poetry #writing #AnitAI

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Challenge: AI "Therapy"

The quotes were in the challenge request.

A Dozen Mid Years
February 14, 2026

we used to lose people in the old swimming hole
nestled by briar and oak, little rill, little drop
until blue, black, bottomless you’d find a waiting
cool at the edge of that comfort just below body
salvation in summer, bathed in its own winter smoke
ice and snowpack at season-close, table rock
swagger-laired up above, a perfection grape-heavy
year round, cold-sweet going summer savory
we’d laugh it was to be taking a bite of someone
lean into leg-thick vining, tree-bound indistinguishable
chuckling half-serious about drinking and drowning
that you’d know it was coming, just know, that part
never being funny, nor intended so, just truth
cat-kicker what in all other ways fit, turning up
soft and rounded half-through pasture at the hang-up
little meander that ran into rock, stopped
undercut its bank, not invisible from path
but not drawing attention until, color off, that’s a hand
foot, face, been a couple years since the last
gilt stripped after the fact, guilt applied, maybe
purely by happenstance, but we’d start saying
yeah, it’s a hole that eats what it wants, sends it on
daughter a dozen fields over making boy-catchers
of pollen and silk with dry spiders in, husband
lighting up children, marks lost even below shorts
good-witch, loved by all until after, basement dug
every missing pet turns up, and most of a family
so we say we used to lose people in the swimming
our first love somewhere below body tepid, who
as we swim down, swim down into bottomless
swims into us, finding what’s to be made of finding
takes back a stretch of what’s hunting us sometimes
another body, regular as regular, but after, it’s still
little rill, little drop, ripples sucking themselves under
which we’d sometimes plop a petal in, say –
it’s been a mid year, some good, some bad
and we know we can’t thank you, but love
if you’re listening, we’ll keep coming for swimming

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#poem #poetry #writing #ChallengePoem #horror

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Challenge: Murder Hole