This post is my suggestion for Prompt #100 at We Write Poems.
I recently suggested a dozen words to Brenda Warren for her blog, The Sunday Whirl. I chose twelve words that have multiple meanings. Many of them can be used as a verb and a noun, for example. Brenda graciously used the words I suggested, and many people wrote poems using those words. I was so pleased with the diversity of poems that came out of those twelve words, that I thought I’d suggest the idea again.
So, here is the idea. Go to Multiple Meaning Words, choose ten to twelve of those words, then write your poem incorporating the words that you chose. You may use the words once, or you may use them twice, utilizing both meanings/parts of speech.
I offer two examples. The first poem I wrote with those twelve words was “The Vacation.” Then I challenged myself and wrote a new poem, “Communication”, using each of the words twice, each time as a different part of speech.
The words were: pet, string, wish, point, trick, shine, paw, smell, pack, shape, taste, and whisper.
The irony is that it doesn’t empty my mind,
But fills it with stuff that I don’t want to think about.
And then I look at the string around my finger,
and I find I’m filled with worries about what I forgot.
Brewster paws at my pant leg; he’s hungry,
and so am I, but all I do for now is pet his head.
He knows something is up, as I’m packing,
but there’s no point in trying to trick him either.
I will have to find a shirt that has my smell on it,
or there’ll be no way he’ll go to the kennel.
He’s had a taste of that loneliness before,
and I’m loath to put him through it again.
I wish that going away was just easier.
It’s not like I can just shine him on.
He’s part of my pack, just as I’m his,
and no whispering lie will change that.
This is the shape of things for him and me:
Master and pet, smelly bachelors both of us.
Is it really so wrong to want to be alone
and enjoy it, when it leaves him lonely?
/ / /
I could whisper from far, far away
but you might think I’m trying to trick you
What trick is this, you’d ask,
but couched as a whisper I can’t hear
I could shine a light on my point
or I could just point at the string
of conversations we’ve had and trust you
to find the light’s shine all on your own
Or I could string you along
so that you’d wish for a truth
that you could smell or taste,
or pet or paw as if it were a shape
to be held, when you know the smell
of subterfuge and the taste of bitterness,
angry that I’ve treated you as a pet,
smacked your paw with a rolled newspaper
And then I light a cigarette from my pack,
blowing smoke signals at you,
trying to pack as much information
in every motion that I make,
the shape of every syllable and sound,
the wish I breathe as I shape this poem