Saturday, April 25, 2009

April Poetry Prompt 2

Dreams and regrets.
Hopes and fears.

Write a poem that begins with: One day I will...

Free writing, at length, first might help you unlock some deeper thoughts and ideas.

Write well.


Martin Cordrey said...

One day

So, one day I will visit a
surgeon who I hope – turn away if you’re
squeamish – shall make an incision with his
scalpel deep into tissue around my

skull – its perhaps too late for gas and air, green
screens – flesh could flap, bone may
shine as blood bubbles up,
seeps out of veins as if my

soul was attempting to escape a
sea of regrets; my favourite
shade of colour is lilac – after my
silent dreams are removed I

shall rejoin the human race and

Keith Wallis said...

One day in the sunset of my soul
I'll grip the tickled trout
that passion shrouds.
I'll clatter the quiet rooftops
with elation's mighty shout
that love abounds.
I'll cut and thrust with buckled swash,
wield a full bloodied clout,
dispel those clouds,
and cry aloud
that eternal 'truth will out'
and love, love only, is the goal.

Martin Cordrey said...


One day I will make the sky
stop crying;
those heavy downpours

that hurt your eyes,
that snap the heads
off roses.

annie clarkson said...


One day I will find the church where we read the names of men from your village, where we crowded into the porch and you said, I never knew he died. One name on the list of a boy, you thought had survived.

I remember the drive over the moor, cramped between sister and mother, another sister and you in the front with dad. The smile of remembrance on your face, as you recognised this farm, that gate.

You told us a story about walking those miles to Keighley to meet a girl, not your wife. Way before the war, the hospital, when you were young, had no clue how life would turn out.

We held your arms, covered that short distance from kerb to church steps, your breath wet-wheezing in your chest. One of us carried your spit pot, your nebulizer on the passenger seat.

One day, I will find the church where we read the names of men from your village and say a silent thank you. My gratitude is that your name is written in a different place, that I had the chance to know you.

annie clarkson said...

It's a little sentimental, I know. it was hard to write without sentimentality...

charlotte s said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Lynne Rees said...

I believe there's a difference between sentimentality and emotion, Annie. The former, for me, is 'unearned' emotion, like the verses on Hallmark cards that have no depth of real experience. But the attention to detail in your prose recreates scene and character and experience, all of which feed into my own imagination and memory and allow me to respond with deep feeling.