49-Word Poem Top Picks
And, Yes, All Entries Are Amazing!
The challenge was to write a 49-word poem, not including the title, using the following words: scribblers, hurting, thunder, and audiophiles.
And, once again, the talent flowed from the writer's soul onto the substack page for all to witness creative writing excellence. I enjoy reading these prompt answers immensely, and I’m sure each one of you will also. Without further ado, grab a cup of coffee and prepare for amazement.
Based on the reader’s picks who meet the 49-word and incorporated all the words, enjoy the two reader’s picks of Tom Weikert and amaged Icons. The three honorable mentions go to Mark Ready, Colin Ross, and Andrew Paul Ward.
I also want to thank all the others who entered the challenge:
Kamisah Karim, Tara Penry, Christopher Henry, Bradley Staman, Johnathan Reid, Christine Law, Sage AjaRa.
Prepare for a little enjoyment on your Thursday afternoon.
A Thunderstorm in the Midwest by Tom Weikert
The clouds march oh, so slowly
I watch them through my cigarette
An army dark and lonely
Thunder trailing with her regret
The scribblers poised with their pens
Waiting for the hurting to start
Audiophiles lis'ning in
As the land becomes fully dark
And the world begins falling apart
Independence Day in Assisted Living by amaged Icons
Robert’s door is marked NPO
His throat is hurting
A bomb pop melts in its wrapper
Scribblers come and go
Audiophile of the heart,
The cardiologist cocks his head
In his dreams
mother’s hanging out the bunting
father’s sermon thundering out over
the sweating congregation
Somewhere, taps is playing..
Quest For Quiet by Mark Read
Scribblers describe thunder as booming
The result of lightning and the air smashingly returning
While Audiophiles like their bass to be almost hurting
And crank it up until their neighbors find it quite disturbing
The rumble of both is disconcerting.
The remedies involve patience, pounding, yelling, and possibly cursing.
Hi-fi enthusiast by Colin Ross
My ears they are a hurting.
Our sons are audiophiles,
In MY young days, just earplugs.
When we would travel miles.
Their ‘music’, LOUD as THUNDER.
Whereas, my era - calm.
Their eardrums burst asunder
MY music, soothing balm.
US, pen and paper scribblers.
No ’tablets’, or pods in palm.
TEXAS GIRLS by Andrew Paul Ward
She said, when we met, “No scribblers.”
“No poetic promises, nor declaring heartfelt hurting,”
“We Texas girls aren’t tamed like that.”
I summoned Pecos Bill from the grave,
He sent me poetry punctuated with thunder.
While we awed under porch like audiophiles,
She moved closer, saying, “Isn’t it romantic?”
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Honored! Thank you.
Thank you very much! It’s “Damaged Icons” the D was accidentally left off.