I dare you to write a 49-word poem, not including the title, using the following words: scribblers, hurting, thunder, audiophiles.
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A Thunderstorm in the Midwest
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
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..
The Boy Band
Like thunder they trumpet,
Hurting my hyperacusis ears,
Musical notes, incoherent,
Composers? Scribblers at their worst,
Masterpiece? Doomed from the very beginning,
An audiophile's nightmare,
Earplugs bandaged my bleeding ears,
From my boy, beating that poor drum,
His friend, plucking that deafening guitar,
The Boy Band, bearable finally.
Quest For Quiet
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
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
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?”
"Maestro" ~
She slips
the old score
in a metal
file drawer
hurting her finger
on the pinch.
.
No thunder
of appreciation
from an auditorium
of audiophiles
for this one.
.
Those white-wigged
German scribblers
had nothing
on the twenty-second
century.
.
Now Ludwig, AI maestro,
can really sculpt
a song.
【Conviction】
The scribblers took the 50th word of this poem.
Sticky hands and milk chocolate
aftermath under their noses.
I’m hurting one of them now.
Vengeful thunder cracks
around the classroom. Desks shuffle,
screeching the floor like an audiophile’s nightmare.
But I’m wrong.
The 50th word was here all along.
The Lost Story
The thunder rolls
for us audiophiles
it is a bit of heaven
recording the roar
my ears are hurting
but for you scribblers
the story is not here
it’s lost in the pouring rain
somewhere between the
thunder and the lightning
calling you to find
and share by morning
Expanded Minds
Videophiles might shut their eyes,
blinded by the possibility of what lingers
beyond stilted, flickering images.
Audiophiles clutch their hurting ears,
wilted by limited aural vibrations,
deaf to a cacophony of imagination.
Both cower before the scribblers' thunder,
stretching senses beyond sound and vision,
expanding minds with literary wonder.
Lyrics And Rhyme
Things had to be done
Just right in the studio,
To hear those words.
Too much and the audiophiles
Would sound like thunder.
Scribblers beware before
Putting pen to paper,
about Hurting anyones feelings?
If words sound harsh
When read aloud to an audience.
They may come no more.
Red Graffiti Door
What a delight
to hide in cigars haze
Give in to wine
as she delicately plays
Audiophiles bounce through entrance
for the floor to ceiling boom
That thunder that rattles hearts
and soothe the hurting stained room
Scribblers fingers record history in the sky
Bodies in tandem, spirits liquify