Novel & Cerita Poetry Writing Prompts

--- The Universe Writes Back On countless worlds, under countless skies, storytellers wake from dreams they don’t understand. They feel warmth in their hands, as if they’ve been holding something luminous. When they write, they don’t know where the words come from. When they sing, they can’t explain why the melody feels familiar. But the Flow knows. It moves through them, reminding creation that it is still alive. And each of those stories, each spark of imagination, adds another thread to the endless tapestry.

"A Wood Stream-- The threading sunbeams quiver, The bending bushes shiver, O'er the little shadowy river-- There's only one more rhyme that occurs to me and that's 'liver.' Why did you leave it out?" Emily writhed. "Wind Song-- I have shaken the dew in the meadows From the clover's creamy gown-- Pretty, but weak. June--June, for heaven's sake, girl, don't write poetry on June. It's the sickliest subject in the world. It's been written to death."

I flipped on lights as I moved through rooms that never quite felt like home, more like a way station where my father and I occasionally crossed paths between his business trips. In my room, I pulled out a fresh notebook, the words already forming in my mind. Poetry had been my secret outlet since middle school, something Mrs. Jenkins had encouraged after seeing potential in an angry kid's jumbled thoughts. I'd never admit it to anyone but Sam, but the words helped make sense of the chaos inside me. Tonight, I wrote about skin silvered by moonlight, about trust and vulnerability, about the precise shade of honey- brown eyes looking up at stars. I wrote about fear too, fear of change, of loss

He also brought his camera. “This is what we are going to do,” he started, glancing at me. “We are going to write poems here.” “Really?” “Yeah. To lessen the heavy feeling inside your heart.” I faced him and held his gaze. “How did you know that?” “Woman, you’re being listless today.” He wandered around his eyes. “Let’s relax a little bit here.” He passed me the paper and the pen. “Let the ink bleed exactly what you feel.”

I clicked on the chat, and my eyes widened as I read through the messages. "Hi Emily," Caspian's message read. "I wanted to reach out to you about my wife's poetry. She has a remarkable talent and a collection of pieces that she's eager to share with the world. I'd love for you to consider publishing her work. Would you be open to reviewing her poems? I'd be grateful if you could provide her with an opportunity to showcase her art. Thank you for your time and consideration." I felt a lump form in my throat as I read the message. Caspian was actually advocating for me, pushing for my poetry to be published.

The poem went this way, Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I did not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

“Sometimes we write about what we see, or maybe you’re a patriot who wants to write a song about your country. There are many themes to choose from. Let’s start with using your senses. How do you feel about your surroundings right now?” “Um...” I survey the penthouse, the living area, the fireplace, the piano, and even the lights. “It’s peaceful, cozy, and dim, but not sad.” I shrug as I look out the windows. “It is still rather chilly outside because of the snow, but here it is quite warm.” His mouth twitches in pleasure. “That’s a good start.” “Can I say anything else?” “Of course, I encourage you to be open.”

Sitting in the garden for hours and Vastria was only able to write a couple of poems she thought long and hard about. The first one she was inspired by the cool wind that kept blowing through the trees and flower bushes. She also thought about the element of earth and its connections. She then remembered the class she was in the middle of taken before being brought into this new world. It was an advanced nature/environmental writing and literature course. She wanted to finish the course, but now she could not. She still continued to write, nonetheless. The wind poem she came up with was written as such:

Napatingin ako sa bintana ng lumakas ang hangin. Sobrang tahimik ng gabi at tanging ito lamang ang maririnig. Nagtagal doon ang paningin ko bago ako napabuntong-hininga at ibinalik ang tingin sa papel. Hinayaan ko na kusang gumalaw ang mga kamay ko. Kybelle the poet, was just blown by the wind. Kung noon tuwing gabi ay nagsusulat ako ng mga poetry, now I'm writing an article.

Ok class... today, ill be sharing something i wrote with you all. It's a poetry piece. Read carefully. I'll be asking questions later... Oh, my Morning Glory The bright morning sun shoots shafts of light and dark through the blinds, laying bars of mystery down the length of your arching back, creating halos and hollows in your hair.