Writing Prompt 8

Welcome to the eighth day of our 30/30!

Look at you, still showing up to write after a full week of prompts. You are a rock star.

Your prompt today is:


Yearning lays its hands on my



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Guidelines, if you want them:

  • Posting your response is not required
  • Feel free to post your response   🙂
  • This is not meant to be the perfect first draft – respond without hesitation for 5-7 minutes, then keep going if you want to
  • While our prompts are geared towards poetry, we welcome all kinds of artists
  • Tips & encouragement are here


  1. 30/30, Day 8


    this yearning lays its hands
    on what is left of my days
    a tumble weed spinning in dust
    a use to be green dream fields

    this yearning lays its hands
    on the dusty hours of my day
    a wonder of where time goes
    a knowing these are lesser days

    this yearning lays its hands
    deep inside my dreams, turning
    them into questions i cannot
    answer in these leftover days

    this yearning lays its hands
    all over me, with body babble
    skin screams and muscle moans
    just like others of this age

    this yearning lays its hands
    anointing my head and filling
    my mouth with words that taste
    the fruit of living past prime

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Pingback: #NationalPoetryMonth’16 Round-up (Day 8) | Bonespark~

  3. Yearning lays its hands on my
    heart, squeezes again—visualize
    it, two hands, the molded middle
    like a corseted lady, both of them
    interlaced until there is an ache
    however invisible and it is the
    one that’s ached forever, this
    illness inherited from a parent
    I never understood until its
    grip on me was like the hands
    on the bottle: bipolar, the lows,
    the manic highs, the THE that
    could never be explained, but
    its very physicality sent me
    into a cocoon, away, gone.

    Yearning then, still, after all
    these years to not have to
    explain or having to, to be
    understood. Things in the realm
    of the invisible, aren’t, or rather,
    are merely imagination, ennui
    born of boredom. Get busy, do
    more, the helpful urge. Do oxen
    feel that driven yoked together
    down the row on the terrace in Asia?
    Resent having to plod instead
    of eating the tips of new rice,
    smelling the fresh morning?

    How are you, I asked a friend the
    other day, and they replied, I’ve
    got my mask on. Perhaps it’s the
    one Eleanor Rigby kept in her jar
    by the door… How did they know?

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Yearning Lays Its Hand

    on the mantra I repeat,
    the one that says Some people
    have it worse. Be happy. Why
    should you [you can fill in the blank]?
    Yearning is gelato—Sea Salt Caramel,
    yearning’s smooth, says Open Wide.
    Yearning is the spoon.
    Yearning wants to choke that mantra.
    Yearning smacks its hand
    upside my thick head, claps
    shut my mantra spewing mouth
    and drags out the thing with feathers.
    Yearning is the thing with feathers,
    hollow bones that stick in the throat
    and break, but yearning
    doesn’t care, flies anyway.
    Yearning hurts. Its hand is fire.
    Yearning wants to talk that stupid
    mantra outta there. Yearning crumples
    lists—perfect rim shots to the trash.
    Yearning’s angry arm sweeps everything
    off the desk then stands there
    panting. The train to Philadelphia
    with its insistent rocking?
    That’s yearning—all aboard!
    Yearning grabs me by the chin,
    won’t let me turn away. Yearning’s
    a tornado razing fences, lifting the roof.
    I’m shivering in the basement
    with no place to hide.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. another catch up from the weekend:)

    Yearning lays its hands on my chest
    and I can hardly breathe.
    The care I long for, the nurturing, the peace
    pulsate from the wrists to the fingertips,
    electrifying my skin,
    reaching down into my chest
    to tap on each lung,
    to draw breath, to stop breath –
    it’s all the same –
    in breath, out breath, no breath
    where yearning pokes its bony fingers.


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