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Poetry Prompts

Monday Poetry Prompt: Outrage

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I was relieved not to find any mobs with torches and pitchforks outside the Living Poetry skyscraper last week expressing their outrage at my forgetting to post a prompt. There are certainly bigger things to be outraged about these days, global warming, corporate corruption, and the Oxford comma just to name a few, so this week let’s write an outrage poem.

You know what to do in the comments below.

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About Bartholomew Barker

Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a collection of poets and poetry lovers in the Triangle region of North Carolina. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.

Discussion

19 thoughts on “Monday Poetry Prompt: Outrage”

  1. To the person who honked at me as I made a turn on the green and he ran the red

    There was a driver most rude
    He honked at me and ruined my mood
    First scared, then I got mad
    It was totally his bad
    Of course, it was a truck-driving dude.

    Liked by 2 people

    Posted by JeanMarie | October 26, 2020, 6:50 PM
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  2. Outrage

    outrage are the worker bees
    sweet honey they bleed to feed the upper chains
    while their hives crumbling

    they are bees by nature
    they work to the ground
    they are greedy beasts by nature
    they kill for food

    Liked by 3 people

    Posted by Cassa Bassa | October 26, 2020, 6:16 PM
    Reply to this comment

  3. The Room of Dirty Black

    ‘Tis small, of queer shape
    and smells of rot.
    A hole in the ground
    in dark quarters
    of a busy town,
    which passes by
    on the other side
    under bright sun,
    sees no twilight
    or smells the damp
    of that hole in the ground.

    ‘Tis below a house
    joined to another,
    whispering ghosts
    that echo and brood
    about the dim light
    in that queer little room,
    where doors hang in torment
    ceiling sags low
    and the walls weep
    in the face of a fire.

    It exists
    in a road stretched long
    by half broken abodes.

    This comfort is home
    last corner to squat,
    where the right to exist
    Is fearsomely said
    the last ditch rage
    perpetually bled,
    Water and blood
    from a proud old black,
    a scarred pair of boots
    Hand-me-downs sold,
    leather from a disused whip.

    Tis a basement flat
    ‘Doctors orders’ Dirty Black.
    The number that’s red,
    a stab in the map.
    The hymen grown over
    the passage to birth
    from Enterprise chamber

    It’s a smell sight
    that spits at the marbled halls
    a thorn left out of a crucifix crown.

    Liked by 4 people

    Posted by TonyA.......... | October 26, 2020, 11:07 AM
    Reply to this comment

  4. outraged at the things
    for which there is no control
    but one thing for sure
    my vote is signed, sealed, and delivered
    counting down to single digits
    that which can be controlled properly
    well, one can hope

    Liked by 3 people

    Posted by Lisa Tomey | October 26, 2020, 7:53 AM
    Reply to this comment

  5. haha I figured you had other things to worry about and I had enough on my plate not to bother you. Appreciate you came back today.

    Liked by 1 person

    Posted by Lisa Tomey | October 26, 2020, 7:50 AM
    Reply to this comment

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