poems – Page 2

29 July

Posted on July 30, 2026 By admin

Today’s Worku turns on VALVE, a technical word that becomes poetic only when the reader can feel what it controls. Air, sap, pressure, light, or blood—the strongest poems give the mechanism a consequence. Diana’s maple poem does that especially well: the tree becomes a living body, and the leaking valve completes the image rather than merely completing the puzzle. Elsewhere, valves fail inside machinery, courtrooms, coffee emergencies, hearts, and a nighttime barn. Some open the scene immediately; others keep their pressure hidden a little longer.

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28 July

Posted on July 29, 2026July 29, 2026 By admin

Today’s Worku round sends out a SONAR ping—a technical, two-syllable constraint that can easily sound imported from another kind of writing. The trick is to give it something urgent to detect: prey, treasure, danger, escape, or the possibility of failure. Debbie’s salmon poem does this especially well; the sonar belongs to the orca, so one small word changes the whole sea floor from scenery into a hunting ground. Elsewhere, signals pulse through prison breaks, polar ice, submerged treasure, and one secretive pond. Something is moving beneath the surface of this set.

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27 July

Posted on July 28, 2026 By admin

Today’s Worku round is crowded with -ER words—handy little suffixes that turn actions into people, but also bring extra syllables and an unavoidable family resemblance. Pack too many into seventeen syllables and the poem can start sounding like a rhyming roll call. The stronger entries give each one a distinct job: timer, cover, loser, boxer, cower, hover, poser. Mick’s paired poems show another useful tool: punctuation. A colon makes the line tactical advice; a question mark and dash turn the same words into a taunt. Same vocabulary, different fight. Elsewhere in the set, several posers are waiting to be exposed—and at least one is handsome enough to make that complicated.

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26 July

Posted on July 27, 2026 By admin

Today’s Worku round squeezes GRAPE, an apparently friendly constraint that becomes harder once it has to do more than sit in a bowl. The stronger poems give it a physical job: erupting across upholstery, disappearing from a harvested vine, distracting a restless child, or bursting beneath a foot. Diana’s field poem is a particularly good example—the final “No GRAPE left on vine” is not merely the required word, but the discovery that completes the scene. Elsewhere, there are purple stains, suspicious swimwear, concert-hall carpeting, and at least one grape whose exact business may require closer inspection.

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25 July

Posted on July 26, 2026 By admin

Today’s Worku round takes on ALOHA — a word that can wave you in and send you away in the same breath. The stronger poems make use of that doubleness rather than simply placing Hawaii in the scenery. Debbie’s garden poem turns ALOHA into a tiny succession drama: chard takes the lead while lettuce receives its farewell. Elsewhere, anvils fall, waves rise, bets turn smug, and one empty bed quietly changes the temperature of the whole set. A few of these goodbyes are wearing disguises.

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