Category: daily worku

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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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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Today’s Worku round gets its hands on PUTTY — a soft, shapable word that can suggest weakness, repair, childhood, bread dough, or something mysteriously recovered from the garage. The strongest poems give that softness a specific form. Mick’s broken mug, for example, turns PUTTY into both a practical cure and a quiet image of damage becoming beautiful. Elsewhere, there are tulips at the door, a husband pouting at a party, a troublesome puppy, and one discovery that probably should have stayed beneath the dried putty. A surprisingly lively set is waiting inside.

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As worku approaches its first anniversary (23 September 2026!), I’ve begun going back through every poem from the past year, month by month. I’m looking at more than statistics. I want to understand how the form has developed, which poems and experiments have helped define it, how individual worki have…

Today’s Worku round circles ORBIT, a word that naturally brings repetition, gravity, and the question of what sits at the center. That can make it easy to sound grand but harder to remain concrete. The strongest poems solve this by giving the circling something specific to return to. Debbie’s “Hands that TRIED for years / The FRUIT that never ripened / Memories ORBIT” turns an astronomical word into an emotional pattern: the memory keeps moving because the old disappointment still exerts a pull. Elsewhere, the poems spin through irony, falling fruit, alien discoveries, moon travel, and winter warnings. A few reveal their true center only at the end.

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