Adult “W.O.M.” Poems

Each month this blog will feature a word of the month to stimulate a poem. Anyone who wishes to share a poem is invited to participate. The point is to enjoy the challenge of writing a poem inspired by a single word. It doesn’t matter if this is your first poem or five hundredth. It’s all done for the fun and exercise of writing.

Cutoff for posting the current Word of the Month poem is the last day of the month.

On the first day of each month, a new word will be posted to challenge your imagination for that month.

Please post your poems on this page, so everyone can find the poems easily. 

Thank you and have fun!


PS: The word for August is VOICE.

31 comments on “Adult “W.O.M.” Poems

  1. The Council of Poets
    by Linda Boyden ©2018

    The Council of Poets
    sits around the wooden table
    sip wine, red or white,
    nibble delicate word hors d’oeuvre,
    phrases drenched in metaphor
    or abuzz with onomatopoeia,
    kept in time by rhyme,
    similes flowing like the veils
    of a belly dancer.

    Their poetic feet tap out the meter.
    Their voices take truck
    with trite and cliché:
    “There will be no easy as pie,
    slick as a whistle,
    sharp as a tack
    allowed at this table.”

    Every month, the Council of Poets
    meets and devours
    a moveable feast of words

  2. A Different Voice
    by George Parker

    When Mom died,
    Pain stole my voice.
    I would try,
    But then choked on the words.
    Words, my refuge,
    Failed me.

    I picked up a guitar
    And learned new words.

    Words without words.
    Words that wailed.
    Words that screamed.

    Words that ripped the scabs,
    Let the poison leave,
    And allowed me to heal.

  3. here is my August poem:


    like a statue… set in stone

    like a crusher
    molding steel

    like a summer breeze
    weaving tendrils

    like a love bird’s
    nesting wings

    like a mother’s
    sweet lullaby

    leads you home
    and out again

    all rights: Jeanne Poland

  4. Here’s my Word of the Month poem for August.

    The Voice Clock

    When he was little,
    his voice squealed,
    piped high soprano notes
    that accompanied his play,
    the excitement of each day.

    But came a time
    when the high notes cracked,
    like shards of youth, into deeper timbre,
    croaked at girls, who were curious
    more than attracted.

    Awkwardness ended
    at the threshold of manhood.
    His voice grew strong, firm,
    confident beyond his years,
    but people listened.

    He grew into his voice,
    learned about life,
    became a lover, father,
    wage earner, leader,
    spoke with manly assurance.

    The clock kept ticking.
    The once deep thunder
    of his testosterone-laced voice
    lost its verve, began, at times,
    to quiver and break with uncertainty.

    He still yearned to speak but feared
    his outdated wisdom and the sounds
    of his soprano voice.
    He sat in blankets, folded in thought,
    and watched children play.

    (c) 2018 David L. Harrison, all rights reserved


    When I was asked what I wanted to be,
    A life as a singer was my desire.
    And though it seemed solos were not for me,
    I’d be quite content to sing in a choir.
    I went up to St. Pauls for a session
    And sang the extent of my repertoire.
    But I could see from their pained expression,
    My choral ambition would not go far.
    They told me they’d never heard such a voice;
    One that had such a lot of vibrato.
    They said they could offer me just one choice;
    It was something they called a castrato.
    I Googled the thing when I went to bed.
    And I chose to be a poet instead.

    Bryn Strudwick

  6. All that my mind came up with was this:

    The voice inside gives good advice:
    Let go of the bitterness;
    Live fresh and down to the earth;
    Love everything you come in contact with;
    Learn to listen to what is not said;
    Lean on your friends and family when you feel weary.
    The voice inside gives good advice!

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