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 February is AGE.

45 comments on “Adult “W.O.M.” Poems

  1. AGE

    gives me an ace a day.

    At night,
    the curtain closes.

    At day…opens:
    drama unfolds.

    is born.

    bites me.

    is my costume.

    my set.

    to the AGE display!

    uncut……never late.

  2. The Joy of Reaching Old Age
    Patricia Cruzan

    When friends talk about age,
    think about your birthday
    and who’s on the same page,
    in terms of your life.

    Many birthdays appear
    to show favor with God
    as you live without fear,
    by following His commands.

    Though the failures and triumphs,
    you try to stay positive
    in spite of the lumps
    that may come your way.

    Find joy in each age
    with whatever you do,
    whether stepping on stage
    or trying for a wage.

    • Old Age

      it has been said,
      is ten years from where you stand,
      Then some days I stand at 60,
      other times (like last week
      when I tripped and fell
      in the kitchen and broke part
      of my hip), I must have been 90.
      That’s the truth of it.
      Wake with a sore back
      and you age ten years.
      Wake with a story ready to be told,
      25 years if a day.
      We Benjamin Button ourselves
      across the spectrum of time.
      This moment I feel 50.
      Until I try to get out of the damned chair.

      @2020 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved

      • Thanks for reading the poem. Real love does last as you implied in your last line. The poems are delightful.

  3. Word of the Month Poem
    February Word: AGE

    Janet Kay Gallagher

    Birthdays are wonderful for young children.
    People praise you for how you are growing up so fast.
    Time then seems to move slowly.
    Just you wait.

    Some people think they hit their peak
    At the thirty mark and start to act older
    Forty hits and someone brings a cake
    That says OVER THE HILL

    We usually live our positive life with fun
    And never consider age until it’s time
    For another birthday. Time moves so fast.
    Seventy how can that be?

    Someone on a birthday always asks
    Do you feel odler today?
    “No, I feel as old as I did yesterday”
    Then you think they aren’t here yet and will get it later.

    Some days I feel like the young woman at twenty
    life is before me and all hope is there
    Many times the pains hit and I feel every day of my age
    But life is still before me and hope is there.

      • Linda B
        Thanks. Glad you liked it. You are always supportive of me.
        I keep telling my son each year “I’m going to live at least 30 more years. I hope he takes it as intended and not as a threat.”

  4. Blank Page
    W.O.M. Poem Feb 2020

    I look out on the same old
    trees standing naked in the cold.
    What is this falling from the sky?
    Through the air the snowflakes fly.
    Glint, glisten, soft and bright.
    Trees stand clothed with blanket white
    Reflecting every ray of light,
    shining even in the night.

    At sixty-five, in my old age
    I write words on this blank page.
    Sentences, paragraphs unfold
    creating stories yet untold.
    Rivers of ink and paper wings
    like water, flow from hidden springs.
    Words of faith, hope and light,
    words to brighten another’s night.
    Words to help, heal, and touch.
    This writing gift, it means so much.
    © Yvona Fast 2020

  5. Starry Night, Crooked Moon
    By Linda Boyden ©2014

    On a starry night above the bay
    we gaze at the moon,
    the night sky’s crooked smile,
    while tender breezes play,
    tickles skin
    tumbles hair.

    Your arm around my shoulders
    pulls me tight,
    my arm around your waist replies.

    We have no need of words,
    our bodies so attuned.
    We pledged our love years ago,
    when we were young and immortal
    and never considered
    growing old and dying.

    Now here beneath the starry sky we
    smile at the crooked moon,
    the bay lapping at our toes,
    our bodies bending
    under the weight of age,
    our love soaring to the stars.

  6. Decayed

    Back in the stacks where archived
    Many older books stood straight in line
    Dewey had them sorted by
    the numbers just so fine

    Walking past the row
    Some showed torn cover tatter
    Made me curious to know
    How often does someone check them out so
    Which one will I investigate it really doesn’t matter

    A short one not to thick
    Was the one I pick
    Last checked out ten years ago
    I thumbed to a musty browned page
    Dog ear creased hard with age

    And on the page underlined was this sentence clause
    He had told her of his schemes

    this line now caused me pause
    As it did by the straight line drawn to save
    By someone who knew through the magic of caring
    Living out the plans of Dreams
    You can find solace when someone is sharing

    William Joe Pyles

    • William Joe Pyles
      Libraries and old books are wonderful.
      This makes me wonder who checked it out ten years ago and what impact those words had on them. “He had told her of his schemes”

  7. Cooking a Poem

    You never know how long a poem will take.
    The act of writing’s not like baking cake.
    It might resemble cooking tasty stew
    with spicy words emerging from the blue,
    a cup of images, a dash of rhyme—
    the one essential thing to add is time.

    Age improves a poem. Don’t watch the clock!
    Just think of pickles crisping in a crock.
    You could try marinating overnight.
    A week, a year, or more might be just right.

    You open up an oven door too soon;
    souffles collapse like craters on the moon.
    A poem rarely pops into your head
    like some kind neighbor’s gift of fresh-baked bread.
    Unlike a pie or cookies or a cake,
    a poem takes as long as it will take.

    © JoAnn Early Macken 2020

  8. Smells
    Virginia Lowe

    What I smell of:
    swimming pool water
    hidden farts
    old woman

    What I can’t smell:
    old woman
    hidden farts
    swimming pool
    freesias, violets
    scented lilies
    basil, lemon

    The senses fade
    Smell goes first
    taking taste with it

    It could be worse
    I know how violets
    and basil
    used to smell

    And I could easily
    be dead
    Then I couldn’t smell at all
    but I’d smell even worse

  9. Painful to write

    As I drove home from work i witnessed the beautiful moon in all its glory.
    i had an amber alert over my phone warning of an impending story.
    a animal was unleashed upon us-a pure as hell ,a sad and unforgettable gory
    person masquuerading as a teacher of young people when in reality
    he is a mass murdering worthless piece of work thrust upon society.
    time has past for his breath to stop-put a bullit in his brain introduce him to the
    devil so he can live forever in the fires of shame.
    allowing this kind to live among us in this day and age,trying to always kill and mame.
    Time we stand up for what is right and for this wonderful young lady, never
    accept what is wrong worthless and shady.
    ying and yang black and white, sane folks know what is wrong and right.
    we as a society must say enough is enough and start putting these fools away.
    no longer is it okay. I am greived to my sole for this famiy dealing and wondering
    why. there is no answer not for them today sadness sadness sadness is all i can think to say.

  10. Pingback: Blog Tour–AFTER DARK: POEMS ABOUT NOCTURNAL ANIMALS by David L. Harrison | Michelle Kogan Illustration, Painting & Writing

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