By Thomas Page
I am student teaching a senior level class in Washington, DC. They have to write some poems on these prompts. I decided to try all 30 of them. However, I will not say what the prompt was but what it number was.
Forging the heavens out of pigments
Of mountains that include every season
And water sweet as a fairy’s bench
Falling into the golden spiral
Flanked by the Christmas’d trees
Topped with a light dusting
Contrasted with the vibrancy of red and orange
Captured with Keats’ urn
Flanked by yellow and green
Along the banks of the lake
Burning with a fiery reflection
Snuffed by the island of Yeats’ liking
Without the buzz of bees and flies.
When can I go there?