by Holly Jahangiri | Nov 21, 2025
Every parent knows the endless “why?” of a curious child. And everyone who’s ever used a search engine has been sucked down the rabbit hole, themselves, beginning with a simple “why?” Ever spend hours following intriguing links and breadcrumbs, only to realize you never did get the answer to your original question–or, if you did, you got so many different answers that they were all meaningless, and you were left just as clueless as when you started?
The Writer’s Digest November PAD prompt, today, was to write a “why blank” poem. As with yesterday’s prompt, I have one serious and one smart-ass poetic response. That was the intention, but now I’m not sure which is which. Perhaps both are really quite serious, after all.
Why?
Why ask “why?” when every question’s met
with punditry from tyros and tyrants?
Vast libraries lie within your grasp,
and graze your curious fingertips
to yank you down, down, down
a winding maze, the dusty stacks
where knowledge lives until you realize
(hours later) that you have always had the answers
to all the questions—save one. You still
don’t know the answer to the question: “Why?”
Why Blank?
"Why blank?" the teacher asked,
confused. The boy replied, "You said
we ought to write an essay,
what we thought
of summers off, or flying kites,
or looking deep
into the eyes that stare at us
from our reflection in the mirror."
The teacher nodded. "And?"
She held the pristine sheet
of paper to the light.
The child sighed. "I've never known
a summer off, the grass grows faster
than I do, and there are weeds to pull.
Nor have I ever flown a kite--
though some have told me
that I ought to do, I don't know how.
And there is no one looking back
but me, outside the window pane
or from the mirrored glass
above the sink. His silence
tells a lonely tale, and even I--
who longs to have a friend--
grow bored. You see? My mind
is dull, just like
the other teacher said--
uninteresting. And that,"
the sad-faced child said,
"is why it's blank."
Sometimes you start out writing one thing and it veers off into unexpected territory. Don’t judge – just go with it and see which rabbit hole it leads to.
by Holly Jahangiri | Nov 20, 2025
Really, Robert Brewer? You give a retired technical writer, one old enough to remember when internet trolls thought telling n00bs to “Format C:\” was great sport, a prompt like “write an explanation poem” and this is the result. You want real technical help, like “How do I answer my Samsung phone from the lock screen?” this is the wrong post. Click the link.
Customer Support
First, you’ll press the power button. That
almost perfect circle – yes, the one that’s giving you
the middle finger just for thinking that you could—
yes, there you go. Now wait. And count to ten
no? It’s the proverbial “watched pot.” Look away.
Now, go get coffee. A sluggish old PC might
benefit from liberal application of caffeine.
Ask me how I know. I’m a pro.
Just pour it in between the letters H and O
and T. It should be hot. Hear it sizzle?
No? Let’s troubleshoot the thing.
Grab another cup of joe—this time for you—
we’ll have another go at this. Rinse
the unit, and repeat. Now what do you see
upon the screen? It’s black? Not blue?
Ahh, the blue is you, you say. The thing
won’t do the things you want it to.
Perhaps we can repurpose it—I hear
that Frisbee golf is all the rage, and they
accept the odd, misshapen parallelogram—
What’s that, you say? Rectangular—I see.
My Supervisor’s busy helping others but
your call’s of paramount importance to our company
I’ll transfer you, just count to three.
Our AI ChatBot’s more prepared for this than me.
by Holly Jahangiri | Nov 20, 2025
Robert Brewer’s prompt for November 19 was to “write a six word poem.” I should’ve read farther, but the idea of a six-word poem immediately triggered thoughts of the infamous “six word story” (often misattributed to Hemingway). Aside from that one example, I have yet to see six words that, by themselves, constitute a story. They are barely a sentence or two. Six words might capture a moment or a mood, but they are not a story.
Could six words constitute a poem? Maybe. I usually avoid very short forms. Few poets – and I include myself in this – write them well. We all learned to write haiku in elementary school, but most of us learned it badly. Too often, I think they read like fortune cookies or insipid platitudes or the ubiquitous “inspirational quotations” that are floating around on the internet. But Brewer’s prompt brought out my inner smart-ass. He even offered “extra credit” and if you know me, I’ll fall for the “extra credit” assignment every time. He provided a list of six words and urged us to include at least three. That left only three words to play with, as I originally read the prompt. And so I wrote an “immediate reaction poem.”
Write a Six Word Poem?
See my gnarled squint?
Gibberish. No.
After reading Brewer’s example, I realized my error. His “six-word poem” prompt was more like the decades’ worth of prompts from the Creative Copy Challenge. I vowed to try again, and the following is the result.
A Mind Gone to Seed
She squints off in the distance
contemplates the violence
of the tranquil river’s rapids
roiling far below. How bit by bit,
a millimeter here or there
it yields. This hard, river-slicked
rock relents, gives way
to bubbles’ joyful dancing.
He's a cup of summer sunshine
held in gnarled hands. Gibberish
slips now from his lips like
dandelions gone to seed. She knows
that it would only take a moment,
just the slightest breeze. She blows.
Yikes. I hope he’s in a better place.
by Holly Jahangiri | Nov 18, 2025
Good Night, Sisyphus
I—who once believed we could achieve
that ideal world if only we weren't stuck within,
content with,
benefitting from
the status quo—
concede. Tap out. Exhausted, all my arguments
are spent, they lie in tatters, bloodied whispers
schoolyard taunts,
the sticks and stones—
bones flogged
across a futile battlefield. I haven't breath
enough to launch a fresh attack. You win—
knocked the wind right out of me, and I
admit that this is how it's ever been.
I never wanted change
for sake of change but clinging
to old ways, old enmities,
some need
for one to lose while others win
has brought us to this place where hope's
laid waste.
I will dig its grave
with bare hands
your proffered shovel is too tempting.
For now, I look across a timeline
stretch of years
that vanish
on a cold horizon -
tarry blacktop glistens in the sun. I set
my weary feet to walking towards
a dying star
keep walking
towards the silence
till familiar noise and heat come raging
towards the last of us, incinerating all.
Today’s a new day. No planet-killing event ended us in our sleep. Another chance to get it right, but I am pessimist enough to be 100% certain that we won’t – not today, not in my lifetime, and maybe never. You might think this was written to today’s prompt from Robert Brewer, but it’s not – I started it yesterday. Maybe later I’ll try a more optimistic take, but for now, I just thank Chris A. for helping me see how utterly futile idealism is, even when it is glued like a boulder to the soul.
by Holly Jahangiri | Nov 17, 2025
Jump Scare
There’s creepy music on the stair
despite nobody being there
no boom-box on the landing sits
and I am scared out of my wits
because I know how this one goes
(and every movie villain knows)
the ingenue without a clue
(as ingenues are wont to do)
walks slowly up the steps – so dark –
you’d think the family dog would bark
at the intruder we’re aware
should our insoucient damsel dare
ascend those steps where he stands ready
(ten knife-sharp fingers has our Freddy)
ready to eviscerate
our heroine, but now he’s late
the curtain falls, relief from dread!
Until the sequel, when she’s dead.
Rarely does a prompt yield the best poetry, but it’s good for waking up a sluggish brain. Or, as Richard Hugo wrote, “One way of getting into the world of the imagination is to focus on the play rather than the value of words—if you can manage it you might even ignore the meanings for as long as you can, though that won’t be very long.” Not sure how imaginative this is, but the prompt Robert Brewer gave us to work with, today, was to write a “trope poem.” How is it that we know the tropes – they are, by definition, cliché – and yet, they can still make us feel something like fear or anticipation? It cannot be that we expect something new and surprising. Sequels work precisely because we know what to expect and however bitterly we complain when we get exactly what we knew we’d get, we keep spending money going back for more of the same. Maybe in a world that’s changing so fast, the superficial fantasy isn’t the fantasy at all – the predictability of the storyline is.
