Category Archives: Prompt

Prompt #5 – Love Poems

Submissions due: 11/10/12

Selected Poems to be published: 11/30/12 (or thereabouts)


Have you ever noticed how most publishers lean towards narrative poems these days? And that often you don’t see a lot of love poems published? Well trends be damned. We’ll give it to you plain: send us your best love poems. Any length. Any style. As real as they come – happy or sad. Go ahead: be romantic.


As per usual, please read through our submission guidelines. We are expecting to get several submissions this round so, to be frank, we will be declining anything which doesn’t follow the guidelines due to simple time constraints.


We can’t wait to fall in love with your work.


Prompt #4 – The Potty Mouth’d Rebellion

I’m sure some have noticed the delay on both our last issue and this prompt.  Our publication is still up and running, and we hope that we will be able to get back to a more regular schedule, but due to illness, we are bumping out the next issue to be published 10/1 and our next prompt to not be due until the end of September.

The show will go on and I promise we will get to every submission sent to us.



Welcome my cahoodaloodaliers to the Potty Mouth’d Rebellion.

Submissions due: 9/30/12

Selected submissions to be published: 10/31/12 (or there abouts)

Our fourth edition will not be an issue to show your grandmother, unless your grandmother just happens to be Betty White, at which point, please note me.  We can do lunch.

Give us your unapologetic explicatives, your dirty prepositions, your fucks, your cunts, and your non-timid sonsofbitches.  It’s truly that simple.

If you need some further direction for your indiscretions, please read some of our favorites below:

“Dear Feet, You look like shit. Have you been using again? Being bloody and cut up all the time is scaring the other tenants. If you don’t get yourself together, we’re going to have to ask you to leave. Happy Holidays, The Management

Dear Thighs, LOSE SOME WEIGHT YOU FAT FUCKS You’re disgusting, The Management

Dear Soul, You don’t even have a lease with us. Please evacuate the premises immediately. What the fuck, The Management”

from Signed, The Management by Andi Kato

Star Anise

the beastly lover has rough and salty hands, spreads her cunt like a star

printed with permission by Emily May

“What if I go to heaven? she asked with a hint of a grin on her mouth. I laughed stood up and slipped into my jeans. Oh please, I said, You don’t want to go there.
Why not? she asked as I took the gun out of her hand and told her patting her ass, Because the music sucks they won’t let you dance and you can’t get cock like this in heaven.”

from Suicide and Spanish Omelettes by Cisco Kid

I hope my good old asshole holds out 60 years it’s been mostly OK Tho in Bolivia a fissure operation     survived the altiplano hospital– a little blood, no polyps, occasionally a small hemorrhoid active, eager, receptive to phallus     coke bottle, candle, carrot    banana & fingers –

from Sphincter by Allen Ginsberg


Prompt #3 – Six Word Stories & Twitter Poems

Prompt #3 Submissions are due by 7/31/12.

Selected submissions to be published 9/1/12.

What can you do with 6 words?  140 characters?  Let’s keep it short – we want your 6 Word Stories and Twitter Poems.

For this prompt (and this prompt only) we will be accepting up to five pieces (submit once only please) – so make us laugh, cry, laugh again and then maybe go on a homicidal rampage.  Use what few words you have wisely.

Six Word Story

Write a story using six words.

See?  That’s not so hard.  Now write a good one, I’ll leave that up to you.  Just no cheating.  Your title is a title, not the beginning of your story, so you don’t get five extra words.

Eg:  “ cahoodaloodaling requested from me
a rock hard six word story”  is not going to fly.

Here are a couple of wonderful examples pulled from

You + I. A tragic miscalculation.
~Nicolovius C.

One wrong move. Two impaled movers.
~R Potleys

Fortune cookie reads: That wasn’t chicken.
~Curtis Bryan

Morning embarrassment preferred to nighttime loneliness.

Poison; meditation; skiing; ants– nothing worked.
~Edward Albee

From torched skyscrapers, men grew wings.
~Gregory Maguire

Twitter Poems

Twitter poems are up to 140 characters.  Again, with the cheating titles, I’m on to you.

A Red Tulip
opens and drops her yellow sex on my kitchen counter. I cross my legs and write poetry.
– Linda Leedy Schneider

The Name
I remembered the name of the lilac tree years after you told me.

I’m sorry I never retained plant names. Only shades, and shapes.

Our whitewashed wall was once my favourite but even that is fading.
Nora Nadjarian

Low Pay Piecework
The fifth-grade teacher and her followers— Five classes, twenty-eight in each, all hers: One-hundred-and-forty different characters.
Robert Pinsky

Linda & Nora’s poems can be found at


Prompt #2 – Abstract

Prompt #2 submissions are due by 6/30/12.

We had a few issues with the first submissions. Please review the submission guidelines dearest cahoodaliers before hitting your send button. We don’t want to have to email you back that you’ve been declined over some silly technicality nonsense.

Quick note – Prompt #1 submissions will be taken until June 9th, 2012. If It’s before that date, please also check out this prompt and send us your best self portrait.

Prompt #2 is all about the abstract. We could tell you what this means, but why don’t you tell us, in the form of a poem?

Okay, we’re not that mean. Here are some brilliant examples, and then you’re on your own:

it seems sometimes as if you were only breathing
              and everything happened around you
because when you disappeared in the wings nothing was there
              but the motion of some extraordinary happening I hadn’t understood
the superb arc of a question, of a decision about death

                    because you are beautiful you are hunted
                                 and with the courage of a vase
                                                 you refuse to become a deer or a tree
                               and the world holds its breath
                                                 to see if you are there, and safe

                                                                                             are you?

Frank O’Hara – Ode to Tanaquil LeClercq

i have three eyes for you
and not one of them
is evil

i’m going down to you
like a plane
the ground
yet i am lifted
as stories in
the soil
when all the water

dried up

The Atlantic – Georgia

At one time your touches were clothing enough.
Within these trees now I am different.
Now I wear the woods.

I lower a headdress of bent sticks and secure it.
I strap to myself a breastplate of clawed, roped bark.
I fit the broad leaves of sugar maples
to my hands, like mittens of blood.

Now when I say ‘come,’
and you enter the woods,
hunting some creature like the woman I was,
I surround you.

Louise Erdrich – The Woods

When the motorboat man asked me to love him
I whispered precipice
the word for the no-more-boyfriend feeling
because precipice contains ice (practically twice)
because I wanted teetering—
What? he said
His ears from the engines—so hard of hearing—his hands always
  so hot

Darcie Dennigan – High and Bright and Fine and Ice

                                                                                                               The beach seems used up this morning.
It’s like that  after an overripeSaturday: mesh trash cans full with half eaten watermelon,
                                               beer cans, gum wrappers  &coffee cups.

                                                                        I like it like this:   the morning after
                                    used &adored.       Like a bed after lOve:
          scraps of      what was
                                                             important,    pieces of
                                                      & it lets itself   be played with:

Joan Cusack Handler – The Only God


Prompt #1 – Self Portrait

Submissions due 6/9/12

Selected poems to be published 7/1/12

Who are you?  No seriously, why are you here?

What are you? Have you ever thought about it?

This month we want your answers to these questions.  Pull out an old diary, your family tree, a mirror.  Sit down, take a good look and write to us about it.

Submissions may be dark and dreary, a tad morose or morbid.  On the other hand, we do have an appreciation for the sarcastic or silly and will accept pieces on the humorous side.

Please review our submission guidelines and send us your best self portrait.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

 I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

~Walt Witman, Song of Myself

i am a levy of the levites

& last week

a fanatic jew in the heights

called me a halfbreed

because my mother was a christian

i am a levy of the levites

& last week a rabbi

thought i was kidding

when i told him

i was interested in judaism

god i think yr sense

of humor is sad

& perhaps you are also

feeling something

like an outlaw

~d.a. levy, sitting on a bench near TSQuare


I’d planned to be Heathcliff’s Cathy,

Lady Brett, Nicole or Dominique or Scarlett O’Hara.

I hadn’t planned to be folding up the laundry

In uncombed hair and last night’s smudged mascara,

An expert on buying Fritos, cleaning the cat box,

Finding lost sneakers, playing hide and seek.

And other things unknown to Heathcliff’s

Cathy, Scarlett, Lady Brett, and Dominique.

Why am I never running through the heather?

Why am I never used by Howard Roark?

Why am I never going to Pamplona

Instead of Philadelphia and Newark?

~Judith Viorst, Anti-heroine

It’s a miracle, I tell you, this middle-aged woman scanning the cans on the grocery store shelf. Hidden in the works of a mysterious clock are her many deaths, and yet the whole world is piled up before her on a banquet table again today. The timer, broken. The sunset smeared across the horizon in the girlish cursive of the ocean, Forever, For You.

And still she can offer only her body as proof:

The way it moves a little slow every day.  And the cells, ticking away.  A crow pecking at a sweater.  The last hour waiting patiently on a tray for her somewhere in the future. The spoon slipping quietly into the beautiful soup.

~Laura Kasichke, Near Misses


My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me.  I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up.  It makes me restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them still.  If only I had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I would stay at home and do something.  It’s not that I’m curious.  On the contrary, I am bored but it’s my duty to be attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the earth.  And lately, so great has _their_ anxiety become, I can spare myself little sleep.

~Frank O-Hara, Meditations In An Emergency


                      I will Never get used to Anger.                          I LOve my ANGER.

                                   Open the Door!

                                                             I’ll fill the house with It

                                                             with enough left over for the

                                                                                              nuns & priests.

                                                                                                                         Anger is a HURRICANE,


down the river.

         It’s a superstore of chocolates & pizza,        silk coats

                                                             for every party, pedicures each night. Anger is

               failing e v e r y thing one month

                                                             then Acing the next.

                     It’s a crowd of cantors at 6 A.M. Mass.

                                                             It’s perfumed nuns in low cut dresses

                                                             winking at priests.

                    It’s Kafka & Bankers & idiot savants,

                                                 Mussolini & Mozart, Warhol & Tevye,

                    & a h u g e Ice Cream Sundae painted by Van Gogh

                                     Anger is

s t r o l l i n g t h r o u g h a s t o r e, taking what you want withoutstoppingtopay.

                    It’s sleeping in the desert,

                                     coyotes to sooth you, then wailing in the forest

                                                                                     with a chorus of black crows.

Anger is resentment,

                irritation, aggravation, exasperation,

                                                                         vexation, indignation, animosity, wrath &

                                                                                                                                     bitterness. Infuriated,

                                                                                                                                                             it’s ire, mad, temper,



             stew,           huff, tiff, miff,



                         rage, passion, fit…. Anger is Shit, Piss, Fuck,

                                                                               Asskisser, Cocksucker,

                                                                                                 Cunt, Dick, Putz,

                                                                         Asshole,Dildo,    Puzzy,Suck,WhOre!

– Joan Cusack Handler, Pagent of Rages