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Time Machine Poetry Prompt

By Heather Eure 27 Comments

time machine poetry promptAlthough it hasn’t yet been achieved, time travel has struck the imagination ever since H.G. Well’s described his first Morlock. Writers have found different ways to re-imagine time travel, each time making it new and interesting for the reader. Since no one has invented a time machine (yet), it can be whatever the writer wants. Isn’t that the best thing about it? Limitless possibilities.

Part of the lure of time travel is the appeal of experiencing other times and places. But it also offers the chance for a cosmic do-over. We’re also fascinated with the past as it’s one place we can’t go in time.  People like to talk about the past because the future is always coming, but the past is never coming back.

Try It

Where would you go if you have a time machine? Would you travel to exotic locations or keep it local? Write a poem about the places you would go and the people you would see.

Featured Poem

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a poem from Rick we enjoyed:

Life is not long.

The trace of down that remains
in the bulk of you will fail, and the curl
will coarsen, the curl will drown you,
and you will lose your footprints
in the moist sand of nostalgia.

This ocean is a memory that has stolen
everything and steals it now.

So walk.

There is only salty water behind you;
love may not come from what you love;
you cannot always choose
the doorway that opens your life.

—by Rick Maxson

Photo by ryuu ji. Creative Commons via Flickr.

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Filed Under: Blog, poetry prompt, poetry teaching resources, Themed Writing Projects, Time Poems, writer's group resources, writing prompts

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Comments

  1. Andrew H says

    March 22, 2016 at 12:25 am

    II liked your poem Rick, so now I can’t help but wonder if it subconsciously motivated my use of the word “curls.” I particularly liked the mention of nostalgia, and how we lose our footprints in it. Very astute observation.

    The softened gasps of muted metal curls
    The edge of reason. Standing on the edge
    Of life. Looking into the void, its swirls
    Become your life. Where will I go?
    Shall I once more walk nigh the hedge
    That trails with golden heads of daffodils?
    Will I stand silent in the shade, and watch
    Myself in play before the pond with grim
    Remembrance and a casual, saddened smile?
    For some, perhaps, there lies the path. Others
    Would fly to France and meet the musketeers,
    Would walk the street of time with drunken gait
    And stop at any place. They know little of tears,
    Where I know much. And so I stand with but
    One wish. I would walk back in time for but
    One thing. A gentle hand I can remember
    On my brow. A smile when others frowned, and
    Over all the memory of being home.

    Reply
    • Rick Maxson says

      March 22, 2016 at 4:03 pm

      Thanks, Andrew!

      I liked your poem, particularly the last few sentences.

      Reply
    • Donna says

      March 22, 2016 at 4:04 pm

      Oh, this pulls at my heart…. your one wish. Beautiful words, Andrew. Very meaningful. Thank you for sharing your work here. 🙂

      Reply
    • Bethany R. says

      March 22, 2016 at 4:07 pm

      Touching ending, Andrew. Makes me miss being with my kids (even though they’re just at school).

      Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      March 22, 2016 at 6:17 pm

      A lovely poem, Andrew.

      Reply
  2. Glynn says

    March 22, 2016 at 10:27 am

    Time machine

    It’s simple, really:
    open the door of the booth,
    sit, strap myself in,
    set the dial to whatever
    year I wish, and travel,
    backward or forward,
    or backward and forward,
    a real Dr. Who,
    or a Dr. Whatever.

    I consider.

    For now,
    the only time machine
    I have going backward
    is memory;
    the only time machine
    I have going forward
    is hope.

    It’s likely, I think,
    that my memory surpasses
    reality, a rose-colored
    filter simultaneously
    enhancing and obscuring.

    And do I replace hope
    with reality or its shadow,
    like Scrooge who saw
    the reality and choose
    hope.

    I consider the door
    once again, the temptation
    of the tree, and before
    I walk away I padlock it
    with a lock I cannot open.

    Memory and hope will suffice.

    Reply
    • Donna says

      March 22, 2016 at 4:06 pm

      Ah…. wonderful. Memory and hope will suffice. 🙂 Terrific, Glynn! Thank you!

      Reply
    • Rick Maxson says

      March 22, 2016 at 4:06 pm

      Glynn, yes! Our only certain time machine is in our head and heart. Maybe we were never meant to use one without the other. Wonderful poem and hopeful.

      Reply
    • Heather Eure says

      March 22, 2016 at 7:40 pm

      Such wonderful and wise thoughts, Glynn.

      Reply
    • Monica Sharman says

      March 23, 2016 at 11:50 am

      I like this part:
      “a rose-colored
      filter simultaneously
      enhancing and obscuring.”

      Reply
    • Samuel Smith says

      March 24, 2016 at 1:59 pm

      Beautiful, Glenn. I was interested by your use of the two cultural references from fiction: Scrooge, an icon of the past, and the famously futuristic Dr. Who. To me, they seem to embody the twin focuses of your poem.

      Reply
  3. Donna says

    March 22, 2016 at 3:48 pm

    Rick…
    “you cannot always choose
    the doorway that opens your life.”

    Wow…. that is a wonderful ending, so insightful and true.
    I’m not sure if, in your words, I am feeling a sad slipping away or a peaceful surrender to this groundless thing we call time. I suspect my feelings would shift with each reading. Beautiful poem. Thank you.

    Reply
    • Rick Maxson says

      March 22, 2016 at 4:14 pm

      Thanks for reading and commenting, Donna. Memory is not always truthful and time does eventually make off with a lot of it. This was my attempt to keep on keeping on. To use Glynn’s poem, I think all we can do in life to live is walk forward into the unknown (in spite of best plans the future is full of surprises) with hope.

      Reply
      • Donna says

        March 22, 2016 at 5:09 pm

        Lots of both… surprises and hope. 🙂

        Reply
  4. Samuel Smith says

    March 24, 2016 at 9:48 am

    I pace through groves of pears, their flowers
    turned to carbon paper by cold —
    falling leaf-like —
    which yesterday were Easter-white
    five-pedaled
    parasols, and I ask what kind
    of time machine lets God rewind
    three weeks of bloom, but not
    a
        single
                    acrid
                              word
                                        of mine.

    Reply
    • Samuel Smith says

      March 24, 2016 at 9:50 am

      The title is Rewind.

      Reply
    • Donna says

      March 25, 2016 at 11:55 am

      This is striking, Samuel, both in its imagery and it’s question. Thank you for sharing it here.

      Reply
    • Bethany R. says

      March 25, 2016 at 2:54 pm

      Mmm… I hear that.

      Thank you for this, Samuel. Love the parasols turning to paper – nice overlap reference there to “words,” and a vivid image.

      Reply
  5. Monica Sharman says

    March 24, 2016 at 1:25 pm

    Shutter clicks.
    Wavelengths
    bend and trace a path
    through lenses, print
    an image onto
    silver-halide grains
    exposed.
    In the dark,
    chemistry develops.
    Frame of childhood
    is recorded. Faded now,
    but still, like a time
    machine,
    it takes me
    back.

    Reply
    • Donna says

      March 25, 2016 at 11:53 am

      Monica, I love this image of the photo as time machine. Very cool. Beautiful.

      Reply
    • Bethany R. says

      March 25, 2016 at 2:57 pm

      Beautiful poem, Monica. I like how tight it is. Concentrated, meaningful.

      Reply
  6. Donna says

    March 25, 2016 at 11:52 am

    Inhale.
    Hold.
    The time machine Idles
    While I absorb it

    All.

    Reply
    • Bethany R. says

      March 25, 2016 at 3:01 pm

      If I could answer the speaker in your poem,

      “Yes, hold a moment, before you go.”

      Reply
  7. Rory Fry says

    May 10, 2016 at 9:09 am

    A time machine experience of my own…

    I wrote this song during my first round of sobriety. Now that I have been sober a second time and much longer I like to look back to where I was and see where I am now. This is almost ten years old…

    “Blistered Dreams”
    I miss my friends and the times we spent in our blistered dreams
    Like no one could stop us then
    We were young and boldly spun with pockets full of luck
    Who’d have known those days were trip wires in our paths

    Roll on long
    You still own my every thought
    I cannot forget those days in our blistered dreams

    Now where’d you go?
    Is the wicked wind still bitter cold?
    Could you sleep last night?
    Or were you awaken by her awful blow?

    The damage in our hearts fed the hues of despair
    Still we never looked to the sky for relief
    Were we misled when we sold our essence to the dead?
    Innocence was a bliss we never thought we?d miss

    So long now
    I’ll cherish your broken lives
    I cannot forget the days in our blistered dreams

    Does the razor breeze cause your blank eyelids to bleed?
    Between the shallows and hail
    Are your dimensions weak?
    Though the wind may mistreat you
    I?ll keep you in my prayers

    Life was more than drugs and one night stands
    There was more outside our poor perceptions
    An answer to the call
    A face to finally see
    A cure to calm the breeze
    And raise our blistered dreams
    A hand to break the fall
    And seal the palm that bleeds
    A cure to calm the breeze
    And raise our blistered dreams

    Stand up tall
    I’ll see you on the other side
    I cannot forget the days in our blistered dreams

    Reply
  8. Rory Fry says

    February 14, 2017 at 5:41 pm

    I think you were adressing me? I haven’t used this aite much so I’m just guessing (and hoping) you did.

    I appreciate the feedback. This piece was very close to me at one time. I almost released it in my first published collection of poems/prayers but it didn’t make the final cut

    This piece is dedicated to all the kids I grew up with. It is dedicated to all the people in my home town. It ia dedicated to all the addicts still stuck in the cycle.

    Thank tou again!

    Reply

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    […] to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a time-machine-inspired poem from Glynn we […]

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