Verbatim found poetry is an intriguing collection of found poems. Poems found in ordinary, and not so ordinary places. Submit yours.
A false alarm,
caught in the act:
A joke on me,
my peculiar mistake.
The stalled car,
my experience
in a strange Sunday school.
The experiment I never repeated,
nearly on the rocks.
(Essay writing prompts from ‘English Composition Book One’ by Stratton D. Brooks, 1911. Submitted by Alex Albright)
I’m at home all by my lonesome,
reading and waiting a little while
before I brush my teeth
and go to bed.
I could go for some conversation
if you’re interested.
Don’t much have
a particular topic in mind.
I worked ten hours today
and ate Taco Bell for dinner.
Do you like stuff?
Do you hate stuff?
Things? Place, people, ideas?
For/against any topic?
Want to discuss
the weather?
I’m all eyes for what you have to say.
Hope to hear from you.
(From Craigslist Strictly Platonic, 23 December 2014. Submitted by Erica Tucker)
A bead of sweat rolls down my face;
I am struck by the silence. The air
is hushed and filled with concentration.
On the banks of the Lakshya
master weavers sit in pairs, barely breaking
sweat at their bamboo looms.
The men are shirtless. The women rest
their arms on cheap white cotton,
protecting the delicate muslin.
Hands interlace silky gold thread
into sheer cloth the colour of oxblood.
Around us turquoise, yellow and white billows
in the breeze that – like a cool blessing –
comes off the river through latticed bamboo walls.
Motifs – jasmine, marigolds, peacock feathers –
neither embroidered nor printed,
are painstakingly sewn by hand.
Children of the loom, taught by their fathers:
strong backs and magic fingers. Dedication.
(From The delicate material that takes months to weave by hand. Submitted by Angi Holden)
Just when we thought some
of the old annoyances
of the 20th century
had died out, they come
roaring back
new,
improved,
upgraded,
and intensified like the government
dug up their corpses
and stuffed them with hydraulics
and, like, RAM sticks
and shit, and turned
them into deadly cybernetic warriors.
They didn’t die.
They were waiting.
They were adapting.
They. Were. Evolving.
They’ve returned,
fortified by modern technology,
designed to annoy us anywhere,
everywhere,
and at the convenience of
the person who wants to annoy us.
(From 4 Obnoxious Behaviors The Modern World Made Worse. Submitted by Kenn Merchant)
To integrate into society
The difficulties of adapting
A kind deed
To exploit
To take advantage of
To belong to
To be a part of
A war
An opposing argument
A profit
A benefit
To educate
(Translations from a French class vocabulary list. Submitted by Mim Beech)
I am become Death
We made a terrible thing
Destroyer of Worlds
What are you moping about?
We’re all sons of bitches now.
(Manhattan Project physicists Richard Feynman, Bob Wilson and J. Robert Oppenheimer on the first atomic explosion, the 1945 Trinity Test. Submitted by Daniel Galef)
Brushes the wool smoothly sift,
full is not tightly easy
to fall off wool,
bright, rich, the touch is gentle
may with ease brush the cosmetics
evenly frivolous
naturally has just right.
The color nature easy to stick
to the silt, but sweeps the powder
evenly, lasting durable,
with the flesh close-fitting,
makeup effects on a more refined
and delicate, presents the perfect
tidal current cosmetics.
(Blurb on retractable makeup brush packaging from China. Submitted by Cathy Bryant)
Too few countries
in the world
have chosen
a vegetable
to be their national symbol
but Wales chose the leek
(From something that came from The Sacred Kitchen. Submitted by Melanie Barbato)
There’s a thing about being alone
and
there’s a thing about being lonely
and
they’re two different things.
I was alone
—but—
I was not lonely.
I was very used to being by myself.
I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Far from feeling lonely
or abandoned
I feel very much a part of what is taking place
(I don’t mean to deny
a feeling of solitude.)
It is there,
reinforced by the fact … I am alone now
and absolutely isolated
from any (known) life.
If a count were taken,
the score would be:
three billion (plus two)
over on the other side
and
One (plus
God knows what else…)
on this side.
That was the best part of the flight.
(From Al Worden: ‘The loneliest human being’ and Carrying the Fire by Michael Collins. Submitted by Daniel Galef)
We have agreed to let the electric company trim some trees.
If they come when you are there
let them
Ensure they leave the wood behind.
Get them to put the small bits
behind the hazel bush
where the rest of the prunings are.
Try and get a card
from the wood cutter,
we have other trees
we’d like him to look at.
Don’t use the pump in the spring
for more than twenty minutes,
and meanwhile remember
to water everything if God
is not doing his fair share.
(A note left for guests at a holiday cottage in Brittany, 2014. Submitted by Nigel Lawrence)
Verbatim Poetry 
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