Grisel Y. Acosta has shared some more of her experience at AWP in Chicago: http://writetoright.blogspot.com/2009/02/awp-or-zombie-fest.html

Looks like there was plenty of room for surprises at the event.

*****

Also, I see that the Poetic Asides Chapbook Champion, Shann Palmer, has self-published and is selling copies of her winning chapbook: "Change." If you want to check it out, go to: http://shannpalmer.blogspot.com/2009/02/buy-my-change-chapbook.html

I'm sure Shann would appreciate your support!

 

Okay, we're getting closer to November, which for some writers of fiction means it's getting closer to NaNoWriMo time. (Btw, NaNoWriMo translates into National Novel Writing Month.) There are would be novelists lining up to attempt writing 50,000 words or more during the month of November. There's even a NaNoWriMo website you can visit to check out this phenomenon at www.nanowrimo.org.

Anyway, that's all fine and good for those who write fiction. But what are the poets who don't write fiction supposed to do during November? After all, their fiction writing pals are all busy cramming 50,000 words into their laptops and hard drives.

I'm thinking it might be a neat idea to try writing a poem a day in November with the view of trying to have the makings of a chapbook heading into December. If there's enough interest, I would challenge myself and others to write a poem-a-day (as we did in April). I'll provide a prompt-a-day as well to try and help get the poetic juices flowing each day, but you can decide to follow or ignore the prompt as you see fit. After all, our main goal would be to have 30ish poems at the end of the month that you can then try turning into a chapbook submission (or heck, I guess you could self-publish, if that's the route you want to take).

I can tell you now that I won't have the time to highlight poems (as I did in April). But if there's enough interest, I will definitely work to do the prompt and poem each day. So, if you're interested in taking part in such a challenge with me, please let me know in the comments below this post.

A-ha! Here’s an interview with a poet who participated in the April PAD Challenge and wrote his first ever sestina as a result. As Joseph Mills, author of Angels, Thieves, and Winemakers (Press 53, 2008), comments, “It was smart of you (meaning me, of course) to put that towards the end since by then we were invested in finishing.”

 

In recent years, Mills has published two collections of poetry through Press 53; the other collection is Somewhere During the Spin Cycle (2006). With his wife, Mills has also put together two editions of A Guide to North Carolina’s Wineries (John F. Blair, 2007). It seems only natural that Mills’ knowledge of wine-making and poetry would create its own poetic blend.

 

Here’s a favorite poem of mine from Angels, Thieves, and Winemakers and originally published in North Carolina Literary Review:

 

“Aging”

 

To speak of a wine’s future

is to speak of our own desires,

how we hope as we age

that we’ll become more

harmonious, less acidic,

that our tannins will mellow.

We recognize right now

we have a burst of flavor,

an energy, a liveliness,

but also a harshness

which later may soften

until we’re more balanced,

more approachable,

easier to appreciate.

Hold onto us;

we believe

we’ll get better.

 

 

What are you currently up to?

 

At the moment, I’m working on a novel set in “Carolina Wine Country” and a young adult novel that deals with the nature of time.  I’m also drafting a sequence of poems about my mother’s dementia and other work for my third poetry collection tentatively entitled “Love and Other Collisions.”

 

So, what led to an entire collection of poems about wine?

 

In the last half dozen years, my wife and I researched and wrote two editions of A Guide to North Carolina’s Wineries.  As we traveled the state, talking to winemakers and winery owners, I found myself with material that wasn’t appropriate for the guidebook, but that I was interested in exploring and using.  I wrote a few poems dealing with wine, and they appeared in my first collection of poetry, Somewhere During the Spin Cycle.  The wine poems kept coming, and once I had more than a dozen I realized that there would be enough for a collection, and that this would give the volume a nice coherence.  Eventually I wrote well over a hundred and then culled the best.

 

Do you think of yourself as writing for poets who enjoy wine or for wine lovers who enjoy poetry?

 

For the guidebook, I had a clear audience in mind--people interested in touring or at least learning about the state’s wineries.  It’s nonfiction with a straight-forward purpose.  For poetry, however, I never think of an actual audience.  I write for myself.  I work on a poem, and I try to shape it as best as I can.  Sometimes I’m not satisfied with it, and I shelve it.  Sometimes I’m satisfied enough to consider sending it out for publication which is a way of both inspiring me to work on it more and, once it’s sent, having it out of my sight for a while.  Even with publication in mind, however, I don’t imagine an audience, someone actually reading it.  I learned a long time ago that when you publish poetry, you shouldn’t expect any kind of response.  If you do, you might be waiting a long time.

 

I hope the book appeals to more people than a Venn diagram middle of poetry lovers and wine lovers.  In fact, maybe it will get people more involved in both. My brother, who is a teetotaler, has told me that the poems make him want to drink wine, and my wife likes to say that it’s “poetry for people who think they don’t like poetry.”

 

In your collection, you use specialized terms, such as "thief" and "angel's share." Do you feel jargon helps the writing process?

 

I love the specialized language of a field when it is in some way metaphorical.  For example, the “angel’s share” refers to the evaporation in the barrels.  I find this thought-provoking as opposed to technical language like “thirty inch cartridge filter housing.”  I’m interested in the language that’s evocative rather than intimidating or limiting.

 

Jargon can sound pompous and it can obscure, but the specialized vocabulary of almost any field can be fun.  On a film set, when you “cheat” something, you’ve set up an unnatural relationship, moving things too close together, so that it will come out on the film looking right.  I find the term fascinating.  In music, there’s a chord called “the devil’s interval” which is a terrific phrase.

 

Religion seems twisted into the wine. Do you find that writing about both religion and wine is a natural?

 

Because of the nature of grape-growing--the seasonal cycle of pruning and rebirth in the vineyard--and the way wine involves a transformation of grapes, even people who aren’t religious tend to use spiritual language to talk about it.  Since what I love about wine are the stories, and historically wine has been an element in so many religions, it’s probably inevitable that I would write about the relationship at least a little.

 

Who are your favorite poets?

 

I love the work of John Ciardi, James Wright, and Philip Levine.  Billy Collins consistently delights.  There are poems by W.H. Auden, Margaret Atwood, Elizabeth Bishop, Randall Jarrell and Gary Snyder that I have returned to dozens of times over the years.  I’m a fan of “The Writer’s Almanac” because I like reading just a poem at a time, integrating it as part of the day, and having its selection be a surprise.  (It’s why I like the shuffle feature of my iPod.)

 

What are your favorite wines?

 

The ones I drink with my wife and with family and friends.  The joke in our household is that we only “cellar” wines that we don’t like.  If we like it, we drink it.  The second part of the joke is that there are only two bottles in the cellar.

 

One piece of advice for other poets: What is it?

 

Consider it a life’s work.  After twenty years, I’m finally writing poems that I think reward attention.  I hope in the next twenty years, I’ll learn to write poems that hold up.  And in the twenty years after that…

 

You write a little bit at a time, consistently, and it adds up, and the work improves.  I’ve often had the experience of discovering a way to finally revise a poem that for years hasn’t been quite right or how to use a few lines or ideas that I have squirreled away long ago.

 

Finally, you're stranded on a deserted island and can only have 3 things with you: What are they and why?

 

My wife.  She’s the only person I know that whenever we leave each other, I immediately want to call her up and see when we can meet.  Plus it would finally be a chance for us to have an island vacation together.  I would take our two kids, but they would probably get bored, so how about my iPod with a solar charger.  It not only has thousands of songs, but also audio books and lectures on subjects that interest me, such as Mark Twain and the Civil War.  I also would want a writing utensil that would work until we were rescued and something to write on.  Wait, that’s two, isn’t it.  Can we consider “a writing package” one item?  How about an incredibly durable solar powered laptop?  But, then I wouldn’t need the iPod, so what about a guitar with indestructible strings?  That’s it:  wife, laptop, guitar.

 

*****

 

For more on Joseph Mills, check out his Web site at http://www.josephrobertmills.com/. 

 

Here are some of his poems available online from New Works Review:

 

* "The Thief"

 

* "Release"

 

*****

 

If you're a poet or publisher interested in an interview on the Poetic Asides blog, read more here.

 

 

On Earth Day, I asked poets to write either a poem about nature or industry; many poets chose to write about both. Here are the ones that caught my eye.

*****

 

A Haze over Holland

 

A haze over Holland

looks yellow and gray.

It comes from machines

of this modern day.

Those noisy leaf blowers,

plus busses and trains;

They all make their noises

and spew smoke like rain.

 

The brooks that are babbling

speak to no ear.

And the whispering winds

we no longer hear.

Loud honking geese

fly unnoticed, it’s true.

Long gone is the quiet

creation once knew.

 

So out to the country,

a day trip, I’ll take.

I’ll bask in the sunshine

where life’s not so fake.

I’ll listen to bird calls;

hear rustling leaves.

From the haze over Holland,

I’ll have my reprieve.

 

 

Sue Bench |hd_ultra_96AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

"Rantings of City-Folk"

 

I care about the Earth

and all that is in it

I really do realize

our only home is this planet

But out lives are much easier

with modern convenience

Technology improved

from the way we lived once

No longer a candle

or oil it need be

A flick of a switch

for incandescence to see

Forget the horse and buggy

or a ship to sail by

Cars go much faster

and planes let us fly

If you truly miss me

a phone is all you need

Better than waiting days on end

for a letter to read

I know the air is harsh

and the water is muck

And we do so much worse

just to save a buck

But I rather like living

in my city today

And I really wouldn't have it

any other way

 

 

Chris Granholm Jr. |chris7baAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Oasis

 

Western Texas is a desert

so I shouldn't have been surprised

to see a herd of seven camels

in a field near the highway.

But I had only seen camels

in the zoo and at a live nativity.

I held the image close to me

on the long drive home

with the broken A/C

and the fuel tanker overturned

on the interstate, blocking all lanes.

We, and about a thousand other cars,

took the back roads, clogged them

with our impatience, traffic crawling.

Staff members from the nursing home

next to the road ferried out

cups of water to passengers

mired in sweat and road grit.

As the cool liquid passed my lips,

I thought of camels, seven of them,

their field impossibly green.

 

 

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

"Earth Day ‘08"

 

On the very first Earth Day

my first college girlfriend and I

helped plant trees on the campus.

We were naïve enough to believe

that putting a few saplings in the ground

would help save the planet.

We didn’t do enough – big enough,

hard enough, soon enough.

 

Now the future is a gamble,

but everyone is going green

because it’s very chic

and a hot-button business.

I did my part today –

walked to the supermarket

instead of taking the hybrid,

but forgot my reusable canvas bags.

 

 

Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net

 

*****

 

Desert Seagull

 

Swirling hawk over man-made lake

Seagull of the desert

Dipping and diving

Looking for a single tasty fish

Ever vigilant in his watch

 

He is master of his domain

Water, land and sky

 

Satisfied to be soaring now

Looking for just one

Day’s worth of sustenance

Content to live only for today

And let tomorrow take care of itself

 

 

Tonya Root |booklet dot geoAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Where is the Nature

 

Not in the lilacs beginning to bud

nor in those three rose tulips--

not in the leaves of the Japanese maple

beginning to unpleat themselves

like small hands made of feathers--

not in the plum blossoms that litter the ground

like yesterday's leftover snow--

not even in the ravine

where moss climbs the tree trunks

in shadows and paves the road a brilliant green.

You'll find no wildness here, unless

you can spot the possums, raccoons--

unless you can see the belly of the coyote

who comes out only at night.

 

 

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

*****

 

So easy

 

To get spooked on the lake,

Where deep water meets the bank,

Not near the houses with their sand beaches

Sloping into clear water where matted weeds

Support the squawky little birds that like

To walk on them, not there, but in the brown murky

Water near Leu Gardens where thick ogre fingers reach up

To rake the bottom of the canoe. And when

I look down, their ragged sleeves of moss

Give them so much life that I flinch,

Even knowing they are only

Dead tree branches.

 

 

Lyn Sedwick |LASMD925AT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

Nature's Kaleidoscope

 

Butterflies, ladybugs, bumblebees,

Lend color to the sky like a kaleidoscope.

Hush and hear the hummingbird

Adding his melody to the evening sounds.

Soon the sky will be filled with the twinkle

Of fireflies flitting about.

 

Living creations on a miniature scale

Painting a moving canvas if we but pause to observe.

Dragonflies, moths, and cicadas too

Wear their camouflage to blend in.

As they move the patterns change

Never the same view but always beautiful.

 

 

Iris Deurmyer |mfumcyouthAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net

 

*****

 

Naming

 

"and then awakening naked

to be tattooed by the rivers"

---Pablo Neruda

 

 

Rivers all leave their mark

as easily as ink---

your pink flesh stamped

blue-green forever,

colors shifting in the sunlight

turning muddy brown

when your mind

is troubled with grief.

 

The pain of the rivers' needle

will never fade. Each prick,

10,000 tiny stabs, will all

prove unique, seperate pains

& while you lay beneath the stars

rubbing the place they claimed,

the rivers will call to you

& you will remember their many names.

 

 

Justin Evans |evjustinAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

As I drive

rays of sunlight

seep through

gray, indifferent clouds.

 

Soothed by

my passenger's Jamaican lilt

I ask,

where are you from.

 

St. Mary's.

It's a lil country town.

It's quiet.

No chasing after

ten o'clock.

There

you wonder

where it is.

 

I dream of

sitting on sandy shores

as blue see-through water

laps at my toes,

with a plate of

green bananas

and callaloo

balanced on my knees.

 

Will you ever go back home

to live,

I ask.

 

No, he says.

We all say

we will

but we don't.

 

I suddenly close

the windows

as smoky air

leaks in.

I clear my throat

trying to expel

the odor

of progress.

 

 

Carla Cherry |cmcmagiconeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

Chance Encounter

 

They were there as we rounded the bend

on the highway, myself not driving so I

had the chance to glimpse them for a

second and turn my head to the right

 

And the wonder I never quite got

over from seeing their delicate brown

bodies suddenly dart across my vision

filled me with amazement and fueled

my every breath as if watching them

were powering my soul.

 

Nibbling on the tender grass shoots

their heads down and close to the

earth I felt an intruder in their world.

Heedless of the speeding cars passing

them they dined on their favorite dish.

 

Dozens crowded the two spaces gathering

together from their hiding places during

the day to appear at twilight as if in a

dream holding still like a Seurrat painting.

 

Their eyes weren't visible from the road, but

I remembered close up eyes innocent and

startled staring at me in horror from past

encounters and prayed no eager young fawn

would venture too far off the grass into the

incoming traffic. Nature needs a boundary

to survive these days.

 

 

Barbara Ehrentreu |lionmotherAT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

SPICE RACK

 

These days, my clean mugs and dinner plates

spend their drying time in a chrome dish drainer

that glints with pride at its airy and streamlined efficiency,

and where my belts once flopped over the rod,

now they hang, subdued,

on a maple rack near the lightswitch.

There’s a silver basket for soap

stuck with suction cups

to the back corner of the shower,

it is so easy to get clean,

and I’ve wound the hose into respectable coils

on a keeper by the spigot out back.

Little by little, I’m replacing the clunky

ordinariness you left with good design a lá Target.

I can find the paring knife, my spices are all in a rack

and there’s no one home to cook for.

 

 

Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu

 

*****

 

Nature

 

I stepped outside

into a spring

so alive

I could feel

my pupils shrink.

 

 

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

Spring in the Fred Meyer Parking Lot

 

So what if the keys are locked in the car,

it’s warm sitting on the hood in the spring sun

and the cherry trees are blossoming, pink popcorn

petals waft by in the breeze, scattered like confetti

on the sidewalk.

 

The smell of fried chicken permeates

the air, a crow flies by with a French fry

in it’s beak, dusky sparrows peck at weeds

coming up through the pavement, the AAA man

arrives but we are in no hurry.

 

 

Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

A Cold Spring

 

Every year it’s a scheduled surprise

How fast the buds take their leaf shape

From tiny nub to eager crumpling

Of green ready to photosynthesize.

Too fast, as it turns out, this time-

After a cold winter, a colder spring

(It seems)-the pummeling breeze

Snaps the seedlings at their tethers,

The sparrows pretending to be plump,

But only full of frosty air and feathers,

And the pale leaflets hang from meager

Branches while the tiny ice balls

Flail and fall.

 

 

Hope Greene |hopeAT NOSPAMhopegreene dot com

 

On Day 20, I asked you to write a Love poem. And the sparks started flying immediately. There's no better way to start a week than with a little love, so without further ado.

*****

 

Helping Hands

 

It would be better to think

you were made for me

a custom order

handcrafted to please

those hands that have held babies

carried groceries

and tarped roofs

were just praciting

for that day in the yard

when you reached out

to steady me

and keep me from falling

 

 

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

After the Whole Day

 

Let me feed you

cheeses on a plate.

Let me roll for you

raviolis of gorgonzola,

swirled in a cream sauce

with walnuts, tarragon.

See how the water simmers.

See how the windows steam.

Let me serve you a salad--

frisee and pear,

delicate curls of pecorino,

a whisper of truffle oil.

I have in my kitchen

scallops to sear,

chicken to roast,

and a medley of roots

tossed with oregano, balsamic,

and then a little lemon tart.

When you come home

with the sound of the saw in your ears

and mahogany dust in your hair,

let me pour you a glass of Champagne,

let me take your hands

and lead you to the table you made.

Let me feed you, fill you.

 

 

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

*****

 

My Mistake

 

Tentative touches cannot explain

how much you've actually

changed me.

 

Long, light strokes down

a make-up smeared cheek

try to tell you that

I care.

 

Finger tips pressing lasciviously

into firm thighs attempt

to get you to realize

that I do want you.

 

It was a mistake to try and

send you out of my life -

to try and hide the fact

that I do, love you.

 

It's too late for me to

try and take that back;

to un-tell you that I can't

have you, have these

feelings.

 

But I can try to win back

your favor, your desire

with the slightest whisper

of a kiss on your painted mouth,

promising much more than

words ever could.

 

 

Kateri Woody |kwoody66AT NOSPAMutica dot edu

 

*****

 

One Incarnation of Love

 

cleans the litter-box,

cackles, wakes me up with

political commentaries,

of a world pregnant

with entropy, a blue rose with warts.

 

Good love is a mentholated powder

on the prickly heat of this world.

 

 

Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

*****

 

I Miss My True Love

 

Once again, dear, you’re on the road.

We’re separated by miles and highways,

But linked by cell.

Several times a day, we’ll talk,

But the other half of the bed tonight

Will stay cool, empty, and neat.

I should be used to kissing you goodbye

By now.

But I’m not.

I want you to come home, kiss me good-night,

And lie beside me till I hear the reassurance

Of your warm breathing,

The rhythm of your sleep,

The sure, sweet, safe knowledge

That you are here

And always will be.

 

 

Karen |kphillipsoAT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

Awaken

 

The Man in the Moon knows.

He stays up past dawn

To watch us.

 

The morning doves

Nest near our window

For inspiration.

 

And daffodils

Bow in our direction,

Accepting the warmth.

 

While the world

Is aware of

Our love,

 

We are oblivious

To all but

Each other.

 

 

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

How to Write a Love Poem

 

Choose an iambic vessel for your pleasure

An octave and sestet for good measure

A dash of onomatopoeia will suffice,

Boom Boom,’s too much, but pit-a-pat is nice.

Ask for my heart. Surely I’ll recognize

Synecdoche and give the rest as prize.

Love, dove; strife, life—use no rhymes so cliché;

Choose simplest words for what you have to say.

 

Give love its legs, you must personify

A living thing, but do not let it die.

Don’t mix your metaphors, but be direct

Use similes as well that may reflect

A view of love by what it most resembles

And spice it up with literary symbols.

 

But don’t dare use the least hyperbole

If you want to get within a million miles of me.

 

 

Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

 

*****

 

Tell me Saturday,

Monday, Wednesday afternoon;

Tell me riverside,

Mountain, desert canyon, sea.

Lover, tell me – and soon, soon.

 

 

ck |kephartceAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

Sweet apple blossoms

and succulent plums

sit tired and spent beside us

on a now stained picnic

blanket. And you lace

flowering white in my hair

as the pulpy red hearts

disappear across the grass.

And we wrap ourselves in sheets

of light and hold each other

firmly by the core.

And the sun sinks into universal dawns

as you whisper those

plum somethings in my

blooming ear.

 

 

Khara House |leftnwrite08AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

The volume could be lower.

Silence would be best.

Tonight the History channel

vies with ESPN. World War II

echoes around me as I try

to write a love poem, today’s

poetic aside.

 

Serious tones announce German attacks.

Next voices rise with excitement:

the 76ers have won a NBA game. Innings pass;

76,000 men are taken prisoners.

I think love is here

in this rented room,

in the words I do not speak,

in the poem I don’t write.

 

 

Beth Camp |bluebethleyAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

I’d Like To Take You To Dinner

 

At the Rockin’ Comet Diner

the waitresses wear t-shirts

that say, “Nothin’ could be finer,

than this Carolina diner,”

and we sit at a small chipped table

crowded with condiments

and a dented napkin holder.

 

You order liver and onions,

I get fried green tomatoes and fried okra

because this a Southern diner, after all

and Southern food is all about fried,

but we skip dessert,

which might have been banana pudding,

partly because we’ve eaten enough

and partly because we can’t wait

to get home.

 

 

Beth Browne |womenswritesAT NOSPAMinbox dot com

 

*****

 

In Tent

 

Bluejays riot in the campsite:

s'more debris, hot chocolate powder

and apple peels overlooked in last

night's rush to bed are their morning

feast.

Eventually we will

have to open the zipper,

get up and clean up

the table.

Let's just lay here for now

remembering our own discovery

and content.

 

 

Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Green Lakes

 

I wore the sunburn on the back of my neck

like a badge. Earned from an hour spent

in a paddle boat, on that lake. That lake.

The bacteria makes appear it green, the sign said.

A glacier compelled by invisible forces,

carving into the soft pre-history earth,

made it deep. And the sunfish swimming

just below my floating body, made me scream.

You laughed pulling me to you.

I said i hated you, for not telling me it was there.

Your face found the curve between my neck and shoulder.

My feigned fury dissolved into the water.

Days like that, never last forever.

 

 

Crystal Cameron |crystalclouded731AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

geese bring the

spring time

back with them

their V across

the sky ripping

winter in pieces

with them comes

earlier dawns

later sunsets

rising of sap

blood courses faster

there are those

who would waste

these hours

but in your company

they seem all too

short I watch you

more through the

honey light and

feel my heart swell

and open like

the buds of

lilacs that

wave behind you

in our window

 

 

halfmoon_mollie |tamsinAT NOSPAMtwcny dot rr dot com

 

*****

 

The Awakening

 

I wake to the curve

of a familiar hip,

draped with a swath

of modest sheet…

nakedness reveals all

and sometimes that is too much,

in the morning light

this baring of body and soul.

And filtered through the

blinds, horizontal punctuation marks

of last night’s encounter

are reminders of spent love.

 

You turn,

the sheet slips away

and in the first rays of

consciousness

I know why I am here.

 

 

anne |atkrakAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Lust and Exhaustion are lovers,

they stay up all night, every night

it’s like being young again, only

they are not. Lust drives to work

in the early morning light, moon

sharing the sky with the rising sun,

too tired to see straight, thinking

half of what I’m feeling isn’t love,

it’s sheer exhaustion: The gritty eyes,

the illusion of floating off the ground,

the champagne bubbles in the chest.

Back in her apartment, Exhaustion

rolls over in her sleep, smiling.

 

 

Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

On Day 19, I asked you to write a poem about a memory of yourself that you personally could not remember. For instance, something from early on in your youth, from blacking out because of drinking or medication, or from just having a horrible memory, I guess. I used some anecdotes from my youth and something I said in my sleep, for instance.

The poems you came up with were awesome. There's always so much honesty and passion behind these poems. And they ran the gamut--from terrifically funny to terrifyingly tragic.

*****

 

Four lives before age six

 

I recall reaching

For the orange cup.

But don’t remember

How the bleach burned

Going down my throat.

 

I see the storm door

In my mind’s eye.

But don’t remember

Going through it

arm first.

 

And I see the pavement

Pass inches below

My nose,

But don’t know how

The car door opened.

 

And I don’t remember

Falling from the

Second-story balcony.

But still feel the cool grass

Beneath my broken shoulder

 

 

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Night Terrors

 

When I was a little girl,

One night I awoke

On the kitchen table

Beside the salt and pepper shakers.

 

My mother tells me

I used to dive bomb

Out of my crib,

That she could not build

High enough walls to cage me.

 

If anyone nears my eye

With a finger or brush,

I immediately recoil and tear.

 

My mother tells me I ran

Directly into her extended finger

Around the age of three.

I retell this forgotten story

As my mother stabbed me in the eye.

 

My father made hamburger

Of my fist as I placed my hand

In greased pan. Sometimes I wake

With heated palms. I would later dream

That my sister was cooking our mother

And our mother was still talking to us.

 

But the oddest of all memories

Is a white dress hovering

In the linen pantry mirror,

And my mother asking me

Why I was in the closet that night.

 

 

Bonnie MacAllister |bmacallisterAT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

 

*****

 

The Last Time I Leaned out a Window

 

It was one of those New York days

when steam rises from the sidewalk.

Warm air, oppressive as a wool blanket,

drifts through the open window.

 

I hear barking in the courtyard

six floors below. I climb

on the sill, lean out the window,

stare at the snarling dogs.

 

Large hands pull me back,

turn me over a cotton-clad knee

and, for the first and last time,

spank me.

 

 

Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com

 

*****

 

The Recipe

 

You tell me

I recite recipes

in my sleep.

 

Last night

I was out of tomatoes.

 

You asked

crushed? or chopped?

 

I replied

get out of the kitched.

 

 

Shannon Rayne |shanpidAT NOSPAMshaw dot ca

 

*****

 

Humble Beginnings

 

What Mom remembers is that

on the day of my birth,

since I was the fourth child,

I came very suddenly and

she barely made it the fourteen miles

to the hospital.

She didn’t have time to

wash up the hand-me-downs so

she had to bring me home in

a tattered sweater.

She always felt bad about that.

 

Dad remembers that I was born

on the first day of squirrel season,

and he kept falling off a stump

from being so sleepy

from staying up all night.

 

When my children were born

I tried to tell them more interesting

stories about their births.

 

 

Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Retribution

 

My forty year old son

reminds me of the time

after supper

I threw the dishes

and broke most every one

because I was angry

at his father

over something

he did/didn’t do

three years before

I divorced him

and the reason

he remembers

after all this time

is because he still

thinks it’s funny

that my only comment

was “At least

they were dirty.”

 

 

Linda Brown |llbrownAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

 

*****

 

Grandpa

 

There are bits and pieces of memory

Hands groping

Touching a little girl

That was me.

There are bits and pieces

That still today

Torture the woman

That is me.

The bits and pieces

He left behind

Are still mine

Even though he is dead.

 

 

patti williams |pwilliamswriterAT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

Banana Shoes

 

I am six years old in the picture,

sitting astride a tortoise,

twice my size.

I guess it was a petting zoo

and I am grinning with delight.

My mom says that after she snapped

the picture,

with the old Polaroid camera,

the tortoise caught sight of my yellow

sneakers and thinking it was a tasty

treat, tried to take a bite.

I don’t remember any of this

but the creature’s head was at least

as big as mine,

her mouth much wider

and I guess I should be glad

I still have both feet.

 

 

Beth Browne |womenswritesAT NOSPAMinbox dot com

 

*****

 

A Moment in Time

 

Three years old and riding on a

Subway with my mother. Cane seats worn

And shredding, women complaining of runs

In their nylons which catch on stray strips

 

They tell me I was a `pincher’ in my

Toddler years and Mom never knew

When it would happen or who the

Victim(s) would be or how they would take it

 

Mom and I sit in seats facing others, men

All wearing hats and reading newspapers

But then, a group of nuns in full habit sit down

“Who are those funny ladies?” I yell

 

I had never seen a nun before, and

Demanded an explanation. Impatient with

Mom’s apologies to the women in black and white,

I launch out of my seat, over to the nuns and pinch their knees.

 

 

Sara McNulty |smcnultyAT NOSPAMsi dot rr dot com

 

*****

 

Memory Forsaken

(For the Cousin Never Known)

 

The photo black and white

sepia-stained at the crimped corner,

me laughing, snug on Auntie's hip

a bag of taters and her, not twenty,

bouffant hair, pursed lips and puppy-sad eyes,

evoke dreamy deja-vues of distant toddler-hood

in her mother's house: the creaking staircase;

 

packing boxes of books - Honey Bunch

and Bobbsey Twins – closet cached

under summer-hot eaves; the cuckoo clock

that magically played the Batman theme;

the sun slanting into the dormered room

each morning; cider-tinged orchards

and shiny buckeyes to collect; chipmunks skittering

 

over lichen-lacquered stone walls;

the cool dank cellar of glittering glass,

jars of relish and ‘maters hiding half-full bottles

of gin; the scent of sadness creeping round corners

hushed and still; Auntie weeping, always weeping,

for a daughter she will never know,

holding me instead. Holding me.

 

 

Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

Past and Present

 

I call my older sister, figuring she’d know.

“Tell me a story about myself I’ve never heard.”

She’s helping her son with homework.

“When you were two and I was ten

I got mad at mom and ran away with you.”

“Why’d you take me?”

“Didn’t want to leave you with them. I liked you.”

She tells her son she’ll help him in a minute.

“So I got some graham crackers and a diaper

and propped you up in the back of the wagon.

Mom knew. I went all the way to the stop sign

and around the corner. Far enough

so mom couldn’t see.”

“Why’d you come back?”

“I realized I couldn’t take care of both of us.

Besides I’d made my point.” She laughs.

In the background I hear her son say,

“I’m getting out the graham crackers.”

 

 

Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

 

*****

 

Cigarette Machine

 

My mother and grandmother loved to tell stories

of my precocity, how I could read as early as three –

or so they claimed. They said they realized this

when I’d go with them to the cigarette machine

and pick out each brand – Winstons, Chesterfield Kings,

Camels, Pall Malls. Maybe it was just pattern recognition –

the Pall Mall package, for example, was almost solid red –

but they claimed it was proof of early genius..

 

No doubt, I’d even help them get their favorites –

they slipped coins in the slot and I pulled

the glass-knobbed lever that released the package

with a "ker-chunk" to the bottom tray. Maybe I made

faces in the mirror – all cigarette machines had mirrors,

I’m not sure why. They were everywhere – in the diner,

the bus station, the office, the bowling alley. It was cool

and sexy to smoke – the crewcut man with the skinny tie,

the platinum blonde in shirtwaist and pearls, sharing

a cigarette break. Even doctors smoked on TV.

 

My grandmother died of lung cancer

about eight years ago, a smoker almost to the end.

My mother died not long after. If only I had the power

to see the future then, instead of the power of early reading,

I’d stop their hands before the coins went down

and the Pall Malls or Winstons came out.

Instead, I went on reading like some prodigy.

I never quite lived up to that.

 

 

Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net

 

*****

 

A Sudden Stillness

 

She told the story until

I felt sure I remembered it

from some space between lifetimes,

my kicks inside her wet womb

before storytime with her first graders.

'Once upon a time' and I lay still,

listening to the tales unfold,

was still again as a baby with croup,

pain carried on the wings of 'once upon'

into the late rainy night.

She was Mnemsyne, divine lover of Zeus;

I was her child-muse, being gifted these sacred

stories, yet to be scribed, my feet motionless,

my heartbeat a mere breath in the wind.

 

 

Pris Campbell |camprisAT NOSPAMbellsouth dot net

 

*****

 

Coma

 

There are moments

But not often minutes

When I see. It is possible to

Be awake, but

Only with great effort

Or none.

The joy of life

Is incompatible

With the business of being alive.

 

My cherry tree is about to bloom

It is fully awake

Its only sound is a sigh

Of disappointment as I walk by.

 

 

Gratia Karmes |glk222AT NOSPAMtds dot net

 

*****

 

Jenny and the Pine Tree

 

“We always get a spruce pine

for Christmas,” Mom repeats,

then tells the story of when I,

pre-school-aged and already in trouble

at daycare for biting other bratty kids,

stood in front of the Christmas tree

for a picture with my even-tempered little brother.

I took a step back, and one of those spiny branches

reached out and pinched my neck.

More startled than hurt, I turned around

and bit that horrible little branch,

then yelped and let go when it had the nerve

to poke the roof of my mouth.

Angry, I bit that stupid tree again.

 

 

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

Thanks to all of you, the April PAD Challenge was a phenomenal success. In fact, I think there's no way around making this an annual event moving forward. You can't even know how honored you've all made me feel throughout the entire month, and I'm thrilled to see that a supportive community has developed.

To keep that community going, I asked WritersDigest.com editor Brian Klems to set up a Poetic Asides specific group in their forum located at http://forum.writersdigest.com. If you have an account, just log in and click on the Poetic Asides link. If you don't have an account, it's super easy to create one--and it's totally F-R-E-E (and it don't even cost you any money). I have a welcome message up for the group, but you can begin your own topics and start chattering away. I'm sure there will be some crossover between the new forum group and the blog moving forward, too.

Also, on that main forum page, you may notice there are genre-specific critique groups in Critique Central. One of those groups is labeled poetry, and that's where you, umm, can critique, umm, poetry. Yeah, pretty obvious, I know.

*****

As far as the blog and prompts, I've decided I will continue to do prompts, though not at the breakneck pace of one each day. I'm planning on providing a prompt each Wednesday throughout the year--figuring there's no better way to get over the hump of the workweek than a little prompting and poeming. I hope that'll be a good pace for everyone until next April.

*****

I'm considering the possibility of critiquing one poem per week. More info on this later. But stay tuned--and prod me if I seem to forget about it.

*****

The Poet's Market newsletter is going to make a comeback starting later this month. If you wish to receive the free monthly e-mail newsletter, you can sign up at www.poetsmarket.com.

*****

On May 21, plan on attending the Poetic Asides 2008 April PAD Challenge awards ceremony--at this blog. I'll be recognizing those who completed the challenge, as well as some extra nods and pats on the backs and such.

Plus, at that time, I'll also be handing out awards to poets. Those who completed the challenge will be able to receive one or both of two awards: one is a badge that the magazine design group put together for poets who want to put the award on their blogs and/or Web sites (to show that you completed the challenge); two is a certificate that the book design group is working on that you can print up and tuck away somewhere safe (or proudly frame and display).

*****

On May 22, I'll be answering poetry questions all day somewhere in WD forum. More details to come on this as the event approaches.

*****

Okay, this post is long enough now, I guess. Let me know if you have any questions, concerns, comments, etc. And again, thank you so much for being so awesome!

 

On Day 16, I asked you to write a poem with a twist at the end--something I was calling the "Alfred Hitchcock" poem. I was really impressed with the results and the creativity.

Here are the highlights.

*****

 

Wanted:

 

Roommate willing to share the rent,

the bills, the responsibility; to

put the dishes in the dishwasher,

not the sink; to fold socks together,

rathering than ranting when one

disappears somewhere between

the closet floor and the laundry room.

 

Said person should be willing to

share the remote control, ESPN

balanced with the Food Network,

to carry on conversations

when required, to keep your thoughts

to yourself at all other time,

and to know the difference between the two.

 

Since the place is already furnished,

you won't need to bring anything

but your own clothes, your own books,

and, of course, your car.

I'm taking mine when I leave this place.

If he asks, just tell him I sent you.

 

 

Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

 

*****

 

"My Precious Angel"

 

The pillow still holds your scent

I can close my eyes

and feel the heat from your side of the bed

I spy a strand of your beautiful brown hair

and I can almost imagine

your soft doe eyes

looking back at me

 

Why did I have to kill you last night?

 

 

Chris Granholm Jr. |chris7baAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

DOING IT

 

Some people do it every day.

Some do it not at all.

My aunt she does it all the time,

Some do it near the wall.

 

Some friends of mine, they shut their eyes.

Some friends they say don’t worry.

Some friends tell me it’s not so bad,

Just do it in a hurry.

 

My Gramma did it day by day

A hundred times moreover.

My mother did it only when

Her family would come over.

 

I feel naughty, though, to do it not,

Shame cast upon my head.

For I kick myself come evening time,

When I’ve not made my bed.

 

 

Vanessa O'Dwyer |sheswede99AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Wandering Hands

 

I slide my hand down your back

I grope and fumble

But you remain quiet

Just giving slightly to my touch

 

My sneaky fingers glide around

Your bottom and I’m fumbling once

More. But you are passive

C’mon c’mon, give it to me!

 

Finally I’m on my knees

I drag your leg away

My hand searching for the

Treasure you withhold

 

I just don’t believe it

I was sure you’d give it up

But, sofa, if you haven’t goy my keys

Then where the hell are they?

 

 

Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es

 

*****

 

The aliens came today.

We were surprised

as they brought us

a message of peace

and love and then

told us how it would happen.

 

Our lives were wrong,

they said.

We must live like they did

and then used force to

show us.

For your own good they said.

We want to help

they said.

 

Help from them I cannot

need or want

So I held my head high

and they said it

would be better if

I didn't.

 

But I stood against

and as I saw the crater

in my chest

My last words were

"Go back to Earth."

 

 

Matthew |matthewabelAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

I Am Just Not A Party Animal

 

When we arrive, Hiro greets his pals, each in coat and tails. They rush excitedly to each other; I am ignored. With a sniff and toss of the head, my date abandons me for a drink.

It’s awkward standing here alone.

Just like junior high school mixers.

But in minutes, I run into Kathy from Curtis Park, and Nancy, and Carlo. We socialize loudly above the din; turns out we’ve got much in common.

Too soon, Hiro’s had too much. I drag him, howling and whining, to the car.

He doesn’t want to leave the dog park. Tonight, neither do I.

 

 

Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

The fire was beautiful.

It burned with ferocity,

frightening me a little -

I didn't want us to catch.

You smiled and vowed to

protect me. We shared

a glass of red wine as

we settled down to snuggle

and watch the fire. You

kissed my neck and told

me you love me. I smiled

and we turned back to the fire.

 

Wonder where that snotty witch will live now?

 

 

Monica Martin |lilmunkey2369AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

"Art on the Line"

 

Warm wind

Birds singing

My favorite lavender chiffon blouse

Fluttering in the breeze

Assorted vibrant colors

Billowing on the clothesline

 

Spring is here,

Warm days

Cool nights

my collage of beautiful colors

are dry and

must come down

 

Alas, the lavender blouse

Is gone,

Perhaps

the wind took it

 

Sunday morning

A new day,

Brilliant sunshine

Reflecting off the grass

And warming the tar driveway

next door

 

There is John, my neighbor

Jaunting out to

Retrieve his paper

He is stunning

In my lavender chiffon

 

 

Carol -Amherst, Mass |cboudreauAT NOSPAMhampshire dot edu

 

*****

 

Watching

 

"Every breath you take, every move you make, I'll be

watching you." ~Sting

 

When I first noticed you noticing me

I didn't think too much about it.

I didn't think I was your type,

a wife and mom of thirty something years.

But then I turned the corner and

I could still feel your eyes on me.

Staring, penetrating, unnerving.

I fumbled with my purse, and

glanced around furtively,

hoping to see something or someone else

that may catch your interest, but

I was all alone and your eyes never left me.

My hands shook, without reason.

I tried to pretend you weren't there,

to act normal and hope you'd go away.

But you inched closer, ever closer,

eyes roaming everywhere, searching.

I knew you wouldn't find whatever it was

that you were looking for, but still

you made my skin crawl and my nerves squirm.

I walked quickly away from you and out the door,

although I had done nothing to warrant your attention.

Maybe you were bored that day, or maybe you just

take your job as store security much too seriously.

 

 

Lori |brightiiizAT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

"The Proposal"

 

His brown eyes showed serious affection

and he popped ‘the question’ as we stood

beneath a large old tree. We’ve been friends

for years now, at least three, but my parents said

more time was needed. I wondered if

they saw something that I didn’t and felt

it best if their recommendation were heeded.

Back beneath the large old tree the matter

was solemnly discussed and he and I concluded

that one more year would not be too tough.

By then we would both be six, quite old enough.

 

 

Emily Blakely |ecblakelyAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

*****

 

Tom

 

“Are you coming to bed, Darling?” you call

toward the bathroom door. I will soon,

Darling, but let me gaze upon you first,

study the way you remove your glasses,

carefully replace the bookmark in your novel,

and stretch to set them on the nightstand

before clicking off the lamp. The smell

of the jasmine outside the window surrounds

your image, making you seem even more delicate.

I watch the way you smile so sweetly

while you snuggle down into the warm blanket

that outlines your legs. I’ll be there soon, Darling,

the next time you forget to lock this window.

 

 

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

I can’t believe your cheekiness,

Your lack of disrespect.

You’re certainly the flakiest

Coquette I ever met.

With Manolos and Guccis,

You skirt cut up to here -

Originals by Pucci,

And your lack of underwear;

Might get you adoration

And a night of random sex.

Your brain is on vacation

And your mother asks “what’s next?”

I’m absolutely done with you

You sneaky little tart

You’ve made my life a total mess,

You broke my boy friends heart.

 

 

M J Dills |mjdillsAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

The geese are chasing the people away

from their eggs, down by the river.

The lawn is a beautiful shade of summer green

decorated with romantic iron benches.

Look at the Hollyhocks showing their hues of

sky, and blush, and sun.

The day is open, flowing wide toward forever

and I’m so glad you came to visit.

Cobblestone steps guide the way back to the patio

which delivers its closure.

The electroshock therapy is going well

please come to see me again.

 

 

maeve63 |maeveq63AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

“Unfinished Work”

 

She sits in the easy chair

Directly in front of the roaring fire

Reading my rough manuscript

She says can we have a late dinner

I want to finish this

I want to find out what happens at the end.

Oh you don’t want to do that I say

It’s not ready…I’m not ready.

Don’t be silly she says

Don’t be so damn insecure.

I watch her read

I’m beside myself

I’m not ready for her to…

For me to…

I’m on the last chapter she says

Just give me a few more minutes

This couple you wrote about

She’s so strong and he’s so…weak.

Just keep reading I say

As I gather strength

And move in behind her

Wanting more than ever

For her to be finished.

Oh my God she says as she turns to look at me

I think he’s going to kill her!

 

 

Marcus Smith |sleeperdesuAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

It’s not brain surgery

 

I can’t believe

They don’t

Put me under.

All that cutting

And slicing.

So close to

My brain.

I saw the

Diploma,

But I’m not

Impressed.

Just another

Butcher with

A sharp

Instrument.

I hate haircuts!

 

 

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

So this is it: the final prompt of the April PAD Challenge. We've made it; we've made it. I'd be sad that it's all over, but I think in some ways we're only beginning. (For more on that, check back tomorrow when I do the April PAD Challenge Wrap-Up.) Today, I want you to finish your poem, thrust your open hands high in the air, and say, "Go me! I did it!" (Or something to that effect, I understand that poets can be a reserved bunch--so maybe a simple smirk and fist clench will do the job just as well.)

The main thing is to realize that you accomplished something great in participating throughout the month. After all, you should now have 30 (or more) poems to play with and revise. But here I am trying to stall on the final prompt of the day--not wanting this month to end. :)

And today's prompt is probably predictable if you go back to Day 1's prompt, which was about beginnings and firsts. Day 30's prompt is to write a poem about endings, finishes, finales, etc. Because we've reached the end: great job!

Here's my poem for the day:

"Saturday night in Clifton"

After an evening of perspiration and
secondhand smoke inhalation, the lights turn on
as men with SECURITY written across their
backs herd us out into the street. We're pumped up;
we still want more (encore! encore!); but the planet
continues its mad spin. So I twist myself out
of the loitering mob and sneak down a side street--
head buzzing with the crush of mosh pit memories,
the push and pull of sweaty strangers united
for music adoration. For a moment, I
feel everything is possible, but then an
overwhelming sadness washes over me: the
vacuum between then and now. I walk until I
come to a sign that reads: KEEP MOVING. So I do.

 

Wow! On Day 15, I offered two prompts for Tuesday. And an overwhelming number of you wrote a poem for each prompt. Some of you even went well beyond that. I'm guessing it's because of the prompts themselves: one prompt was to write about taxes (it was Tax Day here in the U.S.); the other prompt was to write an insult poem.

In addition to writing about taxes, I also gave the option of writing about deadlines in general. And as the insult poems came in, a subgenre of Joker-Harley Quinn insults developed (thanks to Kateri Woody). I'm not going to pick favorites, but I have to admit that Bruce Niedt's ROBOT INSULTS had me rolling, especially since I can imagine the synthesized voice of a robot delivering the insults. Very, very funny.

As usual, I'm blown away by the level of participation--both in terms of quantity and quality. After only 15 days of highlighting, I've highlighted more than 100 poets at least once already. My head is spinning at that stat alone. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for making my month by participating in this challenge.

And now, I'll just shut up and provide the day's highlights.

*****

 

One Sided

 

You call me to see how I am doing

Or so you say

But then I hear about not only how you’re doing

But how your children are doing

What they’re doing

Why they’re doing it

And how many problems they deal with

And I hear about their children

Your neighbors and their children

The problems with their health

And your health and your medicine

The top twenty reasons why

You’re too busy to see me

On and on it goes

I’m tempted to put the phone down

And finish what I was doing

To see if you’d notice I was missing

If this conversation was a tennis game

I’d be pummeled by all the balls

I’d be a mass of little round bruises

Do you really care how I’m doing?

 

 

Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

A Smart Remark

 

Don't you give me no lip,

Not that you don't have

some to spare.

A clown's got nothing

on you.

 

Next time you make

a smart-ass remark,

try to live up to

the "smart" part,

since you've got the

"ass " covered.

Something you do best.

 

 

Joe |joemackinnonAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

Belly

 

Hello Belly in my lap

What are you doing here

At first you looked so big,

I mistook you for my rear

 

 

Carol -Amherst, Mass |cboudreauAT NOSPAMhampshire dot edu

 

*****

 

A Love Letter

 

This is not meant

as insult, not a smear,

a sneer or a kick,

just the truth

in the way that I see it.

Don't get all bent,

I'll make it unsent,

with any luck

you won't see it.

Your mouth, though cute,

runs off like a shot,

obnoxious and hot,

and your voice

it does grind

an impossible shrill,

it's a wonder to me

I've not reached my fill

of the noise that you spill.

And I've said it before,

I'll say it again,

it's not an insult

but a quaint little truth,

those eyes that you have,

they're as crooked as sin,

I once thought them effectionate,

but that was the gin,

I believe if I look

in just the right light,

I can see how they turn

and cross with each other,

but that's not vanity,

your sorry attempts

to look at yourself,

I call it frustration.

With a nose like a tuba,

there's no way you'll spot

yourself in a crowd

with eyes that won't meet.

But let's not be hasty,

you know I prefer pasty

when searching complexions

you get my affections.

Oh, you know that I'm kind,

and quite crazy for you,

with that little mind,

there's not much you can do

so forgive me my insults

and love me complete,

you're lucky to have me

I'm terribly sweet.

 

 

Kevin |kevintcraigAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

Insult Poem

 

I love your gown by Vera Wang

But did it only come in blue?

I think your color’s clearly red

The teal looks much too dark on you.

And that new hairstyle’s all the rage

Although it makes your face so thin

The way it curves around your cheeks

It plays up your receding chin.

The shoes are sexy on your feet

I’m glad you didn’t go for flats,

Except the cutouts at the toes

Do make them look so very fat.

The flab that hangs down from your arms

Is really only slightly there,

A jacket would have hidden it,

But never mind, leave your arms bare.

The tan you have, is it for real

Or is it from a tube, or spray?

It really doesn’t matter much,

It’s sort of orangey either way.

 

You look the height of elegance

No one would guess you’re in your prime

Your party sounds quite lovely, dear

Do go and have a lovely time.

 

 

Linda Brown |llbrownAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

 

*****

 

Insult Poem

 

Wow, an insult poem

that’s just not my style

when someone offends me

I just look at them with a face of stone

then I simply smile

 

I usually try not to let negativity

control what I have to say

anger clearly has no relativity

to what’s happening in my day

 

I am sure it’s well known

that when one lets anger in control

even just for a poem

one loses sight of the picture as a whole

and focuses instead on the fury

often by doing things in a hurry

 

Who to insult

well, I just don’t know

there are many I would not mind to offend

it seems as the world turns, the list will grow

would be nice to put an end

to some of them, and their meaningless show

guess that sounds violent

certainly that’s not how it’s meant

I just want some to learn the err of their ways

so that perhaps we can all have better days. . .

 

©Rodney C. Walmer 4/15/08

 

Rodney C. Walmer |wasitchuAT NOSPAMoptonline dot net

 

*****

 

"Mad Love"

 

It's not that I don't love the way

that your nasally, high pitched

caterwauling of 'Puddin'

greets me everytime you see me.

 

It's not that I don't love the way

you throw yourself at me at speeds

the freaking Flash would appreciate

whenever I'm not looking.

 

It's not that I don't love the way

you interrupt my work with propositions

in unflattering nightwear, complete

with 'Harley' sound effects to boot.

 

It's not that I don't love the way

you hang off of my every last word,

or how easily convinced you are

to do what any peon says.

 

It's not that I don't love the way,

you so desperately, needily, want me

to love you back - even though

you know that I'm just using you.

 

It's not that I don't love you,

I just can't.

 

 

Kateri Woody |kwoody66AT NOSPAMutica dot edu

 

*****

 

Settling the Matter

 

I think you'll agree that it's useless

to argue about who is the rubber

and who is the glue.

 

People often point out

my resilient qualities

and my springy disposition.

 

And your handshake

that one time, if you recall,

was quite sticky.

 

I know you had just been

kneading fresh bread dough,

but that is beside the point.

 

 

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

My insult poem (for the youngest among us):

 

An overcoat spoke to a coat of paint.

He said with conviction and little restraint:

"I cover a woman who wears a nice blouse."

"So what?" cried the paint, "I cover her house!"

 

(Toad Pizza poem #246 of 1,567)

 

Bill Toad of Toad Pizza |infoAT NOSPAMtoonutsproductions dot com

 

*****

 

Deadlines

 

make me panic

make me freeze

make me want

to do my laundry

run my dishwasher

count the ceiling tiles

anything but write

deadline pressure

delay and fret

until the

last

possible

moment

and then submit

then there’s

the whole

word count issue

don’t even

get me

started on that

 

 

TaunaLen |taunalenAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

INSULT POEM

 

your face is a dry river bed

with furrows wide and deep

your nose is warty and hairy

you snort while others sleep

your hair is sharp and wiry

with barbs made out of nits

your arms are big and saggy

we won’t even mention your …

chest

your intestines growl and grunt

you surely don’t have a heart

your back is pimply and rounded

and your hips are metres apart

your stomach reaches your toes

and your thighs could never part

your bottom’s as big as two mountains

you’re a very ugly old …

woman

 

 

Maureen |sajwriter06AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com dot au

 

*****

 

Insulting Sylvia Plath

 

We teenage girls all loved

a good suicide story. Belt noose,

waterlogged lungs, gas ovens,

The Bell Jar was our how-to

if we should want to push through

and blast a grand exit, though we never

did. We didn’t have to. What counted

was knowing we could have, if we dared,

this one small bit

of self-defeating agency.

 

But Plath was a poetic copout,

my teacher insisted, playing cheap, the tired

old trope of the lovely girl longing

for daddylove. Enough

with the depression, the pitymongering,

he said, look at Diane Wakowski

who showed us that at least

the world still has oranges in it.

 

But what teenage girl doesn’t feel

she’s got too little, or worse, too much

from Daddy? He’s an unreachable

shore, and we’re swimming till we drown,

either way. I like oranges, too, but

their sweetness is immaterial

when what you really want is not

daddy’s love so much as his power,

to grasp your tender life in your own hands.

 

 

Tria

 

*****

 

freshman deadline

 

date circled

topic chosen

followed by

late nights

researching

at the library

(insert panic attacks here)

piles pile up

notes piled between books

piled between more books

(insert lack of sleep here)

rough draft drafted

revised and cut

then final finalized

tuned in to wait

(insert

dread

regret

and

hours of second guesses)

for a grade

(and wishing

I had used

spell check)

 

 

satia |satia62AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

ROBOT INSULTS

 

He’s as dumb as an Atari 2600.

 

You couldn’t find your parallel port with both appendages.

 

She has a sensory receptor panel that could stop a chronometer at 6.75 meters.

 

The LED’s are on but there’s nothing contained in the housing.

 

He’s not operating with a full hard drive.

 

I wouldn’t network with you if you were the last compatible modular unit on the planet.

 

Go interface yourself.

 

 

Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net

 

*****

 

To the Joker, Love Harley

 

Yes, I hang on your every word,

laugh at your antics, throw myself

at you every chance I get.

And you think it’s all for the

nonexistent promise of your love,

your affection.

 

You fool.

 

While you spend your time trying

unsuccessfully to get rid of your worst

nightmare, the dark one, the one who

haunts your world, both waking and

dreaming, I take it all in. I watch and

learn. I know, one day, my chance

will come. What you think is a kiss

of passion, will be a kiss of death. The

death of your world, your mind, you.

 

I will take over.

It will all be mine.

And I will be so much better,

than you could ever hope to be.

 

 

Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

Tax Relief, Tax Return

 

I'm an accountant's daughter,

so April 15th was always a holiday at my house.

 

My dad would re-materialize -

he'd stop staying out 'til six in the morning;

he'd stop spending so much time

with those overflowing piles of clients' files

and start challenging me

to Scrabble scrimmages and Monopoly matches,

he'd sit down to read the stories

I typed out for him on our old IBM 386,

and our miniature golf season

would at long last have its opening night.

 

But even now I'm grown and a hundred miles away,

I still think of Tax Relief as Father's Freedom Day.

 

 

Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

Insult:

 

Two poets met at a pub

and after a ‘few’, their words began to rub

 

#1: I don’t like your assonance

#2: Well your misuse of tropes is quite flagrant

 

#1: Why don’t you take your iambic foot out of your mouth

#2: No wonder you can’t make a rhyme, your brain went south

 

The barkeep slammed down his fist and said, “I’ve heard quite enough”

Then the poets parted wondering why he had to be so gruff

 

 

Emily Blakely |ecblakelyAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

*****

 

Mad Love, Part Deux

 

It's not that I don't feel the pain

when your cackling laughter

goes on and on and on

every time you *think* you’re funny.

 

It's not that I don't feel the pain

at your pathetic double-crosses

as if green hair and a whoopee cushion

makes you the boss o’ me or somethin’.

 

It's not that I don't feel the pain

when you ignore all my propositions

to think about how to defeat Bats

without killin’ yourself.

 

It's not that I don't feel the pain

of you ignorin’ every smart thing I say,

or how stupid you are to think

I’ll come back to feed the hyenas.

 

It's not that I don't feel the pain

that you can’t stand,

like every other typical guy,

that I can be good as you.

 

It's not that you don’t love me,

Puddin,

but bein’ great on my own’s the

worst insult I could give.

 

 

Rox |babayagaAT NOSPAMbaymoon dot com

 

*****

 

Lifelines

 

These days no one asks for a daily report

to tally my accomplishments,

and I have no targets to hit, no papers due, no deadlines to meet.

There are no diners waiting for eggs-over-easy,

no coffee to pour,

no fish to fry,

no melons on the brink of spoiling in the truck I don’t drive.

There are no toddlers to lead through circle time, no envelopes to stuff,

I don’t have to chair the meetings I don’t attend, and

I am strategically planning for nothing in the coming six months.

 

I can spend the morning scouting nearby neighborhoods

for blossoming dogwoods and the first of the iris,

or lose an afternoon watching herons return to

their awkward roosts in the tops of tall trees.

Whenever I want, I can learn Italian, read those books piled by the bed,

practice the violin or take up Tai Chi.

And I will.

 

Just as soon as someone comes along and gives me a deadline.

 

 

Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu

 

*****

 

Taxing, 1985

 

It must have been unseasonably warm

in my small midtown room, a year

before I met Howie on Third Street

who wore thick glasses and didn't blink

at last minute taxes. Instead, I spread

numbers out on my bed until they swam

like fish, skittered like the cockroaches

cha-cha-ing in the kitchen. I inflicted

upon myself long division, multiple

multiplications, decimal places proliferating,

always adding up to something different,

always the same: not enough. Hours

after sunset, I came to some truce

of sums, carefully wrote in the boxes,

on the lines, and signed. Then I entered

the evening, went down to the thirties

where the big main branch of the Post Office

bloomed in the darkness, gold light spilling

from its windows and doors like exotic petals,

like portals to some ancient paradise,

and people streamed toward them

from all directions. Swept along in that current,

invited into that bright inside, I handed

over my envelope. Released,

I walked back down the wide stone stairs,

lifting ever lighter with relief, the city

opening into the April night.

 

 

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

Yay! So many of you have made it past the sestina! And I'm still alive, though I'm sure many of you no longer consider me your friend. ;)

It's nice to put in a very tough exercise every so often (don't worry, the final two days should be a little more relaxed). In fact, with the weather getting so nice around Southwestern Ohio the past week or two, exercise (the physical kind) has been big on my mind.

Way back in March, I must've known I'd be in an exercising mood, because the first "Two for Tuesday" prompt is to write a poem about exercise. For most people, you either love it or hate it. If you do exercise regularly, it would be interesting to know whether you do it for the end result (that is, good health, a trim physique, etc.) or the process itself (just because it feels good to move).

Prompt #2 is a little more open-ended for people who don't have any emotions whatsoever attached to exercise. For this prompt, I want you to write a poem in the 2nd person.

Here's my poem of the day (combining the two prompts into one poem):

"How to go running on an August morning"

Start off with some stretches. Do your legs
first, then your arms. Walk to your starting point
and begin with a light jog. Let your muscles and
lungs ease into a rhythm. Focus on keeping
your wrists and hands slack. Relax your shoulders
and bottom lip. After the first mile, lengthen
your stride while keeping your breathing balanced.
Listen to the birds. Keep your head straight.
Relax your shoulders, your hands, your bottom lip.
Focus on your next step, not on the finish line;
stay within yourself. After the fifth mile, pull
off your shirt. Feel the sun on your skin as it begins
to warm the earth. Imagine you are winning a race.
Imagine someone is only a few steps behind;
lose that person. Relax your shoulders but keep
up a fast pace. Do this through the finish line.

 

On Day 14, I asked you to write a poem with the title "This is how (blank) behaves" where you fill in the blank and go from there. Many people wrote about their hearts, their minds, their pets, and two people even wrote about Mr. Monk from that one TV show that I've never seen, though I've always thought it looks very interesting.

Enjoy the highlights.

*****

 

How Colorado Spring Weather Behaves

 

This April weather behaves

Like some mysterious stranger

Not willing to let you know

Who he is or what he’s up to.

 

Or like a naughty kid

Having a temper tantrum

With thunder and lightning one minute,

Sleeping peacefully with sunshine the next,

Then mischievously tricking you into

Thinking it will warm up soon, then it snows.

 

Or like an over-motherly mother

Telling you to put your sweater on,

The next moment telling you to take it off.

 

Or like a brooding teenager

All gray clouds one minute, sunshine the next.

 

Or a flirtatious tease

Urging you to come out and play in the sunshine

When there’s work to be done indoors.

 

Or like an irritating boss or teacher

Whose mind seems set to spoil your fun when

You try to have a picnic, but the blustery

Wind blows your plates and cups away.

 

This spring weather behaves like a schizophrenic,

Many personalities all wrapped up into one.

 

 

Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

How my Pen behaves

 

About thirty seconds after I’ve finished staring

at an indistinct spot roughly four feet seven inches from

the end of my nose and twenty million light years from reality my pen starts to move all by itself it seems, a spider-scrawl runs out of control back and forwards across the page faster than my eye can see much faster than my brain can think so I know it’s not me that’s in control and could write anything it could write prose or verse or worse combine the two

in something new that isn’t either and can’t be both cos that’s just wrong and sometimes it makes sense but even then I can’t read a damned thing when it’s finished and it’ll take three times as long to type out as it did to write

sometimes its gets a-musing which is amusing (sometimes) about philosophy and stuff like the meaning of life or Liff (which is a funny little book) like how or why

clever people would put household pets in metaphysical boxes and ask people whether they are in there or not, they should know, it’s like refrigerators

that’s the same thing, light on light off. Sometimes it turns out my pen has penned a stream of drivel and I’m glad it’s not my fault but I am scared that when I next open the fridge

I’ll have just killed somebody’s cat…

 

 

Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es

 

*****

 

How My Computer Behaves

 

Like a stubborn child,

my computer won't respond

when I click the mouse.

It's chomping away at

those binary bits, strings

of ones and zeroes

flickering faster than

my fingers can type,

turning on and off

and on again,

while I continue to click,

grind my teeth,

and swear.

 

 

Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com

 

*****

 

How My Left Ear Behaves

 

It doesn't, never has, there is

no use in trying a hearing aid

or cochlear implant or anything

else exciting science might dream up

because there is no nerve

within to transmit sound

so at concerts and ballgames and

when my husband revs up the

lawnmower motor, I have just

the right one to protect

and pamper, be extra nice to

and avoid damage; but

the "bad ear" gets treated

like a boring party guest.

If I ask you to sit on my

left at dinner one night, it might be

because I want to tune you out.

 

 

Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

How My Genes Behave

 

Cancer coarses through my bloodline.

And where we all once stood tall-

as anxious and eager as newly

planted trees, reaching out

with tiny arms to be cared for

and lifted up by Mother Nature-

we are now half of who we were.

 

When I was born I remember light

and life but then the divorce

epidemic struck. All the men fled

to drugs and death and the women

were too young and thin

and could hardly carry

milk in their breasts.

 

Someone twice-removed died

in the South, falling off a cliff

on a lawnmower. My grandfather was shot

by his ex-wife's new boyfriend. An uncle

tried to live by heart surgery

but then died of disease

in his blood.

 

The addiction to medication, self-help

and drink caught on early

for depressed cousins and brothers. Some

caught up in a cycle of sobriety

and relapse. Some of them

will die peacefully

in their sleep.

 

How sickness and the end

of everything

finds us while we are trying

to get through a day

destroys me with anger. But

anger is a disease with which

I refuse to live.

 

 

Leigh-Evelyn Martin |leightakescareAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

How Waldorf Salad Behaves

 

In its creamy bed of mayonnaise and sugar

and lemon juice

 

The crisp apples bite back at stalks of celery

and walnuts

 

Crunching with delight the flavors blend

to make a most delectable impression

 

 

maeve63 |maeveq63AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

How My Cat Behaves

 

She naps in the hall

I peek around the wall

She sees me

I duck back and hide

And she comes prancing

Around the corner

To find me;

The excitement

Of a three-year-old

Dancing in her eyes!

 

 

Anahbird |anahbirdAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

How My Hips Behave

 

As I was growing up

I put my hands on my hips

Loved the way the roundness

Would feel

 

And when the children

were babies

I’d swing them on my hips

Just to hear them squeal

 

Oh, how my hips

behave

 

They swell

With each sweet I eat

 

So I sway them

to tantalize

each man I meet

 

On future nights

they will cradle

my love to sleep

 

And during each day

He’ll think of me

rave about, and crave

the way my hips behave.

 

 

Carla Cherry |cmcmagiconeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

How my hands behave

 

Watching them work

is like discovering

a new species

at the ends

of my arms,

strange and curious,

like some form

of blind sea anemone

escaped from the depths

of the ocean

and attached itself

to my wrists

while I slept.

 

They seem restless

atop these warm keys,

nervous and twitching

between typing these words,

wanting to curl around

the cold comfort

of a bottle

and the familiar

movement of embracing

numbness.

 

Often it seems

as though they move

independent of my mind,

idly twisting a lock of my hair,

scratching an itch

I didn’t realize was there,

bunching into fists

or stretching,

popping knuckles

to relieve the stress

of arthritic over-use,

searching the contents

of my jacket pockets,

tracing the contours

and textures of a Zippo lighter,

wiping the gunk

out of my sleepy eyes,

or digging the extra skin

out of my inflamed ears.

 

They must love my beard,

for I find them there

most often

tangled in the coarse

black and gray,

massaging the jaw-line

of my stoic face,

probably sick

to death

of having nothing better

to touch.

 

 

Jay Sizemore |vader655321AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

How Canadian Geese Behave

 

Eight thousand feet up.

Fifteen hundred miles a day.

Sixteen hours at a time.

 

The lead bird takes the brunt of the wind,

making the flock 70% more efficient.

When he tires, another takes his place.

 

If two flocks meet, there isn’t a standoff

or a board meeting or a coup, they merge

seamlessly and keep on flying.

 

When a goose is injured, a few comrades

stop flying and stay until it gets better.

 

They mate for life.

 

They honk, my pastor says, not to toot

their own horn, but to encourage each another.

He urges us to honk a little more.

 

 

Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

 

*****

 

How Plastic Wrap Behaves

 

Like your embarrassing Uncle Mike,

it clings to everything you don't want it to,

especially your fingers.

And no matter how hard you try,

it refuses to hold onto the important things,

lets go, calmly watches them slip

from its grasp.

 

 

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

How my lusting eyes behave:

 

Green like grapes cut in half,

forty and flashing they haven’t forgotten

how it felt to gaze

Into blue, brown, hazel pairs.

so on introduction

they move of their own accord

not to lips or face or brown, red, black hair, no hair at all,

but that third finger on the left hand

with its circular symbol of rebuff.

 

 

Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu

 

*****

 

How My Memory Behaves

 

Like aged lovers, too many years together,

we bicker over the details.

I learned long ago you have your faults,

but joined as we are, I can’t grudge them.

 

We take walks down that proverbial lane

and you dawdle, you lollygag,

you stop to smell a flower that looks familiar

but you won’t tell me the name.

And when I call you to my side

with a question, sometimes

your eyes glint—impish elf!—

and you withhold. Other times,

not so proud, you pull

the answer from a dusty shelf.

But my favorite times are the ones

when you close your eyes, you know

you knew once upon a yesterday,

but can’t for the life of you

recall when. Later, you’ll wake me

from sleep, eager, smiling, to give

the answer to a forgotten question.

 

We will grow old together—

sit on the swing swaying forward

and back, back and forwards again,

laughing at how much we can’t remember.

 

 

Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

How the Bird Behaves

 

I saw a bird go flying,

Flying through the air,

Riding on a morning breeze

Without a single care.

He glided through the sunlight,

Landed on a tree,

Pulled a song out from his heart

And chirped the melody.

I stood beneath the branch,

Admiring him there,

When the happy singing bird

Put droppings on my hair!

 

Damn, bird!

 

 

Linda Hofke |LNSHOFKEAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

Today's prompt is to use a photograph to create a poem. You can raid your dusty photo albums, look through your daily newspaper, scour the Internet, etc. But you must use a photograph. Them is the rules, yo!

(Sorry for the brevity today, but my book is soooo close to being done!)

Here's my poem for the day:

"Take a picture; it'll last longer."

She smiles at me through the mirror
applying her makeup with a towel
wrapped around her hair. She's dressed
for the office, and I haven't decided
upon my Manhattan game plan while
she's out. She's wearing a green sweater
pulled over a white button-down, and
I say, "I love you," before pressing
the button, waiting for the flash.

 

It's hard to believe that a week from today I'll be posting the last prompt of the month. We're already almost a month older than we were at the end of March. Time just continues to fly by--even in a poetry challenge, huh?

Well, today's prompt is sympathetic of the fact that time continues its march and that things continue to change and stay the same all at once. Today's prompt is to write about getting older.

No matter your age, everyone gets older with every. single. second. and. heart. beat. Seriously, even my 4-year-old laments over how he's getting older and misses the good old days of not going to preschool and having "to learn stuff."

So, you can lament over your glory days, express your insecurities of being in transition, or brag about how you're at the perfect age to live life completely content (lucky you). I'm guessing y'all will have a lot of fun with this one.

Here's my poem for the day:

"Today"

"Your hard work will pay off today."
                       -Fortune Cookie

Sometimes I wonder if today is the day
that everything comes together, and I
get the raise and the girl and the parade
through downtown. Is this when I get
my "pay off" for trying? But then, I think
maybe my "pay off" comes every day.
Maybe it's simply the process of getting
from here to there. Maybe my "pay off"
is hard work and two boys who love me,
that moment outside the laundromat
late at night, listening to her voice and
the stillness of a spring evening suddenly
broken by bikers cruising the streets
on their hogs. I'm still just a teenager
at heart and in love with the world, but
sometimes I wonder if today is the day.

 

Paper clips! There were a lot of paper clip poems written on Day 11--when I asked you to write a poem describing a thing. Actually, I found that your focus on description led to some really, really great poems. One of my favorites, in fact, is a poem about--you guessed it--the paper clip "Bent into a 'u', then bent again,/another 'u' into itself, this bit of wire/we entrust to keep our documents secure." Check out all of today's highlights below.

*****

 

Calendar Above My Desk

 

Every month a new world

bubbling brooks

scarlet sunsets

sailboats idling in the harbor

words like

Winnipesaukee

Ammonsoosuc

Mt. Monadnock

days morph into months

months yearning for vacation

a glance up from my monitor

is a journey away from here

 

 

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

Everything Must Go

 

In the parking lot, behind the dollar general, at 2

in the afternoon, a young man thrust hands

into pockets of an old three-button suit fit

for someone half his size—as if he might

have fished it from a thrift-store or a pile

of clothes at a yard-sale, estate sale, auction

for the peeling home behind the elementary

school where people pick and peck at tables

on the outgrown lawn, silent as hungry

blackbirds after grubs. Nobody looks

into windows, knocks on doors. Nothing

to see here. Nothing they haven’t seen before

on every street in town. Another sign goes

up. Another. And someone gets a tax break

when they buy the place on Market for half

of what its worth. And damn, if they’d a let us

pay that price to start, we could a kept

the bastard. Or if the Ford plant didn’t move or if

And the walls ache empty as the stomachs

of strays who wade sunsplashed in river water

with a girl off route 222. Everything idles,

engines low on gas, turn, sputter out a grinding

song. Everything’s for sale. For rent. Fore

closed. Everything must go. And the young man

hums a melody that could be a spiritual, though

he doesn’t look like a boy to sing spirituals. Too

mod, too hip, too fashionably poor. And no-one

sings those old songs anymore, having lost the feel,

the touch that looks you up and down and says, “I know”

because we do. Or should. After all, it’s nothing

we haven’t heard before: the way we mutter

to ourselves, taking as we do what falls

to us with hands open as any supplicant’s. How

many doors swing idly in and out? And tell me who

wore the jackets we are wearing now?

 

 

Joel Peckham |joel_peckhamAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

The Nose

 

Well, as the old saying goes.

The thing you overlook’s your nose

A nose is such an odd looking thing

A bump, two holes, graced with wings

It blesses you with fragrant smells

Like cookies, lilacs, caramels

Or it curses you with things malodorous

Skunks, dirty diapers, a diesel bus

But above all, its kindest grace

Is to keep your glasses on your face

 

 

Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

WINDSHIELD WIPERS

 

Back and forth

back and forth

We wipe the tears of the sky

off the glass shield

to give you safer travels

while on slick roads

back and forth

back and forth

We remove debris and dirt

that has piled up in your neglect to clean

as often as you should

back and forth

back and forth

We grow weary from the frequent use

but keep going at whatever speed you choose

back and forth

back and forth

You get frustrated with us because

we aren't as sharp as we once were

Smears and smudges leave a trail

because YOU refuse to keep us up

The next time you are squinting from the

glare of oncoming lights

because there is no more fluid

and we can't wipe the glass clean dry

maybe you'll decide to stop going

back and forth

back and forth

without giving

CHANGING THE WIPER BLADES

a try!

 

 

Christa R. Shelton |c_writesAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

In Consideration of My Left Eye

 

Today will I consider my left eye.

Not my metaphorical eye,

nor the third eye my sister's friend

the astrologer says is wide open

even when I sleep. No, today

I will look directly into my own left eye,

taking into account everything I see.

 

First, my upper lid obscures the iris

unless I pretend to be surprised. The fine

window cracks of blood vessels in the whites

flow like mapped roads, driving beneath

the skin where I cannot follow.

 

On the inner wall of my pupil, beneath

the green ring which precedes the blue

for which I have received so much praise,

something geometric grows, straight, angled,

and a complete mystery. It catches the light,

making the study of whatever it is

quite impossible.

 

Approaching the mirror, I can see in the black,

the reflection of me, looking at myself. I am

small, as if I have captured myself, imprisoned

more than my reflection, more than myself.

 

When I turn and look straight at my eye,

I notice how part of my eyeball is darker,

almost jaundice. I pause to consider the line

between bright and dull, wonder if it cuts me

in half in other ways, intersects my life,

determines for me who I really am.

 

With nothing more to observe worth mention

inside my left eye, I think it best to avoid

the symmetry of my right eye, or perhaps

the disappointment of learning

they are in fact not the same as each other.

 

My final consolation is this:

At least I was, after all has been seen and said,

wise enough to avoid observing my nose.

 

 

Justin Evans |evjustinAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Moss

 

When we say “moss” in the South,

we specifically mean Spanish moss,

 

that kinky, grey wig that drips

from the old oak branches,

 

that red bug-infested parasite

that (with the smell of wet

cow pastures) reminds me of home.

 

 

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

Manure

 

Every time you

spoil the lilt of my potpourri,

every time you stick to my feet or

my thoughts along

that path I want pristine,

I need to remember

that you are the Limburger cheese

behind all things verdant.

 

 

Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

*****

 

The Tree

 

stood in the front yard, next to its

brother on the other side of the

walkway. Small maples, beautiful

lush leaves. One of the reasons we

bought the little fixer-upper in the

first place, the nice visual at the

 

front door. One tree continued to

grow and thrive. The other seemed to

shrink into itself. As the seasons flew

by, the brother grew tall and strong,

while the sibling’s branches stopped

growing and curled up toward the

center. Then the bark started to peel

 

off, and we knew the end had come.

It was time to cut our losses and let

it go. I watched the saw cut into one

of the reasons we bought this small

fixer-upper and felt a sense of loss.

 

 

Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

The Treadmill

 

Symbol of my hope, my will,

rubber walk on frame of steel,

How I wonder how you feel,

my poor neglected treadmill.

 

She who walks you nowhere goes,

yet we keep you, I suppose,

not for walking, heaven knows.

I need a place to hang my clothes.

 

 

Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

 

*****

 

Paper Clip

 

Bent into a “u”, then bent again,

another “u” into itself, this bit of wire

we entrust to keep our documents secure,

has been attached to unexpected lore.

The story goes that some Norwegian

was the first to patent this invention,

and much later, in the Nazi occupation,

his countrymen wore paper clips

on their lapels, a secret solidarity

against the Reich and for their king.

Eventually this morphed into a symbol

of the Holocaust, and recently some kids

from Tennessee collected paper clips,

six million plus, to represent

the Jewish victims of that hellish time.

A humble turn of wire for a soul,

something we must fasten,

never to forget.

 

 

Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net

 

*****

 

Baby Fingers

 

Impossibly small

Perfectly formed

Lilliputian mimics

Of my ten digits

So tender and soft

Pink and clean

Translucent

Like a sea anenome

Exploring, reaching

Waving at the breeze

Giving my Gulliver sized

Finger a squeeze

 

 

SaraV |slvinasAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

his ear

 

shiny skin pulled tight over stiff cartilage

soft down covers boneless earlobe

the swirl and whirl of light and shadow follows

the sinuous curve which doesn't seem to end,

like a nautilus circling ever more tightly

around the auditory canal, which waits to

hear the words, "I love you..."

 

 

A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

Spoon

 

It's a big and made of plain metal

with a wood handle worn by use,

by washing. It stirs the pasta

or the onions, the peppers in olive oil,

it serves wherever it is needed.

 

How bright the sun poured

as we walked out our new door,

under the thick leaves of old trees,

past the jail, circles of razor wire catching the light,

and onto the broad boulevard,

or that's what it was called.

 

Our first night in our first apartment

together, our first morning

and a trip to the diner for breakfast.

We lingered by the tables

of the church ladies' sidewalk sale,

and we bought this practical spoon--

our first utensil in our new life.

 

After two decades,

I'm on the other side of the country

and the husband has passed,

but the second-hand spoon keeps

its place in the drawer, more

treasured than the meat fork it came with

or the glass bowl I bought

when I was twenty, even

the colander handed down

from my grandmother

that has a dent and is missing

both handles and that I can almost

let go of. The spoon stays.

 

 

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

*****

 

My father’s shirt

 

My father’s shirt,

Soft brown cloth

The color of his cigars

When he smoked them

 

With the stitched deer head

On the pocket

That I’d snuggle

My cheek against

 

I snuck it from

The garage sale box

And wore it

For a few years

 

Now it’s folded

In my drawer

Sometimes

I take it out

 

To trace the stitches

On the pocket

And hold the worn cloth

Against my cheek again

 

 

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

My Parents’ Marriage

 

It will be 52 years this summer

And it is a hand played with finesse.

I watch them and soak them up,

Their fealty, concern for other.

How tenderly and diligently she

Cushions his world as the Parkinsons advances,

How dignified he is as his body cripples.

No trumping each other, though there were the years of that too,

Now transcended.

 

And when they were describing the accident

To me

(20 years ago, now?)

Each of them said, separately,

How when the car started to spin out of control

That they instinctively just

Reached

For the hand of the other, and held on.

No panic, like that, together.

 

 

Corinne |c dot dixonAT NOSPAMtelus dot net

 

*****

 

Canvas

 

What colors cast their spells

against this void of fabric

and gloss, blended from brushes

 

and thinners into magic potions

or portraits of the serene. Bleeding

fingertips of horses’ hair splash,

 

sling, and dapple, creating the shadows

and highlights, and highlights

inside the shadows of faces, of hands,

 

of trees. Reality is captured

or captured and bent through a diffuse

set of eyes and a prismatic lens

 

to give the world a taste and a glimpse

of something as pure and intangible

as a snowflake on the tongue.

 

It’s a hymen, a gateway, to all secrets untold,

but before that, it’s blank,

like this empty page, I filled with words.

 

 

Jay Sizemore |vader655321AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

Sleek brown fox

peers over his shoulder

at his identical mate.

Ears sharply alert,

eyes deep and penetrating.

He poses with one paw

held in mid-air.

A sentry on my mantel;

Carved by great grandpa,

now guards our family.

 

 

Sue Bench |hd_ultra_96AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

and i will make you a mixtape

 

music holds

a history: i laugh

at my age

when a girl

asks me

about cassettes

and how

we used them

in the wayback

and bygone

era

 

i still

listen to tapes

and their hiss

and watch

as the toothy

gears spin

inside

the deck

 

the sound-

track of three

years

together and three

apart, the friendship

spanning

an ocean, a first

boyfriend, the saddest

songs known: all

recorded

magnetically

for me

and frozen

in time

 

i have sat

for hours

pushing record

and pause

to give someone

a rectangular, musical

reminder of who

we were

if only

for a little

while

 

sometimes

a love letter

finds its way

into the case

or a collage

from old

magazines

and sometimes

just the handwriting

from a friend: every

song inside

a little gift

 

 

k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com