no poet

I am no poet, I need not say,
But I tried to write a poem a day.
Some followed form and some were free;
They totaled up to ten times three.
For some I tried to take the time
To search my brain to find a rhyme.
For all of them I tried my best,
But now at last it’s time to rest.
Hasta la vista.

Animal Crackers

Hello, I must be going sings Captain Spaulding the African explorer to the roomful of glittering guests convened in his honor, voicing my sentiments exactly on any given day.

FAREWELL to all the Honorary Members of "The Living Poet's Society" May you continue to "live" as a Poet in happiness!
Richard-Merlin Atwater

The following Epic Poem is humbly submitted in Honor of all poets who met the challenge to post a prompt a day for 30 days of National Poetry Month (April 2009) under the Poetic ASIDES banner. Based on the prompt words of “colors” and “rebirth”.

It was about 6 AM (April 20th) when I began this poem on “Rebirth” as a prompt word—even before the prompt was posted I began the task, and fortunately it fit perfectly into the prompt word for today with a change of title. Original title was to be: What’s in the Color of a Name?; or “The Color of People” . Subsequently the new title has become “The Rebirth of Colors”. It is written as an honorary tribute to all those poets who posted a poem for the prompt word “color”. I returned to PAD April 16, 2009 and went (one by one) down the Poetic ASIDES postings, (name by name); and (color by color), to come up with this poetic legacy of all the new members of “The Living Poet’s Society”. In order to accomplish the task it was necessary to keep on the computer screen the postings for that prompt day, while I wrote with pen and ink on a yellow legal pad of paper. After eight hours of writing (and conjuring up a POETIC ASIDES) I looked at the clock and realized at 2PM it had been 8 hours in the making, and I was not anywhere near half done. Thus I decided to take a break and go to keyboards to type up the handwritten “ditty”—which was another long tedious task. I will continue late into the night to ensure (plus) that all poets on the “color” prompts get recognized in this soon to be famous “Epic Poem” of conquest of time and colorful name-like circumstance. (It took 3 days to complete this task all day and all night.)
Salute to all Fellow Poets from: Sir Richard-Merlin Atwater, Esquire of Pentameter Versification.
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The Rebirth of Colors © Richard-Merlin Atwater April 20, 2009
(Continued on April 27, 2009 (& April 28th & typed 29th)
The day began quick, just as any other
For poet’s and minstrel’s of tune,
A Robert Lee Brewer ‘prompt’ about colors,
“Blue eyes in the morning” began his tune.

Then we saw that Brenna Erlich hides the dirt with “black”,
While our Finnish friend “Dr. John” Linna paints in “Polish green”,
Jacqueline Tomaschko would have us all know our “blood is red”, Jack!
And Matthew Abel’s “Taupe” house, of “Baby poo brown” is the best that I’ve seen.

R.J. Clarken dropped an “Atomic Tangerine” bomb on my crayon box,
That destroyed “halfmoon_mollie Tamsin’s “red streaked cuffs”,
Which brought out the crescendo of Steve Morrison’s “red” in Chopin’s D Minor Prelude vox,
Thereby causing Ann Privateer to experience her 16th “Blackness” roughs.

L.K. Harris-Kolp’s “Yellow” is a friendly color my fellow,
And, too, I would surmise, Hannah Bowles “emerging white” lifts your eyes to the skies.
While Marcia Neu (knew) that “Fuscia” would attract our attention, mellow,
As ‘Tommy James and the Shondells’ sang of Chev Shire’s “Crimson and clover, over and over”, surprise!

Marie Vibbert (ribbett, ribbett) choice of “Carnation pink” was my Dad’s favorite color,
Then Dawn M. Rocco smeared us with “butter yellow and honeysuckle love”,
While my favorite “Blue Moon”, Yvonne Wills brought in tune, so stellar;
As J. Hugh MacDonald’s trio of colors: “red, green, blue” shine from above.

And “Dad”: Darrell Teubner understands “green-eyed loveliness”,
While solemn Maril shows us “pink’s peril” from memories,
As “that Tyger writes fiction” in “black” overtones for friends earnestness,
When Wanda Gray, I say, whose last name’s a color, turns to “purple nobilities”.

“Ubiquity of blue”, Scott Owens heavenly hue, draws us to—
Michelle Maiers scary-like “dripping red”,
So now it’s “Burnt Orange” for Theresa Cavicchio’s Ozieri, Sardinia home clue!
While Jill V. Woodward shows us various “hues of brown” in our head.

Now Nancy Posey doesn’t say “Rosie” in “Burnt Sienna’s” rhymes,
But Charmion Burns reminds us too, that Mao’s Little Red Book must compete,
For likewise, other colors of “KnittingJourneymansilken thread” is “Cerise”—cherry red times!
While “clear and true” to the heart is Marie Elena’s Keithgood personality feat!

Daniel Paicopulos, would have us not write in “white” for fright
Our words would not be seen, like the bruises of “Barbbloggochicago”—“purple”,
Or the taste of Walt Wojtanik’s “maple syrple” to bite!
While Marian Veverka “Queenie” walks through “the grassy green circle”.
=============================================================
Poet’s Note: This is only page one of the first five pages that I have finished. I’m still typing on the computer my manuscript draft. When I finish these five pages I will begin to write the next 15 pages to include the rest of you poets who have not been left off my list from the prompt day of “colors”. So raise your “colors” high and let the flag be unfurled for a Patriotic shout to POETRY! For as Ralph Waldo Emerson said: “Our holiday has been simply a friendly sign of the survival of letters amongst people who are “too busy” to give to letters anymore. …. Events, actions arise that must be sung that will sing themselves. Who can doubt that POETRY will revive and lead in a new age… for a thousand years.” An oration delivered to the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Cambridge, August 31, 1837. Imagine how he might roll over in his grave if he saw today’s standard of posting letters by “e-mail”, whereby we are “too busy” to give to letters. Keep the POETC ASIDES home fires burning my brethren and sisters of “The Living Poet’s Society”. Respectfully, Sir Richard-Merlin (Obi-wan) Atwater
======================================================
(Continued April 27, 2009) The above poem as written to that point was only page 1 of typing. This now begins page two. I began writing page 6 to 12 the following week on April 27 which took me all day long and into the night in long hand on yellow legal PAD. Then I still have to type them into the computer. Tomorrow (28 April) I will finish the colors posted up to midnight on the prompt post day of 16 April. There were as many posted on the following several days after the prompt as there were during the actual prompt day. I will have to do those another time. This Poetic ASIDES challenge actually stole my entire month of April with every day engrossed in reading and writing, and almost nothing else!
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Now Valentine de Francis (f24kt) and her Mom’s “Sea Foam Green Eyes”
Has us realize that the “Copper” of Alexander Spencer Leavelle oxidizes,
While the “orange coat of kitties” for Linda Voit makes one ‘coo with sighs’
As Dianne Ryan welcomes “green coming of spring” with its’ surprises.

“Jack”—Demsy Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s fellow, is boxing on Burgundy’s taste,
While Rebecca Simpson’s imagery of “fiery red Lucifer’s bedchamber”
Takes us to Carla Occaso’s “grey goose down feathers pillow fight” waste,
As Julia-Nickel-odeon (izes) true colors of the rainbow members!

My hair stands on end for Julia Hairston’s wicked red,
As Carol Bachofner (my native Maine poet) says: “Wait!”
”What ever happened to old fashioned love” of “the prompt”: Fred?
Then Vicki Dinnel came out of her shell with Indigo in the gate.

Monica Martin (lil monkey-I see!) sees green on her kitchen table,
Carla’s Cherry colored last name turns purple-blue-green like Betty Grable!
While we all live in a yellow submarine of Sharon Spielman’s own making,
So I wish I lived in Bonnie J’s House in “bonnie-blue-heaven”.

Now Willy Kalnius black-as-a-tack ‘rough main’,
Causes J.M. Wills of ‘Liv Safe’ to lose love in black array,
But Connie L. Peters should live in Florida, the land of the orange.
While Ginger Galloway (love that name) runs fingers through her man’s cinnamon sweet hot toupee!

L.M. Lois Eighmy is certainly not a pigmy, stands tall as the feathers on a Chief,
Taylor Graham (poetspiper) not a sniper of spring’s colorful green words,
As Shineen Jeejeebhoy (what a name) skies go black to indigo-to-blue brief,
While Payton Ellas’ “green of life” needs but to add on smell of pine-green: Birds.

Now Catherine Edmund’s ‘burnt umber’ of yellowish brown oxides of manganese iron seen
Coincide with Andrea Duffie’s white silent space that explode to another’s hue,
Covered with the buttercups and dandelions of (leatherdyke U.K).: Rachel Green,
As Melissa Johnson takes sword of the master Jedi Order, Mace Windu’s purple cue.

Pam C. Goldrick (that PM27) portrays Scottish brogue walls so creamy,
While Katta Kollath dressed in hot pink, bold optimistic style,
Once again little red hen has Walt Wojtanik dressed in chartreuse and puce dreamy
As Liz Heurta (hurt her-self) on Jolly Green Giant chlorophyll tile.

Marie-Elizabeth Mali: (mem-flowering lotus) would have the world be orange,
But what can we say about Salvatore Buttaci’s fad with purple,
Or Andrea Duffie’s two-timer “Blue mahogany” phantasmagoria phile-ange,
And Chelle Anderson etched in hieroglyphics grey cells, like Erkol—

I’m “chellshokd” that Darla Smith chose white as writer-darla: blushing bride,
When she could have had dollar green envy of B.C. Canada’s Jane Eanon for renewal of vows,
But it’s time for a test, Andurs Byland would thus confide.
Without any colors she acquiesce to Andrea Heiberg-land burning flames of red towers.

Susan B. (Essa-Bostone) not Brown-eyed Susan gives us colors galore,
Then Sandy Senay-Ellefson presents us E Strict color “Gray”,
But only Irish Genevieve Fitzgerald could paint celadon emeralds of Erin’s shamrock shore,
While Melli dot Lanz could bring back Autumn’s orange childhood memories day.

I see seagull atop Lori Desrosiers red top lighthouse today,
“Grreat job all poets” says Iris Deurmyer in blue, just for merit,
As kids whizzing by in Terri Losher’s yellow school bus, on their way
To school—you fool—to become a poet, and study Pearl Gulley green parrot.

A ‘real mean teacher’ named Kelly Ellis presents is Green Yin just for fun,
Poor cactus phallic with thorns—like your mother, who’s dead –cause of alchemy light,
Needs resurrection from “truly the haber”, known as Theresa Haberman
From hummingbird Fuschia plants, or Jupiter’s vermillion face of Mrs V. fayyrrl delight!

Now come to banana_the_poet to investigate yellow,
And up pops Walt Wojtanik again in purple and orange as (wojisme) tune.
Says Linda Napihoski: “There I go again” with my Indigo fellow:
“Sir” Richard of York (not me by name)—I’m Obi-wan Kenobi—the prune!

Thus the annelids and rhizomes, and chromosome bones of Pam Winters “umber”,
It’s true—give love-hate reflections of pink from Cathy C. Hall all along.
Then Maureen Miller-at-large presents limpid vacuity of translucent blue cucumber,
While bdotellenyoung (alias Barbara Young—not Brigham Young) thinks ruby red Dion Dimucci song:

“Ruby will you be mine?” , not Adelweiss, but Adell Beek in bichlejohn yellow blouse!
Which comes to my mother’s favorite color of Jeanette Christie’s “Lavender”,
See the white bird fly: Janice Sheridan, the new Scarlett O’Hara house,
As the music notes swarm out of Peg Duthie’s virtuoso flute by Cavender.

“Spring bean”: Brenda Skinner stays lean in spell-bound weaned green,
As her poetic sister: Nancy Devine (ndev1AT) keeps the green going true,
While Alana Sherman reminds us that no blue luster is like another seen,
As Carol A. Stephan wears scarlet red cape right down to the shoe.

Now “jackbugs” Bruce Niedt, orange around his feet, up to his eyes
Has seen sometimes gold of Anders Byland I’m told, second rhyme,
And Helen Peterson too, frog princess, palm tree, and 2 year old “high fives”
Will get you to dance in pink with Nadura Kamarulzaman in Kazakhstan time.

To see “harmony and balance” in forest green, Kathy Booker explores the possibilities
That Chuck Puckett saw in a jonquil narcissus springtime array,
But in “conscious body work” of Robert Chazz Chute you see red’s contradictories
That ‘lafamilia’ Raul Sanchez puts straight in Gandi’s Ahimsa white peace foray.

Jean-story-Smith’s—“Stephan King black—something out there, for me,
Something out there for you, too, in Baktygul Kulusheva’s green rondeau!
It’s Aliashesh “ruddy” that seems very muddy in the waters of the Ganges,
But Ian Phillips (not James Bond’s Ian Fleming) because he is read (red) write-in-France, eat fondue!

Movie star: Lain D. Kemp chose magenta for hemp: a sailcloth rope, and capsicum too!
Then J. Martin’s “violet ocean in the sky” recalls Amish Dairy Whip stand,
Misplaced color of Christian Bass: basket lady pass in cowboy land so true,
As Emily Anderson’s “white knight” will emandermay your day so grand!

All dressed in Barton’s Smock, shirtless paperboys collect seashells,
While “quilly-quill dancer” called CLA uses quill to spill tranquility jewels of jade.
Again Alana L. Capria with Burgundy wine sees jeweled decanters for “gods and men in wells”
Same as Missy Melissa McEwen’s Burgundy red plum face from times spade.

Patricia Wellingham-Jones, not the Sheriff of Nottingham, saw Robin Hood off in off-white
Tanka’s “Alabaster tears” from Carolyn “the bear paw” opaque translucent emanations.

(Sorry—missed two lines arrangement here from transcription)

Kathryn of Aragon, not Isabella of Castille, lives in Spanish red-kite,
And Stephanie Hammer has an orange Windjammer for her California Chakra,
While Lyn Michaud’s spindoxworld “field of green” is seen in her clover bed site,
Yes, Keith S. Wilson can not be left out with his “blue military mantra”.

Christina Bass, kick her in the (bawdry Chaucer) *** … she’s finally back on colors:
Please forgive my decent in unspoken verbiage that’s lent from ArchBishop Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales”!
But “yellow” I love as Big Bird will vouch, and so too will the mullahs,
For it’s Christine we love for “gathering the sheep of the ninety and nine lost one” who ails. (Poet’s Note: She was lost on the prompts and later caught up on a great poem configured around sentiments on “yellow”)

And Leslie Pasquin, please hold up your chin, be proud of the color “scarlet”,
From Hawthorne’s book, ‘Twill make Karen Larsen “green with envy” whispered in Gaelic tones,
And Paige von Liber, from “paige of a book”, that’s yellow-orange-hot, like pears of a Bartlett!
And says: “Life is like a cherry tree”, in Sarah James, U>K> “YOU see OPAL”—my own birthstone!

Brandi Guthrie, not of Woody Guthrie line, finally loves “brown” once again,
And Laura Ciorlieri, such a “Sliver of Italian Magenta”!
Saw Patti Williams “writer-in-blue”—save the raven’s hue to fly away from her pen,
So take me “word for word” that Bill Di Benedetto “ditto” never saw the red I sent her!

Now dear sweet “Irish” Katrelya Angus-the-bull would have us all relish in green,
While Diana Domino is covered in “in-digo” as seen in her cowboy’s eyes!
And M.J. Dills (picks up the quills) and will swallow those pills of “blue”, and of red-yellow-and-green I deem,
As Earl Parsons “sky blue pink” will make you think, about a purple polka-dot in the skies!

“Wipe my nose on the sleeve” of Jerry Doughty’s long “grey” coat,
While there’s space of grace for Rachel L. dressed in white,
When Kitchell Resimi “stabbed the flesh” of her “eggplant throat”,
Bringing Jane Miller’s (sebahcnewrad) “pre-menstrual syndrome green” tonight.

Remembrance “saffron suicide” of Joseph Harber’s “Thich Quang Duc” reflective poem,
As Maryann De Leo “dressed in pink” at seven, serenaded the “gray nurses”,
And Melinda Elmore’s Navajo trust brown eyes to see “Mother Earth’s brown “grow ‘em”.
Yet “soccer freak” J. Alvey, barefoot boy in blood red feet, included other colors in the verses!

Now Nancy Bell, AKA “Emily pikkasso of Balza Alberta”, paints “an amber immortality” barley true,
Can YOU surmise Tanja Cilia spadecious and multi-“eons” or “ions” words of pink?
While brown-colored La Donna Reed keeps us delighted with her old time TV show,
WoW! Jacqueline Cardevas, your sparkling lollipop, “Rita Dove pink”, made me wink!

Let’s go to the bottom of “pool aqua blues” to review W.F. Taylor in (amarna14) style,
Thus Sharon Mooney surveys “last of JESUS’ days” in “Crimson Red Tide”,
While Lynn Mc Lure and “hepatica” review “pink bone branches” all the while,
Set in “a piece of green” by Mary Londelazo to “rest in peace” I confide.

Walt Wojtanik (AGAIN) in memory of “Sephia”, sees Michelle H. (mik_1000) in multi-faceted red,
As Madeleine Strong Diehl, with “white Amelia” at the wheel saw “Vesancy” in the rain,
And (burgerbash) Mel Braun draped in “mahogany gray”, earned, is from offspring she said,
Like dark shadows of Lian Mullen’s “black shade of gray” in impenetrable disdain.

Common, dull, “muddy brown”: but wonderful are Beth Cato’s eyes,
As Lucia Galloway takes lipstick from her “vermillion purse” to accost “quetzal’s feather”!
And Chris M. (mojopixy) became immortalized in the “mixture” of favorite color sighs,
Leading Michelle Mc Ewen back to “Miss Faye Brown’s ‘willow tree’ hither.

Penny (hsis4us) “yellow sun turning orange at night” will do,
To shed light on Lorraine Hart’s “blue period” of periwinkled blue-bells in “for-get-me-not land.”
As (zeearts) Carol Temper reviews relative Rose Madder Quinacrimodine crimson anew,
Taking “Walt’s color in abstentia” to contrast with Jay Cole Simser’s “red color of life” so grand!

Now, Wayne Mizerak, all dressed in black: (“I want my Baby back”- Rolling Stones), remains resistant to stain,
While Morgan Underwood’s psychiatrist helps her understand “Rorshach black ink-spot designs”,
And Andrea Margaret Elizabeth Porter, with a name like that, could sink the Titanic in “yellow rain”,
As W. Yvonne O’Neill will appeal to her Mom’s yellow and blue-grayish linoleum lines.

Vanessa V. Kilmer (any relation to Joyce Kilmer of “TREES” poetic fame?) (the goldennib) in “black velvet sleep” caresses the universe soul!
And Princess Ellen Joy (wanjiru) reviews the cinemascope movie “The Color of Purple”,
As Walt’s “Johnny Cash frustration in black” is not seen in Barbara A. Ostrander’s setting sun,
But rather is reflected in Richard-Merlin Atwater’s “Fall foliage in Oxford County, Maine” in maple syrple!

Juliene “jewel” Munts “magenta” purplish-red-aniline-dye, color of the underprivileged eyes,
See the “Kyanous Greek veins” that E. Darville enlightened us withal,
As Celia ‘viveviolin’ Shaneyfelt lends Brackett’s “rose quartz” pink ‘gift of delight cries’,
Thus Linda Balboni (not Balboa) Chimericle “boxes” in streaks of blue drizzle.

Molly Logan Anderson reflects in ‘honey feeling’ an anagrammatic complexion of brown,
As Anysia Derora asks “her fire dancer” to dance on golden rod noodle,
While Daniel Ari in-efflux, spreads a veil of gray in rondeau on the town,
Yet, “Michelle”, golden hair, ruby lips, and azure blue eyes, spell: Richard-Merlin Atwater doodle!

Turquoise Debbie Pea, on the Caribbean Sea is lounged with copper sky,
And activist Martina Robinson stole the crown off her carnation colored canopy bed,
So thus I ask Ruth: “Why not Minot?” Y. Nott-- do it in red, those ticklish toeses carnival rides,
While Hannah “ballistic” Bowles “salty cobalt blue tears” run for ‘over-sized marbles’, she shed;

Rusler 2 Sue Bixler: “color of white”, what a poetic delight!
To match “Obi-wan” RMA’s “blue eyes, blonde hair, and ruby pink lips” of ‘The Legendary Beauty’,
Yet somber reminder of death in black takes us back to Madeline Tasky Sharples night,
To St Patty Day “green delight” of Georgia (jcgippy) Henry “Four Leaf Clover” cuite!

Now Deanna (miplaces) Northrup imagines gray is “old”,
While Lynnsie Doiron’s rondeau green is seen in photosynthesis,
As Walt sings a multi-faceted song of “the blues” that make her brown eyes bold,
For Gretchen Gersh Whitman–in “purple housed shutters” to utter: “speech teacher’s literary genius”! (any relation to Walt Whitman?, or Hansel and “Gretchen Gersh” Gretel?)

Now Kristen “angel scribe” Howe do you describe the “zest of red” as you blush into pink, rose, of maroon?
Perhaps Del Cain “with eyes of monster envy” can do it in green!
But P.B. Rippey “the hippie” in “mangled red” of drippey is in the “sci-fi sun” so soon,
And can recall that Bruce Niedt in neat shirt of “jackbugs” saw “flesh” in every scene!

Hence Nabina Das, the lass, presents “redness”, color without a name,
While Cara Holman provides “orangey scarlet as cardinal red”,
As Hannah Bowles (a strike) to let mosquitoes scream “confectioners pink” in her ears, a game!
So that Connie (keencon-King Kong!) could experience “lilac honeysuckled dreams” in bed!

Kit Cooley (the_editrix) is up to her tricks in Purple Passion of the sacrifice blood Lamb!
While Linda M. Rinehart Neas (on bended knees) if you please (lupinelinda) eats purple grapes,
As Buddah (ihatepoetry) Moskowitz spreads his wit in Moscow like “gray jam”,
And the girl wears “white pearl necklace” for Pushpa Moorjani as he (she) gapes!

Erinne Magee, don’t you see, that “midnight blue” sees only one color when eyes meet (the name of my Great Dane: “Midnight Blue-Lady Jane”)
And at “The Return of Autumn Summer” Walt (AGAIN) sees love, so true,
As thickening clouds of gray send Kathleen Cassen Mickelson along her way to greet
The ‘Mauvelous’ multi-colored hues of Rache Garevich enshrined with ‘Pacific Blue’.

Theresa Williams is “seeing red” in kitten whisker flames of father springtime!
And mother of us all, whose “favorite color is blue” Christy Brewster,
Let Kristona von Held in her hand the “fin-de-siecle femme fatale” gold rhyme,
That Karen H. Phillips preferred to see on “turquoise-silver necklaced rooster”!

Patricia femme de fleurs stacked wads of currency were spent on “golf grounds of green”
As opus Don Swearingen plays purple in his yellow dreams of fancy,
While Nancy (no, oops, I’m sorry) Pearl Pirie (page half full) is seeing red as lobster green!
And Jacqueline (jacquemlane) Cardenas drives “turquoise cars” into Geronimo’s Indian dancy!

A.M. Forret, (not P.M. for it), saw “moonlit aurora borealis” in silver tone,
While Jeannola Jean Lutz (deep in her guts) saw yellow daffodil peeping through spring earth,
As (queenie) Marian Veverka let’s green blades of grass “tickle bone”,
Yet, Melanie (melj) Kerr (purr, purr) and her green-blackboard reminds of school day mirth.

Natalie Lorenzo kicks “blue sand” into the B.C. Canada skies off her California flip-flops,
And “sexy country girl” Jordan Campbell will grow up in red,
As mature Lynn Potter does realize the agonizing torture of red love crops,
And red sets “lovely Leslie Mistere” on salvation’s course, as the Master said!

Robby Linn Strozier in (shadierobbygreen) run fingers through her trees!
And gold is in the breeze of metaphoric Mario (msar13) as Temptress,
But David C. Johnson conjures up Chilean vermillion riding a pillion in bed he sees,
Yet, (mfumcyouth) Iris Deurmyer knows Paul Newman’s blue-bonnet “true blue” gem-tress.

Painting the fence, Ralph J. Fitcher presumes we all see “light blue”,
Stephanie (swood) Miller saw Cadmium Yellow Medium in atomic poison tubes!
Which Paige von Liber smeared on changing “flesh” in the grave for YOU!
While chlorophyll green Phil Boiarski resurrects God’s deciduous hues.

Sheila Doth with “morning blades of pink” make me think,
Of S.E. Ingraham ruination of verdigris greenish-blue coating nails,
As De Jackason (just boffo) a scarlet-amber-grey on surreal colors wink,
That Dixiebear Mary K. can “kling too” as life is lived in red wails.

Patricia A. Hawkenson says Black Day, White Night, can be a fright for boys on bikes,
As Melanie caws and Crows about, “Kentucky Blues grass Berries”, and Ella’s vocal green,
Unseen by Olive L. Sullivan as last Turkish piaster is spent on Egypt’s saffron likes,
And “the write connection” of Faye E. Arcand takes us across the sovereign rainbow screen.

Brian A. Hartford shows that red is “the last blood filled gasp” of the hunter,
But brown is renown all around the town when Caili Wilk is “stairing off a few minutes more”,
As green takes us out the door with Lindsey Curry (the museasylum) asunder,
While Bill Stewart and his “white lies” tell, that brides and good guys adore.

Now to Eban Atwater (what a name, like mine!) for athletic hue of God’s own Bow,
Not His “bow tie”, but His royal purple from Kathryn Varuzza that her purple pen ejects!
As Judy Rovey reflects “aquamarine treasure chests” at her daughter’s wedding vow,
And Kathleen De Witt (the wit!) will sit with “white-on-white, lace-on-satin” snow-like projects.

Oh, Midge van Etten, thy naked green swim in the Sea of Cortez is KNOWN!
While Elizabeth Garcia with honey-brown eyes, touches Star Trek land,
And Joan Huffman expose “vermillion nipples” around the coffers of “bloody blokes” bemoan!
When Sandra J. Robinson has many “moods of blue” for her soul’s appearance stand.

Julie Achterhoff with “secretive white” surveys the Kaleidoscope of non-colors,
And Tony Root’s (like Root Beer) deep red or (tonyars) bleak brown sky tantalized will,
Which puts Paul W. Hankins nautical depravity of navy blue in perspective with the mullahs,
As Ann Corey’s “flesh” is covered with “Beige” band-aid, the color of nil.

Periwinkle blue, Julie Hayes hue says: “I do!” ??
To Katrina Rychling in her sadness of blue,
But “the pear on the cottage cheese” of Keith Vanden Eyden and his cue,
Reminds us the black of Joe Mac, Mr. Mc Kinnon is back in magic rue!

“The Color of Water” (that’s me: Mr. ATWATER!) from Elizabeth Clamen’s equally bathed in clarity,
While Sally Valentine is green “down a whole new path unwinding”,
With Terilee (wundie), and fun-die with cotton candie, and pink baby boots with charity,
And Elizabeth Wilcox took “eggshell” paint to float to the top unbinding.

Hello, John Pupo, “Chatreuse”, don’t you know is “white liquor” of Carthusian monks?
And Sean Hanrahan, please take me by the hand, you “random gray”, then “red man”!
And follow me to Sally Evans strong colored reds of mulberry honky-tonks,
So we can all let Cheryl B. Lemine dress in fiery red Fuschia-nista, if she can!

TAH Weaver weaves a ditty so fine in commemoration of variegated blue eyes of her spouse,
And De Jackson (just boffo again) is packing black on Kevin Olitan’s brown marbles!
As the (bandsfinale) “Orange YOU are Glad” that Susan Peters car is douse,
While Diana J. Baker is looking to find God’s original green scruples.

Now the canary of yellow lightning is free from Serena’s (savvy verse and wit),
As God smiles with cerulean “heavenly hue” on de Johnson’s Tahoe Blue soul,
And the patriotic zeal of Richard-Merlin Atwater’s “red-white-and-blue hit”,
Thus true love of Michelle H. has swirling chocolate melting brown eyes as a goal!

“Subliminal Ohio” of Jasmine T. Madoru take her to insane “muck-yellow”,
While sweet “Nicky Green” of lime-shade hue is set in Emily Rose,
And Nancy Hatch Woodward sees “the coal black canopy of existence”, my fellow,
Yet terra cotta orange evades purple delight of Diana R. Wilson in front of her nose.

Kimiko Martinez with purple again, embraces the stars in violet caress,
And Christine Brandel finds lovely scent and song with a lilac bird,
Yet Seth Heiserman turns the brown earth greener in thunder of blue skies of spring, I guess,
And Bryant Dougharty corrects the political indecision of gray, in every word!

Denise P. lives in a world that’s “as white as cream”—what a dream!,
And esteph20 (how funny)—“red hot lighthouse keeper’s waitress lips”, embed,
Longing for gray from Stephanie Thomas (steex4) on the high moral road dream,
While (letter2V, 4 writers only) revolves around a bronze head.

Melissa Hagle would have us shed vampire demons in red,
While “mad Kim King” aubergine-plum-purple oval eggplants (or was it “implants!”) are sauteed in Provence,
And Barbara Nieves, beneath the leaves of forested foliage green, makes a lush leafy canopy bed,
For Laura Peters to shout GREEN for (stephanpetersgirl), hence.

Then comes Jane Beal (to steal) “pretty little Spanish blue sky of love”: Celito Lindo Azul !
To share Barbara Nieves blushing bride “red rich merlot” crimson tide of wine,
As Linda Hudson reviews the color of warm, soft, “brown vassal”,
And Kelly Searsmith sears us with chemical processed white line.

The (flawlessword) of Kathy Kehrli is not curlicue but flesh of Pilgrim’s face,
And Cari Resnick erupts in volcanic red anger, hoping foe cool blue,
While Teri Klein reviews the world through “sepia-tone” genteel glassed pace,
And poet Sandra Evans betrayed by gray eyes, wanting her green one’s hue.

Lavender Katie Hoskinson bemoans sweet Easter grass as she paints it black,
And (kelomom) Daunette Lemard-Reid’s “black unholy priesthood” remains misunderstood,
While “the Chartreuse elixir” produced (rose petal sand thorns) of C>A> Rose, fact!
Upsetting the green chlorophyll in that which allows Kimberly E. Kinser to grow good.

Now David Medina (not Mecca!) chose carefully to “leap and do” from behind blue,
Which Inspired Aqua to inspire Pamela Villars humid light flight home,
As Kristy Worden portrays green as “the color of success”, or lack of it too,
And bring Khara E. Howe to realize chartreuse (left and write) to roam.

L.L. Lunstedt’s “Blue O’Clock” brings (sound and sense) to incandescence of color,
While U.K.’s Heather Taylor weaves orange into her hockey team’s jerseys for flavor,
Causing Victoria Lee Collings to present primary colors surrounding the cellar,
Of rust pigment cave paintings of Lascaux, seen by Joy Harold Helsing’s form.

Now Nedrajean (jobbrch) wants a color serene that is real teal I feel,
Since Kathy G. Mc Carty saw black-track “ink footprints” of lovely feet on white,
That caused Nancy Weber in (paige designs) to sense evil and death in black appeal,
And D.J. Vorreyer to visualize “guard dog’s dripping gums” in black fright!

(slvinas) Sarah V. found turquoise in a Florida “see” of fingered jewelry,
That took Sheila G. (7+1) years to understand the primary colors are goldfinch!
Now Rosemary Nissen-Wade’s (life magic) centers on “two for the price of one” for Beauty,
And (stick poet) Michael A. Wells ‘well known black’ wants nothing by the wrench of the inch.

And Lyn Sedwick is organized in “halves of blue”, or not so smaller clothes,
That have Elisa Alaniz holding the amazing brown beauty caressable one,
So Sammy (slam72001) Fuschia lips and nails can seek your soothes,
While Robin Waring seeks to understand the plethora of yellow for fun.

Now Irene Toh, don’t stub your toe, seeking for shelter from grey open skies,
While Kyhaara portrays opposites of “black hearts to kill” and “black velvet to love”,
And Maryann Younger clad in green with “Marie” again at sixteen up high flies,
As the sun drenched orange landscape of Beth Rodgers is seen from above.

Again it’s cobalt blue for Sharon Ann in hard baked clay sunrays,
As Paris Elizabeth Sea shimmers teal upon the wing of bird,
And violet flowers stand among the wind and rain of Stephanie Lee Ibekken days,
As Justin Evans has red on the brain as the stupid, fiery-blonde, neighbor kid has the final word.

LBCaraman enshrines grape-purple kisses on popsicle sticks,
As Paul Scott August finds cancer strikes Haight-Ashbury chartreuse Fillmore Concert Hall,
While Jessica Shafer learns the colour of magic is an explosion of ultraviolet light wicks,
And Marcia Gaye removes “the silver moon dreams” ‘neath underside of maple leaf atoll.

Nita G. Isenhour saw green dragon soar in sunlight’s green balm barefoot run,
And Briget Gage-Dixon resurrects green with children who disregard the dead,
As Liz (enslinemw) sings the yellow “Blues” of turmeric blessings and the poison bomb gun,
While Green and Amethyst of Jeanne Klaver drift freely in the wind ahead.

Billy J. Bowling saw brilliant rage of red and orange fade to gray as twilight falls,
As Mary Campbell brought the color of barley to a magic end,
And pink reigns supreme for Julianne Weltz on strawberry lollipop, barrette, and frilly party dressed dolls,
Yet, Christine Swint with “liquid gray ice cubes” hissing in gin, like gas to send.

Sara Mc Nulty a purple cinquain mystery from wizard’s curiosity,
Which causes Marcia Mc Lees Bogaert to ooze ghostly reminder of gray yearning,
And Colleen Murphy to express the “four seasons” (of Frankie Vallie fame) in yellow painted virtuosity,
While (sister cdr) Cynthia Randolph saw flame red canker on the rose’s bud learning.

Rebekkah White (peace girl out) is beige from sipping God from her tears,
And Linda SW touches her phonetic tongue against the yellow Alveoli ridge,
As Julieann S. Powell reveals passion in royal purple, and excessive passion cheers,
(Tweety-bird) Nicole Carr can recreate sky blue pink on your dreams bridge.

And (dogd) Frank Mand controls in his hand a fistula parade of gray,
While Nixy de Stephano cleanses the morning sun, with a cloak of lavender stars,
And (little tree me) Shannon Cameron appropriately selects tree bark brown today,
Letting Linda Robertson bow to the poetry of emerald green sonnets and jars.

Now Alan C. Reese in an upside down fleece disintegrates into black,
As indigo-blue of (words et al) Marcia Gaye blanket grey, as the stars peek through,
Sarah Joyce Bryant closes her eyes and sees the color of empty spaces back,
Now Julie Eger is very eager as Jakota (jeeger) to portray desert red, green marble blue.

Ofira Sephiroth (anna75) craves hidden treasures in green emerald jeweled kings,
Julie Mahfood (scorpiogrrl) sees blood red matador bull, tin man wounded heart,
While aquamarine PCS in CT Pamela Cleary flies on her sea wings,
And Melessis Rossetti stone language of (melrose) puts shades of nobility purple apart.

Robin D. (robinsnest) has us remember “reflected yellow buttercups under our chin”,
And Joannie Strangeland’s cold steel of the gray lake “mercurial shifting” flashing ‘Silver Shadow’ (my Rolls Royce!)
Rolls Royce-like justice gone awry in Terri Quick’s court room as (writer-by-choice) wins!
As Kateri Woody’s prepubescent yellow wings are bamboozled by the fearful meadow!

I’ve got the “3 A.M. Blues” says Lawrence George Jaffe, as dolphins search for mates,
While Diane Borsenik uses “whiter shades of pale” to put it down on paper white,
Matching Ryan A. Christiansen in (norsepower) together with green dike gates,
As Sascha Aurora Akhtar finds colorblindness in St Bernadette’s blue light.

And Belle Melles would say: “Anything but pink Canada mints” of my father’s land,
While Marcos A. Cabrera “the George Purple Heart” on my chest is pretty purple,
And Armando Corbelle would remind me of my little red wheelbarrow wagon band,
As Paul Pikutis presents cleanliness with “Balboa mist” from Walt’s spilt maple syrple.

Now Alan Deeth of Blackpool fame promenades his caricatures lamp to lamp,
And Kendall A. Bell (introvertia) “what the hell”, may I ask: “What is an ink black soul?”
Noreen Ann Snyder (of Jenkins pen name land) sees “red” which blends so perfectly “my scamp”,
And J.A. Jensen “in pigment eyes of white” sees chromatically the whole.

White again for Christina (charcoalgypsy) whose tiger sees “the plaster death mask” of child,
And Padgett Posey tells (tamm walters) to dot the archipelago of red rovers,
So that Kimberly Brock of (kimmwritesfame) sighs a relief, carved on “the pink wind” styled—
After the fashion of Kaye Johnson (aka:kbarbj) whose razzle-dazzle rose of raj-a-taz pizzazz clovers.

Rosangela Cricci Taylor never saw my “white hearse” on the pinwheel foam of a wave,
Thus I’ll ask Sharon Caffee to make sure mine is pink as I go down to a soldiers grave,
Now Shirley A. (texaa) Auer flutters monarch honeysuckle for the hummingbirds to save,
While (Crimson) Denise Noddin (the mystery muse) has white porcelain blood so brave!

Cornelius Fortune is so fortunate to be “Christian Cornelius” in (mirror fictions)
That reflect gray slate in the monochrome shade of noir, as a repurposed silhouette of an amputated sun,
Raymond Alberts’ blue jeans are accentuated by his orange shirt for frictions,
As the purple worn by Akua Lezli Hope is hopelessly enshrined in the diminution of her fun.

Toni (the educated lady) says: “ For rebirth of green, add water”, (I say: “Add R.M. Atwater, too!”.
Since Susan Le Fort can’t decide when to let the fortress release purple plastic bristles,
I suggest we let David Yockel, Jr. “piss on the bile of hollandaise” with a Big SMILE for YOU,
As Maribeth (mygirl) will always be the one in orange we won’t let get away in the thistles.

Dear Barbara Moore we all love orange Pippi pigtails more and more because of you,
And Sal (teaches) Treppiedi songs to the tune of Perry Farrell’s gold record,
While Melissa Carl (of donald c york) reviews the purple penumbral of cemetery dew,
And A-Lotus (of ambiguity) puts alkaline before acid for emancipated ivfatuation to check horde.

The (nmfarmkid) Judy Kneprath in deep rich black sings: “Minnesota”,
As (funkomatic) Coey Q. sends a loose rendelet for the purple prince ice box,
And Nakita Bickle (under the stars) weaves a blue gum ball Odessey for the Iliad-ota,
And Samantha Karren (themillion) paints pavilion for black in the womb of the universe as she talks.

Wow! Diane Hobaugh, I hope you’re not in “orange prison”, guess not, if you’re feeling free!
And Molly Fisk don’t frisk those “apologies” for an “identity crisis” of peach Canadian Maritime underwear!
But rather let Nanette M. Buchanon quote Kathleen Claire in red or green, (ruluvd), as you be?
Or doth Sally Jadlow paint rose red potential on your promises of April morning there?

“Raw Sienna” Lin Neiswender euphemistically you made it before midnight,
Into my Rebirth of Colors poem, as others past midnight lost the crystal blue slipper,
Of Poetic ASIDES to be included in the Prince’s chandeliered ball height,
That leads to pumpkin carrying carriages drawn by mice and men from the Big Dipper.

Poet’s Note:
Sorry folks, I ran out of time and inclination to continue this Epic Poem based on the prompt word “colors” for April 16, 2009. So I decided to end it on the “midnight hour” of the prompt day, albeit as many other poems were posted for this prompt several days that followed from midnight April 16, 2009 all the way to the end of the month. Perhaps some later day of inspiration (or perhaps not) will excite me to a continuation and finalization of “The Rebirth of Colors” based on a Second Edition of “late posted prompts” for the designated day. However, all the poets who have posted a poem at anytime in response to the “challenge” is hereby declared Honorary Members in my “Living Poet’s Society”.
Respectfully,
Obi-wan “Sir” Richard-Merlin Atwater
Founder of “The Living Poet’s Society”
President of Three Swans Publishers
www.3swanspublishers.com
(author of 12 published books)
My initial book of original poetry is titled: Perspectives on Life many which I posted on this “Prompt Challenge” for April 2009. However, each day has a new “original poem” based on the actual prompt word of the designated day written “off the cuff’ as given by our illustrious “Master of Poetic Prompts”—General Robert E. Lee (Brewer).
===============================================================

WOW Richard-Merlin Atwater!
What more can I say
WOW!

Closing Time
Turn off the open sign.
Lock the door.
Sweep the floors.
Count the money.
Paperwork.
Paperwork.
A final walk thru.
Clock out.

"Good-Bye"

A long good-bye is not the way,
In which I choose to go.
Carefully, Ill choose what to say,
And make sure I say it slow.
The years flew past,
Not all were bliss,
Yet I still thought it would last.
With one last kiss,
I'll walk away.
The hurt you'll never know.
I know you won't ask me to stay,
I'll leave you now, watch me go.
A whole new life about to begin,
Anxious but eager to start anew.
I'll jump right in,
But never will I forget about you.

Leaving You

I find that I must leave you.
I've been here much too long.
You know that you can't stop me,
I must be moving on.
It's not that I don't love you
My love will never die.
Something deep is pushing me
I really can't say why.
I won't cry in front of you,
I never have before.
And I hope you won't shed a tear
When I pass through that door.
I'm leaving in the morning.
I feel the time is right.
But I have one request of you.
Love me, tonight.
You know that once I leave you
I can't come back, you see.
But I can keep an eye out 'till
God brings you back to me.

Fun, while it lasted
but time to move on.
I can't say that
I'll miss all the
twists and turns
taking us up
and down again.
But, I will miss you
and what we almost had
but never quite reached.
You said, to no one else,
"I'll see you again someday."
as if "Good-bye" was too
much, too final to say.
Twenty years later, I
wish I had taken
a good-bye kiss instead.

Ever wonder why Ponce de León was
looking for that mystic water fountain?
He hated goodbyes. At least I think so.
He wanted to regain his baby face,
and say "hello world."
Do you know why little babies wake and
cry late in the night when Mama wants sleep?
It is because they want to say "hello."
They want to grow up, experience the
world. They start at night.

"Farewell"

“See you later,” you said,
and you turned and walked to your car.

Nothing unusual.

The car door closed, you checked the rearview mirror
and turned the key in the ignition.
The gravel in the driveway crunched under the wheels
as you turned your head to find your way.

I stood in the doorway watching,
ready to wave,
or blow a kiss...
But you never looked back to me that day;

You were already looking ahead
to some other meeting, somewhere
far away from me.
And you never came back.

Just about the last thing you said to me was
Write about us
And give it a happy ending
I said I didn’t know about the happy ending
My writing is too much non-fiction for that.

farewell,
so much better
than goodbye.
saying
fare you
well,
wishing you
the best.
goodbye
is too much
like the
sound of a
door closing.

so, fare you
well.
may our
paths find
reason
to cross
tomorrow.

or tomorrow's
tomorrow.

Elegy

The husks of lost friends
hang from electric wires
like old sneakers – shoe strings

cinched around pale necks:
bodies sway stiff as chimes.
Their ghosts, like boys,

toss stones at a jelly jar
nuzzled in the crotch of two
oak limbs. I’ve saved the roundest,

plucked them from the lake –
the ones that fill your fist
like baseballs. But the sun wanes.

Spirits are called home for dinner;
These stones – still cold in my hands.

Richard, you ran out of time? I'm amazed you did that much already! What time to you get up in the mornings? It was nice to read a bit about so many of us!

Wow, indeed, Richard!

Happy Pocket Poem Day, everyone! It's been fun.


To San Carlos

The tides never say farewell.
They stay; we leave.
Day after day, year after year,
century after century,
they warm the sand’s lap,
come and go,
always promise to return.

On the ride back
to my inland city, no sea
in sight, I promise also to return
to this sacred sea, if only
in memory: stand at the edge
of the tides, embrace open sky
all the way home.

Richard - I'm amazed: how can you make all our names work this way?
Thank you all for a great month.

The Last

If I could receive
reminders from heaven
that goodbye might mean
gone for good,
our partings might
be sweeter,
more than a quick
peck on the cheek
before heading out
to beat the clock.

We’d make time
for a second cup of coffee
together
instead of rushing off
in time to find
a closer parking spot.

If I remembered
that each backward glance
for one last wave
might be just that—
the last—
I’d memorize your face,
soften mine, and weigh
each precious word.

Nancy Posey

I've enjoyed this month. Goodbye to everyone for now. I hope to spend some time coming back to look at more poems of individual writers.

Thank you, Robert, for all your work, and thank you to those helping you out this year.

Last Farewell

Sometimes Death comes to my front door,
whether on my porch or in my heart.
And I can always tell my Lord,
I'm ready if it's time.
Still, I would like to stay some more
if anyone still needs me here,
if not, I'm ready to go home
to You.
And when I say "Farewell"
I say "Hello".

Adios Mexico

clear spring morning
promises another hot day
car packed
bags packed
“hasta luegos” said
hugs and kisses
promises to write
we leave home
to return home

Farewell National Poetry Month

Goodbye National Poetry Month,
the challenges have been fun.
I must put them in the past,
for this year they are done.

S. Thomas Summers--lovely.

How I Say Goodbye to April
April 30

At 2:30 your radio played softly
telling us it was time for you
to gather up your cameras and gear
and drive up to North Lake
to record the first setting of traps
for this year’s lobster fishing season.
I listened to your morning sounds
and then house door and car door
the engine, the reversed transmission
and their final departing Doppler.
Restless and groggy I lay there waiting
until just around 4:00 when I heard
the first fully loaded Cape Islanders
race and rumble up the wide river
from Montague to drop baited traps
onto the best possible bit of shoal.
So this is how I say goodbye
to the mixed blessing that April was
this signals the approach of summer
not the melting of incessant snow
nor the rotting of the river’s thick ice
not the cheerful throaty song of robins
but this 4:00 am race down the river
my adjustment to comforting clamor
sudden wakening and dropping back to sleep.


Hugh

Breakup

I sit on balled fists, watching
you flit about the room, throwing
your possessions away, flinging
them into boxes.

No longer a participant, active
in your life, I am witness, silent,
missing you already, wishing
you would return.

Sir Richard:

Thank you for your gift of time and encouragement!

Cheryl B. Lemine
Fuschia-nista
Member, Living Poets Society

My dear friend Lee
said come write poetry with me
She thought I would enjoy this site
And she was right.

Its been a blast
the month has past so fast
I'm sorry to say
this is the last day

It has been a delight
to sit each day and write
Then post the poem written by me
for all to see

What fun I've had
reading poems both happy and sad
Some touched my heart
In one I even was a part

Thank you all for letting me
read and enjoy your wonderful poetry
Robert Lee Brewer Thank you
For all that you do!

the last tenuous connection gives way

at the pure white base
one pink petal drops
still cupped to cradle air
or dew drops it lands
firm atop the garden’s
brown loam

alone it softens
wilts to embrace
with every fiber
the patient earth
dropping its blush for
folds of brown
to feed the blossoms
of tomorrow

Linda Voit

flight of poetry ends

One more poem, and I’m done with
my daily dalliance with the red laptop.

It’s become a sneaky, pernicious habit
driving my other half up the blank wall.

What’s this, you say, logging in to check
word prompts from another time zone.

Daily poems don’t bring home the bacon,
nor shine the greasy surfaces of table tops.

It’s bad enough, the boys playing cybergames,
now you have to disappear into blogosphere.

Your sensible words stung my ears, still
I breed poems like rabbits, bleeding my muse.

Thirty days on, blogging thirty poems. Yes,
this will be my last handful of feathers.

Nancy, what a lovely poem, and so true!

underground

bright mines shimmer
with flaming canaries

coal-dusted pit ponies
trudge to oblivion

the road
forks

There are things in life
That you want to get better at.
Most things, really.

You want to get better at
Making friends.
Pleasing your lover.
Making an omelet.

You want to get better at
Playing Scrabble(tm).
Playing bridge.
Writing poetry.

But, who wants to get better
At saying, "Goodbye?"

Leaving a job,
Even one you hate,
Is traumatic.

Leaving a home,
Even for a better one,
Is somehow distressing.


April's been fun,
Even Sestina Day.
I'm really crappy
At saying goodbye.

See you next year.

Richard-Merlin Atwater - If this poem doesn't qualify you for Poet Laureate status, I'm not sure what will! Congrats to all on a good run.

I held you close
but only for a while.

I stroked your face
but took my hand away.

I kissed your mouth
but only in parting.

I said I'd love you
but never for ever.

the second lines in each stanza should be indented.

More than Copacetic

“A poem a day?”
I head myself say.
“Give it a try.
You surely won’t die.”

Might even be fun
To see when I’m done
I’ve 30 new writings.
That’s so exciting!

Today is the end
And I’m glad now to say
I’m still alive
Hip hip hooray!

4/30/09

FAREWELL

To thirty days in April
when hundreds of poets world-wide
took Robert’s prompts
at Poetic Asides.

Tossed them their inventive hoppers
to produce unnumbered creations.
Their muses will now
take a small vacation,

inhale a deep breath,
then dive in again
on weekly suggestions,
to develop new spins.

"Mountain Morning"

She didn't say good-bye
just slipped out
into the mountain morning
not yet dawn
black sky shining.

Slipping into the morning
she walked over rock
down ditch and by the river
black sky not yet dawning.

By the river she slipped
in the mountain morning
over rock and under black sky
she didn't say good-bye.

Richard-Mertin-Atwater you rock!

It has been such an honor to share this site with all the wonderful writers here, but most especially you, Robert, for your encouragement and energy. Thank you all so much.

#30 FAREWELLS

I’ve ALWAYS hated farewells
Late every day for school
Saying long farewells to Mama
Staying late into the day
After school
Saying long farewells to
Friends and teachers
So late my mother called the school
Until she realized her girl was just that way

There are farewells that only last
A day or two
And those are good
Farewells that last a few weeks
Are tolerable
A few years, normal for dysfunctional
But not permanent
Like death

Long farewells include hugs
Admonitions – write
Or call when you get there!
And the farewells I dislike least
Are those where you just know
We’ll meet again soon!

I loved being part of this month's challenge. I learned so much! I enjoyed being challenged to write in tighter forms and will make it a point to use it in future writing. I've also been forced to complete my poems...not just start them. It's good to know I can.

So(as I hate saying goodbye)I'll seeya later!

Carrie:)



END TO END

Goodbye to gray skies,
hello to skies of blue,
goodbye to the cold,
hello to spring's debut,
goodbye to heavy meals,
hello to a colorful salad,
goodbye to closed windows,
hello to tanning the pallid,
goodbye to snow-covered boots,
hello to sandals and beaches,
goodbye to writer's block,
hello to new-found reaches,
goodbye to being all alone,
hello to fellow pastime friends,
goodbye to procrastination,
hello to reaching the end.

Farewell Dear Friends

Farewell dear friends,
or should I say adieu?
Until we meet again.
These times have been great.
We've laughed and gone on
about many things.
But it is time to move on.
We are moving forward at all times.
Even when we stop.
Take care my friends.
Stay in touch.
You will never be forgotten.

As Good As Gone

I've crinkled my nose
and disappeared, for now I
am rendered bewitched.

Not yet a farewell, but a thank you.
(I will post a farewell poem later. This is my thanks to Robert and all the wonderful poets who shared this month.)

Poetry prompts provided
passive poet
path particularly pleasurable.
Production possibly perishing.

Thanks so much.

Dear Mother Nature

You can keep your winter wonderland
Send Jack Frost back to his grave
Your snowflakes lost their appeal
When you used them to enslave

Us, to your prison of ice sickles
To your bitter wind and hail
To temperatures that damaged
That left us meek and pale

Lock up all your blizzards
All your frostbite, colds, and flu
Aching joints and chapped lips
Cabin fever and moods of blue

All I crave is summer
Spring and sometimes even fall
If I see winter round again
To sunny beaches I may crawl

So Mother Nature, if you would
Please keep your winter wonderland
Or I’ll say goodbye to here and now
And venture on to tropic land

Adieu

Adieu, Adieu!
I walked along with you
hand in hand when the world was full of sorrow.
We never placed our bets on tomorrow,
only lived for the moment, our moment.
We each made our own commitments
And journeyed as long as we could
as companions. Even at the start we knew we would
have to part, and smiling said, “this too shall pass.”
We lose when we least expect it; however,
there is a deep pit left in place of our time together
Adieu, Adieu!
In grieving, I fall into the blue,
and in my waking, I grasp memories
with a tightened fist. No mans armies
can tear them away from me, and yet time erodes
what I have left of you. I come to the crossroads
of my own mortality, if ever I encountered it,
I surely turned away, for my days are not so numbered, yet.
With a heavy heart, I whisper “this too shall pass.”
I can walk along alone claiming little victories
as your champion and friend. I declare in valedictory
Adieu, Adieu!

A poem a day is tough to do
Hard to believe I made it through,
I like a challenge so I really tried
I must admit my brain is fried!

Goodbye and best wishes to one and all
Is there a poet hotline that I could call?
We’re at the end and there’s no more to say
Now what will I do for the month of May?

Fare Well

Good-bye to never
Being a writer

So long to rejecting
Poetry in my heart

Adieu to stuffing words
Inside my head

Adios to denying
Gifts of rhyming

Farewell to holding back
Creativity blossoming forth

Sayonara to stifling
Thoughts to be shared

Ciao to worrying
Nothing good to say

Shalom to challenges
Poems live each day

Wow -- Richard-Merlin Atwater -- I am not only floored but completely grateful for your reflective and honorary-styled poem!

This has been a great month!!!!

Painful Parting

Palliative remedies only deaden
the pain at first but time
is a friend that little by little
eases the raw nerves--screaming
diminishing to a moan

Habit remembers how it was
I feel the presence of the missing part
as though it was still attached--
the itching and ache of it
I have to look to see it's gone

But no--it's gone forever
I am handicapped
There are things I can no longer do
I must learn to work around this disability
To live life in a new form

How like amputation is widowhood

Farewell to My Thirtieth Day Birthday Celebration

Once this day rolls away
onto its stomach
next to May

I'll be on my back again
another year older
kicking at
comfort that confines
striking up another
constricting tune
for my brain to play with
on the left and on the right,
that keeps me wanting more
poems to set free
to be as light
as gossimer wings
and sail them to friends
both old and new.

Fare-well= Good luck?
Good Bye= I'm glad we're parting?
So Long= until what?

We humans love to use our words to
complicate
express
distress
exaggerate
portray
release
inspire
simplify
...................I'm gonna miss this daily prompt
to get my butt in gear.
I'll try to meet you every Wed.
If not, see you next year!!!




Love and thanks to everyone who made this so much fun to be a part of; and of course to our devoted Guru....thanks Robert!!

With everything packed
We turned to those we'd never see again
Those we couldn't thank enough
Nor properly

The nannies to our children
Who loved them as we do
And what would happen?
We did not know

"Cuida su familia," we said
"Vaya con Dios," they said
The day we left the third world
Richer than we had ever been

Goodbye Vietnam

Hoi Nam was borne
In her mother in a boat
Desperately flung
To be born on US soil.

Her name means "Missing Country".

Her parents, knowing I have been,
Demand I mispronounce their language,
And cackle in delight as broken
As my "Chao Ong Ba."

The Berlitz teacher on the last day,
Face shining with hope asked
"Just bring me something back.
A bit of dirt, a rock.
It doesn't matter. Bring me something."

(We didn't see him again, and the
wooden trinket boat went to someone else.)

But Dr. Gina "Hoi Nam" Hoang
Will go to Vietnam
And take pictures with her family
Where jungle vines hid the evidence
Of so many good-byes.

__

Farewell

The lump in my throat
as I swallow
my sadness
is no metaphor.

The tears I forbid
to fall
puddle
on my lower lashes,
hot and so salty
I taste them
on my tongue.

Nancy Posey

Haiku: A Mother's Farewell

Earth covered his grave
as she wept inaudibly,
loath to say goodbye.


Haiku: Passing of An Era

Gone are the old days
when we lived strong, free and proud.
Farewell to freedom.

The Real Death of Superman

Superman longed for the old days
of good guys and bad guys,
Kryptonian-toting Lex Luthor cronies,
reality-bending midgets,
villains from other planets
bent on world domination
with their death rays
and mischievous toys.

He missed Solomon Grundy
and General Zod, simple men,
really, with simple plans
and motivations. He wanted
more natural disasters, earthquakes,
landslides, typhoons, things he could stop
with brute strength, super breath
or flying around the world backwards.

He didn’t know what to do
about drugs or booze, low
self-esteem or clinical depression.
He grew tired of saving
suicide girls from the sides
of bridges only to watch them
find another ledge and jump.
Raw force seemed silly

in the face of self-mutilation.
He could knock a gun from a wrongdoer’s
hands in an alleyway stick up
without thinking twice,
but in their own homes, pointed
at their own temples, weapons
of self-destruction too numerous
to account for, he lacked answers.

Confronted with spouses returning
to abuse, with abandonment
and exploitation, with incivility
in all its forms, his big hands were useless,
his x-ray vision saw nothing.
He grew bored with irrelevance,
became powerless under the sun,
his own impenetrable skin grown thin.

It is time to let go but
I can't seem to say good-bye
I need to hold you
once more, time to shed a
tear is only a symbol of
my quiet desperation.

I know it is time to let go, but
I have so much more to say
Good-bye doesn't grasp the
depths of my thoughts
so I will say farewell.
Until we meet again.

To Her Coy Poem

Had I but world enough and time...
I’d write both free verse and some rhyme
and use more forms that wax poetic
than what is here. Is that pathetic?

But, thirty days should go to praise
me for the clever turn of phrase
within a poem’s aging prime,
had I but world enough and time.

Now, therefore while the youthful hue
of sonnets, quatrains and haiku
and also Fibonacci modes
express my thoughts in great busloads

I bid farewell to April’s posts
(especially sestina ghosts!)
I’m thankful for this month, since I’m
so glad I had this Marvellous time!

MY REGRET (PAD April 30, 2009 - Farewell)

I never did get to say goodbye
you were gone before I knew
I refused to see you after death
I wanted to remember you
as the vibrant, alive man
I loved and revered
So many years of separation
All the lost moments
we can't get back
Unspoken words floating
away like an errant breeze
Sometimes my mind
wanders back to times
when you reached
to rub the top of my head
calling me your pet name
Your gentle touch
your funny crooked smile
the twinkle in you eyes
These are locked away
in my daddy memory
All the times you bought
me pomegranates, when
I know it was more than
you could afford
Taking me with you
to places where
a child was not welcome
just so I would be safe
from the meanness
of an unhappy home
Daddy, if I could call back
yesterday and the days before
I would tell you how much
you meant, how much I loved
and adored you, all the words
I never got to speak
because I thought life
would go on a little longer

Farewell

How poetic to say “Farwell”
How human not to mean “Goodbye”
Our words true feelings cannot tell
Our feelings show only when we cry.

So let me say “Farewell”
Not that I mean “Goodbye”
For I will never tell
How inside I cry.

GOODBYE BETWEEN THE LINES


This could be a farewell poem
something to say for the last time:
Coins to squander,
coins to shut tight the eyes
blind to wasted sun downs

Or it could be a greeting poem
camouflaged green, earth-brown,
in the thicket of branches
twisting somewhere, of twigs bobbing
what you and I want to believe:

hello behind sweet confetti;
goodbye inside the bowl of this palm.

#

Searching For Life

‘Twas a fair well
that kept us here at all—
water so cold and sweet
pure as sunlight
with no dust to dance in.
We reveled in the
life giving flow
until one hot summer day
experiencing our greatest thirst
we discovered the well dry,
nothing left to offer.
A fair well
offers life only for a time
so we said good bye fair well,
and set off,
still searching
for life.

This is strange Janne because I have this:



Darling?

”Darling, I sold our house”, it says. Only I don’t say this loud.
I go to the window and stare outside.
“Darling, I sold our house.”
I touch the window. You almost killed me once, because I couldn’t keep it steady when you from the outside tried to fit it in.
“Darling, I sell your wooden construction. I sell all your staircases. I sell it all. I sell the heavy stove.”
The heavy, heavy stove we couldn’t get in because I couldn’t lift enough. It was outside on the path for days before you found out how we could get it.
“Darling, I sold it, too.”
Everything will be gone.
I know because you are gone and I cannot reach you anymore.
I have cried, walked myself to extreme exhaustion, I have been in churches and you were nowhere.
You are gone.
“Darling, I will be gone, too. Only I am here for a little longer.”
I have cried and I am surprised, I can still be crying.
So many years have passed.
So many people passed.
My mother taught me how to die.
Only what’s the use when I need you.
I need you so much, now!
“Darling, I am writing. I know you’d hate it and I know you’d love it”
You would wonder about the words and you would ask!
You would laugh.
You would say: “Go get it, honey. You can.”
You would be proud.
“Oh, darling, I miss you so.”
You would also say: “Do you really need to sit up for so long, writing?”
And I would ask what time it is and I would be confused if time hit me again.
“Darling, I miss your fish dish and I miss your forgiveness.”
I miss the cold fish which was supposed to be warm and I miss your irritation.
I miss time means anything to me.
I miss that when I am busy; it is because I need to come home to you.
“I need to sell our house, darling, and I know if you are a soul somewhere, you will be crying.”
I sell our precious house.
I sell it because you are not here.
I sell it because you don’t call for me to stop writing.
I sell it because I find myself surprised you didn’t call.
I like touching our window and I like that now somebody else will come to our house and I like that they will not know that this is our window.
They will know nothing.
They will just live in our house and be happy.
“Darling, and so will we.”

“Adam Bids Farewell to You”

Adam sat down to write a poem about you today,
But he found that you weren’t the same anymore.

Were you Allison from Allentown?
Belle from Boston?
Or Carolyn from Chicago?

He worked over the alphabet of girls he kissed
with his pen suspended over paper
And his heart whirred cold.

So he tucked his notebook into his back pocket,
Adjusted his ironic braces,
And dusted off the brim of his newsboy cap.

The downtown train was full of enough Brooklyn girls
That you would be easy enough to find.

So he fell in love with every girl with scuffed shoes,
Every lady with chipped red nails,
Every woman who woke seconds before leaping into the city.

But you weren’t there.
And his pen was out of ink.

Just a THANKS for now . . . will be back to post my "farewell" poem -- when I come up with one. (Still working on my "never" poem too!) It's been a short/long month of intense/leisurely hard work -- nose to the grindstone madly trying to write a poem-a-day, leaving little time to read. I plan to come back here at my leisure to read and enjoy the past month bit by bit, as I can.

For now, thank you, Robert, for another fun and productive month of excellent prompts & ideas -- and thanks to everyone for sharing their work & energy! I believe in that collective unconscious -- and know we have all shared a (LARGE) piece of it over the past month.

Thanks everyone! Keep writing! And happy Poem-in-your-Pocket day! :-)

(Back later to finish off this month with my "farewell".)

I have have enjoyed reading everyone's poems and taking part in the April Poem a Day. Thanks to everyone who shared their inner self, you're all quite fantastic. THANK YOU ROBERT!

Autumn Reflections

by Therese Haberman


Spiced apple scents wander warm rooms
Mingling with burning apple bough timbers
Smoky sweetness crackles and hisses in the stone fireplace
Like hushed voices in the corner of a massive empty hall

Late afternoon slanted sun rays alive with elfish sprites
Created from shadows of drifting leaves
Swirl and scrape along the walk in cheek-reddening gusts
Dance of invisible angels beckons from patterns of blowing debris

Waning things float with earth bound cherubs one final round
Wisps of life now a lagging memory lost in stray afterthoughts
Out the open window, riots of colors spray paint the hillside
Quilted canopy rolls proudly into the sterling distance

Set against crystal blue sky, pillows of clouds toss themselves
In slow motion across the frost-fresh horizon
Tiny juncos beat their wings fruitlessly against the rising breeze
Settle for poking last remnants of grass under their ancient oak treehouse

Armies of pumpkins form a small mountain
Next to the weathered white picket-fenced farmhouse
For Sale sign rocks and sways with windy billows
I sit drinking the pleasure of fall’s striking majesty

Old chestnut desk groans as I lean to survey glowing scenery
Comforting creak noise, like a friend’s voice in the distance
Bittersweet taste of this color drenched afternoon
Brings a flood of soft-laced sorrow to my eyes

Remembering you on a sparkling day just like this one
Trapped in your arms, rolling down leave-strewn hills
Laughter still plays out a long ago song of dying echoes
Rub a lonely tear into age-darkened grains of my now quiet desk

Pain as bright as summer sunlight closes
A barbed-wire noose around my aching heart
Then slowly the hurt dwindles; loses the cruel force of its power
And fades into oblivion like the late day autumn sun

Dear Robert,

Thanks for the month-long challenge of writing a poem a day. It was challenging for me to write 30 poems for April, my second year in a row. You have done a great job keeping this challenge going. All poets salute you!

Salvatore Buttaci

the sunrise sets the day

the sunrise sets the day for some
for night-shift workers, owls and insomniacs
the sunrise is an arrangement of cutlery at a table
taken out and then put away for practice
for a future time with others
as eyes close goodbye
on beginnings

Farewells

I knew always you were wrong for me
Yet I wasted so many years
Afraid I couldn't do it on my own
Finally I said a final farewell
And grew comfortable in my new life
Then came time to say farewell
To that place my new life started in
And hello to a new home and friends
Sometimes farewell is a start
To something new and wonderful

Farewell To Regrets

I’d rather
be kind
than be right

I’d rather
seek peace
than hate war

I’d rather
forgive
than begrudge

I’d rather
enjoy
than require

I’d rather
find good
than fight evil

I’d rather
love
than need loving

I’d rather
be me
than another

“Another one”
Time filled with endings
People continue to come and go
Naturally
And, it seems, unnaturally
It’s hard to form the words
To truly feel the end
Bittersweet, yet anticlimactic
Dare I say it?
Or shall I only turn away?

Day 30 -

http://heartofareadywriter.blogspot.com/2009/04/april-30th-stating-his-sovereignty.html

STATING HIS SOVEREIGNTY

at Heart of a Ready Writer

The Job
Othello Gooden Jr.

Jobs are hard to come by
But there's so many reasons why
I must pack my bags and fly
I found me another job

Not to say I liked your company
Not that the fact I felt robbed
I can't support myself with this small amount of money
Though the economy is worse, there is more out there than just the "Penny-Anny".

Many thanks to Robert for all you have done and will continue to do! Richard, your poem is simply awesome -- I'll echo the "Wows!" of others. Before this challenge, I've only written prose but now have become interested in poetry in its various forms. Thank you to all who encouraged my work whether by post here or just in your hearts. It's been an honor to read your work. I have learned so much from all of you.

Today's poem will post later. Godspeed!

Thanks and Farewell
By Diana J. Baker

It is hard to believe a whole month has passed;
And what a month it was! I had a blast
Trying to compose a poem every day.
I wasn’t sure at first I had anything to say.

But when the prompt came, early each morning,
My words began to flow without any warning.
I put on my paper what I heard in my head,
And I can tell you, I was surprised at what I said!

As I sat at my computer, magic things took place;
I wrote, and I wrote, as though I was in a race.
Stories appeared, some in rhyme, some not,
And a notebook full of poetry is the result that I got.

Thank you, Robert, for issuing this challenge to me;
It gave me permission to let my thoughts run free.
I was quite surprised at the variety of your prompts,
And I have to admit, some of them had me stumped.

But I responded to the prompts with great determination
Although there were some that brought me consternation.
I was often quite challenged, but I struggled on through it;
And I certainly am glad that I managed just to do it.

Taking part in the challenge has proven one thing to me:
Whatever I set my mind to do will eventually come to be.
So until next April, I will say a fond farewell
And get back to work on the stories I have to tell.

For thirty days I have engaged in PAD.
Thirty poems and more have I written
According to Rob’s daily prompt.

Each morning I eagerly sought
That day’s signal to tickle my muse.
And wrote as my mood (or challenge) dictated.

Some days it came easy.
Haiku and sestina were harder.
But all days I confronted the taunt.

Thank you Robert for giving us reason
To write and stretch our imaginations
At least for National Poetry Month.

Now the end of April has arrived.
The final prompt has been given.
To say farewell is our cue.

Adios, Adeus, Cheerio, Tata,
Au revoir, Ciao, Αντίο, Abschied,
Poetic friends, Прощание and adieu for now.

A New Road

Preparing to lock the door
One last time
Before this house
Is no longer mine,
I can not help
But wander
Amidst the rooms once more.

So many memories,
Mostly good
With a sprinkling
Of bad mixed in,
(after all, this is life,
Ever changing
And challenging)
Seems to fill my mind.

Rooms of laughter,
My playing boys.
Rooms of love,
My family and friends.
Rooms that were home
For four precious years.
Rooms that time and love
Made into a home
But now are “rooms”
Once more.

I’m lured once more
For one last stroll
Through my gardens,
My oasis
And look over all
The budding plants
And reflect upon
The time and energy
I put into each
And every bed.

I pause to smell the roses
And happen to hear
One last time
The barred owls in the trees
Seemingly over my shoulder
Saying farewell to me.

In the truck I sit,
A tear falls from my eye
As we drive away
Once more
To take a different road.

Spring flowers wither
petals floating fairwell on
the way to Summer.

to the phoney poet who takes up too much space, too much time and wrote his own press releases

Farewell to you oh RiMerAt
your swagger will not be missed
you posted every single day
close to the top of the list

so hear me now oh RiMerAt
nobody likes a boor
your manner is so arrogant
there only is one cure

from this day on oh RiMerAt
if your name doth appear
on any kind of poetry
of that I will steer clear

it matters not oh RiMerAt
how I might make my choice
the only noise you hear
is that of your own voice

I will not miss you RiMerAt
and your space hogging ways
you bored us with your silly words
for the past thirty days

if you choose to be affronted
know that I have greatly blunted
large amounts of this invective
I must remain self-protective

Robert says it’s time to bid you all adieu
Never thought I’d be feeling rather blue

When at first I moaned and groaned
Thought I’d be all alone

Stretching, growing, learning from each other
Now it feels as if we’re sister and brother

Key ingredient to this art called writing
Which some have noticed I’ve been fighting

I must sit myself down
Wipe off that frown

And just Write-Write-Write!!


By Teresa Lasher
© April 30, 2009


What an encouraging, inspiring way to spend my last 30 days. I’m convinced it’s never too late to make an impact on the lives of people we touch. Each of you, in your own individual way, contributed something special to the Art of Writing!
Bye-See ‘ya-and don’t forget to write!

Blessings and peace to you all!
Teresa Lasher

Farewell Revisited

Farewell
I hated that word
I always did
It meant
It is over
It is done
The good days are gone
Gone
Gone
Old friends vanish
Never seen again
Gone
Gone
Gone
Relatives you loved
Are no more
Gone
Gone
But not today
Today it means
No more
Prompts
It means I’m
Free
Free
Free
Today it is a wonderful word
Farewell
Poetry thing
Farewell Robert
Farewell nonsense
Gone
Gone
Gone
Hooray
And then again
Hooray
Farewell

Thank you so very much, Robert. I live for Aprils as it is, and this poem-a-day challenge only adds to the beauty and attraction of the year's finest month.

For all who want a handy compilation of their submissions: I wrote this little tool that does exactly that:

http://dintur.net/cgi-bin/pc2009.pl

Search by author name, keywords, or show the submissions day by day in a different format. The first option is probably best. Hope it helps someone out there.

On to today's prompt, and see you all in eleven months!

Anders

“Farewell”

Farewell is not goodbye.
Farewell is not the end.
Farewell is not forever.
Farewell is until we meet again.

Hats off to you, Sir Richard Merlin-Atwater!
Amazing how all of our names are in there!

Farewell, Dan

The phone call came late at night at work.
A fluke that I even answered it,
But I say it was your area code.
When last we'd talked, you had the flu.
"I'm getting better, just a nasty bug."
That was July and now it was November.
A voice on the other end of the line said,
"I don't know what to do if he doesn't answer at this number.
It's the last one I can find for him. Hello, Bob. Bob is that you?
It's Annie calling from Florida."
Her voice surprised me. Why was she calling me?
"I have some bad news. Dan died this evening."
Dan died? Dan died? I repeated that question in my head.
"Bob, honey, he wasted away in front of my eyes.
He wanted no one to see him, not even the people he loved most."
I listened. I couldn't talk.
"I'll let you know when the memorial service is.
You may want to come."
That's the last I heard from her or anyone about Dan.

Farewell, Dan, you treated me like your little brother.
You loved me and included me in your universe.
I will never forget you and what you taught me.
In your memory I will live large and prosper.
Farewell, dearest friend, I hope Heaven is big enough to hold you.

I dedicate this last day poem to my friend Cheryl Neill, without whom I would not be on these pages, and this voyage with all of you.


Crossing


Oh should I have placed you
in your Viking barque, set a fire,
set you out to that sea
you would not swim in,
banging drums loudly for
your passage to a place
where you will wait for me;
laid coins upon your eyes,
as the Egyptians did,
built a pyramid to your greatness.
No archeologist will dig you up and
wonder at the beads by your head,
or other treasures I buried with you,
for surely, they are no use to me now.
With your stones I mark that small
parcel of land where I may walk
the hillside to the crossing;
to the crossing.

Goodbye

a permanent word.
i don't use it much
because i don't believe it.

a sad word.
it means forever.
it means never again.

i know i'll see you again.

buying french bread in paris.
hiking half dome.
perusing flip-flops at the surf shop.

i won't say goodbye.
i'll say see you soon.

Until we Meet Again, Mama

Around the room are those who loved
you through your life on earth.
Some familiar faces around you bed
have been with you since your birth.

Your sisters, Louise, Georganna, and Dot
their memories of a lifetime together,
look on lovingly, but with tears as you
succumb to health like stormy weather.

YAHOO!!! Thanks for a fun month, Robert!

You fought the good battle, as your
children well know with husband by your side.
From here on in the pain will decease
As you prepare for that wonderous last slide.

Slide into sleep, my little mama;
I will miss you with all of my heart.
Close your eyes and dream sweet dreams,
as we hold hands lovingly while we part.

"Until next time"


Not a fan of goobyes,
this has been a blast,
I knew it would not last
but I digress
I have been put to the test
Thank you all.
I've had a ball,
This is my last chance at a rhyme
"Until next time."

Goodbye

Adios, au revoir,
goodbye to all.
This month has been
a challenge to befall.
Although difficult
at times to stick to,
writing a poem a day
is something I'll do-
every April and November,
whenever the time arises.
For I know with this PAD
there are no surprises;
only a chance to write
with new and old dear friends,
learn about their technique
and their challenges in the end.
So thanks for the memory
and the chance to be a part
of a classy, educated group
where I can easily share my heart!

Laurie K.

Thanks to everyone who participated and
commented. I look forward to continue to
browse through, dig into, tastem and lounge in
your words and images.

Hello Farwell

This month has been about Hello’s
Hello to a new web site
Hello to a Challenge
Hello to figuring out new technology
Hello to new people via their names,
visions, emotions and poems
Hello to new types of poems
Hello to people looking at and solving challenges differently
Hello to mind growth
Hello to determination
Hello to 6am

Farwell for now.
But I’ll be back for more quests,
to see and make comments,
to greet now familiar names,
gain new ideas and perspectives,
to ward of dementia
And to keep my pencil sharp and fingers tapping out words
But, Goodbye to 6am.

Richard - Holy Guacamole! I'm totally flabbergasted. I'm actually speechless (which, for me is saying a lot!)

You really put a lot of heart into this month's challenge.

Kudos - in every color!

Thanks so much, Anders!

Bye-Bye Now

I don’t really know you that well
I’ve never really had much affinity
You’ve always been too reserved
Too something not quite there
Not quite the thorn in my paw
That you really are now
But I don’t have to deal with you
I may have to see you
Every now and then
I may be pleasant
As ever I was
To your face
I don’t hold grudges
But I know you will
I could say all sorts of things
Some mean
Some nice
But in the end it is all the same
You didn’t mean anything to me
From the start
Why would you mean
Anything now
So walk on off
And curse to yourself
That part of your life is over and gone
And this is all me and mine now

A re-post without the error ;-)

"Until next time"


Not a fan of goodbyes,
this has been a blast,
I knew it would not last
but I digress
I have been put to the test
Thank you all.
I've had a ball,
This is my last chance at a rhyme
"Until next time."

Thanks Anders! It worked! And thanks to all ...

Lesley

Gold Sweater

If we are to say goodbye
can I have your gold sweater?
The one with the tiny pearl buttons,
the one you wore at my wedding,
the one everyone, including Rick,
commented on?
Now, these years later,
when Rick has moved on,
(okay, so have I, it’s true,
‘though who moved first is
still debated and, I suppose
in a way, one of the reasons for our parting)
I don’t remember the vows
or the dance, or the cake or champagne.
I barely remember our honeymoon
except for the comment, offhand,
“That friend of yours, the one with the
gold sweater…”
Please tell me you haven’t given it to the thrift shop
or given it to someone else.
I promise to cherish it
and treat it with more care
than I probably did either of Rick
or of you.
Those pearl buttons…!
How they glimmered,
reflected the day
and all our early hopes.

“Butterfly Good-bye”

Like the last butterfly
On an autumn breeze
I float
I flit
I flutter
…Good-bye

If You Don’t Say Good-bye, Are You Still There?

“I told you when I came I was a stranger.” --Leonard Cohen “The Stranger Song”

I have learned that some folks
Never say goodbye.
Instead of working the room
And hugging and kissing
And exclaiming thanks and see you soon;
Instead of announcing
“It’s time to go”
Or putting on their coats as they have that last drink,
Some folks
Just slip out,
Leave quietly,
Open the door and go,
Realizing that no one will realize
They have gone
Until much later
When someone might ask
Have you seen her?
Did she go?
And no one will know the answer.

Some folks say good-bye
In booming voices
So that conversation must stop
As all eyes follow their departure.
And afterwards,
The words and things they’ve left behind
Can fill the room.

But I have learned
Through years of
Watching people go
That some folks just leave
And never say goodbye.

Sir Richard Obi Wan Atwater, Poet & Publisher: While I sent you my immense personal regards, well, personally, my public kudo and reason for not including you in my vote for "Poet-of-the Month" is inspired by my memory of Playboy's annual ballot for Best Party School, wherein the University of Wisconsin was never the victor, even though the readers and Playboy staff acknowledged it to be one hell of a poet...errr, I mean one hell of a drinking academy, simply because it is not fair to match professionals with amateurs. Your origins here were yards ahead of the rest of us (well, feet ahead of Walt and Hannah and Nancy and De), your colors shone brighter by light years (well, days over Anders and Iain and Padgett and Mollie), your regrets more memorable (and both cleaner and dirtier) than anyone’s (yet close by were the two Janes and Marie and Marie Elena), your anger was keener than most (yet banana and Earl were close), your sestina was leaner than all (though Missy and Hugh and Shutta well answered the call), your haiku was so new (but Angela and Alana also knew), and your interactions simply left you the belle of the ball.
So, I can’t vote for you now, since you have clearly retired the big trophy, and the rest of us are scrambling in the search for more base metals (and verbs and nouns and synonyms and meters) to create a substitute, albeit second-rate, little ribbon. Thanks for your work, thanks for your passion, thanks for giving my blog a title, at last…daniellivingpoet.

Goodbye, Farewell, the End

Good-bye, my soul
mate, my heart-
ache, my grand, impossible
dream.

Fare well forever, wherever
you may go, whomever
you might love, whatever
you achieve.

This is the end of
it, love. We never made
it, love. Forget about
it, love. And about
me.

Goodbye,
farewell,
the end.

“Fare-Thee-Well”

I’m marching off to war
Over hills and under trees
Through dark of night
And morning breeze

I’ll march until I’m told to stop
In the rain and through the snow
When freezing cold
Or burning hot

I’ll march and march again
Until the light begins to dim
When the war at last is done
When my maker finally comes

PARADE REST

More than their crisp uniforms
the triangle-folding of the flag
the officer’s message of gratitude
for your service on the USS Smalley

more than the faraway trumpeted taps
of a bugler at the edge of the woods

I like to think it would be those polished shoes
echoing a ritual you performed
for all your decades,
all those shoes

yes, those spit-shine shoes
would make you return their salute
and smile.

“Farewell”

Good-bye dirt
Good-bye dust
Good-bye culminating rust

Good-bye mud
Good-bye mold
Good-bye bugs so bold

Good-bye laundry
Good-bye lunch
Good-bye dishes in a bunch

Good-bye housework
Good-bye honey
The house is clean, leave some money

Wow! Richard-Merlin Atwater - That is quite an Epic. Thanks for the mention!

The Last Day of Faire

Nine o'clock Daylight Savings Time,
I travel east on the beloved road
That for seven Sundays and eight Saturdays
Was so blasted stressful.
This time, next week, I'll - and not "I shall"
Go west, for my church is west of my house-
A church I haven't seen, and priests I haven't seen
In eight Sundays.

I go unto the sacred grounds of Faire,
Where once again I see around me the joyful faces
Of people united by a love of history,
A fascination with fashion,
A delight in classical music,
Or just plain old wild and crazy fun.

Slowly, like Queen Elizabeth I at Faire,
I make my progress for one last time for the year
And say "Good Morrow" or "Good Day" or "Good Ee'en"
But on the morrow, I'll go back
To saying "Hi"

And at the singer's request, I join other happy voices
In a rousing chorus of "fa la la la la" -
But at next week's rock concert,
We all go "Yeah, yeah, yeah!"

The lute and mandolin and the madrigals
Are on my iPod at home,
But this is my last time to hear them live,
As they were first played 400 years ago
By hearts and voices like those of the soulful singers
Who make Faire the splendid place it is -

Mother Goose flaps her wings at me
But her cute little goslings raise their fuzzy little heads
And flap at me, too, because they have grown
Big enough and strong enough to fend for themselves.

I go about doing the joyful things I did
For fifteen glorious days before,
Hugging those great once-a-year friends
A tear or two welling up in my eye,

And now the sun sets over RenFaire
And the bell ringers cry out sadly
"The faire is over - o - o - o -o-ver!"

I check my bag to see what I have:
Perfume I cannot get in the store;
The dragon earrings I have been eyeing for weeks;
And, like petals on a rose, little slips of paper
Bearing the e-mails of my brand new friends.

As I make my way to my car which will soon be clean,
I turn my head back and see the once bright ribbons
Now dusky, fluttering in the wind,

After checking up on my folks for one last time this year,
As I fear they will put up with me a lot more on weekends,
I make my way for one last time this year
To the pub, though I will be there again and again and again,

But not with the bunch of costumed live-wires
Who never fail to make me laugh,
And fill my mind with knowledge.
We raise our ale tankards high
And toast another magnificent season,
Telling with one another all we are thankful for
Before we part from one another's company
Until next year.

Goodbye


I found out late last night
Who you are
You told me where I stand
The odds were against me

But I don’t care anymore
My heart broke
When you left
Me all alone

In sadness
Pieces reunite
Slowly…
And I’m not so
Broken

Don’t look back
With a smile
My heart is fractured
Shattered into
Despair’s dust and ashes

Don’t relight the fire
Just to blow it out again

You can’t find the start
At the end
This time

4/30/09
A.J. Schuch

no end

if we begin,
somehow, sometime, somewhere,
we must end.
my friend, my lover, my teacher,
one last time,
hold me, touch me and remember.
love has no end,
speak no sad farewell.
locked in time,
love's memory lives on.

Copyright © 2009 by Eryll Oellermann

RETIRED

The crane lay collapsed from the neck down
a shabby mastodon in the quiet worry
of the empty shell of what
once was proud American production.
Columbus's Western Electric factory has been
reduced to old bones and a skeleton crew.
Obsolete after fifty years, remanufactured
into new medical buildings that sprout
like trees surrounding a vacant house.
Young roots entwine old,
a Midwestern evolution.

TOADS RETREAT INTO THE EARTH

My words cannot capture your words
let alone your soul, your soul, your soul
that flew like a bird toward the sun –

I don’t want to say good-bye to you
or farewell or adieu or vaya con Dios
even if the time, the time, the time

has come.

You were so beautiful, and I know you still
are, shining, singing, dancing, laughing,
watching us on this earth, in this country, this down town –

you see the water encircling the globe, the water of life,
like the water in your belly, giving life,
with your blood, your chromosomes, you DNA strands

that now meet the River.

Everything flows into the same ocean, not
the Pacific, but the peace that passes all understanding,
and I don’t understand, I can’t follow, I just walk, blinded –

but I want to give you gifts, and if you cannot
receive them, then for your children, my godchildren,
I bind them on my head, my hands, my heart

my heart, open like this book, to the truth.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

“This is a time of good-byes, a time of loss and change. The trees and the flowers and the insects go inward, the toads retreat into the earth. Some things cannot survive until spring. But truly there has never been a good-bye that was not a hello to something else. It is impossible.”
~ Jennifer Franet (7 November 2008)

Thanks Anders, your poem search tool works great!

NPM 2009--acrostic attempt with "hats off" to Robert & all who took the challenge--it has been fun

P rompts by Robert
O vertures by peers
E ndeavors to write each day
T riumphs in achieving that goal
R eality of writing
Y es, a poem is published!

R aise a glass (water/wine, juice, milk) to cheer
O ver a task completed
C all it a day (month, as it may be)
K eep on writing
S ure of your dreams

Farewell

Farewell to abuse,
Farewell to pain
Hello to the sunshine
After cold rain.

Farewell to pedophilia,
May you live no more,
May all victims survive,
While your soul, God will restore.

Day 30 Farewell

We sat on the stairs in the middle of the house
and cried together, my little girl and I,
the day her older sister moved out. She was 14, the older one.
A bully, a failure, an abuser: so I accused myself.
But she was safe, with her father, with my family
and after a few months,
I was glad she had somewhere to go.
Five years later, she is doing well
and we are establishing a friendship that will last
throughout our lives.
The guilt remains.

Farewell to Poetic Asides

I know now I’ll never write a poem
that will ever be remembered.
But it has been great fun to have been a member,
now a very humble one, of the April Poetry Challenge.

Alas, I cannot write true poetry
but I can plant a seed and coax it to full bloom,
and I can knit a toque that will keep my child warm.
I can crochet a blanket to wrap a newborn baby.
I can tell a story that will make a child giggle.
And I can listen when my friend needs to talk.

So I thank you all for letting me join your ranks for just a while.
Your poetry has blessed me and brought me many a smile
while I sat at my computer and realized that I’ll
feel better doing things that I do well.

Cut!

Shouts the director, like an alarm clock
as actors awaken from the silken world;
characters melt back into the pots

of everyday jokes and gestures. The camera
operator unlocks her eye from the lens, the frame
widens back to the infinite. The shoot is over.

Farewll

I think kids have the hardest time
With goodbye
They can’t quite grasp
That you’ll be back
Can’t really see
The circle of time

Never kill

Seems like great advice
Easy to attain.
As long as you don’t
Walk or
Breathe or
Eat or
Bathe
Or think.

Evenings at Grandma’s



She was 9. Would sit on the veranda
with the adults, all the other children
inside. On her daddy’s lap, his hand
rubbing her neck, smoothing her hair,
patting her thigh. Lights in the city
below glowed as darkness grew.
Bowls full of pistachios, black olives,
turnip pickles, red with beet juice.
Hummus and babba ghanouj. Pita
bread. She drank glass full after glass
full of limeade, Pepsi, coconut water.
Anything she wanted at Grandma’s.


After a huge supper, back on her
daddy’s lap at the end of the veranda.
His chair, her uncles in theirs, women
around them. Noisy chatter, raucous
laughs. Back slaps and humour at
Grandma’s, chocolates in the box
passed around, and her daddy’s
hand, rubbing, smoothing, patting.
Lights grew dim and faded, sound
receded. Eyes could not stay open.


She is 11. Budding breasts hurt,
underarm stink, and then she starts
to bleed. One night at Grandma’s
house, she snacks on the veranda.
Throws olive pits over the railing,
into the garden. Eats too much
hummus, then starts in on the
pistachios. Shells into the garden
with the olive pits. Everybody’s
laughter. She plays with her
sisters, cousins, before dinner, then
eats with them on the veranda, plate
in her lap.


After supper, children go back
upstairs, grown-ups trickle out to
their chairs overlooking the city.
Lights bright, and starlight too.
She comes outside, tries to sit on
Daddy’s lap. You’re too big, he
says, pushing her off. His face is
angry—embarrassed? What did
she do? She takes a seat beside
her aunt, sits on no one’s lap. No
hand smoothing her, telling her
everything’s as it should be,
everything’s okay. She looks at
the city lights, watches her uncles.
Listens to words that mean
nothing. Does not look at her
father, who does not look at her.
Voices drone, her eyes grow
heavy, but she must keep them
open tonight. Nowhere to lay her
head, no normal smell of Daddy.

Farewell!

Farewell!
All of you mind-messing mosquitoes,
whining, while all the while,
I knew This
was important.

Oh, just quit, they brain-buzzed,
You’ll never catch up.
Most of yours
suck anyway.

Yep, they did.
But it mattered.
It was important.
I finished.

FAREWELL POEM

The month of April is now done,
writing each day was so much fun.
The daily prompt made us explore
poetic themes and metaphor.
Sadly now, we’ve run out of time,
means no more prompts or daily rhyme.
Humbly now, I must bid Adieu!
To Robert, to all, I thank you!

Farewell my little ones.



Every day I see a little less of you
there've been times I sat down and cried.
I wanted to cling on to seeing you
God knows how hard I tried.
But every day in every way
the obstacle between us grows.
Its a part of me but how I hate my gut
when it hides you from me - my toes.

Wow, Richard Merlin (the magician) A. your epic needs a book of its own!

Thanks, Robert, for a fun month. What a great way to welcome spring.

Here's my poem of farewell...


Changing of the Wardrobe

Goodbye my sturdy jeans
with hint of stretch, you cling
like sweat in summer heat.
Auf Wiedersehen my turtlenecks
snow drifts of fuzzy sweaters
So long my winding scarves
my uniform of leather gloves
and fleece-lined walking boots
Farewell my pantyhose
I’m leaving for a tan
Au revoir you lush buffet
of purple velour and red boucle
black velvet and wine corduroy

Time to wear salads
of lettuce green and berry pink
crinkle cloth and gauzy linen
swaying and swooshing silky skirts
break out the halters and bikinis
bring on those cutoffs and capris
backless sandals and flirty tees!

I applaud Richard-Merlin Atwater!!!!!!

Poetic Asides

P ouring out the poems
O pening new windows
E ntering unexplored portals
T eaching and learning
I nteracting
C reating

A mazing and being amazed
S peaking without sound
I mitating the best
D escribing life
E very day
S o I will continue

Farewell

Farewell
time for goodbye
wisteria in bloom
reminder of happier springs
long gone

Just wanted to say thanks to everyone who has encouraged me this month. You have given me the confidence to try 'serious' poetry again - when I thought I would only be writing the gag stuff from now on.

I'd love to keep touch with as many of you as possible - anyone who feels the same way is very welcome to pop along to my blog (linked from my name here) and drop me a comment there or just have a look at my other 'silly' poems. Or find me on Twitter where I follow Robert's tweets with interest.

Adieu and Gia Sas,

Michele Brenton (banana_the-poet)

Its hard to say
It harder to do
what it is it
it is
to say
farewell

I am good at goodbye
I know it
I understand it
When starting over you don't look back if you have the knowledge of things as I do
When my mother left her body
when she died
I didn't cry at first
I watched her go as I read a book
as I looked out the window
as my sister came into the room and held her hand
I watched her leave and knew it had nothing to do with me
leaving never does
it is a self centered impulse
it is not as if anything mattered
it is not about you
it is just necessary
I am good at good byes, it's hello's I can't get right

CLEAN UP CREW

One more room to clean out.
Let’s see…here it is…umm, P.A.D.
Wonder what that stands for?
Possibly Anti-social Dweebs?
Where’s the light switch?

Holy Mother of Poetry!
What a mess!
This has got to be the biggest disaster
since the Hindenburg!
“Oh, the humanity!”

Well, I may as well get started.
Heh? All these random words strewn about.
Hey, these two rhyme!
These two, too!
“Flatulence”? Looks like one of Walt’s words.

And these wadded up scraps on the floor.
Discarded poems?
They look perfectly good to me.
Salvageable, to say the least.
I’ll just pile those over here.

What in tarnation!?
Cobwebs in the corners?
And what’s “trapped” in ‘em?
Ideas? Almost brand new.
Slightly used muse.

Those’ll go here.
All-in-all, not as bad as I thought.
I’ll just vacuum off that mound in the corner,
And then I’ll be just about finished.
What the…Robert Lee Brewer, what are you doing under that dust?

Well, finished for another year.
Just one more thing.
Turn these lights out
And I am out of here.
Goodbye, P.A.D. (But, I’ll be back!)

***CLICK!***

Farewell

Some days dissipate
like a new car’s scent.
Others stay juniper-green.

Some days are peppermint
or chocolate, but others tamarind.
Like a bell rung by the lone

survivor in a bombed-out village,
my heart’s sound carries
whether or not anyone hears it.

Forget goodbyes. I want
to dissolve like SweeTarts
in your mouth.

If Only We Had Known
(for Ezra)

We got the news Tuesday you had
taken your life. Same age as our son,
second cousins.

They didn't tell us why, and frankly,
I know there's never a reason--
not really. Just chemicals run amok;
the rest is conjecture, assumptions, the straws we grasp at
so we can try to move on.

But Ezra, you know you will never be gone from our midst.
We will always think of you at every wedding, every birth,
everytime we gather to celebrate, we will also mourn
your passing. Your name will probably go unspoken,
so as not to feed the pain. But we will all feel you there
in your absence, for the rest of our lives.

It's hard not to be angry, but what is there to curse?
We want so much to feel in control of our lives,
and even more, of death--only afterwards looking
for the routines and coincidences that now look like
errors; Words and chances for words
that slipped away.

The universe of love propagates a myriad
of unanswered questions, ever expanding.
Suns are born every second, and every night,
we can only stand powerless as we watch
a point of light disappear, already
swallowed by some jealous, hungry god
thousands of lightyears away.

c 2009 by Madeline Strong Diehl

Farewell

Some talents will trade freedom for fame, so
lose the chance to bore the lamprey press,
to walk and talk and dine without fuss,
furtive looks and star-struck fans’ approach.

What is it in their kleig-lit pane that draws
the crowds to madly flutter wings, bang
our dusty bodies till we tire? Do we feed
on fate? What draws a million moths?

We the obscure are safe in dark and shade.
Why are we drawn to artificial light?
Why knock yourself out to give it off?
Some hunger is fed only in a captive’s cage.

Well, it's that time.
Time for you to leave out
on tour. I can't come
with you- I've obligations
of my own. I'll miss you
desperately, and cling to
your shirts, breathing in
your scent. I'll cry
the first few nights,
and write you a letter
everyday you're away.
I'll hold your pillow
the same way I hold you.
Days before you come
home will drag on so
slowly. I'll wait for
you to come home
safely to me. I believe
in your talent, and
I trust you'll be
faithful. I'll wear
your dog tags everyday.
You smile and kiss me,
hugging so tight. As
you turn to the van,
I whisper: Farewell.

April 30, 2009 poetry prompt: farewell

The Texture of Grief

Here it comes
that coarse prickling
reminding me of when
you left at half past April.

I long for something
soft and smooth
and all I get is ragged edges.

Julie Eger

Now I am frayed and tattered,
pull one thread
and I come undone.

Exiting My Desk

Do not forsake me,
O, Calliope!
Farewell, Erato!
I shall miss you so.

Hard-pressed to recall
many names of all
the Muses who watched
as I wrote and botched,

no, mangled the verse;
hoped to see no worse.
In fact, I believe
it's best that I leave

for now writing rhyme.
I will spend some time
improving the way
I attempt to say

much more with less thought.
An idea's caught!
I'm off to re-write!
(I fade out of sight.)


[One more for the heck of it because this has been a GREAT exercise series, Robert. Thank you.]


- Nilly

Dear Ol' Son:
(no pun)

Work – none;
a ton
of fun.
We're done!
Who won?

Gotta run,

Willy -

Coming Home

The woman climbs the broken curb,
the heaved sidewalks of Rosarito, late afternoon
of Wednesday, burdened,
totes on forearms, flat of bread and cheese
balanced out before her, feels more than sees
her way. I take the box of bread. Her name
is Maria. We walk together. She lives
two doors from mi casita with four sons;
the youngest, James, is twelve. She has
few teeth and many scars
upon her face. Her smile is a curve.
There are dimples
under what’s been hurt
and dim light in her eyes. Each day
she climbs the roadway and returns,
her shoulders rounded boulders
for the loads. Her door is brown wood.
I give back the flat of cheese and bread.
"Buenos tardes, senora. Gracias," Maria says.

"Pornada, Maria. Adios, amiga."
Two houses down, my door is bright and blue.

Hello, When I See You Tomorrow

I only say farewell to our past
as it brought us here
standing together

Memories will stay
carrying me through
all my tomorrows

The final tomorrow
will have us saying hello
to a future
we can't see right now
but one we will never say farewell to.

oops - I'll try that again - somehow the post got scrambled with my name in the middle. Guess it goes to show I never was good at good-byes!

April 30, 2009 Poetry prompt: farewll

The Texture of Grief

Here it comes
that coarse prickling
reminding me of when
you left at half past April.

I long for something
soft and smooth
and all I get is ragged edges.

Now I am frayed and tattered,
pull one thread
and I come undone.

~~Julie Eger

Day #30: Farewell poem

“But you love me and I love you
Call me on your way back home dear
Cause I miss you.”
Ryan Adams


I was young and confused
When I said goodbye to you.
On that day –
The one I would give anything
To redo –
I walked away from true love.
To say I miss you
Only scratches the surface
Of my regret.
Now I’m older, a bit wiser,
But still a dreamer as I
Imagine you calling me
Just to say,
“I’m still here. I’ve missed you.
And yes, I still love you dear.”

Farewell – By Jane Eamon 2009


How can I tell you
goodbye
It is with deep regret
and sadness
that I let myself
let go

How can I tell you
I’ll miss you
Like a part of me
taken
when I still feel it
so deeply

How can I tell you
I know it’s time
There are too many words
used to say goodbye
and none of them
are any good

They do not express
what I feel
They cannot convey
what I want to say
They do not understand
the hole that can
never be filled

Goodbye my friend
May we meet again

A couple of minor revisions to today's. I truly found this a productive and invigorating bit of pleasure. Thanks Robert and all. Hugh

How I Say Goodbye to April
April 30

At 2:30 your radio played softly
telling us it was time for you
to gather up your cameras and gear
and drive up to North Lake
to record the first setting of traps
for this year’s lobster fishing season.
I listened to your morning sounds
and then house door and car door
the engine, the reversed transmission
and their final departing Doppler.
Restless and groggy I lay there waiting
until just around 4:00 when I heard
the first fully loaded Cape Islanders
race and rumble down the wide river
from Montague to drop baited traps
onto the best possible bit of shoal.
So this is how I say goodbye
to the mixed bag that April was
this signals the approach of summer
not the melting of incessant snow
nor the rotting of the river’s thick ice
not the cheerful throaty song of robins
but this 4:00 am race down the river
my adjustment to comforting clamor
sudden wakening and dropping back to sleep.

Hugh

To Mr. Richard Atwater...

Holy Moly! I don't even know what to say...I am in awe of writers like yourself. Wow! Keep up the good work.

Faye.

Goodbye to Braithwaite
By: Nikki Braithwaite-Markle

Eleven letters knocked back to six;
Less syllables for strangers to stumble over;
One pronunciation, not twenty.
No longer instantly recognizable as an Limey,
Instead assumed to be a Kraut, or worse.

Eight generations ago, my immigrant
Lied his way aboard “The Wren” and
Converted from a lighterman on the Thames
To a soldier and then a farmer, eking out a life
From the red earth of Virginia.

It’s been asked before, but what is truly in a name?
Is it just a jumble of muttered sounds or
Letters printed on the page?
Or is it more, an essence, a foundation
For exploring the mysteries of identity?

I suppose I shouldn’t be upset,
Women have given their names
Alongside their hymens, for centuries.
Did it sting their pride as well, to bear this
Moniker that doesn’t indicate their true bloodline?

Once a Howard, aristocratic and tied to kings,
My mother gave up her surname for one of the lesser nobility.
One for tradition, I accept that the loss of surname,
Though it saddens me to see my former self
Engraved on metal plates from my former life.

THANK YOU, Robert. This was an epiphany and a beginnning of a voice for me.

Farewell to Stories

I always wanted to tell the stories of human hurricanes
and then one day I was empty, I reached in for something to tell
and only silence answered.
no more stories to tell
I didn't even want to hear them
I wanted to listen to my beating heart
I wanted to study bees
I wanted to watch you breathe
and not know where I was going.

Farewell to Paris

The last day of Paris
is the hardest goodbye.
The lights, once sleek
and exciting, have faded
to a happy recognition.
The tower keens a sad
goodbye, as though
it would miss you
and not replace you
with the next person
to walk beneath
its heated shadow.
The cafes on crowded streets,
they don't miss a beat
when you leave,
nor do the vendors,
the love sent and saved
and bought and sold
and bought again.
The Arc still arcs
and the cars still drive
and the little man
who sat against
the wet stairs one early morn,
he still sits and stares,
still crosses the cobbles
when you leave.
The last day in Paris
is you, and only you,
saying farewell, goodbye,
So long, farewell
Au revoir, Auf Weidersehen
Goodnight.

FAREWELL

Fun right from the start
April's for poets, write from the heart
Robert you didn't disappoint us
Every morning a prompt a challenge to be victorious
Wasting no time, wanting to be the best we could be
Each day a brand new piece of poetry
Laughing and learning hoping our words fit
Longing to write something that will be a hit

IT’S NOT OVER UNTIL…

…the greatly rotund person vocalizes in song!

…we say it’s over!

…the toothpick comes out clean!

…the day AFTER the warranty runs out!

…it’s over!

…the Supreme Court says it’s over!

…the last row boat reaches shore!

…we change the conditions of the Kobayashi Maru, Spock!

…May 1st!

…God says it’s over!

And when God says it’s over…

…IT’S OVER!

Every other stanza is the next voice, beginning and ending stanzas are the same voice.

Farewell Chat, a poem in two voices

It’s not that I’m not sad, not mourning
your death, not choked
with regret for times I could have called
and didn’t. I am all these and more.
It’s just something like an itch
that grows under my skin, needs attention.

I get it, really I get that
you feel something new here
that you wonder how
to be in the world with no mother,
no calls to ask about a memory
you wonder if you have or don’t.

What if I need to really talk, to ask
about the day you threatened to take me
to the orphanage, made me pack?
[you said later you wanted to scare
me into behaving]. And what was that
when you raged around trashing my playroom
because I failed to put a few things away?

Ok, not my best moments, but now
there’s no bracing yourself against my temper
[I admit I could be harsh, volatile, even cruel]
I can’t change the past. I wish....
but as I always said, “if wishes were fishes...”

So, I guess you’ve got to be gone, to be dead
and out of my life. I guess I could just say
adieu, adios, sayonora, so long, bye-bye.
Still I think there is something you want to say,
a word of love or maybe encouragement.
I think I need one more something from my mother.
What? Your voice is faint, like in Vaseline or cotton, what?

It’s your turn to take on everything, to be the one.
This matriarch position falls to you.

So, that’s IT? That’s all you’ve got for me?
Not one word of love, just more responsibility. Fine, just fine.

Farewell to Exterior Youth

Grey hair
Wrinkles
Sagging skin
Age makes us less luminous on the outside.

Inside, my mind still
explores, creates, solves.
I try watercolor,
learn Spanish,
write poems.

Inside, I glow.

Transition

Oh heavy is the weight of waiting for the spring.
Two girls, bent-kneed, backs propped against
the diner’s kitchen door, soak in early rays of morning sun.
Not so long ago winter wind howled across this space,
created drifts up to the door, but now
skunk cabbage lights the pond behind the parking lot,
marsh marigolds are in bloom, flag lilies send
their spears up toward the surface of the water
waiting for their time. Two girls
warming their hands on coffee, slough off
the weary weight of winter,
say farewell,
kiss their lips upon their cups and
welcome spring.

A-levels (a meaningful tear)
As I stand prone in the mist of these farewell clouds
An impulsive maturity swifts through my adolescent self

I look into the capricious future
And vision myself drowning into what we call as memories

Even the thought of emancipating form this planet of ecstacy
Bolds over all my gratifications

Im engrossed in the nostalgic reminiscence of this golden epoch
Which baffles me about the veracities of such spells in a lifetime

My network of FRIENDS, cleverly witty classes and the unforgettable blabberings
Will everything culminate as an illusion provided by time ?

As i stand prone in the mist of these farewel clouds

The hilarious moments and the uncaptured vistas
Flashes through my eyes

The naughty scandals and the senseless theories
With some remarkable acheivements and exceptional glories
Everything as an existence is left behind and now flows through the centre of my mind

I look bewilderingly for a way to stab this running phase of my career
But to my dismay, the effort infact seals me with a growing fear

As my a levels reaches its destination
i vision a SEA of diverse emotions and crazy notions
dehydrating to a barren land of fun-thirst life
Where a monotonous routine is rife

As i stand prone in the mist of these farewell clouds

The most significant period of my life coated with the most blessed memories
Finally slip through the gates of my eyes
Inside a small but a meaningful TEAR !

“Goodbye to You”

And now,
I’m saying goodbye…

Or I wish I was.

It’s easy enough, right?

Apparently, only for you.

I wish it was easy for me,
Like a walk in the park,
Just to let go,
And be myself again…


I should just work on getting my strength back,
And stop feeling drained,
But no,
I’m wallowing…
And you’re moving on.

Aloha

Farewell
to daily poetic thoughts
to self-imposed requirements
of writing in a way I've never
waxed before
to forcing compliance

Hello
to completion of a goal
to regular challenges of my mind
and self-imposed boundaries
now broken down
to thinking in a whole new way

I love you
to painted thoughts
to accepting emotions once
buried deep within
yearning to be set free
to acceptance of a me I didn't know existed

“Farewell for now”

Now it is time we must leave
As I roll down my sleeve
Meeting this challenge has been great
But now I am off to get me a treat
The computer screen will stay on
For Calliope, Erato and Euterpe will continue tugging me along.

On Leaving Home

I’m running away, screamed my five-year-old son,
I’ll never come back here again!

Fine, I said, but first say goodbye
to your toys, to your bed, to little brother, too.

Say goodbye to meals you like to eat,
to afternoon cookies lemonade,

and don’t forget to say goodbye
to the TV and your favorite shows.

I’m really going my son said more slowly,
I’m running away pretty soon.

I see that, I said, now kiss me goodbye
for I’ll miss you so much, you should know.

With tears in his eyes, he hugged me real hard,
said he guessed he should wait for another day.


©Priscilla Anne Tennant Herrington

a summer day
in wildwood nj
sitting in sand
on an atlantic strand
through sun shock
jugged gin and tonic
reverie an old obese
man approaches sees
the shoreline as if
from a distant cliff
his ebbing seas on
this his final season



(Thank you Robert and all the rest for reminding me each day that writing is more than a business,it's a joy and necessity.)

After Crossing That One Final Bridge

After crossing that one final bridge
we knew something...
that things could never go back to the way they were.
Words were spoken; words were written.
They could never be taken back
on account of the rules of engagement,
whatever those might be.
That’s just how it is.
No word can ever be withdrawn
once it is out in the world,
even if only one person hears it or sees it,
even if that person is only one of us.
That is the point when Return no longer exists
although our words still can be called forth
when Need and Want present themselves
in flesh or in spirit.
Then again,
we know something else...
that the future waits for more words
to bid farewell to, too.

For Aunt Nancy

Older sister, mother, friend,
the list goes on without end.
favorite aunt, grandma too,
there was much she did do.

Came to birthdays, didn't forget,
missed occasions bring regret.
Seeing her I saw my mother,
They looked so much like each other.

I wish I could go say goodbye,
It's not that I didn't try,
But the trips to far, and it can't wait,
for she is heading to the pearly gate.

So I will say good bye from here,
know your niece thought you so dear,
I'll miss you and your bright ways
We will miss you all our coming days.

Farewell to you oh RiMerAt
your swagger will not be missed
you posted every single day
close to the top of the list

so hear me now oh RiMerAt
nobody likes a boor
your manner is so arrogant
there only is one cure

from this day on oh RiMerAt
if your name doth appear
on any kind of poetry
of that I will steer clear

it matters not oh RiMerAt
how I might make my choice
the only noise you hear
is that of your own voice

I will not miss you RiMerAt
and your space hogging ways
you bored me with your silly words
for the past thirty days

if you choose to be affronted
know that I have greatly blunted
large amounts of this invective
I must remain self-protective

Two more ... it's so hard to say goodbye to April!!!


“And Jesus, he wants to go to Venus
Leaving Levon far behind.
Take a balloon and go sailing
While Levon, Levon slowly dies.”
Elton John


When I read your letters,
Held the truth in my hands
Saw the betrayal in your
Black and white words
My heart left.
My loyalty died.
My love said farewell
To the lies we call home.

All that’s left is a legal matter
A contract binding us in marriage,
Memories that haunt me
Day in and day out,
Plaguing my world with secrets
Now told.

To say goodbye,
To leave “us” behind
Would be like
Flying free above the sorrow,
The anger, the mess we own.

To say goodbye,
Well I’ve already done that
Inside.


(another)


“Pack up all your dishes
Make note of all good wishes
Say goodbye to the landlord for me
That sum-bitch has always bored me.”
Jerry Jeff Walker


When it’s time to go
There are things to do.
When it’s over,
The pieces left behind
Must be packed,
Stored away,
Cleaned up.

When it’s time to bid ado,
When all is said and done,
It’s best to drive away
Quickly, quietly, not questioning
The decisions made.
Bid farewell to the past
And embrace what lies
Further on down the road.
And keep driving
Because someday
You’ll find home.

(MY MOM, RUNNING) ERRANDS

Going out to the store,
buying you
some shoes, maybe,
or some jeans;
i'll only be gone an hour
(two if there's a sale),
but anyway
and just in case of,
i should tell you
i love you
and i'll see you soon;
we don't say it often enough
and really,
just in case of,
it's better left said
so you don't regret it
later;
don't forget
to take out the trash
your interview
or that i love
you,
just in case of.

...

BODHISATTVA

Nirvana
is when I exhale,
one last breath
leaving ghosts
to writhe on the windowpane
and dissolve wetly;

when I'm gone,
yes, it will be hard:
bills and kids,
lonely bed,
your aum manipadme humming
echoes round the house;

but at night
I'll reach back for you;
in my love,
infinite,
I'll wait, so we won't escape
as strangers.

...
Apologies for writing two again, but I had an idea first and then an all-consuming desire to try out the "shadorma" second, so there it is. Thanks very much to Robert and everyone else for such a wonderful month; you guys have actually made me confident about writing poetry again, which I didn't think was possible. Cheers, an Internet glass to the hundreds of thousands of words and thoughts that have skimmed around the past thirty days, and a very fond farewell to you all...

...at least, until Wednesday. (I know for one, I'll be back.) :)

Farewell

They say every ending
Is but a new beginning
Why then do I feel so bereft?

“Fare thee well”

It’s not time yet but
but that day will come
when I throw off
this life, like a dryer
sheet that has clung
to me longer than it
should. I’ll go,
appreciating what it
gave: kisses, holding
hands, warm sand
beneath my toes,
grasses green and
liquid skies, flowers
blooming, nights
of fire, yellow prairies
bowing their golden
stalks under heaven’s
breath gently blown.
But miss it? I won’t;
how could I? It was
never meant to be so
permanent and where
I go, my eyes won’t
know what color
means, when faced
with spectrums
un-foretold, swathing
even particles in
glorious shades. But
the place means nothing
without Him there;
He’s all the reason
I need, to long for
home and bade this
world, a fond
fare thee well.

Farewell:

Is it so hard, to say goodbye?
To leave everything behind,
And keeping only memories,
Of all the times we shared?
I never want to forget,
And I don't want you to, either,
Ever forget those laughs,
Those tears and other emotions.
Don't forget me, friend,
Not throughout the summer,
Where those tight bonds throughout the year
Seem to fade away.
I travel, you travel,
We're never both in the city at the same time.
There never seems to be enough time
To call, or send messages, or write.
So remember me,
And say your farewell,
With me in mind.

COD

I will ship you a box, COD, because
I want you to decide. I will not tell you
What’s inside: the blanket sewn by your mom
—you wanted to buried with it, thesis I signed
to your parents that you sent back. I send it
again. Mask of Apollo we bought in an art gallery
in Niagara on the Lake, your old license plate,
an incense burner you kept on the shelf in your
old apartment, before we moved in together,
a box full of cards from family and friends
wishing us a long, happy, healthy marriage,
your Super Bowl t-shirt, older than me. I used
to sleep in it, it kept the scent of your body when
you weren’t near. I want it as far away as
possible. Photographs I don’t know what to do with—
you figure it out. A pair of butterfly earrings,
small ring, the last of it.

Valediction 101


Good goodbyes should be
a science taught at the
academy

Since closing well takes
as much finesse and will
as surgery

For after the cut
the open wound must be
cleanly sewn up

But who wants to hold
that slippery needle
and ply its point

When turning your back
without comment saves you
such painful work?

The best so-long I
made, I delivered in
the seventh grade

My last day at school
before my family moved
midyear, I wrote

To a black-eyed girl
who might have barely known
my name or face

A short, scented note
(using my dad’s cologne),
a sort of poem

That praised her long hair
and how fast she could run
and rhymed “run” with

“Done.” I folded it
slim so it would slip through
her locker’s vent



Then swung on my heel
towards the bright Exit sign,
leaving behind

My unsigned adieu.
I often wonder what
she thought, how her

Chocolate-drop eyes
scanned my hand-penned verses.
Did she just laugh

Or gently refold
its valediction to her:
Yours forever.

Taking Leave

I see the longing face
And moist eyes of me
So many years ago
The goodbye ever so short
The pain deep
With my future present eyes
I see the path the leaving made
The journey taken by me
His belonging to him alone
Mine strong
Steady
Purposeful
Awake
Alive
Open
He is a memory
A stone stepped upon
Learned from
Enjoyed
Left

Farewell yesterday….

On my niece August’s facebook page
she has posted the motto of a true sage.
I cannot quote it line for line
for then it would not be mine.
But upon me it did impress
that there is no reason to be depressed
for to say farewell to yesterday
only gives me a chance to be a better me today!

This has been the most fun I have ever had writing poetry.
Thank you Robert. Hats off!!!

Sir Richard-Merlin Atwater please accept our standing ovation!!!

The leave-taking

I shuffle permission slips
to leave me, shove off, push on
your name is not among them
someone must have cut your strings
turned you into a real boy
i’m keeping your donkey ears
until the war is over
shortages in body parts

Home

You glassy-eyed old Celt.
Why you moving
us and not fixing
what is broken?

Wild man urges
surging through
your veins.
Just fix it, I say.
But,you want to
leave it all behind.

Why you moving us
instead of fixing
what is broken?
Isn't that your mantra?

Give us time,old man;
make more time
for us to grieve
the broken
home.

good-bye peter

beloved seemingly responsible
you were a secret lost boy:
mother dead in germany
before a. hitler took over
your sister dead too
of polio in new york
so you took your love
and hid it
like treasure
on a pirate ship
and you sailed into corporate
sales
made a million dollars.

you were captain hook too:
daring and debonair
and also mr. darling
the hard working father
of 3 no 4 and then the grandfather
of more.

but really you were always p. pan
playing the piccolo instead of a flute
playing tricks on all the relatives
capering in the forest
never ultimately telling
who you were or what you wanted
and there was no
tinkerbell
to listen
to the secret.

I didn’t think
I would have so much fun
That I would
Enjoy writing a poem a day
For a month
The words rumbled around
Spilling out freely
Not necessarily with professionalism
But with exuberance
And innocent joyful naiveté
I will return
Not farewell, but till next time.

Farewell
so long...
I'm off to join

the circus.

I tell myself those
are not words
sung in
"The Sound of Music",
but the rhythm
of the song
leaps into my head
with the mere inkling of
that awful word

Farewell.

Sing on my behalf,
I beseech the world:

Fare well,
be well,
live well,
oh, song of parting!

But, please,
inside, the head
of someone else's
body.

(Insert Applause)

Oh, song, I feel
you are but
a clown mocking
parting emotions,
be they happy
or sad...

Be off with you then,
I refuse to join in,
it is real life I wish to live.

Pruning Time

So Eleanor, you see, I couldn’t leave it any longer.
Dawn woke me with the squawk of city sparrows
and clattering blackbirds pulling me to duty.

Coffee, I thought, and then I’d face mare’s tail,
ground elder, rue; rake out beyond the garden’s
limits; lay waste forget-me-nots and honesty.

And then I saw the flower pots and it’s you,
yes, after all, it’s you, that needs addressing.
I’m glad you’re not alone, I’m glad your life

is full to bursting, spilling over. I realise
that means a drop or two must splash into the saucer
and be lost. I hear you’re slender,

manage a wide portfolio and move
in geometric stratospheres; while I write
poetry and while away my years with children.

But, Eleanor, it’s time to go. Dead wood burns
fiercely on the bonfire. I wanted you to know -

I’ve thrown your flower pots out.

Just This

Going away has never been more lovely than
watching death shade your eyes. A small breeze
lifts up my spirit like a leaf caught in its dance
as it scuttles from west to east, scraping
the pavement still wet from a mild rain. I am
alone again in my thoughts, left to gently rock
with the ebb and flow of this estuary.


And This

Forget what you have read.
All is not forgiven. So long
as one of us lives, there is this
final, solitary burden of proof.

* * *

So I Must

So I must say adieu to all that has come before, despite
the wealth it brought me. Required now to forgo the path
I had so industriously followed and in exchange, I find
the road behind has withered to dust and ash, leaving me
with no option left. Parting is always a rip, a tearing of flesh,
bone, splintered beyond recognition and what is left is
reconstruction into a form that was never exact. Replicas
buried under the emotion that follow like the river, no longer
the same. Altered by the way your toes stir up sediment and
the stone you overturned in your hurry to get far away.

Farewell friend.
No you; only me.
Not the same
On the job.
Retirement struck too soon.
Fare well in leisure.

The Beauty of Letting Go

I am catching myself
Saying goodbye to you, silent as moonshadows.
The way my eyes fall toward your face,
And the breath of the lamp on your clothes.
My fingertips lightly brush
The arc of your shoulder,
Unlingering,
Like the weight of your lips on my cheek.
I’ve loved you as much as I can
Bringing pancakes and tapes,
Spiders made from straw wrappers,
Big red gum, green kool-aid.
I’ll love you still, wild
As tigerlilys, the fireflies
Dancing the darkness like chaos,
Cupping one in your hands
Gently as night,
Then stepping back to set it free.

30 Farewells


A poem each day, a prompt I may or may not like, but always there's an idea given for free, a gift. All I have to do is click.

Monday Poetry Forums, plans for cheap wine and good readings, a place to test out these new poems.

Then end of more than the school year, and the beginning of something else.

A job I've held for almost five years, longer than any other, longer than any relationship.

This city I never wanted to live in but have grown to love.

Being able to say "One day I'll go back to school", the freedom of maybes, the illusion of plans.

An apartment from which I can see the skyline, in sun or in clouds, blurred by rain, or brilliant at night.

Not being able to get lost if I tried because I know this neighborhood so well.

The best public library system in the country, the best economy in the state, and a progressive reputation that makes me proud to call this place home.

Six and a half years in Columbus, Ohio.

My sister twenty minutes away, my parents two hours east, grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins just up the highway in Cleveland.

Friends who know me the way I want to be known, and see through what I try to hide.

Sunday night potlucks.

Thursday night happy hours.

The patio at Union, the patio at MoJoe, the couch at Cafe Apropos.

Knowing I had everything I could have asked for with her and it still not being enough.

Beauty everywhere, in everyone, the audacious joy that defines the Short North.

Finding friendship and sex and love and disappointment after thinking I would never feel again.

A blizzard, a hurricane, a mountain lion, and several ice storms.

Living all my life in one state.

Friends I've known my whole life.

A memory at every corner, the sources of poems stumbled over by accident.

Never getting away from the scenes that have shaped my life.

The boy I almost married.

The girl I would have married if we'd both been older, if she'd been willing, the disaster that would have been.

Taking my friends for granted.

Taking tolerance for granted.

Being able to say "if" instead of "when".

Blaming my job for my lack of writing.

Blaming anyone but myself.

Last Glance at Anchorage

There the Chugach climb
sky ever reaching,
mudflats at low tide

The doorstep marks the spot
where the second-hand sweep
stops. Tick but no tock.

Farewells spoken softly,
lingering hotly, temperature
rising enticingly.

Wanting and knowing merge
on the spot. Questions grow
stronger, answers more faint.

Passion’s heat, if fed but not
indulged, grows sweeter still.
So let the second hand sweep.

I want to feel free

I know
this cannot be all
I feel trapped and I want out
I know
right behind this wall
got to be a better world
you say
that we have everything
but I need so much much more
right now I need to be alone
I need time and space to grow
I did want to be with you
I’m not sure if I still do
I thought this could really work
be together and feel free
but you don’t let me breathe
you don’t let me have my ways
so let’s take a break
stay apart for next few days
I want to feel
that I can breathe
right now it is
what I really need
I want to feel
that I am free
to do what I want
and be simply me
you say that we have a chance
together to achieve a lot in life
what about a chance for love
when is it going to arrive
I think it’s all over now
I am going to my place
I really need to think about us
I need some space




Bozena Intrator

Anniversary

Every May I think I'll say
Farewell to your ghost
for the last time,
but on that date
your face, your voice,
so clear, so here,
the grief restored
and every year
I tune my ear
to hear your laughter
in the ether.

Farewell the Magic

The tale is done.
Applause.
The players bow farewell.

Do you grieve that magic dies
When the house lights rise?
Close your eyes and see.

The players bid farewell
To the magic
Leaving in you.

AND SO IT MUST END...

...but before it does, these words...

Make sure you feed your faith, and all your doubts will starve to death.

Forgiveness is setting the prisoner free, and then realizing the prisoner was you.

You can sit on the pity pot once in a while, but always remember to flush it.

Always extend your right hand in friendship, never in want.

Hope that the hinges of your friendships never rust.

Make the saddest day of your future no worst than the happiest day of your past.

I hope you get everything you desire, except for one, and that you always strive for it.

Let the people who should be so honored, know that you love them while you still can.

And may God hold you in his hand and never close his fist too tightly.

"Fare Thee Well"

Fare Thee Well
It's been fun
even though
most times
I felt under
the gun

Fare Thee Well
It's been jolly
some I know
called this
a terrible
folly

Fare Thee Well
It's been gay
I am really
glad I was
inspired
to play

Fare Thee Well
It's been a joy
a poem a day
is like getting
a brand new
toy

Fare Thee Well
It's been a treat
all good things
must end, this
has been so
so sweet

Fare Thee Well
It's been a blast
we all knew it
just wasn't
meant to
last

Poem by Vanessa V. Kilmer © April 30, 2009

Kika-wᾴpamininim minawá

Ntanissinape panki étta tass ntaniššinápém
Kinawᾴ ikkitok “Goodbye”
Ninawint kekwa ikkiton “Goodbye”
Nikkito kika-wᾴpamininim minawá
Mi kwéc
Oshkabay'wis

I am Saulteaux but I only speak a little bit of Saulteaux
Your people say “Goodbye”
We do not have words for “Goodbye”,
We say “I will see you again”
Thank you
Oshkabay'wis

Robert, Thanks for this excercise, it got me back into the habit of writing every day -I've started my second novel! And it's been so much fun!! Thank you!!


“MY OLD FRIEND”

My old friend vanished in the afternoon
in the middle of a song
at the end of a heartbeat
My old friend
didn’t wait for me
like in the beginning
when rain on sunsets
never left us behind
or kept the truth
hidden in tomorrows, I swore
this would never change
for my friend and me

Give me an hour to remember
the hours spent, repeating words
whispering into the night time
Curse me with another pardon
and I retreat
to the place that lives
Empty and restless
but never alone
I search for you
together we collapse
and I understand
where you hide in my dreams
and I suppose
that’s more than a lifetime

My old friend vanished
on a shiny day, after a storm
without goodbyes
I am left behind, but surely
close enough .

Karin Contovasilis

A Parent's Farewell

I stood in a long line
where parents, teachers, students, friends, and parishioners gathered
waiting for their turn to say farewell

A boy I had probably seen dozens of times driving by my house
or walking down the street to catch the school bus
or maybe even at the grocery store or mall
a boy who blended into the countless faces of people
encountered but never registering in my mind
now lay in a room down the hall

I knew only a few of the people that had congregated there
I kept looking for my son
he was driving there from his dad's house and I expected him any minute
when he arrived, he was quick to find me
his face was somewhat emotionless as he stood with me
he knew it was going to be hard to say goodbye to his friend, his classmate, our neighbor

I've never been good at hiding my emotions
tears fell frequently from my eyes
my son put his arm around me
something that he rarely does
something that meant the world to me

As we approached the room where the boy lay
I could hear the sobs and discussions
parents, teachers, and parishioners talking to the boy's friends and classmates
trying to alleviate some of their anguish
trying to explain how they should not feel so bad
that death happens
that life is not always fair

When we stood in the room where he lay, I watched the boy's mother
standing there with her family, consoling some of those who came to pay their respects
standing like a pillar of strength, but the pain so evident in her eyes
the pain of losing a child in a senseless car accident
The tears streamed down my face
I couldn't exactly empathize with the circumstances
but I deeply felt the sense of loss and upheaval she must have felt

My son took my hand and said he was going to go talk to one of his friends
And when he released my hand
I felt a surge of panic
I think it's something every parent goes through when their child starts driving
and I prayed that I would never have to stand in a room such as this
under this type of circumstance
and have to say a parent's farewell

Richard-Merlin Atwater --- you are incredible!

Das Ende!

Look back at the first, could it really be done?
Furiously writing, just to hit "send"
From where I stand now, it's been lots of fun
This chore I will miss; all good things must end.

YOU MIGHT BE A POET IF..

...you reach behind and pull out a word that could possibly rhyme with purple.

...your rhyming dictionary, thesaurus, and journal are more dog-eared than your pooch.

...you argue the validity of Dr. Seuss as a poetic genius.

...you use the word "perchance" a lot.

...you get misty eyes when the end of April comes along.

...you have found rhymes for all of your kids names, and you don't piss them off using them.

...you can make sense out of life in a sing-song sort of way.

...just by believing you are.

Happy writing, Living Poets!

Farewell to the Poets of April

The art of parenting
is always evolving,
creative, dynamic and
issue resolving.
being direct might
find the right spark,
but challenging poets
is no walk in the park.
Asking hard questions
seems honest and true,
if the confident voice
you seek mirrors you.
To optimize life,
make committed choices,
poets must listen
To their inner voices.
No peace is obtained,
not outer nor inner,
by seeking approval,
to be called the winner.
I was always delighted
by the light of the moon,
the words have been magic,
they’re ending too soon.
My own have been hard-wrought,
sometimes a chore,
but I hope that I’ve never
been seen as a boor.
It does take some swagger
to post how we feel,
an implicit bragger
with passion and zeal.
I’m now calling Wednesdays
my day to re-une
with the Poets of April,
all leaving so soon.
Each week will we gather
on this very board,
our poetry polished,
we’ll parse every word.
Until we resume daily
posts in November,
I’ll hold all your work
in my heart to remember.

Daniel, Living Poet

Farewell to the Day

mark this moment
with the passing of soil
obstructions smoothed away
like bubbles in wall paper
what is hissing from the leak
in my chest will be replaced
with red and black ink
a connection to the moon
which licks at the seas
that we drown swimming
within, the statues of the sky
sparkle like water, I sigh,
Farewell to the day,
like a stream, uncontrolled

farewell

many ways to say it
hugs, tears
wet handkerchiefs
insincere promises
to stay friends

gradual withdrawal
unreturned phone calls
no Christmas cards

“Dear John” letter
belongings in the street
locks changed
divorce papers
restraining orders

indifference
grief
that slow shuttering
of the heart

TINA
--------

When I think of
the journey
heavily
I think of her
TINA
When I am weary from
the struggle
arduous
I ponder her
TINA
When I close
my eyes
asleep
she has vanished
TINA
When that light never comes
at the end of the
tunnel
she twinkles, radiant
TINA
Whe she leaves
she is
gone
forever, until tomorrow
TINA

Today Is Never Again...
make the most of it!

Farewells

There are different kinds
Of farewells:

The ominous ones
You
Anticipate
Like having a root canal
Or some teeth
Pulled
In
A
Couple
Weeks,

Where
Each day
The impending
Doom
Looms
With greater
Presence
Until you are
Sitting in the chair,
Trying to relax,
Knowing the needle
That will deliver the
Anesthesia will hurt,
Though it spares you
The more excruciating
Pain
Of the operation
Itself;

The choked goodbye,
The smothering sense
Of dread,
The veil of sadness,
You turn so he won’t see
The tears in your eyes,
But that’s just the jab
Of the needle;

The real pain is the
Loneliness later,
Numbed by cutting
The ecstasy short,
Fewer memories to
Haunt you,
The anesthesia
Sets in.

And then there are the
Opposite farewells:

The ones that shock
Your system,
When your stomach
Turns upside down,
Like when you miss
A step on the staircase
While balancing a
Precarious load,

Or when you get
Into the shower and the
Hot water runs out
And you are caught
In a chilly shower;

When you thought
Everything was fine
And then you said
One more thing that
Put the other person
Right over the razor’s
Edge;

The wonderful
Discovery that these
Were God’s ways
Of putting you back
On course when
You needed a
Reality check.

And there are also
Those farewells
That sear
Themselves into
Your heart so
That you can
Never forget them;

Some are just that
Special moment
When you connect
Eye to eye
And you can see
Their heart is open
To you;

Or it’s the sense
Of fear and excitement
As your two year old
Goes into their preschool
Class by themselves without
Protest, but gives you a
Look of abandonment
Over his shoulder.

And then there
Are the farewells
That make your
Heart leap:

The gentle caress of
Your cheek and hair,
As quick as lighting
A match,

The tender, soft
Kiss touching your
Soul and
Igniting a fire,

The warmth of the
Embrace, the
Magical smile,

The eyes that say
Everything, but
Don’t say anything,

And the parting words,
“Until I see you again.”

Farewell

We said farewell
on the day we met.
Time slipped away unnoticed
bringing us to this final day.

Where we can say 'Hello.'

April 30 farewell poem.
Haven't tried it yet, but so grateful for the "search system"

Had two come unbidden today, so since I only did one on twofer Tuesday, I'll use that slot for today.


Where Then?

They're taking down the trees in Leonard's wood.
Sawdust musk replaces the scent of spring.
May apples and Trilliums are trampled.
Full sun now bakes the bluebells by the stream.
These blind men are clearing for houses-
not even using the harvested wood.
Where will the chipmunk hide--the raccoon hunt?
They're such survivors--they'll surely endure.
But where will I walk when I need to release
some deep sorrow or shallow resentment?
At least it's not the last of its kind.
When all are cut, what will become of our souls?




Farewell--Hello


Now in my summer
mind, I remember
inevitable winter

when my frozen heart
will in joy recall
the green of spring's persistence

Richard-Merlin Atwater, I am very very impressed. Also, glad that you understood my poem, because it was very strange. haha. Thanks!

(To my fellow poet dancers: Thanks for letting me cut in. I have enjoyed our dance together.)

Becoming Partners

The music is slow
languid and deep
fingertips climb spines
palms caressing curves
the dance allegretto
gradual
slow
clumsy foot tangles
toe touching toe
so slow.

The dance is languid
leisurely sighed
draping arms entwining
excite emotions
from our passions within
simmering
slow
fortune telling all
hand touching hand
so slow.

Steps poetic deep
tones to explore
with sensuous forms
and neither one knows
where the music will go
beguiling
slow
unwind tangled souls
heart touching heart
so slow.

The song is over
the room is hushed
hesitant footsteps
departing the hall
delayed secretive paths
evading
slow
unsure where we go
the two of us
so slow.

Farewell my love
you won't always be dancing beside me
Farewell my love
i will always miss the roar of your waves
Farewell my love
as long as you'll let me i'll be yours thru and thru
Farewell my love
i realized what i was looking for then found it in you
Farewell my love
for now we must part but one day we'll stay
Farewell my love
i'll see you when summer has died and gone away

Farewell my love

farewell my love

“Farewell to Shepherdess”

Shepherdess is ought to say farewell,
Soul is eager to say it her too.
Wonderful time is expected. There
are a lot to do ahead. Farewell to
worthless toil, farewell to rushing foil,
to unhealthy wealth, poor strength,
to lack of motivation, old determination,
Keeping down centuries long gravitation.

Farewell

Farewell
To dreams
That will not
Be fulfilled.
Farewell to
Delusions
About a love
That cannot be.
Farewell to false
Hopes and
Needs that
Will not be met.
Our hearts and souls
Shall be forever
Entwined
And that
Will have to
Do
For now.

Adieu and Farewell

Farewell to wintery, blustery days.
I long to again feel the sun's rays.
The glory of springtime never ceases to amaze.
Upon God's green Creation, I desire to gaze.

Farewell to snowy boots and all the mess.
My favorites – spring and fall, I must confess.
But I'm in God's Country; me He did bless.
His beauty around me, my eyes caress.

So to April and Challenges, I say farewell!
In green beauty now, I wish to dwell.
For a season or longer, I cannot tell.
But adieu to you all; I wish you well!

Now I know how many poets it takes to change a lightbulb...

Farewell to my love
*************************

It looks like that we are not meant to be together,
So farewell my love,
I hope you'll find your happy ever after,
Just believe in the God above.

Farewell April

So many poems
have sprung up
in your
fertile days

seeded by
imagination
wonder
and a place
to flourish

amidst your
life-giving
showers.

I hate to
say goodbye
but know
this is not
the end.

Long after
my body
becomes one
with the earth

(a natural
and inevitable
process)

you'll keep
returning

and even then

we'll make
things grow.

Falling


In my dream we're at the top
of a staircase saying goodbye.
Your lips move but, predictably,
there's no sound.


My right hand clenches
the polished wooden banister,
while my left stretches downwards
into the spiral of steps


that coils on and on like a python.
Even the red carpet trails
in your wake, spilling
over to trace your footprints


while the ivory of my dress pulls
away from me, rips out stitches
to trip after you.
But you don't look back


as you disappear into the curves,
leaving just my gold ring
spinning in space, twisting
downwards after you.


I listen for that final clunk
when it reaches the end.


Sarah James, UK.

Farewell

I sort and pack,
wrap in tissue, put away
memories of you.
They say,
time to let go,
time to move on.
And I do.
But every now and then,
I regret I never really said farewell.


This has been the hardest, most challenging, fun thing I've done for myself for awhile. The sestina nearly finished me. Reading all the poems of all the great poets inspired me, humbled me and made me try harder. Thank you, Robert.

Farewell

Valedictory salutations,
to all a goodbye,
adieu, I take my leave,
so long, au revouir,
chin-chin, I'm off,
shalom, my furlough begins,
sabbatical sails away,
all poetry to the wind
in one giant cliché

It's only time to turn my back,
and forever hear the crack
of a wooden baseball bat,
strike three, "How about that?"

SINGULAR JOURNEY

A long road has past,
and one longer still ahead.
And along the way much more
to see, to do, to remember.
So I have packed my sack
with my pencils and pads,
my thoughts and ideas,
hopes and dreams,
and the burden is light
with all that have gone before
to pave the way, leaving me
on this singular journey.
The bumps and potholes
are never too high,
or too low because of them.
I see them along my sojourn.
My grandfather in his Sunday best
wishing me a "GOOD EVENING".
My older brother, who missed out
on a lifetime with us, but
has had the joy of being together
with our parents for eternity.
And to my mother, who was always
my ardent supporter and
my most read-faced proof-reader.
Dad, who held my hand while
I took my first shaky steps,
and gripped tightly to mine
as my mother helped him to cross over.
And Janet.
An autumn sky will never compare
to the Auburn hue of my
Wild Irish Rose. Her absence
is just beginning to be felt in earnest.
I will also be prodded along by
all who have graced my path
and blessed my life.
So in honesty, this is really NOT
a singular journey.
For driving my footsteps
is this one phrase:
"Vaya Con Dios" (Go With God).

To all the Esteemed Colleagues
of our "Living Poets Society",
"Vaya Con Dios".

China and India? Your Turn.
By R. Chazz Chute

Goodbye to locking doors from inside,
and living inside out.
Goodbye to Play Station 3,
hot food and bathroom grout.
Things have changed. The center
does not hold. All systems collapse.
We’re nomads, always moving,
digging caches and reading maps.
We are homeless survivalists
(or maybe just homeless)
walking forever, hungry and soapless.
Goodbye to drinks with lots of ice
and people who were relaxed and always nice.
Goodbye to convenience and suburban castles.
Hello to anger, daily loss and money hassles.
Pandemics and economic disaster,
bad mortgages and no one to fix cracked plaster.
Goodbye to the pinnacle of our civilization,
Goodbye to a good but often arrogant nation.
British and Roman empires all fell,
but the world moved on. (Maybe it’s a short-term hell.)
I’m pissed at the rich guys who made it take place.
Bush, Cheney, Rove and Rumsfeld
did an awful lot of damage to the human race.
Goodbye to ugly history and hello to hope.
Dumpster diving Depression Number Two
but with no clues and few skills to help cope.
Here’s a tip to get you through the hard parts
of losing it all. First, steal a shopping cart.
Don’t take more than you can carry.
Sure it’s the skids but keep a smile on for the kids.
Make it an adventure and therefore less scary.
We’ll get through this. It’s happened before.
Someday you’ll say, “I remember the Culture of More.”
Goodbye to all that! It’s gone with our shattered trust
that all will be well, that happy endings are always a must.
Farewell friends! Call me when it’s done.
I’m in the bottom of the bunker trying to remember
what it felt like, our brief time in the sun.
That sun is set, the crickets sing.
Lost possibilities sure do sting.
We’ll be happier after the long emergency.
Those who are left might someday live life
with more urgency and courtesy.

Just wanted to say thank you, Robert, I have loved the challenge.(I have a sneaking suspicion I may suffer withdrawal symptoms tomorrow!)
Thank you also to all the poets who've shared their work here. I haven't managed to read them all, but what I have read has been fantastic.
Thank you.
:-)

The End of Rhyming

When I reach the end of rhymes
I shall write no more sestinas
the bones and stones of poetry
shall bid their fond farewells.

I shall take down all my hats
place a pantoum in each,
give each of my friends a hat-poem
To remember me by.

I shall write down all the rondeaux I had
and how they ended, good or bad.
I shall let go of all failed verse,
write an end to every unfinished sonnet I began.

I shall lie down on a bed of silk and velvet.
Close my eyes and start my final villanelle.
I will not waken,
Life will finish with the ending couplet.

Or does a new stanza then begin?

Carol A. Stephen
April 30, 2009
PAD Challenge Poem

Farewell to Blah-blah-blah

I work at a job I hate
Because I'm afraid of my fate
If I should leave
I do believe
For me it will be too late.

Too late to find another.
No friend, no sister, brother
Could find me one
I'd be undone;
No food, no cash, I'd smother.

Bah-blah-blah is all I hear,
I cannot live this way I fear.
I twist and twirl,
I pain I hurl,
I know my end is near.

To blah-blah-blah I say farewell
Even though I might dare hell.
To live this way
I cannot stay,
What now? No one care tell.

Go forth, painted carousel ponies,
breaking free of circumference
and spiraling out, galactic,
prancing up and down through alleys
swept by winds, full of leaves
and plastic bags, dancing in corners,
caught in their own unending
merry-go-rounds. Be free. Fare well.

Loneliness smells like

Loneliness smells to me
like exhaust fumes
hanging in the air.
The below-street garage
with its echoing spaces,
the slither of shoes
approaching too close.
The phone booth
where I faced out
unable to leave myself
exposed,
while I called you
a hundred miles away and said,
What am I doing here?
Loneliness felt like those hours
between giving a workshop
then a college talk.
I said farewell
to the lecture circuit,
feel lonely no more.

“Farewell to our Soldiers” By: Melinda Elmore


They leave one by one
To a foreign country
They must roam

Some return home
Suffering from great knowledge
Of the war
They only know

For the ones
Who never return
They left their mark
For all of us
To always, remember
They gave their all
For our freedom and call

So, a final farewell
To our soldiers
From past to present
They remain
The bravest of all

By: Melinda Elmore

Summer Days

Paper dragons, wooden swords,
tag you’re it, and hide ‘n’ seek.
Days of tire swings,
nights of fireflies,
and all that childhood brings.

Popsicles melting in your hand,
having to never take a stand
for anything you believe in.
Making friends with elves and sprites,
seeing past the color bar.

I still haunt the shores of Honah Lee
and knock on every wardrobe
hoping for a passage back.
If I click my heels together
will I find myself in Oz?

They say that letting go
is the only way to go forward.
But I’ll keep my sense of wonder,
my belief in orcs and goblins,
and fly on to that distant star ‘til morning.



(I tried to say a farewell, but some things just stay with you.)

After Shaving

He steps into the bathtub and makes the sign of the cross
even though he’s never been religious. Slipping down
between the scrubbed porcelain walls, water spills out
onto the bare tile floor. He watches his knees sway in the tub,
two bald islands patient beneath the burden of gravity.
He lights a cigarette and thinks of Mayakovsky:
In the church of my heart, the choir is on fire. His chest,
a blaze that will not be put out, tightens like a fist.
In dishonest candlelight the razor moves skillfully, once,
twice, and drops with his arms into the still hot water.
And as he inhales, he focuses on the orange-red sun hanging
over those islands, the tide rising crimson on their shores,
and he listens as the choral voices sing their final lullaby.

Paul Scot August

This was almost harder than the sestina. I wrote a wonderful (or at least full of meaning to me poem for farewell to my mom)a year ago and am still coping with her ongoing illness. So here is my probably not as good attempt at a new farewell poem:

Farewell to Signature Poems

Farewell poetry this
Attempt should be negated by the farewell poem done a year ago.
Reading the poem I know
Eventually I will write another poem
Wondrous even to self doubt.

this line should be in quotes:

"In the church of my heart, the choir is on fire."

Let me try this again not the whole poem posted:

Farewell to Signature Poems

Farewell poetry this
Attempt should be negated by the farewell poem done a year ago.
Reading the poem I know
Eventually I will write another poem
Wondrous even to self doubt.
Every favorite is overtaken. A new
Line or two that will knock my current favorite out into
limbo of lost verse.

Goodbye, my new dreams
I thought
I had found you
But I was wrong

Goodbye, my new life
I had hoped
To start a new one
But I was mistaken

Hello, my old life, my old dreams
I am coming home
And am surprised
To find you renewed

*********
As promised I also posted a picture of me in front of my tent how I am writing the last poem… Luckily I found another technical solution!

We used to think that these days would last forever

We didn't know they would soon complete

We wish we knew there was something known as "never"

Now, just let us be...

SPECIAL PRESS RELEASE BULLETIN FOR ALL POETS TO READ
EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT---

4/30/2009 9:59:41 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)
to the phoney poet who takes up too much space, too much time and wrote his own press releases


Farewell to you oh RiMerAt
your swagger will not be missed
you posted every single day
close to the top of the list

so hear me now oh RiMerAt
nobody likes a boor
your manner is so arrogant
there only is one cure

from this day on oh RiMerAt
if your name doth appear
on any kind of poetry
of that I will steer clear

it matters not oh RiMerAt
how I might make my choice
the only noise you hear
is that of your own voice

I will not miss you RiMerAt
and your space hogging ways
you bored us with your silly words
for the past thirty days

if you choose to be affronted
know that I have greatly blunted
large amounts of this invective
I must remain self-protective
halfmoon_mollie |tamsinAT NOSPAMtwcny dot rr dot com
the Editor: Obi-wan RMA’s insertion: (Thanks Ms Tamsin for dedicating a poem to me, I’m flattered, with love! “Tricky Dickie” Atwater
(I hope that the “PHONEY” in “phoney poet” is based on “phonetics” I presume?—; reminds me of the Disney movie on cartoon Robin Hood where the “singer” sings a song about “Prince John” as ‘the Phoney King of England’, as opposed to the true King “Richard-the Lion-Heart”) ---I loved it, Great poem! In response I dedicate my “FAREWELL Poem” to you in love and humility (no swagger) (nobody likes a “boor” so I suggest an “A & W (means At & Water) ROOT BEER, since I don’t drink the “other” kind of beer, only Mormon Beer: “Root Beer! FAREWELL
A Farewell To Arms of the Invective © Richard-Merlin Atwater April 30, 2009
(A poem dedicated to (halfmoon_mollie Tamsin) in humble respect of “Opinions”---borrowed from the Apostle John 4: 1-42 of the New Testament BIBLE in light of our “challenge” by Christ “to be forgiving”)

Then JESUS came with His Apostles to the village of Sychar,
He had bid His “Farewell” to the failing “Tribe of Judah”,
Arriving in Samaria, on His way back to Galilee, dear “Sir”,
He met a woman at Jacob’s well, and said to her: “Could ah…

…you put your bucket deep in the “fair well” and draw me drink?
She sayeth: “How is it that you, a Jew, speaketh to me—
A woman of Samaria? The Jews have no dealings with us, I think!
Jesus saith, “If thou knewest “the Gift of God”, then thee…

…would ask of He, who asketh thee, to give Him drink, to do the same,
And He would have given thee “Living Water” (not R>M> Atwater!).
The woman responded, “Sir”, “Thou hast not bucket for this deep well, as thou came…
…empty handed. Whence then hast thou “Living Water” (not R>M> Atwater) for this thirsty daughter?

“Art thou greater than our father Jacob?...Who gavest us this well,
Whose children, and cattle, and he himself drank thereof?”
And Jesus said: “Whosoever drinketh here shall thirst again, I tell,
But to drink of the water (not R>M> Atwater) I givest—one shall never thirst because…

…the water that I give is “a well of springing water” (not R>M> Atwater) up to everlasting life!
And the woman did not understand, and thus repose in earthly words:
“Sir”, give me this water (not R>M> Atwater) that I not thirst, nor come again to draw midst strife.
Jesus saith: “Go call thy husband, come thither, knowing she had not “the girds”…

…to satisfy her thoughts: She saith: “I have no husband, and…
Jesus saith: “It’s true, no husband, you’ve had five before,
Ans he who lives with you is not your man upon the sand,
The woman speaketh: “”Sir”, I perceive thou art a prophet to “open up the door”!

Our fathers worshipped in this mountain, but ye say Jerusalem is the place,
And Jesus said: “Believe me child—when not this mountain—or Jerusalem too,
One should worship “the Father” in spirit and truth, apace,
To do that which ye must do: know that SALVATION cometh of “the Jew”!

For JESUS CHRIST, “a Jew”, is but the name SALVATION and REDEMPTION comes again.
The woman saith: “I know ‘Messiah’ comes to be called “CHRIST”.
And when He comes “to telleth all” shall be His refrain.
Jesus saith to her: “I am He that speaketh to thee in fiest:

REPENT, seek GOD, have LOVE for thy good fellowmen, be TRUE!
The woman departeth into the city to call all within her sound:
“Come see, He that speaketh to me, He is indeed the CHRIST, “the Savior of the World, too”;
And hated Samaritans that day believed, were SAVED, even upon that sacred ground.

“The moral of the story”, my dear (half_moon mollie Tamsin), self-protective (invective) girl—
Is to LOVE, FORGIVE, Be Kind, and seek “the Master” of the “One-True-Heart”
That YOU might obtain “the Prize” that “only He can give”, and take it to a Celestial “whirl” (world),
And share it with “the common folk” who often seek the “lesser part”.
FINAL PRESS RELEASE
Poet’s Note:
This poem was in the making as my “Farewell Poem” in response to Robert’s “prompt for the day” immediately upon reading his “challenge”. I had already posted “The Rebirth of Colors” at the very outset of signing on-line. Since I felt the ‘Epic Poem’ may not be an “off the cuff” response to the post prompt of this particular day (since it was written over several days) I began my tribute to JESUS as He spoke to the woman at Jacob’s well of Sychar, Samaria. (see: John 4: 1-42, New Testament BIBLE). However, as I reviewed down the postings of the day to read the various “Farewell’s” of Fellow Poets I came across the “interesting poem” posted by (half_moon mollie Tamsin) which reflected an “interesting opinion”. It obviously led to my “inner concern” of the necessity to be “forgiving” and be willing to accept “criticism”—even if it is (invective). Thus I titled my poem “A Farewell to Arms of the Invective” as a play on words to Earnest Hemingway’s historical novel on “War”. As a career military man I abhor war, as did General Douglas Mc Arthur who said: As the noted commander of World War II American forces, in the Pacific theater of operations, General Douglas McArthur, stated in his retiring years to the cadets at West Point Military Academy: “Duty, honor, country! The code which those words perpetrate embraces the highest moral laws and will stand the test of any ethics or philosophies ever promulgated for the uplift of mankind. Its requirements are for things that are right, and its restraints are for things that are wrong. The soldier, above all other men, is required to practice the greatest act of religious training---sacrifice. (I would add that obedience to law is equally great. RMA Note) In battle, and in the face of danger and death, he discloses those divine attributes which his Maker gave when He created him in His own image. No physical courage and no brute instinct can take the place of DIVINE help which alone can sustain him. However horrible the incidents of war may be, the soldier who is called upon to offer and to give his life for his country is the noblest development of mankind. (In religious terms: “No greater love has a man than to give his life for his friends.) …I know war as few other men now living know it, and nothing to me is more revolting. I have long advocated its complete abolition as its very destructiveness on both friend and foe has rendered it useless as a means of settling disputes… The problem basically is theological and involves a spiritual recrudescence and improvement of human character that will synchronize with our almost matchless advances in science, art, literature, and all material and cultural advancements of the past 2,000 years. It must be by the spirit if we are to save the flesh.”
Excerpts from the book : REMINISCES.

Hence, as the General declared, the spiritual element is essential to solve the problems of mortality. And the spiritual emphasizes the recognition of God who rules in the affairs of men. In like manner, it was Rudyard Kipling who wrote the poetic expression for the Jubilee celebrations of Queen Victoria in England over a century ago. He did not emphasize the majesty and power of the presiding monarch, nor the strength of the British Empire. Much rather, in relation to being the greatest world military and economic power of the age, he gave the glory to the God of heaven, stating: “God of our fathers known of old. Lord of the far flung battle line. Beneath whose awful hand we hold dominion over palm and pine. Lord God of hosts be with us yet, lest we forget, lest we forget. The tumult and the shouting dies. The captains and the kings depart. Still stands thine ancient sacrifice, an humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of hosts be with us yet, lest we forget, lest we forget. Far called our navies melt away. On dune and headland sinks the fire. Lo, all our pomp of yesterday is one with Ninevah and Tyre. Judge of the nations, spare us yet, lest we forget, lest we forget.”
Presidents and popes, kings and generals, politicians and intelligence officers, along with the common man, all go to the grave of mortality, as subjects of the God of heaven. Our actions in life are written into the sinews of our bones and the fiber of our spiritual character. They will be an open book before the God of heaven in the day of judgment. The following pages of this book contain some major segments of my life as an American Defense Intelligence Officer. The career that I pursued was given to me by the God of heaven. I could not have accomplished what I did without His sustaining help and support. My autobiography is a partial report on my stewardship in mortality. It contains the details pertaining to my love of God, family, and my country. My college “Fraternity” was Sigma Gamma Chi (the Greek letters SGC) which stood for “Service to God and Country”. I believe I faithfully lived up to that motto. Among the many events that transpired during my watch of duty throughout “the Cold War” was the fall and demise of “the Iron Curtain”. My efforts in the intelligence arena had some impact that would justify the phrase: “The Man Who Helped Bring Down the Iron Curtain.” But in the background was my underlying roots of belief in God, love of family, and support of the principles that under gird our country. What we believe, and what we stand for, has an impact on how we perform and what we accomplish. The following pages review things that were performed in the course of DUTY. They were accomplished with HONOR and integrity of purpose. They were the basis for maintaining the continuation of a COUNTRY----the United States of America. I present to you, the reader, My Thirty Year Association with the United States Air Force. Autobiography: The Man Who Helped Bring Down “the Iron Curtain” (Thirty Years Behind Enemy Lines as a SPY—“the True Story of Designated Agent “006”)---available at www.3swanspublishers.com

FINAL PRESS RELEASE
(Dedicated to (half_moon mollie TAMSIN, my love!)
This “TOP SECRET” message will self-destruct in 10 seconds----if you push the right button!
Signing off---“Sir” Obi-wan, Richard-Merlin Atwater ------“the phoney poet” based on “phonetics”!
(Poet Laureate of “the Common Man” and “the Common Woman”) “FAREWELL!” to all my Fellow Poets!
===========================================================================================

Telmer

He hired many of us.
A quiet man,
so quiet that when my time came
I had to ask him to repeat that I was in.

The stories are legends,
slow to move, speak or act
until angered or provoked,
at which point,
the results were stunning.
Terry cold cocked in a fight,
badly outnumbered, lying stunned,
seeing long legs wading in
huge fists cocked and pumping,
plowing the way to rescue.
The burglar who spit and ran
and evoked a roared, “He’s mine!”
and indeed he was...

Son of Ole and Gurina
from Flekkefjord, Norway.
They rest in the Saxon Cemetery
and in late 1994,
their only son rejoined them.

Please Don’t Go
By Sonia Russell

Where are you going?
You just got here.
What? It’s been that long?
Wow, well I guess time fly’s
When you’re having fun.
It’s so sad though
I mean, I kind of got used to you.
No, I’m not crying
I have allergies. (sniffle)
Come on, I was with you every day
For a whole month.
Well, can’t help it.
I’m an emotional one.
I’m trying to be brave.
But what am I going to do?
I can’t wait a whole year to do this again.
I know I can do it on my own,
But it’s not the same.
We were a team, a family.
We did it all together.
We had fun.
We laughed.
We cried.
And we did it all so artistically!
What? Really?
So then it’s not good-bye, so long, arrivederci,
Ciao, adios, adieu, au revoir, farewell?
We can meet on Wednesday’s,
And do something special for my birthday month,
November?
Wellllll that’s a whole nother story!
Literally.
No, I’m good, no more tears, ha ha ha
I guess I’ll see you next Wednesday.
God bless you everyone!

Mushy Goodbye Poem

We took an epic journey, groupie poets on a quest—
Downed our beers, took up our pens, Joseph Campbell-esque.

We left our wall-ed city touched by hunger, lust, and death
In company with Buddha, Jesus, Jonah, Gilgamesh.

We battled glittery dragons, we beat Grendel with a bat
Rescued grateful unclad maidens— just imagine that!

We met Obe Wan Kenobi and he made us Jedai knights.
We partied with Darthe Vador and taught us darksome rites.

We had helpers, fans, and mentors; we had foes, hangovers, sloth
And we battered at that lightbulb with resilience of a moth.

One time there was this tunnel and its walls were oozing sweat
and I couldn’t find my way out til my tryst with Mr. Death.

Then I reached this summit where the world just billowed blue—
No need to tell you all of this; I’m sure you found it too.

It seems this epic journey brought us truth and strength—and friends—
Though we bid farewell to April, may the poems never end!

Final A-men

I wasn’t there the last day.
Our relationship had long been
Tentative, at best.
How many people retain
The faith of their parents?

Yet part of my heart
Remembered my baptism
At five weeks ago.

I can close my eyes
And feel my father’s hand
As we sang the Old Rugged Cross.
He worked too hard.
Wednesday Lenten services
Were one of the few times
He could justify taking a break.

Katie, Heidi, Daniele, Russell
The height of the baby boom
Our class huddled between two
Cork board dividers
For our weekly Sunday School class
In a gym filled with a 100 kids.

As a teenager I stood tall
Barely breathed
As I put on the acolyte vestments
Lit the candles
Felt my mother’s proud eyes.

My generation went elsewhere.
The old Germans left the neighborhood.
Finally only a handful remained.
The church closed a year
After my mother’s passing.

Too many feelings
To one more time
Walk through the doors
And say the final
A-men.

Thank you, Robert (and everyone) for this great challenge. It's been grueling fun.

Carrier of More

Silver Bullet, shot
From the days of our discontent
Hurtles through night to Ultima Thule
Carrying more than hopeless dreams
And two good friends away
Over the line and the coaster's hill,
Into Mystère in the land of lights,
Off through Zion and over the edge,
Scrabble and comfort tinged with regret,
Eisenhower tunnel and Loveland Pass
We streak in silence through autumn skies
Darker and bluer than lover's eyes.
Into the heartland and on to the past
Gathering memories, scattering care.
Alone together in solitude,
We whisper our final farewell
Long as the journey,
Deeper than visions,
And wider than guilt.

BTW, thank you, Richard-Merlin, for the "Nickel-odeon"! *grin* And now I will be offline till Monday, do some serious shopping here at the market, play the harp and most likely write a poem or two - now, that I am at it...

It was a great challenge, thank you, Robert!!!

Parting Ways

He walked out the front door,
stepped off the battleship-gray porch,
and took a stance on the sidewalk.
Today was the day, departure.
My son, just three years old,
twisted the cap from his baby bottle,
emptied the juice into the street,
and, at the curb's edge, threw
the bottle, the cap, and all of his
irretrievable infancy into the abyss.

Thrill Ride Infatuation Farewell and Start Again

Delighted screams beckon me to join the line toward love
My heart beats faster. Anticipation causes belly flops
I go between shuffling forward and waiting in place
My turn comes, the barrier drops, I strap in
Excited hoping this relationship could be the lasting one
You hold my hand to show you care
Swept off my feet, spiraling out of control
Moods are up and down. Emotions leave me spinning around
Everything happens so fast I can’t see what is coming up next
Too soon the ride is finished, not enough time to make it last
Time was what I needed, time I didn’t have
Too many sensations crammed into brief flirtation
I’m addicted to the feeling; heart racing, passion zooming
I feel euphoria at the top, a moment of perfection
After taking me to zenith I can’t be just along for the ride
I’m totally committed and then I’m falling from the sky
Air rushing beneath my feet to a final screeching halt
My feet touch the ground, planted firm ready to walk away
The world still whirls around me and I’m standing alone
I run to the beginning and jump back in line ready to go again

I read somewhere that the origin of the word "goodbye" came from a shortened version of the phrase "God be with you"...

“PAD Send-Off”

It’s become the “G-word”
One that brings hand to mouth before uttering
A heavy phrase that closes doors,
Locks them tight
To open no more
An axiomatic pill that brings on the stuttering

Side-effects notwithstanding
We all take turns playing refined and polite
Thirty days of writing
Come and gone
A fond-farewell to April lightning
And a PAD orchestrator who’s outta sight!

Going…

Passengers for
Flight BE844
Please proceed to
Check in desks
14 and 15
Have you packed your own suitcase?

Going...
Passengers for
Flight BE844
Please proceed
To the departure lounge
And take full advantage of
The duty free shops

Gone…
Passengers for
Flight BE844
Please proceed to
Gate 17
For boarding

FARE YOU WELL

Goodbye,
sweet love that got away;
I never will forget you.

I will carry in my heart
the things you taught me
about life,
about myself.

I finally know
that you have moved on
and that I must too.

I really see
that what we had
was not the end all,
prescious though it was,
but a jumping off point
for life.

Goodbye,
beautiful one,
dream girl,
angel.

Fare you well.

Exposure

I had a scary dream last night
I was naked - fully exposed
in front of people - few I knew
and all of them were wearing clothes

My fear was not there in the dream
It came after I awakened
I knew the meaning right away
and have since then felt quite shaken

I’ve never shared my poetry
I’m not sure why I did it now
The challenge of writing daily
wasn’t enough for me somehow

I had to prove it to myself
by posting what I wrote each day
and in so doing I’ve exposed
something from deep inside of me

I look for other’s approval
I feel rejected without praise
I’m embarrassed as I reread
my own poetry on most days

I use simple words, lacking form
I try too hard to make it rhyme
Am I a fraudulent poet
writing too much and wasting time

I don’t need to know the answer
because as every writer knows
The fear doesn’t come from writing
but when the writing is exposed

The writing is necessary
It helps me keep my sanity
The sharing is voluntary
I felt safe sharing some of me

This month we’ve shared was magical
A true thirty-day poetry spell
I think you quite an awesome bunch
and I bid you all a fond farewell

Spinning

Your life was
never about one thing
but hundreds of thousands,
like spinning quarters, a frenzy
to keep them all moving, dancing
simultaneously, for if one stopped,
fell, then you rushed to spin another
to keep the maddening, maniacal pace.

I asked
you to slow
down,
slow
down!
the race around the track, but you never
saw my flags waving, the gun kept going
off on every turn, and you never bothered
to realize that even the champion race car
stops
rests
refuels.

So, now
your life
is over
I race
to spin
a eulogy that does not exhaust me to give
in your honor, but all I can hope, pray
is that you will finally slow, forever rest,
knowing all will be well without your spinning.

Begin Anew

She sat on the edge
of her heart,
bidding farewell to the
broken pieces,

knowing she must move
on,
begin anew with
fresh, raw skin.

With shaking hands,
she picked up
the pen, each new
word weaving

the thread that would
one day repair
that which was

shattered.

Jean, thank you for sharing "Summer Days", I loved it. :-)

Long Goodbyes


Leave-taking is happening all the time,
in details too small to notice,
or in misdirections: a trail of artifacts
mistaken for beauty, a beetle’s carapace
nested in the bark of a tree, fragments
of a spotted shell in the grass,
evidence that something is gone
maybe as far as the look in your eyes,
that place you go to more and more,
just a thought, carrying you away,
bit by bit, until the body follows.

EVER I WILL MISS YOU

I walked through
my condo
one last time.

In a few minutes
I would hand the keys
to the new owner.

Never again
could I walk in
and be surrounded with
views of the ocean
on every side.

I wasn't
terribly sad
for my life with Ken
was just beginning
and I was off to
new adventures.

Now I know
I should have kept
my condo.

I long for it
almost every day.
Sometimes the longing
is so intense
I want to cry.

But it is gone
So I must say
goodbye.

Goodbye to the condo
but not to the dream.
So long as I live
I will long
for a home
on the beach.

Wish I had
kept that
lovely home.

Wish I could
go back
to the ocean
whenever I want.

Hope that someday
I will again
be able
to do that.

My heart yearns
my soul must
show the way.

I will take
the time to listen
to my soul's calling
because there
is the power
the joy
the love
and the peace
that I truly long for.

Departing Words

The words used to mean more:
farewell and goodbye.
The phrases have through centuries
of use lost their connotations.
Fare ye well suggests more
than a mere departure.
After the leaving, may fortune
ride with you and keep you from harm.
God be with ye. May supernatural forces
be your companion from here to there.

But when we say goodbye,
it's not always with such sentiments.
Perhaps more appropriate would be:
Devilbye and farebadly.

Farewell to my MFA Program

the person I am when I
start these lines these changes this
writing this changing in the
writing and yet this remaining
this is life I am the age I
am the words I use I am these
questions and glimpses I crawl
in for eons until a
rush and a dash, then a stop
because who wants to finish? it’s
in the going in the trudging
in the manufacture that the
meaning might mean for a
moment, bright as a shower
of fireworks in blackness,
sharp as their popping until the
finale fades from the sky and
I have almost but not



Laurel Kallen

Little Alice Develops Black Eyes, Says Goodbye to Wonderland


One morning, while looking into a mirror made of dead men's eyes, Little Alice notes a sudden shadow overtaking her normally blue eyes. She dims the light and watches her pupil grows to an exaggerated size. She brightens the light but the darkness only shrinks minimally. She blinks several times and finally, opening her eyes wide, she sees that her eyes have gone black, so fully there is no white and all the parts of the eye have merged together.

At this moment, Little Alice realizes that she is no longer a child but a woman, no longer a princess but a queen, no longer a daughter but a mother. Alice, newly born, feels nothing, only the strangest desire to pat dirt flat around her ankles and stay in place until she faints from exhaustion. Famished, her tongue cries out for spongey blood cakes.

But here in Wonderland, there is no dirt that can be dug up and no deaths, whether ordered by queen or not. Severed heads grow on branches but they are bloodless. The dead things have always been dead, are only the opposite of the things that walk. Because Alice is now a woman, she covers the fresh swell of her breast and wraps cloth around her genitals.

Outside, everything is as hungry as she is. They can smell her budding sexuality and each wants a piece. The Queen of Hearts, suddenly feeling as though her throne might be stolen away, sharpens the blade of her battle ax and practices swinging in succession.

The dead men look at her hungrily, whisper her name, try to take a peek at her nudity, but Alice pulls their eyelids down and sews them shut with quick, tight stitches. If the eyes look hard enough, they can catch silhouettes of her body against the light.

Lighting a match, Alice watches the flame for several moments. There is the faintest hint of orange against the shining ocular black. Alice touches the fire to her mirror and watches the eyelashes burn away. The fire spreads into the eyes, rushes past, runs along the ground and outside.

All around her, Wonderland is consumed. Everything not touched by fire melts away from the heat. The orange avoids stroking against Alice. She steps over the firelight and into adulthood, with only a faint scar circling her neck while behind her, the Queen screams “off with their heads” and lops off the top of each separate flame, oblivious of Alice waving her fond farewells.

"Say It Isn't So"
I came in ready
excited and pumped.
My coffee at my side.
A legal neuro-enhancer
is what they call it.

I wrote what I thought
and thought it to be good.

The end came too soon
to this wannabe poet looking
for a fix that can't be cured.

Farewell

Thirty days we racked our brains
leaving lots of coffee stains
we scratched our heads
and tried to think
write something as each day wanes

and what did I accomplish
trying hard and doing this
I wrote one poem
right from the heart
With this poem I got my wish

and so now I say farewell
I will move on and not dwell
I have my poem
called "I want more"
it's a family tale to tell

thank you poets one and all
speaking out and standing tall
you raised me up
and pushed me on
and I like you gave my all

and a special thank you too
for your prompts each day so true
helped us find fun
inspiration
our ideas you did woo

and so it is that we have grown
all these thoughts were once our own
we were brave and
shared them all
seeds for others we have sown


This is the first time I have done anything like this, and it is something I want to do again! A great experience.

I LOVE YOU ..... GOODBYE

Silhouettes against the sky,
You and I,
walking barefoot in the tide.
Warm, airy moonlight.
Soft, summer starlight.
You by my side.

Midnight magic in your eyes,
first I sigh,
then I tell you soft and true.
Holding you nearer,
Seeing you clearer.
Girl, I LOVE YOU.

We walk the sand, then we stop...
you take hold of my hand,
and whisper in my ear
all the things I long to hear,
and I'm wondering, "Why must you go?"
Now, you know I wish you well
and this time will only tell you of my love.

The wind grows cold, and my heart
keeps on calling your name,
I can feel the waves as they
rush up on the shore
and I'm wondering, "Why am I warm?"
Is it this fire in my heart
that you left burning from
the start with me?

GOODBYE.