Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer - November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 1

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Saturday, November 01, 2008

November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 1
Posted by Robert

Good morning. Here we are. Another PAD challenge. Feels like it was just a few weeks ago we were doing one, but I guess it hasn't been since April. This time around I'm going to be throwing out a prompt (and my attempt at a poem) each day, but we're going to do it with a focus on having a chapbook's worth of poems at the end of the month.

So, with that said, I'm going to give a little more room than normal on following the prompts--and the prompts themselves may at times feel a little spacious. This is to give you the ability to write a collection of poems around a particular theme, which means, yes, I want you to give a little thought to the theme you'd like to explore through the month of November. For instance, your theme could be political poems, poems about motherhood, nature poems, food poems, animal poems, poems about your life, poems about a particular medical condition, poems about whatever, etc.

You probably don't want to make your theme too specific, but having some sort of focus will be helpful, I think. My theme will be to write poems having to do with monsters. I'm not sure if it will be just horror movie monsters or if I'll mix in real life monsters as well, but that's the theme I'm choosing for myself.

So before moving on, think a little about what theme you'd like to write about. You can include it with your poem today--or leave it a mystery for other writers to guess at. Totally your call. Here, I'll wait while you think of a theme.

*****

Okay, you've got your theme (even if that theme is just to write a bunch of disjointed poems). At the end of the month, I may be asking you to collect your poems together from this challenge and send me your chapbooks so that I can try to pick a Best Chapbook Award. If I do this, the winner probably won't be announced until Groundhog Day. But I'll give more information on this idea as the month unfolds.

Let's get into today's prompt. For today's prompt, I want you to look at your theme and write a "hook" poem. This is a poem intended to hook your reader on your theme. Think about the beginning of poems like "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and "Howl." This poem gets right into the meat of your theme, and pulls the reader along. Think of a dramatic situation involving your theme and start there (in medias res). Totally.

Here's my attempt for the day:

"The Hook"

She screamed as she closed the door,
so that the annoyed boy could not ignore.

He walked over to her side of the car,
only to realize he'd tried going too far

earlier in their Lovers Lane evening spat
when she grew so anxious to leave that

she made him curse her under his breath--
now realizing how close he was to death.

Personal Updates | Poetry Prompts | November PAD Chapbook Challenge

Saturday, November 01, 2008 3:19:56 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Comments [104]

Saturday, November 01, 2008 3:57:24 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

The noise took my breath away
Twisting metal, grinding, so close to me,
Windows shattering,
The loudest booms and hardest impacts
I could imagine
White light everywhere
Pain,
Blood
All of it in the calmest
Slow motion

With the first blow,
I was sure I lost my eye
My bones broke and crushed
I saw eight instead of one
The second and third blows
Took my jaws
And crossed them
I figured my teeth were gone

Surgery and recovery
Was difficult,
But full
And I am
Truly blessed to have survived
Hitting an 18 wheeler
Head on

Heather

Saturday, November 01, 2008 3:59:49 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

This is a first shot. The idea of the "hook" gave Mac Davis the idea for the song he sang way back when. More later:

Song

“Baby, baby, don’t get hooked on me,” Mac Davis sang,
as the forty-five spun round and round on the turntable
as we sat on the red shag carpet of my bedroom floor.
We couldn’t help ourselves, falling in love with songs
that said the worst possible words a sixteen-year-old
girl could hear. If we refused to believe he’d just use
us then set us free, then why put the poster on the wall
proclaiming, “If you love something set it free”?

When we heard Donnie sing, “Go away, little girl,” we knew
he must be talking to someone else, someone less alluring
than the two of us, in blue jeans, halter tops, shag haircuts.
We’d never go for that kind of boys, the ones who’d kiss
and tell, the ones who’d kiss and leave. When Stephen
Stills sang “love the one you’re with,” we knew we could
be that girl and the one he loved too, making him forget
Crosby, Nash, and Young, and all the groupies too.

At sixteen, we were not so far away from dorm rooms,
eight-track players blasting “Muskrat Love” or something
even more inane, when we would heard America singing—
not Walt Whitman’s but our own—“Sister Golden Hair”
and know at last why he had never called. Of course, he’s
one poor correspondent, but at least no one could tell
us that for years now we were never on his mind.

Nancy Posey

Nancy Posey

Saturday, November 01, 2008 4:00:03 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

what timing! i recently started tossing ideas around for a new chapbook. i just haven't made the time to put all the pieces together. the ideas... there... the scribbled outlines... scattered, but in process... the poems... getting there very slowly. so wow... the fire under my bum and my thumb i needed to put this into action. thanks, poetic asides!

The red waves

skimming to London
watered down
a drink, swelled
a Bostonian heart

in New York City
skinny-legged, kicked
fins, sang the wet
throat of Cincinnati

floated the bus
to Chicago: salty
months spent fresh,
drowning out history

curls breathed,
lapped the wind
and licked cities
in trickled rain

once the waves stilled
in bed and the sheets
were cool until wide-
eyed morning

k weber

Saturday, November 01, 2008 4:01:45 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

The Ephemeral Hook

Eye contact was absolutely no problem with her
Perhaps an imp-like boy's soul took asylum with her

Her words dripped honey, exotic, highly aromatic
Her voice cooed with instant intimacy, automatic

When the devil's nefarious designs rose inside her
She always coaxed and cajoled me, to be with her

With a mask of naivete and innocence schoogirlish
Betrayal came riding waves of morality, so churlish

Chess moves like evil patterns hidden in a soul
Can ruin a life, leaving it desolate like a bowl.

(c) Max Babi

Max Babi

Saturday, November 01, 2008 4:11:34 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Amy Vanderbilt, the Lost Chapters

Never ask for a divorce by phone. Most
consider rude, as well, breaking up
by email or text message. You should
never make your children wait outside
in the parlor, when you visit a bordello.

Suicide notes should be legible, left
in a place they are likely to be found.
If your parents have the wherewithal
to pay your way through school, have
the decency not to drop your courses,
keeping the refund check for beer.

Nancy Posey

Nancy Posey

Saturday, November 01, 2008 4:16:23 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

"Scents, Science and Family"

Whether it be that nostalgic scent of sea
That pierces your nostrils
Or the smell of coffee and bagels by the
Kitchen table, wife and kids munching away;
You always know when it's morning,

When it's time to get up...
Or not quite just yet, we cry
Burrowed in the sheets,
Covered, Shielded from
All the hustle and bustle
Of getting the car,
Of driving the kids to school,
Going to work,
Umph, big queues of cars:
Hooting away with their horns.

But you always know when it's morning,
Whether it be that nostalgic scent of sea
Or the smell of coffee and bagels,
You always know when it's morning,
The gayest time of the day.

Miguel de Matos

Saturday, November 01, 2008 4:24:05 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Deformed shafts of brass crowned with

Mutilated blobs of lead

Lodged deep in my bones.

Each a word or action

taken with out consideration.

The car has sped away

Tinted window closes as

Smoke dances from the barrel.

I fall to the street

momentarily unaware that

I am the driver the shooter and the shot.
Edward DiMaio

Edward John DiMaio

Saturday, November 01, 2008 4:28:33 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Cheryl Falls For Neal

It starts with one key, leading into a few
rooms. Each contains a possibility. Each
sees itself a gem. Slim hallways connect them,
narrow walls separate them. It can or cannot
continue indefinitely; it might stop like a hope
tomorrow, each step a footfall, a beat, for
Neal's heart. He doesn't exist with you yet but
how she savors each word and glimpse,
each flash like a photograph into his house.
She's stalking him now. She'll keep finding him.

Cheryl Chambers

Saturday, November 01, 2008 4:32:54 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

While breaking new ground, it is inevitable that one will spread some particles from their endeavor throughout the rest of the house. All that is created will follow us home, whether on a boot, carried in on the wind, or held behind one's eyes to be seen in a different light that begins with tomorrow’s sunrise.

Visibility

Light of November fade.
Sap has evaporated,
the flitter of leafwing
trembles in flight

to settle soft
under a bone-twigged bush.
Freeze-dried earth
is prepped to shut;

ants have entered
their place of benightedness,
frost has curled
the fingers of grass,

long leg wasps are hidden
beneath the shutters,
stingers sheathed for the season.
Gray hairs undone,

the snow will soon gather
to whiten the roof
while the river still flows
despite crystals of ice,

the sloughs and sluices
that fancy the edge;
onset the quietude
of tomorrow reveal.

RJay Slais

Saturday, November 01, 2008 4:59:10 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

All of these are great!!! I'm going to re-think mine . . . I suppose I jumped the gun . . . will try again

Heather

Saturday, November 01, 2008 5:03:15 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Trust that it will

When I die, my dear
surrender me to the pyre
let it return me to the dust
of my mother and her mother
and her mother before that.
Take me to the Hoh River
to the rain forest, release
me to the sands where tribal women
once gathered water while their children
played on the edge of time.

When the day comes, my love
carry my life deep within
memories of mountains
and moose, of misty fjords
and pink flamingos, of Sunday
mornings and hot lemonades.
See me in the unruly sheets,
the unchanged toilet paper roll,
the kitchen disaster discovered
after a good meal.

When the moment comes, my dear
— and trust that it will —
like the subtle shifting into spring
after the cold rains of winter,
welcome the sun’s warmth
on your chest, the chickadee’s
song to your heart and smile
at the wonder and beauty
which surrounds you.

* Inspired by Christina Rosseti’s “Song”

Yvonne Garcia

Saturday, November 01, 2008 5:03:20 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Discovering America

Columbus was right about the winds,
convinced his men
not to mutiny, found land,
sailed all the way back
across the Atlantic,
founded a colony,
but it sure wasn't India.

Was he bummed when he realized
the scholars were right, the world
was a bigger place than he'd thought?
Did he complain about
that darned continent,
America, plopped in the middle
of what should have been an empty sea?

He miscalculated the circumference
of the earth.

If he'd had his numbers right, he'd never
have set sail, and none of us
would be reading this poem.

Margaret Fieland

Saturday, November 01, 2008 5:15:18 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

J Justifying,
E encouraging me to be
S something largely more than me.
U unable and ill, He loves me
S still.

O Often I'm crying,
F fearful and dying.

N No one sees this pain, I'm
A abused again, and
Z zealous not for the things of God,
A acting out no christian desire and
R running to the fire, but He
E ever weeps for me
T trading my soul for
H His

Rachel

Saturday, November 01, 2008 5:34:02 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

I shall continue a theme I started back in April and have left alone since them. Hence this is #4...

Cats, Poetry & Death # 4

The chimney-place is used anew

The hard Winter rain lashes my windows
as the first fire of the season crackles
warmth and cheer across the room,
across my soul. The wicked wind whips the
shutters and bends the palms. I watch the dark sky
blend into the even darker sea and smile for
the times they are now changing.

The cats are snug now, battles won and lost;
all scores settled as the blazing logs lull them
into a sleep nigh on hibernation that will break only
as stomachs rumble and nature calls. Nature is
calling outside on All Saints day the short lived
Autumn is bid farewell and Winter arrives, not
so much welcomed as begrudgingly accepted

One season’s death becomes another’s birth just
as the Wicken new year renounces the old. Pipe
smoke and Dickens fill my nostrils and my mind
and I am conjured to a time of coaches, top boots
and four-in-hand. My muse idles in the background
enthralled for the time as the great man’s words wash away
any that I could ‘umbly, so very, very ‘umbly offer in their stead.

Content beneath a blanket, cosied by the felines I dream
I see a peace and a gentle time made romantic by the
mixture of olive-wood and briar smoke. The sun has faded away
far earlier it seems than ever before and I am lost to the night
and quiet longing to tell the world of where my soul has been
and where still it may go led ever by my heart. The fire sparks
and the cats purr on in ignorant bliss

Iain

Iain D. Kemp

Saturday, November 01, 2008 5:35:55 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Poetry, Novels and Dominoes

Right now in Woerden, The Netherlands,
domino builders, on a fourteen-day countdown
to Domino Day, are attempting to break
ten world records, including the biggest stones,
highest climb, longest wall, and the most
dominoes toppled, which they themselves set
in 2006—4,079,381 dominoes. As I begin
tapping away on my keys, they are on their knees,
frantically pushing for the finish of eight weeks
of strategically placing 4.5 million stones.
As each day passes individuals wonder if their part
will be knocked over early, like what happened when
the infamous 2005 sparrow got in and knocked down
23,000 dominoes four days before the event.
Or when the time comes, will the stones simply stall out?
Or will they topple properly, to the thrill of
thousands present and the 85 million TV viewers?
Each, “Incredible!” “Genius!” “Spectacular!”
“Brilliant!” “Ooh”and “Aaah!” is worth each back pain,
temper flare, frustration and penny spent. It’s November first
and this month I’m to write a novel and a chap book.
I feel nervous, like the domino builders must feel.
Will the plot end too early or fizzle out?
Will my poems be painting with words
as domino building is art in motion?
November fourteenth, the domino builders
will know. I won’t until the thirtieth.
Here’s to poetry, novels and dominoes.

Connie

Saturday, November 01, 2008 5:44:27 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Before the Diagnosis

Moments of miraculous remission
remain unrecognized beneath strangely solid
shadows of symptoms that creep out
like many-legged creatures in the night,
creatures casting miniscule shadows of their own
while scavenging those things I leave
alone—elusive temperatures that can’t be
taken, momentarily blurred vision, muscles
that go spastic without reason—things that vanish
just long enough for me to believe the insects
crept away and won’t return. Something-not-quite-
right is just a temporary hindrance until it spans
months and years like the shadow of a moon
frozen in crescent state. I could berate
myself for ignoring the signs, but truth be told
it’s safer to hold ignorance with both hands
than try to understand why illness eats at all.

Larina Warnock

Saturday, November 01, 2008 5:48:31 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Iain, that is my favorite . . . of all you've written. LOVED it.

Heather

Saturday, November 01, 2008 5:56:01 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Heather - I'm blushing. Liked yours too and they are all excellent today. Be warned: I will NOT do politics this month but I'm still gonna de 30 Dear Mooseheads...back later with Ringo!

OOH! & nice to see some new names!

Iain

Iain D. Kemp

Saturday, November 01, 2008 6:12:38 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Connie,
Love your poem. The dominoes do tie in perfectly with this endeavor--or double endeavor. I'm trying to do both too. (But no dominoes for now.)
Nancy

Nancy Posey

Saturday, November 01, 2008 6:13:37 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

wow. i am blown away with everyone's words. vivid all the way around. all these fresh perspectives hanging around in one place. i love this. and it's nice to see a lot of the same folks from the April PAD Challenge here again!

i've worked on another poem today, because i imagine there will be days out of town this month AND my theme entails writing more than 30 poems at last count. so here is to another, and perhaps one more for today :]

all and all

all the blood
was in my head
and the room
was the color
of cats

and when i
opened my voice
the mouth babbled
before my eyes
bubbled over

all it took
to shake me
was that week
you said we should
go backward

and then i
broke in to bits
my little selves
scattered every
wrong way

all my words
went stale, my brain
fell flat while i
was supposed
to move forward

k weber

Saturday, November 01, 2008 6:36:30 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Broken Dreams

She was young
and in love,
not a care in the world she had.

Getting married
straight from college,
can't be all that bad.

Beautiful dress,
cakes and flowers,
fulfilled her dreams, made her glad.

Then it happened,
the debt, the lies
began to make her sad.

She tried and tried
to make it work,
wanting her marriage so bad.

The final straw-
no diploma, no job;
he'd deceived her with the life they had.

So she closed the door
on marriage, on hope
and started over with dreams not sad.

Laurie K.

LKHarris-Kolp

Saturday, November 01, 2008 6:45:47 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Larina and K Weber. Great.

Heather

Saturday, November 01, 2008 6:53:49 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

I keep trying to post. Maybe this will work. Not that anyone will know if it doesn't. :)

I'm going to put together a chapbook of lanternes about life. Here's the first: It's the title, the theme and the first poem.

Life,
A Book
of Lanternes -
Thoughts on Paper
Burn

AnnNoE

Saturday, November 01, 2008 6:56:08 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

It worked! Hooray! We're making a great start! :)

AnnNoE

Saturday, November 01, 2008 7:31:24 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

The wing clipped lark cannot sing
without inspiration from her surroundings.
Unable to fly, gracelessly glued
to the dark whetted bough
there is no inspiration left in the bleak
landscape she sees every day of her listless life.

This branch so close to the ground
is the highest that she'll ever go
and she has succumbed to this existence.

Kateri Woody

Saturday, November 01, 2008 7:58:32 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

this is very interesting and I love the writes so far! Good job everyone! Colleen (col467@yahoo.com and ShakespearesMonkeys.com)

colleen Sperry

Saturday, November 01, 2008 8:00:38 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

In Search of Metaphor:
Ways to Describe Vertigo

1
Imagine you’re on a boat
you have your sea legs
but the ocean is rough
and the ship shifts
so that you lose your balance.

2
I’ve been on this carousel
Called Earth
For over forty years
And I don’t understand
Why can’t you feel the spinning?

3
I am not drunk.
Thank you for asking.

4
at the touch of your lips
my cells fall away
and I hold tighter

5
My bed is a flying carpet
Dipping and swaying
Dreams filled with falling
I crash awake only to fall again.

6
Shush please,
I’m listening to my feet
And feeling the wall
For a plumb line.
No time to listen
To your line.
Give me your number
I’ll give a call
When I’m feeling steady.

7
I’ll lean on you
Don’t lean on me
Unless you want to fall
Together.

8
It’s like you’re walking on water
Just got off an amusement park ride
Had too much to drink, room spinning
Only worse because it never ends
And sometimes there’s nobody there
To catch you when you fall again.

satia

Saturday, November 01, 2008 8:02:58 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

It's so fun to see people from the April PAD here again.

Robert, thank you for making this happen again. Now I'm off to work on my nano word count for today.

satia

Saturday, November 01, 2008 8:18:24 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Iain - I think somebody's muse is back! Congratulations on finding her again ... exceptional writing today.

patti williams

Saturday, November 01, 2008 8:22:26 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

satia i like your vertigo poem
very good

Rachel

Saturday, November 01, 2008 8:29:24 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Rachel, thank you. I've been asked to write more about my vertigo lately so as soon as I read Robert's suggestions to find a theme that immeiadately occurred to me. And when I read his further suggestion "medical condition" I knew I was being nudged in a particular direction.

I also have to say that I recently tried my hand at an "alphapoem" and was not pleased with the results. I commend you for doing a far superior job with the form than I.

satia

Saturday, November 01, 2008 8:47:49 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

You really made it tough by having us think of a topic FIRST! Sorry I will just have to let them flow and see what topic forms! I am new to posting the poems here and hope I can keep up. So many comments and poems!! Good work!

Small Change

Like a gun blast out of the dark
it blew her world open
a dripping wound, everything
she loved hanging in silent
bloody shreds. So small
a thing, not even a whole
sheet of paper, less than
half a teaspoon of ink,
a few words that changed
everything.

Nov. 1, 2008

Peggy Goetz

Saturday, November 01, 2008 9:15:57 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

1.

The stuff of legends: Jules upstairs shouting, incredulous—The horror! The horror!—at the blowout diaper so out blown there’s muddy rivulets down baby’s legs, over baby’s shoulders, even in baby’s hair, (I don’t see any method at all, sir) which is more like fuzz actually, so his head is a baby bird’s, except turded upon, a pea-green, green-bean, carrot-strained, soupy colored mustardy funk, pee-mixed and pee-mashed, the high chair streaked and besharded, the diaper be-splattered and beshat, a Rorschach stink blot test, baby’s backside skunk streaked with butt-plankton, a surrealist manifesto of dung, a foul-splashed action painting, a poop-Pollock.

Matt Guenette

Saturday, November 01, 2008 9:17:44 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Hello everyone! The theme for my new chapbook will be 'Survival' ... this may take different forms ... but that is where I'm going ... or at least the direction I'm traveling today. As most of you know, The Great Storm was the United State's deadliest disaster. The thing is, the survivors rebuilt, and will again now that Ike has done his bit of damage. Because life is, well, surviving the storms. (I think I just stumbled upon my title ... WOOHOO!) So, without further delay, a poem from my latest Chapbook, "Life: Surviving the Storms."

The Great Storm

The city thrived,
The port a booming global
Market place.
The year of 1900 for Galvestonians
Was moneyed.

That is until the skies darkened
And the winds blew until
The ocean fell on top of
The unknowing people,
Drowning their dreams,
Their wives, their children.

The bodies left for the living
Could be smelled from miles away
Until they were taken out to
Sea for a burial in the same waters
That stole their lives.
But as the gulf currents washed the lost
Back upon to the beaches again,
The call was made to burn
The remains of their loves
In the funeral pyres.
The men drank free whiskey
Given to them by the
Same officials
Igniting the timbers
That would transform the devastated
Into small piles of ashes and dust.

The seawall was later constructed,
The survivors rebuilt their houses and lives
Forever in honor of the 6000 souls
Lost to the
Great Storm
On the 8th day of September, 1900
When the winds blew until
The ocean fell upon the people,
Almost washing our
Beautiful Galveston Island away.

patti williams

Saturday, November 01, 2008 10:12:02 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

The Three in the Tree

The water
Left it’s home in the Sea,
Pouring over the land and the people.
Running or swimming
Only brought death closer, faster.

But three little boys,
Already without the luxury of
Mommies or Daddies
Found themselves clinging
To the same tree,
To the same savior.
The Sisters that looked
After them all perished
With the other orphans
Tied to their waists
Because
They didn’t want to
Lose the precious souls
Left In their care.
Despite their prayers
And watchful eyes, they
Left the Island together
As the water proved to be
No match for their ropes.

But the three in the tree
Rescued by the survivors
Remembered very little, except that
The water
Left it’s home in the Sea,
Pouring over the land and the people.
And running or swimming
Only brought death closer, faster.

patti williams

Saturday, November 01, 2008 10:22:44 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Overcome

Too many times I’ve thought
I can’t stand it, I can’t be here
can’t stand the pain of this loss.

I always hang on, my
grip tenuous and iron steel
by turns as I hold on
to that which is going or

gone. I value the resolve that takes
me forward when what I want is
blissful sleep. The solution

comes to me gradually, seeps
into consciousness with the dusky
evening light. My legacy, those
who walked before me,
the ones who walk with me on
this same tender path.

Judy Roney

Saturday, November 01, 2008 10:32:25 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Lesson #1: Trust

She arrived
Hoping for the best
Dependent for the first time
On them
To be kind,
Gentle,
Caring,
Nurturing

She arrived
Needing to know about
The Universe,
Spirit,
Mostly she wanted to know about God
Dependent on them
To share
Their ideologies,
Theories,
Knowledge
Praying for them to be
Gentle,
Caring,
Nurturing

She arrived
Needing more than they had to give
More than they were willing to give
And she never understood how
Gentle,
Caring,
And nurturing
Could have escaped
Without her ever having seen them

She arrived
Wondering how a hand
Could be so heavy
How words could be
So angry
Couldn’t imagine what she had done
To incite such rage
Why did they bring her here
If she wasn’t wanted
In the first place
She arrived
Heart open,
Gentle,
Fragile,
Ready to learn
About life,
People,
Spirit,
Mostly she wanted to know about God
To find the good
In all
Unfortunately she learned
Lesson # 1:
Do Not Trust

Heather

Saturday, November 01, 2008 10:38:42 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Well I don't really have a theme for my chapbook, unless you count mixing themes as a theme itself, but I didn't wanna play hooky on my first day here so I figured I write a "mix" poem for my hook:

3:15am

The senior citizen slips away
In the middle of a dream about
His younger days, content that he
Never wasted a single one

While 5 houses down
The young man stares into
His reflection and wonders
Where his life went and why
Appearence equals personal worth

Three blocks away
The woman begs
The man who beats her
Physically and mentally
To take her back
Because all the other guys
Are too ugly for her

While in the alley behind that house
The dog looks for shelter form the pouring rain
As the insomniac nearby dances around like
He just won the lottery

While in an apartment not too far away
A lone figure perpares a grand stew
And smiles all the while

Steve LaVoie

Saturday, November 01, 2008 10:48:52 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Tree Line

beyond the tree line
encircling this fallow field
shadows deepen to forbidding veil.

movement, the wind
murmuring goodbyes to summer
or a sentient hunter?

the wood, respite
from the searing sun
or evil's camouflage?

forest resolves to trees,
shadows receding from the travelers,
dread floating just beyond vision's end

Should we flee, or follow this path?

Tony Iovino

Saturday, November 01, 2008 11:04:15 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Change

made like a bed
it happens daily-
fluffed up and smooth,
everything in its place,
or difficult, moody,
pulling your hope chest
out into the street.

You never know,
even if you plan-
God laughs
Buddha laughs,
the flutes fall
and you’re covered
in champagne or shit.

Shann Palmer

Saturday, November 01, 2008 11:15:05 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Heather - breath gone away. The Lesson Theme is great ... and the poem is perfect.

patti williams

Saturday, November 01, 2008 11:26:38 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Scattershot, she…

Sits Mary-wise at Jesus’ feet:
turning God-ward in daily conversation,
snatching portions of His Word for renewal of her mind,
listening to Moody radio for continuing sustenance,
worshiping with others on Sunday,
attending small group on Friday ready to participate..

Considers Martha-wise her many responsibilities:
The family must be fed, so she shops for food.
The bills must be paid, so she consults Microsoft Money.
Her mother visits doctors, so she accompanies her.
Clutter must be removed, so she is often in motion.
Then there is dusting, laundry, and dishes, and she does what she can.

“Organizes” Cathy-wise and knows:
her birthday book goes unconsulted,
her Uncalendar® sits ignored,
her phone book with its blank labels waits for attention,
her many cleaning products grow dusty with disuse,
books purchased with enthusiasm remain unread..

Delights Emily-wise in word pictures:
playing “Word Tag” on blank paper,
flinging words there, hoping for cleanup later,
giving voice to silly, joyful humor,
attempting at least part of another PAD challenge,
grasping for form from scattershot thoughts.

If I use my scattershot life as a theme, I should not lack for poetic ideas.

Speaking of Word Tag, that is the title of a poem I wrote several years ago. Frankly, I have shared so many of my poems with friends online, most of them could be thus already considered "published," so I might as well share this one with you.

Word Tag

How they t

u

m

b

l

e

from my mind─

these words─

Like unruly children

quickly running to recess.

I want them to play a game with rules.

"No", they say, SPORTING on the page;

"Come be our playmate.

"Don't line us up in S

I

N

G

L

E

F

I

L

E."

I try so hard to tag them

As they scurry

Left and right

Before my eyes.

Sheryl Kay Oder

Saturday, November 01, 2008 11:29:27 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Patti- bless you. Took a lot out of me :) Loved yours . . . amd looking forward to more.
Cheers!

Heather

Sunday, November 02, 2008 12:08:16 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

looks like you all are off to a good start. I'm busy with a novel this month, so I won't be joining you--but I'll be stopping by to see how things are shapping up.

Robert--a theme? Can you get more evil?? I never write by theme and so for the poetry project I'm having my teens do, we decided to write by themes. And turns out I hate writing by theme. I'd way rather write my poems and then group by themes as they arise rather than try. But that's just me :)

Have fun!

Sara Diane Doyle

Sunday, November 02, 2008 12:38:48 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Synaptic Sensations

No schedule
No warning
Not even a subtle introduction
They come out from hiding
To tickle my brain
And tease me with memories
Of things far gone
Some not so far

No telling what
No telling when
No telling why
They just jump out at me

Sometimes vague
Sometimes crystal clear
Sometimes frightening
Sometimes warm and fuzzy

A few will stick around
To relive things in my brain
While others flash and go
Unexplained
Never to return

Is God messing with me
Or Satan playing games
Or both

Synaptic sensations
Tricks of the mind
What's next

Earl Parsons

Sunday, November 02, 2008 12:42:45 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

And here you go... Whether you await with baited breath or are Oh! NO please not this.... Can't with live him...can't live without... HEEEERES RINGO!!!

Dear Moosehead,

So… Now is the Winter of
our discontent and no I do not
mean the Hockey season you
no good SOB! You take, like
one week’s vacation in Florida
and suddenly my so-called wife,
your sister and you Mother be
moving back in with me and I
don’t know if its pay day or
thanksgiving my head is so upsidedown!
Damn! You should have more respect
for a friend who’s now is paying double
for heat’n’light and your cousin won’t
come clean no more cos she says its you
that needs the help. Lord what is it with the
women in your family that they gotta have
it down for me. Now you know I ain’t got
nuffin personal ‘gainst them Rangers, just it’s
such a long time ‘til spring training.
So any ways I got us some three back from
ice-side for Friday. Pickya up at seven:
bring money for dogs and beer ( its the least you can do).

Yours cold and grouchy

Ringo the Howler

Iain D. Kemp

Sunday, November 02, 2008 12:50:13 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Patti, Heather Earl,Sheryl....lovin' it Good work Earl

Great poems everyone... Sorry about the Bronx Monster but ya gotta let him out...

Iain

Iain D. Kemp

Sunday, November 02, 2008 12:51:36 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

oooooh & Kateri... great to see you back

Iain

Iain D. Kemp

Sunday, November 02, 2008 12:52:42 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Since I alluded to it above and it is in keeping with the "theme" on which I have settled (at least for now), here is the alphapoem I wrote.

Violent, the world shifts.
Everything moves and I
Reach for the wall,
Toppling a lamp as
I land unharmed, then
Get up slowly
Only to fall again.

satia

Sunday, November 02, 2008 12:59:26 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

I'm a little confused as to which path to take. I may write two at the same time, or I may find a way to combine them. We'll see. By the way, thanks Iain.

Life, Liberty and the Lord

“O beautiful, for patriot dream
That sees, beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam,
Undimmed by human tears
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee.
And crown thy good
With brotherhood
From sea to shining sea.”

America the Beautiful
Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory
My Country, ‘Tis of thee
God Bless America
The Star-Spangled Banner
God Bless the USA

A country grounded in freedom
A nation of liberty
A beacon on a hill
Blessed by God

America

Earl Parsons

Sunday, November 02, 2008 1:02:51 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Yellow

Some say that yellow is the
color of the sun, but on a beach
when morning spreads the
curtains of night open, a pale
lemon emerges. As day wears
on the sun sweetens to lemon
meringue filling awaiting afternoon,
when the hue deepens to a fresh
fruit lemon. Only as evening stages
an entrance does the sun discard
all traces of lemon and exit
as a fiery orange blaze.

Sara McNulty

Sunday, November 02, 2008 1:10:05 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

In Remembrance

I remember Jerry from college speech class
who gave a talk about his brother Gene,
captured by the Pathet Lao, then held in captivity
until he attempted an escape with others,
was recaptured and tortured. He was seen
alive later but never made it to freedom.
This is the only speech I remember from class.

I hadn't thought about Jerry for decades,
but he came to mind last week, a phantom
from the past, and I decided to try to find
something out about Jerry or Gene
who in the mid- 60's was MIA in Vietnam.
I hoped I would find that he had come home.

I discovered that my college classmate Jerry
had gone to Laos after the war to search
for his brother Gene, but never found him,
though there were live sightings until the 1990's.
Jerry has remained an advocate for his brother
for more than forty years, still considers Gene
his mentor, has authored a book about him.

Gene's memory will live on through Jerry's book,
through Jerry's speech which undoubtedly he
has long ago forgotten and now, for me, because
I have written this poem.

Mary K

Sunday, November 02, 2008 1:53:03 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Procession

She looked to thirty
Novemberly,
remembering it to be
one of the colder months
with days that gave way to winter,
when the ground went cold enough
to hold itself,
if not to bear flowers,
it meant not to be broken;
burials would wait
for warmth to return.

Canvas tarps
with pvc skeletons
crowned the brown folding chairs,
straight, solemn rows, leg to leg,
even those set up in anticipation,
for the attendees without reservation,
and everything she could not see
was green and stretched across
frames that formed squares
long and deep.

The longest part
of a pre-winter day,
is the path of a car,
headed back to the main road,
true north to home
folding the program
wondering what her own name
would look like in italics.

Paul W.Hankins

Sunday, November 02, 2008 2:45:56 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Earl - wow.
Heather amazing - tough lesson. hated learning that one.
good job

Rachel

Sunday, November 02, 2008 2:47:00 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Nature

November has opened her doors once again
And all are invited to waltz right in
Trees quite naked and gardens lay bare, but beware, for
Underneath the dimming light of day
Roaring winds from the arctic north may douse the
Embers of autumns grasp and close the doors of Novembers’ past

Michelle H.

Sunday, November 02, 2008 3:18:55 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

When I Consider How My Saturdays Are Spent

The way the smoke curls around my fingers -
in a living room, half-lit, drunk, spinning -
upward and onward, the way I'm grinning -
with Daylight Savings, it only lingers -
the same hour lived twice, the laughter, hers,
and hers, and now his, and his, beginning -
intoxicated, awareness thinning -
and the night now attending us; it cures:

The year will die soon, now halfway to June
and escape and departure, and worry
wait to envelop me; my last year here,
the phases all sighing by like the moon's,
every bit as lengthy as it's blurry -
mutter the mantra: there's nothing to fear.

Callan

Sunday, November 02, 2008 3:34:13 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Adderbolt

Last breath rasping
Crashing through the
Massacred remains
Corpses littering
The flattened undergrowth

Adderbolt watches.

Hovering above the horizon.

Ready to receive.

Jolanta Laurinaitis

Sunday, November 02, 2008 3:57:47 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

I guess I'm one of the few who took "hook" quite literally. I'm thinking of a music theme for my chapbook, and I went with the musical definition of "hook" then turned it around into a metaphor:

The Hook

It’s that song I keep hearing
on the radio at home, in the car,
at the supermarket and work,
that one with the great hook.
I take its bait by humming along,
and after half-a-dozen times,
it’s sparking through my brain,
impossible to shake out.
I flap around like a trout
pulled out of my stream
helplessly singing the melody
through a hooked mouth.

Bruce Niedt

Sunday, November 02, 2008 4:01:57 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

P.S.: Callan - great sonnet!

Bruce Niedt

Sunday, November 02, 2008 4:33:10 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

What the Dickens?

deep wood & nets
shadowing stage
quieter than all
of Tokyo surrounds
this pub where I order
Red Hook from home & listen
to your poems & mine
& this is before
I love you &
we wander
Shinjuku too afraid
of each other
to find a love hotel

I'm writing about pubs and bars where I've spent time. The title here is, in fact, the name of one.

EKSwitaj

Sunday, November 02, 2008 5:15:24 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

The theme of my chapbook is sanity and insanity; the losing and acquiring of both - the thin membrane that separates the sane from the insane...my working title for the chapbook is the same as this first poem's

Tearing a Hole in the Universe

It was surprisingly soundless
When the rip occurred
in the edge of the universe
A hole large enough to let a small child
Slip through unnoticed and gone
But the shrieks and keening surrounding
That happenstance more than made up
For the original quiet

Things of this nature, so beyond the imaginings
Of the average person, beg the question
Why - why him - why us- why did this happen at all
He was just here and so healthy, robust really
And now? He’s gone. How can this be?
What master of the universe would let this occur?

There’s no stitching up that gaping hole
But folks will play elaborate games of leap-frog
And other fancy footwork, anything to avoid
That pitfall, knowing how fickle that awful maw
Can be; if it would open up a child-sized space
And yawning, casually as all get out, take the tyke
Then damn the parents, damn them all

Mommy stares off into space not realizing
She is searching for the rip herself
It would not take much seeking for her to find
Her own slight gap and simply slip on through
Daddy’s writing his child letters on Facebook and crying
As he pushes post and send, hoping that the ether will
Propel his messages through some lull in reason
Through the tear in their universe,
Pleading for any connection
He fights to stay alive and figure out the sane.

S.E.Ingraham

S.E.Ingraham

Sunday, November 02, 2008 11:31:18 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Defrosting the freezer

Me first
no I’m first
and I’m second.
If you don’t let me go next
I won’t help you with the computer.
It’s constant this squabbling
they all want to be first
have the longest turn
be the winner.

She brandishes the scraper
but can’t bear the snow on her hands
for too long.
Each boy would do the whole thing
if I let them,
the fascination of ice in the tropics,
the challenge to chisel carefully
to remove the top section
intact, in one perfect sheet.

kate

Sunday, November 02, 2008 2:41:21 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Thank you, Rachel. All of these are GREAT!!

Heather

Sunday, November 02, 2008 4:05:30 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Raping Humanity

1000 people watched in a stadium.
1000.
Watched a 13 year old who was raped.
Raped.
They watched her be stoned for adultery.
Stoned.
They attended but they watched.
Watched!
Did militants have guns pointed at them to do that?
No.
Did even one stand up and say, "Hey, maybe this is a bad idea?"
No.
The tear rolls down my cheek for her.
Her.
I have much work to do for humanity.
Humanity.
I have much work to do for you.
Humanity.

Vanessa O'Dwyer

Vanessa O'Dwyer

Sunday, November 02, 2008 6:01:56 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Thanks Iain, it is good to have something to do every day. Glad to see some familiar names here again.

Kateri Woody

Sunday, November 02, 2008 7:23:21 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

I decided to go with "Herbs" for a theme. I'm really bad at naming my actual poems, though, so this one is still nameless.

-the hook-

Foods ring pungent in my watering mouth
fresh as melting sun and living fire.
Sick bodies are guided back to bloom or
granted merciful passage into summerlands.
Apparel liberated from a lackluster life
rereleased into a world of effulgent hue.
Witness to the sight of flowing fields that dance a tempoed waltz in the wind
they sing in their garments - the bells of mother’s ball.
Bearing alms that are gathered by diverse desire
defenseless immolation scattered to aspirations of imagination.
Generations, heirloom spirit sprawls the boundless sphere,
antics of delicate stature camouflage wellborn privilege;
worshipped by some unnoticed by others
rooted in the soil of human animation.

Terri Vega

Sunday, November 02, 2008 7:37:17 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

I guess I should let you guys know my theme is going to be looking for love.

Everything I've read is wonderful- good job everybody!
Laurie K.

LKHarris-Kolp

Sunday, November 02, 2008 8:08:38 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Time management

I have twelve minutes to write this poem
then I have to be at work four hours early.

We’re desperate, my boss says
while I’m still cleaning the blood off my shirt
from the last one we saved.

I didn’t do the calculations, until now,
that a sixteen hour shift followed by
a 6 hour school day
makes for one tired nurse.

I just answered "ok" because
I was still hearing the thanks in the mother’s voice
for helping her son.

Lori

Sunday, November 02, 2008 8:56:23 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

just found this this site, wrote this yesterday morning, i'll continue with the same theme

you are alone,
you are surrounded,
you are suffocating,
you’re being drowned,
time is up,
there’s too much left,
that was your worst,
you lost your best,
you don’t know where to go,
you’re not where you should be,
you not prepared,
you prepared for the wrong thing,
there are monsters in the closet,
there’s no one in the house,
you are hidden from the world,
you’ve been found out,
you are exalted,
you have been forsaken,
you stand defiant,
you succumb to your demons,
the spotlight is on you,
your lost in the darkness,
you must care for your home,
you are homeless,
the ground is far away,
your in an enclosed space,
you don’t accept responsibility,
you don’t know your place—

and you,
like everyone here,
are too afraid,
to admit your fears.

jared david

Sunday, November 02, 2008 9:14:57 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Blue

Please sign on the dotted
line in blue ink, official
color, background drop
of stars on our flag; the shade
of my eyes–envied by little
sister; the jeans I no longer
wear skin tight, like a teen
might, while watching with joy,
the total of those blue states
swell. I’m buoyed. Makes me
want to dance in a pair of
blue suede shoes as I listen to
the root of all music–the blues.

Sara McNulty

Sunday, November 02, 2008 11:24:06 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Ok, I have no idea what a chap book is, but I'm in. I will just have to wing it, as I am buried in paperwork for work.

Here's my hook. I hope.

Hooked on Poetry

Ever see a poem about poems
random poems written
with no actual themes to call home
well, once bitten
the urge takes a hold of the very inside of me
forcing my hand,
in what must be told, I can only hope brilliantly
difficult to understand
unless you’re a poet
there is much life of demands
there’s another urge,
but’ I’ll for go it
to complete this task
of a hook
easily masked
with poetry
by a book
that may never be. . .

Rodney C. Walmer 11/2/08 Hook poem prompt, not my best work, but time is short for me.

Rodney C. Walmer

Sunday, November 02, 2008 11:57:08 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Daylight Savings

Tonight the dogs come prancing in from early darkness
all wet fur and wood smoke. She stands a long time in
the gusting rain, listening to the rustle of maple leaves
as they fall from the trees. Behind her the dogs’ tags rattle
as they shake themselves dry. Turning back inside, she pulls
the door shut against the low hoot of owls, a somber conversation outside the porch light’s yellow spill.

Kate Berne Miller

Kate Berne Miller

Monday, November 03, 2008 1:20:19 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

OK, here we go again right. This is going to be tough as I am also signed up with www.nanowrimo.org, trying to write an entire novel in one month. I guess I'm a glutton for punishment.

This is a very rough draft. Just jotted it down, and will probably work on it some more later. I think it has potential.

What kind of curveball?

What kind of curveball will life throw
at me today? What kind of mini catastrophe
will head my way? Will I be able to handle
everything the way I usually do, or will
it all come crumbling down around me,
forcing me to dig my way out? I’ve done
it before, made it through closed and bolted
doors to the other side. Can I do it again?

What kind of curveball will life throw
at me today, and will I be able to

swing away?

Susan M. Bell

Monday, November 03, 2008 2:56:41 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Bright orange dragon claw
Caught the edge and tipped the bowl
Spilling yellow crumbles in the dark sand
He opened his maw
Pink. gooey with threads of spit
And shoveled up a scoop
Of powdery bits
Whipped his tail at a perceived threat
Then munched 'til he'd filled his gullet
Swaggered off to a shady tree
Where he could easily oversee
His kingdom of other scaly beasties

SaraV

Monday, November 03, 2008 6:14:45 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

It's great to be back and read what everyone's writing. I'm still trying to decide on a theme. Hopefully I'll have poems up soon.

Maureen

Monday, November 03, 2008 11:47:13 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

ok, here's my own attempt at a HOOK poem as requested by Robert.

room 429
by juanita lewison-snyder

she stepped out from under the overhang and into the downpour,
relieved at the chance to ditch ghosts four stories up,
their faces vapor-locked against glass, peering from room 429.

she had come to the big city on business, hoping to catch the eye
of all the right people and further advance her career. instead,
she caught the affections of a young supernatural in room 429.

she first felt it’s presence when the keycard swiped the door,
felt it riffle curiously through her things like an invite when she
laid open her suitcase at the foot of the bed in room 429.

she thought on her mother, their line of shared gifts -
apparitions with dancecards lining the halls
awaiting messiahs outside room 429.

she sensed the entity’s childlike loneliness, attaching itself
like an unwanted pet to the back of her wool skirt,
dragging across carpet in sheer desperation inside room 429.

she empathized at first, until the weight of it all began popping
rivets surrounding her heart, filling lungs with radon
‘til her hands pushed opened the heavy door of 429.

she fumbled her way past shadowy figures, glad for
the knowledge of spirits and their aversion to water,
eager to unhinge from the haunting in room 429.

she stepped out from under the overhang and into the downpour,
relieved at the chance to ditch ghosts four stories up,
their faces vapor-locked against glass, peering from room 429.

Spidey

Monday, November 03, 2008 11:56:00 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Echoes of her screams haunt me still
I couldn't save her
My eyes water as I revisit the memory
I held her hands to my face
Promised it would be all right
An inferno blazed around us
How could I dare to hope for such things?
The heat kept intensifying, worse than a desert summer's day
I felt the rescue worker grab me from behind
I tried to tell him that she was there
She needed his help too
I fought
Kicked and screamed
As he dragged me away
I lost my grip on her
And the blazing fire claimed her soul

Amanda

Monday, November 03, 2008 1:00:57 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Last Time in This Time

Tonight we change them once again
To satisfy the whims of Good Old Ben,
Who first proposed this change to give more afternoon
And save more candles while we're waiting for the moon.
This in a time when the world depended less upon the clock,
And more upon the sunrise, and the crowing of the cock.
Thought more of when the frost and coldness came,
Or when the snow was gone and winter tame.
So now we twist those hands to find a minute more of light,
And seek to hold it back; the edges of the night
For just a moment more of play, or work
Or anything, besides the black and smoth'ring murk
The night brings. And leaves us fearful in the dark.
And leaves us fearful in the dark.

Don Swearingen

Monday, November 03, 2008 4:06:50 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Truth

"I think she's long-winded and shallow," he
commented in disgust.
"Too many words and not enough substance. Her
writing tends to be overly romantic, and her
subjects, trite."

"Maybe she has vulnerability issues," someone
else suggested.
"Maybe her words seem to dance around the
point because she has difficulty letting
the reader in."

"Vulnerability issues?" he laughed.
"There's nothing there to hide. She's an open
book - a dull, boring open book."

And so for the next 2 hours he tore the author
apart, telling us why he considered her a waste of
good paper and a waste of his time.

As we were leaving, he invited me for a drink.
"Your comments were extremely thoughtful," he
smiled, opening the door for me. "...even if they
were way off base." He grinned at his own humor.
"I enjoyed your opinons even if I DID
disagree with them. It's hard to hold an honest
discussion with anyone these days, let alone with
someone as intelligent as you."

I smiled back over my shoulder at him, trying to
decide when would be the best time to
tell him that I was the author that he
just spent 2 hours censuring.

- - - - -

Lee

Monday, November 03, 2008 6:35:22 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Hey everyone, nice to see some familiar names and some new ones too! I was moving on the weekend and my internet provider didn't get the work order or some such thing, so I was offline and will be until Wednesday. Have internet at work though.

Breathtaking work here! Looking forward to the month.

My theme will be about loss - how people/animals - beings to love, come through my life and there is such impermanence to it all. Not sure how it will shape up but it seems to be a theme that is very much with me.

We met
And the bright new moments of maybe
made everything sparkly, slo-mo, vivid
and giddy.

The moments of maybe not came later
and more frequently,
Until they became moments of not
stretched together and bound together by animosity.

That was 17 years ago now, and
I remember how it felt when it ended:
like a bottomless pit, all that mattered
when, today, I cannot recall your last name.

corinne

Monday, November 03, 2008 7:38:30 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Way, way, inside
I shutter to think about what I have done.
I did this to someone too.

A thing that was once precise and so dear.
I let it go and didn't see how it would
change me.

I took it with no regret and cast it to
the side, Oh well, its gone and I am free
just to be.

lynn rose

Monday, November 03, 2008 8:03:55 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Hope I'm not too late to join the November challenge. Just noticing the prompt this morning. My chosen theme is animals and nature in general, and mostly directed to children.

NEVERENDING CYCLES

The earth it never tires,
Of spinning round and round,
Like all the other planets,
That out in space are found.

The oceans they evaporate,
Creating clouds of rain,
That hover in the atmosphere,
Then fall back down again.

The wind it dries up all the rain,
And scatters seeds around,
And sometimes it will whistle,
A cold and piercing sound.

The sun he is consistent
In sending rays of light,
His warmth he keeps emitting,
All day and all the night.

The stars create a twinkle
In darkened skies beyond,
And shooting stars go streaking,
For us to wish upon.

The moon it palely glows
In crescent shapes and round,
Causing tides to fall and rise,
Wherever tides are found.

These cycles they just happen,
For years and years on end
Continuing for eons,
A universal trend.

Copyright © Gizele Griffiths 2008

Gizele Griffiths

Monday, November 03, 2008 8:29:04 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Forbidden Separation

Breathing machine
holding him to life
noise pulsing
pushing – swoosh –
air in – pause –
whoosh – air out –
and again
his chest rose and fell
to the will of that machine.

In this gripping rhythm
I began
synchronizing
my breath to his
in – out – in – out
anything to remain
connected
disavow the sounds
inflating separation.

Jane penland hoover

Monday, November 03, 2008 9:15:37 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Don,
I really like your piece!! time and our own hands and place in the moves.

Jane penland hoover

Tuesday, November 04, 2008 4:12:59 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Shut

Blocks from my warm house, on corner under bridge,
woman stands with green sign, "Pregnant. Need help."
Curls flutter in chill wind. She smiles. I assess belly
under loose shirt, soften, reach for purse, open wallet.
Light glints off beer can in string bag. I shut wallet,
purse, hide behind shut window, shut heart, mind.
Shut. Shut. I wonder if I have did the wrong thing.

Victoria Hendricks

Tuesday, November 04, 2008 6:14:45 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

The Hook

When I think of the hook I think of my mother
a proud fisher woman chased after by the fish.
Exuberant, successful, lucky that is my mother
on her 93nd revolution of the sun in the year 2008.
As the end of the calendar approaches, so does
the end of her life -- will she make it to 2009?
November, the month of her husband's death
the birth of her first great grandchild
the month I feel a hint of what will come.

Diane T.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008 12:12:11 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

He took me over
limb by limb
My fingers toes
My heart and skin
He took my brain
He took my eyes
He bled me dry
He fed me lies

Terri French

Wednesday, November 05, 2008 3:32:44 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

The Love Song

It starts off with the sweetest melody
a soft tune, soothing, yet blinding for all to see.

Slowly the bass glides in on the scene
power and seductive, the perfect fiend.

Every note, every tune wrapping all around you
soft and slow, fast and hard, the perfect song made for two.

VS Bryant

Wednesday, November 05, 2008 3:33:50 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

VS Bryant

Wednesday, November 05, 2008 8:22:33 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

I too am a late arrival. I'm attempting the NaNoWriMo at the same time, and may be setting myself up for failure. I'll finish one of these challenges, at least.

Ma

The three aspects of Ma
that you need to remember:

The distance between your
weapon and the opponent;

The distance between your
opponent's weapon and you;

and the distance between
you and your opponent.

That ratio will never change.
Your arm is so long. Your

opponent's leg is so long.
And optimal Ma - distance,

space - is finite. You can
only attack effectively from

a certain distance. That is
combat. That is life. That is Ma.

A.C. Leming

Wednesday, November 05, 2008 10:45:19 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Two Parts Hydrogen to One Part Oxygen

Teal blue is the Mediterranean
I feel your waves nibbling my toes
Transparent is the water in my glass
Devoid of minerals or taste
I shower in a foamy spray
Warm and sensous in its appeal
After swimming in a chlorine pool
I am slave to your presence
They say 2/3 of me is water
Probably most of it is on my brain.

Iris Deurmyer

Thursday, November 06, 2008 11:55:28 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Starting late, but I didn't get the memo until late. :)
My theme: Alternative Relationships - Loving Outside the Lines

First poem in the series:
Outside The Lines
11/6/08

The child presses down, etching along the outline
Creating a crayon boundary to keep his scribbles
Within acceptable lines of a pre-fabricated picture,
Because coloring outside the lines brings criticism
And no one knows what his pictures mean
When he creates with a blank page

The adult makes decisions based on “what is best”,
Creating a life that conforms to society’s boundaries
Within acceptable paradigms and approved forms
Because rocking the boat brings ostracism
And no one wants you if you’re different
From what everyone else expects.

But life erases the carefully prepared outlines
And knocks down the fences
That conform to expectations
Because sleepwalking through life isn’t living
And our hearts can’t soar in beauty
Without venturing outside the lines

Euphrates

Thursday, November 06, 2008 9:58:56 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

"Lymphoma", he said.
"I'm afraid it's not good."

And so I began to make arrangements;
write letters to the kids,
clear up the paper clutter,
organize financial information

and then I went to the cancer
center for my first chemo treatment.

"Something just doesn't seem right", he said.
"Before we start this, let's try one more thing.
We don't usually biopsy lymph nodes -
diffcult to tell which ones are
and which ones aren't.
But there's that one -
the one that showed up "hot"
the one that I think we can biopsy."

So we did.
Benign.
No lymphoma
but instead...
Lupus.

Lupus???
Lupus!!!
WONDERFUL!
Well... maybe not wonderful
but better.
Definitely better.

And so it begins...

* * * * * * * * * * * *

janey

Friday, November 07, 2008 4:53:03 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

New to this website & community, I am coming late to the table, and hoping I am still allowed to join in the fun!
I have been scrambling to play catch up -- so I can get to the day 7 celebration.

For now, here is my PAD DAY 1 entry: “The Hook”

Do the Math

Seventy-seven point eight
(average years ‘til you’re dun)
One hundred and five (if you’re lucky)
Or just seventeen (if you’re un-)
(margin of error – 99% –
plus or minus one)

PSC in CT

Friday, November 07, 2008 7:21:24 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

I'm right here with you, Pamela!

How to Be Late for Lunch
(How I Lost Track of Time in the Landscapes of Impressionism)

I spent the morning at the art museum,
lingered long over Renoir and Monet,
the Doge's Palace scintillating in
brush-daubed sunlight,
pinks and blues and yellows blazing.
Saw myself in the woman absorbed in her book
seated in the cool shade at the
vineyards at Cagnes,
felt in cheery company with Hassam's Poppies.

I limited myself to only one gallery,
Landscapes of Impressionism,
on loan from Brooklyn.
How I walked that famous bridge last fall
from Brooklyn to Manhattan,
but never knew these paintings hung nearby?
I obsessed over details of light and leaf,
shade and water.
Minutes ticked away,
unknown to me.

I scribbled madly,
filled a clothbound yellow notebook
with descriptions and reflections.

Shocked when my husband phoned
“The time is what?”
I dashed through the
must-see Western collection upstairs
before hoofing it,
sweating in the July sun,
through the plaza of Denver‘s
Civic Center Park
to meet our patient friends.

Karen H. Phillips

Saturday, November 08, 2008 3:48:30 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Missing

My nephew who I haven't seen
since he was twelve, heard he'd
been in the army, married a French
girl--our ancestors were Huguenots--
lived in Europe, he's almost thirty now,
but I found a Taylor Winfield in San Diego,
and he answered my email at one of those
search engines, said he was doing okay,
left a phone number, it was disconnected,
so I sent another message, telling him
there must have been a mistake, thinking
all along that maybe it wasn't him, just
some wiseacre with nothing else to do,
but mostly I worried he wasn't really
alright, probably hadn't been since
his father died, and his mom remarried
a couple a times and died a few years
later under hush circumstances, no,
the young man couldn't be sane
after all that, none of us were
to begin with, but I don't know
which is worse, the possibility
it's him or a misguided prankster,
and I still don't know where he is
but I left another message:
I miss your father, too.

Billy Angel

Wednesday, November 12, 2008 8:11:28 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

We've finally decided
it will happen next summer.
In July, we will move in
together. Our relationship
will move to the next level
as we start our new life.
We're both nervous, excited,
and anxious for
July.

Monica Martin

Thursday, November 13, 2008 2:39:39 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Assassination

I watched him fall
into a crowd hushed with disbelief
Five seconds before the melee started
A hundred Thousand men and women
looking for a marksman
We screamed with outrage
and then with terror
when our hope, our champion
bled in his frightened wife's arms
We came so far
as a nation so close to redemption
Where was the goddammed security?
I came up screaming and fighting
tossing blankets and pillow
and wept with relief:
It was only a nightmare

Tyger Valverde

Friday, November 14, 2008 6:56:46 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

GUNSIGHT

My dog’s a rustle in cold dark.
I glimpse then lose the ghost-green glow
of light-stick on her collar
floating two feet above-ground
through the black November woods.
I find my own way by flash-
light, the deputy behind me
armed.
Somewhere in uncanny night
an old man has a shotgun.
They say he’s a danger
to no one
but himself.

Taylor Graham

Tuesday, November 18, 2008 5:36:30 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

To be edited and filled out later. Theme: dance

Girls Night Out

The martinis
arrive
swirling
with expectation.

The dance floor
swallows
the shine
on my new shoes
purchased
for this occasion.

This is not
a dance club. It
is a butcher shop
with tits and ass
on special.

Shannon Rayne

Wednesday, November 19, 2008 3:44:39 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Well, as you can all see, I'm majorly behind. However, I'm going to attend to play major catch-up and still complete this challenge. Here's my first...

I. The Grim Prognosis

This afternoon my father died.
Tonight I was told,
“Of patients who come in like this,
Only 10% ever walk out alive.”
Dr. P.—whom I later dubbed The Miracle Worker—
Ended his prognosis with:
“I think your dad’s going to be one of them.”
Like a cell phone conversation
Played out under poor reception,
The intermediate words
Registered on my auditory nerve
In fits and spurts,
Between a cognitive dance of
Is he alive or dead?
“Full cardiac arrest …”
“Blood started flowing beautifully …”
“Then his heart stopped again …”
This afternoon my father died.
Tonight, just barely, he lives.

Kathy Kehrli

Wednesday, November 19, 2008 5:28:41 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Right on KAthy. I just started too!!! We can always take extra time to catch up.

Shannon Rayne

Thursday, November 20, 2008 9:35:49 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

I've heard it called
"the Web of Life.'
Fragile threads of warp and woof
seem tougher in community.
Under and over in random paths,
the rocks and trees and people
weave through water, soil and air...
touch and connect.

Penny Henderson

Saturday, November 22, 2008 9:49:37 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

I'm starting late, but I'm determined to write to every day's prompt from Robert. Having trouble posting this, so I hope it does not show up multiple times. Apologies if it does.

golden yellow crown
overnight becomes white fluff
dandelion death

Lynne Nelsen
November 2008

Lynne

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