# Wednesday, April 01, 2009
April PAD Challenge: Day 1
Posted by Robert

Wow! It looks like we've got even more International participation than last year, and even the North American participants are chomping at the bit. In realization that much of the world is essentially a day ahead of me, I'm going to extend the challenge deadline to May 1 at noon (EST), instead of April 30 at midnight (EST).

All right then! Let's get started!

For today's prompt, I want you to write an origin poem. It can be the origin of a word, person, plant, idea, etc. Have fun with it.

(Note: Through this challenge, please feel free to use the prompt as a springboard to being creative. There is no right or wrong way to interpret the prompts--so take them in any direction you want.)

Here's my attempt for the day:

"Superhero"

 

At an early age, His parents are killed

in a skiing accident. Luckily,

His adoptive parents (two lumberjacks

named Harry and Marty) are supportive

and home school Him on topics, such as math,

history, nuclear engineering,

martial arts, and ballroom dancing. When He

learns in His teens that the two lumberjacks

actually killed His parents, He runs

away from home to become a photo-

journalist at the big city paper.

While photographing the winner of Big

City’s high school science fair, the losing

student who thought He should've won dumps liquid

on Him while trying to hit the winner.

This is when He gains the ability

to fly and use X-ray vision. And so He

does what anyone else would do in His

position: Design a costume and start

busting bad guys. It doesn't take long for Him

to acquire an arch-villain, who appears

always to be in two places at once.

This villain is soon known as Lumberjack,

because all his crimes are committed with

a giant logging axe. After perhaps

too much time has elapsed, He realizes

the Lumberjack is really two people:

Harry and Marty, the same backwoodsmen

who murdered His parents. With a renewed

sense of purpose, He quickly finds his two

enemies in their Lumberjack costumes

in an abandoned warehouse down by

the river. He gets the jump on them, but

they quickly turn the tables on Him, since

He was obviously walking into

a trap designed to catch Him. This is when

it is revealed that the lumberjacks are

actually his mother and father,

who were also Harry and Marty, who

had decided when He was very young

that they would groom him to become a crime-

fighting vigilante. Just as they are

telling Him how much they love Him and how

they were sorry they misled Him about

their own deaths, the warehouse explodes from bombs

set by His new arch-villain, The Chemist,

who was, of course, the original guy

who gave Him all of His superpowers.

 

(Now get writing! Yay!)


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Wednesday, April 01, 2009 12:27:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)  #  Comments [1415] 
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 12:38:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Good idea, Robert. I've got my poem a day experiment going on Twitter. Handle is Allen_Taylor. Follow me and join in.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 12:45:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Life"

Heart ache and tears cannot be avoided,
When you are rejected and are broken-hearted,
But life goes on and you learn from the lesson,
Just do things that make you happy and find a new confidant.

Life is full of it's ups and downs,
Don't let anything make you frown,
Just move on and sing your heart out,
Happiness will come soon never doubt.

It is better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all,
All the good and bad experiences have its worth,
Just live life and stand tall.
Nadura Kamarulzaman
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 12:54:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Change"

Don't know which way to go,
or what is yet to come.
It all seems a bit strange,
the only thing for sure
is everything will change.

Everything changes,
don't know why.
Everything changes,
then we die.

What is known today,
will surely go away.
Don't get to settled in,
nothing is forever.
It all seems a bit strange,
The only thing for sure,
is Everything will change.
Donna
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 12:55:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"April fool"

Today’s fool
didn't want to be
just an everyday fool
he wanted to be special
to stand out from the crowd

so he took his chance
and fooled around harder
and fooled around louder
and fooled around wilder
than any yesterday fool ever did
than any tomorrow fool ever would

the Other Day fools were in awe
jaws dropped, hearts stopped
and all they could do
was to give him the name
we all know on this day!
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 12:58:16 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
WAR

I want that
Sorry

I'll give you something else
No thanks

I saw it first
Yeh, but I got it

Come on, just give it to me
Not gonna happen so quit bugging me

I'm bigger than you are
If you don't give it to me, I'll beat you up
Go ahead and try
I'm tougher

I've got friends to back me up
Mine are stronger

I'll get you, you jerk
Yeh, well I'll be waiting

Two kids on the playground
Two gangs on the street
Two countries on the earth

WAR
Helen Harrison
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 12:58:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A tic, a toc,
past midnight struck,
the first second of
a new beginning,
the first seed of
things to come,
tomorrow is just begun.
Olga P.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:08:56 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
In the beginning,
so it is said,
the Light came first.
Yet in my head
I wonder where I began.
What came first for me?
Was it Light
or love
or accidentally?
Terilee
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:10:47 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Poem” Origin
A word from the Greek
Meaning to make or to do.
It can take many forms
Like, rhyme, prose or haiku.
Melissa Rossetti
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:10:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
'Clense' by Matos

Many call it genocide but I
Think not. I rather believe
That I am purifying the origin
Of human species. That dirt,
Filth; those vermin who crawl.

I've been around many times
the last century and inclusive
the new. I was in Auschwitz,
Killing a jew. I was in Sarajevo,
Sniping muslims. I was in Cambodia,
Slaying those who knew that what I
Was going to do was Wrong.

I'm known to have many friends:
I once met an Adolf from Austria,
But who really wanted to be German
And who hated his mother, der Juden.
I once met an organized fellow,
Quite honest in fact, His name:
Antonio Oliveira Salazar, his
Rule: hungry and deadly.
I once met a senile chap called
Benito who, like Adolf, enjoyed
to say, in an Italian accent, 'Ditto!'
When anybody shouted out 'War'.
I once met a fat Churchill
Who was praised for defending
An Island By Hiding Japanese,
Deutschlandese in his wine cellar
Where he fed them some flab.

I am said to be
Irrefutable
Unavoidable.

They are not
not
right.

I am the evil that
Is good. The stinging
Bleach that cleans the
Scrub. And no matter
what, I'll still be around:
->In Iraq, I yank around
The scarce Bush killing Muslims
Before they hit me with a shoe.
->The Afghans know me well
For their choice is having
A fight with me: be it led
By Bureaucrats; or
By Terrorists
(ie Freedom Fighters)
->In Gaza, I am born
With the shout of a
Cleric ordering me
To church or to deadly
Circumcision by a Rabi.
->In Israel, I am born
With the wrath of a siren
Fidgeting Children to
Somewhere Safe, Away
From Small rockets.

I destroy the origin of filth.
I am handled by filth.
But I complain not, and get
On with my job; for, you see...

Life is tough,
I got more than one job
- Underemployment they call it.
I do it to feed
My aging but yet vigorous
Cousins, Uncles, Parents and Grandparents:
Freedom Fighting, Terrorism
Sovereignty, Self-determination
War, Belligerency
Hate, Loathe,
Jealousy, Envy
Wealth, Poverty
Resourceful, Barren
Miguel Matos
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:23:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Robert:
I'm so excited about the challenge starting up again. I'm not "really" a poet, but I did the challenge last year and absolutely loved it. It really stretched me and helped all of my other writing. So, Kudos! for doing this again for us. I know it's a lot of work.

Now I'm pondering this idea.
Love all the poems already submitted this morning. (You guys are fast!)
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:24:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Wrong Place

His name was borne by six kings of Sweden.
But Gustav was Mexican. This, I was told,
over orange juice and eggs by the Onion
this morning. Gustav set out at 6 o'clock
last Sunday morning for the Monterey shore
- California, not Mexico, mind you. [Gustav
always seemed to be in the wrong place,
said his friends] But with scuba gear and
a hunger for coral, he dove, alone, the cold
eased him deep into the crimson fog where
he was most happy, his wife reported. Fifty
miles away, forest fires raged through the
Californian redwoods, unbeknownst to our
fearless scuba diver, who, just a few miles
from home, would never again see home.

In what must have felt like a split-second
of prolonged shock, Gustav felt a maddened
push of ocean rock him out of his coral heaven
then -something- wisked him up into the sky.
"Dios"... "Diablo"... "Extranjero"...?

After the forest fire had subsided,
officials found a scorched, torn up
scuba outfit. A helicopter, a bucket,
the ocean... and Gustav, who was, again
in the wrong place.
J. Martin
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:28:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Launch”


He knelt to push the blue sailboat
into the fountain, wild spray
spattering like an ocean storm,
a gallant maiden voyage in the park.

His brother leaned to catch it,
dipping elbows into the icy pool,
almost falling, but saving himself
and the boat at the last minute.

Later he would sail a schooner
down the inland waterway to the Keys,
while his brother, keel broken and listing
dangerously, lost his way in California.


ann malaspina
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:29:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My thoughts race
My breath quickens
My hands start to tremble
I see the shadow come down the stairs
I close my eyes in the darkness
and wait
I know it's getting closer
I can feel its presence
Footsteps getting louder
My heart pounds in my chest
It's almost here
Reaching out towards me
I feel its cold fingers on my skin
Could this be the end
I scream...
Jessica Kahl
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:30:37 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"A Dream"

First a dream
which in time became
a glimmer of possibility
born of love
born of desire.

Some call it biology
Mom and Dad call it
a blessing.

Starting out small
as pieces meet and connect,
Creation taking over.

Growth so slight
not at first in plain sight.
Til after nine months,
perhaps a little less,
the blessing became a miracle.

Mom and Dad now have
a baby girl.

Years have passed
brought changes aplenty.
A toddler, a teen, a woman
who is now grown and married
with kids of her own
who started out much the same way...

A dream, a possibility,
A blessing,
A miracle.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:31:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A self-made man,
created by others.
Life has just begun
in this moment as it ends
and all that is true
is but a lie.

A puppet with
invisible strings
dancing to an unheard
orchestra performing songs
you thought were composed
in your head.

Alas, the strings are
cut and the puppeteer
silences the subtle movements of
hands directing reactions.
Crumple -- you are but a pile
of reflexes shifting no
more to the unseen intentions
of others.

Yet somewhere, deep inside
the intricately carved creation
lies a spark -- anger, disgust,
righteousness, glory.
It flickers into flame and
it no longer matters who
struck the flint.

Rise
to the challenge
of a world in need
and become
Hope
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:33:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Origin and Ending of a Living National Treasure"
(Long Hay(na)ku style)

Noble
Spanish descendants
Andalusian and Barb

Helped
Native tribes
to hunt; live

Pioneers
using them
won the West

Mail
they carried
for Pony Express

Mustangs
running free
through the chaparral

Mares
birthing foals
alone in secret

Stallions
proud prancers
battling bold rivals

Foals
playing joyfully
in wide-eyed wonder

Modern
man became
filled with greed

Death
followed him
for the equines

Nightmarish
helicopters roared
screaming horses trapped

Trucks
packed full
took them away

Butchers
killed them
for fine dining

Slaughtered
the rest
for pet food

Once
was nobility
freedom, grace, power

Plains
plateaus, deserts
fall silent; empty

Hoof-beats
now echo
only in memory

Mustangs
living treasures
Let Them Live!

~LM Tadic © April 1, 2009
Lisa aka "Thumper"
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:34:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
when did I originate?
am I original?
or just some copy of some copy
dna
rna
trillions of cells
do they look different than yours?
when did I become myself
a one and only
the origin of myself
a funny bird you called me
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:36:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
starting like many
from humble beginings
he rose to mediocrity

not too high, not too low
but when you set your sights right
and not open your eyes
it's easy to see the light
and believe that it shines
on you

fear brings change
and changes begat fear

goodbye old man
sorry you were never young
Chev Shire
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:37:12 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
disciplined

She began in a room on punishment
reading Shell Silverstein and attempting to record her own young pain
In like fashion.
Smashing crayons deep into bits and pieces of paper to illustrate the horror
of her loneliness
and her mother’s discipline.
She would sing and she would dance to the silence,
become her own best friend while sharing the stage with her reflection.
The universe had a plan for her creative perfection
Like a clam her irritating life was preparing her for the pearls
of artistic wisdom.
Bottled up in solitary confinement she
was brimming with creativity
and animosity for a mother that would “lock her away.”

One day while” locked away,”
she drew mean and vengeful pictures of her mother
when they were discovered
her mother hugged her and apologized for treating her that way
let her out of that room and sent her on her way to play
She learned two things that day
Number one was that there is power in creativity
And though art is left to interpretation, it never fails to express your pain
But the most important thing she learned that day
Was that even when her mommy disciplined
her love for her never changed


N.D. Smith
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:37:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Who am I"
I recall when I first became a poet
I was in the fifth grade
Our assignment was to write a poetry book
Of all kinds
Two poems for each type
To which I cannot recall all the names
I do remember Haiku
And my favorite poems - the ones that gave me the poetry bug
Where the “Who Am I” poems
Those I could relate to
Those I understood
Those were about me
That one fifth grade assignment changed me
It helped to shape the person I am today
I now consider myself a poet
Still figuring out who I am
And who I want to be
Dianne Ryan
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:38:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Pocket Full of Posies

Ring around the rosy…

We started with a dream
which grew into hope

our minds conceived
our bodies achieved
and we pushed

farther, higher, harder

grabbing and grasping
whatever we could
so our children could go
even farther, higher…

Pocket full of posies…

Didn’t we understand
the concept of a fair share?
Wasn’t it obvious
that more for us meant
less for everyone else?

Couldn’t we see
the balance in nature?
Surely we knew
the scales can tip both ways.

Or did we have our heads
buried in buckets of

ashes, ashes, we all fall down.






Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:38:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My Brother's Origin

I was nine when they took
my brother's liver.
"What's a liver?" I asked my mom.
"It's an organ near your belly," she said.
I didn't understand why they'd take
such a thing, especially from my brother,
already sick, already losing his eye sight,
the feeling in his feet, and almost any game
he played. A couple years later, he died.
A dozen or so people told me that it was God's plan,
that it was for the best.
That was my brother's origin, the beginning
without an end, the life without living,
the answer without a question.

Wes Ward
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:43:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Blanketing the mountainsides
Stretching into pale distances.
Many thousands of
Proud blue-green magueys
Stretch their spiny arms to
Scratch Mexican skies

Ancient source of life
To Purepecha, Nahuatl
Who used it to make rope,
Clothing, candy, mezcal
A worthy, blessed, necessary
Source of all things good

Spanish barbarians
Unwashed, reeking, and cruel
Not only brought their ships,
Weapons, horses, Christ,
But also the as yet unknown
Secret of making Tequila

Today all the world craves
Tequila's many pleasures
Joven, anejo, flavored
While the Indian still labors
And dies from those blue plants
That were once upon a time
His closest friends






Phyllis Rauch
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:44:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Living Death

Each sunrise she wakes
Only to breathe, to blow
Where time takes
Her body to actuate
And overflow

Opening doors
Where they command
The trend
To glorify unseen gods
That demand
A meaningless end

A sword that shields
Rotten queasy brain yields
Vomiting sickening consent
Against her. Discontent
Smells like breakfast
Munching, gulping
Sorrows stare harnessed

Her being ephemeral
Form evaporates
It changes shape
Into a robotic snowflake
With shadows that escape
The maggot-infested snake
Slithering somewhere

Downtown, there
A seven-story building swells
With faded white crown
And indigo-windowed cells
Speak too softly and then frown

She starves, the corpse
She winks and she hopes
Streams of starlight
Cast in inky moonlit night
Smothered imaginings
Praise her spirit tight

Till sundown, she sleeps
Runaway into the deeps
Where dreams hate
And sins accumulate
Into a living death
Amel Anniza
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:48:16 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

Before today started
Before yesterday ended
Before we were born
Before America was discovered
Before Europe was the world
Before Christ walked with man
Before Moses parted the sea
Before Adam and Eve were cursed
Before the Earth was void
Before the universe existed
Before time began
Time began for them
For They started time
In the beginning
They are the Alpha
And they will be
The Omega

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:49:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Waiting

The kettle whistles and a dog barks
while I climb from sleep, up in the pink
and yellow attic room where still my
mother’s Victorian bureau holds court.

I’m not ready to descend the spiral stairs
to follow the sounds into the baking morning.
Like always, I turn, bury my sleep wrinkles,
bird-nested hair under the soft white cotton.

But from that garret room, narrow and short,
I often gazed out the three stubby windows,
longed to ride the old pickup truck nestled
next door, silent in the sagging barnyard.

I always wondered what they were doing
over there, when the whir of loud motors,
the clanging metallic noises bled into me.
And so, I painted the scene from my perch

to discover, to render without muddiness
the red truck, the blue sky, the grey house
set back, hidden behind a wall of green.
But, even then, I recognized that we were

the stranger neighbors—mother and daughters:
Sarah, the Hebrew queen; Mildred, the mild
and the strong; Jezebel, the impudent woman,
and Fedora, the diviner of fashionable hats.

We were those lost princesses, found cantering
a primeval field like pilgrims on untamed horses,
holding tight at the neck and yelling our prayers
into the large ears—with flashy smiles, waiting.

Margot Suydam
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:50:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The day begins
So do my fears
The day moves on
So does my faith
Stars peek out from behind the clouds
Gods are watching
We are all okay
The day ends.
Roberta DeFoor
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:51:33 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Magician

I shall name you,
as the potter does,
give you shape and form,
create you from clay like
Prometheus, and as so,
I will breathe my fire
into your open mouth.
We shall name the world:
vast continents and oceans of our
own doing, or undoing,
seven seas or more, at our whim,
mountain chains, those great
divides and rivers running to
flat delta plains.
Wake and turn to me.
Be my world. Be my conjurer.
Lesley Pasquin
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:53:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Nightjar

I came from a place of pine trees
And that’s where I feel most at home.
I came from Canada, England and
Rochester, New Hampshire I came from
canned vegetables and the Ed Sullivan Show
I came from the Beatles and
dandelions and picking wild strawberries
in summer and the sound of whippoorwills
calling at night, beneath my bedroom window.
I remember my mother saying “Hush, now,
do you hear that?” in a reverent tone, “That’s
a whippoorwill!” she said, but with a grownup’s talent
for assumption didn’t mention that the whippoorwill
was a bird and with a child’s talent for filling in
blanks with the broadest of brushes I made it large
in my mind’s eye, mammalian and with hyena-like markings,
gave it a thirst for the blood of little girls.
Who knows how long it was until I saw
an Audubon print of that small nightjar, with
the tiny curved beak and eyes like onyx beads,
how long I feared something of my own invention.
And who knows what else in this immense and puzzling
landscape of life where I feel most at home,
doesn’t exist at all?
Annie
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:55:36 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Pakicetus

It was the cows and pigs that did it. Seeing what
Was intended for them, what their futures contained;
Seeing how their herds would be gathered and numbered,
Drove us further out into the sea. From shores, bays, rivers,
Feeding in the shallows, we swam out further, deeper, away.
The vast oceans became our pastures, our grazing ground.

Eventually, a hand became a fin, leg variations formed a fluke,
The canals of the ear lessened and the lungs grew and changed
Fifteen million years, a day against the age of dirt, the age of water.
Now with one breath held for hours, diving down negative mountains
Deep into black waters, we sing arias to each other, with low notes
Few others can hear, long mournful songs of grass and flowers, sweet
Water and green fields waving in the wind as far as the eye can see.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:57:47 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
origin of my oldest

We met in August
hot, sticky, scary August
nervous parents and impatient nurses
foreign tongue and big needle
bright lights, daddy in scrubs
mommy praying
doctor talking, talking, talking
machines noisy
daddy laughing, mommy crying
and then
no one there but you
we were introduced
but the One who formed you
knew you first
my scar means nothing
His mean everything
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 1:58:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Reincarnation

Before this spaghetti sauce
arrived on your plate,
it lived a full life
in a can
on a shelf
at the market.
It stayed there long enough
to gather dust,
to move from the back to front,
waiting to be chosen
over the national brand.

Before this spaghetti sauce
arrived on that shelf,
it lived a full life,
travelled cross country
from Ohio
in a crowded truck, packed
in closely with hundreds
of identical siblings.

Before this spaghetti sauce
arrived on that truck,
it lived a full life
at the cannery,
where it suffered the violence
of transformation,
mashed, mixed, blended,
preserved and spiced,
then enclosed and sealed
in this perfect 88 cent can.

Before this spaghetti sauce
arrived at the cannery,
it lived a full life
on the farm,
had a home,
its own row,
with its family close.
The sun shone on it,
rain fell on it,
and chemicals poured from the sky,
choking it
until the day of harvest.

Before this spaghetti sauce,
in its infancy,
arrived at the farm,
it lived a full life,
though a tiny one,
in the packet of seeds
on the shelf
at the farmer supply.

Before this spaghetti sauce
arrived as a seed
at the farm to begin
its Odyssey to your plate,
it had lived a full life
as a tomato already,
grown from a seed,
sown, harvested,
and sown again.

Bon appétit!

Beth K
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:03:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Chicken Jokes

Why did the chicken cross the road?
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
Why is Chicken Little quoted so often?

Ask people about chickens, and most won’t have much to say.
Although some folks think a lot about chickens:

Free range chickens lay better eggs
And are more delicious and nutritious
To eat
They say.

The chickens at the County Fair seem annoyed and self-conscious
Enclosed in cages to be stared at by folks who are not their handlers
Who do not recognize their breed or lineage--
Can you tell an Appenzell pointed hood hen from a Brahma?
A Dominique from a Dutch Bantam? A Frizzle from a Gimmizah?
The caged birds hyperventilate,
Too too upset at being away from home
With nothing and no one to peck at.

These preened and preening darlings
With 4-H advisors
Are a far cry from the packed houses of chickens-for-parts
Ringing the Del-Mar peninsula
The chicken-meat-packing plants
Where the chickens hatch, grow, are slaughtered, sliced diced and frozen in plastic containers
Without every leaving the brown factory walls.

But all of this begs the question:

What do chickens mean to us?
Why do we want to laugh at them?
Are they a stand-in for the ones we really want to laugh at, ourselves?

Give it a try:

Why did we cross the road?
Who listens when we shout out, “the sky is falling”?

Anne Corey
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:03:33 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Someone Told Me

Someone told me a personal truth
years before it became sediment
a form found in ancient caves
untouched by light
deep down in the dark
of their own comfort
stacked piled a drop
at a time
only time will tell
what will become
of them
in heaven
or
in hell.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:03:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Growin'. Growin'. Grown!

Here I begin to sow.
Sow what?
Sow wheat.
So what?
Wheat.
Wheat is good!
What is good?
Wheat.
Goods can spoil.
So can wheat.
Wheat's in the soil.
Soil holds seeds.
Seeds take root.
They have two routes.
Roots go under.
Sprouts go over.
Sprouts push to leave.
Leaves make headway.
Heads up!
What?
Wheat!
Willy Kalnins
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:05:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins

Seeds. The dandelion’s droppings
fly in all directions. Time
does the rest. Spring rests,
relaxes, expands, expresses
itself, a fool blooming, not stopping
until we’ve done our best
to return to seeds.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:08:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April 1st Poem on Origins

Origins

I hear it’s a pretty good line
Of cosmetics, and the vendor
Is conveniently camped out
In a nearby department store,
Still, when the uniformed makeup
Lady applies foundation and drones on
And on as she camouflages
Inconsistencies in my complexion,
Targeting orange undertones, citing
Thin lips we must deal with boldly,
And skimpy lashes that require bolstering,
All at a price that staggers my budget,
I surreptitiously scan the ingredients,
And consider what these little pots
Of beautification reinforcement
Really are: an expensive army
Of colored dirt and chemicals.

Lyn Sedwick

Lyn Sedwick
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:09:43 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
It
originated with
a thought

She thought
That writing her prose
In broken lines
Would magically make It a poem

He thought
That turning up his amp
Just a little louder
(or making his tattoo
just a little fiercer)
Would magically make It Art

I thought
That thinking happy thoughts
And smiling more
In this Quest to find something positive
near the drooping mouth
on the sleeping face
of mediocrity
Would magically make me better,
at least in the eyes
of those who mistake disappointment
for bitterness
Saint Alphonzo
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:09:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Deciding

To try or not to try?
Baby or no baby?
We were so happy,
just the two of us.
And then I sat in Grandma’s rocker,
the one in that pink guest room.
I listened to the sounds of children playing –
“Papa George, look at this …”
“Help me, Grandma Portia …”
Laughs and laughs and sounds of rolling on the floor.
“No, Uncle Andy. That tickles.”
Siblings fussing.
And for the first time I knew that I wanted ours added to this mix.
I wanted another to experience this family love.
I cursed Grandma Portia under my breath –
knowing she’d sat in this very chair and prayed for us to procreate.
I looked at that guestroom bed and smiled,
knowing I’d tell you that night that I was ready to decide.
Melanie McGehee
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:10:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
This Tree did not Come From a Seed

This tree grew from the buried heart of a girl.
The first shoot sprung from one of its ventricles,
And spread out as trees do.

They aren’t so tranquil as their stillness implies.
Trees are competitors,
And this one was positively greedy for sunlight,
But what buried girl isn’t?

Her name was Sholanna. The tree, not the girl.
She was lively and beautiful. The girl, not the tree.
And sunlight was her greatest reward.
ceroper
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:10:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Migration


the tip of a tumbling waterfall
rushes through empty air
on its way back to vapor

the tilt of limestone rocks
crowds into a timeworn stone wall
on its way back to sand

the crust and crumble of earth
itself - dust to dust-
refashions itself through ages

until it emerges
reclaimed, re-molded
into a gathering of open land

a birthed constellation
of unmarked earth
hunkered in space:

some other god’s idea
of everlasting


Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:14:30 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Adam’s Heartlessness

Adam is bent over his worktable now,
his cold fingers clutching the tweezers
as he fits a wire into the mess of cords before him.

The nerve endings flair before him
and the room fills with a bass beat reverberation.

Wires spark into the box fitted to his chest.

He shudders.

His eyes close.

Immortality lingers near the edge of his mind
and flits away as the box simmers down
and the room fills with the smell of burning hair.

The cord attached to his video camera pops from the socket
and rattlesnakes to the floor
as the images of his 12th birthday flitter through the viewfinder.

Kids in the forest.

Cake in the tall grass.

The girl peering into the lens to see the future.

The images cut out abruptly
as his heart slows.

Steady now.

Steady.

Still the beating of your robotic heart.

She blinks.

Hissssssss.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:14:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Pondering Poet

In the beginning we are told
God had a plan that was very bold.
Everything was dark as night
Then God spoke and there was light.

He carried on with His plan
And called into being dry land.
Then came fish to fill the sea
With plenty of fruit on every tree.

Animals, animals were everywhere
Some with feathers, others with fur.
In His image, He then made Adam and Eve,
And told them "In your care this earth, I leave."

Now His word does not say
But could it be before His rest the seventh day,
He created poets from His heart
To write for others about this great start?
Jean Lutz
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:15:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Jealousy

I saw it up close; growing
upward streaming toward the skyline
from what seemed like nothing
other than a bitter torn out outline
of events that which occured
and the mind stirred
without sleep

I had awoken the beast
I had awoken the beast.

And whilst others' minds could sleep
I was wrapped around in the heat
of it, lost; incomplete and lead to believe
it would pass; dissipate
into defeat
(for which late I realised I were wrong)
as I could see the skyline
and what the gap had become.
D M Dyson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:17:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"land of Nod"

When Cain left for the land of Nod,
Who would have thought that he wouldn't just wander,
But that others would follow?

And in their dreams see Cain there,
Roaming the earth, while they dreamt of far off places.

These lands of Nod were two different places,
Not countries, nor cities or far off towns,
Neither hamlets nor hangouts, no regions at all.

Cain and his descendants departed to nowhere in specific,
While children slept, their minds left to wander.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:18:01 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My Origins

Mother,
You are my life and my source.
You have been my chart and course.
You built me up when all seemed lost.
You gave your all, regardless of cost.

Mother,
Without your love there is no past.
For me you were first and will be last.
I can't repay all that you've done.
It's due to you that I have won.

Mother,
You are my life and my source.
You taught me oft with gentle force.
For years and years I was a dope.
But now, to be like you is all I hope.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:18:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
It began with the raindrop
which trickled slowly
from my hair
to behind my ear
then making its way down my neck
finally stopping only when
it was absorbed by the collar of my cotton shirt

More raindrops fell
until my hair, my shirt, my shoes
were saturated with the cold wetness

I shivered
but continued on my way
until

We met

Too late for any umbrella
too late to keep from shivering
until

You held me and I melted
in the rain.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:18:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
You died

and my new life
began.
I miss you
yes I do
but I also love
to fling my legs
any which-way in bed,
cook only what I want
when I want
or not,
take off in the car
in any direction
with no appointment.
I miss you.
Making it great
on my own
Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:18:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

Curled tight like a baby's fist
A promise of green
Unfurls like falling yarn
From the microbe's dark secrets
To the untelling sun.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:20:59 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of Thought

My thoughts I think are my thoughts, I think.
I think my thoughts are mine.
If others thought of my thoughts first,
Well, I think that’s just fine.

My thoughts I think are my thoughts, I think.
If others think them too,
That doesn’t make them not my thoughts.
At least, I think that’s true.

My thoughts I think are my thoughts, I think.
And I think it’s insane
To spend a nanosecond more
Just to ascertain.
Marie Elena
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:21:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
04.01.09

A red bud bounces
Off the splintered limb’s tip:
Quick—take a picture!

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:23:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I made a wish! I made a wish!
Why Why Why did I wish for this?
To be remembered and always known.
To remain forever and never alone.
I wanted to be thin and gorgeous.
And to have a better name.
I guess there is only myself to blame.
The witch took my payment,
And then performed her trick.
Before I knew it, I was a tube of ...
La Bianca women's LIPSTICK!
Caitlin Friedberg
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:25:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Genesis

I was never thrilled with the creation story.
There is no time I can not remember
knowing that God created the earth
in six short days, and I always thought:
where's the fun in that? How could He
appreciate what He'd done if the distance
between void and verdant paradise
was less than a week? I always thought
God must be like my father, a hard worker,
with no time for fun. My father builds
everything as quickly as possible, he could
miss entire phyla of creatures, never noticing
the arthropods or the nematodes until Adam,
the darling, the only boy, asked him
Why are there so many worms?
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:31:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Child's Tears

I stay with great humility
That none should disagree
Her kisses are the best by far
In their simplicity

Each tear she sheds
Lead her astray
From mountains she must climb

Each fall, each drop
Cause her to bounce
Before the tears run dry

The urgent plea for one more hug
A testament, a swearing
Of oaths and bliss and honey bees
Her childhood and her glory
Freyda Tartak
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:31:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Panic at the Rollercoaster

In line at a La Ronde rollercoaster,
an aptly named ride ‘The Vampire,’
a panic attack makes me reconsider
my acceptance of your love of thrills that are
controlled and predictable
to you.
You grin as I contemplate dismembered limbs
splattered extremities and ripped off skin.
I clutch your arm like it’s a remedy.
You begin the speech I know by memory:
The fear is irrational, danger is all in my head.
that I’m safe that I wont get hurt,
and you’re not going anywhere.
We’ll make jokes about this later.

I’d heard these things before,
in similarly scripted conversations.
That the fear is irrational, danger is all in my head,
that I’m safe that I wont get hurt,
and you’re not going anywhere.
We’ll make jokes about this later.

At least you weren’t lying
About the rollercoaster.
Tara Nicole
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:31:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Note on Indecision

Like knowledge it creeps
Through the dust, unknowing.
The fragments in the bank account
And already spent.
Compelling,
How it happens, how it falls
Like water, a provocative
Charybdis.
It is an easy conspiracy.
“Wait”, it says.
“Wait, wait”.
Demand respite.
Do nothing,
Yet.
Michelle Maiers
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:31:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Arachnophobia

It was dark here,
and quiet.
I was small and easily hidden.
A pile of clothes
a cardboard box of books
just under your door,
I waited.

The cat found me first
reached out a tentative
testing paw.
I shuffled sideways.
I was born close to here
I vowed
here I would stay.

But blinding light pierced
past the pile of clothes
around the box
as the cat's curiosity
brought a bigger being
on two legs
spray bottle in hand.

Blinded and burning
I fled
my safe haven, my solitary home
and ran at her feet
determined with my death
to frighten her
and live on.

My twisted legs turned in
and touched my body
I twitched
a few times more
then lay still.
Her dreams since
have never been free of me.
Ris Cashdollar
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:31:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hey, Robert! I've been psyching myself up since winter to participate in the April PAD challenge this year. I've written only one poem in the past 18 months, so I really need this!

Naturally, since I used to blog here, I won't be participating for the eBook or laureateship; the thrill of the chase for me will simply be trying to write again. (But, say--if I keep up through the end of April, can I get the website badge?)

Best wishes and good luck to everyone--and happy poetry month!
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:32:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Birth of the Sun

Across the bathroom floor,
the house shrouded
in a caul of night,
I lie face up.
In spite of cool tiles
against bare skin,
my five-year-old body
arcs from fever. ¬
Mother and Father
crouch over me, swab my torso
with rubbing alcohol.
My heart turns to lava,
leaks out my pores, swirls
into a mass above my parents’ backs.
There is no movement toward the light,
I am the source.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:33:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Tell me
Tell me
What is true?
For I know not this day.
I blink
I cry
I fear to die
And yet I must away

Freyda Tartak
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:35:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Packing

The place around the corner has tape, packing tape;
we weren't sure they'd have it.
Trying to get the box ready to send to my sister, her kids;
wanted them to have it,
in time for Kyle's birthday.
When we get to the end of a roll of tape
there's not much we can do
until we get more.
I head to the store.
In our obscure corner of Brooklyn
we have yet to purchase packing tape,
We have yet to pack and move.
I only just got here, I think.
But we trade stories in the coffee shop
about finishing theses
and those of us who are Not From Around Here
enjoy the neighborhood while we can.
Then we settle, or we pack;
either way, we can't look back.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:36:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
‘Dakota’
The day I took you home, you were all warm and fuzzy.
I set up your new home with everything I could think you would want.
You loved to sleep all day, and wake up at night playing.
But, alas your life was only two short years.
A lifetime for you; but a mere blink of an eye for me.
I look back and wonder if I could have done better.
Were you happy in your little home.
Did I play with you enough, love you enough?
I know it is the way of things; to live, to die.
You will be missed, and I will always think back on you with fond memories.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:36:30 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

To dream of
beginning
wisped and
emphemeral
is to already
dread
the grounded
visceral
end
black soil
packed
from
which
sparkled speck
of dust
whirls free
into the wisp
of ephemeral
beginning
again
Pearl Ketover Prilik
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:37:23 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Desire


She begins first as string. Knots twist into her hair.
Her legs jut like teeth, grow down. Her arms unfold
into origami swans. Toenails inch across the lawn.
Fingers spread into fans and whirr on.

Unlike her mother she is the best at catching them.
They stumble up in robes, in caftans, in sheets torn
from the beds where they sleep. One by one she is
content to hold them still, pin steps to ground.

Somewhere there is another like her but she knows
she is alone in this tangled light. Evidence of what
will come in the muck between her toes. Striping
the air her tornadoes spill wild, anxious-pale.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:38:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

Pages of genealogy
neatly categorized,
chronologically and alphabetically filed

hours of searching
dusty records: US census, Ellis Island

miles of driving
remote graveyards
kneeling before stone markers
barely readable through moss and last summers grass clippings
scraping, digging

the excitement of the hunt,
the mystery of the clues.
where did I come from?
who am I?
Midge VanEtten
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:38:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Gram describes the side shows at Riverview Park

Some of the shows were dreadful.
There was The Great Waldo.
He swallowed mice and regurgitated them.
He wore a green tuxedo with tails.
He’d take a big fish and ask for money
and then swallow it. Then
he’d take a mouse by the tail
and swallow him. And that was worth it!
That was a side show!

Then there was a lady with a big snake.
It had to be about ten feet long
and she draped it around her neck and she
held the head so you could pet it.
The kids were right there and they said
Mom, come and touch the snake and I’d say
Ya, I can’t get over there, honey.
The mouth was taped shut
but I wouldn’t even touch it with my finger!

But you got your money’s worth
in the side show.
There was a live head too,
the head of a lady who was in a car
accident and only her head survived.
It was tasteless
They did that with mirrors or something.
but it was worth it!
Linda Voit
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:41:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hey, thanks for doing this again. I only lurked from behind the scenes last year but this year I'm participating. Yay!

Where do original ideas come from?
They start as electricity and jump
From axon to axon

Strengthening synopses, making pathways
Breaking down barriers and building bridges
In our minds

Traveling down to the eyes, nose, mouth and ears
Breaking through to the outside world
In thoughts, documents, words

Only to be sucked in by another
Internalized, turned back into bridges and pathways
Traveling back through the axons

And suddenly two minds carry the same pathways
Two mouths speak the same ideas
Four feet walk the same purpose

Where did the idea come from?
It doesn’t matter.
It was original to me.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:42:43 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I used to write
noble poems

dreams possibilities
neversaynever

lofty poems
lofty thoughts

death life
beginning end

now I chop parsely
for tabooleh

give baby 10 cheerios to shut her up

and am oh so much more wise
AJ
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:43:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Glen Orchy, Amphibians and Man

Single track roads to the horizon.
You may walk or ride a horse
or take a comfortable old van.
Avoid the time of day when sun,
solstice-low, shines against you
and reflects off the sparkling water.

Pull up, reign your horse, or picnic
at your favourite waterfall,
its face worked back upstream
through tireless centuries
until the stone-age cairns
are some small distance down.

Here, past a modern shrine
of plastic daffodils, untouched
by such scarce visitors, are toads,
frogs, newts, copulating
in clear pools in the rock,
called to congregate each springtime.

Since our life began,
fish growing legs, unsteadily
reptilian, to land
moving away through dangers
to burst into a future known
only, and surely, by instinct.




sally evans
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:45:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Darwin's Origin of Species

Before you flashed your light most folk were blind
believing that the universe, our world
and life itself were suddenly unfurled
a mere six thousand years ago. You shined
a beacon so humanity could find
its way though superstition, priests who curled
the common folk around their fingers, hurled
abuse and worse on those who'd use their mind.
And in your turn you faced the scorn, abuse
and foul contempt of those who feared the truth,
who saw their game was up. You faced them off.
With courage you resisted those who'd lose
the fight for might; myth battlling with near-proof,
whose answer was to threaten and to scoff.
John Wood
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:45:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April Fool's Day

Today is a day to celebrate fools
A day to be silly and break the rules,
So what are the origins of this day?
Why do we celebrate in such a way?

Pope Gregory was the one to blame
He must have seen it as a game,
When he went and rearranged the year
Confusing people and creating fear,

New Year’s in winter? What a crazy thought!
The common folk were most distraught,
They kept New Year’s in April and broke the rules
All the educated folk called them April Fools.

And that is the origin, I swear it’s true
Aren’t you all glad I shared this with you?
Cathy Graham
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:45:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Root of a Nerve

It was only a matter of time
Saturated to the root,
Annihilated for the last time
What little had been saved
For emergencies
Gave way to implosion,
Explosive expression,
Shut down of senses,
No hope of regaining
Control
A nerve can only hold for so
Long

Heather
Heather
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:46:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
*Variety is the Original Spice of Life*

The origin of life’s strange variety?
It can be found at the bottom of my purse.
On occasion, it is cause for a bit of anxiety,
but honestly? It could be much worse.

It can be found at the bottom of my purse:
some pens, loose change and a fuzzy dust bunny –
but honestly, it could be much worse,
with fuzzy pens and loose rabbits, but absolutely no money.

Some pens, loose change and a fuzzy dust bunny
give evidence of the evolution of society,
since fuzzy pens and loose rabbits, but absolutely no money
comprise the origin of life’s strange variety.
RJ Clarken
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:46:38 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Genesis: Australian Tongue Orchid

O! fragrant flower of rare deceit,
whose scent beguiles the love-struck wasp,

on orchid petals her lover spends,
entranced is he by her seductive wiles.

Nature, in quixotic mood makes jest.
The female births her young in solitude.

Alone creates new males to pollinate
a fragrant flower of rare deceit.


Carol A. Stephen
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:47:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

Staring at a postcard she was twelve years old and saw adventure.
Red sky, black earth and outline of one umbrella thorn at sunset.
Why this continent so different? People dark, and creatures massive -
Sky is red and people act like it’s the start of life, or something.

Apparently umbrella thorn in postcard plants a seed inside
Her mind and ever after she is all consumed with getting there, she
Doesn’t know the reason why this place captured her soul like this but
Confident she is that something waits for her she can’t find elsewhere.

Five years later only, but it feels like a lifetime and was, too
Middle and high school have passed and now she’s found her way to get to
Red sky, black outline of tree on the horizon and she feels like
Life is starting for her so she boards a plane, won’t sleep for days.

Eighteen and terrified of permanence, because she’s never known it
What will she find? Purpose? Place? Person? Some kind of anchor, sunlit
red. The days go by and every fiber of her being screams she’s right,
And when she leaves she has a handle on her life – her faith – her fight.

There was no person that she found she couldn’t leave, there was no place
There was no purpose to focus her tired, scattered mind and make
Her hold still and accomplish one thing with perameters, instead, an ache
Began inside her for her God, for life, for people and her mate.

This was the origin of me realizing me and knowing that
My life would not revolve around a plan, a place, a job, a set format
Absent from my life many conventions that help to get us through
But I found God there and I knew, that I knew, that I knew, that I knew, that I knew…
Lydia Fleming
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:48:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Origins of April Fool's Day

Today is a day to celebrate fools
A day to be silly and break the rules,
So what are the origins of this day?
Why do we celebrate in such a way?

Pope Gregory was the one to blame
He must have seen it as a game,
When he went and rearranged the year
Confusing people and creating fear,

New Year’s in winter? What a crazy thought!
The common folk were most distraught,
They kept New Year’s in April and broke the rules
All the educated folk called them April Fools.

And that is the origin, I swear it’s true
Aren’t you all glad I shared this with you?
Cathy Graham
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:49:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Ashes to Ashes – Dust to Dust

We live – we die
We laugh and cry
We love and hate
We kill - we mate

Pleasure – pain
Loss and shame

Blood and bones
Sticks and stones

Hell - Heaven
Six – Seven?

Life is short – a burning ember
Will we forget – will we remember

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:49:56 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
When They Ask You What Your Origin Is, Say

They asked,
"Can you feel your breathing?"
And I said no,
And then the room stood
Still, like a soldier in London
On a muggy day--
The little sweat beads
Picking up speed as they trickle
Down the backs of doctors
And nurses and shared-room patients.

They asked,
"You can't feel it at all?"
And I wanted to know what it meant--
Some secret etched on a chart
In the hands of a girl two years
My junior, in the eyes
Of a tired practitioner
Who just showed up
For the view.

And after the silence brought
Everything it could carry,
Like church mice, they huddled,
Whispered, said, "Surely, you can see
Some lines must always be drawn
In the sands--
That some breaths must be taken
With a grain of something more."
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:51:06 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins

after Jeffrey McDaniel

I’m from the subway’s roar-squeal through a sidewalk grate
I’m from ice striations and Saturday candy
I’m from sheets rustled and shoes shaken to wake snakes
I’m from Sassoon jeans and "you dance well for a white girl"
I’m from human cactii and emotional thermoclines
I’m from marginalia and "what language is she speaking?"
I’m from smoking in dunes and puking in taxis
I’m from hibiscus flowers and cricket-song
I’m from DNA’s loaded gun and a house in flames
I’m from wake up calls like a tire iron hitting concrete
I’m from turning "prey" into "praise"
I’m from buzzing intercoms and imaginary friends in fire hoses
I’m from hearts like bird feeders found by bears waking in spring
I’m from catcalls and hard-face
I’m from joy’s footsteps getting fainter down the stairs
I’m from seeking God like the tree’s last apple in November
I’m from love like a tourniquet on the arm of a ghost

Marie-Elizabeth Mali
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:52:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
How does one italicize here if HTML is not allowed? The places in my poem that I had to use quotes (and the dedication to Jeff) would have been italicized if I knew how to do that.

Thank you,
Marie-Elizabeth
Marie-Elizabeth Mali
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:56:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April Fool's J


a jest, a jape, a joke
a stuttering j at the lips
(j - a Mona Lisa letter
a snicker on its side
a profusion of confusion
designed to spring out from sound
in fact in jest
j - the only letter of the alphabet designed
by Leonardo da Vinci)

three score and more ago
our four fathers - Matthew, Muke, Yawn and what's his beard
assembled together to set aside
a date for discarded reasons, rights and wrongs
April 1st, they announced,
Will be the ashtray upon which humanity's
wit will be flicked
Whereupon that moment they all doffed their wigs
to discover doggerel verse
scrawled in black marker on the tops of their baldness

e.g. on Yawn's head:
roses are bled
violence is blue
sugar is a commodity
but you could never be bought or sold
because you smell

e.g. on John Wilmot second Earl of Rochester's head:
Samuel Peeps
sleeps
through the burning of London
which history shall miss
but you could put out in a piss
your five year's of drunken debauchery
put to honorable use
heroic stanzas once profuse
now, John Wilmot, you rake
leaves of grass into a J
- a fake Whitmanesque joint
in fact ingest
any drugs
and they will prove untrue
today

(this poem has been brought to you by the
Just Say No Foundation in conjunction with
the John Wilmot second Earl of Rochester Birthday
Reminder Fund)
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:57:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Xitomatl

My Aztec ancestors
could not foresee
their vast domain
ending in ruin
nor that their most long-lived
legacy might possibly be
that “plump thing with a navel”
the xitomatl growing at their feet.
Ah! The tomato, once wild
its strong acids balanced by the Aztecs
with hot peppers and a dash of salt:
the original salsa recipe.

Mary Margaret Carlisle
Mary Carlisle
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:58:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
This is my first attempt at writing. Just thought it would be fun to join in. Thanks for having me.


The Beginning of the End

It all started wrong I guess
Most people would feel bliss
Not enough medicine given
I was never forgiven.

I tried to be the best
I could not match the rest
In public adored
At home, ignored.

How important is a game
Will it bring you fame?
Everything you have is lost
You don’t even realize the cost.

A grandchild you do not share
Do you really even care?
She doesn’t even like you much
You are just so out of touch.

In the end it doesn’t matter
Yourself you only flatter
My love for you is about to die
Because you can’t even try.

Rachel I.

Rachel I
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:58:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Place an Accent at the Beginning

Louisiana: the one place when my family could be called happy -
the Red River spilling over with joy - brown cows in pastures
lots of knee-skinning and tree-climbing

followed by a long haul even further south/southeast

Texas is long-gone
except for the slur in my words,
the .38 in my closet,
the green of pine trees stuck in my craw

leaving a sour humidity I'm still tryin' to shake

off. Shake off. Shake it off. That's what happens
now that I'm in SoCal - lots of shakin' and rattlin'.
They call it earthquakes - I call it soulquakes:

the thunder of .50 caliber machine gun reverb
leftover in my chest - the rumble of humvee's
still knockin' my knees - side effects of how I got here

all of it, how I got here. here. now. Redondo Beach. 2009.
I am grateful for ocean and breeze and sand,
blue sky, churning water, sunny thoughts, sunny days,
a warm heart, clear mind, calm thoughts.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 2:58:49 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
For Jacob
No one can tell me how it happened -
this technical difficulty in your brain.
No one can point a finger or prove anything.
You are just one of those people that I didn’t know I needed in my life, but now I can’t
function without.
You are my computer kid with the brain glitch nicely tucked away inside your hard drive.
And here I am, so thankful that you are a MAC and not a PC because you are strong and
capable, and not easily broken.
I may not know what makes you tic, but I do know that whatever it is, it’s perfectly you
and I would have you no other way.

(a tribute to my 11 year old son who has Tourette Syndrome and inspires me everyday)
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:01:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
(origin poem)

***
the tour
***

it wasn’t until
we passed a bicycle
leaning
half tent
to a brick wall

that my unicycle
became depressed.

or was it
the clown
without make-up
whose shoe
we circled

whose son
was crying

whose son
was hopping
on one leg
towards

the also thrown
training wheel.

or was it
the whole
frozen pageant
that in our passage

we paved a prayer
that it end
that we knew

it began.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:01:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Georgics”

I like to play a game
Scrabble is the name
to best my opponent by any means
while sitting at my desk wearing blue jeans.
Then one day I found the word
one that I had never heard
it gave me a score
of the highest points galore!
The magical word
I had never heard
is also the title
and this is really vital,
of a poem by a man
named Vergil, who can
write about trees
as well as bees
truffle hogs
and logs.
It was written in 29 B.C.E.
in Latin of course as you will see.
Well as you can already guess
I was tickled pink and no less
to have found such a high scoring word
and to be a poem, oh I’m such a nerd
but really folks poetry is preferred
it quite made my day
that one eight letter word play.
Michelle H.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:01:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hi Robert,

Thanks so much for undertaking this again. What a great idea and opportunity.

I'd like to give a shout out for a piece by Beth K ("Reincarnation"). I really enjoyed reading it this morning.

Regards,
Freyda Tartak
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:02:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Plant Cycle

Seeds
Sere and brown
Soaked
Plump and reborn
Planted
Watered and watched
Sprouted
Tender and green
Grow
Sturdy and tall
Buds
Open and bloom
Pods
Succulent and full
Seeds
Alive and green
Wanda Gray
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:03:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Sacrifice

From day to day
It's easy to make
The same mistake
To be early or late

To choose life or death
Live by a moral code or none at all
Unforeseen occurrences will make us fall

To gain knowledge from above
Or look around and shrug
Make a living by hitting people over their mug
It's the truth but we should be peaceful like doves

Die for a cause to save yourself or many others
The sacrifices we make
We choose our fates
Othello Gooden Jr.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:03:59 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hobos


My daughter says a Maltese is a
combination of a wolf and a bunny
rabbit.

She named him Fluffy though I wanted
Falcon - my clever play on words.
Or Henry, the name I wanted for a
boy though I had two girls.

Or Boo-Boo, my nickname for my brother
whose passing made me stand there with Fluffy
in my arms that day.

One day he brought home Missy, a Cocker
Spaniel whom he laid at my feet while I washed
dishes with my Sony Walkman on. I
jumped to see a brown lump of fur who looked
like Lady in that Disney movie. A
pedigree, he said.

Before that it was Baron who hobbled
around on a broken leg. Before him, there was
Blackie who stood with paws on my brother's
shoulders as he waved his hand in front of
his face symbolizing some rank breath.

In our lives for just a few moments like
travelers hopping off trains, asking for food, then
on their way to the next destination.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:04:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The original prankster how did they start
and decide April 1st, Oh, what a lark.

I've searched the internet far & wide
for the oringal prankster but I'm not satisfied.

I decide to ponder o're a cup of tea
just who the orignal prankster could be.

as I glance out my window I'm reasonable sure
with 4" inches of new snow, It's Mother Nature.
Vicky Fonnesbeck
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:04:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April 1 "Origins"

Tomato seeds in a paper bag from the feed store,
guaranteed to grow large heirlooms of purple and mauve,
wait for Jimmy from down the street to till my garden.

My early spring dreams are always big and bright,
but thin – like the rice paper leaves of a pale daffodil-
And they will not stand through the heat, or the Bermuda grass of summer.

Those seeds must be independent, and willing to grow without
much love from me- an easily distracted mother who’s only
Redemption is good intentions.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:04:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Zombie Wardrobe

Inert as a suit, the spirit
slumps where it was tossed,
indifferent
to which body
lumbers into it. Any
bruise-fingered husk will do; any
dumb hull on an accidental lurch
towards soul's quicksilver sleeves.

The body's too dense anyway
for its best illumination, and soul,
that sluggard, marries
the very first flesh that comes.
So they settle; cope with their lot:

no sense in fighting once it's done.


--Kristen McHenry
http://thegoodtypist.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:06:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I KNOW IT’S TRUE

I FOUND MY LOVE WHO I KNOW IS TRUE
IT’S IN HIS EYE, I’LL SEE IT TOO
HIS TOUCH IS WARM, HIS LAUGH IS NEW
HE MAKES ME FEEL WONDERFUL, HE ALWAYS DO

HE SPEAKS THE TRUTH, THAT I MUST SAY
NEVER HURTING MY FEELINGS, NOT IN ANYWAY
HE HOLDS MY HAND, I FEEL HIS STRENGTH
MY HEART GREW FONDER, UNDER HIS WEIGHT

I LOVE THE WAY HE MAKES ME SMILE
I FEEL VERY OPEN, LIKE A BRAND NEW CHILD
AS I SIT HERE AND WONDER ABOUT OUR FAITH
I PRAY TO GOD, FOR HIM I WILL WAIT

IF WE SHOULD MARRY, WHO KNOWS SOMEDAY
I PROMISE MY HEART, UNTIL YOU I WILL STAY
I MAKE THIS VOW ON THIS SPEACIAL DAY
I GIVE YOU MY HEART, MY LOVE, IN ALL PASSIONATE WAYS.



Pamela G. Pegram
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:06:17 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Some Big Bang


Some big bang
started everything.
What a shame
the end result was me
and you and those others
who can’t get along either
the cursers fighters haters
ignorers and screamers.

But, look over there,
two walking hand in hand,
still lovers in their eighties.
Del Cain
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:06:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I haven't got anything
that didn't come from you
my cells, earthen knitting
minerals and sunlight
the spit on a thousand tissues
the voice in my head that wonders

you wanted me,
always,
and danced at the news of me
I don't have to stretch to find
the source of my joy
that I am in the world

I haven't got anything
that didn't come from you
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:08:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
If we have a prompt for the uselessness of making plans, I will be able to follow through fast. I promised Robert, and myself, that I would participate in this venture. I'm going to do my best to keep that promise, even though circumstances in my personal life have made this the worst possible time in my life to add a new responsibility.

Good luck to all. I have managed to come up with a post for today’s prompt--will do separately from this comment.

Shirley

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:08:33 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
This time around I'm going to do Batman poems to go with my Joker ones! (Excuse me if this posts again, it's not showing up for me)

Dark Knight Born

Chintz stools and poofs of dark velvet
spring up from the floor
like spores of mold to litter
his vision - half dazed and all confused
to the point of over-wrought exhaustion
fueling him to take refuge
in the comfort of the illustrious furniture.

Lightning flashes in the background,
accompanying the music in his head
that screams for him to get checked out -
The Ride of the Valkyrie wails
raucously between each wall made of skull
makes it impossible to pay attention
to anything but the echoes of violins
clashing with symbols.

The thunder claps in time
to the beat of his heart pounding
in his ears - hunching over in his seat
grabbing at his knees as the sounds
couple into a crescendo so vile
and violent that he doesn't quite believe
the shards of glass that burst
in across his lap are real,
nor does he think the startled noise
that pours from his lips at the sight
of that foul, pug-nosed creature
emanated from him.

His fear grows like a cancer
around his heart, but before
it can consume him he accepts its presence,
adopts the murky, tender feeling
to use to his advantage;
knows that he needs to rise above the filth
with leathery wings.

"Father, I will become a Bat"
Kateri Woody
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:10:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
94 comments already? Wow, Robert, you really have your work cut out for you! I'll probably be posting my poems late at night ... or even a few days late, but to steal Arnold's phrase, "I'll be back."
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:10:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Control


Number must be the first recorded mark;
drawn in dust, chiseled on stone.
Remember days, count moons, record time.

Place must be the second recorded mark;
measure path of journey.
Remember mountain, count trees, record river.

Name must be the third recorded mark;
animal shapes of man.
Remember face, count abilities, record failings.

How long before mark became language,
plan, deal, emotion, knowledge, status, man?
How long before we became marks?


Shirley Alexander
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:11:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
STAND UP AND BE COUNTED


For life to have meaning and worth,
do learn from the times you are hurt.
Refuse to be treated like dirt.
Time for rebirth. Time for rebirth.

When others make you feel quite small,
don’t let them make you take the fall.
Speak up and show them you walk tall.
Don’t ever crawl. Don’t ever crawl.

It’s sad that bullies play their game
on those who least deserve such pain.
Because they choose not to complain,
they live with shame. They live with shame.

It’s time to set the record straight.
Right now be master of your fate.
Learn from your hurts or you will break.
Time won’t wait. Time won’t wait.

#
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:13:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Faraway Place

I half caught the words from my parents
- Its origin -
Spoken like a question
Floating down to the ground
Where I cooled in my Arabian desert tent
Under the dining room table
As the summer breeze
Teased in through the open French windows
To tickle at the corners of my nomadic home.
So I thought about those words for a moment
And wondered
Where orange gin came from.
Carolyn Eddy
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:13:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Artist


Everything is gestation and then bringing forth. To let each impression and each germ of a feeling come to completion wholly in itself, in the dark, in the inexpressible, the unconscious, beyond the reach of one’s own intelligence, and await with deep humility and patience the birth-hour of a new clarity: that alone is living the artist’s life: in understanding as in creating.
Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet,
Letter 3, dated April 23, 1903, Viareggio (near Pisa), Italy.



The brindle lumbers the gutted path
Amidst the sprawling bindweed.
Her body sways, rocking its secret weight
Through goldenrod and cockscomb.

At the rusted tank, the heifer’s mouth
Embraces an emerald crust
To strain clear water
From beneath the algal foam.

If vision sinks beyond the scum
Of half-emptied dreams
And pierces the placid waters,
Then its pregnant issue bloats
The random phrase or image
And ekes life out of nothing.

The heifer’s labor lends itself to heaving
And soon the newborn will kick itself free,
Then bloodily and bodily emerge.
The heifer will lick the sack away.

Words or icons wrap themselves around effort
And commence their own labor.
Conceptions release themselves
Through time and blood.

Expressions left lingering in the womb still birth,
But those expelled through the dark canal
Surface like the arduous bloom of imagination,
Its fruit thick with cogent reckoning.


Like the brindle, their instrument, the artist
Seizes this revelation whose appearance
Amongst briars and cattle trails
Is a mystery.
Mary Marie Dixon
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:18:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The light.
Rips through the sky
a beam on a mission.

The sound.
Falling after the burn
of faded stars in the black.

The bang.
Worlds collide in the dark
formations uncharted.

The consequence.
A land of unknown,
the Earth, unveiled.
Cresta McGowan
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:20:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Genesis

white radio noise

word, phrase
pops

spins its tempo
mosquito buzz lyric

fingers tingle
for want of pen

writeitdownwriteitdown

write-it-down!

once writ:
deluge

wordsthoughtsemotionsideas
tumble headoverheelsoverwords

into phraseslinesverses
stanzascoupletstrioletsquatrains

on the way to becoming

POEM!

Carol A. Stephen





Carol A. Stephen
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:21:06 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Coming up the
stairwell
in the
Southwest
corner
of Lincoln
High School
You saw me
first
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:21:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
In Medias Res

What’s your hurry, Will?
Why jump right
into the middle of things,
telling not showing
Father dead, Hamlet sad,
Gertrude and Claudius wed?

Take us back, won’t you,
to the beginning, so we can see
those three, the royal we—
strolling through the garden,
sans serpent, Father shielding
Mother’s lovely face,
reveling in his return
unscathed from battle,
rendering moot her protests
she’d have no other.

Like Hamlet, we tire of casting our eyes
to the ground or gazing
into the vaporous air, wondering
how we missed the beginning
of the end.

Nancy Posey
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:22:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Conficktion

It started with a fear
that he would die alone
but more than that,
that he would die unknown.
Alone before his screen
he typed in solitude;
his antisocial tendencies
left his manners crude.
But still he yearned for more,
some credit, some attention,
and so he wrote an app,
an innovative invention.
But it wasn't quite enough
the popularity it did gain,
for he remained unknown
and that did cause him pain.
He sulked, until his thoughts
reached a dastardly thread:
instead of a popular app,
a virus he would spread.
And so began his life
as a computer hacker,
and night after night he coded
a veritable peace attacker.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:23:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Heart break to heart wake
From being dumped to bumped
Up to a more appropriate position,
Above it all.

Regrets and tears to rebirth
Both painful like a sloppy surgeon
But getting the job done,
A cry to begin breathing again.

The agony and the ecstasy
Badminton back and forth
A volley of pain and hope,
Striving to come alive.

Alone, broken and damaged
With smiles, dreams and friends
Love for me is nonsense,
Yet I know it does exist.

This is the origin of my species
Woman with a fortune cocktail
Twisted with tears and sorrow,
I pray to live again.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:24:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
origin

we are children of seeds, cast towards sun
gusted and carved by I am the only one
or are we borne from burls, pressing through soil
rising in rings, hardened from toil?

- Aimee Suzara
Aimee Suzara
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:25:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
January flatline.

Calendar pages as smooth and bleak
As the snow-covered horizon out the window.

Potential and possibility,
But loneliness, too.
A blank journal;
An empty calendar.
With no reflection of life lived.

Straight lines.
1-1
Absence of matter
01-01
Until the beginning is over.
Then, flatline feebly revived,
The middle begins:

2.
Juliann Wetz
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:27:59 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Fearless True Love


All I wanted in this world
Every day of my life
Was to be truly loved
Just for who I am
All I asked for
Was genuine acceptance
I wanted to fly
Knowing there would always
Be someone there
To catch me
To never let me fall
I just wanted to feel safe
Secure
Well-grounded
I wanted someone
To believe in me
To implicitly trust me
To have overwhelming faith
In me
To resepct me
I wanted Real Love
I wanted True Love
It didn't even have to be
Romantic
Here I am today
I have it
It blows me away
It terrifies me
I don't ever want to lose it
But
I don't trust me
What can I do
But have faith
In the one who has
Such faith in me
Believe in myself
Because he believed first
And then
Never let go

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:28:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Darkness and Light

Silence and darkness
Surround the nothing -
The void where life will be.

The elements are there
Waiting instruction -
Waiting to fulfill their dream.

A word is spoken
The night is broken -
And Light helps the world to see.

As night turns to day
The Creator creates -
A world unlike has been seen.

Mountains, valleys and oceans
Birds, spiders and giraffes -
Spoken to life in His name.

And then the crescendo
The heavens are still -
And from dust walks the man.

The Creator is smiling
His creation complete –
The world will be his to tame.

Love, passion and power
together in Him –
Tell the story over and over again.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:30:43 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Tuesday Morning Rumble in MY Tummy

Sounds of rumbles from my belly
I sense it's time to fix me something to eat
will it be my string beans coated with acorns?
sounds cruel to one who actually like string beans
the crunch adds a bite, and a Wow!

Will I prepare my famous chicken
salad from the grass out front?
sounds alittle too earthy I know,
even to one who is a vegetarian?
But see I am a perfectionist
this can be done and
today is the GREEN movement,
so fix a plate of green,
I swear I am a supporter!

Na, I know I will have my eggs and bacon
smothered in cheddar cheese
May even have a pancake or two,
alittle more lard on the side please
can't ya hear my blood thickening as I type,
southern food fixed the ole timey way,
I'm a favorite of soul food
prepared in run down diners with leaky faucets
but the apple pie is to die for!

Turning on the stove to high, bring on the lard!
next step, oh yeah, go grab the green grass
won't it bring my eggs and lard
to a healthy shade of green?
so I can wear my GO GREEN! button
to my Save the World meeting Thursday night.



Stephanie Ibbeken
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:31:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
No Idea

A sheet of paper.
She lays it on the table
in front of her.
It's crisp, yet she rubs her hand over it,
trying to make is smoother.

She turns it slightly,
turns her head slightly.

A pencil
hangs between her fingers.
She hovers over the paper,
pencil touching, then not.

She sharpens it to a point,
like a spear ready to draw blood.

A word
appears, followed by another.
Effortlessly the words flow from her pencil,
bleeding across the page.

She stops.
She reads.
She frowns, shoulders sag.

She grasps.
She crumples.
She squishes the idea into a tiny unreadable ball.

A sheet of paper.
She lays it on the table
in front of her.
It's crisp, yet she rubs her hand over it,
trying to make is smoother.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:32:06 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Beginning

It all starts today
this meeting of minds,
we’ll play with the words
that each of us finds.

The prompt is given –
peruse it a bit,
then play with the thing
until the words fit.

While some will write LOTS
and others say less,
wherever we go
is anyone’s guess!

Now silly or sad,
I’ll count on my muse
to help me decide
what form I should use.

Though sometimes he hides
he always comes back
to bring the right words
whenever I lack.

Well, it matters not
if ever I win.
It’s playing the game –
so let it begin!


Nita G Isenhour
April 1, 2009
PAD Challenge prompt # 1: origin poem
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:32:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Kitchen: Origin of Home

Grit top
Floury yeasty dusted floors
Bare feet wander from cupboard
To pantry
Dish towel grabbing
Mop up the spilling
Milk drip
Drop
Plop.
And the toddlers bang pots
Wine chatter
Hugs and tears
Laughing
Knives pointed
Chopping chop
Worn wood block
Oiled down
Coffee stained
Centerpiece
Timers buzz
Flames
Smoke
Another dinner ruined
Back to the pantry
Flustered
Sticky
Scrub up the crusty
Baked in oven grease
Hands age
Fold
Kneed
Spice up the mix
Taste lick savor
Swish
sweep wash
Tired cool tile top
Eternal
Familial entrée


Mrs. V
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:32:47 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I love God
except at 5 in the morning
when I wake up to the worst cramps
That showed up without warning

Once upon a time in a Garden known as Eden
God said to Adam and Eve "here you go, have your freedom"

Well kids don't ever listen
or follow directions, do they?
Something about a fruit and a tree
and serpent made things screway

And because it was Eve
who said "yeah I'd like to eat that"
all women from thenceforth
were punished for her shi-at.

God looked at Eve and said
"I will multiply thy sorrow
by making you bear children.
Oh, your period starts tomorrow."

So since my infinite Great Grandma
was tempted by a snake
I'm awake at 5am
paying for her mistake.

So maybe it isn't God that I
stopped loving early today
Maybe it is Eve at whom
I should shake my fist in rage

But I can't because she's dead
I never really met her
so now I turn to ibuprofen
to make myself feel better.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:33:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Pointless benediction

I found him on the Rue Marsack
a seedy corner cafe serving croque monsieurs
to those too laggardly to make
the early morning stumble to the boulangerie

he wiped the crumbs and ham and eggs
from his beard and laughed
found at last, yet no time this to explore
the depths of egg/chicken, chicken/egg scenarios

no, this was not the time to define the slope
and gradient, extrapolate futures and pasts
over indulged by philosophy, seen from a million
points of view, published by a zillion religions

no, this was the alpha and omega of mankind's
formulation, the mystery of X, the sanctity of why
and of course he knew too, the answer, the raison d'etre
my grail, our hope, cupped in hands that shook

to be free, liberated, the line of man had to let loose
from it's anchor, umbilically severed from its point
of origin, pass from mewling infant to soar untethered
and that point glinted in my hands, simple steel, honed

he nodded, sighed and watched
as I plunged the point to his heart
thanked God in all his many forms

and blessed himself

as Gods were wont to do

©DP March 09
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:33:06 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Mistrust"

From infant days
Seeds of love came planted
Rooted in reliance
Of tiny babe so small -
Helpless before parents, tall

A wayward road
Of tangled roots entwined
One child alone to un-comb
In a rest-stop pause
No maps given to help the cause

A gypsy’s life
Full boxes each move
Come less and less each time
No place for rest
Bare comforts soothe her best

As woman, fluctuates
Back and forth she climbs
From clutching to rebuff
Time and again packing her stuff
And at the end; she’s had enough
From constant clash her skin grows tough
There’s safety found inside mistrust
L. Vidal
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:34:19 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Waiting Game

She walks in the post office
clutching the brown envlope with dither.
Unwilling, hesitant to drop it in the slot.

For letting go is hard,
Yet, she knows she must,
Her dreams and hopes are packed inside.

She looks at it one last time,
As if saying good-bye,
And, pushes the envlope in.

And now.........She waits
And waits........
And waits some more.

She thinks about the envlope,
While cleaning house and playing with the kids,
And wonders whose hands it's been in.

She thinks about the envlope,
While hanging clothes on a rack,
At the department store.

She goes to the post office daily,
In hopes of discovering an answer,
To that burning question.

Waiting.........
Waiting.........
Waiting.........

She opens the box one day,
At last, the time has come,
Pulling the envlope out with dither, she smiles.
Brittany Crawford
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:37:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins

Beginnings,
now past
Flowing away
left behind
as we move to the middle,
and on
to the
end

Where we find
the beginning
again

No point of origin
nothing new,
everything cyclic
eternal

John Davies
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:37:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Growing a Baby"

A speck
Something that existed within
Made me question the porcelain gods
Each morning

A smudge
Something with a heartbeat
Made me cup my hands over the spot
Each night

A ball
Something with bones and limbs
Made me marvel at the mound beneath my hands
Each day

A baby
Something that kicks and moves
Made me a mother before long before
The birth day

Brandi Guthrie
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:37:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Rebirth

She was an ordinary girl
like most of her friends.
What she didn’t want to be
was ordinary.

She longed for something
different
though she was not sure
how that would feel.

Engaged to a man
her parents liked
she realized, life with
him would be ordinary.

She would instead marry
a man as unlike herself
as could be imagined.
Not an ordinary man.

The bruises were never
ordinary, the ones
that showed, nor those
hidden inside.

She felt different
and she was shamed,
would not tell,
suffered for years.

One day she realized
she had had enough
and so she left
that extraordinary man.

The bruises healed
and made her strong.
She would never
be ordinary again


©Priscilla Anne Tennant Herrington
4-1-2009




Priscilla Anne Tennant Herringto
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:38:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Rebirth

Misty . . . Dim . . . Unfocused.
I look. I lean forward. I listen.
The terrain is uneven — crunchy, like locust.
Glistened dew, christened earth, arisen.

I forge forward, one step at a time —
tentative, inquisitive, illusive.
Birds chime amidst the grime and slime.
Man’s gems smooched through the divine sieve.

Nature’s storms bring havoc and ruin.
Worldly worth wrung til dearth
Dust to dust — bruin abrewin’
Destruction brings rebirth.
Wayne Mizerak
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:42:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hope

I wish, expect, and look forward to…
Word of unknown origin,
Thought to be of general Low Germanic origin
hopia
hopen
hoffen
Suggestions abound
A connection with hop –
To offer leaps of expectation.
I shout:
Let it not be grounded and be transformed in
Despair!
From Latin
De – without
And
Sperare – to hope
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:42:33 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My Love of Writing – 8th Grade

Too many students for the large brick schoolhouse
Creaky wooden floors worn down through the years
Winter drafts that give way to late spring heat
Permanent layer of chalk dust on desks and chairs

Mr. Baddour standing in front of the room
Brown cords, flannel shirt and hush puppies
Holding my writing assignment in his hand
His clear voice reading my words to the class

My face red with embarrassment and pride
A life long love is born
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:42:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Caves of Lascaux

Clouds formed the shape of
a mammoth and the man, who
had no language to describe it,
scrawled a crude picture in
the dirt and pointed at the sky.

The dust erased his marks
as eager feet approached,
the dark-eyed girl he wanted
so to please arriving to see
only a mess of swirled earth.

That night around the fire, his
fingers stained with the refuse
of berries, he leapt to his feet
and made his first marks on
the eager, waiting stone.
DJ Vorreyer
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:43:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My Arrival

I live in a box
all of my young life. It's dark,
but I'm not alone. In fact,
it's crowded, wall-to-wall with others—
brothers and sisters, maybe.
We certainly look alike, but if you
got to know each one of us personally you'd know
how different we really are.

Sometimes I feel smothered and need to get out,
but can't. I have no control. I wait
patiently for the tear. OH THE TEAR!
It's my one chance to escape,
to prove useful,
to go out on my own. I'm first in line. My
siblings will just have to wait. I don't know
what's out there waiting for me, but I
want to find out. When my time comes,
I'll be ready.
Ready to shine.
Ready for the chance to make a difference.

I hear a loud explosion.
We're moving. WE'RE MOVING!
There are voices that are faint but
gaining strength. Another loud explosion
erupts. Now, I can hear the voice clearly. "Gesundheit.
Don't use your sleeve. Let me open this box."
My time has arrived.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:44:23 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Kittens

There are three kittens under the washing machine.
Today they came round to the porch to eat.
They will not have names, these kittens,
They will live on the street.

And I will see them from time to time
When they come to my garden to eat
And I will not feel guilty for not taking them in
But only grateful they come round to my place.

And then, when they do not come again,
I will forget there were kittens under the washing machine
That once came round to eat.

I will grow old.
I will pet new kittens.
And then I won’t.
Randall Jones
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:44:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Understanding

We talk in guilty whispers
sharing childhood moments
that somehow neither of us knew before.
Friends since birth
still learning secrets from our yesteryears.
Our parents' lives forever intertwined
with our own.
Their mistakes ours to hold up and
turn in our hands for us to decipher.
Our dreams, our lives, our past,
present and future all hinged on yesterday.
We try to find the meaning in all of this
some kind of understanding.
Kim Jakway
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:45:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Death of a Housewife


Mine is the soul of a Wanderer,
Restless for the cobblestones of Greece,
rough warmth on the soles of my feet.
I long to feel the paper scratchings,
Beloved graphite,
just a sketch or two.
Elusive Venus, come to me
Aphrodite flee

This tourniquet
Strangles my world
The rancid lure of ashes,
The crumbling stones
Of houses gone
Where Jews were once un-Jew’d

Urine stains the streets
Of cheeses and pastries
Louvre, Versailles
And loose pouty women,
But all two million inhabitants
Seduce me with intrigue.

Screaming subways rattle on,
Gatherings on the stoop,
Graffiti is art.
Shoulder to shoulder sidewalks,
Cross-sections of America,
Cross-sections of the World.

To walk amid the tumbleweed,
It casts the longest shadows,
Perhaps I’ll find a sweet Saguaro
And snack upon its pulp.
I’ll sit and wait until it blooms,
God hides himself out there.




I gave birth in captivity,
Another writer born.
This cursed blessed ink of mine,
She soothes my wandering soul
Her scribblings take me to the corners,
I breathe in that I write.
And through this mask that is my life
I give her wings to go.
In hopes that someday
She’ll break free
And give these pages breath.
Nikki Niswonger
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:45:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Eulogy for a Gardenia

I don’t know how
you were born—you came in the mail,
good intentions in your foliage. Origin
unknown as the kindling of wind,
the first blow of stone age fire.

A beautiful squat plant
in a terracotta planter—-were
you once a seedling? I could never
imagine my mother
as a girl
with popsicle juice dripping down her arm.

I stroked waxy leaves, noticed
petal-less buds straining for spring.
Saw myself in you.

What you need is water. What I need
is release from this dark corner. Both of us
in the sun—-majestic weekend. I dallied
beneath dappled light of new trees. Popsicle
stick between my teeth.

Come Monday—crispy skin, crispy leaves.
The flip end of a saturated weekend. Desiccated,
browned, irreversible.
Alli Shaloum
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:47:30 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
the fool

that morning there was salt in the sugar bowl,
plastic wrap across the toilet bowl,
vasaline upon the door knobs,
plastic bugs in the cereal box
and a "dear jane" note pinned to the pillowcase

his wife was used to this
from years of April Fools trickeries

emails he sent to friends were ignored
no one figured he was serious
his boss even smiled when he again got the
"i quit for good" note upon his desk

dinner time came and went
the hands of April Fools clocks ticked away
his wife shook her head in bewiderment
would he ever grow up?

the stars began to twinkle
as unblinking eyes stared skyward
beside him, an apology-
he had lost it all,
their savings, their retirement money,
their home
all on a "sure shot" at the racetrack

the empty bottles-
liquor and sleeping pills
had done their duty
the fool had accomplished his final prank
Andi KJ Puntoriero
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:47:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

Neofelis Nebulosa

"The conditions of a solitary bird are five: First that it flies to the highest point. Second that it does not seek after company not even its own kind. Third, that it aims its beak to the wind. Fourth, that it has no definite color. Fifth, that it sings very sweetly."
(John of the Cross: Sayings of Light and Love)



To begin it was thought she was
bird: raven or solitary spotted owl.

Next, her tree dwelling ways:
How she slunk under branches or
lunged headlong down tree trunks.
Of this it was said simply: squirrel.

Perhaps not fauna at all, theories grew.
This coat of gray elliptic shadows
and the sorrow she provokes.
The way she’s poised against
the bluest afternoon sky…
Cloud species: altocumulus

Yet hearing of her saber-ic canines
Her gift for balance, her long tail
& that she’d gone mad in captivity:
at times killing her young. We believe
to spare them a similar fate.

Her prowling the corners of her keep;
disappearing entirely and for days
after refusing a mousey snack &
how her mate became aggressive
even deadly, after sexual encounters.

I recognize, but do not declare,
this cousin of mine.



Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:49:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Original

First born:
Three hours before dawn, nine months of wondering
reduced to minutes of effort
minutes until breath,
minutes to breathe between effort
and more effort.
“Breathe the baby out,” they told me, but you were first born
and I was fresh with this ancient thing made new
and I pushed hard.
It was spring. The window was open.
You tore yourself a window into April.
Hardheaded little aires child.

If labor were a poem, it would be a sestina:
The again and again of it, the same pain in a different way.
If birth were a song, it would be a madrigal.
I sang, I chanted the prayers of birth, I spoke in tongues
Until you could breathe for yourself
Until you took over the rhythm and made the stanzas beautiful and clear.

First born, baby girl:
The moment after your birth
was a pure haiku.

Elise Huneke Stone
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:51:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Life

Life comes
Life is dark
Life is light
Life twists
and turns
First left
then right
Always forward,
Then out of sight
But...
Never Gone
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:53:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April Fool

It's April Fool's
My adopted friend
has done
some simple
arithmetic
and now
believes he was
conceived
April 1st
What a joke
that turned
out to be,
he said
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:56:01 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Lucifer

“I will not bow to sons of dirt,”
said Lucifer, angelic wings
held high and wide, his feelings hurt
by such requests. “My father sings
their praises yet was I not made
a son of fire and fairer still
than all the creatures in the glade
of Eden? Yet for good or ill
my Father urges angels all
to bow before this creature, Man,
but still expects us not to fall?
Let Adam bear it if he can.”
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:56:37 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

It started with champagne and juice
Too early for a non-seasoned drinker

The bridal party left the salon
All primped and primed and curled

The limousine served chilled champagne
By now too easy to devour

By the time we arrived at the Reception
I'd finally got the hang of my high heeled shoes

After a night of speeches and dancing
My boyfriend and I headed home in the storm

How we both loved the rain
And each other............

...And thats the night our first child
was conceived..................

A "gift from God" we all said
Which actually means...
..."SURPRISE - YOU'RE PREGNANT"

Turning my world upside down,
Marrying in haste to make things right?

Trying to make good from the heat of the night
Sentenced to 10 long years of fight after fight

Not knowing where to run to?
Do I flee or stay put

Its so much harder when you've got kids.

Sweet little children in the middle of the fire.
It's so unfair on them

To be caught amongst the arguments.
To witness harsh words screamed.

But its so damn hard not to react.

Its a knee jerk reaction.
I'm an emotional bomb - passively biding my time on housework.

Until "BAMB!" - HE WALKS IN THE DOOR AND STARTS....
"BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH!"

You know I just can't listen anymore.
Get out of this house and leave me in peace.




Poppy
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:56:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Planting a Writer

The crust of the earth is split by a tiller;
prepared for the sewer to scatter the seed...
In much the same way my life was turned over,
broken one month when my sleep was denied.
Night after night in succession unending
I woke to a purpose the dark thus obscured.
I knew more than fact, some deed needed doing
yet slipped from my grasp the second I pursued it.
After a time of feted frustration
my ego surrendered to doubt flowing over
until a dry evening I spied from my window
a crown in the sky above the horizon.
Awed by the vision of sunlight refracting
colors above a cloud of white ermin...
I stood unaware of a stealthy incursion
until the epiphany splashed on my mind,
"Seek the Lord's kingdom and all else will follow."
I turned back around to see who had spoken
but no one was standing behind me to see.
A peace overcame me and calmed my confusion -
that night I slept soundly so wrapped in assurance
that God had embraced me to show the way forward.
That day was the start of my spirit's adventure
seeking a treasure thus burried within,
selling all else to purchase this field
I've culled from the soil what's not inspiration.
Now I am left with words to sew surely
seeded within the plowed fertile gound.
Brian Hager
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:56:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
DEATH

Did it start with the Grim Reaper?
Was it planted in your mind when you got the wrong
tarrot card?
Might it end in a living Hell?
Was it the death of the world as the cavemen knew it
when the dinosaurs died?
Where did it start?
But of course, it starts at birth.

Laura Ciorlieri
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:57:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Yesterday-Today-Tomorrow

Today my grown daughter wrote a poem about her Dad
Today she wrote about his life and his death.

Yeaterday was years ago, I wonder if I was there for her.
Yesterday the pain was so real my heart stopped so it could heal.

Today I feel her loss and it makes my soul hurt
Today I cried and time reverses.

Yesterday the loss was new and mumbing
Yesterday is real for a time once more.

Today I cry for her loss and mine, again the loss seems new.
Today he is as alive in my heart as he was all those years ago.

Yesterday, today they run together like the tears that now run down my face,
I want it to be tomorrow.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:58:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My goodness. What an incredible variety of wonderful poems! I'm totally inspired by all the creativity and I feel sorry for those who have to figure out which ones are the best. It won't be an easy job for sure.
Cathy Graham
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:59:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Remember the time
Don't be late, and please don't rhyme
I wanted to begin my life that day
I never really thought I'd go that way
I thought it would be a life of adventure and excess
I would be the star, I do digress
My childhood dreams of recognition and riches
I would just show all those...people
But his glance at the movies, my heart started racing
Then four months later he would propose
and I said yes I will, I suppose

And ON that fateful day I said I do
I knew
That this was the start of something wonderful
and I never regretted it - well maybe after the three kids drove me insane and the dog would not be house trained
there might have been a day or two i wanted to scream
But I just have to tell you people
I've really lived a dream
Diane Rowland
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 3:59:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Altar for the Ancestors

Last year, this was the day before
you shot yourself on your birthday.

Two days from now, you’ll be
on a makeshift altar for my ancestors

near the door of this new apartment
my husband and I bought.

Next to Legba’s altar
which includes three of my puppy’s baby teeth.

Will you recognize me when I join you
eventually? I am no longer

a girl on the outside. I am
still carrying that dark we used to

ponder, dropping out of our mouths in smoke
rings. Before we broke up, grew up, grew

apart. Before you married the horizon.
I can’t decide whether you can abide

with Aunt Clara and Grandma
ladies who helped make me, surely

as you did, first love
gothfather. a shard of my soul, always

a blade of mirror that shows your face.

Magdalena Alagna
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:00:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin: Narcissus Pseudonarcissus
Daffodils

Cool, darkness
Oblivion—only damp crawlings
Reaching
Pushing ever higher
Yearning to break through
Liquid coursing through
Urging maturation through
Strengthening
Straightening
Stretching
Exploding toward the brightness
Bursting in the warmth
Gushing brilliant color
Golden petals of life
mamayut
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:00:19 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
When Life Began

The phone rang, shrill,
loudly piercing the silent summer yard,
I walked to the doorway,
leaning against the jamb,
feeling my head spin,
as I heard you say hello,
in your sweet syrup honey over gravel voice.
Suddenly, a spark ignited,
an ember had been placed
in my vacant cranium
and heart.
Was that an awakening of hope
I felt spreading down my flesh
all the way to inbetween my thighs
which I kept pressed tightly together
because I didn't want you to know me
so well right away.
It felt like dawn after a night filled with
riotous thunderstorms
when the clouds part and allow
everything to become drenched in fullness
lighting even the dark corners of
the field out back.
The cardinals visited today,
draping their red flash into the
still empty hydrangea branches,
where we will sit next summer
drinking ice tea
holding hands
starting over
again.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:00:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Begin.
And begin again
Fail,
and try
one more time.
Again begin and
begin.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:01:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

The hand that held the match

The match that sparked the bonfire

The bonfire that fed the conflagration

The conflagration that led the revolution

The revolution that changed the country

The country that bred the new generation

The new generation that birthed the hand

The hand that held the match

The match which did not strike--

this time.
Beatriz Fernandez
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:02:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
prophesizing over dollar and tacos
our flame filled bellies
the begining
Starr Porter
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:06:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Birthday

I had no first birthday.
Well, it wasn’t noted, anyway.
Not in the traditional sense.
You’ll find no photographs
of a baby with cake all over her fingers
and icing in her hair,
no colorful balloons or people making
goofy faces at a wide-eyed infant.

I am not sure what happened
the day I turned one.
The details are sketchy,
a filmstrip erased except
for the knowledge that I
was in the orphanage,
another crying face that needed feeding,
but with a body quickly fading.

Lungs struggled to breathe,
crushed by tuberculosis,
small eyes foggy from medication.
A picture was taken,
shown to a foreign couple,
who took me home,
celebrated my birth,
dared to love what was broken.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:06:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Scarecrow’s Sermon in the Cornfield"

I am of the first house that fell.
I am farmer’s stale flannel and faded over-,
Alls, crow-fiend, my stitched grin vigilant,
Button eyes unblinking. I am nailed holily
Over these fields of ears, dancer on a
Lynched wind, arms wide to embrace
Every rotting dusk. Call me No Knee,
I will not fall. Call me Broom Spine,
I will not bow. Empty my burlap cheeks
Of every hay-sweet thought, I still know
The end will come on a wolf’s breath,
Blow-hammer, relentless gusts pressing,
Bending every barn door. Listen
For the woman’s voice riding that gale.
I am of the first house that fell.
Todd Dillard
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:08:19 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hm. Typo, no comma after "over". This is what I get for covertly writing at work!
Todd Dillard
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:10:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Onomatopoeia

Such a lovely sounding word
It comes from the Greek you know
Onama to name and poiea: I create
Onomatopoeia: Names I create
But the dictionary definition isn’t half the fun
Oh no! The play begins (enter stage left)
With animal sounds
That abound in everyday use
Like the honk of a goose and moo of a cow
We demonstrate how the sound we hear can
Be vocalized like the meow of the puss and the bark
Of the dog the ribbert of the frog
Batman’s Wham, thunk, crash bang wallop
Twang splat blatt thwack
Oink neigh, quack (like the duck not the doc!)
Tick tock goes the clock and the mouse
Running down it go eek eek eek
(Its mouse speak)
Splish splash when you’re in the bath
Or dancing in puddles
Cuckoo and pee-wit
Chirrup and squawk all sounds you’ll
Hear on a country walk
From birds that have their own way to talk
But driving along the car sings a song brrm brrmm
And buckle up safe clunk-click every trip
The breakfast table is full of sound
Snap crackle and pop and the milk goes slosh
And everybody everywhere
Uses these word but don’t have a care where they come from
Or what they’re called
So just to put the record straight
It’s called
Onomatopoeia
And it comes from the Greek



Iain
Iain D. Kemp
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:10:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
First Impression

Last night
With the black puppy
I said was too small to care for
“Bring him back when he’s bigger,”
I said.
She was worried my dog would hurt him.
“You don’t know my dog,” I said.
We stood in the gloaming
And talked about dogs
And the non profit we serve
And all the people we know
Who are not as brilliant as we.
While the two dogs at our feet
Sniffed and made playful attempts at deep knowing,
But were prevented from meaningful exchange
By the presence of leashes
And our attempts to keep things civil
Peyton Ellas
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:11:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Isaac’s first rule: We stay in place
Having to struggle for traction.
While undoubtedly the case
I’ll hurl myself into action.

April implores lilacs and poems
To spring forth for her pleasure.
So dust off those iambic tomes
Or scrawl out an original treasure.

Take up the gauntlet thrown down
Rise brightly to the challenge prolix!
By typewriter, pen, or any means sound
A poem a day is how we get our kicks.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:11:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

NO STRANGER TO THE RAIN

Sure, a little rain
won't hurt anyone
it is said
by those who
don't know the rain
who haven't lived
a life of pain.

The days continue
an occasional sun
breaks through
and i'm supposed to
appreciate the sun
it is said
by those who
don't know the rain.

It's only a precursor
an omen to what
has always been
and what really
lies ahead.
Carolyn
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:19:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Called Out

She greets the dawn
of each new day
clothed in neutrals
blacks and grays.
In self imposed
obscurity
praying
never to be seen.
Attired as neither
woman or man.
Protecting
as only the wounded can
the bleeding heart
buried in shame
swearing
never to be hurt again.
But hope and love do not give up
their passionate pursuit
unwillingly she heeds their call
while wishing she were mute.
Slowly, somewhere deep within
unseen by casual eyes
the fear begins to melt away
And give place, again, to life.
Today, she rose to wake the dawn
with radiating face
Daring, vibrant, confident
embracing this new day.
Brilliant colors clothe her
a beacon for all to see
a woman, born again to love,
unafraid and finally free.
Anysia Derora
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:20:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Fruit

A thud –
and, in the long grass,
all that I could not hold
or guess at, heavier

than thought or hands
or the sun,
in one bite
knowing itself.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:20:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Meal for mom, skeptical sniff

Poking the lasagna with tongue of spoon she asks
What's that? Green pepper. No, beside that.
Eggplant? What's that? Eggplant is eggplant.
How do you define it? It's like defining blue.
It's eggplant. It's good for you. It's nutritious.
You eat it. Doctor says I can't eat cholesterol.
It's not egg. It's plant. It's just shaped like an egg.
It's square. It's cut. Where's it from?
Here. I grew it. I never grew it. I never saw
such a thing. (Nibble) No taste. (She picks at the
mashed potatoes, looks askance at the casserole.)

There's no corn in this, is there? With
diverticulosis, I can't eat seeds or nuts.

When it's ground to polenta, it's not going
to bother your intestines. It's when its small
that's the problem. What's that red thing?
Pepper. Hot pepper? I can't have spice.
It bothers my gall bladder. It gives me reflux.

You don't have a gall bladder. It's not chile pepper,
it's bell pepper. Hm, what're these green things?
Asparagus. Never had the like of that in my life.
I saw them in the stores but I didn't know
you could eat them. You saw them in the
grocery store? My whole life I never
ate this thing. Don't you eat anything normal?
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:21:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Genesis, Too

In the Beginning, you called us
your children, offered land,
life, beliefs, a son. Now
you don't communicate
much at all. You used to dial
direct –
Moses,
Abraham,
Job.
And it was good.
Angel, prophet, or saint,
we were all related, one happy,
life-sized family.

Suddenly, everything changed.

Conversation was a dying art.
Layers of bureaucracy grew
between us. Your people
would contact my people—
bishops,
pastors,
priests.
It wasn't good.
No offense, but I miss
the personal connection.
Intermediaries don't sprawl
on their backs in the grass, search
for redemption in the clouds. Look,
I don't want to be a burden
or complain without cause,
and the state of telecommunications
being what it is today, I have to say it.

Talk to me.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:21:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Education

It began with darkness
Words brought the light
The light brought awareness
Awareness brought knowledge
With this knowledge
Came a desire to for more
A search for information
Information to grow and develop
Develop into a being
Someone to share the information
Share the knowledge with others
Those who would then gather together
Learn from each other
Spread the knowledge to all
And create a utopia
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:26:30 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Naming Baby

“Alice”, said my mother.
“Alles sal regkom,” said my father.

“Mary”, said my mother
“Too Catholic” said my grandmother.

“Eileen”, said my mother
“Lower-class English,” said my ouma.

“Sister,” said my sister
“That’s not a name, you fool” said my brother.

“Elaine” said my mother
“The lily maid of Astolat”.

She did not add the other lines
“Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable”.
Brother and sister would certainly
Have objected.

As for Dad, all his life,
He just called me
“Baby.”



Elaine Edwards

elaine
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:28:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Petymology
She has a lot of nerve, being so small and all.
Challenging the coyotes that are walking behind our stream,
They glance at her and wonder, I’m sure, who the hell she thinks she is.
Oh, I know…just a few genetic hops, skips and jumps away.
Still I can’t quite reconcile the distance and the nearness.

She turns and runs back to the house and I let her in.
Job’s done, she says. They’re moving on.
And I look at her and wonder just what happened.
What is that wilder soul that leaps out at moments like this?
Still I can’t decide between the open smile and opaque eyes.

Later she lies curled up next to me on the couch.
Tired from defending the fences, sated from the evening meal,
She sleeps but twitches, sniffs and runs in place on her side.
I think of the pack, of the howl, of the hunt.
I decide to forget the how and from where. Happy she’s here.
John Mucha
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:30:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Beginning is Nigh

Broken glass on City pavements.
Charges written on the wall.
Voodoo executioners parade
the hanging effigies.

The Devil wears a pinstripe suit
and flashes you a peace sign.

By London Stone, the visored faces push.
The crowd, multicoloured, pushes back.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:34:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Fear, Patterned


Fear may be instinctive,
may rise from depths
only the most intuitive have touched,
but fear grows much as strength...

by repetition.

And in my world
the pattern of fear that started one childhood night
when an unknown peered in windows not his

continued as innocence began its fade
when an unknown jerked at both sets of glass doors
in an attempt to breach my safe haven.

And in my extended world
the pattern of fear that started one childhood night
when an unknown peered in windows not his

dissolved any pretense of innocence
when one entrusted with keys of many stabbed a tenant
behind once locked doors

And in my extended world
the pattern of fear that started one childhood night
when an unknown peered in windows not his

tore innocence from even unconscious thought
when one known by another crept into a bedroom closet
to fondle cloth meant never to be touched.

Born of evil's repetitive nature

these patterns ensure:
this instinct of fear shall,
forever, rise from depths
only the most intuitive have touched.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:34:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
tiny particles from many parents
shredded in to fibers and stuck together
did it make you sad Mr. Toilet paper
that so many had to die for you to arrive
or were you just afraid of the future
getting rubbed on a but and covered in crap
then flushed away and that's that
but is it...
you didn't want to go to your watery grave
full of vengeance you grabbed to the walls and stayed
backing up watter until it flows over the seat
and comes rushing down to my bear feet
now i have to plunge you and clean up this mess you created
i hate you back as much as you hated
bryant dougharty
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:35:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Slide the shuttle under the thread.
Pick up the lump of sticky clay.
Drop the seed in the loamy bed.
Swing the axe, the tree to slay.
Push the threaded needle through.
Twist the wires through the beads.
Mix the barley to make a brew.
Pound the pulp inside the reeds.
Knock the first chip from the stone.
Twist the wool cut from the sheep.
Make a handle from a bone.
Stack the stones to build a keep.
Ten thousand years, stacking, carving, building, baking,
Pesky humans, always making!
Don Swearingen
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:37:52 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

America is the asphalt parking lot at Duxbury Beach you attempt to cross with bare feet: July17th, 1988. Sure, Powder Point pretends to be the peninsula’s pen and ink, but what palimpsested, prehistoric vacationers are just beneath? Huh?
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:38:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Winter 1976"

In February
when I bit into the egg and began
pulling myself apart
thousands of dead seabirds washed up
along the Washington and Oregon coast.

Dead fullmars and murres.
Dead black-legged kittiwakes.
Only the seagulls survived.
They circled
above the rain-dark sand,
where crows once pried for clams
then came to rest
on the broken breakwater
and cried
"hark hark"
as the bodies washed onto the beaches.

All winter long,
the tide lifted and carried them.
Thousands and thousands.
It took them
from the cold hand of the ocean,
carried them
into Westport,
North Cove, Sunrise Beach,
Grenville Bay
Grays Harbor.
It lifted
and carried
and left their bodies
on the hard February sand
the way my father,
nine months later,
would lift and carry
and leave me
on the wet breast of my mother.
Ryan Adams
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:39:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
He Knows

It begins, as do so many things, with a thought.
A nagging doubt; a question.
Some will call it paranoia,
but She knows better.
It grows.

A seed, planted
in the fertile soil of imagination,
watered by fear and distrust.
She tells herself she can feel it working -
spreading through her veins
to the tips of her fingers.
He brushes it off…
and she KNOWS.

She mentions it, casually, as a joke,
testing the waters around her.
She feels it rising in her chest, reaching for her lungs,
but they laugh with her.
It is an uneasy laugh,
filled with uncertainty and covert glances.
They know, too.

She rocks back and forth in her little room
Waiting, just waiting.
The thing has blossomed into something ugly,
and this is it; she’s certain.
He approaches slowly, cautiously, and she thinks
that he must know she knows.
He hands her a glass, and she tastes it there.
She wonders what it is,
this thing that will kill her
She is thankful he is a doctor; at least
there is no pain.

He kisses her cheek and she sighs,
wondering at his tears.
Does he regret it?
She pictures the blond - the one that
torments her waking dreams.
She sees them walking together from the grave, laughing.
The check in his hand from the insurance company,
His freedom ahead
and she forgives him.
No one will know.

A week passes.
The service is small,
family only; she drove the others away.
When it is over, he stays behind,
staring at the cruel brevity of the epitaph.
He wants to add to it. To describe her.
To remember how things used to be
before IT began.

They question his sanity;
why didn’t he put her away?
When it stole into her eyes,
the madness that made them uncomfortable.
Why couldn’t he lock her up,
so that they could forget?
He does not answer them, and so they leave
The guilt too much for them to bear.
But he stays.

The blond at his side, her hospice nurse.
No insurance check.
He stays, because he remembers the before
and he knows.
He knows.





Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:39:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Daughter"

Two incomes.
My mother’s paid for the house.
Father laid down linoleum floors
Built cupboards and a fruit cellar.

Crumbling concrete where the wall and floor meet
National Geographics, neatly stacked by year
Bait bucket and lures
A reel to reel tape recorder
Dad died at the dawn of cassettes

Homemade clown costume from Halloween 1964
Girl Scout leader uniform
Patchwork quilt claimed by mildew
Old jars of canned peaches dated 1993
Small spiral notebooks that Mom kept
Long before her memory began to fail

I go through the basement:
Trash, Goodwill, Keep
Kata Kollath
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:41:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of 30 Years of Heartache

It was so long ago
But I remember it quite clearly
Her long brown hair
Her dazzling green eyes
Short, curvy, sweet
And oh! My word that smile!

And it didn’t take her long to have me
At her beck and call
Her every command
I was enslaved
And I never knew…not then
Not for a long time…
That it was a game to her

Even after the heartbreak I was
Forgiving and didn’t know that
I was genetically programmed to make
The same mistake over and over

I’d see “her” on a bus, walking down the street
Sitting at a café table
And over-coming shyness
I would lurch, stumble, mumble
Something inane
Slightly insane
And she would say Ok and so
The play would begin again
She would capture me
Enrapture me
And throw me away broken when done
When her fun was over
Another short cute cloned brunette
Breaking my heart
Again.

Time after time I’d ignore
Overtures from blondes
Find myself bored by raven-haired
Beauties and fall head-over-heels
For the same girl
The same smile
And I’d let her rule my every waking
Dreaming thought
Until the time would come
And I’d see her with another
And it was all over again…
…again…

And so I took an oath
I swore to myself that never again
Would she catch me. I’d be better
Off free, alone and safe than with
Her and her cloned cruelty
But still I am caught by temptation and that
Magical smile
I saw her last week working in the supermarket
I was whirling swirling out of control
Until some kind and caring soul
Told me she was married
Thank the Lord! I thought I was going
To have to start shopping elsewhere…
…again…



Iain
Iain D. Kemp
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:41:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
An outstretched hand,
raised gargantuan in anger, just
the once, how it threatened, even
though it never fell, blocked
the lamplight, went from pink
to dark dark gray-blue gray, how it
transformed her, as it
transformed her mother
from the main source of comfort
to the main source of fear,
into something reviled
and done to, surviving,

goes some way to explain,
it occurs to her now,
caped in his arms, caressed by the rhythm
of his sleep-deepened breathing,

the strand of dread in so many—all
her pleasures? And the peculiar
keen relief from terror she had not
felt mounting, relief become apparent,
like a kitten's paw prints after a blizzard,
only in the wake of sexual bliss.

Peter Danbury
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:43:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
His Origins Were Questionable

His origins were questionable
He knew of a black grandfather
Whom he never knew
Or cared about until now.
His grimy sweatpants
Had once been emerald green
The color of his mother’s eyes
Crouching in the tiny cell
Scratching noises of small animals
At least gave some noise.
The origins of his tears
Dated back to childhood
They streaked down now
Through the dirt of two decades
Decades of decadence.
Decades of highs and very lows
His dreads were once
Proud flags of his manhood
Now they hung in fear ~
Fear of what he had become.
Mumbling an old Jamaican lullaby
He slept as his youth drained
Out onto the cement floor.
And somewhere,
His grandfather cried for him.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:44:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Foundations
Don’t even ask me to describe the garments
I’m wearing underneath my conservative suit
the secret soul that buoys my confidence
once just meant for support and coverage
and enhancing the façade
Delicates for my eyes only
one purchase meant just to please me
my satisfaction, my naughty fantasies
purest defender of my aspirations
hidden armor not needing to pace fashion trends
In a place where I need answer to no one
hidden from the eyes of gossips
allows me to defy both gravity and social stricture
my wardrobe conscience
Sometimes I choose the sultry just because
I intend for someone else to see
for someone special with whom I'm willing to expose my soul
I’m not afraid of violation by prying snoops
any judgment is not on me, shame on them
My indulgences nourish my sense of worth
Lyn Michaud
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:45:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

In the beginning
Memory doesn’t exist
We can only hypothesize
As time progresses
Mystics have their guesses
Based upon pretty prose
From the past

Buddha is said to have remembered
But he must have put it in context
Interpreted it symbolically
To share with the culture he inhabited
We all do who pass through time
And leave a written record

Today is a beginning
Movement from wannabe
To professional begins with action
Which cause reactions
But that is based upon
What came before

Even before my birth
There were actions
And reactions
Upon which my karma depends
If there was no big bang
Would there be a me?

Coming to be is not easy
Coming to be is a work
Of continual challenge
Fine tuning
Perfecting
Becoming

The gauntlet of life is choice
Wield it with care
My choice is love
Of self
Of family
Of home

Find your gratitude
And you’ve found
Your source
Your origin
Your divine
Self

Shalom
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:45:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin


A cardinal
just landed blood red
on the surprise snowfall
that blankets my backyard.

I want that cardinal.

I'll turn him
into words on this
paper snow.

White-and-waiting
for something, anything
worthy of losing
its virginity.
SB Williamson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:46:37 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins

In the cell, Chaos.
In the body, Cosmos.
In the ordering, Art.

Christine Kephart
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:47:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Purple Iris

The purple Iris
Sways in the breeze

It's velvety touch
Easy to see

It's aroma
As enticing as can be

White and yellow spirals
Creeping up the side

Reveals its beauty
To the human eye

Its uniqueness flows
With its flattery hold

Waiting for a hand
To give it a show

So, the purple Iris
Continues to grow

To leave its mark
On the planet below
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:49:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Spring Birth
Miniscule dot. So fine, oblong, black
lost in hand creases
when held closed. Precious jewel,
embodying life, vanish not
with that single misplaced breath.
Your life begins today
under Spring warmth
beneath the cover of rich damp earth
One quarter inch
no more
deep.

Watered by rains. Sheltered from winds.
Nurtured by radiant sunlight above.
Rise strong
push back those covers
stretch full length
tiny green arms
and grow.

Grow
strapping
robust
rugged.
Branch out
with feeders
offshoots
multiple limbs
That I may nip, pinch, cut for
my fine culinary dishes.

dear, Basil, the quintessential summertime
herb.
Maureen Miller
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:49:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Your Mother’s Eyes
for my husband

You have your mother’s eyes
I’m sure of it,
although you have never seen her.
Adopted at birth,
she must have loved you
in order to give you up.
Where did you get
your positive attitude
and kind demeanor
that made me fall in love with you?
Your adoptive mother
is also kind, smart, and funny.
You would say
it is because of her
and your adoptive father,
and I’m sure this is true.
Yet I think of your first mother,
the one who pushed you
into this world,
and gave so much joy
to your parents,
and eventually to me.
She must think of you
every day, or at least
on your birthday.
You are perfectly happy
the way things are,
and that’s all right with me.
But if she reads poetry,
her beautiful green eyes
today, perhaps, will see,
how wonderful (like she is)
her son turned out to be.


Lori Desrosiers
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:50:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Wow so many comments- Lots of work for you and Tammy even little Will may have to learn to read-really, really fast.

Inspiration

Blows up the imagination

From the tiniest of little things
Amoeba floating, flecks of dust

From the gargantuan of things
World, universal black hole

A list of possibilities—endless

Concept, ideal , emotion, ideas
Creating happiness, sadness, hate
Longing, anger, laughter, question

Again inventory—immeasurable

To find its source would…
Be of total supreme awesomeness

Worthy of sharing—hiding?

Inspiration surrenders itself
When in that special moment, found
Hidden in a smile, glint of the eye
The backside of a billboard
Or the sound of silent winds and oceans

But really, just between us…
We know its true origin is
You


Great to see so many here
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:50:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
the origin of Origins

Estee Lauder, goddess, queen of the makeover
went to the Soviet Union after the wall came down
the Soviets said please not Clinique, not your
signature goopy moisturizer. it is too rich
for our pure Russian skins
after Chernobl we need green cosmetics
green like Siberia is -- well it never is green --
but you get the idea. we want lovely masks
to help us forget our winters, and lovely lipsticks
so we can remember love
love that became such an elusive commodity in our culture -- don't misunderstand us -- we are proud to be russian
but
we had art but not umbrellas
poetry but no toilet paper
so now give us a rainbow
and the queen of the makeover complied
and the sun rose over st petersburg
on the faces of the soviets
who bloomed now like flowers
under a capitalist sun.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:51:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
AH SPRING

Ah spring,
What a glorious time of year
Trees are budding
Flowers are blooming
Nesting birds are everywhere

Butterflies flitter and hummingbirds twitter
In appreciation of all that is offered
The hues of the flowers
Are sights to behold
The fragrances run from light to bold

The morning dew brings kisses and hugs
From bluebirds, squirrels, rabbits and doves
But why, oh why
In the midst of this beauty
Is there wheezing and coughing
Runny noses and bugs!

We get gnats and beetles
And hornets and bees
Red ants and black ants
Flies and fleas
There are ticks and mites
And spiders galore
Flyers and crawlers come through the door

I suppose in a way
This is God’s sense of humor
The beauty and the beast
So walk through the beauty
And take in the smells
But swat, stomp and spray
At the very least.
Karen Peterson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:52:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
new green peeks through brown skeletal stalks of last year's perennials






thyme remains dormant
still in thick black earth
awaiting a hotter sun
a more complete spring










.
Mary Virgin Kerkes
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:56:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
- family ties: my good fortune -

avacados sit ripening
on the table, now
quiet this morning, still
full of fingerprints
from last night's
meal, branches
scraping the surface
your tiny feet-- roots
dangling from your chair

you began way before
my head found the alcove
of your father's neck, words
floating on breath before
we even met

you both
were the thread
i sat winding around
wooden spools at my
grandmother's feet,
strung so tight it'd
leave a lateral line
across my thumb, where
if examined closely
you'd find our names--
riddles, riding on
the spiral of
my fingerprint
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:56:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Day 1

Make your move
Make it smooth
Find a rhyme
Don't waste time
Twenty-nine
Still in line
Call April
Poem mill
This first one
Has been fun.
Deborah Lockwood
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:57:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
starting to feel
I'm living in a world
I dreamed about
after reading bill gibson
attending tec workshops in '94
still afraid of what I saw
in those dreams
but it is a bit warmer
friendlier and easy to use
on my phone
a room full
listening to dial tones
bleep bleep of video games
no eye contact
no eye contact
james
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:58:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The big old oak tree in my yard,
Bark on the outside is pretty hard,
Branches as long as the house is tall,
Houses birds big and small.

Taller than the house,
It provides lots of shade
When the leaves grow,
The sun doesn't show.

In the summer it stays nice and cool,
As if you were in a swimming pool,
In the fall leaves float down,
To their resting place on the ground.

And in the winter sun shows through,
A wonderful thing for it to do,
It keeps us and the animals warm too.

And as winter ends the year,
First leaves do appear,
I smile and listen to the birds sing
As I think that this huge tree,
Came from a tiny seed.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:58:13 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Fever

The doctor asked,
”How long have you had this fever?"
"As long as I can remember."
He checked her heart, pulse and temperature--
Walked around to the back of her,
His hands on her neck,
Gently feeling for any signs.
She began to fantasize--
They were your hands.
Breaking the silence,
"Go ahead and swallow."
As though making her first attempt,
Her shoulders shrugged, instead.
Brenda Skinner
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:58:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Origin

A noun that makes a sound
Like a root under a boot
At the foundation of our nation
We originate as we immigrate
Our origin is born again


KP
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 4:58:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My Son’s Laugh

Some twenty-four years ago, April ten
The One who made sun, flowers, mountains, sky
Extended His creative grace again
To grant a gift to my husband and I

He sent out angels to gather each mood
Of heaven—love, fun, humor, worship, joy
He took all that was gracious, kind, and good
And packaged it up in a little boy

But not to say it’s always apparent
With snaps and snails and puppy-dog tails, too
But in his giggles the good gift God sent
Came cascading, joyously, bubbling through

So one fine spring day and ever after
We’ve always been tickled by his laughter
Connie
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:01:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Life"

Sperm
Ovum
Collide
Merge
Divide.

Divide
And Divide
And Divide.

And then in coalescence, grow

Into a mammal,
An animal
Of the warm blooded persuasion,
Which embraces
Humans

Too.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:02:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
When You Think You Know What’s Next

April returns, and you are wearing different clothes
than you imagined, walking around saying strange things
to the wrong people. As if you never had a choice.

All that bustle, that push, for never-what-you-think.
All that night-walking and speed-leaving, and here you are:
at the bottom of a late-winter day, having already said yes

too often. Such vestments - this scarf, these gloves - seem silly.
Who cares if the wind pries you open, blows you down?
Who cares? At least there is wind. At least that. Let go

the plan. You will always be less hopeful than others
would have you. You will always be trying the clouds
over top an old blue sky. You will always be

beginning again.
Amber Clark
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:02:49 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Birthday Ode to Shawn (my nephew)

Ode to Shawn
born this dawn
a brown-haired fawn
whose arm is drawn
in youthful brawn
a baseball let gone
across the lawn
above the pond
whereupon...
it hit a SWAN!
Tammy Marshall
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:04:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Minnesota Nice
April 1, 1939, 2:12 PM
Lakewood, Minnesota

She rested her hands against the cold Formica countertop. All of the ingredients lay before her: ground beef from last night’s hamburgers, the potatoes she mashed this morning, limp boiled green beans gone gray, the half-used can of golden fried onion slivers. Her husband wasn’t due home for hours, the children she never had would have been at school.

She watched from her kitchen window as the spring storm approached, her young birch trees bent against the winds, the flurry of snow flakes blanketing her lawn. She tried to remember: how many storms had she endured, how many times had everything been erased by a field of white? All her cold and quiet days telescoped inside her, a tunnel of packed snow and ice she dug with her bare hands. A smile froze to her face.

She began her work. She smoothed the layers of beef, green beans and potatoes until they resembled her lawn. Early grass smothered in frozen mud and snow. She watched the snow pile up like the flakes of deep fried onions across her dish. She would wait to warm it until later.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:04:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Art of Love

If our love was an art gallery
those who followed our footsteps
would wander with hands behind their backs,
going nowhere in particular, yet peering
and pausing at a seductive rose phase,
the flamingo bursts and nooks
of love’s flaming origins.

Your paintings are life like,
Body parts in sun, the crook of a neck,
the reader’s face hidden behind a book.
Small conceptual pieces to puzzle
even art buffs can't understand: a woman’s
toolbox with a spool of nails on plastic,
the handle of a hammer nail varnished pink.

Mine are more abstract, a blur of hands,
eyes, vines and sea; shapes
created only by what the viewer wants to see.
My conceptual nod, only a small stuffed
keyring of a pig's behind,
a piece of chocolate
in the breast of a suit pocket.

If our love was an art gallery,
People could learn not much
but the randomness of love.
Most visitors would find one image
from our dozen origins paintings
and carry it to his own space;
one or two would take nothing away.

And some would lurk in the gallery
of love’s demise: a thousand paintings
stacked and riffled through, too large
to see except from a great distance.
Strange installations of coffee cups,
Novelty underwear, toilet rolls and socks.
Nine hundred, ninety nine paintings by me,
one by you.

Within this gallery some linger
before unfinished renditions
of the same scene painted again and again.
Paintings with handless clocks in the background.
I’ll find myself staring, like so many others,
who can pinpoint the second love was born,
and fill its absence trying to its time of death.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:05:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin Stories

In the beginning there was darkness, they say.
Then He-with-a-capital-H said let there be light.
In six days he made the continents,
The seas,
The plants,
The animals.
On the sixth day—I think—he created man.
Adam. And from Man he created Woman.
Eve.
Or was it Lilith? I forget.
And on the seventh day he rested.

In the beginning there was Nothing, they say.
And then there was the Big Bang.
And out of Nothing came Something.
And in time, Something became the earth:
The continents, the seas.
In the next few million—billion?—years
There were amoebas and paramecia and creatures of the sea,
There were crawling amphibious things, and then creatures of the land,
And then dinosaurs.
And then there was—what? A meteor? A volcano? I forget.
And then somehow there were crawly things and flying things and eventually monkeys
Apes
People.

In the beginning there were many gods, they say.
And they got bored watching the grass grow,
so they made animals.
And they got bored watching the animals act in predictable, logical ways.
so they made people
Out of clay? I forget.
And baked them in an oven
Or something.
And they were the first reality show:
crazy,
illogical,
beautiful,
ugly,
weak,
virtuous,
despicable…
Survivor, anyone?

In the beginning, there were no historians,
No video cameras,
No writers.
Cybele Kilby
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:05:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Beyond Jordan toward the sunrising
And all the way down to the plains of the sea
We watched them rolling,
Mobs of spherophile scarabs,
Exoskeletons glittering hard in the light;
Clicktering alchemists transmuting shit into wonder,
Embracing Ezekiel's anguished diet
(Since New Year's, at least),
The forms of eternity straddled between their thighs
As though giving birth to a planet
Only to take it back to the sea of it's forelife--
We sat together, you and I, in our delicious brooding chamber,
My head rested upon your breast I could hear
Your heart like a muffled mariachi.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:07:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Star in a wheel--
came to me as I woke/not woke
from daydreams of sleep.

Produced without flourish
(real magic needs no flourishes)
from an enchanted sack
unseen treasures, unknown
until you pull them out.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:08:12 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
#1

Does a poem have origins?
A beginning point, a hatching?
Or does it wait
in an ether or void
full formed
for its chance to erupt?
Or is it brought daintily forth
by a well coiffed muse
for a polite audience and their pleasure?


What people separated this
form of expression
from that one?
The folks who wore togas
or the ones who wore feathers?
Is there a difference?

What decides a sentence
a thought, is fair game?
Is a spring board
to lofty heights of
beautitude.

I can write verbatim
the spinning thoughts
between my ears
but it may not be poetry.

It needs a Something.
A certain rhythm
of one’s breath
or a jangle of sounds
used newly together.

It could just
evoke a feeling.

It might take you
to a place
to a moment.

And it could just as easy
fall flat on its face
and not really
do anything.

Just lie there on the page
and make you uncomfortable.



Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:09:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I offer here a gentle shake
for those who are ready to come awake.
The perspective that you currently hold
is not your own… it’s way too old.
Old is not bad, but things have a way
of getting distorted when told day after day.
Please… just look around you , then take what you see
and simply consider what caused it to be.
Not from the perspective that’s been given to you,
but from a higher, more true point of view.
If you are diligent, you will find
the power that lies inside your mind
and that the origin of all you see and do
is the creative result of a wonder called “You”.
I’m sure that for some this is way too deep
and it may be easier just to go back to sleep.
But we need to stop polluting the realm of the collective…
shift our focus from the negative to what is most effective
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:10:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Day 1
Beginning of Life
4-1-09

Each a tiny unanticipated seed
save by God
grew inside a woman too young
insecure in her future
and also unwed
to feign confidence.

On the other side of the equation
waited and waited
and waited
a couple.
Prayed, longed for, hoped
for lives to nurture.

In the fullness of time
came birth
and each woman
at the right time and place and
state of mind
transferred the life-giving powers
to the ones who
would rear these children
and love them as their own.

Beginning life as parents
beginning life as their children
beginning life as family.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:12:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Andrew

"Names carry meaning," one day I commented to my friend. I wonder what your name means and what is its origin?

"'Cause I plan to be with you, so it is important," I said again. Besides, how do I know where we are going, unless I find out where we began?

His name derives from Andrew, meaning "fisher of men." He was the first to disciple his brother, Peter; his business partner and friend.

I like where we are going; 'cause I can see him live out his name. Not only is he a fisher of men, but he caught me all the same!




Benita brownbenitaAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
Benita
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:12:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
back to the start, flying over flashing ages beyond material eyes
i land in nothing
but something is here - i feel presence, weight, a tiny shaking
is it me
or an entire universe, just about to be?
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:14:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
two perfect crystal glasses

driving through the bushveld
on our way from somewhere
going nowhere in particular
the road, long, black
shimmering with mirages
there it stood, a farm stall
more of a lean to really
built of cracking planks, grey with age
and a rusty corrugated iron roof
the sign was large and clear
"ice cold homemade ginger beer"
the car tyres abandoned the smoothness
deserting the tarmac for the bump and slide
of the stony, dusty roadside
as he hit the brakes
the sound of sliding gravel
the motor switched off
the country silence engulfed us
i open the car door and swing my legs out
my new white sneakers land with a plop
on the thick dust and gravel
i glance down at my shoes
now coated with a fine red film
the angry heat sears my throat
the air is as dry as a dowager's skin
we lope over to the semi shade
where the rusty iron roof juts out a little
behind the makeshift counter is a smiling face
and a tin bath, full of ice, somewhat melted
swimming in the frozen water
old two litre cola and lemonade bottles
long emptied of their original contents
filled now with that nectar of the gods
"ice cold homemade ginger beer"
happily, we bartered money for liquid sustenance
the work worn hands which accompanied the smiling face
lifted a full bottle from the bath
it rested on the stained and dusty counter
melted ice and the dew of evaporation
sliding down the bottle
gathering in a wet ring
where wood and plastic meet
the smiling face turned and from beneath the counter
produced, two perfect crystal glasses

Copyright © 2009 by Eryll Oellermann
Eryll Oellermann
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:15:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Shellfish and Mushrooms

What does she do for a living?
She’s a chef. A cook, a food slinger, dish-dispenser,
the blooming, once shrooming mother of two.
Gourmet foody, wine-enthusiast, cigar-toting
real time home maker, hard worker, meal planner.

Invited a lobster into her home for the grown up
(no longer) kosher girl-awaiting a new meal
of seafoods and of mushrooms. In this room,
at an old farm table they made a new-age Seder plate.
Ate a dish of that and this, drank two types of wines

and made it half way through a movie before
shoulders and knees just weren’t enough
spaces to run fingers and hands, just needed
more places. Took a short tour to the upstairs
bedroom where the planner of pairings

found new ways of enjoying skin. No plucking of feathers,
or slicing a fray, sautéing it up or frying it away.
Added only moisture and ideas for what feels good, ended up
with a final presentation that would, continue to thrive with
innovations of sauces of spices of richness and comfort
for cooling and calming and growth.

Stephanie Darrow
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:15:49 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Where we the two began...


I remember the lights, distant to my eyes
I remember the cold chill of the solid beneath my body
The lights in the breeze across my eyelashes
A quiet sensed calm reverberating in my chest
Feeling tenderness in the passage of my breath

And I remember voices
Whispering, talking to me, about me
Never with me

And I remember the faces,
The many faces shimmering through the light
That distant light so far from my eyes

Like the warm trickle down my cheek
Across my neck and to my hair

Like the sound of slow falling water
I remember then, you . . .
When last these my eyes fell across your face
Whispered to breathe across your shoulder blades

I remembered you in that singular moment
As I remember you now in this one
Once more all over again
Under the city lights

I lay here
Where I have fallen

Under their voices, their faces
The lights so distant
Like the cold creeping up

Honey I remember you now
I remember you

As I lay dying

I remembered you

I remembered thinking our story was over
But . . .
I remember how you have yet to kiss me
Have done, will do...

Are
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:21:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hope

Hope is
A rare plant
That blooms
For some
On the steep cliff faces
Of affliction

Confused by some
With blind optimism
Its vibrant colours
Hold true
In overcast skies
And outbreaks of rain

Deep roots
Hold fast
Not in carefully selected words
And practised intonations
Not in a false dawn
Of a dark night

Hope is
A gift bestowed
Upon the helpless
By a faithful God
Who sees all
And responds
Melanie Kerr
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:21:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
we
we are simply so much star stuff
light and dust and cosmic spectral glory...
the we we see is only the reflection of the hope
that first was made as the creator rested
in the shade of another universe or two...
to understand or ever know the origins of a soul
we must look up occasionally and truly realize...
that in the looking comes the knowing and in the knowing
is the peace and in the peace is the reality that we seek... star stuff.
lisha bruner
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:24:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of a poem

A feeling, a thought,
some jumbled up words
took wings and flew
out of my heart.

Sailing through the azure sky,
stroking the waves of the
Jade waters of the ocean,
they rose like the
mist from the valley.

Slowly they drifted
to kiss the mountain brow
and glided leisurely earthward
to play with the gurgling brook.

Intoxicated by the scent
of my wild flowers dreams
fragrant with the smell of
first rain showers
they settled on a piece of paper
in my hand.

Interlacing themselves
with the rhythm of life
weaving the yarn
with colors of joy
they brought into existence
my first poesy of the day.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:26:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
DAY 1: "The Origin of Labels"

My parents came from a
Place where people drank
Tea poured on saucers, slurped
Really loudly, spat paan
Also said, “coming” while going away
They were from a soil that slept
Intently at the feet of lotus leaves
Bloated with certain delusions
About belonging to histories

Not exactly the vision
Anyone would like, much less my parents

When I was born,
Temple bells’ tolled and
Cymbals’ clanged
As usual, not for me,
Matched with nimble steps
That fell in the city
Of the Eastern Star
Where I was born, when the sun
Went very far westwards
Along the path traced by blue
Mountains of elephant-
Hue and shade

Years later I stood under a sheathed sky
Bequeathed with heat, dust and spent romance
Went further into its deep belly of roadside hustle
The bustle and sale of smiles, tears for ten bucks a piece
Not known to dolphins and ducks, only rude
Men who stood tall, really tall and gaunt, bluish cheeks
Crazy-faced, yet they offered me 'ladies' seats in crowded buses

Now I haven’t stopped plucking flowers of yesteryears
Where no one's seen jackfruits or mangoes
Also what I’ve been wearing is a peeling skin
Jackfruit-hard or mango-soft, craving to stick upon
Tongues wafting in a generous gait
In another Ithaca of new myths
Reciting from our birth charts and rooting for stars

Beckoning
Telling
Who we are
And such things.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:26:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The First of April

Proserpina's echoes,
still echo across time.
Pluto's painful prank
on the goddess Ceres,
now enticing us all
to join in the fun (?)
of mischief making
on the first of April.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:29:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Man

The sky bled at dawn.
Thunder held its tongue,
glory and damnation united
under broken clouds.
Earth opened - hands reached
for living souls.
Condemnation blew deaths' harp
welcoming crumbling mountains,
acidic rivers.
Flesh cries, hands sacrifice.
On knees, in awe - glory, damnation
worship what's begun - man.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:30:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Do I Really Need To Be Institutionalized.

This morning I awoke
I could'nt remember my name,
Pacing the floor, to and fro...
The room's did'nt seem the same.

I turned the water on, it was hot!
What happened to the cold?
Somebody said when you turn 65...
Your body tends to be old.

My daughter used to take me out
for a ride,
I used to enjoy the scene...
But distortion is written all over
her face,
And the Grandchildren act so mean.

My families been starting rumors
about me
They think I don't understand,
But in this shell I am somebody...
Not just a crazy old man.

I worry they don't love me
Soon I'll be displaced...
In an Institution with others,
Whose children had distortion on their face.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:31:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Blade

Tiny is the blade I see,
that has burst right through the soil.
Laden with the mornings dew;
edges forth with little toil.

Blessed be the blade I see;
its head could be no lower.
He stood but for a moment
until he heard the mower.
Joni Zipp
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:31:37 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Captain America"

Some of the folks
over at the NSA
were clearing out
a flat file cabinet
when they came across
the tattered remains
of a red, white and blue
body suit that once
belonged to a
World War II superhero.

It was balled up
and stuffed between
the files on
Pearl Harbor and
the Enigma machine.
It’s American-flag-blue pants
were torn, their cuffs
shredded like Li’l Abner’s
shirt sleeves.
The red and white-striped
tunic bore slash marks
from bayonets and
its lone star was shot
straight through
from front to back.

Steve Rogers,
a rising star
in the NSA constellation,
took the bodysuit
home one night.

There, in the privacy
of his apartment,
he donned the suit;
it fit him well.
He looked at himself
in the mirror
and admired the
cut and the fit.

He thought back to a time
in his youth when
he closed his bedroom
door and put on
long johns, underpants over top,
and a Halloween mask
and tied a bath towel
around his neck for a cape.

He saved the world then.
He’ll save the world now.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:31:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
First Day

A shy smile
meets a gap-toothed one.
I kick sand in your face
you pull my pony-tail.
And when I cried
you stuck your tongue out at me.
Now when I cry
it is on your shoulder
your strong arms around me.
Who could see us still friends
after that first day
on that playground
when we were six?
Jean
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:33:06 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
in the end

if the end
is the result
of the beginning
then where did
it begin

was it the day
he forgot to say
the right words
and she looked
hurt and sorry

maybe the seed
took root at night
as they slept
and breathed each
other’s disappointments

could the first tremors
of this eruption
have occurred
on a summer day
with nothing left to say

just like wind
over warm ocean water
forms a hurricane
we soon find ourselves
in a vortex

and so beginnings
have no beginning
only an acculmulation
of effects that explode
one fine day
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:33:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
(0,0)

BANG. . .
chaos. . .
order. . .
me.
(some incidents were left out
for the sake of brevity)
RIck Blacow
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:33:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Rain

Soft dew on the grass.
The mist hanging
in the cool morning air.
So deep and thick,
like a web,
weaved with wetness.
A condensation of clouds.
blue, grey and black.
Leaves little doubt,
to what comes next.
First one falls,
then another descends.
In harmony,
in sync.
Like the softest melody,
to a raging concerto.
Cascading the scenary.
painting the air,
and filling it
with a tapestry of art.
Rain
So cleansing,
so fresh.
A miracle of nature.
A beauty in itself.
Terri Montour
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:34:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


On the Origin of Feces

The unsuspecting cow chomps away
at her messy mixture of grains and hay.
Then comes a swift knock to the head
A quick grind later and she’s on the shelf.
Joe comes along to buy the can.
He grills it up and swallow it downs,
unaware of where the meat has been,
as the juices dribble down his chin.
Morning comes with a gurgle in his stomach,
then a bloop bloop sound
and a flush of the toilet.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:35:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Origin"

Fish flapping lungs
gasping she crawls out
of the sea
and learns
the horizon.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:35:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

On the day I was born
the sun was out of alignment
listed to the left, then fell,
leaving the world in darkness.

What is it my mom and dad
asked each other as their heads
turned first one way, then another,
my mother’s tear fell onto my face.

What happened, my father asked
the Dr who stood there staring back.
Don’t ask me, he replied, this has
nothing to do with me.

My grandfather turned the other way
walked out and shut the door softly
to make his getaway. My grandmother
looked at me with her kindly sad eyes.

What is this, what happened, each
one there implored the heavens.
A nurse took me in her arms
It’s a girl, she said, just a girl.

On the day I was born there was silence
as they wrapped me up to take me home
I’m sorry Frank, my mother said,
Can you ever forgive me?

Judy Roney
April 1, 2009
Judy Roney
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:36:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The cumulonibus is heavy,
saturated with liquid,
It trembles, then without warning,

F
A
L
L
S

It tumbles down from the heavens,
Hitting the roof with a pitter-patter,
Lulling me to sleep.

Tim Gruber
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:36:12 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The End of the Beginning

April 1st and so he’s born
to be retired from working
since he was a boy.
Delivering flyers announcing
carnivals or funerals,
the new movie in Kingsville’s
open air tent/theater—

¡Esta noche! ¡Hoy ponen
una película de suspenso!
¡En La Carpa,esta noche!

Sometimes getting out the vote
for city politicians.
What would he grow up to be?
advertiser
newsman
gossip columnist
front man
or publicist
High responsibility
For any ten year old.

Now he looks back to the beginning
wonders if all was April Fools.
Oscar C. Pena
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:36:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Your name


got stuck to the roof of my mouth
when I tried to say it to you
minutes after you were born,
still warm from the womb.

But the word never reached air,
never entered your infant ear,
ringing like a bell inside my throat.

The bell that now calls you
out of the street,
away from the television,
made no sound on your 1st birthday
& what you’ve come to understand
to be its meaning from pitch & diction
has only recently articulated.

Your ears grow, your sensitivities multiply,
but your name never changes
& everyday I say it to you,
whether you can hear me or not—

to remind myself to listen
to the breeze & church bells
when they ring clear over Rock Island,
calling out your name in my ear.
Ryan Collins
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:37:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Record Find

Billie Holiday
Lady Day Queen of the Blues
Tribute--No April Fool!
Patricia A.McGoldrick
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:37:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
In the Institute

Her floors still sparkle
Years after her brain melted
And disorder reigned

It started with string
A loose thread that unravelled
Her tightly wound self

His barbed words poking
Holes in clammed up memories
Until they slipped out

And she, like the egg,
sat in pieces on the floor
Scrubbing and scrubbing

it clean.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:37:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A LITTLE PAGEANT OF SCARS

The first was small, but so was I:
a white pen stroke of a welt on my upper lip
from the stitched dog bite
when I was a toddler. I don't
see it now. I don't remember
that pain, but the time I rested my forearm
on the sizzling lid of a popcorn pan
remains a searing memory. I carried
the peninsula-shaped brown mark
through childhood. Sometime between
menses and menopause, it faded.

With my index finger I can barely read
the seam inside my right ear.
That's where the ER docs sewed me up
without anesthesia
after my Chevette was T-boned
on a Clifton side street. A week later
the wound pushed out a sliver of glass.
I think I'm still exploring
for another chip to surface.

Pink scar, right breast: that scare
twenty-five years ago.
But laparoscopic gall bladder surgery
minimized scarring to a couple of bumps
like mosquito bites. I can't find them now.

I thank my body for its recuperative powers,
for tissue that regenerates, epidermal cells
on a lifelong mission to heal and erase.
All except the brain, with its wall of gray matter
on which every invisible scar is cataloged
in unnecessary and indelible detail.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:38:56 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Pine"
Two trees stood side by side
In the woods. They spent all
Their time together.
One loved the other,
Who reached high
For his goal: to touch the sky.
As for the one; he attained.
The other merely pined.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:40:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Cirrhotic

Smart left on a FAST train out a here
Left behind…. is… intermittent
like the weather
the storm is mustering up the courage
to dump out the brouhaha
Fog fades just to roll in again
Ammonia
haunts the crevasses
of a well honed mind
erasing the ability to think
down to some percent
Production races on
on a rat wheel
Only to bite some intolerable tail of misery
dragging behind, useless
When logic isn’t an option
The bobo bounces back
Haunted with a chilly smile


Kiss me
Kiss me
Some days are never enough
Enough is never enough
Now that smart left on the LAST train
Out a here

MsB
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:40:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Answers

Where did I come from?
How was I formed?
What purpose do I have?
Is there an eternity?
Or is this life all that there is?
Is there good and evil?
Is life as simple as black and white?
Is love the greatest of passions?
Was Jesus the real Messiah?
Is there an actual Heaven or Hell?

I have a thousand more questions
None that really bother me much
Because I’ve been given the answers
And so have you

My heart is at peace
In spite of my pondering
For the Origin of it all
Is in full control
And He will answer every question
In time

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:40:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"You open to be sewn"

No person walks around with their inner lining exposed;
only under precise needles, intoxicating gas,
a pair of taught hands, harsh florescent lights
can anyone survive vulnerably.
I'll need a percocet after your bootleg surgery;
did I look like someone who could handle that type of performance?
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:40:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Judy Roney and Ryan Collins,
kudos.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:41:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
CALENDAR CONFUSION

It first belonged to Julius
but Gregory stole it away
revising it even as Protestants
claimed he was trying to persuade
true Christians to stray
beware you miss a birthday
'Great Caesar's Ghost'
is probably what they said
but it didn't start there but
somewhen else instead
like in 1600 on the first
January day when they counted
down the time as though
it were ticking
bomb-like
in its approach to the end
but there is no zero
to be found there
never was, never will be
as we started going upwards
from then
skipping a whole year
in the life of modern man
and now centuries later we
celebrate the days
marking off our calendars
the passing of zero days
such as leap year in 2020
and 2096 but never 3000
is there no end to March madness
but there is as April is meant
to open your eyes
and see newly discovered lament
that the calendar you bought
is swamped with nothing but
workdays that stretch from
weekend to weekend

Carrie Ann Eggert
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:43:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Sick kids"
Mommmyy! She screams.
I don't feel good.
Sweety, what hurts?
My elbow, my knee, my throat, my head.
Please lie down.

Today is not the day.
No school, no work.
How did this happen?

Some kid at school must have been sick!
A classmate of hers passed a toy to her
filled with germs that will keep her in bed for a week.
I didn't see it coming.
All I know is how sad and unhappy she is.
A sick kid is so draining.

And just like that...
she snaps out of it.
Mommmyy! Where's my book?
I have to remind her to take it slow.
The sickness could come back.

The sickness came and went.
At least for today.
Until she is in the middle of a germ-infested classroom again.
Grace Martinez
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:45:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Who dreamed the infomercial?
I’d really like to know-
That corny drawn out sales pitch
Dressed like a TV show.

Its promise is amazing:
Like easy, instant wealth,
Eternal youth from juicing
And the secret to good health.

But what it fails to tell you
Is it’s all a bunch of crap
Created to make money
From an unsuspecting sap.
KellyJo
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:45:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Meditation on Leuk-

I love words that rumble against
Each other in my mouth
Like rocks on a luminous shore
Until they turn to polished globes,
Translucent and shimmering,
Warm and clear in sunlight.

Who knows what child may pick them up
And pocket them, pulling them out
To be admired by the crowd,
Or perhaps, more likely,
Forgotten in some dismal place,
Merely fingered as worry stones
When they are needed most.

I found a new one yesterday:
Lucubrate, verb intrans. To work,
Study, write, or discourse
Laboriously or learnedly.
Not, of course, to be confused
with Luctuate, verb trans.
To render mournful or gloomy.

I marveled how two words began
So much alike yet followed separate paths
To roll ashore in wholly different shapes.
It comes, I guess, of intertwining Latin roots,
Which if you follow far enough
Lead to a common source, springing
Forth from Indo-European light.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:45:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Rhododendron

Origin unknown
Seen around the world
Himalayas to Borneo
Japan to Appalachians
Wild or domesticated
Beautiful and toxic
Seen on flags
on mountaintops
in yards


Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:47:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Pansies

Parched,
I sipped water from a plastic cup,
my light pink lipstick stamped
several times on its rim.
After the last drop of water
fell from the rim,
the water stood still and tall
unlike the pansies
in a nearby plastic cup
with yellow dust surrounding it.

I plucked these tired pansies
and arranged them gingerly
in my own stamped cup
until one pansy shifted
its wrinkled monkey-face to me
but broke off a purple-inked heart
before I saw its last breath.

How curious that art
still breathes life
like the spring breeze even
when my own kisses of death
circled around them within my own cup.
My own pansied thoughts
should have been planted in the garden.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:48:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Donald R. Anderson
Letters in a Blender

In the beginning, there was,
at least to the renowned wiki,
"The cop is on the settee," or,
a code to mean the person on watch
is on the couch in the lobby,
almost off-duty.
Perhaps something in common culture of society
calls for many to say that is a good thing,
for it evolved, in theory, to copasetic,
meaning satisfactory in communication's blender of words,
like the French run words together
and leave out letters,
so do all of us,
rushing in one day into the next,
until we can no longer tell them apart,
and wonder,
what ever happened to the good old days?
Am I doing copasetic?
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:50:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Love Begins

Early October
A clear nite
Under the train
A kiss…
Lisa
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:51:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Quetzalcoatl

When a wind is born
The world prepares for turbulence
And this one, the White Wind
Soared in on wisdom and knowledge
Once the earth lay in darkness
Yet a spark already glowed
It raced from mountain to mountain
Crashed through deep valleys
With scales gleaming in sunlight
From its bright body rose plumes
Of color and golden fire
From its forehead sprang rays
Of truth and justice
We sprawled on our faces
Before its magnificence
Eyes too hot burned marks
Of ownership onto our backs
We threw our spears into the fire
And surrendered to a new beginning
The earth cried out in flames
And burst open with new life
All hearts rejoiced
When the White Wind conquered death
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:53:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of a Furious Idea

The lilacs in his garden, he said,
Turned into floating words
When he spoke my name.

No longer flowers with fragrance.

Only words. Nothing real. Like a touch
That has not happened.

He is the emptiness I am full of.
“No” is a word
Full-bodied, Un-hooded,
Blossoming in my stomach.
Alison Linnitt
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:53:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hey, so it’s all a big lie
You were fibbing about each other
All this time I thought it was the half-pipe (double black diamond)
That killed off Daddy and Mother

But instead of letting me be normal
Playing ball and catching flies
You told me you were dead
So I’d go out and catch bad guys

And what about this Chemist?
Are you in league with him too?
After all, I got my powers
From his tub of photo goo

And now you tell me the truth
That it was really all for me?
Well, thanks for nothing
Why can’t you let me be?

But it’s too late now
Because I’m dead and blown apart
And all because my stupid parents
Think life’s a dime novel from Wal-Mart

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:53:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Because of you
I am afraid
Because of you.”
Kelly Clarkson

The origin of my fear you ask?
Well, that’s a tough question.
One I’ve spent days, hours,
Weeks and years – owning.
Could it be because throughout
My life, I’ve never been safe?
From the beginning,
For as long as I can remember,
The predators, the aggressors
Have been running a-mock,
Reeking havoc in my life.
I’m thinking as I grew,
The situation did too,
Growing, evolving, manifesting itself
Into a Darkness
Far bigger than my worn-out soul
Could ever handle.
Why do I jump, scream,
Fall out of my chair
Over the slightest sound or movement-
Especially when he walks into the room?
The origin of my fear
Is complicated,
Debilitating,
Scary.
The origin of my fear
Began a lifetime ago
What? When will it end you ask?
I do not know.
My prayer though is that
Relief will come soon
So that the fingers wrapped
Tightly around my throat
Will let me breath safe air.
For the first time in my life,
That would be so very nice.

Patti Williams
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:55:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I am the death mother


I lightly water
her iris purple tongue.
Dry wood lips.
Change a dark amber liner.
Smooth the flat gray hair
from her forehead.
I warmly wash
the lifetime of moments
still breathing
upon her face,
then sit down
at her bedside
to hold rigid hands
and silently wait
for the birth
of her last expression.


Tara Wilson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 5:56:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
good grief--how will you ever do it, Robert, and it's only one o'clock!! So far, much praise to Margot, Annie, Beth K,JillV,AJ,Nancy Posey, Julie, Rachel Green and Don S. Back later with a poem
Penny Henderson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:00:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin Poem
Tod Pardon


Sand, light
Morning mist
Waves from earth and air.

The ocean curls back
To reveal in tides.

This smooth glass
Frosted in miniature
Glitter art
I hold in my hand.

Was told to me
By one so young
That this is how
You know
The past has come.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:01:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I

an eon ago
to the moment just passed
each
generously molded
me as clay

I am
shaped a woman
mother
to the future
stars
borne a runt
they said I wouldn't
survive

I am here now
but
tomorrow
I may crumble dry
& flake
or form a puddle
which evaporates soundless in the air
and I
will not leave
footprints
on the floor anymore
Caili Wilk
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:02:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
two perfect crystal glasses

driving through the bushveld
on our way from somewhere
going nowhere in particular
the road, long, black
shimmering with mirages
there it stood, a farm stall
more of a lean to really
built of cracking planks, grey with age
and a rusty corrugated iron roof
the sign was large and clear
"ice cold homemade ginger beer"
the car tyres abandoned the smoothness
deserting the tarmac for the bump and slide
of the stony, dusty roadside
as he hit the brakes
the sound of sliding gravel
the motor died
the country silence engulfed us
i open the car door and swing my legs out
my new white sneakers land with a plop
on the thick dust and gravel
i glance down at my shoes
now coated with a fine red film
the angry heat sears my throat
the air is as dry as a dowager's skin
we lope over to the semi shade
where the rusty iron roof juts out a little
behind the makeshift counter is a smiling face
and a tin bath, full of ice, somewhat melted
swimming in the almost frozen water
old two litre cola and lemonade bottles
long emptied of their original contents
filled now with that nectar of the gods
"ice cold homemade ginger beer"
happily, we bartered money for liquid sustenance
the work worn hands which accompanied the smiling face
lifted a full bottle from the bath
it rested on the stained and dusty counter
melted ice and the dew of evaporation
sliding down the bottle
gathering in a wet ring
where wood and plastic meet
the smiling face turned and from beneath the counter
produced, two perfect crystal glasses

All materials Copyright © 2009 by Eryll Oellermann
Eryll Oellermann
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:02:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Todd Dillard poem...I keep trying to shout out for it and get blown away! Excellent scarecrow poem
Carol A. Stephen
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:03:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin
the beginning,
from the untamed beast
in my dream--
to a tiger softly padding
through a cat door
& the soft realization
my day has begun.
ALS
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:05:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Never done this before, but am up to the challenge!
Terri Lasher
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:08:13 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Why She's Always so Quiet"

I close the window blinds
and her bedroom darkens at evening.
Two candles cast a dull yellow
across the walls.
The woman I married stands
at her open closet,
lifting one leg, then the other,
in silhouette,
letting shoes slip from her toes
onto the carpet.
She turns and I watch
as thin fore-arms
slide up her back,
fingers, delicate,
loose the tie to her dress,
gaunt shoulders draw forward,
straps fall.
The satin fabric
glides silently to the floor.

She steps to the bed's edge
and crawls, timid, child-like,
onto the mattress.
Her hands drag along its surface,
straightening the sheets.
I stare until she stops,
lifts her eyes toward me,
and with a hesitant tip of her head,
invites me to join.

I reach under the blinds
and lift the pane,
and a soft, warm breeze
flows through the room.
The air caresses her neck
like the whispered breath
of a father who loves too strongly.
"What a beautiful girl you are," it says.

The candles flicker in the breeze
and as I step away from the window,
my broad shadow looms over her.
Hers trembles against the head-board.
My eager smile becomes his,
and she shuts her eyes,
naked and alone in memory,
as I, too, tear off my clothes
and lumber toward the bed,
becoming some terribly pliant monster,
as I unwittingly form, of myself,
her every forgotten fear.
Jason Carnahan
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:08:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"An Unknown Origin"

He came out of nothing, it seems to me.
He has brought forth nothing that is good for me.
He gave me a tear when I asked for a smile.
He stole my emotion and gave me a vile.
He infected my brain but said he was the cure.
He acted hospitable while I gave in to his lure.
He tangled my soul into a hangman’s noose.
He watched, as I tried to get loose.
He showed me my pain which turned into torture.
He gave me a boat and then threw me over.
He presented my family and distorted their faces.
He welded my heart into tiny braces.
He kept me from loving a person out there.
He kept me from wondering all she could share.
He forced me to fight against those I wouldn’t.
He rejected the drug and said we couldn’t.
He has resulted in my being put here.
He has caused all my anguish and fear.
He makes me see light in these white walls.
He makes me feel concrete when I fall.
He yells at the doctor, who does all he can.
He makes me believe he is an evil man.
He is insanity, who seeps within me.
He is insanity; me.
Jordan Henderson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:10:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
From whence sprang you?
I sprang, it seems, from ancient ice and fire and dark
winters found in fjords
melted and running to the salt air there.
But when my father met my mother
The spring was changed.
Everything sped up.
The darkness of the winters could not hold against her
bright determined sun.
No dust or quiet frozen corner could ever rest in peace.
Did you spring from that spring too? Were you
enlightened brightened dusted off and sent to energetic hurry?
Did your mother meet your father and remove
from him his access to the spring
in an effort ever springing from a deep neurotic hatred of the dark?
I ask because the spring from whence I sprang
Seems seen behind your eyes.
I think that I can see the reverence for fire and ice and darkness and I love
the way you know.
You do. I see you do. You know
what darkness holds and why the fire comes icy cold until
the crack of spring.
I wonder. Will I find you when the spring is here for me?
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:13:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Love"

Please forgive me
I've been hurt too much before
I just couldn't stand the feeling
Of that pain anymore

I know you've been so kind
But I can't get it out of my mind
What I've been through
I don't know what to do

Please let me
Forget my awful past
I just want our love
To last and last

I am not one to take chances
I've forgotten what romance is
My life's all new
Still, I don't know what to do

I want to be free
Free from worry and fear
Filled with courage and strength
Knowing you're always near

I want to be sure
Sure that you'll always be by my side
I hope that you are the right onw
My arms are open wide

So, here I stand
Like so long ago
Wondering how you feel
Wondering if you know

That my love for you
Could never be stronger
Hold me now
Hold me a little longer

I want to be free
Free from worry and fear
Filled with courage and strength
Knowing you're always near

I want to be sure
Sure that you'll always be by my side
I know that you are the right onw
My arms are open wide.


Copyright 2009 Scott C. Forrest-Allen


Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:15:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
You always talk
and go on talking
You went on talking
not paying attention to me
to what I wanted to say
to what I was saying
I don't know why
I listened and
kept listening
till I could
no more but
yawn.
Aliashesh
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:15:17 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Roosevelt Island”

A man in a hat with a tan fell in love with a queen
He East river wooed her into his atmosphere
They vowed to be fruitful but they were a diseased duo
Dodging dogma of city life
She fell in love with the heart of New York’s Kingdom

And he said he had never been so in love before
Said he wanted to take back all of the remnant children he had propelled into the other borough whores
Bridges were only rigid trans vaginal fairies
Silly Bronx wings
Brooklyn Tails
Staten Island halo glow

But this was a borough on borough A.R.T. show
They painted their love like silent poetry on NYC skyline
Assisted Reproductive Technology
He had erectile dysfunctional city lights blinding the barren queen and they could never reproduce properly
So after thousands of attempts and plenty of F train masturbation
He said he didn’t believe in make believe anymore
But she believed that his breath was rotting faithlessly between them like mold
And I hear there is a child untold between them, story goes like:

Ganja from her Jamaica whispered to the wandering souls of his ground zero gaze
They rolled up Harlem and Far Rocked away to the beat of their terrorist threat mind sex
Ecstasy often neglected
For they superseded their child holding beakers surpassing conception caps that silently lapsed on to the bobble heads of planets
One could say their love was universal

Her East river cum,
His FDR sperm
One umbilical chord third degree burn
And her name was Rosey

Rosey’s eyes land her on the radius of her insanity
Always spited the circular motion of her parents ocean
Never sat in her mother’s womb for long enough to gain her borough birth rights
Or her crown
So they left her as floating fetus between them

Tanned hatted man lands on royalty
Abort Rosey and now she is apart of me
I promise to catch her whenever she falls
But she is reduced to Rosey-Velt Island
Just a stop on a train now
One that many avoid and assume about but I know the real story

Have you ever noticed the way that Manhattan pelvic thrusts Queens
Varicose vein train embraces and Roosevelt Island only left with one thing
F train failure for they have failed her
This all began with a strange love scene
Where a man in a hat with a tan fell in love with a Queen.

Lo Anderson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:15:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
And the Point is…

The discussion is
heading toward the weeds.
We can’t stay here
on task and focused.
We have to go deep
and show we know
more than they do.
Even if it’s only
one minor point,
it's still more than the other person had.
So that point is presented
as if it’s a diamond,
Rare in its cut and clarity
though once shown,
it is no longer ours alone.
Perhaps more points exist.
So we allow ourselves to go
even deeper and further away
from the original intent.
Which now looks
as far away
as the edge of the observable universe.
Possibly we will be able to leave
the weeds there
along with our lack of focus.
Gravity pulls us back,
deposits us
back on the second floor conference room.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:15:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Glad to be back again!

where did this come from?

my cup half full
why?
when yesterday he walked into a nursing home
a nursing home for god’s sake
and started shooting
but
the volunteers come together
and help
two more young Mexicans
go to college

my cup is half full
why?
when they found pieces of plastic microscopic
in the tiniest animals
at the bottom of the food chain
but
the australians come together
and help
dolphins and whales beached
go back to the sea

my cup is half full
why?
just another pollyanna
walks the planet and
where did this come from?
but
isn’t it better to see possibilities
and keep
smiles and gratitude for
my cup running over

kimberly
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:16:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Pin money

If it’s 1849
your name’s Walter Hunt
and you owe fifteen bucks
to the draughtsman,
twisting a piece of wire
for three hours one afternoon
should be about enough time
to make the first safety pin
- complete with coil spring
and hidden point.
After you’ve sold the rights
and paid off your debt
you get to pocket
the small fortune of $385.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:16:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Prompt: Origin

Poem: Weed

"Since you ask so nicely, young fellah,
I'll tell you this much for free:
all bad luck, like us all, needs
to get a start in life, luck's birth.

Once it gets going, it manages just fine.
There's no holding the weed. It spreads
and spreads everywhere. It flourishes,
but can we say the same of happiness?

Happiness, old buddy, good luck, is much
more... so, so finicky, over before it starts.
It doesn't last much time at all, and while
it does, it casts too little shade to speak of -

"Sunny!" people say: "Your future's sunny, sonny!"
Aren't I right? But bon chance is hothouse
through and through, an orchid for rich folk
with pots of dosh to lavish on luck's plant.

It's knowing when to be there to pick the bloom."

Copyright C.J. Heyworth, April 1st. 2009
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:16:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Poetry

It begins with a word
any word
placed in the ashen embrace
of a blank page, rooted.
Shannon Rayne
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:18:23 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
And the Point is…

The discussion is
heading toward the weeds.
We can’t stay here
on task and focused.
We have to go deep
and show we know
more than they do.
Even if it’s only
one minor point,
it is more than the other person had.
So that point is presented
as if it’s a diamond,
Rare in its cut and clarity
though once shown,
it is no longer ours alone.
Perhaps more points exist.
So we allow ourselves to go
even deeper and further away
from the original intent.
Which now looks
as far away
as the edge of the observable universe.
Possibly we will be able to leave
the weeds there
along with our lack of focus.
Gravity pulls us back,
deposits us
back on the second floor conference room.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:19:36 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Forgotten Berry

I held it in
the palm of my hand
for too long—the strawberry.

The morning was too hot. The ‘berry bled
in my fist. I had been

dreaming, sitting on the edge
of a chair from the kitchen, in the backyard,

forgot all
about it—the strawberry.

It stained the center
of my hand; the mark looked like a hickey.
What a place to be
kissed! What a color!

Rubbed it across my mouth—the strawberry.
Pressed my lips together
like I’ve seen my mother do.

Rubbed it across the seat
of my light blue shorts, pretended
I was at that age,

even felt a slight pain
in the lower part of my belly
beginning

beginning

beginning

beginning
Melissa "Missy" McEwen
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:19:43 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Before Light

The raven didn’t chose to be the creator
Before light everything was black
she became so by default
Perhaps things
didn’t turn out like you supposed
It was in her voice
that cackle
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:19:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
the beginning...

in the beginning, there was a thought
but it was yet without form,
so devoid of clear meaning
and darkness was surrounding it.
so i searched for light
and then there was light
flashing its brilliance upon me
like a spark of inspiration.
i began analyzing this thought,
scrutinizing each little detail
separating the good parts from the bad.
then i started molding it,
fashioning it according to my image
of true, good and beautiful.
i continued to nurture it,
helping it grow
to its fullest potential,
as i felt optimistic
that someday, someday soon
it, too, would somehow play
a significant role in this world full of pain.
i paused for a while
to see what i had accomplished,
and i felt quite happy
to witness my thought bearing fruits
little by little
one by one
slowly, yes, slowly
it had been touching hearts and souls,
spreading its sparkling potency
for others to fully savor.
does its story end here? no, it does not.
on the contrary, this is just the beginning...
Issa
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:22:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Gardens In The Dark" by Rebecca Chasteen

Life
sprung from darkness

Vast, heavy veils
I wore,
I covered the seeds you dropped
carelessly
when you'd leave
and they gave way to promise

There, broke through light
the thickest night
the fight of my life
watching you
slip through

So born was my faith
in the completeness
within me
without you

So born was my power to watch you at my door,
wondering who changed the locks
as you try to turn the knob

I'm still on the floor,
fighting the pull to slip you the key
through that little space
where light and dark meet

I'm still at your feet
but I'm not letting you see,
so born
the power in me

I'm churning my energy within now
I'm growing everything I need

You were, at times, a velvet night
but night you were

And I'm born
I'm more
I'm sure
you're casting shadows elsewhere
by now
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:22:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
JOY, TO THE WORLD

Born in a land where some call unsafe
I've lived my life with amazing grace
Seizing the days to make it last
Framed thoughts to remember the past



Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:23:06 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
BEGINNINGS

Lavender desires
Fasting, kneeling, praying
Deeply, freely taking in breath
Purple passion

Passing over season after season
Desire and Passion
Become more and less her own
Passions of the past, bury into memories
Past desires, drawn into heart’s descent

Lavender desires
Insulin, wheelchair, rosary
Ascetic struggle taking breath
Purple passion

Passing over is the Angel of Death
Desire and Passion
Become hopes fulfilled at last
Passions of the past, remembered and forgotten
Past desires, purified by closing Light
Daniel Davis
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:23:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Ignore my first post, this is the edited version!

--------------------------------------------

Poetry

It starts with a word
any word
placed into the ashen embrace
of a blank page, rooted.

-------------------------------------------

Copyright 2009 Shannon Rayne
Shannon Rayne
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:25:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April showers


April and the showers
rain for fabled flowers

But today is still today
for some maybe to late

For a seed not planted
will not, can not grow

Understand today is
but tomorrows tool

Before the day is done
and you lay down to rest

With for thought and joy
plant the seed do, the deed

water it with love and grace
for it returns you will find it
twice blessed


Ray Nielson

1 April 2009
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:27:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Pied

it starts the minute they are alone
his confidence is the flute
her guilt is the tune
she dances behind him
her legs won’t stop moving
her only direction is whether he is pleased or not

he never looks back to see her
he doesn’t hear the music
he is the sun feeling hot
she is the moon vying for light

if she could only plug her ears
but the plug was lost in one of her other holes
she must go back and look
from the beginning

it starts in the garage where
she is mounted on the workbench
an old man tightens a bolt
with loosener still on his fingers
he is burning her under her dress
she is too little to remember his face
except whether he is pleased or not

it all starts with the sound
of a man clearing his throat
just one of his many pipes
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:27:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I said gin
and she laughed
I cannot drink gin
my mother giggled
I have drunk gin
three times in my life

she paused for drama

And I have three children
halfmoon_mollie
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:30:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Baby

Blood again.
No baby.

What's this body for
if not to make another

body? Each time—
emptier, colder than

a frying pan too old
even for cooking in. Blood

yet again— baby refuses
to catch hold & fatten

me up. A woman
at the market spoke of baby,

said baby is due, but
baby won't budge. She so full,

fruit-round, & heavy. Me so
vacant— but for this blood

that keeps coming. I feel it
the most when spring comes

pushing in— bringing
green things growing.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:30:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“First”

Implies last
Always trying, pushing
And My perfection

A tape or the line
Something to cross, I cross
Or you cross

Second unwanted
And third forgotten
All try

One
Implies connection
Reaching, building
And Wholeness

An invisible line
Cross over, I come closer
Or you cross

Two
Come together
Three becomes completion

Better to count than to rank
Am I whole or did I win?

Stephanie Miller
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:30:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Celebrate Life!

The love, the touch,
The origin of conception,
No joke, no trick,
Zygote formation,
Child forming, developing,
Embodied DNA
Those chromosomes,
Typically constant
Numbered, ordered, dividing
During mitosis,
Again in meiosis
Are differently
Directed to one spot
Supposing to go off
In even pairs
During cell division,
But instead, Painting a picture
Unique karyotype
A little boy, or a girl,
With three chromosomes,
On number twenty-one
Attentive with Attributes
A beautiful child
Born with Down syndrome
Celebrate life!


Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:30:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Phat by Valentine deFrancis


I remember when back in the day
it could have been May
or July
the year escapes me
because trust me,
it's been a while

Anyway, as I was saying
back then
I couldn't have been more than ten
when someone said a word
it was a word
not a rhyme
or a rap
but a word that I heard
which had one meaning

no
not meany,
meaning

So for the sake of trying to be hip
I'll state for the record that I am phat
no
not fat
as in fat cheeks
but phat
as in dope
not rope-a-dope
but as in cool

yeah man, groovy

did I mention that
that I'm I'm the bomb?
no not the nuclear
geesh, get with it
Valentine deFrancis
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:32:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Beginning

A muted thumping
Sounding through the machine
A small outline of something
Primal Beauty
Heart beats echo off the walls
An inner stirring
Something alive
But wait...
'Ere even this

Two become one
Meeting deeper than flesh
As minds, hearts, souls
Thrust in and out
To the rhythm
Of something sacred

Defining life not by ability
But by the mere
Blessing of existence
From HE who gives it
Yet never takes it away
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:32:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


May April showers
Unfurl
Petals of poetry.
Jodi Adamson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:33:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
For Steven
(1980-2006)

Before the sea, even. Before you divined a cool salt, a cloudless ache. A thousand unreckoned bottles.

Brother, you came early. Were born a river; a downhill scar with a bit of summer snow. And so your breath was certain. A foal's flared breath, then, given for the full race.

And you took the rain, took the tumbling, took the city's light until the city grew dark behind you. You laughed at the night, having somehow reconciled with it. Having known where you were headed all along.


Susan Culver
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:34:30 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Fatherhood
It started with a call
A message left

Long drive to a
town I dislike

She was sleeping
when I arrived

My little girl
looking like grandma
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:35:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Henge

They raised the stones with music and star fire
Orchestrated in the bright moonlight
Of the longest day.

Hundreds of ranks of trained bards
And mages in their own right
Ranged around the plain
One rank for each set of uprights and lintel

One master to lead
And direct their shimmering energies
One master to control the power
That sets the lintel gently atop the uprights

The power of their music hangs brilliant
In the moonlit air
Shimmering and coalescing over the plain
The granite stones pulse warmly and glow
As the move and dance into place

It is done
The master turns and bows
To welcome the Sun
This morning of the longest day

The ranks of bards bow
And raise shining eyes
As the Sun bathes them
In the first flush of dawn light

The master smiles
The stones settle into their beds
The Sun’s rays shine true
Locking the stones in place

The song rises with the Sun
Blooming from the bards
From the granite stone itself
The God and Goddess dance
Across the lintel stones

Nancy Bell, Balzac, Alberta
Nancy Bell
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:36:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Day 1

I step into a new world, filled with fears
Of needles, limits, diets, and of drugs.
The legal kind, you mind, not bought from thugs
But maybe I'd be happier with theirs?

That diagnosis seems to me a curse.
The end of days? Not quite. But bad enough.
The thing I take for granted now look tough;
I don't need friends now -- no, I need a nurse.

At thirty-four a cripple? What a pun!
It's time to readjust -- adapt -- to new extremes.
I'll bury all my troubles under dreams
Of wheelchair tennis in the Tampa sun.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:38:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A to Z

One,
Two,
Three.
A,
B,
C.

Blue,
Red,
Brown.
Back,
Up,
Down.

Sit,
Stand,
Walk.
Coo,
Laugh,
Talk.

Learn,
Teach,
Know.
Eat,
Drink,
Grow.

Work,
Run,
Play.
Cry,
Dream,
Pray.

Rest,
Sleep,
Break.
Creak,
Moan,
Ache.

Love,
Live,
Fly.
End,
Stop,
Die.


Karin Larsen
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:39:30 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Catechism


meant leaving my new, sunlit public school classroom
on Wednesdays to be bussed to St. John’s brick parochial
on the other side of town. Nuns habited holy rules
while we inhabited wooden desks with ancient inkwells
stuffed with paper, listening to the lucky Protestant
kids playing kickball in the street. We nodded, rooting
through their open desks, gouged with initials,
for signs of superiority in reading and religion.
We found pencils, Jesus books and holy spelling lists,
written dutifully by kids whose parents paid tuition
for fine penmanship, plaid skirts and knee socks.
We fidgeted, played in dust-light rainbows during lessons
wrought by dour nuns, like my Aunt, who never kissed
a boy, had orgasms or wore tight jeans before they left
the world to teach God to the “one-day-a-week” Catholic
kids, the ones from across town whose fathers might
have been raised Baptist, who didn’t drink, but were
not allowed at their daughters baptisms because they never
took the class.
Kim King
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:40:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
It Starts In The Heart

It starts in your heart
A warm feeling of love
Moving through the veins of your existence
The happiness travels
Through your insides
Mushy with glee
Out to your limbs
Tingling with excitement
Up the back of your neck
Making little hairs stand on end
And finally to your face
That transforms into a smile
You share with everyone with you see
Giving them a warm feeling of love
That starts in the heart
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:41:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Old Stories

"Namer of Animals" he called himself
and the endless stories of the garden
where fruit bloomed with morning,
would fall into his mouth if only
he lay beneath it. And his obsession
with snakes, the hours spent listening
to them writhe in the pit back of his house,
prone, stirring them with a staff,
convinced he could understand then again.
Again As if he'd ever understood.
As if they'd ever spoken at all. As if
Grandmother hadn't slipped, fallen
long before we were born, her neck broken
on the rocks, blood curling from behind
her left ear, tracing sinuous lines in the sand.
"So close," he mutters, prods the snakes again.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:43:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Anxiety's such as nasty creature
coming when you least expect
Building pressure 'til you think,
"I'll explode!"
Much like an electrical overload.

You can't think, you can't talk
You move in a frenzy
Upsetting yourself and your
household until
No one is sure of what to expect
from the one who's become a real
pain in the neck.

You begin to say things like
suppose and what if
Until you imagine such
incredible things
There can be no help coming
you'll have to sprout wings
And flee to a world of more
reasonable beings.

Who'll help you to know
as you breathe in deep breaths
That soon, very soon
you'll be rid of this pest
And can get on with your life
as you did once before
The pancake you flipped
fell on to the floor!
Jackie Hinton
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:43:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The year of our Lord, Fifteen Eighty-Two,
Long, long ago, long before me and you,
Gregory, His Holiness, reigned as the pope
His calendar inventor, Aloysius Lilius, was no dope.

They replaced the Emperor’s calendar for clarity:
A moment, a blip, of a common sense rarity.

Those who were faithful to Julius Cesar
Did not make their lives any more the easier.
While they thought their loyalty very cool,
Each was the first to be called, “April Fool.”
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:44:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Feathers

You're the bird, Mommy
and we, your feathers

You're free, Mommy
but, you need us

feathers?
an insight
from only eleven-years it comes

listen
her heart less jaded
knows you better than yours

You can't live without us, Mommy
we're your feathers

so, it is
I AM free

like a caged bird with an open door

your innocent eyes
how clearly they see


Jessica Guica
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:45:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
HAIKU: "THE SQUIRREL"

Destroyer of my
tulips, O furry fiend, you
demon spawn from hell.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:46:06 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Concerned Neighbor of Mr. and Mrs. Kent's

John, it was the damnedest thing
I ever seen. Clark must have wandered
off your corn onto mine. I was checkin’
for mites between kernels, damn

nuisance, when I heard him mumblin’.
Just a voice at first – didn’t know it
was him till I parted a few stalks and
saw him. He was kneelin’ before a big

old boulder – ‘bout the size of a tractor.
Don’t know how it got there, but there
it was. Anyway, kneeling before it like he’s
about to pray, he started knockin’ his head

up againt it. Again and again. And he was
sayin’ "bleed, bleed, bleed" – each time his head
clunked against it. But that’s the thing –
it didn’t. "Clark" I said and he turned at me –

his forehead wasn’t even red. Then he split
into the corn like a hot knife through butter.
I went off after him, but he was gone. By the time
I got myself back to the rock, it was gone too.

Yup, I said it was gone. Now, honestly, I
don't know who’s crazier – your boy or me.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:46:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Giants born of birthing earth
exploding into peaks
reducing would-be conquerers to weeping
or raising up the peak of dreams realized.
They tell us you can reach higher than you knew.
They tell us you can come back from being broken.
They tell us you may suffer greatly on the way.
They tell us you may fall, may fail, may die.
But they tell us, if you try, you may, just may, see yourself reborn
to climb still higher another day.

Ann W.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:47:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Spiral

When her world was no longer vibrant shades of red and orange spattered with hues of blue, green and gold but rather muddled shades of gray…

When the once-cheerful sounds of birds singing and children playing were drowned out by dull and deadened noise, only she could hear…

When her smiles and laughter turned to teardrops and chest-spasming sobs...

When her will to live was replaced by her mere existence…

When the pity party ended and the indifference set in…

…that was the beginning of her end.
Sharon Spielman
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:47:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin
-------

Sipping beer
in a badly-lit bar,
I inform Frank:
‘At school today
my daughter learned
about the origin
of mankind.
How in the beginning,
there were two;
and then the apple
and the snake too.
Before the two
were exiled
out of paradise
down to earth.’
‘Good,’ says Frank
sipping long.
‘And I’m telling you
this global warming
thingamajig
is one big fat
baloney.
The earth was hot
and humid
then too.
Why else would the two -
Adam and Eve - run around
bareassed and naked?’
‘And you didn’t hear them,’
he adds,
‘complain about
emission standards
and what have yous.’

‘True,’ I nod my head
and add,
‘You know what else
would make sense -
that the world must ‘ve
been made this day,
the first of april,
three thousand whatever
years ago when it was created.'
‘Possibly,’
Frank agrees,
‘and you know what’d make
even more sense?
That we should
talk about
this today
- the first day of mankind.'
‘But,’ he says standing up,
‘I must go home now
else I'd be late
to shoot down
some alien spaceships
with my online pals.’
Kripa Nidhi
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:48:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Family Tree

in every baby book, that water-color illustration
branching across the page to identify the parents,
grandparents, great grandparents, and on remotest twigs,
the great-greats of the babe whose name is written starkly
at the trunk. Perversity to make an infant bear this heavy
crown? Better to envision an inverted tree of branching roots
penetrating moist dark soil to send up molecules saturated
with DNA— a peppering of freckles or an upturned nose,
perfect pitch or a propensity to joke or win at Scrabble.

And yet there must be something in the schema
that endures—the child at play beneath the canopy
of branches. There was an old apple tree
in our backyard whose limbs sheltered my first
play-yard, a fenced off pen that dad built. Its grassy
floor was littered with late summer apples,
which I learned to sort, separating the brown-
spotted from those with unblemished skin.
On the table with its little chairs that mom set up, I laid
places for an elusive family that lived above
somewhere in an arbor of leaves and sun—Punk
and Africa and their girl Susie. One day I broke out
and ran away with them, family too close to lose its claim.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:48:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


Unknown Origin

He says, I am angry with my mother,
I ask him why. He says, I don't know.
I ask him, what does she do?
He says, nothing. I ask him,
what would you like her to do?
He answers, nothing. I ask him,
why do you hit her? He says,
I am angry. I ask, does she
yell at you? He says, I yell at
her. I say, she loves you more
than anything in the world. She
works hard every day to give you
a good life. He says, my dad loves
me, plays video games with me.
I cannot discover the origin of his
anger toward his mother, and I
cannot explain to a five-year-old
that playing video games is fun,
not love. And it is not my place
to explain that his father has
given him nothing at all.
Mary K
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:49:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of My Stupidity

Did it come from my Mother and Father?
No, they couldn’t bother
I cannot, therefore, say
it’s a genetic thing
Even though it would bring
Some degree of satisfaction

It did not come from an inheritance
My parents, they didn’t bother
The only things they’ve ever said
I could count on are
my fingers,
and my stupidity

So the family tree is not the source
I’ve been severed from its’ branches
But it’s seed has been planted
inside my head
I fear it will keep
bearing fruit until I’m dead

Joe
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:49:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)



Origin of Obsession

Was it the first time I saw you smile?
Did it break apart in the breeze,
your teeth exploding
like a burst of dandelion seeds,
each one carried on currents unseen
and attaching to my naked skin,
burying itself into my pores
opened like mouths
to drink in your beauty,
my body nothing more
than a patch of
freshly tilled earth,
and you the gardener
of thoughts?

Was it the first time I heard you speak?
Every word falling
from your moistened lips
like a tiny maple helicopter,
to gather at my feet
in piles of exhaled syllables
washed up by a tide
of coincidence and circumstance
that falls like a torrential rain
and erodes the walls of mud
separating us from
our true selves,
emotions breaking free
into a landslide
locking my feet to the ground
beneath the debris
of my own blood and guts
and the seeds of trees
already starting to sprout
and dig their roots in.

Was it the first time we touched?
Your fingers wrapping
around me like vines,
ensnaring my consciousness
like an abandoned statue,
a home left untouched
for a hundred years,
overrun with ropes of green
choking out all signs
of its past lives
except for tiny
gaps
between the strands and curls
where the color bleeds through
and gasps for breath
like a dog
in the clutches
of an anaconda,
still licking its face.

All these seeds and blossoms
must have come from somewhere,
I’m a walking botanical garden,
a science fair project,
a petrified forest of lost dreams,
encased beneath the bark
and clawing from the inside
like a man alive in his coffin,
unable to scream,
for the vines are so tight,
as I watch you
turn your tongue
into a chainsaw.



Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:50:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Family Tree

in every baby book, that water-color illustration
branching across the page to identify the parents,
grandparents, great grandparents, and on remotest twigs,
the great-greats of the babe whose name is written starkly
at the trunk. Perversity to make an infant bear this heavy
crown? Better to envision an inverted tree of branching roots
penetrating moist dark soil to send up molecules saturated
with DNA— a peppering of freckles or an upturned nose,
perfect pitch or a propensity to joke or win at Scrabble.

And yet there must be something in the schema
that endures—the child at play beneath the canopy
of branches. There was an old apple tree
in our backyard whose limbs sheltered my first
play-yard, a fenced off pen that dad built. Its grassy
floor was littered with late summer apples,
which I learned to sort, separating the brown-
spotted from those with unblemished skin.
On the table with its little chairs that mom set up, I laid
places for an elusive family that lived above
somewhere in an arbor of leaves and sun—Punk
and Africa and their girl Susie. One day I broke out
and ran away with them, family too close to lose its claim.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:50:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
While pudalli IS a word
however one not many have heard
It originates in some unusual state...
... or country.
But in English it did not exist
Until a morning
THIS
When purely by happenstance
I took a chance
and visited Nessa
God bless her!
The required comment I did deposit
And that was when I saw it!
PUDALLI!
Please type this to verify
Sounds poetic I did reply
and thus began
as I ran
to Poetic Asides
MY tries
to abide
by the rules.
And so you see...
In English
Pudalli
originates with ME
poetically!
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:54:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
She came from the dew on the trees and the grass
The sunlight sparkled through her iridescent shell
Her wings were tiny fluttering bits of gossamer, sparkling with all the colors in nature
Like her hair, they finally settled on a yellowish pink,
to favor her father-the sun and her mother, a random butterfly who sunned herself one afternoon and caught his attention
At last, shell cast aside, she rose into the air and joined the others, joining the fairy chorus.
JoElla
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:54:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of Sin

Such a pretty apple
Such a little thing
How could such a tiny taste
Bring an end to spring

Rules were set in place
But reasons never shared
To sate a hungry mind
Created curious and scared

And if she hadn’t tasted
Had accepted ignorant defeat
Would we ever know again
Any sin so sweet
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:54:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Soap and Water
By Marlana-Patrice
(PAD Origin Poem /April 1, 2009)

Mom washed my face with
Ivory soap and water in the morning
It stung my eyes a little
Rinsing off residue.
Cold water tightening pores.
Dabbing me with a tiny wash cloth
That smiled with us under the light
Peaking into the bathroom
As we were lathering it too.
Ladling it like tasty stew.

Liquids creamy or foaming.
Promises of eternal beauty, thinness,
And wrinkle removals.
Milder enjoyments for daughters now.
Water, sometimes tepid
Or like walking in cleats on sensitive skin.
Not much to lather or ladle then.

But soap and water in my hands,
Any hands plumb with wisdom and care
Of Mothers for daughters. Daughters for daughters. Daughters for themselves.
Enjoying the stew.
Let us lather that art anew.
Marlana-Patrice Pugh Hamer
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:56:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
As We Begin
As we began
this time last year,
we hid beneath a veil of
anonymity—first name only,
nom de plume—flanked by
cryptic dot com trails.

As we began,
each day
we scanned
first for our own poem,
then with no need
for false modesty,
we searched for
praise for our poems,
then sifted through the
silt of poetic license
to find the living poets
underneath.

As we begin again,
we skim for names
we know, old friends
we haven’t met,
tucked in among
the other lines
penned by friends
we’ll come to know.

Nancy Posey
PAD Sophomore
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:57:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hardened fire,
Rising from the raging floods
Gnarled mountains
Shaking their fists from the cold sea
Hungry ice,
Gnawing the newborn rock,
And storms,
Rising from wild waters,
First came to their ancient home
The hills of Scotland.
Sam. M.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 6:58:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
It was a warm September afternoon,
Your Mom and I but 7.
I watched her walk across the old A&P parking lot
Back when Sol ran book at the candy shop,
And a dime would buy you a really good chocolate bar.

Thousands of dates,
Uncountable kisses,
A half dozen break ups.
A million apologies, all, save 3. mine,

And just 20 years and 7 months later,
You arrived.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:00:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Spring Cleaning

In times of yore,
or so says the lore,
every bit of leavened bread must go.

Search high,
search low,
every remnant must be found.

Search with candle,
search with light,
every piece found,
before Passover night.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:00:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
So happy to be here again! Not sure if this is quite right, but here goes:

My origin

They came together
He from a town now long
Buried under the polished
Boots of Nazi soldiers
Who sent the inhabitants
To slaughter as if they were cattle
Grodnah, a name on a map
Devoid of its humdrum bustle
Erased as he is now gone
She from the middle class
Second and third generation
American,young eager,
Her mother’s sharp retorts
Ringing in her ears reminding
Her she was not like others
too willful, too fat.
He embracing her youth, her family,
The life he had yearned to achieve
To escape from the oppression of
His own.His father’s disdain at
The lifestyle he had chosen
Forsaking the long black coat and felt hat
Traditions never for him
She finding a comfort
An ease - no demands.
He rejoicing in the folds of her love
She damaged early
the sting of her mother’s words
burned into her flesh
He unable to cure with his
Gentle ways and boisterous manner
She punishing her body with endless diets
Ignoring her talent for needle and thread.
He the amateur neighborhood showman
The salesman, the artist, the shnook
She always pushing
He content to sit and dream
Her sewing, his drawing
untapped fruits
Both unaware of their abilities
Passing fears, inhibitions, boisterousness,
As they sleepwalked through their lives
Pretending they had chosen the right path.





Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:02:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origins of My Desire for a New Plant

creepy hallow talons
crunch, crack, snap!
rotted sinewy tentacles
grab. grasp, rip!
sharp, writhe, crumble
Vetch.
I chucked it in the garbage...
Anita Hadley
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:02:33 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Joker.
Jack’s mischievous little brother.
Motley wearing joke teller.
Whose stories seem so familiar.
He dances for our distraction.
A knave for the naïve.
With a face so familiar.
Watch the Jester gesture.
With a gait that mocks your own.
A Fool that loves the foolish.
Admires you too long.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:04:30 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
CHAIN MAIL

Doesn’t matter where it starts,
I don’t do chain letters.
Didn’t do them when they came in the mail.
Don’t do them now when they zing in from cyberspace,
A desperate plea for me
To prove that I (a great and well-loved friend)
Have 10 names
In my address book.

Don’t do them for 47 ways to disguise macaroni
Or direct contact with my guardian angel
Or to save the troops.

Don’t do it when they threaten me.
Or promise me long life without misfortune.
Not for money, better sex. A car.

But it’s Friday
And all I have to do
Is add my name to the bottom of the list,
Ship you, my husband, to the name on the top.
A week Tuesday, they’ll begin to arrive.
Hundreds of husbands. Surely one a better match.

I see them milling about in the yard,
Suitcases, duffel bags, knapsacks
And trunks mounded by the front porch.

What if I kept them all? Used a morgue-like filing system,
Each drawer clearly labeled:
Plumber, carpenter, stud, sensitive.

Imagine having the whole day to decide the night’s menu.

The dryer beeps
and I think of laundry,
And all those mismatched socks.

Sigh. Shift. Delete.
Pam Calabrese MacLean
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:05:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The First Cupcake

Who first thought of
cupcakes? First filled
a teacup with sweet
batter, iced it with buttercream,
set it before a delighted
face on a painted saucer,
watched it disappear
in four quick bites?

Who first looked at a
glistening sheet
of cake, and saw
the distillation of
confection possible
in a cupcake? I
wish I had been there
to see the patisserie
full of those first ecstatic
experiments, the rich
combinations of cardamom
and bananas, ginger
and cream, lavender
and honey chiffon cake
that fit perfectly
in the palm of a hand
of the one you love.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:06:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origins of the Estranged Wife

She wasn't born this way, all
empty teacups and closed
drapery. In the beginning was
a loveseat filled with two
bodies and a porchswing
pushed by four feet. She pinned
her hair in knots and he
called them "nests" where the egg
of his nosetip felt at home.
He pulled his dress socks
to the bottom of his knee
and she called them
"licorice wraps", her teeth
always gnawing once his calves
had been stripped clean. All day
the sheets lay in wormlike
piles where the good morning
kiss had kicked them aside.
At night the gardening gloves
rested beside the power tools
in the two car garage.
Lisa McCool-Grime
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:07:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
this'll fool 'em, He said

the greatest creative force God went creating
was the wonderful fraud that we call carbon dating
Mike Perry
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:07:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
When They Began
4-1-09

Was it the beach or the church
where she first saw him
in either a ratty tweed jacket
and expensive running shoes
with bizarre yellow socks
several pews in front of her
or the neon orange swim shorts
sliced up the sides of his
chiseled thighs and hips as he strode
through the water toward her?

Was it love when he grinned
at her with his Irish eyes
and a dimpled cheek at the beach
with the midday sun overhead or
when he held the Cathedral door after
Mass and asked after her mother
on a cool spring morning?

Will it be marriage for her
and her marathon man and
will he ask for her hand
on the beach where they met
and will he walk down the aisle
with her on his arm having said
‘I Do’ to all he has come to know
since that day at the beach
and that Sunday at mass?

Mary E. Tavernini
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:07:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
An Oyster’s Nightmare

An oyster creates a pearl under the chaos of the ocean,
but it never dreams of the humans
prying open the hard-shell jaws and taking the treasure,
only to throw the oyster back into the sand -
left like a mutated, slippery tongue.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:08:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Kid

Baby
Child
Infant
Tot

Bother
Dupe
Jest
Mock

Even a baby goat!
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:09:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My First Incounter
Let me close my eyes as I regretfully reminisce.
It all began with a simple kiss.
I looked in his eyes and thought to myself,
that true love could possibly exist.
A gentle touch, a warm embrace, a sweet kiss against my face.
The look in his eyes as he looked into my heart
I knew then we made a connection right from the start.

As he held me closer, I could feel him climb
See I was a virgin, yet in my prime
But it felt so good yet it wasn’t the right time.

I closed my eyes as he caressed my breast
He whispered in my ear now get undressed

He grabbed me and insisted that we must
He said, trust me baby it’s more than just lust,

I closed my eyes and said okay,
As he laid me down and had his way.

I felt ugly, dirty and so unclean
I was still so young, just barely sixteen.

As he pushed and pounded I began to scream
This can’t be right it must be a dream.

Though my yells weren’t screams of passion,
But a cry for help and wanting compassion.

I leaned back and looked into his eyes,
I saw a demon
A man possessed
The lust in him I was no longer impressed
For this is not love but a fool obsessed

He robbed me of my virginity and stole my prize
I looked again
it was the devil, he was in a disguise

He left content in his soul,
as I laid there abandoned and cold.

Broken in pieces, No longer a Virgin
And no longer whole.
Invisible Voice
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:09:56 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Flower's Origin

Its origin began as a tiny bulb,
planted deep down in the ground.
Within weeks it started to sprout,
then it burst through the moist soil.
Now it is a tall and colorful flower,
swaying gently in the Spring breeze
Darla Smith
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:10:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Nancy - I like the "PAD Sophmore"! :-) Perhaps we should all use that! :) I enjoyed your poems today and so many others, but if every day is like today it's going to be hard to keep up!
Judy Rooney, Iain, Connie - enjoyed yours too! Need to get back to more reading!
Michelle H.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:11:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Mandrakes: A Mythology in Five Parts

1
One day, scientists breed men the size of a normal man's thumbs and allows them to live until adulthood. Upon reaching 30, the men are taken into a dirt plot inside of a ceramic urn, and there, adorned with knotted rope extended up to the wooden stakes sticking out of the earth. The men are hung up and the scientists set a stopwatch for 50 seconds before looking away from the seizuring men. When they look back, the little men are blue and the fronts of their pants are wet. The scientists sleep and upon awaking, they see brown tubing sprouting from the earth. Upon parting the dirt and scratching their nails against the sloping sides of the pot, they find misshapen roots, although on further investigation, they note that each root has markings nearly identical to the features on each dead man's face.

2
Through poison comes fertility and so the biblical women go out into the fields and spend several nights uprooting mangled plants to place beneath their heads as they sleep. Because the roots appear to be men, the women are covetous and fill baskets with the brown, then cover each layer with a piece of silk. Fetuses are born of each mandrake's head and then steal into the waiting wombs. Those women who still pick the black earth from their fingernails congratulate themselves for their good fortune. Those whose hands are clean cut thin slices of stolen roots to feed to each child and then help bury the corpses in the holes the mandrakes left behind.

3
There are screams that bite through the ear drums and vomit into the brain and shatter windows and cause foundations to fall. This is all followed by the sudden shrill howl of a bloodhound out in the fields. Then the men leave their homes with alcohol in hands and cotton wads stuffed into their ears. They find the dogs lying dead and a few feet away, a tie of rope with a root at the end. Each dog is patted once on the head, given a treat, and then abandoned, while the mandrakes are shaved and ground into a fine powder and sprinkled over the top of each enemy's luncheon meal.

4
A women is born beneath the legs swinging from the arm of the gallows and for years, she wanders back and forth, her eyes empty and dull. The legs knock against her head as she walks and on the eve of the two hundredth full moon of her life, she digs a hole and places her head inside while her hands pat the dirt into place around the base of her neck. Many gather at the hilltop to watch this display but none offer to remove her from the hole. There are too many children being born from the earth below the gallows every day, each wandering back and forth, silent and confused, that to pull each out of the inevitable spaces would require the creation of a new township job and no one cares enough to be willing to pay.

5
Strings are tied into the root until the flesh has puckered and come inside itself. Carefully, facial orifices are painted upon the textured surface and then crude clothing made of ripped canvas are wrapped around the figure. Such an androgenous doll, without any true sexual orientation whether in features or clothing. The tunic is smoothed down in the front before the figure is blessed on the forehead with holy water spilled into spoiled milk. Each little man is strung up in the branches of oak trees and given permission to look down at those who walk the paths beneath them. Young men and women will come one day, laughing and drinking as they walk, and when they see the little men in trees, they will desire them and climb the trunks to reach them. Forgetting home, these men and women will want nothing more than the mandrakes and without thinking, each will place a root in his and her open mouth and bite down. They will think of the bitterness of flavor and envision fields of little men, all waving, all speaking, their mouths never closing.
Alana I. Capria
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:11:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
In the International Chat Room
for Mischievous Fairies
it was decided to form a
Task Force for the Reinstatement of Childlike Joy
Corinne
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:12:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Genesis

In the beginning, there was this Word
And the Word was "Light!"
And there was another Word: "Be!"
And yet another: "Become!"

And so we spend our days
Trying to Become the Light
of the Being that gave us
the Word.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:12:37 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
We

1 second
1 minute
1 hour
1 day
1 week
1 month
1 year
1 life
We are one
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:13:37 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
From the ones I read (which was at 293 posts), I was especially touched by Elise's and Amber's.

Quite a crowd this year!
Corinne
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:14:16 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Love in The Begining

You look at him
he looks at you
friends forever
but now something has changed,
first there is a flicker,
a spark
a warmth that over comes you
a warmth that you can not explain.
You look away
not wanting him to see...
its too late for he already sees
he already feels the sparks and the flame
ignite in his heart.
He reaches for you
at first you shy away
believing that none of this can be real
then your heart takes over
you nolonger have control
and you fallow that feeling
that is burning deep inside
your heart.
He Kisses you and suddenly
the flame ingnites into a blaze.
Nicole Carr
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:14:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Strawberries

Just off Georgica Beach in the Summers, usually late June.
My Mother always took us to a special place ~ a magical place.
Just me, my brother and her.
To a field filled with vines and red budding fruits.
With a conforting breeze off the ocean and smell of salt.
I truely looked forward to late June every year.
The Strawberries.
Picking the Strawberries.
My brother would pick diligently, counting each one.
Not me. I would instead eat one by one.
The redder the better.
The bigger the juicer.
"Make sure we get six pints." My Mother would say.
"Just enough for the jam." She would always add.
I love strawberry jam.
Yum.
I loved making strawberry jam with my Mother.
My Mother, now in heaven having toast with jam and tea.
Most likely, sitting above in a familiar field of strawberries.
Thinking of all those late Junes.
And, glad none of us ever got stung by a bee!
Jaime Kosinski
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:14:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Us

If you and I, had a creation myth, how would it begin?
With nothing or everything? Two complete beings
existing in space, until their collision sent sparks shooting
through distant galaxies, sending light exploding
over one-hundred eighty-six thousand miles per second
through curved Einsteinian space away from our
bratty Goldilocks planet making the shining star sun
jealous, filling up every corner of the universe
with the light. The long slow arcs of orbits, slowly,
bend toward the new light source,
some merely curious others simply envious.
Tiffany B
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:14:49 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“When I met you”

It all started and ended when I met you.

I gave up everything
My career, my city; my independence.
I gave up my first husband, beliefs, clothes, food; ideas.
Worldly structure erupted and broke down
No boundaries contained the unknown path
I lay in a dark room with the shades pulled afraid to look out the window
Afraid of what I would become...

I came out again to a whole new world.
Life with you did not produce much money, but we had a good garden.
In the beginning we had a child. The early morning doctor plucked him from my body after 29 hours of excruciating pain. His birth brought us our greatest tearful moment of unity and joy. The child gave us new life again.
New life with blood, guts, tears and pain.

Horrible things happened next.
People we loved died. Those we trusted betrayed us.
We fought and made up over every detail. We stuck together. Ten years went by.

We got used to each other. We became one. The beginning and all its upheavals settled down into a distant memory.
These days I watch the school bus pick up our child in the morning. I watch as it drives off into the mist enshrouding the narrow dirt road. One day he will leave us for a life of his own.
At night I still read to him until he falls asleep though he is 10-years-old.
I put the book down and walk through the kitchen to our bedroom in the dark. I pull the dog off the bed. I find a place for myself with the blankets and pillows and you.
Our new life is comfortable and secure. The great disruption of the beginning settled. Now I know what tomorrow will be like most days. I know what you will say and do. I like it.
-end-


Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:14:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Bright Idea

A niggling itch deep within the brain
A kernel, a theme, a runaway train
Words and pictures are framed by a thought
A missing piece that puzzles the plot
On the tip of the tongue
This song must be sung
Like a flowering seed it breaks the ground
It settles on the lips without a sound
A pause for reflection as it takes shape
Before finding Voice to make its escape
Amy K
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:15:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Brought to commissioned fidelity from old stone, she lies
in wistful weather-permitting permanence, bunched in the stern folds
of her eternal dress and lovely in her dolour. Courted by worms and earth,
she has refused their eager suit, giving them instead
her two eyes, dull as pennies, preferring
her new immoveable eyes, adoring, absolute, and fixed like the stars
of her unavoidable fate, an Arundel Tomb

revisited and revised: puppy-less, unmarried, set
together in the same, slow, gradual decline and similarly dressed
by the clockwork seasons in uniform robes of root and leaf,
the shawlings of the Christmas ermines
softening their frozen shoulders –

no life, no loss, no technical grief, but,
immaculate as Juliet, how tragic she is! Recumbent, devoted, unrequited;
virgin to all touch but the sun’s conciliatory hand.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:16:01 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


_the first betrayal_

your honey in my milk, I knew you intimately
your dance in my daddy’s garden,
your obsession with the sexual organ’s of plants
I knew the names of you--
honey, killer, queen, drone, balm to my lonely seventh year.
your bulging nest in the plantains my father planted to remind my my mama of home
stunning in your segments of sunshine and night.

I loved you, specific thing not ruled by Bible or belt, first friend.
entire afternoons I spent saving you from the swimming pool,
your wings tiny engines of miraculous glass, I imagined
your gratitude was endless, I imagined myself your saviour,
if I couldn’t be your queen at least I could be your servant.

I don’t what it was I did to cause you
to come at me with such rage from the can of sweet
grape soda I was drinking, you sought the softest
part of me, you gave yourself death at the back of my knee
your poison abdominal sac attached and pulsing, my
baby heart’s first sting, that loving something more than anything
is no way to keep it sacred or alive.



Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:16:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Mistake

Deep within it festers
Fostered by fear
Deepened with desperation
It builds, grows, expands
Exploding into my reality
Irreversibly changing my destined path
Stealing pieces of my integrity
Driving me down another road
My mistake alters my journey
Forcing me to change

Barbara Clifford
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:16:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
It always starts at the beginning
Doesn't it?
You do something so normal, so everyday
Lightning strikes and you wonder
How was I so worthy?
Better yet
How was he?
You hope that this is it

It

It always starts the same
Doesn't it?
Begins with fire
Ends in water
Tears of millions of broken hearts
Inspires the music of our life
Inevitable yet so worthy
Frozen despair that will never change
Abigail
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:16:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
the tolerant mother

from norse saxon roman
germanic and latin
many threads
bind the fabric
that made her
blended or conquered
her history’s woven
from isolation
to traveling traders

from the melding of nations
to meddling pronunciations
from bow to bough
she’s been cast
from olde to newfangled
she continually mangled
usage tramples the fruits
of her past

from colonial expansion
and ruling class mansions
to hovel to brothel
she survives
from monarchal dissolution
and through revolution
she lives
in all of our lives

from creole to cajun
yankee drawl gullahbonic
our hybrids must truly amuse her
from bough to cough
and from yawl to y’all
she embraces us
even as we abuse her


Tom F
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:18:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Before I submit, I have a question. Robert, did we need to pick a theme as we did for the chapbook?
Sara McNulty
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:18:16 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Brought to commissioned fidelity from old stone, she lies
in wistful weather-permitting permanence, bunched in the stern folds
of her eternal dress and lovely in her dolour. Courted by worms and earth,
she has refused their eager suit, giving them instead
her two eyes, dull as pennies, preferring
her new immoveable eyes, adoring, absolute, and fixed like the stars
of her unavoidable fate, an Arundel Tomb

revisited and revised: puppy-less, unmarried, set
together in the same, slow, gradual decline and similarly dressed
by the clockwork seasons in uniform robes of root and leaf,
the shawlings of the Christmas ermines
softening their frozen shoulders –

no life, no loss, no technical grief, but,
immaculate as Juliet, how tragic she is! Recumbent, devoted, unrequited;
virgin to all touch but the sun’s conciliatory hand.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:19:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
GIANT

hydrogen and helium in star’s
core of this bell turquoise arrows mark and
there are pretestars binary stars pulsars this
red giant out of diagrammatic fusion begins
with the heart and there are quasars dwarves
supergiants ten million lights of sun
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:19:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
For Larry Hart's Son

I'm saying good bye to the things I'll miss
and the rest can kiss my ass

I won't sign off feeling sorry or sad
I gave this life all that I had

Don't question my way of greeting the light
I've thought it through with great care

My body did not follow the plans that I made
I'm firing it now for not making the grade

You may question my toughness or say I gave up
but your morals don't matter to me

I choose to run free of the weight that I carried
I can fly now...do not need these legs that are buried

So to someone else I bequeath these machines
That helped to sustain my life
For full circle I complete and with my last mortal breath
though not always in control of my life...

I am in charge of my death

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:19:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Mandrakes: A Mythology in Five Parts

1
One day, scientists breed men the size of a normal man's thumbs and allows them to live until adulthood. Upon reaching 30, the men are taken into a dirt plot inside of a ceramic urn, and there, adorned with knotted rope extended up to the wooden stakes sticking out of the earth. The men are hung up and the scientists set a stopwatch for 50 seconds before looking away from the seizuring men. When they look back, the little men are blue and the fronts of their pants are wet. The scientists sleep and upon awaking, they see brown tubing sprouting from the earth. Upon parting the dirt and scratching their nails against the sloping sides of the pot, they find misshapen roots, although on further investigation, they note that each root has markings nearly identical to the features on each dead man's face.

2
Through poison comes fertility and so the biblical women go out into the fields and spend several nights uprooting mangled plants to place beneath their heads as they sleep. Because the roots appear to be men, the women are covetous and fill baskets with the brown, then cover each layer with a piece of silk. Fetuses are born of each mandrake's head and then steal into the waiting wombs. Those women who still pick the black earth from their fingernails congratulate themselves for their good fortune. Those whose hands are clean cut thin slices of stolen roots to feed to each child and then help bury the corpses in the holes the mandrakes left behind.

3
There are screams that bite through the ear drums and vomit into the brain and shatter windows and cause foundations to fall. This is all followed by the sudden shrill howl of a bloodhound out in the fields. Then the men leave their homes with alcohol in hands and cotton wads stuffed into their ears. They find the dogs lying dead and a few feet away, a tie of rope with a root at the end. Each dog is patted once on the head, given a treat, and then abandoned, while the mandrakes are shaved and ground into a fine powder and sprinkled over the top of each enemy's luncheon meal.

4
A women is born beneath the legs swinging from the arm of the gallows and for years, she wanders back and forth, her eyes empty and dull. The legs knock against her head as she walks and on the eve of the two hundredth full moon of her life, she digs a hole and places her head inside while her hands pat the dirt into place around the base of her neck. Many gather at the hilltop to watch this display but none offer to remove her from the hole. There are too many children being born from the earth below the gallows every day, each wandering back and forth, silent and confused, that to pull each out of the inevitable spaces would require the creation of a new township job and no one cares enough to be willing to pay.

5
Strings are tied into the root until the flesh has puckered and come inside itself. Carefully, facial orifices are painted upon the textured surface and then crude clothing made of ripped canvas are wrapped around the figure. Such an androgynous doll, without any true sexual orientation whether in features or clothing. The tunic is smoothed down in the front before the figure is blessed on the forehead with holy water spilled into spoiled milk. Each little man is strung up in the branches of oak trees and given permission to look down at those who walk the paths beneath them. Young men and women will come one day, laughing and drinking as they walk, and when they see the little men in trees, they will desire them and climb the trunks to reach them. Forgetting home, these men and women will want nothing more than the mandrakes and without thinking, each will place a root in his and her open mouth and bite down. They will think of the bitterness of flavor and envision fields of little men, all waving, all speaking, their mouths never closing.
Alana I. Capria
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:21:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I think of her knocking


I think of her knocking
hummingbird taps against
the convinced places in our hearts
while Lu and I seesaw between yes and no,

the drip, drip of soft rain collecting and falling
on our path while I say why not
and Lu says why so, in so many words,
until we switch stances and start again.

The mail slot opens and closes with a little cry.
We have no time,
we have no money,
and who can sound the amount of love they have to spare?

It seems unlikely.
It seems wonderful. The phone rings. We answer...
I think of her wearing her way, note by note
into this fast world,

the eddy of her longing to arrive
working day by day in the beckoning noises
and ready responses of our lives.
Lu and I took five years

to do our work.
Then we put on a soul
CD, and we lit a candle,
and we took off our clothes,

and we opened the door.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:21:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
They were friends, my mother
and she. They were
next door neighbors. They were
close, in heart and house, sharing
tidbits
of their days and
their lives. She was childless, always
remarking the want, the need
for child. My mother felt sad
and wished her friend could have her wish.
She felt sad the day
her friend revealed, "It's cancer -
I'm dying." Until the end,
they talked, they shared, she wished,
"Name your next daughter
after me." My mother
promised. And I came to be -
I am Pearl,
a person born
from thoughts
of value and high esteem.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:21:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Once and Future Ben

A broken man with malice in his heart
Sits calmly in his seat and reads a book
The hints at epic journeys. But a look
Into his eyes does not reveal the part
That he will shortly play. Does he suspect
The doom that he has brought upon the lad
He loves and loathes, the boy whose bitter dad
Was caustic in his efforts to connect?
"Whatever happened, happened," so they say.
Then does the man recall the treachery
That, for another, still is yet to be?
Or did his past unfold another way?
Did bloodied Ben facilitate a crime
Defining the direction of his youth,
Or, when we are presented with the truth,
Will we discover that the course of time
Is not so fixed as many would insist?
A child is shot by one consumed with wrath.
Perhaps this sets him on the villain's path;
Perhaps he simply ceases to exist.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:21:49 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
In the Middle

It is all the same, at first, origin and end.
Dust anddust. You
must create difference to
exist. Draw lines a-
round every-
thing, keep your
skins apart most of the
time. If not, beginnings and
endings devour one another; palindromes
absorb the universe. No progress, no
regression. How could you even have a thought in the
chaosthatoncewashowcouldI distinguish my poem from
yours? In the beginning, when there was
neitherdarknessnorlight.

Laurel Kallen

Laurel Kallen
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:22:33 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
prompt: origin

Stirring Up Hunger

something was scraping at me
loosening the top layer
like a yard full of maples leave
wind blowing the dust from my clock
leaving me with only interrupted moments
to discover what I needed to know
before I set out on my own
to have babies and cook for a man
who would have rented me out if he could,
petty cash in the coffee can
in the back of the closet.

He pecked away at the spirit
of the incorrigible mustang
until that spirit began to fade
like a candle grasping
at the last nick of wick.
With nothing to feed my flame
I took on a hollow look
no longer pressing my pencil into
the fibers of the page,
barely a scribble across the surface
but still, some thing persisted
and I would not succumb.

In an attempt to salvage something
at the core of me
I went into my cave
for a winter that lasted thirteen years.
At thirty-four I shoved the rock
from the mouth of my cave
and came out screaming.
No one got in my way this time
as I unfolded my wings
and dug in my claws.
When you scrape away
everything dark,
all you have left is light
and I was born again,
deeper and wider
and hungrier
than I’d ever been.

~ Julie Eger
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:22:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Debby Ohi, you've been watching our garden, haven't you? LOVE it.Love a lot of the others too...

Poem soon - ina
ina Roy-Faderman
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:22:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
For Larry Hart's Son

I'm saying good bye to the things I'll miss
and the rest can kiss my ass

I won't sign off feeling sorry or sad
I gave this life all that I had

Don't question my way of greeting the light
I've thought it through with great care

My body did not follow the plans that I made
I'm firing it now for not making the grade

You may question my toughness or say I gave up
but your morals don't matter to me

I choose to run free of the weight that I carried
I can fly now...do not need these legs that are buried

So to someone else I bequeath these machines
That helped to sustain my life
For full circle I complete and with my last mortal breath
though not always in control of my life...

I am in charge of my death

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:23:06 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

The original leaf

A tree grows, springs forth from
the ground, one leaf at a time, stretching
reaching upwards, and outwards, and
toward the light
-one leaf
at a time- unraveling beneath blue, beneath gray
beneath the floods of heavens and fires of hell-
one leaf to another to another

It all started with one leaf, one sprout
peaking from the ground.

As the tree grows, branches form,
blossoms unhinge to release sweet fragrance and
unveil their beauty
the leaf becomes two, then four, then eight
then the one becomes hidden
within many

It all started with one leaf, greened and
new to the world, daring to be free.

The tree formed, and multiplied, and
reached such heights, that even its roots were
a distant memory-
branches, blossoms, acorns forgot
the beginning of the story, the first line
of the poem
they recite every day
forgot
the original leaf, but
there on the branch, deep within the dark recesses
of the trunk, blocked from the light
sits the original leaf, remembering
recalling
smiling at the success of her siblings

It all started with one leaf, and
it is me. I am here,
smiling, stretching up
arms high, waiting
in case you fall
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:23:23 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
It starts off innocently enough.
Jumbled thoughts early in the morning,
straightening a bit over a strong cup of coffee.
"What if" scenarios play in a loop creating attractive possibilities.
Dead end job, stuck in a rut, loveless marriage, pick your cliché.
Start to-do list...
1. Hatch evil plan - check
2. Buy materials - check
3. End all life on Earth as we know it - check
Ah, the beginning of the end.
Bill Vandermark
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:23:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“What May Come”

Triumphant by my return
You smile with threatening eyes
That tell the story of what may come
Of me and our reunion of iniquity
From beyond doors that close out light
People jostle on the boulevard
Unaware of these four walls
That holds my imminent danger

Clothed in blackened garb
Hoping to symbolize my temperament
A broken being by your own doing
Empty soul once occupied by imaginings
Once waiting for an admission of guilt
Replaced by my reflection gazing back at me
Caroline Flatley
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:24:52 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
DESERT CAMP

Starry night with a bite
of morning, cold outside the tent.
Bat flight, zigzag mosquito-
hunt in the dark. At last,
a faint gray sketch of sky-
line, silhouette of mountains
in the east – great jagged peaks
that dwarf a child waking
in her sleeping bag
as bats come home to crevices
in stone. Dawn
draws its outline antique gold –
those mountains uplifted
from ancient lakebed, carved
by eons of water. New day
for a child, campfire breakfast,
sun silver-rippling
the river, today she learns
to bait a hook. Sunfish, fins
that never evolved to fingers.
How many mothers and fathers
ago, this place existed.
Today might she find a fossil
of the world?
Taylor Graham
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:25:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Biloxi

I didn't know what I expected
from my parents' old apartment
maybe a trace of me, somewhere,
pencil lines on the peeling walls
to show how I'd grown (even
though we had moved too
soon for that) or a mobile
still hanging dreamlike from
the old sagging ceiling, maybe
little books, brown and brittle
like leaves in the corner of one
of these boarded up windows.
Some sign of me in the walls.

I didn't expect a building
caught in it's last lurch, for a
hollow neighborhood dark
for all the trees knitting
the sky away, for overgrown
sidewalks overtaken in the
a long struggle with the marsh.

I didn't expect for this to be
where I started, here in the
swampland, where my parents
ate crawfish and shared gumbo,
not just for it to be dead, but
unliving and I didn't expect
to be proud, not that I came
from this, that I was born of
struggle, but that they were.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:25:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Poesies

Hardshell porous seed—
resistant to crushing,
but open to mingling.
Dark soil flecked with mica,
acrawl with carapaced
and squishy beasties—
blind wriggling and wild hunger--
sparks in the dark.

Sunshine, raincloud, birdsong.
Fingers, beaks, feet, padding paws.
Warm, drip, knock, dig, sing.
Unfolding upward, pushing through into air.
Melissa Johnson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:29:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Rock ‘N’ Roll

I’d sold my soul for rock ‘n’ roll
from the first time I went to play
my Gibson guitar. I wanted to be a star
and put on the best show
that I could – better than KISS!
I plan to walk

down the boardwalk
or roll
by girls in my Firebird and blow them a kiss
as my songs play
on the radio to promote the show
sponsored by 196.6FM, The Star.

Then, one day, I’ll get my star
on the Hollywood Walk
of Fame…My band’s show
will fill stadiums and the crowds will roll
and ripple with each note I play.
Everyone who’d ever given me crap will hafta kiss

my ass! Backstage I’ll kiss
groupies in places that’ll make them star-
struck. My band mates and I will play
games to see how many girls we can get to walk
funny and how many we can get to roll
in bed with us at one time after the show.

I’ll get those groupies to show
me their tits with a flick of a wrist and the promise of a kiss.
Fans, roadies, and managers will roll
joints together and, after lines, we’ll enjoy stars
in the sky and on the screen as we walk
the streets of LA and play…

But for now it’s all about learning to play better; there are no shows.
I walk high school hallways and dream of a kiss.
I’m not a star yet, but I still love rock ‘n’ roll!
Melissa Hogle
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:29:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Last Verse

Poems come and poems go
Like that smiling woman
He wants to know --
But like a Prufrock pinned, says no.

Yet poetry, it never leaves.
It burrows in
To memory, like sin,
And lingers there
From hour to hour -- and grieves.
Michael1917
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:30:17 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Benign Light

Benign, warm light inclines organic things the way a cat will arch contentedly toward a caress. Butter, used to being cool, relaxes its oppressive form and angularity when carelessly left on the table by the window. I used to love to sleep in pools of sunlight, inching westward, creeping toward the warmth as hatchlings blindly cling to Mama in the nest.

I held a match too long once, lighting birthday candles on a marble cake with chocolate frosting; though the little burn scarred smooth, it smarted fierce for days. That’s when I learned about the middle way and how to look for balance in a contest of extremes. But even in the agony, innocuous as it may seem in retrospect, of injuring a toe or shin or elbow, when you hop about for no good reason you can think of, there’s a wakening of senses you’d forgotten and a memory of the birth of feeling. So, still cautious, you allow a bit of gentle light to enter and to circulate around the tender places, so long unexposed, at first they shy away but then are drawn as moth to flame. And you remind yourself, “the middle way,” and seek the shade. But something of the glow remains, for passers-by peer in and say to one another, “Look! A firefly.”
Mary Campbell
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:30:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Birth of Music

Who listened to the birds chirping and
singing as they greeted the morning and
learned to whistle their song?

Did some shepherd boy, far from his love
Discover a way of attaching strings to wooden
pegs which he could strum while he sang of
his loneliness?

Was if a group of women washing clothes in a
streambegin to chant the rythm of the water as it rushed through the rocks and gravel?

Who heard the autumn wind, restless and cold moan
through the almost empty branches and add to it his
own wail of grief and despair?

Who noticed that pounding on a hollow log
Could echo the beat of the human heart?

All those who fashioned whistles from reeds, flutes
from stems, rattled gourds and plucked strings of
animal guts ...
And all who opened their mouths and let loose their
own cries of despair and longing--
teaching the whole world how to sing--
You gave to us the gift of music and it lives
forever in our hearts.
Marian Veverka
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:30:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A poem?
Well, I can write a poem.
Who doesn't have ten minutes, after all,
and at least a rudimentary grasp of meter and cadence?
Nobody said it has to be great.

Just one poem.
Seems pretty simple, really.
Gets one wondering why one hasn't done it before.
An original riff off a single idea
shared by a blogger forever unmet.

(I claim no clairvoyance; just a weakness for dactyls.
Past performance cannot predict future events.)

A poem. One single poem.
How tough could it be?
This one's nearly done already.

Tomorrow, I may start another.
And so it begins...
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:30:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
MY MOM...MY BEST FRIEND

Knowledge and wisdom are gifts you’ve shared
You’ve been there for me and always cared
My broken heart you took time to mend
Still learning from you and will to the end
You’ve taught me to love and be a good mother
No one will compare – there’ll be no other
You’re one of a kind full of laughter and tears
I’ll always remember each day and each year
Though there were miles that kept us apart
It never changed the love in your heart
God brought me back it was part of his plans
And by your side I will always stand
I love you today like never before
I’ll love you tomorrow and forevermore.
Mary Yakel
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:31:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
As Told to the Tourists of Thomas Naifson's Endless Grove

"Tommy had a magic bean,
Like the Jack of beanstalk fame.
What he grew can still be seen,
Here for you to praise or blame.

Purchased with a week of pay,
For his humble paper route,
Twenty years ago today,
Started what we're here to tout.

The simple boy met a man
Of scraggly beard and a cart,
Who had a bean in a can,
From which he would soon depart.

'The legend goes,' the man said,
'That this very bean has come
From God's first green garden bed.'
Then scratched his head with his thumb.

The man went on with his tale
And messed with poor Tommy's head.
In no time he had a sale,
Trading his bean for Tom's bread.

Tommy, now filled with wonder,
And from his day's chores now veered,
Failed to notice the thunder
As the old man disappeared.

Tom road his bike out of town,
To the place where we now stand,
Searching for this fertile ground,
To plant his prized bean by hand.

Snugly bury it he did
Just two fists deep in the dirt
And just like a little kid
Sat to watch it grow; the squirt.

But then a queer thing began,
Little sprouts began to pop.
All around this patch of land
With no intention to stop.

Tom looked around in wonder
And beamed with a dopey grin
When the sky broke with thunder
And he saw the rain begin.

From that 'bean', in just two days
Grew all of what you see here.
And if it fails to amaze,
Better tales I'd like to hear.

For it was magic, you see
Or a miracle, it's true.

Alas, visits are not free.
Please give a dollar, or two."

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:31:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Of Known Origin, Unknown Destination


I started as a little 'bang'
(yes, the word can be read
as slang, though I don't wish
to dwell on my parents' relationship).


This backwards explosion of hope
and potential collapses
in on itself. Slowly, year by year,
scope seems to narrow.


So what do origins count:
eyes often set to the future
horizon smudge, clichéd destination?
Not a single cell now is the same


as the day I was born, nor likely,
I pray, to last the span
till inevitable final breath.
But if I cannot unknot beginnings


and only unknow my ending,
neither can I cut them loose until time
itself has fastened my sometimes dance,
sometimes crawl between the two.

Sarah James, UK.


(By the way, I love the idea of this challenge, though I'm a little nervous about the immediacy of my writing without weeks and moths to edit and tweak! I also hope I manage to keep it up on a daily basis!
I haven't had time to read all the comments but the ones I've read so far show such variety. What a fantastic response!)
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:34:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Growing Season

I am in my growing season.
It ebbs and flows with the year,
But this morning there were more than 30 tiny orbs of peaches
on my deck.
Chives
Have overtaken their terra cotta home.
Tomatoes and lettuce plants
Have shaken away the cool dirt to greet the still soft daylight.

These are portents of my fertility.
As is the brown male tabby who has taken up with us
this last month,
Adjusting to the novelty of kindness.
So, too, are the abundant poems and stories that have risen to my fingertips.

I have known years of droughts,
Known fruitless, barren summers.
When I was empty and could not nurture a plum nor a child.
When I could not nurse myself back to health.

But this year is different.
I felt it the first day of warmth that blew through during February,
Awakening the latent pleasure of promise.
That’s when Freddy showed up on our back porch,
And I let him in.
I could feel the stirrings of my growing season coming.
And sank my hands into the earth.

Nancy Hatch Woodward
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:35:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

Where am I from? And from whence do I go?
Am I from Mom and Dad, many eons ago?
Or am I from twinkling stardust that came sifting down,
That covered a home in a midwestern town?
Perhaps a new nurse, not alert to detail,
Exchanged one wee babe for another female.
Or an alien intruder in the dark of the night,
Performed an experiment that turned out not right.
All I know is that inside I am not whom they say,
In spite of my name and my features’ display.
But if I’m not who I am, who exactly am I?
The answer takes brains that my head can’t supply.
My disguise is complete, my identity is gone.
What to do? Nothing else, except to go on.
Lynn Barber
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:36:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Mere Particles of the Universe


Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?
The cryptic question from the whirlwind is heard.
Job surely trembles at the Creator’s discourse
While listening and uttering, not a word.

The origins of the earth and the line upon it
Are mentioned along with the springs of the seas.
The creation of our world caused the morning stars
To sing together; he mentions Orion and Pleiades.

When the doors of the sea were established
We were just a dream in the eyes of God.
He was busy teaching the eagle to fly
And making a way for the unicorn to trod.

What is man amidst all this intricate world
Of flora and fauna, both miniscule and vast?
Our origin begins in our diety,
And only he could make it come to pass.




Iris Deurmyer
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:37:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Used to be

Used to be
Nice and quiet,
then… “they” moved in
next door
long-haired, pot-smoking
hippies

Used to be
dinner at five
then… “she” went to
work
new fangled, cash-earning
wife

Used to be
respect your elders
then… “kids” got
learned,
smart-mouthed, know-it-all
brats

Used to be
run five miles
then… “the joints” got stiff,
decrepit, wrinkled, slow-moving
body of mine

Used to be
death is the end
then… “spirit” suggested
otherwise
content, accepting, looking forward to
a new beginning
Carol Boudreau
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:38:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Poet's Origin

A poet is a messenger delivering
diction, alliteration.
Reaching the depths of our soul,
through sound communication.

Origin: seed planted genetically
in the depths of the right brain,
A created scene that bleeds from
the poet’s visionary vein.

The heart effects emotion,
the mind transmits the words,
Not an easy task at times --
many are tagged absurd.

Striving to get our point across,
we often overstate.
Hoping that one will comprehend,
the message we create.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:38:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Work

It never seems to stop,
the river. Rising and more rain
then snow, freeze, thaw,
and something
must hold it back. Our weight
is sand and stone. Day
night. Rhythmic swing
arms and arms
stack the bags
stack the bags
sand and stone.
Our weight against the river.
What meager work we do
is twenty miles and ten years long.
Finish and sigh
and the river comes again.
We work another
two feet onto the wall.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:39:12 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Birth of a Smile"

Before there was you
There were a few others
Inflicting pain on my heart
But you, you knew better

Silent tears, wiped away
Horrid memories, I escaped
Death of a broken past
The birth of a smile

For the first time, ever
My heart felt lighter
My soul felt changed
Because of you, you knew better

Restoring my faith in love
Feeling renewed hope
Before there was you
I would never smile
Lauren Wingrove
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:39:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Midnight Origins

A day begins at midnight,
for night owls the evening
starts to get interesting
when the clock strikes 12.

The night crawlers and inso-maniacs
are out in full-force. Vampires arise
from their slumbers in need of a bloody
satisfaction.

The darkness at its peak an
ending which in reality is a beginning,
the light will slowly begin to poke its
way through. Daybreak begins at midnight,
when the darkness peaks and the light
begins its origin.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:41:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
tuesday's child

i wanted to name you stormy, she told me
born into the first thunderstorm of spring on the cusp of something hotter. someone bolder. somewhere between.
while i lay hollowed out carving you from from dreams.
dana stone
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:42:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Pet Hair
Where, oh where, comes forth all this hair?
It gathers in corners and on the hall stair.

The dander meanders, the fur does occur
It falls out as they clean or just sit and purr.

Not just the cats, oh no, there is more,
The dogs’ undercoats, spew out hair galore.

Come April it begins as a solitary tuft,
By July the vacuum is overly stuffed.

And so to our home, we bid you hello,
Welcome to our table and the garden below.

A grand meal is ready, but heed, do take care,
At least eight percent is made up of pet hair.

Maryann Younger
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:43:33 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Order of Things (word-order palindrome)

Chicken or egg …
which came first?
Ask, I so burgeon to learn!
Sequence of events matter …
It does reverse roles.
When order changes,
chaos happens.
What started it?

Genesis --

it started.
What happens?
Chaos changes order
when roles reverse.
Does it matter?
Events of sequence
learn to burgeon, so I ask:
first came which …
Egg or chicken?



(A word order palindrome is a poem where the words can be read the same, forward or backward.)
Sallie Mattison Young
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:43:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Original Sin


Ashes and dust preceded life
In Adam’s wife,
Creation’s ploy
To ease the boy.

Someone to blame and share the ache
Caused by the snake
Who helped them sin –
Our origin.

So if your life is burning well
This side of hell,
The ash you see
Is poetry.
margaret
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:46:23 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I try to forget now,
how it began:

First, the slippery silvered sounds
of sly lies and whispered asides.

Then the troubled trumpeting of
twisted ego and forgotten ferns.

Eventually, the giving ground,
the sweetening sigh,
the querulous, querying, quivering
silence signalling

the beginning of the end



Sujen
1/4/09
Sujen
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:46:33 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
She entered like a queen on coronation day,
tall and regal and shaking underneath the royalty.
She spoke in the sweet tremor of a kitten’s first mew,
the trembling notes of a concerto’s prelude.
She seeped under the skin of the kid being tattooed for the first time,
the new gansta in the ‘hood.

She was held in the moment as the artist holds his brush poised
above a blank canvas, quivering and meditating.
She trod like a wounded fox learning how to walk again,
his warm, tentative breath lost in the morning air.
She crawled from under the covers of yesterday’s dreams,
rubbing them away to wakefulness.

the instant where
all time could indeed be One.
Dione
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:46:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Original Sin


Ashes and dust preceded life
In Adam’s wife,
Creation’s ploy
To ease the boy.

Someone to blame and share the ache
Caused by the snake
Who helped them sin –
Our origin.

So if your life is burning well
This side of hell,
The ash you see
Is poetry.
margaret
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:48:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Penelope Lorna Cahall


On the wooden boards under my bare feet,
see my weaving all unraveled.
Where strong threads once formed a ship,
now the tapestry is destroyed.

--How beautiful the warships sailing away
so many years ago.--

Now torn tangles lay, blue, black, red,
pulled apart by my own hands.

--Last night I drempt I heard his oars lapping,
fighting a foreign sea.--

This weaving was to be his father's shroud,
but the old man and I live on,
faithful to this emptiness,
drawing back the woven strands,
away from art into
the naked night.


Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:49:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Untitled

It’s foggy in here
I can barely see
I hope I find my way out
But it’s hard to be
Slowly forming amid this morass of others
Just like me
They are as blind as I
Yet I intend to emerge victorious
Unlike them I won’t cry in the darkness
Like a lost soul. See?
And because I keep my wits about me
The fog begins to dissipate
The exit is just ahead
I know she’ll be happy when I come out
She’s been pondering this for some time
When I arrive, she’ll know what to do.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:49:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Nihiliad"

In the beginning
there was Desire.

Desire put her finger
down her throat
and disgorged the world.

But the world was
empty and boring.

So Desire spat up Death,
who rode forth to fill
the world with women and men
and teach them her holy ways.

But when there was nowhere
she wasn't worshipped,
Desire was still bored.

So when Death took Desire
to the movies, she let him
seduce her in the dark.

And Desire conceived me:
I am not yet born,
and I am already bored.
Matthew
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:49:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Great Blue Heron

Driving by the creek this morning
my eye caught the flight of the great blue heron
I think of a friends brother in law
who says the Heron follows him.

My mind wanders as i drive on.
Was the heron once a man?
A tall, lanky man, feeling blue,
who pined for his love by the creek?
Did he take flight to escape his loneliness?

I sigh as i drive, a moment of melancholy
for the big blue bird escaping his solitude
and relate, for today, that is me.





Pamela Sue Gordon
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:50:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origen

Man of
First Principles
in Herod's
city by the sea

Wind off the water
in his hair
salt spray crust
in his eyebrows
smell of fish and nets
in his pores

Just outside
the library door
he reminds us

Someday
even the demons
will come home
N.E. Taylor
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:51:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Nouns

A cup, filled or not, fills
an emptiness
previously unseen.
The notion of a bowl,
all curve and rim,
shimmers, a mirage
at the edge of thought.
The world flickers in
and out of being--
a moving landscape,
a sky of dim stars
we look aside to see.
What self is it that steps
out of one river, into
another, that chooses
and calls forth?
Objects throw off sunlight,
beg to be lifted and turned
in our hands, whisper
their names in the dark
and we repeat them.
toniclark
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:52:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Herding Butterflies"

today's science lesson
timed for procreation
of the species
unconcerned with
pollination and the like

camera ready
steady feet
just one shot
of open and one
closed to hide

wings poised
barely resting atop
fake fairy dwellings
back open to the sun,
solar heat panels for

dancing up high
making caterpillars
too early in spring
for courting
on hot breezes

blinking at the wrong time
finding the newest angle
necessary for
relocating shut up color
amongst autumn's leftovers

slipping on the rocks
vibrations
missed again
car spoilers with
dual redirection

one shot closed
one half open
exposing rusty glitter
to exhausted patience
good enough
Leslie Levy
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:53:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My New Birth

A world within a world you imagined for me,
Then placed my name upon your lips and spoke my destiny.
A cold dark day in October; a point upon four planes,
My manifested possibilities; all tethered to your name.

When you created the world you said “Let there be.”
And every word that followed after had perfect symmetry,
Just enough light, just enough heat, just enough soil and rain,
A tree on the left and a tree on the right, a Garden of Eden proclaimed.

What went on the pages tied to my name on the index of your book?
When my story was read what made up the plot; what elements led to the hook?
Was it “Let there be innocence? Was it Let there be want, let each pleasure be followed by pain?”
Give her just enough seeking, just enough sought, just enough mystery, yet some unexplained?

The world that you created was formless and void, darkness prevailing over the deep.
Confusion had managed to quench every spark through the silence of divinity.
The elements waited, the forces held back, all existence awaited your voice.
Until the breath from you lips did escape, in singularity, there yet was no choice.

Then through separation you brought beauty to life, vast dimensions of diversity.
Light out of darkness, water from earth, the heavens to set boundaries.
Plant life and animal life, celestial and terrestrial created in goodness for your pleasure.
Then mankind, the object of all your affections, commanded to rule every measure.

My own life was lost in the dark of despair, a playground for chaos and shame
The heavenly host held their breath and stood still, awaiting the mention of my name.
The parting of your lips, your life breath expelled; you spoke and my story began.
The light of redemption diminished my hell and promised a rainbow with no end.

I found my direction and the path for my feet, as your mysteries began to unfold.
What once was a desert is now heavens garden where rivers of life freely flow.
A world within a world you created for me and all of creation was set free.
On a cold dark night in October, my new birth, my eternity.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:53:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Making a Grammar Lesson of “I love you”

Copyright © 2009 Sonya Littlejohn aka. Apollo Reed

Origins of a simple sentence:
The sentence needs a subject first.
The subject is the agent of the action.
In this case, the subject is ‘I’.
Example:
I love you.

Next, you need a verb.
A verb is the descriptor for the action
that the agent takes.
In this case, ‘love’ is the action.
I love you.
Notice that in this case,
the role of the agent is still me,
as subject pronoun ‘I’.
‘I’ could be you,
if you said,
“I love you,”
to me.

Last, you need the object,
in this case of love.
You.
You is the subject pronoun
replacing the name
of a living being.
In this case,
Everyone.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:54:59 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Well, I went ahead and ignored the prompt. Hope that's okay.

"Let It Stay Dead"

A kiss is never just a kiss
the first thing checked off of my list
but this always ends in disaster and I pulled the plug on it.

still.

my friend, she has the Season at her back
she speaks empirically.
I'm strong, but I doubt I can hold out for the duration.

There's a lot of talk about Paris
a lot of eyemaking and epiphany these days
a lot of words of Love.

that's great.

but love is not to be trusted.

the question becomes:
how much do I stand to gain by this proposal?
always the risk, always the potential to slip.
it does beg consideration.

I'm more Mal than Kaylee
blown north if the wind is northerly.
but I got this rudder I made up custom.

I got no answers for you.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:55:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I read through the entire list so far (and yes, it took an age)...and was particularly inspired/excited/enthused by (and jealous of):

Lizz Huerta, Lisa McCool-Grime, Lucia Galloway, Brian Spears, Anders Bylund, Susan Culver, Michelle McEwen, Alison Linnitt, Nancy Breen, Rowena, Stephanie Darrow, Kata Kollath, John Mucha, Pearl Pirie, Todd Dillard.

Lovely to read so many gorgeous poems in one place X
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:55:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
the morning after


started how
the evening ended,
and i began:
broken vow
slur of whisky
vodka or i gin
mother's ruin.


now morning follows night
daughter shadows mum.


Sarah James, UK.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:56:01 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Ended Beginnings

In the beginning
he called her three times
a day, and brought her
flowers and made her feel
she held the universe in her
hand. Now the answering
machine winks urgently
with calls she tries to
avoid, as she pics up
the T.V. controller and
surfs through the channels
to find someone who
is more miserable than herself.
Cara
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:56:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
bo peep’s lost friend

to keep me warm
does that make you cold?
knitted to fit
lower phalanges
giving your gift
so willingly
the gift of warmth
at the cost of being naked
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:58:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
When did your silence first distrust my words?
When did your silence first puncture my words to show their bloated emptiness?
When did your silence first circle my words with grave disdain?

When did my words first dim their power to suit your silence?
When did my words first lose their full-throated voice?
When did my words first feign feebleness even when fully charged?
When did my words first slink away guiltily?

Does it really matter?
No matter how much I polish my words or spruce them up,
they will never be good enough
for the august durbar of your regal silence.

So don't ask me when my words became what they are now.
Pointless
this overload of questions,
this tilting stack of memories
Priti Aisola
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 7:59:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Superman's First Flight

It began on a dark, stormy night
With nary a creature in sight
But out on the roof
Standing proud and aloof
He ventured to take his first flight.

His cape was a bright scarlet hue
His eyes were an infinite blue
The “S” on his chest
To his strength did attest
And to think he was only two!
Judy Schwab
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:00:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Birthplace

Born in a cage, left
to fend for himself
against an eternal
tide of ignorance,
anger and fear.

He is calloused.
He is bitter.
He is angry.
He strikes back
and breaks the mold,

and his eyes are opened.
The cage kept him afloat,
without it’s cold embrace
he sinks into the depths
and becomes one with the tide.
Alan Deeth
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:00:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The origin of brain farts aka 30 days of bad poetry

Five steps in-
I'm drowning in white noise.
Five minutes more
and the static is a roar.
Five steps back;what was
I thinking? Was I dreaming
I'd last five minutes
before drowning in white noise.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:00:59 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Dogs

Domesticated from the wild wolf,
Often regarded the true companion-
God created the perfect creature,
So we could experience unconditional love.
Angela Forret
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:03:23 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Death

Way back in the beginning
when amebas reigned supreme,
and cats and pigs and humans
were billions of years away,
each cell that came alive
was free to stay that way,
and happily cavort
in the soupy, salty sea.
But then the sea grew crowded
with all that churning mass,
and the amebas quickly understood
that something had to change!
Instead of sucking salt
some began to munch each other
till little bit by little
they cleared out the salty sea,
leaving only the biggest and strongest
to live and reign supreme.
And as their cells grew bigger
and ever more complex,
the mere thought of lunching
on a neighbor or a mate
was enough to cause the lunchee
to completely fade away.
And over the millennia
as life forms grew and flourished,
their numbers were always kept in check
in this most curious way:
The mere fact of feeling crummy,
or weak or indisposed
could cause a critter to just give up
the life force in its soul.
Now these days death's as common
as cockroaches or ants.
Eventually, we'll all face it
whether or not it's what we've planned.
But it's important to remember
that way back in the beginning,
death wasn't part of the plan
when amebas first reigned supreme.

Elizabeth Claman
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:03:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Inheritance

My great-grandmother is hanging clothes
on a rope tied between two trees, caught
by the camera with a wooden pin held in her mouth,
but grinning.
Behind her the ponderous canvas tent stands
in the shadow of a great white pine,
sun slanting, glistening
on the mosquito-net door.

I cannot see myself in her face, but I know
what she has given me.
The way she holds her head,
the way the morning sun warms
her bare arms and the campfire smoke
lingers in her hair, her delight
in the dewy air and the way she
curls her bare toes in the sand --
these I believe are the strands that grew
through the blood path
from her to me.

Emma S
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:04:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Where Babies Come From

That was, in fact, a roll of dimes in his Haggar pocket
at the junior prom. They both came stag,
after talking it over at the youth group. He bruised her thigh
doing the bump to “Brick House.” She didn’t know for three days.

He tore her dress when the music changed
to “Shout” and his size 13 caught the hem. Apologized right then,
mid-hop, said it wouldn’t happen again. Hands flung high,
half-transported, half worried about the whitish stains
of stick deodorant, they knew themselves
to be making memories. They did not do the Gator.

By the punch bowl, sweating, sucking their ice
like a menthol balm, they talked about
Anderman’s pop quiz on Vietnam. Was it a war,
or just a criminal possession? Would they ever get out?
Would the horrors ever come east, to Oregon, to home?

In Eileen’s basement, a half-giddy impromptu party.
Spin the bottle. His lips did not open. She felt
the shock of tongue from Bobby, the guy in the science lab
who fed the snake, the golden hamsters, the fishes.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:04:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Originally

Origin
of my undying
love
spotted across
the crowded
room

Two eyes of brown
focused
solely on me
conveying
love/lust
at first sight

20 years ago
this month
it began
Rena Stover
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:05:52 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The thought

I feel you growing there
You tiny tendril of a thought
An idea, an ode, or something more
Creeping, crawling, trying just to flee

Lost in the grayness of a hazy mist
Growing, pushing, trying escape
Take form, coalesce, emerge
Be wise, be bold, be free

Take shape, you knotted notion
You vaporous contemplation
Come out, come out
And Be
Larry F. Vint
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:05:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Petosegay”

In the land
where sand and water meet,
he held his son up to the sky
and said of his newborn:
“He shall be important.”

The land of ice rushes
marks time in hexagons,
stories that can be told only
in the polishing of its stones
which lie in the sands,
swept by the wind
into dunes,

the soft beds
into which seconds
are tucked in for sleep.

Now the beaches are without
their stones, collected,
made into fanciful clocks
that will mark time
for the unborn
and bracelets so beautiful
they make the wrist forget
they are bound.

We were all told—
second, son, and stone—

that we would be
important.

Paul W.Hankins
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:07:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The beginning of a love story requires no
spectacular deductive aptitude
no eagle eye, no hawkish ear
it is a sudden splash of crimson in a
Buster Keaton film,
a Bourbon Street Mardi Gras brass band
kind of affair
a climax backwards

The beginning of the end of a love story may take
much more fine tuned observance
often it is obscured by the
anesthetic of time
blended negligently into
the monochromatic landscape of
day in and day out
sometimes
the beginning of the end of a love story is
simply conceived without much fanfare
in modulated tones and an odd
adherence to manners
in the form of a diagnosis

Chelle Anderson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:10:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
F.U.C.K
During Black Death
Age of contious
Not existant
Fornication and populalion ruled
Uncontaminated resources scares
Need control
'Fornication Under Consent of King'
To baer a child
To even touch the wife
King would need to know`
Skye Bompas
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:10:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Place of Birth
4-1-09

How lucky to be
from a place where
the sun shines all
the time and your
skin stays tan
year-round for free.

Where palm trees sway
in the cool, tropical-like
breeze and everyone wears
a smile and a bikini.

Childhood memories
take me back there
as I sit at my second-story
apartment dining room table
and stare out at the gloomy,
gray skies crying raindrops
wishing I was back there.

Elizabeth Martino
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:10:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
False Usage of Collective Knowledge

They say it began with permission
from the King. His Majesty could decree
the right of progeny. They say
the Black Death brought control
over their need for contact, or
there were too many writhing
in the streets or between sheets
and the King stepped in. Children
by permission, Fornication Under
Consent of the King. He deemed
those worthy of consummation,
the studs of his medieval flock.

Or, they say the Irish pulled the trigger
with laws crushing lusty loves. A fee
For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge in the Nude.

I think it was Eve with her leaves,
once her naked flesh was hidden,
Adam could never rest.
Cassandra O'Shea
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:11:47 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
CONTINUITY

Full of hurt and pain, his big brown eyes stared back at me,
evident with the effect of my harsh words.
A terrible start to the day.
His eyes mirrored my own suffering.
I mentally admonished myself, breath deeply,
I attempted to soothe the unintended sting.
The specter of sorrow withdrew from his eyes.
It’s the start of the school day.
We hugged and kissed goodbye.
His lanky arm grabbed his pack, closed the car door,
then he turned his back and walked away.
Alone in the car I sat with my parental regret.
Why did I transmit that seed of sorrow?
Why did I spout such negativity?
Where was my patience, compassion, mindfulness?
Where was my restraint and humility?
Were his words and antics such a problem?
No. It was me.
It was the rush to get ready, to get out the door.
He dawdled, he forgot something.
He talked too much and he talked too loudly.
My head was throbbing.
Just because a migraine causes me misery
does not mean that careless with words I am free to be.
The seed of sorrow is a human continuity,
remembering the harsh words and punishments,
that my mother had done to me.
Wounded little hearts that need mending.
I am in my child and my child is in me.
An awareness make me see this thread through generations.
I take responsibility.
I will speak lovingly, kindly, more patiently.
I see the pain in his eyes and his pain is within me.
I am so sorry, my son.
Peace and forgiveness now begins with me.

Barb Nieves
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:11:56 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
DEATH
I began as three gasps of breath
Without the first I couldn’t have the last
It’s like her gasp gave more than permission to breathe
More like to be or not to be

The second gasp came from a new life
That gasp gave me permission to be

The last gasp was mine
The first of the beginning to an end
Life gave birth to me
Without it I could never be
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:12:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Noah's Ark

I couldn't imagine my life with him,
I cannot imagine my life without him.

It took time to get him here,
It took an instant to embrace him as if he'd always been.

Nothing will ever be the same and for this,
I am thankful.

He is sweet like sugar and bright as sunshine,
He is my very own angel, my sweet, dear baby,
He flows like a butterfly bug and embraces me as I do him.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:12:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April Showers

It began shortly after midnight
with the almost silent movement
of the second hand's
click

It continued throughout the wee hours
with long rolling thunder and
the patter of rain on the
roof

Hidden from view the sun slept,
resting and gathering its energy for
tomorrow's sweltering
heat

Exultant frogs rejoiced in the dampness
with a chorus of deep-throated
ah-rummph, ah rummph
songs

Dozing in the cool afternoon breeze
squirrels twitched and dreamed
in their soggy treetop
nests

And so the time slipped slowly away
running on into the moonless night
obscured by swollen
clouds

The hands of the clock turned again
and another rainy day began
just one little click past
midnight

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:13:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins and the lack thereof, according to my Father

Marriage—coupling--began because a pregnant woman, vulnerable, needed
protection of a strong man with a big club. It benefitted the female
and, by extension, the species; ergo, the attractive female, the monogamous male
were favored by natural selection. (His pause for breath too brief to allow interruption.)

It still benefits the female most; look at your mother (lying on the couch, reading another
paperback). When are you going to figure out how to attract a man
and further our species, our family? Our kind. There have always been others jealous of us,
seeking to destroy us. The Nazis were socialists. National Socialist party, dammit.

Your professors don’t want you to know that was its name.
All evil begins in the dream of equality—no, not the Declaration—that’s different—
begins in denial of the obvious truth, daughter: life is not fair.

Let that be your mantra, your song. Strum that on your guitar.
Toss back your hair, smile and attract a mate
before it’s too late. Do not tell me it already is.
Robin M.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:13:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Redemption

The healing comes in small, unexpected places:
A word of admonition;
Encouragement;
Grace;
Painful truth.
Healing comes with pain, it is the completion of a process.
In the healing is redemption.

Redemption restores the soul,
The order,
The system,
The knowledge of things unseen, yet deeply felt and treasured.
Lasting effects of peace derived from redemption:
Healing…
Kimberly Reynolds
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:14:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Begin with the light.
No investigations,
traps of percept,

flicker where need
whisks the road
and broom up dust.

History rich April
starts. The sun doesn't
snow down its ashes.

All in the grass
fitting like solid,
angling for change.

Sun in the fountain,
Gifts in the sewer.
Start here, please.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:15:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Letter Upon Imagining A Pregnant Daughter



Dear Daughter, know that all things grow with love.
For people, waking lives, with care, transform
as love itself transformed, with touch, to you,
who carries love in multiplying bones
themselves unaware of true origins
on how we’re bound, by history, from starts.

When you were younger, through those stops and starts,
your teachers, pupils, flowers… knew your love
where playground games became love’s origins
crayoned on pages-- you made boys transform
to rescuers from lesser flesh and bones,
but in return, they gained the heart of you.

(I hope you never taint that heart of you,
the one that learns by living’s fits and starts
the aches then seated deeper than your bones,
or cuts to heal-- some only salved with love--
where all that pains within you cries: Transform!
Like butterflies, escape dull origins,

cocoon by living more than origins
in liquefied transition, change as you
acquire the deeper meaning of “transform,”
knowing it’s you working you, your fresh starts
or painful breaks resetting your new love,
pooled and multiplied in brittle bones.)

Every man holds his heart in cage of bones.
Each woman’s heart enacts love’s origins.
There is no end to stories told of love.
There is no end to love I have for you.
Where two lives pause, so thus another starts--
thus every heart is always told: transform,

be larger, house more, let walled rooms transform
from dwellings of one, to two, then three--bones
of that third, taken cells from two: upstarts
slow to grow from grown pair’s loins, origins
found in close clutches, tight holds that made you
from a coupling, as you make, now, with love

each thing to start that’s bound to cry, “Transform!”--
love as the epicenter in the bones,
as grown from your origins: daughter, you.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:15:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Daddy’s girl by Lynn Potter 4/1/09

Dancing in the rain
She moves with grace and beauty

Twirling, bowing,
Her radiance warms and comforts.

He moves closer taking in her beauty.
His hand trembles with pride and joy.

She is his, his baby girl
Born from the desire of his heart.
Lynn Potter
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:16:36 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
IN THE BEGINNING

I never knew the man my father was,
Never knew his voice or how he sang,
The touch of his hand on my shoulder,
His walk, his snore, the way he laughed.
Everyone says how much! I'm like him,
But all I have is their word on it.
Everyone says I should make an effort,
Get together with him while he's still alive,
In the interest of family-- blood, you know.
No, I always answer, no. He wanted
Nothing to do with me when
I was born, nor when I was growing up,
Nothing from me all these years. Now, the
Gears of hope have ground to a halt.
That's ok; you can say it's all my fault.
He's had his share of trouble, too, I guess.
Everyone says I shouldn't be so
Rough on him; those were different days.
Everyone says it's just his
Way, and I should understand. I don't.
All he did was (enthusiastically) donate his
Sperm. My mom did the rest. The best
Of all I am must come from her; and
Now my hands are full just taking care of
Life's hardballs, coming low and fast.
Yet, now and then, I find myself a
Mirror and wonder what might have been.
Everybody says that I could be his twin.


(April 1, 2009) Dianne Borsenik
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:20:23 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Despair"

It begins with one fateful thought,
then becomes a way of life.
You're happy just to get through the day;
with night comes the reprieve of sleep.

Getting through the day takes so long
and the nights get shorter and shorter.
You identify with the rain.

You try putting on a sunny smile;
it feels so foreign, so weird.

No one smiles back anyway. Why bother?


Fauve Laurence
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:23:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Him

He sends my head spinning every time I look into his eye.

I am lost in the intensity of his affectionate stare.

The world stops spinning whenever I am graced with his presence.

I long to hear his voice, the simplicity of each seducing word makes my body crave to pull him near.

Dreams of him touching me, caressing me, longing for me sends me in frenzy and an uncontrollable state.

How do I continue to long from him in the distance, fear of the desired affair destroying what has already been written.

He is a friend, my head continues to speak, but my heart skips a beat at the thought of where we could potentially meet.

Enjoy what we share and let the fates play the hand, or speak the unspeakable thoughts and risk tainted the air?
VS Bryant
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:23:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
(couldn't resist doing a second one!)
“Before Its Time”

Chillin’ on a twiney vine
To drink the sun
And wind around
In trellis time

Blossom forth to fruitful place
In plumb-y shades
Succumb from green,
From bitter taste

Plucked by airborne mottled plumes
The ones that fall
From verdant stems -
Can’t catch them all

Enough to bring a basket’s full
Of bursting, sweet,
To fill stone tub
For crushing feet

A barrel-full of liquid cure
To sit and age
For many days
'Til fruity brew, at last, matures
L. Vidal
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:23:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
1st of April

They say it began
With a servant running a
“Fool’s errand,” but it may have been a calendar thing
To mock the French. Or maybe a Roman holiday.
Who knows?

It throws us back
To the Golden Age of Childhood,
To “kick me” signs and slimy frogs in the teacher’s desk drawer
And evolved into adolescent hoaxes of wrecked cars and teen pregnancies.
Harmless fun.

The older the trickster,
The bigger the deception.
Talk of “spaghetti trees” in the 50’s, taco tycoons buying the Liberty Bell,
Guns and ammo for the Ohioan homeless, even Nixon running for a second term.
Widespread absurdity.

Not a holiday for presents,
Get-togethers or religion.
An entire day dedicated to laughter, to learning to smile at your own gullibility,
And passing on “I gotchas” to loved ones and nameless strangers.
Happy Fools.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:25:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
curtailing their arsenals
saying today
accepted an invitation to travel
announcing their intention
reduce the number
struck a quick chemistry
holding with other world leaders
reaffirmed "that the era is long over."
wcg
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:26:19 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
NOTHING TO CHANCE

My Mama
always used to tell me
The ending of a thing is inherent in its beginning.

It's true.
Chekhov's gun
Act One.

Of course, Aunt Mill
Says Mama's full of bull.
But then she says that
A lot.

Contrarian,
Uncle Buck calls her.
Middle child.
Barbara Young
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:26:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Birthright

In the beginning, you were a word
we traded , tongue to tongue, then

transformed with an embrace
into matter: solid but flexible

like the skin that moves
to accommodate time,

fragile as the skull that gives
under so much pressure –

in fact, you were made up
of these, your anatomy

a story that began simply
but kept dividing. No,

wait, you became a rush of words
that pushed all other noise away,

that lacked a narrative thread,
your many syllables jumbled

and multiplying faster than our tongues
could click or roll,

and the sound of you surged
inside our already full, heavy heads.

Overwhelmed, your father lay
his hand and cheek on the swelling

lyric in my belly, and it sang
to him, you sang to him,

you have always been singing back
the word from which we made you.
Sarah Kain Gutowski
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:28:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Third grade

After reviewing the page
the wart-nose nun looked
at him, glared said
-come with me young man
so to the principal's office where
the non-warted but bulbous nosed
nun looked at him, then the paper
with the universal what now expression
that all in her singular profession
expertly cultivate. She read impatiently
then looked again lips moving glacially
into the franciscan equivalent of a smile
or at least what passed for one in the 1950s.
-Did you write this by yourself?
ever suspicious ever on watch
for the menial sin
the need for confession
-yes sister did i …
-it's quite good very imaginative
slitted eyes sizing categorizing
wondering what next what new mischief
this might encourage
-we'll put this on the pastor's bulletin board
now back to class with you
Bill DiBenedetto
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:35:17 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Bad April Fool's Joke:

He loves me, I see it
so clearly in his eyes

His early attempts
my heart won't recognize

I say "I love you" but
my heart is very cruel

I am about to crush
this lonely April's Fool!
Danielle
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:35:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Cobalt Eyes"

It started off as a clerical error;
an accidental course, her fourth back up.
The first day: silent thoughts drown her sensations.
Caution tape and danger signs cover the construction site of her mind.
“Do not enter,” she tells herself. “Do not enter.”
Ignore the ruffled milk-chocolate locks.
Avoid the altruistic cobalt eyes.
Hide from the warmth of the ivory smile.
Just do not enter.

Weeks pass, and the girl has given up on hiding.
She has entered.
Office hours become necessary to her existence;
a companion of breathing, eating, sleeping.
Stories are told,
music is compared,
and souls are exchanged.
An unnatural bond is formed;
others begin to talk.

The girls hides in her work;
her thoughts and desires expressed by her pen.
Her spirit diminishes to a mere existence
as she goes back to hiding.
The sad cobalt eyes follow her, asking what’s wrong.
She avoids them, not wanting to share the truth.
The semester ends, months pass, and all is left unspoken.
Not all is forgotten, and the two meet for lunch, different people.
Souls mingle: now close friends.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:36:16 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
On the origin of April Fool's Day tricky traditions?

April Fools Fun –
A Limericked Roll on a Day’s Parole


The first of April, time for tools –
Let’s play some pranks and break some rules.
Inpunity may reign today
Tomorrow, we’ll have dues to pay.
For just one day, the jester rules.

http://nickersandinkblog.blogspot.com
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:36:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Indulgence

Who made the first
chocolate chip cookies?
Each morsel
a mini-vacation,
like a soak in a hot tub
the aroma entices
the senses,
draws
you in,
invites
you to sample
the warm gooey goodness
of cookie crumbling
and melted chocolate
stretching
and maybe
burning your fingers
or your tongue.
But that burn is like the gift
of a sunburn
after a hot summer day spent
at the beach.
Who
made
the first
chocolate chip cookies?
It may have been
must have been
a mother,
longing for a retreat,
a moment of indulgence
away from the worries
of chocolate-covered fingers.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:37:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Synonyms"

Simplicity.

Race me
to the playground.
Be sure not to
kick dirt in my face
when I trip.

Follow me down
the yellow slide.
A too-short ride
of freedom.

Hold my hand
and the chain-linked thread
sewn to the sky.
Kick our legs and
swing forever into

Happiness.
Jin
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:38:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"ACCEPTANCE"

I have scorned you,
Never thinking
Your origin in “my” country
Was not your choice.
100 lonely in 1890,
Central Park, NYC.
Rushing to gold,
Your aunties saw
1950’s California.

Now your army
200 million strong,
Evict our wild woodpeckers,
Chatter to drown native songs,
Gobble up the black oil,
Sully the heated birdbaths,
With super bills, pierce earth
Deeper than the American Robin.

I taught my toddler to
Shoo you;
Chase you from the feeders.
Unknowingly, I taught him
To hate you.

Then I heard St Francis of Assisi:
“If you have men who will exclude any of God's creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men.”

I heard my mother:
“It’s not their fault—they’re only birds.”

Enter innocent starlings.
"Sturnus vulgaris" is
No longer vulgar to me.
As mother, I model.
Let peace begin with me.
Let tolerance start in my heart.
Let the European Starlings stay.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:38:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Poet's Origin

A poet is a messenger delivering
diction, alliteration.
Reaching the depths of our soul,
through sound communication.

Origin: a seed planted genetically
in the depths of the right brain,
A created scene that bleeds from
the poet’s visionary vein.

The heart effects emotion,
the mind transmits the words,
Not an easy task at times --
many are tagged absurd.

Striving to get our point across,
we often overstate.
Hoping that one will comprehend,
the message we create.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:39:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

I hear the crashing waves
I feel the spray on my face
I gaze up at the soaring trees
And down from the towering cliffs
I explore mysterious forests of green
Dig my toes into sandy beaches…

Oh sorry, did you say Origin? I thought you said Oregon…
Sue C
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:43:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
ORIGINS 4/1/2009

life erupts with
acoldharshslap
crossed slippery buttocks
producing not shrieks
but silent awe
at the doctor so white
the parents so weary
so blurred by florescent
Focusing
momentarily
her lungs ever expanding
commanding first breathe
She
laughs
Nestles at Madonna's breast
Swaddling joy
Embarrassed by the attention
takes pause
to release her first air
into a welcoming world
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:44:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Chronic

Misled in those first months,
Taken astray by those involved.
Believed in the promise of what was to be.
And it was, but there was something else too.

As that sweet life was growing in my belly,
Another inhabitant lurked like a scary secret.
Damaging me, setting up shop.
It took forever and then it was over.

Five years and then the return of my foe.
Just a cross to bear, it won’t end me.
“Chronic illness changes you forever” they say.
At times I fear that it is true.

I am positive.
I believe in the Law of Attraction.
But the problem persists, my options dwindle.
The choices are few.

It’s 21 today, pills that is.
Pills that I hope will restore health,
Pills that make me feel less than healthy.
All my control gone, I can only hope.

After so long, I’m in real darkness,
But I know it could be worse.
The polarity of it all is confusing,
Desolate at times, strong at others.

Something has to give, something will.
I can feel what it would be like to not have this humiliating nuisance.
I can imagine the freedom that will come into my life again.
I will strive to stay me, in spite of it all.
Molly
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:45:16 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I read as many as I could and I am sure there are other good ones, but these stuck out to me:

Origin of Minnesota Nice by Jessica Fox-Wilson
Quetzalcoatl by Tyger
Before Light by Gregory Gusse
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:45:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Change"

Magical,
How it gathers in the crevices.
Wonderful,
How it’s always just enough
For a cup of coffee or a chicken burrito.
The origin of spare change memorizes me,
As the coins secretly collect under my couch cushions.


Thanks!
~2
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:45:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Life

Where does this universe originate
And where will it ultimately go
Is it the result
Of a big bang theory
Or was there a bigger force behind?
Many question
Some pursue
Others ignore

Then I look into the face
Of my dear grandchild
Oh no, there is no accident
Of nature
This adorable creation is
Part of a Master’s divine plan
How else could such a perfect creature
Be asleep here in my arms?
Terri Lasher
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:47:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Burékas

I took some of your suggestions.
Really I did, only I found
that the egg made it tough,
the boiling water made it thin,
and the sesame seeds too brittle
to hold up
to what I had to give.

I'm going back
to the beginning,
to the olive oil,
pressed heavy and green-gold,
the flour,
soft white winter wheat from Alabama,
the ice water,
and the salt.
You can't go wrong with a little salt.

I roll it out,
fight the slack dough, finger-memory
folding the crescent pockets,
filling them with spinach, cheese and potato
and I am thrust through the generations
with my grandmother — and hers —
and all the others before her
on that quiet Turkish island
surrounded by sea.

I know it's only that
you wanted to help,
wanted to bring me a little bit forward in time,
not knowing that all I sought
was back there at the source:
a clear drink of water,
olive trees in spring blossom,
the wheat, waving now
in the Alabama breeze.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:50:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Pears

From the brown soil came the seedling
Reaching tiny fingers to the sun,
Unfolding, stretching, like a delicate dance
Year upon year.
Strong limbs that endured the wind, the rain,
The elements that lost the battles of weather and time,
Until sturdy branches supported the yield of a season.

And then you;
You with your thirst
Longing for the taste of summer,
Longing.

The touch of your tongue,
The bruise of your teeth,
Sinking into the taut mellow skin;
The pleasure of pears.

You took all that you could.
Satiated, fulfilled, satisfied.

You walk with the essence of this;
Floating about you,
Like a musical air:
The odor of pears.
mjdills
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:50:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin poem challenge

Where They Were Born …
by T. C. Mallory

In my backyard
behind the spattered, battered fence,
I sat and watched
bright tendrils, green
as emeralds,
dew-spacked, sparkled,
sweet, to rise
from earthworm rich,
old garden dirt,
that smelled of summers
won and lost.
And as I sprawled
across the earth,
wet early morning
in me sank, and
Eye to eye with inch-tall sprouts,
I brushed them,
one bare fingertip
and felt their fine sweet emerald hair
as bird sang memories to me.
Then I sat up--
stunned, awed, amazed,
and drew a breath of
sharp relief,
my fingers dark within the soil,
and knew
at last that they were . . .
real.
For this was where
they all were born,
wee winged creatures
held so dear
so close
so gentle
so my own,
created in my
twilight world,
my only light
to chase the darkness
from the night . . .
and keep me sane.

T. C. Mallory
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:51:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A speck of dust
which I
now wipe away
could be
the seed of pearl
to come
or flake of snow
to fall.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:54:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Enemies

I should have known that first time
you borrowed my favorite earrings without asking
but I was too mature then to give into that childish tug at my heart
lemon drops hanging from your ears, bitter as your winter-cold smile

you always glowed
even when you stepped on me
piercing me with your glass slippered heels
as you climbed up to take everything that I wanted

you said we’d always be there for each other
but when I lay there bleeding, you sat at the top of the stairs
peeling oranges to feed to your boys, all white teeth and hunger
hovering and swarming around your feet, what you meant was I’d be there

for you
my friend
my poison drink
enemy
Diana
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:55:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Lobiesquatch
‘May I help you find something?”
the sales lady asked.
Annoyed to be disturbed,
in a rather cheeky way, I said,
“Yes, I’m looking for
something in a Sasquatch.”

Her reply stunned me -
“Oh, we have the most wonderful
stuffed Sasquatches!
A lady in Gig Harbor makes them.”
And she proceeded to show me two,
both of them with grey fur.

“Do they come in brown?”
I wanted a brown one
to send to my friend,
both of us Sasquatch afficianados.
“If you can come back next week,
We can have a brown one for you.”

A week passed with me still in wonder,
and then I went to the shop again,
planning to buy the brown one
for my friend’s upcoming birthday,
I was not prepared for the owner
to show me a white one as well.

He held her up and waved her arms
back and forth, side to side,
as if she wanted to hug me.
“Take me home with you,”
she as much as said,
in her furry white silence.

“I love you,” her brown eyes spoke.
And there and then
I fell in love with her
and knew I had to have her.
I took her home
and named her Lobiesquatch.

In the twenty-three years,
since she was born as Lobiesquatch,
she has slept with me almost every night,
traveled with me on almost every trip I’ve taken:
It’s a toss up whether she like
camping or bed and breakfasts better.

Like the Velveteen Rabbit,
over time she has become
the Velveteen Sasquatch.
Most of her fur is now long gone;
what’s left is matted and grey
from being loved too much.

Her rubber face is rapidly deteriorating,
and her arms and legs and head are loose.
She is trying valiantly to hang on,
as she and I grow old together,
to be there for me until the end,
as a good life companion should.

I can still see her soul in her eyes.
Her little arms still wave at me in love.
We have shared something special,
this little stuffed Sasquatch and I.
She long ago became real to me,
as alter ego, friend, and daughter,
as unconditional love itself.
How could I have known?

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:55:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Confrontation/
or the origon of the black eye

A throbbing diasappointment of indented skin,
a mask honoed by discoloration
and heat honed honest aggression
verbalised by physical force,
with lids swollen with pride
as history exaggerates with retellings
imagined by absent third parties.

"Holy shit, man" they say,
while crowds part
to let grown egos dance.
Holly Schwartz
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:55:33 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Day 1: Origins

Where you come from
doesn’t always define
who you are.
But where you’re going
is where you came from,
and that makes you who you are.
Genealogists look for where they came from
because they need to know
who they are.
Sometimes they find out where they’ve been
is not where they want to be,
and where there ancestors went
is not where they want to go.


Judy
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:55:49 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
THE NEW YEAR


I remember the first time
we kissed.

Ah, the electricity, the shock that you created,
never felt it since.

The present narrowed to your eyes
and the wonder of your soul.

Sex was just a consummation,
inevitable............
never equal
to that moment.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 8:58:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Eden Snow
By G. David Post

A chilly morning this,
In the garden.
More than frost and falling from the sky.

Under foot, soft and cold,
(Adam’s bare feet)
Dancing on the wind with Eve’s long hair.

As, from mud, his form made
So, from snow, this.
Two hands work a shape, so round, a ball.

“Duck, Creator”. A smile.
Angels protest.
Heaven’s host, to His defense, arrives.

Creator’s aim is true
And Eve’s not bad.
Adam runs, but laughter stings, not cold.

No work, this snow day, has
but wage of war,
Now that play is born and snowball fights…

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:01:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
In a Word

I’ve been slung around
for something like
a thousand years—
give or take a few hundred
here or there.

The English—
great borrowers of sounds, probably
heard the Germans
throwing a cousin of mine
about.
One letter switcheroo
on my tail end,
I’m a new citizen
of the country across the Channel.
Just as well,
I prefer tea to beer—
I give you my word on that.


Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:03:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
She Considers Glass


Because the slipper wasn’t,
but fur, but a mistake,
Charles Perrault and his mis-
translation, mistaking voir (ermine, fur)
for verre (glass), we wear

what’s uncomfortable to be a princess
and even then, we are rushing someplace
and lose it—
checkbook, car keys, shoe.

Because it’s Old English meaning
“to glitter, shine” and our dishes
never do, even when dried
by hand. We still hear
at the dinner party, in a diploma-
filled room, Marge, are their spots
on your goblets?

Because we’ve dropped field
and say binoculars as in he watched me
from the apartment across the street
with his binoculars (no wildflowers
in sight) my vision 20/20,
I didn’t need anything
to see him looking back.

Because the ceiling
we created, an illusion, needs
a good scrubbing, we notice
the fingerprints, that the boss
in his Brooks Brothers suit—
“The Regent” he said—spilled
his coffee and didn’t wipe it up.



--Kelli
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:04:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Thorns rise
to etch the sky
dawn bleeding through
Megan
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:04:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Brand New

Magic surely has visited
where all seemed in the throes of death
just last week. Lady Slippers, tulips, irises,
poke out as the ground gives way, feeling the sun.
Finches, feathers turned yellow overnight
twinkle bright as new pennies at the feeders. Mice
babies scamper from the greenhouse
when we enter after winter off from garden chores.
Everywhere is shine and gleam, the sea
and sky rinsed and rising ready to greet visitors
who even now are booking vacations here.
In every paradise, it starts all over once winter dies,
Adams and Eves throw off fig leaves,
look longingly to apples budding on the trees.
Carol Bachofner
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:06:38 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
AT THE BULLS-EYE MARKET

Standing near the blaze of electronic glory
that signifies Target’s television section,
I am distracted by the image on every
screen: a chocolate rabbit meets a jar of
peanut butter. An egg appears, a glorious
chocolate-covered peanut butter egg, just in time
to fill yawning Easter baskets hungry for sweets
but with no real connection to the origin
of Easter other than the birth of something new
and perhaps the egg shape as a nod to ancient
roots of spring rites. All this as I wait in the aisle
while my daughter chooses between Pokemon and
Mario Brothers games, her thoughts no deeper than
the slim dimensions of a Nintendo DS.
Just as the mighty corporate gods intended.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:08:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Spring Cleaning

It begins like this:
green slivers pressing up
through last fall’s leaves.

This morning I woke to the call
of last spring’s birds, the open window
a mistake. I was looking for you in a dream.

Today I will scrub two seasons from the
porch’s wood, try and remember
where the perennials are.

Rainy day bone ache, from
a decade old break. Showers
make yolk of the garden.

The sparrow’s old nest, still perched on the
window frame, holds broken shells.
Strands of hay below, unswept.

Everywhere, things are growing,
pressing upward, pushing through.
Trying to get back to how they were.
Juliet Latham
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:09:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
First Time

When was the first time
I loved her with fingers brittle
When was the first time
I tasted her sweet breath against mine
When was the first time
I smelled her life approaching mine

The first time I looked at her.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:10:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Love

In our beginning,
passion exploded like the
fiery Texas sun.
Lynda
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:11:52 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Talk about your poetic spelling backfire!

"mesmerizes" not "memorizes"

DOH!
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:12:43 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Seed

my son’s apple seed is tucked beneath a few inches of old soil
outside his Sunday School classroom

each week he remembers to water that spot and look for any sign
that a miracle has begun.

his classmates gather ‘round, hold hands
he prays, each time the same, please let my apple tree grow beautiful and strong

(it is the prayer I tuck into my heart each day, as well--
please let my boy grow beautiful and strong)

it’s hard to tell when we aren’t quite sure where the seed was planted
and the winter months have left the ground in such a mess

but we don’t stop him from continuing this ritual of loving what might never be
whether hope or regret is born, the waiting will have been worth it
Stephanie Elliott
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:13:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Progression

As a cold moon rises
over a maddening sea of thought
I find myself lost
in the rip and flow of its tide
memories thrashing
along the shore
bringing tears
reminding
sometimes taunting
then setting me free.
Estuaries form
creating marked paths
I might choose to follow
because I could never stay
where the echoing water
thunders and crashes
urging me forward
past the waterfall
into the peaceful sunshine
where momentarily
I stop to warm my feet
in the glistening sand
stepping forward to greet
that new land
where reality rises
within the glow
of a gentle summer's night.


Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:14:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Big Bag Theory

When the cat is let out of the bag
all teeth, claw and spit,
it blinks, pupils shrink to pins.
It slips down blind alleys, its spine moulding to bins,
fur leeched to the colours of here.
It yowls.
Only those in the way of secrets hear its story.
It tells of the beginning,
how it curled in on itself in the dark
listening to it until it understood,
first silence, then sound,
next the clean roar of light
slashing open the threads and
the white throat of something yet to become
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:15:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
WHEN WORDS FAIL

These words
These words
These words
These words

They make you stutter,
Come so quickly down the pike,
The chute, the pipe, the…hmmmmm

These words
These words
These words

Never a loss for them
Never
They’re always there,
Not in any order per say
No symmetry,
No patterns.
It’s your job to arrange them.

You can do it.

Dam them all up
Herd them
Fence them
Put them in alphabetical order
Chronological,
Hell, organize them by length, color or flavor.
What difference does it make?

Gathered and bound together by
laws of syntax, grammar and empty
They still make a piss poor floatation device.

These words
These words

Rush and glow like falling stars or the fallen
No saving grace
Try to catch them
Or make a wish on them
Go ahead and try
And see where it gets you.
I dare you.
I dare you.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:16:38 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I am flabbergasted at the number of entries


April First--origins


Forsythia buds have been
swelling since February.
Roots have been sucking water
underneath the frozen crust,
pushing it up on warm days,
'til the whole bush exploded,
shouting, "see me--spring is here!"
Maples too--pouring sweet sap
into their frozen branches
and those thieving tin buckets.
Beginnings are abundant.
It may have started in fall,
leaves leaching last molecules
of life from a waning sun,
or in lush and lazy days
when summer's luxuriant
warmth made energy easy.
Might even have sprung last May.
This wheel of life keeps rolling,
without a clear genesis,
limited revelation,
and obscure destination.



Penny Henderson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:17:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
We
began
at the edge
of water and land
while the fire
of our love
burned hidden
in the shelter
of our hearts.

Long,
we
had traveled
down the dark canal
of pain and fear.

Until,
gray clouds
parted,
birthing
a new life,
baptized
in sunlight,
our two souls
became
one.


Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:17:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins

She called seeking answers.

Is this the man’s name?
Yes.
Is this his social security number?
Yes – but who are you?

I think I may bear
a resemblance to the man.
Maybe he and I share
a bit of DNA.

Who is the man?
I think I’d like to meet him.

She came seeking answers.

Do I look like him?
Yes.
Does he want to know me?
Yes.

The greater questions went
unanswered in the end.
Shared DNA aside
too many years had been lost.

---------------------------------------------------------

April Fool’s

From whence sprung
this strange custom -
of making a mockery
of fellow man?

Such obscure origins
and no clear indication
as to how it came
to be ingrained tradition.

Suggestions, opinions,
guesses and speculations
run rampant, but none
answer the question.

Perhaps we who consider
ourselves modern folk
and enlightened are in fact
the butt of the biggest joke.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:17:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
3 A.M.

like a drunk in the night
my eyes spinning behind
my closed eyes or my open
put my feet on the floor
the universal cure
I am dizzy with words
Michelle Pizzo
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:18:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Genesis, Veiled

I was born into mystery,
first conceived and
carried in the warm
embryonic sea of
anonymous, an
unidentified woman
from an undisclosed
location, some hazy
southern coastal town,
who me gave life while
five-fingering my past.
I entered this world
looking backward, a
black hole birth through
enigma’s straining
thighs. She opened
once, spitting me out
into cold currents,
closing tight behind
like the furled fist
of a sea anemone, all
the secrets of origin
swallowed whole.

Kate Berne Miller
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:18:19 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I want my eggs

I want my eggs soft
and in between destinies
the yolk undecided
the white a nimbus
of coagulated light
haloing its small yellow
sun as I have lived
trained to the perimeter
of what is most alive in me,
accomplice to
and bearer of
its diminishing light.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:19:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
WHEN WORDS FAIL 2

These words
These words
These words
These words

They make you stutter,
Come so quickly down the pike,
The chute, the pipe, the…hmmmmm

These words
These words
These words

Never a loss for them
Never
They’re always there,
Not in any order per say
No symmetry,
No patterns.
It’s your job to arrange them.

You can do it.

Dam them all up
Herd them
Fence them
Put them in alphabetical order
Chronological,
Hell, organize them by length, color or flavor.
What difference does it make?

Gathered and bound together by
laws of syntax, grammar and empty beauty
They still make a piss poor floatation device.

These words
These words

Rush and glow like falling stars or the fallen
No saving grace
Try to catch them
Or make a wish on them
Go ahead and try
And see where it gets you.
I dare you.
I dare you.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:20:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Really love this. So many poems!
I'm really loving: Amanda Oak's "family ties: my good fortune" and Barbara Young's "NOTHING TO CHANCE" and Missy's "THE FORGOTTEN BERRY"
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:20:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Janus
The Roman God of two faces, gates
One face to the future, one looks past
In the middle of today, a lack
no face saved for this moment, when
he walks where he walks
he tramples.

Janice, born the very day of
Roget, thesaurus maker,
Jean Claude Van Damme, action maker
Milne, the man who birthed the best
Pooh.

If I am Janus, a gate, a tunnel,
Then I see the speck of light at either long end
but this stretch where I sit, in Now
is dark. I have no face to
present. No gift.
Janice Neaveill
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:20:37 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
After The Play

Each night the flat folds back
To let me in, then straightens out again,
A curtain to a stage where I
Am just a prop. The actors are long gone
Though echoes of their lines brush
Against a cushion or a coffee mug.
I sometimes pick a gesture off my sleeve
Where it has snagged in the wool.

We have a pact, these rooms and I
(Which is the more inanimate?),
Broken as we are into the silence
Of aftermath, not to wonder about
Our new existence. Or indeed to question
Anything at all.
Ayesha Chatterjee
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:21:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
or not...won't correct online again...

3 A.M.

like a drunk in the night
the world spinning behind
my closed eyes or my open
put my feet on the floor
the universal cure
I am dizzy with words
Michelle Pizzo
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:21:06 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
One day it's a smiling thought
A sweet feeling and distraction
A yearning...
In the heart, it grows
Something is there that wasn't there
before
What is it?
It both comforts and torments
Until the day it must be confronted
And one must admit
I am in love...
Tammy
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:23:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Your First Ultrasound

It all brings back happy memories
Of me and my baby
The moment I knew you were there
I’d talk to my tummy

You made my world seem right at last
You were that special light
I’d never be alone again
Through you wrongs were made right

After nine months I was eager
To know my new best friend
You were all I ever hoped for
And much more even then

Now you get to know as I did
The joy of God’s own touch
Pictures can say a thousand words
Like “you are loved so much”

W. K. Messinger
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:25:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin Poem

The headache might have come from the screams.
The screams came from the child
who could not play Memory without cheating.
The chorus of protests came
from the class who
came to the teacher
yelling about the boy who could not play Memory
without cheating.
The teacher asked the group to sit
on different primary color blocks of the rug.
For a calm moment-
the eight year-old in the orange square
quietly agreed with his partner in the blue square
that the boy in the green square
had cheated.
The eight year-old in the green square
made soft growling sounds at his accusers.

The teacher went home
greeting a headache
its origin,
not so much in the cheating
but the futility of that little memory game
a lesson easily forgotten,
But, oh, that cheating…
the passion.

K Wolfe
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:25:52 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Stray

I planted the seeds of this grief
twenty years ago
when I opened my heart
to an injured, starving cat.
Planted the seed in the
ground of another grieving
as I wept for my grandmother.
The skinny bones, bushy tailed
stray slunk through the weeds
into my pity, purred
under my ministrations,
took her place in my life.

Grew healthy, sleek, regal,
tawny eyes to match her fur.
Tilki, I named her,
Turkish for fox.
The mighty hunter, independent,
the yogi, devoted.

Now, two decades of life with her
nears the end. She is, again,
just bones, matted fur.
Limping, in pain.
But when I hold her close
to my grieving heart,
she purrs.


Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:27:43 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins of Evil

Enter the dark angel,
torn from a seam
in the windblown sky,
borne for approximations,
intangibles beyond knowing.
Enter the wounded giant,
birth pangs throbbing
the somber morning,
as evil reaches
hand over hand,
wing over wing
in jest. Hellfire burns
for nothing more
than a whim of badness,
thought, imagined
for but a split second.
And something wicked
this way comes.
Kevin
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:32:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin Of Us

We were fifteen the year we met
Both of us damaged,determined not to fall
Not sure what fate put us together...or why.

You were sitting,in the summer sun, under the shade of a tree
You threw back your head and laughed
The kind of laughter that speaks everything, you.

I looked over,stood watching,taking mental note
Tall,handsome,happy...then you looked at me
As if you felt your eyes upon me,you stood up.

Your eyes dancing in the sun, you smiled at me
I stood frozen,transfixed by the light of you
You walked over to me, touched my arm and said, "hi"

We were connected forever in that smile and hi
Soulmates,companions,friends, together; us
A bond that no amount of time or space can break.

You and I, far from those 15 year old kids we were
But your laughter still speaks everything, you
Your smile still freezes me in my tracks
And we are still connected, us.
Thank God for the fate that put us together.

Renee Lynn Gill
4/01/2009
Renee Gill
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:32:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

I often think
about the origins of things.
What was the first,
the beginning?

But I have learned
that beginnings do not matter.
Endings matter,
what's remembered.
J.A. Jensen
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:33:59 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Attack

It begins:
A near-silent whisper
Through the subconscious.
Or perhaps
A nebulous shadow,
Flitting between thoughts.

The mind,
Not consciously aware,
Nonetheless sounds the alarm.
Like good soldiers,
The body’s systems
Ramp up for battle.

Lungs, they quicken,
A bellows squeezing
To keep pace with the siren’s roar.

The heart
Sends blood thundering to
Cells: on guard.

Sweat rushes
The pores of the skin –
Drowning, drowning.

Now the mind is listening.

Fear, intense and cutting,
Flies through the circuit.
Limbs tremble,
Reason crumbles,
The flood of danger rumbles.

A dagger through the chest;
The bellows can’t keep up.
Brain is spinning, dizzy and dipping,
Sweat is dripping,
Mind is ripping, stomach tripping,
Hands are gripping.
Panic has taken control.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:34:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I wrote this a few years ago. Pulled it out and did a few revisions. I am sure once I look at it again...I will want to do more.
Writing Wishes from Kellie



Last little girl ride

The 1938 Ford, metallic blue
seats only for two
takes us on
Our
last little girl ride

Me in my wedding dress
of satin and lace
He in his tux,
a somber look on his face

My Dad my Hero,
always was…and will be

What words should I say so he will understand
He —was the First hero,
my little girl eyes did see
and here on my wedding day
before I wed
my Hero is beside me

Maybe they’ll be no words needed
to speak
because it’s
We
sitting in Thirty-Eight’s seats
My tuxedoed Hero …
will He cry

and Me
in my wedding dress…
sigh
His
little girl tucked inside
glad we’re together for
Our
last little girl ride.


© KMS 2007



Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:34:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April 1, 2009
"Origin" Poem


I Ain’t From Minnesota
-David Yockel Jr.


I come from the flour
city. Mixed with water from
an eerie canal. It is no
longer a route; its ports,
only the names of towns.

We dredge ourselves in a
history captured and framed
by some guy named George.

My grandmother’s grandmother’s
grave lies beneath a weeping willow. It’s
shadow keeps the remains of Frederick
Douglas cool while Gap Mangione
blows his horn downtown.

The seasons here are as long as
the shore of a Great lake.
And we walk for miles
looking for a safe place to swim.

David Yockel Jr.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:36:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Love

I held her hand as we emerged
out of the long stalk of bamboo.

She said seeing the leaves flicker
against the sky made her skin tickle

and her heart race faster than it ever had.
Then she walked off in the direction

of the moon.
Nancy Lazar
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:36:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin Haiku

Promised dominion
Over all, First Man sees Sun
And Envy is born
Cynthia
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:36:17 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
An artistic origin

An underlying stirring from the
beginning of time
Sticks in dirt
Mud on cave walls
muddled attempts to inject
extract beauty to the world
A compulsion to craft
a place for the self
portraits of youth age-old masculine female
A need to play God
Media, textures, hues
combine creating an aesthetic Frankenstein
lumbering, dancing across
canvas, etching lines in marble
An inner urge to
mold
meld
melt
into a master’s perfection
Erin Sway
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:36:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
4/1/09


We met with the lawyer today
with a list of all our possessions.
We discussed property values, powers of attorney,
health care directives, inheritance taxes,
and his fee.

We started out with nothing but love
and look at us now.
Husband and wife with pages
of treasures to bequeath
and lists of loved ones to think about.

We want it to be easy for them.
and so we sign on the line and smile, knowing
if we take care of this business now,
they will have more time to plan the party.
Debbie Pea
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:37:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Root Vegetables
by Madeline Strong Diehl
April 1, 2009

"Who does this acorn belong to?"
I address the squirrels scampering impatiently in the lawn
as I plant impatiens.

but no one claims it,
at least, not publicly.

"OK, but if you get hungry, don't blame me, and keep your mitts
off my impatiens."
Then I throw the acorn towards them in a conspicuous toss,
perhaps hoping I can buy their loyalty, just like the automobile industry
is trying to do with the unions.
(Ungrateful backyard rats.)

The nut bounces as high as a soccer ball,
causing them all to flee.
(They weren't expecting this, obviously.)

Maybe they will play soccer with it in the night, and forget
to eat the banquet I have now unwittingly spread out.
Though I must admit that even I
would never give up the chance to eat fresh greens
after months of dried-out acorns.

Which reminds me: I still have lots of potatoes in my cellar, though now
I don't plan to go anywhere near them. There's rhubarb just in at the
farmer's market, and zucchini. Call me a fair weather friend, or
a foul weather friend of potatoes--whatever. For now, you can keep them.

I pick up the acorn again, and I wonder: maybe this squirrel did not just forget.
Maybe the animal died in the grips of a cruel, heartless season.
It could just as well have been me.
If so, who does this acorn belong to?
Does it belong now to me, by virtue of luck, and accident?
Or does it revert back to the tree?

Who is the judge of such things? It is not so much trouble at all
to bury it again, so I do.
And a few impatiens are such a small price to pay
for membership in the society of wildness.
-30-
shoot dang there's a heck of a lot of poems on here! and how do I know someone is not going to steal my idea and make a whole $50 off it? And how do I know someone is not going to steal my email and sell it to a telemarketing firm and make a whole $500 off of it? And how do I know...?
(the origins of doubt...not part of the above poem, though.)

Madeline Strong Diehl
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:38:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Naming the Muse

I want to name the people on the page
And set the stage
To tell the tale the way that I’ve designed it
But I find
They wage a curious war with me
And fury soars
Above the passage still unwrit
I’ll take a walk and ponder it.

I want to plan their futures and their paths
Their love and wrath
And make of all an image how I’ve planned it
Sifting sand
Is where they stand upon my heart
And all I’ve started
Turns to other aims and ends
Than those that I had aimed to pen.

I want to know them so I’ll rest a while
And dream their smiles
Will grow upon the way they choose to tell
And say it well
They’ll fell their dragons now instead
Of felling me
And see the passage all is writ
They took a walk and pondered it.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:38:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Do That”

In the 11th grade
he wanted to be loved
or invisible
but he was stuck
somewhere in between.

He failed another
algebra II test
and stood there
in the stairwell
as the flood of students
rushed around him.

He dreaded his fate:
“Pop’s going to be mad.
He’ll think I’m a bum.
How am I ever going
to get anywhere in life?
And what the hell’s
the square root
of -1?”

A disembodied voice
came up from behind:
“Don’t worry about that.
That’s not who you are,
a numbers guy.
You’re a writer.”

It was Erica.
They were just friends
as she was too tall
to be anything else.
She must’ve seen his grade.

“I remember that poem
you showed me.
You’re a writer.
Do that.”

Continuing down the stairs
she passed by
and out of sight
unaware of the fire
she’d lit.

Right there
he rearranged everything
in his life
and set out to be a writer.

He wrote
plays
songs
jokes
poems
screenplays
articles
love letters

and it comforted wounds
preserved victories
reified dreams
and it gave him
a place in this world.

So,
Erica Falk
if you Googled
your name,
and found this poem

please know

David says
“Thank you.”
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:39:38 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Swiss Cake Roll

From Heaven you descend
cradled in cardboard
wrapped in celophane
boxed and protected under the eyes of our saviour
Little Debbie.

We give thanks when we lay eyes upon you
delight in the sweet nothingness of your scent
let you guide us
to the rim of our milk glass
smiling, as if all life were, indeed, good.

Factory, wherever you are
factory, kind and benificent
factory, a world unknown and yet so well known

Delivery truck, Hell on Wheels
Delivery truck, the angel on wing
Delivery truck, driver, restock those shelves

Eggs, butter, sugar, butter cream
rolled upon the table, log of delicious dreams
with a will that is absurd
we love you dearly, swiss cake roll,
unless you're filled with lemon curd.
TE Savelle
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:40:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Choices”

The sun is shining outside,
But danger is deep within me.

I want you here,
With me.
Every second of every day my mind spurs,
With thoughts of you and I.

Many times I can conjure up memories of the good times,
But lately,
That’s been harder and harder.
But, why?

Why, you ask?
Because you haven’t been around.
It’s getting harder to comfort myself…

And I wonder,
What did I get myself into?


Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:41:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Ocean

You said trace the roots
back through time,
it’s where we came from.

So we put on our boots
of leather so fine
and thought it might be fun

to take a trip to the coast
to see the beach
and the shadows we cast

but what we wanted most
was to try and reach
through to our primordial past.

The water was cold
I felt very old
but you reflected
and felt connected
to every living being
saw something I wasn’t seeing
in the shadows of the past

It’s an eel,
I squealed.
My brother,
you uttered.
and dove in after it.
You dove in after it.
You dove in after it
and I haven’t seen you since.
Jim OBrien
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:43:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
THE WORLD’S GREATEST SHAVE


Her haircut was born of clippers
by Peter’s no-appointment-needed
hairdresser (male and female) for
fifteen dollars. We paid her for
stripping her tresses. The hair she lost
was long, caressed her shoulders,
framed and created a brooding face.
Now, she is starkly, beautifully, available –
The back of her head rounded, an
untroubled symmetry in eyes,
the whole face, a smile which
lights up this dark daylight-saving
morning. We gave money; she
sent it to the Leukemia
Foundation; she was inspired
to shave. Friends and teachers said
she was so brave.
But what produced this tendency to
inspiration? Why cut off your hair
just before winter? Who started
that idea? Who invented clippers?
When was the connection made between
hair removal and fund-raising?
Is the source of this haircut
the inventor of chemo-therapy?
Who created the Foundation? People
with a vested interest in research funds?
Great chemical corporations?
Or just: people? When did people
start getting and dying of leukemia?
Multiple questions. Her hair now
a series of extremely short answers.




Jennie Fraine
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:44:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Third attempt to see if my comment is seen before posting poem.

Thanks,

Norma Iris
Norma Iris Montalvo
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:45:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
We searched that day for something lost
My darling wife stood by my side
A short detour was all it cost
Slight hints of tears welled in my eyes

I'd been gone for forty years
Yet still I felt it in my mind
A haunting whistle I could hear
Old foundations all I could find

Steep hills above still stark and bare
My life was so much simpler then
All summer long without a care
I’d watched the trains that came and went

I pointed out where I had slept
All those many years ago
Holding my hand as I now wept
She looked at me and said, “I know”

The track just ruts, the trains are still
I sensed that it was time to leave
Memories--I’d had my fill
Just one last glimpse to help me grieve

A tiny place on no one’s map
Yet taut it held me in its grip
A fount of mem’ries it did tap
Mere minutes taken from my trip

Ray Alkofer
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:48:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
TESTING

There's a darkening in the eyes,
when they first find out.

No one knows for sure where it started,
but we suspect it might have been Africa.
A starving tribesman, catching monkeys for dinner,
caught something more instead,
and spread it around rumor-fashion.

Or maybe it was the touch of God,
passing his judgment on our hedonistic ways;
Or maybe it was the government,
their interests turning biochemical--
A hundred different possibilities
that leapt from the mark when the gun was fired,
into our bloodstreams.

It's academic, anyway. It's statistical,
but every case is personal.
And for me, the starting point is simple:
he stuck it in--the condom broke--
I never saw him again.
It all comes down again to possibilities,
do you have it or do you not,
where'd it come from,
who gave it;

But sitting in a chair, the longest twenty minutes
of my life are spent staring back,
at ten boys as young and panicked as me,
all praying, god, let it be someone else,
waiting to see each others' eyes dim.
Joseph Harker
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:49:13 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hit the Fan

Jealousy, envy and rage
started to boil from deep within.
All at a very young age,
a life bridled with innocent sin.

Nobody else knew but him
about his alter ego inside.
With a chance of sanity, slim,
he let morbidity be his guide.

His entrusting friends knew him as Joe,
a nice and quiet, clean-cut guy;
someone not willing to let go
of childhood memories that had gone by.

Joe put on a fake facade and smile,
wishing he was more like Dan;
forever knowing in a little while,
all Hell would break lose, hit the fan.

Laurie K.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:50:16 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
CYRRILIC ALPHABET (A theory)

Conceived by a cleric,
a code of slashes and slopes,
curlicues of sounds
given form.
St. Cyril of the Moravians
architect of letters
used by czars to crush
the illiterati.

His brother St. Methodius
perhaps conceived a method,
(or someone did)
a method to manipulate the mundane ABC's,
to liberate the myrrh in a word,

the raw material for
Chekhov, for Tolstoi,
for Dostoyevski, Turgenyev,
Pushkin, et alii.

Decipher the slashes
decipher the method
and you too can be a writer of magnitude
a myth maker
a poet.
blancolin
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:50:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
How the Woman Became a Wife

It started like this:
She awoke in a strange bed.
She turned on the TV
to get her bearings.
He emerged bare-assed
from the bathroom
freshly showered, said, “Honey,
please pick up my dry cleaning
later. I need my green suit
for our anniversary party tonight.”
She was not frightened.
“Okay, dear” she said biting her lip
then sidled over to give him a kiss.
Not bad, she thought. I could learn
to live like this, and she did.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:55:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Re-Birth of My Soul
My memory is sketchy, a little unclear
Was wondering what the heck I’m doing here
They say the Angels sent me down here to learn
And they warned me my peace may take a turn
That life was hard and not an easy road
My shoulders would have to bear the weight of the load

I’ve failed at love, and often find myself broke
Someone has played a terrible joke
Life I had heard was fun and delightful
But sometimes all I see are the slighted and the spiteful

But if life is to be a lesson learned
A dream, a hope, a medal earned
Renewed appreciation, a healthy rebirth
Then I’m glad the Angels sent me to this Earth.
L.J. Innes
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:55:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of a New Life


He had a shaky past
Walking out of Jail
He decided this time was the last
No more time to fail
What’s done is done
now he has some respect
that has to be won

The next day
he awoke in a fresh bed
this would be the way
he would live, instead
anything he received now
he would earn
Anything he could not do
he would learn

Today would be an origin
of a brand new life
at least for him
maybe,
he would even find a wife

How to begin
he decided to look for a job
but, for him
work would not be for Charles S. Schwab
he would have to start at the bottom
work his way up
at least he was free
just in time for Autumn
he could enjoy as leaves fell from each tree

There were no tree’s in prison
now life was his and
he intended to make the best of it
oh, he knew god would make a test of it
But, he did not mind
he would rise to any challenge
as long as it did not involve crime

When the day ended
he watched the sun set
realized he was alone
gone were the family upon whom he’d depended
though, he vowed never to forget

Enough sadness,
tomorrow will be a brand new day
with his first interview
For a job with pay
He had a lot to do
but, he just sat
stared at the sky
thanked god for where he was at
promising, no matter what, he would do more then try. . .

© Ralph Fitcher, April 1, 2009, A poem that started out very differently. It’s funny, I started to
write an origin poem about Superman, and this came out of me, before I knew it, there was no
superman in my poem. Enjoy. :-)
Ralph Fitcher
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 9:58:38 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
1 April 2009

Jokes are only cruel
when one laughs
at a person.

So today,
we don’t laugh at you
or her or him.
We laugh at us.

The time we tripped
on the street corner,
thinking there was a curb
to step down.

The time we said
something romantic on the phone
to the wrong person.

The time we realized
we’d been walking our whole lives
with “kick me” taped
to our backs.

The day we realized
with sunset’s certainty
that we would die.

Joseph Ross
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:00:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
It crept to the surface,
Poured out of me –
Violent as the storm
That inspired it.

Involuntarily it came.
Rising, pulsing.
Beautifully violent,
And giving eternal meaning.

Burning and boiling within,
A violent brew of realizations
And hormones.
A molten creation, changing everything.

CRASH.
The lightning sliced
My vision, my world.
Words were all that remained.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:02:38 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My shell is hard
There hasn’t been enough water this season
This is not going to be easy
Why did I wait so long to attempt?

My family’s gone
There is a voice of encouragement above
This may be my chance
Why do I have to go through this change?

My turn is now
There can be no turning back
This day I shine
Why haven’t I started sooner than now?

My shell cracks
There is ground surrounding me
This feels great
Why can’t I feel my mother’s warmth?

My stem is warm
There are my friends and the sunlight
This was what I longed for
Why did I hesitate in the first place for this feeling?

My leaves spread
There is nourishment though my body
This is heavenly
Why don’t I just bloom?


~Link
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:02:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
prompt - origin

poets and wizards

a little yellow thing
that seemed to be a paint spot
suddenly started to fly
like a butterfly
but it wasn’t a butterfly
after a closer look
it came to be
a little electronic toy with wings
on every wing was a lilac dot
when it flew
it made a strange sound
it had a head
that was small and round
build out of something
that might have been a crystal
I wanted to catch it
and examine closer the little toy
but suddenly it landed
and to my surprise
I came to realize
that the yellow thing was not a toy
but a costume
of a miniature boy
who then took down the costume
and with a smile
told me
that it has been a while
since he didn’t have those electronic wings on
I looked at him
and didn’t know what to say
I wanted to ask
if he was a wizard
but he spoke first
he said
that it was nice to meet a bard
I answered that I was a poet
he told me that
it is all the same
bards and poets are a little insane
I said that I was not
but he said
that I was
because in a little yellow paint spot
I saw first
a butterfly with yellow wings
and on every wing a lilac dot
and than I saw a flying toy
and than a miniature boy
who happened to be
a wizard
and to anyone
who is not
a child
an artist
or a poet
someone who can see wizards
is insane
or on drugs
or had to much champaign


Bozena Intrator

















Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:02:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Baby

So soft and sweet, made from love
a most perfect gift from up above.
Ten little fingers and ten little toes
tufts of dark hair and a tiny nose.

A gurgling laugh that makes you laugh too,
as you lovingly look into eyes of sky blue.
The feeling he causes are more than intense,
They seem so overwhelming in every sense.

When his dad was a babe you felt so much joy,
As he went from a baby, to toddler then boy.
You watched and you cared as only moms can
as he grew into the most wonderful man.

Your hearts full of joy, a balloon filled for a pop,
your world seems complete, and you're way on top
This sweet little baby, this sweet little one,
you tell people proudly is your first grandson
Sandy Senay-Ellefson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:03:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I haven't been able to read through all of these yet - there are so many! YAY! Here are a few comments:

Congrats to Nadura for starting us off.

Hooray! to Kateri for bringing back a familiar theme from last year. I can't wait to read them again this year.

I really like "Waiting" by Margot Sudyam.

Very nice nod to the virus scare of today, Nivi!

Carrie Anne, I think what you wrote is brilliant. I thought maybe you were watching me try to write this morning.

Ryan Adams - Wow. Poignant.

Iain - I love how you can always make me laugh!

Patti - Nice job! I see that you are playing around a lot lately with the song quotes and I like it.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:04:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Self
Starts as a beat
More like a boom
Then gradually grows
Into something beautiful.
Others look upon it and decides
I like-don't like, fat skinny, smart, dumb
Whoa!
It doesn't matter-unless
Self is determined by
Some one other than you.
Camesha Carter
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:04:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Billions of worlds that we live in
Our earth is a place of subjection
The colors we see are all different
Tinted by thought and reflection
Concrete is an abstract substance
A bendable, morphing creation
Billions of views coexisting
Truth is the only foundation
Creation is subject to Creature
Creature exists by the by-line
The Author: reality perfect
Absolute by a changing skyline
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:04:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A True Hero
(Dedication to Wanda)

I admire the strength of her from afar
Hit hard by a disease with an astrological name
Her body physically weakened and her mind
mentally torn but neither kills her spirit
to keep going on
Drained and depleted but not defeated as that
glorious light continues to shine
She never allows this disease to dull her spirit
She presses on with the will of a gladiator
She fights through those moments of giving up
She never allows this parasite to devour her soul
She continues on with the will to enjoy her life
She exhibits strength I have never seen before
Her hope and faith is personified in her will
to not just survive but live her life to the fullest
I stand in complete admiration of her from afar
Hit hard by a disease with an astrological name
She is the essence of what is called a true hero
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:04:43 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
So this is some very botched pantoum . . .

Origin Cycle

To have an origin
one must know where one is going
and how to get there. Before
that, origin is only location.

Origin implies movement.
To have an origin
implies life
and how to get there before

time runs out.
Origin implies movement;
its twist on the plies of progress
implies life.

But as Einstein discovered
time runs out
and around.
Its twist on the plies of progress

loops back on itself,
but as Einstein discovered
space slides sideways
and around.

The idea that
loops back on itself
(an beginning: definite and exact
space) slides sideways,

revealing
the idea that
life avoids isolating
a beginning definite and exact.

The trick is to find life
revealing.
One forgets how
life avoids isolating.

The trick is to find life
and how to get there before
one forgets how
to have an origin.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:06:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
This Smile

it started this morning
when i awoke to the sun
shining warmly from your eyes

and it grew as you
smiled into my neck and whispered
promises of poached eggs


it lingered as you
scuffled around the kitchen
enumerating the wonders
of the universe
spatula in hand

as the day unfolded
and you set out to give yourself
to the rest of the world
this smiled stayed with me...
a wildflower blossoming
from the seeds of your
sweet love
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:09:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Big Bang

We arrive when it splits
in the morning, early light
We continue this way: pinkies linked
kicking stones down the road. I come from you.

In the midsummer dusk, meat sizzling on grills
you hold me here. We dance and the moment
is still. The air smells sweet, the goats bleat
in the far off fields. I don't remember a time before.

And then it bursts and bangs
and darkness lays it's hand
over the house and blankets this way: I am
still and we have begun.
Teva J. Glueck
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:10:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A True Hero
(Dedication to Wanda)
I admire the strength of her from afar
Hit hard by a disease with an astrological name
Her body physically weakened and her mind
mentally torn but neither kills her spirit
to keep going on
Drained and depleted but not defeated as that
glorious light continues to shine
She never allows this disease to dull her spirit
She presses on with the will of a gladiator
She fights through those moments of giving up
She never allows this parasite to devour her soul
She continues on with the will to enjoy her life
She exhibits strength I have never seen before
Her hope and faith is personified in her will
to not just survive but live her life to the fullest
I stand in complete admiration of her from afar
Hit hard by a disease with an astrological name
She is the essence of what is called a true hero
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:10:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Guilt

Red blood cells, looking like
partially eaten hard candy
sucked down to half-size,
tumble smooth and seamless
by the trillions
inside the circular walls
of their vascular pathways
as viewed through a microscope
and placed in a kid’s science book.
Life.
Unseen though, and riding the same
wild route through every extremity
and organ in the human body,
including that big ol’ heart,
is the one cell that no scope of any kind,
not electron nor atomic force, can find.
But it’s there nonetheless.
How can it not be?
Its presence is felt like
the pressure wave of a bullet train
blowing through a narrow tunnel,
knocking us off our feet.
Sometimes they are small in number
and sometime even non-existent,
while other times their numbers
must be staggering,
making one wonder if any room
exists in those narrow lanes
for anything red at all.
Some may argue that
no such thing exists,
but how else can we explain
the affect it has on our daily routines
than to say that it lives
within our bloodstream.
Matt Gunther
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:10:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A genetic history of souls

I have Dad’s green eyes
and the sweet tooth from Grandpa
Mom shows up in my cheekbones
and someday Grandma will leave her legacy in my laugh lines

but where does my soul come from?
is there some genetic map
highlighting trace elements of other incarnations
pointing down through generations
to place me here
at the crossroads of mystery and certainty

or is its origin unknown
and only my body bears witness to the beginning
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:11:36 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
What Remains

There's a distance that happens
as I reach the peak, a blueness, bold -
then yellow - settling in my brittle bones. It comes
upon and after the rhythm has commenced, the rocking pulse of
liquid coursing in
extended veins, pushed past themselves too much too long;
a pulse that not-so-gently plots its course while sweeping bare the
fallen underfoot. They are swept away, poisoned
by its intent: its duty to kill - not maim
as it tackles what remains.
And what remains has been removed, but what remains - invisible-
is what remains.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:11:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
sorry,
I didn't notice that I posted a poem with some misspellings in it
and it seems like there is no "delete" option, so I am posting it simply one more time

poets and wizards

a little yellow thing
that seemed to be a paint spot
suddenly started to fly
like a butterfly
but it wasn’t a butterfly
after a closer look
it came to be
a little electronic toy with wings
on every wing was a lilac dot
when it flew
it made a strange sound
it had a head
that was small and round
build out of something
that might have been a crystal
I wanted to catch it
and examine closer the little toy
but suddenly it landed
and to my surprise
I came to realize
that the yellow thing was not a toy
but a costume
of a miniature boy
who then took down the costume
and with a smile
told me
that it has been a while
since he didn’t have those electronic wings on
I looked at him
and didn’t know what to say
I wanted to ask
if he was a wizard
but he spoke first
he said
that it was nice to meet a bard
I answered that I was a poet
he told me that
it is all the same
bards and poets are a little insane
I said that I was not
but he said
that I was
because in a little yellow paint spot
I saw first
a butterfly with yellow wings
and on every wing a lilac dot
and then I saw a flying toy
and then a miniature boy
who happened to be
a wizard
and to anyone
who is not
a child
an artist
or a poet
someone who can see wizards
is insane
or on drugs
or had to much champaign


















Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:13:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
(Origins)

Destination Required

Bell tongue peals,
Daybreak calls.
New souls face
The unmarked wall
And bow.

Let the dreams begin.

Jeanne Klaver
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:15:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins

In the beginning there were tomato plants,
my father and I digging, dirt like black silk,
like everything malleable, like my own
potential, caking my small hands. At a planting,
even a child becomes a maker of perpetuations,
like sin, like salad, like late in life failure
of father and daughter to speak
through more than thin slices of heart,
of fruit, of spent time, of the intentions
of digging into the damp earth
from we have been made and have
made meaning, meaning like us,
like tomato, like the effort to grow.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:15:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of a Fool

What kind of fool am I?
the song said.
Usually born of stupidity
the reply.

She's the kind of fool
that drank too much
so she couldn't remember,

The fool that ate too much
and carries the burden,

Talked too much
Without saying a thing,

Loved the wrong people
Had to get new ones,

Finally the fool
Saw the proverbial light

Got blinded.
Now sees how not to be one.
Lauren Dixon
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:16:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A bite was all she wanted

The apple bright and lustrous sought her eye

I just want to know, to feel, to taste

Can it be so wrong, can it be so wrong - she thought with a sigh

She turned, seeking his approval

He took it - handed it to her saying

Oh, think twice, it’s just another day for you

You and me in Paradise
Tony Walker
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:20:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Trying again to see if the post works.
Yvonne Wills
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:20:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Mueller



So...what is mueller,
Pronounced as mull-er,

It's the sweat at the corner of your lips,
white, like sugar from a cruller,

When you've been speaking too long,
Or singing a very long song,
You're sure to end up with mueller.


How does it get there,
I'll make you aware,

Excess saliva builds up in the mouth,
Then spreads to the sides of the lair,

Once there the liquid congeals,
Doubtless to no one it appeals,
Someone who likes mueller is rare.


From whence came it's name,
My child's to blame,

Mr. Mueller's his basketball team coach,
One day during a losing game,

When the head coach was fuming,
His sweaty lips were full blooming,
Coach and substance one and the same.


Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:20:47 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A tree, a building, his religion, a man.

A nut so small,
One can crush it under,
Grows so tall, tall enough
To crush a building.

A brick is mud,
Baked and dried for use,
Stacked with others of its kind
To form a refuge for man’s religions.

A thought so brief,
Not even spoken aloud,
Creeps into the recess of brains
To build foundations, pillars for mankind

A tiny drop, an egg,
Easily washed away, dismissed,
Divides its cells, combines DNA
To create. . . or destroy.

A tree, a building, a religion, another.
Dann Norton
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:21:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
And What Could We Do If We Heard It?

It's not anything more
than the outside of a circus tent,
or the way you raise your left eyebrow

when you look in a mirror,
every time. It's not anything like
a declaration, nothing like boiling water

or watching an opera on your birthday
in that heavy gown with the smell
of other people's perfumes

coating your gloves. It's only the strange
silence of the poses people strike
to indicate that they are listening

to something, listening very hard,
hearing the sound of the woman in the wings
pulling on the rope to open

the curtains, or the sound of the man
in the red shoes as he twists the top
of a jar of white face paint,

spackling it over his cheeks,
counting the layers,
setting the mask.
Elizabeth Wilcox
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:22:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Tuesday in September

How many ounces in a pound?
Sixteen.
Eyes widen.
Almost nine then?
My big beautiful girl cried and cried
And her first taste of oxygen,
Was the beginning of me.
Teresa Wilks-Wilson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:24:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
ORIGINAL THOUGHTS by Tinisha Nicole Johnson

Divine words, they sit alone starring back at you
Capable of the possibility
Is that all?

Alone, wondering about the future
Living destitute, living scared, and fearful

I sat my journal down

Stop, that’s not all

Reaching out, again
Dreaming of something with sweetness to it
A little comfort even, a wild imagination maybe
Living now, to live for the future
One question and I live everyday for the answers
I speak not of what is the norm, but what you are afraid of, which are:

Unusual realities that make you stand out
The main ingredient which everyone has… Thoughts
Thoughts that are afraid to speak
Thoughts that keep the mind occupied and the heart wanting more
Silent thoughts, with no action to back it up
Again I speak of thoughts

I woke up and realized I live a life I hate

Stop, that’s not all

And I saw you one day
Alone and speechless
Not a single word
Your eyes had a history behind them
I knew how bad you wanted this
Your mind was doing all the talking
But away you went

I was afraid and knew fear was making me pass by opportunities

Stop, that’s not all

You are hungry for what I want
Day after day, the little birdie comes my way to tell me your secrets
Open up and tell the world what you want
Feeling down…So!…. Lift up and speak

I took a chance despite adversity and allowed my dreams to come true

Stop, listen, and experience your thoughts
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:24:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Where I Come From

I was finally born
Of the look I saw
In your eyes
The day we cut classes
Choosing instead
To hole up
In your room
Playing Eli’s Coming
Over and over
On the stereo
Losing ourselves
In the voice that
Was Laura Nyro
Finding refuge
In rhythm
And courage
In closeness
We came together
You at twenty
Fully present
Me at nineteen
Half-baked, unsure
Your eyes mesmerized
With the spark of connection
They promised this moment
Again and again
I was really here
I was finally born





Barbara Moore
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:27:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins

Everything
begins
with something

A seed
a thought
a Big Bang
to start a Universe

Everything
runs its course

And holds within
the Beginning
of the End
Joy Harold Helsing
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:27:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Love is us

Winter days, so crisp and clear
the thoughts of warm goodness brings us near,

Softly you touch my hair,
your wonderful scent makes me so aware,

Yes, we love so deeply,
together we give of ourselves
We are finally sleeply.

Yes indeed love is in the air,
Love is us.
Yvonne Wills
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:28:38 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Or a Gin

Genever
is much maligned
for her keen ability
to despoil the eyes,
nose, ears, and throats
of those unlucky
enough to have inadvertently
earned her wrath.

With a grand gesture
a wave of a branchy arm –
a shimmy of evergreen breasts –
a swivel of spiky hips –
she releases a
burst of green poison
draping everything
in a sheer curtain
of the purest evil
reducing even the strongest
among us to
oedipal eye-gouging.



Then
in an act of perverse
redemption,
she follows up her destruction
with a pregnancy of grand
proportions.
Her scaly jade skin
bursts with
smooth blue berries
to be transformed by
heat and time
into a magical elixir
designed to carry us off to
places distant and exotic.

We forget her brutality,
if only for a moment,
to bask in the spicy flavor
of her offspring
until her wrath is
rekindled by the turning
of the earth
and the coming again
of spring.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:29:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Just a shout out to Lisa McCool-Grime's "Origins of an Estranged Wife" and Paul Stokstad's Untitled "Coming up a stairwell"..Beautiful.
Alison Linnitt
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:30:13 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
mooncity

he touched electricity
for the first time
when he was nine years old
visiting his older brother's dorm
in Dhaka and switching the light on
and off and on and off

the village eventually got wired
twenty years later, in the 1980s
but he never forgot that first spark
now, sitting in front of his computer
an engineer with a white beard
he is sometimes overwhelmed with the power
at his fingertips
shamima
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:32:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
In The Beginning

When we first meet a person, we sometimes
go out of our way to impress
but as time goes on, we stop trying so hard
and it seems as if we no longer give it our best

When we first get something new
we care for it like it is sacred
but as the time goes on
it seems as if we forget about the maintenance

When we start a project, we may start strong
but once again, as time prolongs
our focus seems to fade away
like the sun does the day

If we acted in a manner
that made us believe every second was the beginning
and never looked at the ending
.........I can't really think of a good ending, so I guess I wont be the one to break this cycle...sorry

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:32:52 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
R Complex

Snappy, a crocodilian,
hunts butterflies.

She has not learned
the trick of patience—yet.

Her legs twitch, her eyes
open, her mouth opens.

She inspects her mangrove
and finds it lacking.

She is unsatisfied.
But the options are limited.

So she climbs a tree branch and
jumps. And lands in water.

There is a butterfly.
Snappy snaps her jaws.

There is a butterfly.
Snappy snaps.
Olga Zilberbourg
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:32:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
It came from Cambodia

So I could put it in my belly

An almost effortless way to change myself

To be come healthy and thin through ethical fair trade.

But I don't feel any different

With it inside my body.

All the picking, jet fuel and boiling water

Has just been a waste of precious resources.

For consuming exotic elements cannot make me less mundane

When my local origins continue to remain the same.
Jeneve Hunter
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:33:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Jeez Robert! I do not envy you!
Don Swearingen
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:33:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Transformation

I’ll cocoon in my egg
Wrap myself in my coxcomb
Perfusion of patience ….

Birth and rebirth
Bathing spirit in mirth
Crown buried in Mother Earth

Light-footed around Pandora’s Box
Snuff ticking from the grandfather clock
Waning and washing
Time to stand, Time to walk

Burn from the ashes
Phoenix with incandescent flashes
Toil and turn transient dashes

Give birth from the chaos into subtle calm
Pulsating waiting writing my psalm
Rupturing and ravishing
Beauty oh beauty so lavishing.

copyright 2007 Deirdre Powell
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:36:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A blessing

Sleeping beneath a russet cover
A small little something,
a gift for a lover
Hope entwined, future high
A purpose, pretty,
a dream, to sigh

Some solar caressing
A cloud releasing
Mother earth’s blessing
So verdant, so pleasing

When color’s first sight
Reaching the light
Blues so bright
A blossom with might

Little hands grabbing
Intention so sweet
Her mother is gabbing
Her friends here to meet

“I picked this for you,
An expression of love.
My resources few,
This gift from above.”




Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:37:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Mitochondria were there at the beginning
Nidus seed, that brought all the layers
of complexity, precipitating out of
matter neither created nor destroyed.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:38:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Comes What Comes”

Fry
fish
for
getting
Friday
fictive
for
giveness
Madness

Better—
drop bombs of vegetation
onto a child’s
yawning plate

Sow what sows
what’s so
Wager on the
We
Matt Marshall
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:38:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Anger. Fight.
Protect my right,
my left, my things,
my life.

Legend and lore
have gone before
us, leading,
noses sore.

We cling to myth
the lies with
which we remain
backs stiff.

Heavily tread
pleasantly dead
take the lies
waiting ahead.

Generations pass
without a gasp
we sign ourselves
away at last.


Greta
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:40:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Birth of That Word

It's a word you can fall into,
associated with roses, hearts
and heartaches. It's a short word
but one with a past.

It recalls music, wine, candles, and ecstasy,
but also regret, remorse, and even fear.
It's a loaded word.

It's said we can't live without it;
some have died for it; some wither away
when it eludes them.

It must have existed long before
mankind evolved, even before the earth
arose and the stars and planets
began their lonely dance in the universe,
rotating and orbiting in the darkness.

We can thank our lucky stars
that it survived the big bang
and demanded from every language
in the world that word.


Bill Stewart
bstewart192@aol.com


Bill Stewart
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:43:43 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
In The Beginning

When we first meet a person, we sometimes
go out of our way to impress
but as time goes on, we stop trying so hard
and it seems as if we no longer give it our best

When we first get something new
we care for it like it is sacred
but as the time goes on
it seems as if we forget about the maintenance

When we start a project, we may start strong
but once again, as time prolongs
our focus seems to fade away
like the sun does the day

If we acted in a manner
that made us believe every second was the beginning
and never looked at the ending
.........I can't really think of a good ending, so I guess I wont be the one to break this cycle...sorry

Daryll Sabb
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:44:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
What goes around, comes around (Origin poem 4-1-09)
Sandy Dickson

It was a hot day in the hood back then
As he was busily carrying rocks.
It shouldn’t have been so hard on his feet
As he was used to having no shoes and socks.

But carrying them over the distance
Had disadvantages that were not kind,
For rocks were heavy and weighty on soles
So they also played heavy on his mind.

Wouldn’t it be great to push them along,
Smoothly, without this work he was seeing?
That was long time ago outside his cave
And just how the wheel came into being.
Sandy Dickson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:45:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Poetry

Poetry is caressed and then born.
It is the universal umbilical cord to our innermost thoughts.

It is where our verbal consciousness; allows us to explore with visual insight that which we dare not pick apart without an open mind.

The poet, or he who births such an art is aware of our weakness.
The poet expresses our thoughts with a melodic verbal blend,
And finds pleasure in arousing the readers and those who may listen.

Poetry is the usage of words that ignite our experiences, emotions and dreams without our stumbling spoken words.

The poet combines our senses, expressions, and gestures
without our evasive shadows or camouflages.

Poetry is a definitive state of mind.
With closed eye, an audience becomes enwrapped with the life of otherwise ordinary words.

Aah....but the poet's designer's touch has converted such words.
This rare talent, much like the musician with his music,
Or the artist with his paint, has transformed.

Expressed beauty by the poet's pen....
Poetry is an Art.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:46:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
i remember
my grandfather always kept it in a brown paper bag
and he let us take swigs of it.

my mother and grandmother admonishing
that it looked like piss and tasted like it too.

great uncles on both sides of my family
entertained it on a regular basis.

one of them hitching his team of work horses
to an old wooden wagon, so, he could make it to town
on a Saturday's eve to enjoy it.

my father used to make his own brew of it
in a big ceramic urn in the upstairs bedroom
it sat there for days covered with an
embroidered tea towel.

i remember
it made all these men crazy at times
some to the point of anger and violence and regret
destruction and death.

still
it remained.

it
still remains.

maybe
i can end it
and put it to rest.


Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:46:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Darkness" Shannon H. smsaz@cox.net

The sun boldly falls to the ground;
Falling, falling, Falling down.

The bright light is engulfed with the
cape of darkness
The midnight black circles us all
Waiting eagerly for the suns next fall

Strange that in this hour all seems to give up power.
Vulnerable to the unseeing eyes
Unable to realize...

The brightness is yet to come once again
Against it's will perhaps
But light against the dark will reign supreme

As the shining is beeming directly from me.

Shannon--AZ
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:46:52 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
VEGETABLE DIP

Caleb Barnes, a corn-fed hick,
developed quite a nasty tic,
and broke into impromptu dance
when bees had nested in his pants.
For all his years, this bumbling clod,
had toiled daily in the sod,
planting veggies row-on-row,
reaping all the stuff he’d sown.
Soon came the Autumn Harvest time,
and Caleb Barnes would stand in line
with bushel baskets brimming full
of all the vegetables he pulled.
Suddenly, no reason given,
unprovoked, yet frenzy driven,
spastic thrusts moved Caleb’s boots
to all the other farmer’s hoots.
Bessie Jones, the dairy maiden,
a klutz herself, two left feet laden,
had also come to sell here wares
and saw poor Caleb prancing there.
A hornet had commenced his swoon
By flying up his pantaloon.
She watched in all her prudent charm
as Caleb bumped against her arm.
So, Bessie dropped her sour cream,
(the best this county’s mouths had seen)
and stood in horror; shock; agape,
all for the lunging of this ape.
Slipping on the milky gob, he
fell into the creamy blob,
his veggies flew in disarray,
going this and that-a-way,
then, landed in the sour goo
and splattered onto Bessie’s shoes.
A broccoli floret lit nearby
and Caleb thought he’d have a try,
making sure the cream’s not wasted;
the treat indeed, the best he’d tasted.
He shouted thanks for that one slip,
to become the world’s first “Veggie Dip”.




Walt Wojtanik
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:48:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I am working on a series of poems about my experiences in Africa. I hope I am still posting this on April 1. It is still April 1 here in Europe so I hope it fits with US time as well. I will be visiting here through the weekend but did not want to miss the start of PAD 2009.


Origins

It is said to have begun
in apes in Central Africa, a
virus that saps the continent.
At a rural hospital it takes five
a week, no one cares where it
started or why or how. The virus
is part of an army of fear, poverty,
ignorance, disease that steals
the breast from newborn babies,
ravages old women, burns hope
to the ground. Still hope somehow
survives in a book and a bowl of soup
offered to a small dusty child,
a chance for another new day.

Peggy Goetz
April 1, 2009
Peggy Goetz
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:48:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I think I'm an unhappy person
and I don't know why,
On the outside I pretend to be happy,
but on the inside I cry.

The outside person is always happy,
and never questions why,
the inside person is always sad,
and never fails to cry.
Leslie
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:48:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
PANTHER AT THE ZOO

Black one, you are the shadow
often overlooked but there
not stalking but swimming
through shifting light
a dark shape under water

Did the black clothing come first or

The silence

You must have evolved
but why did you choose
the night, unlike your brothers
the freckled one and the bearded one
who merely blend in
You are invisible
the felt underside of leaves
and the stain of black soil

Did calm silence come first or

The keening

Soft, sleek, and assured
living smoothly, without guile
a master of survival
you are what you are
displaced from your top-taken station
you go home to the night
and the memory of your brothers

Did the keening come first or

The cage
samantha karren
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:52:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
origins of a water being



my grandfather

navy trunks

fit body

his sure stride along the pool’s edge

as my sister and I whooped and hollered

we could finally swim under

the blue and white nylon rope

that divided the pool into the boring shallow side and

the deep end full of possibilities

he stepped squarely on onto the back of the white diving board

tested the spring

bouncing lightly up and down

as we shouted

swan dive! jackknife!

I noticed thin lines around his calf

marking where his black work socks were

just fifteen minutes earlier

his grin lights up his face

his arms raise and lower

as his bounces become bigger

the board sproinging at his motion

suddenly he takes a big bouncing step with the right foot

then the left foot, to the end of the board

two feet together

gracefully leap

arms out to his sides

to form my favorite

the swan suspended in air

over in a second

his body races beneath the surface

along the bottom

through the blue



cool blue swimming peace




Kristin
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:54:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Family Renamed

The folks at Ellis Island
in 1911 didn’t stop to listen as
Isidore spoke his surname.
Instead the official
in charge — never even
looking up — wrote the name
he heard — “Tasky.”

Now that’s a far cry
from the name my grandfather
brought with him
from Krakow, Poland —
“Dratefka” — along with his
shoe making skills
and quest for America’s
streets of gold.

And, Tasky became our family name
passed down to my father, David,
to his son, Ken, and to
Ken’s sons, Mark and Jeremy.
Mark now has little Ian —
the youngest Tasky bearer.
I wonder if he’ll ever know
what his name might have been
had those people at Ellis Island
gotten it right.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:56:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Broken Word

The Word faces itself in its mirror,
A being grounded in its own unity.
If there were a morning possible,
The Word would welcome the morning doings.
But morning means evening, the split of day,
And days mean yesterday and tomorrow,
And the division of the year.
And years mean history and future,
And the dissolution of the point of Time.

And now morning dew firms in a moment,
Coats the leavings of the verbs that start to act.
The mirror actively reflects, and separates,
Bifurcating into Subject and Object.
Slivers of shivering change radiate
Unto the utmost echo. Becoming begins,
Being becomes morning and evening and a day,
Morning becomes electric,
The mirror is shocked to see itself in itself.

In a moment, the shock reverberates
And explodes. Shards of separation shatter
The Word in two syllables and letters and serifs,
Then, sans serifim, a bare existence shines forth,
Regards itself once again, mirrors in the barbershop,
Differentiation sans integration,
Exponential expansion engulfing the abyss.

And it was good.

Copyright 2009 Chuck Puckett
1 April, 2009
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:58:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A new month dawns with
The promise of sunshine & flowers
Snowfalls-April Fools!
Robin Waring
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:58:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Daffy

I am a yellow trumpet-shaped blossom,
glistening with dewdrops,
awakening the day.
Have you seen me?
When did I begin?
Only the Master Creator knows.
He paints flowers with His mighty brush
peach, purple, pink, and plum
beneath colorful skies
streaked with glorious light.
My origin? Why yellow?
Awaiting His answer
I flourish in Spring gardens,
growing amidst brilliant white Dogwoods,
singing in the blue.
Nanette DeLaittre
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 10:59:23 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Lincoln
He came from humble beginnings
A log cabin, little education
Armed only with a stove pipe hat, his wits and natural intelligence
He set out to change the world.

He believed in the kindness of friends and strangers alike
Out-debating the great debater
Winning an election he shouldn't have won
Then staring down the specter of war.

Victory in a second election was not guaranteed
But he triumphed again, thanks to his most human of spirits
Great moments followed:
Emancipation of slaves, the Gettysburg Address, victory in a war billed as civil.

But on the eve of Reconstruction
At a theater to enjoy a well-earned respite
He was shot down senselessly
Never to taste the fruits of his success
His legacy though, remains for posterity.
Mario
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:01:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Alma’s Origins

I see the universe of her, the flesh on her ribs,
cheeks to soften pointed chin, nose, those
Aryan eyes, violet pools for artistic narcissists
an impenetrable mirror, surface hardened to
stone above her bones on the Grinzing Friedhof,
where she lies reunited with the soil that created
her, Vienna – city with its air of decay,
origin of artists that sprung up like weed, clung
to her feet, engulfed her, smothered the music
inside her, remade this girl in their own
image, formed her into mother and muse.

Kristina von Held
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:01:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Number One

The number One
Is a funny one.
It’s the one and only truth.

One is the original origin
From which just everything else has begun:
Blessing, bliss and sin.

One is the first of an infinite series
And being special makes it delirious.
With number one the numbers start
The number one is really smart.

Every language has it.
Everyone just says it.
No one can refuse it.
Everyone must use it.
One time, any time, all of the time.

Everything begins with one
Everything unites in one
Everything returns to one,
When everything is ever done.

All is the one and only.
The one and only is all.

One love, one life, one everything
One sun, one earth, one moon
One universe, one every thing
One music and one tune.

We all have only got one life
although cats are believed to have seven
but there is still for everyone
just the one and only heaven.

One family means harmony,
One is the perfect unity.
The universe was born
out of a singularity.

It takes one seed only
to make an entire tree.
It takes one egg only
for a chick-to-be.

But every single one
is a very special one.
Every person is unique,
Every idea is original,
Every mind is one of a kind.

But only together there is unity
Only together there is peace for all
When all is in one piece.
Sabine Metzger-Groom
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:02:38 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Origin"

The green tea I sip each morning
did not begin with the tea bag
in its wrapper in the box
shipped from India.
It did not begin in the water
boiled in the red enamel kettle
atop the stove as I stumbled,
bleary-eyed and forlorn,
about the house preparing
for another eight-hour day of work.

The green tea I sip each morning
began on the other side of the Earth,
with a seed sown in rich soil, with water,
with rain, and the rays of the Sun beckoning
to a tiny spark of life inside the seed,
warming and coaxing it out to grow
and show its young, green face in the light of day.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:06:01 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
So many great poems today and so many new names. I pity the judges if this pace keeps up. Anyway, here’s a few that really caught my eye:

Rachel (Spaceofgrace) – Great to see you have joined this madness. And another great poem.

Kellie Shanley – “Last Little Girl Ride”

TE Savelle – “Swiss Cake Roll” reminded me of just how good these sinful delights are.

Rebecca Gomez – Long time no hear from you. “Indulgence” is another hunger-making poem. By the way, welcome to the madness.

Cynthia Astle – “Genesis” is short and to the point. Wonderfully written.

Nancy Posey – “As We Begin” is an outstanding beginning.

Joe – “The Origin of My Stupidity” should be etched in stone.

Many, many more great offerings mixed in this 500+ first day. So many familiar names that have been around since last year’s PAD.

Great job, y’all. LET’S ROLL!
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:06:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of a Writing Technique

Divining inspiration
Persuading, imagining, proposing ideas
Embracing the delicacy of a purposeful
Endearing
Word or phrase
That gnaws at you until you realize its worth.
Enhancing the rhyme scheme,
Following your heart
Until you don’t know where you start
And where you end.
Employing vulnerability
Constructing wisdom
Meaning
Creating a vision
To invigorate who you are
What you do
How you do it
And why you do it.
Writing
For the sole purpose of finding yourself
And all that you are
Meant to be.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:07:56 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Oops! Forgot to finish my comment:

Kellie Shanley – “Last Little Girl Ride” really touched me because just a few weeks ago, I walked my oldest daughter down the aisle. We both cried.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:09:38 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Me
i came from my mother, but
i am not my mother.

i came from a father i didn't know
and a stepfather whom i did

who i am now
is not who i used to be, nor
is it who i will be tomorrow.

what does that leave me to be?

i am a mother
i am a wife
i am a sister
i am a daughter
i am a teacher

i am a person

a person who is trying to do
a little good in a world
gone wrong
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:11:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
On the battlefield he stood gallant,
though the ultimate fight would be with death,
its repose laboring to claim his form.
He would be immortalized in defeat,
indignant at his depiction and helpless to alter it.
This Gallic warrior
tasked as an eternal reminder
is forever fallen.
Pergamon celebrated his blood
joyful to his demise.
This man, this life,
the Dying Gaul.
Joe Beauchamp
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:14:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The winds of change have brought me here
to light and lay on ground so dear
NOW,
roots of darkness hold me near.

Though gently sprout my infant seed
to grow, and share, an endless need
I,
try, alone, to sate your greed.

Nurtured, large, a healthy swell
Springing forth from my bounties well
MUST,
fight and clash for place to dwell.

Until you see my woe, my pain
where earth is rare, diseases reign
DIE,
not sowing the seeds of change.
Karen Kennedy
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:15:47 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Black Gold

Pressure cooked dead zoo plankton
and algae was initially sold to Americans
as medicinal snake oil. Several hundred
thousand bottles were consumed before
it’s energy usage proved more marketable.
Meanwhile in the town of Baku, Azerbijan,
North of Iran, villagers could dig a hole
in the ground, drop in a live coal and start a fire.
Historically, trillions and trillions of gallons
of this lucrative pond scum has bubbled
up to the surface worldwide, naturally consumed
by hungry bacteria. One hundred fifty billion
is now spent annually to locate the remaining
desolate pools. America’s pipelines, 161,000 miles
of arteries, half the distance to the moon await.

Cheryl Lynn Moyer
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:17:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Indiscriminate wings touch delicate
parts of rich summer blooms,
rashly spreading pollen on busy legs
of hive denizens bumbling
throughout my neighbours' gardens.
Somnolent buzzing accompanies the journeys
of heavy laden bees carrying nectar
to transform into liquid gold
for my tea and toast.

On a perfect summer day,
with perfect summer conditions,
pollen mixes and blends,
warping into something new,
rare,
beauteous to behold
in the coming springtime
of my neighbours' gardens.
Trudi Jarvis
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:17:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

Dark
and cold,
mark
of old...

Then, there was a glow...

a sudden spark,
a special heat,
a live beat
of a numb heart.

When I saw you
I knew,
that was the start,
abstract art...

Along we came
became strong
we were game
nothing wrong!

The minute I saw you
was original,
out of the blue...
marginal, magical!


Hearts are young
and dreams unfold...
eyes, heat, tongue
who'd have told?

Desires have no time
(sparks remain)
instincts have priority
(keep us sane)
life is prime
(magic game)
joy is authority
(hearts reign)

Whispers can't be held
feelings are spelled
the origin is far gone
forever changes are done.


Rosangela Cricci Taylor
April-01-09
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:19:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
When the building fell down;
Collapsed into nothing but timbers and toothpicks
And smoke and dust rose from the ground,
It seemed that nothing could make that empty lot better.
It was dust and only dust;
Not even sacred dust;
Not even ashes that were to be spread on foreheads.
So, when they started planting flowers
And random blades of grass,
Nobody liked the idea
Why beautify a lot of dust?
It didn't matter - it wouldn't matter.
Not now. Not ever.
They voted no.
The lot sat with nothing happening.
Weeds grew among the flowers and the grass.
Rain came and made the dust lot into mud.
The years passed and the grass grew.
The year passed and people forgot about the dusty lot.
Children ran and played baseball.
They found nowhere to hide, but they went.
They met and were happy.
Another vote was taken.
Yes to a park. Yes to fun. Yes to the children.

~ Bridget Ilene Delaney ~
Bridget Ilene Delaney
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:19:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
ORIGIN(A Fib for the First)

For
Spring,
Jealous
April thrust
Into thawing loam.
Now Winter’s to her catacomb.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:21:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
(Just so yah know, I'm Thirteen...)

"The Game"

I lose The Game.
This game is a mind game.
You can not win The Game.
You can only lose The Game.
The only way to stop playing The Game
is to convince yourself there is no game,
or to die.
The objective of The Game, itself,
is to avoid thinking about The Game.
If you think of The Game you lose.
When you lose, you must announce ''I lose.''
The other objective of The Game, itself,
is to get everyone to play the game.
This game is impossible to win.
It is THE GAME.
The Game.
You lose.
Jane Goodman
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:23:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Begin
walking through the alley.
It's cold and rainy and at 5AM looks like a manga shot
streetlamp, shining asphalt, black umbrella.
My life is a series of starts,
just like yours.
Jessica Keller
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:26:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Tipping

The placard on the box read
To Insure Promptness.
Customers in the pub
would drop a coin or two
For speedy service rendered.
So it all began.

And now I must add a tip
For the hair stylist
Who cut and snipped as she liked,
So that next time,
My hair won’t come out purple
And lop-sided.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:26:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Babysitting Causes Artists
Origin Poem, April 1, 2009

Babysitting money begat record buying
Record buying begat telling people about artists
Telling people about artists begat FM radio listening
FM radio listening begat more record buying
More record buying begat working in a record store
Working in a record store begat going to concerts
Going to concerts begat seeing men wearing leather pants
Seeing men in leather pants begat meeting people who were artists
Meeting people who were artists begat being an artist
Being an artist begat telling people about music
Telling people about music begat income streams
and those income streams become babysitting money for
more little artists who finds new music on the Internet
and want to grow up to be just like me.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:28:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Dance

Rhythms in my head
Vibrate my ear

Rhythms in my heart
Flow through blood

Rhythms in my hands
Clap an enthusiastic beat

Rhythms in my feet
Move my body

Rhythms in freedom
Movement in joy
Michelle
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:32:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Awake, Perchance to Unearth the Meaning of Life

It’s not finance
Or work issues
Or even a guilty conscience
That keeps me pillow flipping
’Til diurnal’s lunar orb
Slips its beaming cast
Under the horizon.

No, the wellspring of my insomnia
Is the blackhole into which
I stumble when, like Darwin,
I contemplate
The Origin of the Species.
If I, upon some divinely
Manipulated pottery wheel,
Were spun of clay and dust,
And that loam and those particulates
Burst from a meteorite,
And that cosmic constellation
From which that star eloped
Were prestidigiously poofed
From holy hands,
Then who created God?

As I’ve scrutinized this mercurial,
Sleep-stealing mind-boggler,
I’ve discovered one constant:
My paper boy drops
A Tribune in my roadside box
At precisely 3:30 a.m.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:34:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I just looked back at last year's challenge, and the posts started in at about just under 300 per day and trailed off to about 200 or just fewer. Robert may need to look into cloning.
Corinne
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:35:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Blackberry Winter



Nate Elder was born in the chill of a blackberry winter
and Nate Elder was gone when Blackberry winter came
In the air a chill
Clouds hung low
Like granny shawls
Around the shoulders of the mountains
Springtime mourned his passing.

The vines grew wild on Signal Mountain
Those of us that surrounded his grave
Grew intoxicated
As a stiff wind
Created a swirl of white
And the preacher released his soul to the ages.

Rain crows let go of their mournful songs
And upon the wind I smelled him;
The bay rum
And the black-leaf tobacco
The sweat and the smoke
The three years clad in faded gray.

My Nate Elder was laid facing east
His feet west
The direction that lead him far from home
He was born of dust
And as God always does
To dust he was given back.

Then from some far off place
For a time
Brief as the days of Blackberry winter
He returned to Signal Mountain
Not ready to bid farewell
To the white buds of spring and of love.

He was dead but I saw him
Not even cold in the ground
Wildflowers atop his breast
Yet to wilt
The sky opened with a warm rain
And washed him clean.

I saw his face in the cold-spring house water
His touch fell upon my cheek
The gentle smile
As the baby laughed at unseen happiness
For a time
He was with us yet again.

As there is a season to all things
Such a time where Blackberry winter
Comes and then is gone
Nate Elder was swallowed up by the ages
And from dust he was birthed
The same he would return.


Stacy Spragg
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:35:56 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Michelangelo Pulls a Sickie

Last night I dreamt of Coliseums and conquests,
gladiators in half dress, spreading over
clear blue canvas. Of air conditioning,
dining al fresco, and cabriolets driving
along Roman roads. I woke this morning
with a crick in my neck, gazing at the ceiling,
paint peeling grey from white
like old angels wings in half flight.
I dreamt of Adam in the night. Bushed by Eve
and her appetite, he had sickened of pie
and apple wine, he said gardening was over-rated.
I think I’ll stay at home today, call Julius
with a stomach ache, to fix this house,
perhaps I’ll decorate.
Mandy Maxwell
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:36:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Wow! This is an all-time record!

Who Wants a Begonia?

My mother-in-law was probably
talking about flowers that afternoon
many years ago, when we were all
riding to somewhere in North Jersey,
because when my wife asked her for a comb,
her mother, slightly hard of hearing,
said, “Who wants a begonia?”
This soon became an apocryphal saying
in the family, employed anytime someone
heard something completely different
from what was said. We still use it today –
it’s part of her legacy of malaprops
and fractured phrases, but in a sense,
so like her generous heart,
for in the face of misunderstanding
she would rather give someone a flower.
Bruce Niedt
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:36:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Sir Marlame begot Gold Chip,
and Gold Chip begot Kip.
But Kip will beget no one
because his equipment is gone.

Bread to follow badgers
deep into their burrows,
he burrows beneath a blanket
until the mail is delivered.

The wrath intended for vermin
is unleashed on the paper boy.
The trait desirable to my ancestors
is now just annoying.

QWERTY begot Dvorak.
Touch typing begot thumbing.
Then grammar gave way
to visual typography.

The coal fired boiler begot fuel oil,
and fuel oil begot natural gas.
The skill of stoking a fire for the day
gave way to the leisure of a thermostat.

The ax begot the chain saw
And the log begot cheap paper
And prose replaced rhythm and rhyme:
the poet's mnemonic.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:36:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Unknown Origin"

I saw a man, walking along the side of the highway
With a guitar strapped to his back
As I drove home from work this evening

It was raining, a light, misty drizzle
Chilly April showers in the gray twilight
A good time to be inside

Who was he, this rainy day guitar man?
A roving troubadour, a bard from days of old?
A musician, down on his luck?

Where was he heading, with such a purposeful stride?
A gig, a concert, just hanging out to play music with friends?
Running away from home with his most treasured possession on his back?

Why was he walking, on such a damp day?
No car, no driver’s license, no friend to give him a lift?
An environmentalist, trying to reduce his carbon footprint?
Did his car break down? Would I pass it, hazard lights flashing, on the side of the road ahead?

Fragments of thoughts come and go
Joining the days, weeks, months, and years of commuter time musings
Forgotten once I get home
Kris Thorne
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:37:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Poet and the Muse

Here beneath a shady tree
Pen and paper nestled under me
-“What will it be?”
The muse asked me
-“I’d like some lines of poetry”
-“None for you today my dear”
Now my face quite wrought with fear

-“Then may I ask you, in an hour,
For some verse about a flower
Growing strangely neath a bower
Near a cold, metallic tower?”
-“None for you today my dear”
Here I did produce a tear

“Please”, said I, “My heart grows faint
Can I not write of a saint
Who could not his mind restraint
And with selfish thoughts his church did taint?"
-“None for you today I say”
She left, but still I chose to stay

Now beneath the shady tree
Pen and paper set I free
I will show her-She will see!
I WILL write lines of poetry
And all of it will stem from me


Martha Duran Ruiz
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:38:06 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Souls Mate

Two strangers sit upon a bench
in that park off Laurel Street
You know the one, where jogger’s skin
shines with sweat, salty
And children’s giggles
float in air, bubbly

She
is not sure he sees her there, silent
at the end of the bench
She fears she is
invisible
He
has seen her someplace,
before. Before what?
Before coming of age? Before the gray?

Lines on his face
thin lines, by his eyes
rugged lines, handsome
She’s never seen these lines before
yet, she stirs as though
she knows them, like
she’s traced each one
with her fingertips,
before. Before what?

He
is drawn
pulled like a magnet
He reaches
From where? From before?

Clears his throat, fidgets
foolishly stiffens - solid on the bench
tries not to look at her
like he did,
before

She
tastes him, his lips
she melts, draws him inside her with every breath, then
steadies, steals a glance
finds him
sitting
on the bench
like before
right there, in that park on Laurel Street
You know the one.

tracyray
Tracy Ray
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:39:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Love is You

Love
I thought I knew what it meant
So many different definitions
And yet
Yours. . . rings true
Love is You
Christy Brewster
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:40:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Fargo

For the woman sunk in the green shadows
outside her house
yesterday their was no such thing as
grief
But today,
today it washes in cold sheets
from the sky.
And she knows--
also new:
exhaustion
keening loss,
the true meaning too much.
Laura
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:41:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
We begin at the beginning
the start of things,
with newsprint followed by
a phone call, followed by many phone calls.
At once, I
(alone)
cease and we
(together)
start.

And I'm okay with that.
martii
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:44:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A root goes deep,
Not always on the surface,
Constant companion, nonetheless;
Every night in dreams
Sustaining me
Teaching what I already know,
Or once knew, but have forgotten:
Remember where you come from,
So you can be who you are.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:45:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Bludgeoned

Bypass the baby bludgeoned
Go In to the Bible
where a man is twisted
by rage
the rage of not being Abel
to produce
the fatty pieces of
offering
and in not waiting
a demon of destruction
stood bated
In the shadows
of his error
his distorted face
a displeasure
7 times a measure
of unequality
but primed
for his sins he became
a guardian
over a land no longer blessed.

What do you ever learn
at school? He said
When your offspring
is hanging from the Cliff
ton
They would have grown
cannabis in Eden - anyway!
when you did not pay
or "the wages of your workers
were calling out for justice"
and justice became
bludgeoning
you.

The nature
of the erased child
is to erase
what is disease
in projectile
rejection of what is not
hurt is anger
Knock down the nails that stick out
Rose
Harrold
Jack
Myra

And at the end of it all
I opened your skull like a spoon that crushes a boiled egg
on the day your wife did not return
and used your penis like a soldier




Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:46:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Crow used to be white.
His feathers were translucent,
like crystal. His song
was soft, like leaves
waving on stems.

That was before rain,
before he put on his black
coat & hunkered on limbs
with noisy resignation.

Listen: he's picking
through your
trash now & laughing.
Before long, he'll peck
out your eyes.

Crow makes no excuses
for his behavior.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:48:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
origins - awakening
It started with a twitch of toes
Down to my knees and through my nose
I stammered hard and then I shuddered
Beyond belief, aghast I uttered
What has brought me here, oh sore disgrace
A fate worst than death I do now face
It thus is true I do confess,
I was the first, you know, the best
And even as my glory fades, I cannot help but ponder days
When clutched in hand and arm’s own crook I was your first beloved book







Susan LeFort
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:48:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Crack

If you asked me
I couldn't tell you
when I first
tipped my head
to hear you better

my eye caught frozen
in that quick glance
that two people share
when they think the same
thing at the same time

or was it the snicker
cutting and sharp
just as she was whispering
loud so I would hear

nothing, it was nothing
clear as a mother's warning
no one knows for sure
just everyone but me

and if you asked me
again, as I see you
have already done
before,

I couldn't tell you
when it sprouted through
the frozen earth
the rock solid foundation
of our partnership

that seed of doubt
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:48:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
WOW!!!!!!!!!!!! Robert, I'll betcha wished you had stuck to the poem a week. I can't believe how many have been posted in just the last hour.

Ralph.
Ralph Fitcher
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:52:01 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Stevie Nicks

Sometimes I think
she emerged from the womb,
tambourine in hand.
No umbilical cord,
but tied to her mother
with ribbons.
Sarah
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:55:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Third attempt to post this so apologies if it turns up three times!!



Breaking the fast, 4.30pm



Pre-packed chicken salad sandwich
winks from the third shelf
in the small shop,

my tummy,
on its free range, sat fat free,
low cholesterol, politically correct schedule,
groans
(starved since this morning’s sore throat
postponed breakfast,
then lunch)
now, as commuters cascade homewards, it bellows protests
to distorted glands and tender tonsils,
roars to other customers like a restrained two year old
denied sweeties

my belly
doesn’t care if my throat’s cut;
has no concern for happy hens in fallow fields
or for the human rights record of the handlers of the hands that handled the tomatoes
prior to packing;
is indifferent to guideline daily allowances;
doesn’t give a shit which came first (the chicken or the mayo)
or whether they ever smiled long enough to come at all...
My belly wants.

On the way out
I count my change,
discount the calories
and tuck the fair trade chocolate bar in my pocket
for after breakfast

Chelley McLear 2009

Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:57:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins

How did it begin?

A few angry words,
a slamming of the door
tearful arguments
and reconciliations.

A gradual pulling away
emotionally, then physically too.

A coldness of the heart
begins slowly, a reverse
melting of an iceberg.
Rosalie Nelson
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:57:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Dog

The powers that be looked down
And said “Something is missing.”
They looked to the forests, canyons and oceans
“We have beauty and grandeur”
They looked to the sun
“We have warmth”
They looked at the men and women
Embracing in the moonlight
“We have love”
But . . .they said in unison
“We need joy”
So they took a heart
And kept it pure
Mixed it with a dash of loyalty,
A healthy dose of fun,
A cup of strength
And intelligence
And infused it all with a
Generous helping of unmitigated bliss
They stirred it well
Then formed it into
A four-legged furry beast
When they stood back
To admire their creation
It jumped up and
Licked their faces
The powers that be
Felt their spirits lifts
And dissolved into laughter
Then they stood
And said “This is good.”
With the winds of good fortune
They sent it to Earth
Now every person
In every way
Can feel the joy
Of Dog in their day
SaraV
Wednesday, April 01, 2009 11:59:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Shape of the Bulb,
Bloom of the Flower


The peonie root is a gnarled piece of work
As big as the hand that buries it.
The flower is not even curled inside,
Waiting,
The flower is a dried, over-built, gnarled piece of work.
When it dies, after it has lived, and the petals drift down the street
unconnected,
it will never look as old as this
Or as complicated.

I think, the night before I was,
They chose silence over clearing words.
Corners were retreated to.
Separate pieces took peace.
Crickets spoke instead.

Deep in a moonless night
I took root and formed,
Like a pearl around a piece of sand,
As small as the kiss that made room for me.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:00:17 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

Brooding silence,
Waters weep.
Musty dampness,
Silence deep.

Turning hand
Toward the east.
Fingers played
the silence ceased.

Shimmered slight,
Silver, gold.
Slicing darkness
Warming cold.

Blasting trumpets
Up and shooting,
Jagged land
Green and rooting.

Smiling then
On breezy land.
Sweet and fleshy
So came man.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:02:52 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
zoos

people make decisions about waiting around for numbers
and an eagle watches a pott fly off to dandylion hornets in beijing
who can say?
no one really eats sacks off armadillos for a bad sock flower, anyone fancy a game of mariocart my true true florentine,
can you have crisps with worshiping false idols
what is to be gracefull in the market place and how my friend do we have to show compassion
the market will crash and the city will get pregnant with its own father in a cow suddenly breathing in pork where dangerous ian skys his ears for the sake of listening to birds, fire cracker beetroot
Gregory Anselm De Pulford
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:03:55 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A word, a phrase
thoughts
jumble together
spark connections with
creative energy
an Idea bursts forth.
Tracie
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:04:08 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
(I wrote more than one poem so I figured I'd just throw them all out in their roughness.)

*1*

For Noelle

Did it begin with the first look word or touch
And when did we begin to know, to let go
Of the reservations, begin again together?

That morning you complained about your allergies
Kissing me goodbye with a casual wave and
Gave me the promise you would be home again.

On some cellular level I carry you with me
Even as the memory of your breath voice aroma
Flake away. The ache of wanting you to stay
Is not enough to hold you and my fingers stiffen
Gripping my heart hard against letting you go.

How do I begin to breathe again around
My massive uncrying pain metastasized,
Slowly dying in my throat? How can I

begin again? And when?


**2**

Spring Begins

The white crocus grows where
the gardenia was ruthlessly butchered
without our awareness.
The holly cut off at the core
has no more waxy eternal greenness
and the poison berries buried in the soil
will maybe find some way to the sun.

Today I inhale my coffee, aching at the loss
of the delicate scent of gardenia yet to come.

A breeze shudders the petals of the crocus.
Spring fails to fulfill. Summer holds no hope.

***3***

fingers curl around
instinctively my mother’s
finger pointing down

born to hold firmly
infant fingers curled around
my too large finger

birthdays bring spring rain
this year I measure the last
sifting to find hope

****4****

I’m just trying to have an original thought
a conception of something relevant
to drown out the pointlessness that is
this all too vague emotion, reach through
the apathy to some form of faith.

In a word, God created a universe
while I grasp for words that matter
and ponder the meaning of what it means
to be called good, for it is good and
if it is so called good then I too am good.

But I know better and know I’m no good.

Oh God, I would seek bliss in ignorance,
drop the fruit of knowledge and forget
the etymology behind these words--
words link together, trying to create
a universe of emotion and meaning
and fail, falling into silence because
I lack the skill of speaking a universe
of emotion and truth into poetic verse.

I would weave my salvation in words
of confession, forgiveness, and sacrifice
myself into silence if that would suffice.

I seek but do not find
the perfect words to grasp,
if only momentarily,
just one original thought.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:04:18 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Gym



The word gymnos is Greek

and means naked



Rumor has it

The Olympics were played in the buff



Picture it

(only for a brief second)

the long jump

the pole vault

Things hanging

Skin flapping

Smells emanating

As sweat dripped



The scene is outside my comfort zone



And yet…

My admiration for the male physique

Made its debut

When I was 15

In a basement gym

Watching a shirtless boy

With taut muscles

And smooth skin

Bench press

Karen Decker
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:05:26 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Dust Bunny

A speckle of dust, a trace of lint.
One dead cell from an old man's chin.

Together united they form a bond,
One that’s thin yet profoundly strong.

On through the nights they party and mingle,
Collectively mating with all the singles.

Round and round they know where to go.
In shady dark corners so they can grow.

And grow they do with such delight,
You move the couch and find the fright.

Shocked and embarrassed you’re ready to fight.

Out comes the Hoover, there goes the dog.

Not a moment too soon you swoop up the evil.
MJ Hemstock
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:05:58 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Loosy-Goosy

Loosy Goosy- origin: In 1801, a man named Billy Dilly from GottaWanna, Betchomamma was tired of writing and speaking in sophisticated prose. One day when no one was looking he slipped a few more words into the dictionary to satisfy his need for variety. And besides, he loved to hear his own name being sung in the schoolyard as a boy:
“Billy Dilly is so silly, when he’s cold he is so chilly, but when he’s not, he’s really hot!”
His first word ‘Loosy-Goosy’ was born when he accidentally pinched his girlfriend Lucy in the derriere and she honked like a goose. Soon other fun combinations started to tumble from his tongue and fell ‘topsy- turvy’ onto the paper. ‘Teeny- Weeny’ found its place in Billy’s Accidental Dictionary when his wiener dog reached its teenage years. ‘Dilly- Dally’ became a prize winner when his pregnant wife Lucy proclaimed her insatiable desire for dill pickles one night and Billy was gone for hours on his midnight run to the store. While his mother –in-law Bitty, diligently spent hours knitting booties for the baby he couldn’t help scribbling down “nitty- gritty” because of her annoying habit of grinding her teeth when she was nervous. The baby arrived ‘willy-nilly’ only 3 weeks past his due date. Little Willy Dilly couldn’t be cuter! When he started to walk he fell head over heels all the time into their beautiful garden of daisies- Oopsy Daisy! As he grew,little Willy Dilly honed his skill as a crackerjack ‘mamsy- pansy’ horticulturist. But he longed for the open rail and when he grew into his manhood he decided to become a conductor on the railroad because he loved the “toot toot” of the train whistle. He became one helluva rooten- tooten tooter on the 2:10 to Rooten, Illinois. Those who lived in Rooten were affectionately known as ‘Rooty’s’ but occasionally were taunted by nearby ‘Snooty’s’ (from Snooten, Illinois) who called them Tooty Fruity Rooty’s. But, we won’t go there. Sadly, one day in 1895 Billy Dilly committed hari-kari so he was never to add that fun word or the very appropriate, ‘silly- billy’ to Billy’s- not- so- frilly Dictionary. An account of the thousands of words that were added before Billy’s death is sketchy and loosy-goosy at best.
Julie Hairston
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:06:42 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April 1st, 2009

Origin

by Faye E. Arcand


Changes can come at
Anytime;
Anywhere;
Disguised as a friend
or presented as foe.
Sometimes it's a new start.
Stirring the genesis of unmapped domains
within us. Novelty and freshness…
Though filled with shadows;
Holes and weaknesses; Ready to crack
And burst. In need
of fulfillment and the sameness.
Change brings
new beginnings through transformation;
fresh starts; a clean slate.
He died on the first of the month.
A beginning?
An end?
Who’s to say which it really is?

Faye E. Arcand
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:08:02 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
water flows past my window
its sibling crashed into the ground
its cousin hangs casually in the air
indecisive on who to join
this family
has cared for me
as their own
I have yet to meet my parents
but I feel her hand on my chest
I feel his arm around my shoulders
I breathe in the comfort they bestow on me
and thank them every day
D.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:08:35 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Knowing home

Engine still sputters
When her eyes burn bright.
The anticipation of the sun
Behind the mountains.
Shared warmth of bare toes
Upon the soft grass
Of what the future holds.

Heavy winds slow down
Over the summit of
Promises made true.
Everything is simply brighter.
Adam Gastelum
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:08:52 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Do the times make the man
Or does man make the times?
Is it my perception that defines the world
Or is it the world defines my perception?

For every beginning
There is an end
If it has no start,
Can it have an end?

If I cannot remember my birth
Did I even have a beginning?
Does it not then follow
That I have no ending?

Or is it these old papers
that define my existence?
They say that I was born
Do they then say I'll die?

I have a natural need
To know it's either case
But how can I test this
Part of my universe?

Should I take the fast path
And jump to my assumed death?
Or should I take the long path
to, my friends, and world, outlast?

Merddyn Aladar
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:09:08 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Sooooo... to save the day after sooo many 100s of good poems... an ass with an attitude... those of you not used to Ringo just nedd to, well... get over it!!!



Dear Moosehead,
You talk about what was
originally so but you are so messed
up. Where do you get off any way
dumping your waifs and strays on me
even if they originated here? Your bitch
Mother and your gudfernuffin sister
(my so called wife) can go to hell if
you won’t take them back. Dump
them mad women on me just as the
season starts, you have some nerve!
You talk about origins… I’ll give
you the only origin that matters…
The Yanks started out as the Highlanders…
What the hell? Who cares? The
Cathedral is gone, we have a new
Home now… this is the origin of
A new era… I will forgive you
dumping your women on me, I will
forgive you for livin’ in Queens, you
semi-Mets ass-wipe! But I will not
forgive you for forgetting that our Yankee history
comes re-newed to the future and we will
anillihate those worthless Mets and those
gudfernuffin Braves. To hell with the Sox from Boston.
To hell with origin and history even
Though ours is the best
This season is ours so screw you!
Screw them all!
Pickya up at seven if you ain’t got a gripe on…

Watchin’ the play at the plate

Ringo the Howler




Iain
Iain D. Kemp
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:09:21 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Today is a good day for a suicide;

because she was born
because she was born under an unlucky star
because the star follows her
because she believed in change
because things didn't
because everyone she loves is dead to her
because some of them still breathe
because her clothes don't fit
because she doesn't fit
because life never promised her anything
because faith did
because fifty years seems enough
because she didn't think she'd make that
because the present never lives up to the past
because we learn too much
because she held her mother in her arms
when she died and how can one forget
because she drinks wine like water
because it helps with all of the above
because she doesn't write poems anymore
because she sleeps too much
because she is depressed
because she stopped taking zoloft
because her shrink was a prick
because she called him out on things
because he had no idea who she was
because he didn't have her file in front of him
because her son is far away and she wanted him gone
because he was difficult, but not that far away
because it's too far and she
wants to touch him
because she is so scared
that she will never see him again
because it is raining today and
because today is a good day
for a suicide.
Lori Williams
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:11:02 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Loosy-Goosy

Loosy Goosy- origin: In 1801, a man named Billy Dilly from GottaWanna, Betchomamma was tired of writing and speaking in sophisticated prose. One day when no one was looking he slipped a few more words into the dictionary to satisfy his need for variety. And besides, he loved to hear his own name being sung in the schoolyard as a boy:
“Billy Dilly is so silly, when he’s cold he is so chilly, but when he’s not, he’s really hot!”
His first word ‘Loosy-Goosy’ was born when he accidentally pinched his girlfriend Lucy in the derriere and she honked like a goose. Soon other fun combinations started to tumble from his tongue and fell ‘topsy- turvy’ onto the paper. ‘Teeny- Weeny’ found its place in Billy’s Accidental Dictionary when his wiener dog reached its teenage years. ‘Dilly- Dally’ became a prize winner when his pregnant wife Lucy proclaimed her insatiable desire for dill pickles one night and Billy was gone for hours on his midnight run to the store. While his mother –in-law Bitty, diligently spent hours knitting booties for the baby he couldn’t help scribbling down “nitty- gritty” because of her annoying habit of grinding her teeth when she was nervous. The baby arrived ‘willy-nilly’ only 3 weeks past his due date. Little Willy Dilly couldn’t be cuter! When he started to walk he fell head over heels all the time into their beautiful garden of daisies- Oopsy Daisy! As he grew, little Willy Dilly became a crackerjack ‘mamsy- pansy’ horticulturist. But he longed for the open rail so he became a conductor on the railroad because he loved the “toot toot” of the train whistle. He became one helluva rooten- tooten tooter on the 2:10 to Rooten, Illinois. Those who lived in Rooten were affectionately known as ‘Rooty’s’ but occasionally were taunted by nearby ‘Snooty’s’ (from Snooten, Illinois) who called them Tooty Fruity Rooty’s. But, we won’t go there. Sadly, one day in 1895 Billy Dilly committed hari-kari so he was never to add that fun word or the very appropriate, ‘silly- billy’ to Billy’s- not- so- frilly Dictionary. An account of the thousands of words that were added before Billy’s death is sketchy and loosy-goosy at best.
Julie Hairston
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:13:25 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Peru

Although I have not lived there since my third birthday
In speech, I still refer to it as "back home"
The land where I was born calls to me
The scented air from the Andes fills my lungs

First visit back
Almost took me further home than I care to remember
I was flattered to learn it did not wish me to leave
And hoped to swallow me up in its earth

Second trek home
Enchanted my daughters
Claimed them as their own
Their heads filled with legends and folklore

The mountains scream my name
Dare me to run through its tall grass
The rivers long to hold me up and carry me away
While El Misti still waits for my return
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:13:44 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Straightjacket

There once was a man, quite demented
Who's punching could not be prevented
He'd pound and he'd flail
till they took him to jail
in a straightjacket they had invented.
Charlie Pond
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:14:16 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origen of Sleep and Dreams

“I want to live another life,” I said. It was centuries ago.
Centuries ago; like all of us I was born
And reborn and reborn and reborn and reborn through so many years.
“Another story please,” I said. “There must be something more than this.”
At the end of the longest day of the year, I said to Night,
“There has to be something more than this.
I want to be somewhere else, a place as different as night is from day.
To see things as different as the stars we don’t see in the day.”

Night said, “You’re not the only one who asks.
You’ll have another story, and another.
Living through all those years, you may get tired of all your stories,
Wait and see.” “I want it now,” I said,
“I want another story, all the other stories.”
“You’ll never know it all,” he said,
“And I’m getting tired of this argument.”

He split into two, then three, and there they stood:
Night and Sleep and Dreams.
Night put her hand on my head.
She said, “Be careful what you wish for.”
Dreams said, “You’re going to get it.”
As Sleep put down my mind for that first night,
I heard Dreams say, “Here comes the first.”

Then the ground dropped out from under me.
And a tiger leaped at my head.
Gail Stonemark
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:15:17 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I love today’s prompt! I love thinking about the origins of things, especially words. I love etymologies. My favorite word is the word “radiant.” I used that word in my poem, but I didn’t end up writing a poetic etymology of it (though for anyone who is interested it comes to English from medieval Latin). Instead, I wrote about the origins of the love that makes our souls radiant.

RADIANT

Radiant! The sun shining in the sky!
Light and heat, power and dream in the beam
glancing down from the gold tent on high
to the mighty seas that listen and gleam.

Radiant! The bride of Solomon’s song!
Bright and lovely, all beautiful within
calling her beloved to come to her
and embrace the morning they are given.

Radiant! The delights of love they share!
Apples and pomegranates, honey, wine
pouring into their bodies with the words:
“I am my Beloved’s, and He is mine.”

Come, we will whisper again the story
of the lovers in all of their glory.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.com

"RADIANT beams from Thy holy face
with the dawn of redeeming grace ..." ~ from "Silent Night"
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:19:51 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Unknown Origin
Richard Dobson, 1680?-1735

A stranger comes to Redcar's shore,
Claiming a common name but otherwise
Unknown--perhaps another shipboard
Gypsy somehow enticed to stand his
Ground and dry his seaman's legs.

Was it the bright eyes or comely smile
Of she who'd be his wife? He'd not be
The first young man to recant the seas
For drier days and warmer nights, far from
Memories best left on foreign shores.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:20:50 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Ahaha... I forgot a tile. Wow. "Do I have an ending?"
Merddyn Aladar
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:22:46 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Doorbell


Heavy footsteps shuffle
Like slow-rumbling thunder
Her door opens a crack

Framed by the silence
She appears baffled
At the windy chatter

Outside, her mind falters
Like a towering cloud
Without promise of rain

Mists of frantic panic
Swirl rapidly about her
She must seek shelter

Through the slats
Of her blind eyes
She pulls herself in

Slamming the door
She cowers and waits
For the gossip to fall
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:23:30 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
In the beginning

Something not nothing
dimensionless
infinitely hot
infinitely dense
inside it all space
inside it all time
infinitesimal singularity
ground of all being
expanding into stars
exploding into light
Jenny Doughty
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:24:00 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I fell off the back of a lorry

I fell off the back of a lorry
That’s what dad always said
He was driving through a grim Northern town
When he saw me hit my head

I was wrapped, of course in that cliché
swaddling robes from purer tales
Dad would have run me over
Had he not just changed down gears

He braked, missed me, stopped went back
Took the gravel from my bonce
Stopped at the cop shop to hand me in
But the sign said out for lunch

He claims he drove home to Mama
With me lying on his lap
He said ‘let’s keep her can’t we dear?’
When she woke up from her nap

Mum said, ‘God god when will it stop
Last week it was a half-dead squirrel
The week before a mangy dog and
cat that nearly drowned in the Wirral

I’ve a pony in my garden
A python in the shed
I love you darling but really
You have surely gone soft in the head’

At that point I cried and wouldn’t stop
Until Mum delivered a cuddle
Then I smiled, burped and fell asleep
She declared ‘it’s all a muddle’

I got to stay of course I did
As did all my brothers and sisters
There were twelve of us in total
A round dozen for grazes and blisters

I fell off a back of a lorry
That’s what Dad used to say
Mum says, not true, they picked me
I feel lucky either way.
Julie Eason
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:24:22 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of My Love

The origin of my love
Sprang from your words.
Your book,
Not written for me at all.
Those words, sprang off the pages
And grabbed hold of my heart,
Refused
To
Let
Go
My soul, united to yours,
Through the power of the universe.
A power stronger than
All the reason in the world.
No common sense can shake it
Not possible,
People tell me
You
Can’t
Fall
In
Love
Like
That
But oh, my friends,
I say,
You can,
And I did.
Kathryn Varuzza
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:26:11 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Rosa

Young boys watch a hottie move
This high school chica
Hips dance to her own groove
Ella es muy bonita
Cropped shirt and pants fit tight
They tease, "She's from el barrio, fool."
Raise your voice, be ready to fight
Pops gum, rolls eyes, loves to break rules
Won't ask for help in tough situations
Mexican parents work in polluted mills
Has six siblings in gangs for generations
Her family prays, no one knows she sells pills
letter2V
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:27:05 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Invention of Punctuation

didn’t begin as many think
with the question mark but with
the full stop. Stop. Period.
One of us keeled over and failed
to get back up and the rest of us
skidded to a halt. We were
perplexed but had no useful story
though we were good at telling stories
without the words we didn’t have yet.
Now we had not-grunt, as well as
grunt. And still we didn’t need
the question mark (as you might have
guessed?) since a saber tooth came up
behind us and we were off again,
no time to ponder anything.
Nor did we have the exclamation point
despite the constant danger
because it was, well, constant.
The question mark was invented
by the Babylonians, who also brought us
the zero (and everything else empty),
but it was independently discovered
by the Mayans. The Inquisition
wiped out the question mark
but Copernicus resurrected it.
The comma was an invention
of the Industrial Age, first chance
to pause in history. The semi-
colon came from the Egyptians,
who eschewed belief in the full stop,
and needed another diacritical.
Doesn’t it look like one eye
crying one tear as it waits for the boat
of Osiris? The colon was an idea
from Jackson Pollock, and quotation
marks are pure American, from the Golden
Age of Hollywood. It was the Russian ballet
where the em-dash and the en-dash
were first distinguished. Parentheses (as you
know) haven’t been invented yet
(but will be soon (by a woman (peeling
an onion.))) Bertrand Russell said
someday punctuation will evolve
so we won’t need those pesky words
in between. In the meantime, we’re still not
using the question mark correctly.
Are we?
Jessica Goodfellow
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:28:09 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Your Photograph
-for my son’s birthmother

It’s there amidst my lingerie, in the company
Of all my other insecurities, there between the girdle
and the push up bra, small deceptions I’ve accepted.

Now and then it emerges,
Attached to a stray pair of stockings
static lifts it from the depths of the drawer.

I became his mother on a Friday,
as July lifted in spinning spirals
from the asphalt,

I stared into the confusion of his face,
Felt his thin fingers wrap around my own,
and could not help but picture you, somewhere, empty-armed.

For years he’s known, the truth the contrast
of our skin refuses to conceal,
that our bond is formed through grafting,

soon he’ll ask to see you, to glimpse
a face not unlike his own, soon, I’ll lift your picture
from the darkened drawer and surrender to him his past.

Today he turned sixteen, tonight I stare
into the glossy shadow of your eyes,
indebted and somehow afraid .





Bridget Gage-Dixon
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:31:38 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
ORIGIN

He started glancing side ways at the world,
Kind of,
Following a kind of accident.
Reports later claimed it was so,
That he was paranoid and angry at the world.
Understandably some said,
Kind of.

Following a trip to his mothers land,
Where he had sought answer to age old question?
Simply the point of origin, belongingness, coming from.
Traumatised by his experience,
The poverty, violence and violation,
The tortured broken bodies,
Starved round honey brown bellies sickened,
Kashmir story too true for television.
He wept.

Months later he landed,
His welcoming party let him know he was less than welcome,
DNA'd and checked out,
Delayed and vexed now,
But British, though honey brown...
They let him out.

and so started a simple tale,
of a guy being followed,
from bus to train,
to mosque,
and cafe,
Bowling with friends,
to cricket in parks,
with suspicious types,
to book stores,
and sunday lunch,
phone shops
and study groups,
to supermarkets,
and petrol stations,
and a garden centre,
where he bought flowers for his mum,
and fertilizer,
which he took to the shed on the allotment,
where his dad proudly grew vegetables even in England,
he was seen everywhere he went,
he was recorded saying every thing he said.

with honey brown skin,
and bushy black beard,
he matched the enemy within-profile,
that they had all heard.
And worse,
he had a bee in his bonnet...
at least thats what they reported,
claiming he spoke openly about kashmir,
and said the British had caused it.

He'd started to feel haunted,
ever since his return,
conflicted,
with an urge to do something.
Of course he told of all he'd seen,
The lessons he'd learnt,
And who was to blame,
With passion.
A ferver that named him hunted,
In the game.

And still quietly,
Where no-one could see he wept.

So when he left home with a rucksack,
Studious and serious,
He was tracked to the station,
Hunters twitching kind of nervous.
He was observed,
Moving towards the vestibule,
In between two carriages,
talking to his God,
In his ancient language.

the update went in the order came down,
faceless and direct,
one shot to the head.

An alarm sounded,
the train halted,
a man fell down,
someone shouted.

A man lay on the ground glancing sideways at the world,
Stone cold eyes... with a vision of heaven,
Going someplace he couldnt be followed...
in his rucksack,
a holy book,
and a home made dvd addressed to the BBC,
telling a story of a nation between nations,
where war crimes went unpunished.


Riddlewoman09
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:34:53 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
She breezes in,
throws me a smile and orders
some embarrassing umbrella drink
to match mine, as if to welcome me.
She tells me with her eyes,
so warm and brown,
I'm welcome to sit with her
or join her in an Afri-Cuban dance
or just tell her my sad story
but she is such an exquisite, smooth mocha
I can't imagine it could go deeper
than her humoring me as I pay for her drinks.
I am just travelling through just
another tourist,
soon on to other things,
no point of origin she'll remember
by tomorrow night.
No point at all.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:36:20 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
First Death

Knees to nose
Hands clutch center
Fold inward the body
Tortured origami
Retched in pain
Spit out
Left to digest,
Protest
Incest

Lsh

Linda Hudson
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:36:26 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Pearl Girl Plucks at Fish

The girl, a translucent pearl
Plucks a fish and guts it.
Wipes the shimmering scales from her hands
On the candy striped apron.
The smell of the water
Gags her before it gurgles
through the sluice beyond.
Jimmy shouts, “You’re slacking!
We’ll never get these to Billingsgate
in a month of Sundays!”

She smiles, someday she go to Maui
Use a snorkel to watch live fish
Swim beneath her white body.
The air will be scented with coconut oil.
A stranger slags her breast-stroke.
She rolls and dives, tasting the salt water,
Comes up for air.
“Hawaiian Wedding Song”
tinnily floats from the Tannoy.
The scorching summer sun seduces her skin
like dry ice, an eloquent torture.
She draws the waves over her
- a 10 tog duvet.

Big Badger watches from the beach.
Later he will swagger home and laugh-
knowing she is out of her depth.
He could have led her over lava rocks
And pools suffocated by seaweed.
Now she is lost,

‘Sa terre n’arrête pas de tourner’
Even when they shout « Tea-break !”
And everyone downs knives
The blood doesn’t stop
pouring through the sluice.

1/4/09

Madeline McCully
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:38:02 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
_Because origin is not a place_

i won't go back there
find my roots still swimming
in the rich dirt my fingers
would squeeze hungrily like worms

won't talk myself into it
wrap my mouth easily around
my parents' distant words
for home, tradition, me, us

won't buy my way to it
braid the old country into
my hair, wrap its flag around me,
don its cheap artifacts, mass produced

won't smuggle
can't waltz
didn't pray
my way into it

an origin is a paddle
a paddle is made of wood
wood is impermanent
and impermanence is not a home.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:38:57 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

MY GRAND-MOTHER

Devout Catholic
Strong Royalist
Born within the sound of Bow Bells
Tireless traveler
Slightly superstitious
Tough little lady with stories to tell
Grand -child listened
Grand-child learned
Of old England & far away countries
Failing Marriage
Failing Health
She didn’t live to see her great grand-children
Her standards set live on.

Gaye Hemsley
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:40:27 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Nowhere Man

My papa said
I came out of
Nowhere
And all my life
He told me
I’m headed in
The same direction

“You’ll never
make the speaking circuit”
…I lacked the motivation
“You’ll never get you PHD”
…I lacked the concentration
“You need to grow up
just like me”
…but I finally found salvation

I forgave my father for his sins
When I sent him a goodbye note
That said
“Never kick a man
when he’s down, and
don’t deny a child hope”
Joe
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:41:38 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Darwin Got It Right

Darwin got it right you know,tracing everything back to its origin.
A jelly fish in a tidal pool with its delicate yellow tendrils washes ashore, recapitulating the microcosmos from cell to fish, plant, reptile, emerging woman with blonde hair flowing, like Botticelli's Venus.
Some people can't get it into their heads that man has not always been the center of the universe.
Can't quite get the science thing, you know.
It's easy enough to accept the old beliefs, so God centric that never allows for rational thought, discovery or knowledge.
The fractured planes divide us.
"Where do we come from? What are we?" Where are we going?"
Paul Gaugin inquired enough to paint it over one hundred years ago.
Just try to find the beginning, the tender threads that unravel evolution.
A theory perhaps, but it links all of us to our origins.
As I write this poem, I wonder if I am one of a species obsessed with creating artistic expression, sitting around the computer campfire writing.
Survival of the fittest? We'll see.
Harriet Slaughter
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:42:05 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Kermit

Puppeteer
recycles ma's felt
coat into
green body. Adds
ping-pong eyes, cardboard mouth. A
handmade star on stage.
A.C. Leming
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:42:23 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
screen name blank

peruse purpleviolet spanishlily
as eavesdropper
threading through
artificial IMHOs
genuine WTHs
remarks disabled

enter realname
pass on realname2009

resume survey
hours devoured by maw1995
absorbed cyborg
linked to queenbluejeans
shuts down F2F
restarts next screen

enter morecleverthanyou
misused nomination

evaluate moderation
of vain poster
exhausting wall
sort desending
dangling strings
not a to be log

enter oryjen
accepted
Andrea Boltwood
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:42:47 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Number of Things Contributed

Her fallen apple
now rests in tableau
among spilled milk, cracked
pelvis, an ill-
tempered mirror.

She utters burning
words about her mother
and her mother's mother
and how it came to be
that the stability
ran dry. Wants
a plastic face. Has to lose
herself in weight loss. Cuts
coupons and her inner thighs.

This is just the way it is.
This is normal.

But who were the first
to feel the surge? The urge
to tangle hair with fists?
Did they blame a rough
day? Broken wings? An unclean
cave? Tarnished silver
or a hormone, misplaced?

She throws up
her hands and lets
loathing win again
and maybe another time
until she is too tired
to fight herself.

Somewhere, there are daughters
clawing at their
own souls, giving in.

Who carved that initial
tunnel? The one filled
with a rage so tall
it overcame their entire
being? And when the feeling
passed, was there
breath and pause? And how
did it keep going
this long?





K Weber
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:44:41 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Congrats, it’s another cynic

“I know!”
She yells out suddenly from her seat on the swing.
Her small hands hold the rusted chains tightly.
Leaning back she stares up
and watches the clouds move with her,
longing to swing high enough to land on one.
“THAT’S where dreams come from.
They wait up there for the nighttime
and then they float down here quietly
and then they sneak into our bedrooms when we fall asleep.
The white ones are the nice dreams,
like when you can fly.
The dark ones are the scary nightmares,
like the ones about mean monsters who steal puppy dogs.”
Beside her on a swing rigged to sit higher off the ground,
he sits and looks lazily up.
She winces from the pain of her shattered imagination
After he attacks with poisonous words:
“That’s stupid.
Those are clouds.
Just clouds.”
Cara Laskowski
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:49:02 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
At the Beginning

The volcano erupts,
vertical plume of gas ash steam dust.
Inside the column strong convective
upwelling currents hiss and pop,
stratus clouds drawn in
here there lower higher. Within
the plume violent flashes of
lightning sear the edges,
points of light crackle.
A mushroom caps opens,
gills streaked with falling ash
ten miles high and falling fast.
Dust cloud devours the sky,
heat rolling down the mountain's
empty sides.

Darkness covers the land
darker than the locusts
consuming the fields
darker than the blood
smeared on the lintels.
A pillar, a gray column of smoke to
guide by day,
fire by night.
The shaking ground sucking up the water
spewing it out again
drowning salt-caked land
in red sea water.

The mountain now a maw
filling with ice melt
and red mud
a tale to tell
somewhere.
Patricia Bostian
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:51:17 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Six-three-four
poems so far
and mine are poor
how many more?
It's just day one
The race just begun
Who wiil win?
Will it be Corrine?
As we continue the story..
Perhaps it'll be Lori
Earl is in the running
But Ralph is up and coming
Bet ya one thing tho...
...the winner won't be Ringo


Iain


Iain D. Kemp
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:53:18 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I can’t help wondering what
Sort of place is Dom
To be ruled by King
And his lady Wis,
And for its priests and prophets to be Christen?
What sort of invader is Bore,
And how clever a general must Ran be,
Having never failed to drive Bore out?
What does Sel rarely sell?
Is Martyr a refugee in Dom or a native?
And how can a land under such government
Also be the home of Free?
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:56:58 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Three tiny girls
in fancy dresses
prancing awkwardly
around the front yard
in mommy's shoes
high heels clicking
on concrete walkway
heads held high
princesses
without crowns
flying high on dreams
with pretend wings
they soar
into a future
unknown
uncertain;
And so I wonder
as I see this procession
in the decades to come
do they prance still
with dreams in the clouds
princes at their arms
tiaras on their heads
or does something
somewhere
along the path of life
clip their wings
and ground them?
I see their faces
at this very moment
beaming with joy
playing a part
in their own daydreams
and though I am cynical
and see life as it is
knowing what I know
I wish they remain
as innocent as today
to see their hopes
and dreams fulfilled
in their tomorrows

RS
Thursday, April 02, 2009 12:58:50 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
ORIGIN IN SEED

Pressed between the back deck’s sliding glass
and my writing desk
the seeds for Rosa’s garden germinate
on the wicker shelf we found
in an alley in Calgary
(like most of our furniture.)

Three seeds per plug vie for life,
with sprays of water to hold humidity
in the economy greenhouses of
egg cartons and plastic wrap

At first they lift a head out
holding soil starter on top
like a mushroom pressing up to bloom
in the forest litter,
then they uncurl, stretch up
and let out the leaves.

They reach always for more sun
I turn them, a setback in their stretch toward light,
but they work out the cells on opposite sides of their stems
and soon again shape themselves
into dramatic arches towards the window.

What a harsh check
when finally outside
in the lusted-for bright air
that it bites, that chill, that wind
that beloved sun.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:00:59 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A poem a day?

I don't think so.

Well - maybe I can.

OK - here I go...
Judith Breadner
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:03:53 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

the walkway itself is a segment of a postal delivery person’s route
an informal, step saving, time saving path from the house next door to the house next door
a short muddy slope up to the garage corner of the house,
across the cement drive in front of the garage, across the sidewalk in front of the house, to the front door mailbox, turn around
and step over the raised bed of shrubs set in a row, crushing the decorative little plants in between, the only place to step through
if a shortcut is needed…

with a nod to the postal delivery person’s route
three circular cement pavers wedged in steps up the muddy slope to the garage corner, cross over the drive, cross over the sidewalk,
a section of the raised bed removed, space for three circular cement pavers laid in a curving row, pointing towards the next house,
small shrubs, and decorative little plants on either side

seen by an across the street neighbor as having feng shui or balance of energy.

Kathleen Claire
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:03:53 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Man's Best Friend


Alone.
Huddled against the buffets of the wind,
Shoulders hunched, trembling hands thrust a stick into the fire.

Alone.
The night-hound stalks, unseen.
The wind howls, but she is silent, a shadow creature.

Alone.
Crouched, clenching in one hand the pelt that clothes him,
With the other he pulls the meat from the fire.

Alone.
Each paw advances in painful progress.
Once supple limbs bent with age.

Alone.
His teeth rip the meat, at once charred and raw.
Bloody juices flow down his chin.

Alone.
A statue, she sniffs the wind, salivates.
Hunger, not will, compels her forward.

Alone.
Instinct warns him of cloaked danger.
He turns to meet the glow of disembodied eyes.

Alone.
She crouches, bellies closer, whimpers.
Tired, hungry, old. She cannot fight for the food.

Alone.
He raises his club for the killing blow.
He hesitates, throws the a scrap of meatbone instead.

Alone.
Broken teeth possess her portion.
She gums the meat from the bone.

Alone.
He dares to lay a hand upon her bony back
And strokes the matted fur.


Alone.
She drops the bone and darts her tongue to his wrist
And licks her thanks.

Together.
In mute understanding, they pledge their trust.
Arm around neck, paw over knee in equal embrace.

Together.
Bodies compressed, morphed into one soul, they find comfort,
They and their descendants friendless no more.
Kathleen De Witt
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:06:06 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Aging

Swirls in the primordial soup
Scooped up by my metal spoon
Wrap around the handle
Climb up my fingers
Bore into my skin
Entwine my joints.

Rigid
Calcified bone
Beneath gathered skin
Weathered like brown leather.

It started lucid
Like a sober man entering the bar after work,
But as the years passed,
Flexibility stretched to capacity
An elastic band that no long holds,
But folds in on itself.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:06:52 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
He entered my womb a shooting star
When I was lost in constellations
He found me
And shifted my gravity

He had recognized our destiny
Scrawled across the floor of heaven
In Galaxies designed by God

He knew he was meant to be
Here

As Orion’s belt expanded
To fit swollen stomach
He stretched the universe across my labia
And tattooed my uterus with Planets
One for each month he laid dormant

As the son sunk lower in orbit
My axis tilted,
Collapsed
And then black holed into birth

The light eclipsed behind swollen eyes
And then finally gave way to darkness

This is how it is when stars are born
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:08:51 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin
by Lisa Sisler

And for three seasons there was no rain.
The ground parched, hovered around peasants’
Ankles, skeletal and pacing their naked land.

And for three seasons there was no sound,
Save for the scrape of a heel in dust,
The break of brittle fingernail dragged across skin.

Each night three seasons over, she
Dug mouth-sized holes and sow her secret
In the safety of the dying soil.

When the rain at last arrived,
Claps of thunders whispered static,
And mud clung to legs of people.
Lisa Sisler
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:09:31 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Creatrix

I have carried a part of you since my beginning
you are part of me
waiting inside for your chance to dance with life
You are a piece of my heart
what hurts you hurts me
what pleases you pleases me
one day
the doctors sliced me open and lifted you out
away
now you are a bird wandering too far from your nest
the invisible cord that anchors you to me is stretched too tight.
Snap
Now you can fly
Ruth Hanley
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:10:33 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Creation

Knit,
Purl,
Knit,
Purl.
Her needles click as a pattern begins to emerge.
The colors, dizzying and seductive
Wrap her in their warmth.

Knit,
Purl,
Knit,
Purl.
Each stitch slides easily from one needle to the other.
The fiber, exotic and sensuous
Sings of affection and comfort.

Knit,
Purl,
Bind,
Clip.
She pulls her new socks on with a sigh and wiggles her toes.

1 April, 2009
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:13:30 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Clean: A Housewife’s Lament

He came home from work,
the stain bold on his shirt.
“I don’t know where it came from,”
he said, and handed it to me,
the worker of miracles
the one whose kiss cures any wound
the goddess of the laundry.
It was a mottled blot, poison
red like dribbled V-8 blended
with the kids’ grape Kool-Aid,
sprinkled with orange and green
like the cupcakes I made last Halloween.
I rubbed with my fingers,
soaked it in solutions, scrubbed
with the bristle brush reserved for the tub.
I ran it through the washer
again and again, a load unto itself,
grimacing at the wasted water and
waiting for a parade of indignant
environmentalists to knock down my door.
But still the stain remained, mocking me,
even as my fingertips and knuckles
cracked raw and bled from my efforts,
and I exhausted my stash of coupons,
buying new elixirs to purge the tainted cloth.
And a week later, when he held up the shirt
and said, “What, were we out of bleach?”
I realized then and there
he was thirty-eight-years-old
and he could do his own damn laundry.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:13:57 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
They say you can't go home again.
I think this especially true for suburbanites.
Something happens to people
when they no longer have to jostle for a parking space
when their houses stand not in closed-in rows but alone and unafraid
when the term "neighbor" takes on a far more detached meaning.
Once my sister, a row-home dweller still,
stayed with me overnight.
Coming downstairs quite early in the morning,
she said she could not sleep
for the strange sound outside the bedroom window.
Nestlings surely know a good thing when they see it.
They say you can't go home again.
Theresa Cavicchio
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:17:34 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
ORIGIN
the origin of tears
on the chopping block
of the cutting board
the poor onion
she pushes through
clenching the handle
shoving the blade down
it’s her lost job
the bills bleeding red
the tomato is next
mockingly acidic
she slices through it
then spears a pepper
exacts vegetable revenge.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:17:57 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Periwinkle

Pale shade of indigo,
child of Apocynaceae,
you circle round my rocks,
skirt crocus and narcissus,
small leaves entwine around
new April grass. They say
you graced small graves,
protected souls and homes
from snakes and spirits.
But I prefer the legends
told of ancestors who gazed
on you and found lost memories,
now that I am older, gray,
fuzzy of mind at times,
in need of contemplating
smaller, hopeful things.

Sharon Mooney
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:18:38 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of an omelet



In your head you consider
the possibilities not only what
you’ve got but what could work
and what will be left. If I use
the bacon, how much, and will
I miss it when I’m wanting
to add another layer to sliced
voluminous tomato and small
slabs of plump, frank white cheese?
It helps to cultivate this reckoning
of a bulging larder crammed
and stacked with ingredients
patiently tolerating your lack
of vision, experience required
to stretch components you never
dreamed of combining. Cinnamon
and garlic, Great Northern White Beans
and Balsamic, canned milk and yellow
onions beginning to sprout. An omelet
can bind uneasy companions in times
of duress, when supper never required
inspiration or whimsy. I say a prayer for
canny celebration, genuine gratitude
in slack times, summoning despair
of uncles and grandmas and cousins
in other countries who never knew
the casual grace of a dreamboat
wrapped in percale or a dear one
waiting for you to merely tap
their gate code on a device smaller
and less mysterious than a pack
of smokes. I crack the first shell
on the edge of the bowl, like me,
like my friends, like my mother,
like my sisters, their husbands,
like my nephews and their wives,
like the table and sofa and light
bulbs, like the shoes and books
and bars of soap and piles
of letters, like God, it wants
to know, What next?
Christopher Stephen Soden
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:18:56 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Purpose

In the beginning there was Nothing
much to light. and Sun was quite bored, what
with all that dull sun shinning on and on and on
and on and on and on and…
“Oh great Energy Saving Bulb
after whom I am modeled, there is
Nothing for me to light. I am wasting
all my light. I do not think this is what
You would do.”
and after a thousand years of contemplation
equal to one milli of a millisecond
the Energy Saving One responded:
“In light of the situation, and because
you’re not scheduled for burning out rights
for another 8 billion or odd years
I am hiring Night here to cover half your shift.”

but Sun did not see how this solved the problem--
what was his purpose in lighting, in being
Lit? But this was it. now or maybe never,
his big break and so he flittered off in
thankfulness of Night.
but Night, Night did not care two watts about his place
and so, when Energy Saving One returned to His Shade
Night turned out himself and thought of Nothing. And there was
Nothing beneath that could be seen and then
Clunk, Clash, Clever Metal Melding into Falling Fire,
And on and on and on…

And cried She, “I cannot see to see!”
And her words rattled and shook
Lightning in The Shade, thunder in His voice
“What in the World have you done, Night?”
Night flickered dimly.
Energy Saver fumed on:
“I give you
a simple task and I can’t leave you
alone half a flash without you
Creating Chaos and Confusion.”
Night yawned and sprawled his dark
“But—so what? SO WHAT,” said Night.
“You’re purpose,” fired He. “That’s what.”
And so…Sun Forever shares the Night.
Elizabeth Hocker
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:20:25 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Circumlocution

The jealous god has banned one vowel from the text of a Sunday second day of
Passover no lambs to be seen although green bud clusters are lambs not yet shorn
barely born but absorb they the pasture already and breathe, they are bleating /

the jealous god won’t be appeased by the season
or even the verb tense or mode
that shows progress, so much of the verb
to be rendered taboo. None are that can’t be
the leaf’s non-agreement
so many pre-poses and phrases left out.

Walk through the shock of those yellow buds –
what are they called? Do not say, not today;
seek another way, same with those beauteous
bulbs from the Netherlands – they have no names.
The jealous god edges the clouds or else those
are the ledges of runaway lambs. Are the who-
am tomorrow? The what-so at dusk?
No repeats. No Hardhats. No gold canary
fledges. (For the one vowel belongs to
the jealous god only.) What is left to us then
but these pockets of seeds and these pages
to plant them on, shallow as they are?

Close your eyes and the tongue doesn’t trespass but
worms through the mud of Declare not abnormal
but home at least, located, placed, conjugated, and locked.

How the wand of late afternoon waves over the boxhedge!
An uncanny glow on a grateful blue bottle, splayed carpals,
the rakes of before and of after! Whatever results can say,
copulate, no other hatch
of a sentence, so choked
by the jealous god’s mandate are we.
Underway. Underway, the most
coxcomby season that cannot resume
until Monday undoes the colcannon
pretense of the lout-tenored clouds.
Red buds murmur what they’ve always
known, useless news to the moles
and opossums, not bees:

free fall and scream, slabs of green.

Ellen McGrath Smith
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:21:23 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Boo by Any Other Name


I was just a half-grown kitten
When much to my dismay
This strange woman showed up
And carried me away!

She called me kitty and love bug
The woman had no shame!
She stared at me for hours
Seeking inspiration for my name

Two full weeks went by
Still a name I had not
Then out of desperation
She asked a friend what he thought

At the time he was reading
A Piers Anthony book
From the Blue Adept series
And that was all it took

A place where magic worked
But science went awry
This land was called Phaze
And as of that day, so was I

The years went on and on
We got comfy, Mom and I
And often she would look
Into my deep blue eyes

Sometimes she would be silly
I admit I was perplexed . . .
“You have such bootiful boo eyes!”
And you can guess what happened next!

At first I wasn’t worried
When she would now and then exclaim
“I love my little Boo!”
Because I knew she knew my name . . .

But now I’m rarely called Phaze
And if I am, you can bet
That I’m either in big trouble
Or else I’m at the vet!




Linda Sabourin
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:21:49 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Carl Sagan called
our world, called us all, star stuff --
Wondrous, glowing, dark.

Sea stars, five-limbed, each limbs eye
knows light, dark, movement to hunt.

Elizabeth Roy
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:22:54 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A POEM'S BEGINNING

Where does a poem truly begin?
With something that truly inspires?
Or the way you feel in a moment
Giving you all that a poem requires

Is it a reminder of something from the past?
A day that has whispered away
Or a random thought, a splendid moment
From right now or perhaps, yesterday

Where does poetry come from?
In your heart, your head, your time
Is it just a small story of wondrous words
Or does it have rhythm and rhyme?

Where does a poem come from?
Every answer heard would be something new
Poetry comes from what moves us
In something that touches you
Becci Keays
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:23:42 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
THE NEWS

A lot is going through my head,
Will it be a he or a she?
Should I let the doctor tell him instead?
Will it be like him or me?
Will it have all ten fingers and toes?
You probably think this is my first,
I'm just going through pregnancy woes.
Maybe I'll be happy,
Maybe you'll be sad,
Maybe I'll be loving,
Maybe you'll be glad,
Maybe, just maybe
we'll both like having a baby.
Deb Peters
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:24:39 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Father Origin

Your warning was an exoneration:
One day you would be revealed
as merely human, I would revile
your dewinged flat feet
thereby binding me closer
by letting me go.
Where did you learn such prescience?
From the father you prayed to?
The only intelligible word to
rise from your articulate lips
as you knelt by the big bed
He was a ghost gone before
I began to ask why
Your mother was a thorned stick,
a deep bole in hard wood,
You, her Baby, jousted and jollied
the closed walnut stern dame.
How could such dry unyielding
have made your wide smile swinging
singing child-cherishing insight?
There are men who claim to love women
and others who write prescriptions for success
Your skillful guidance made us swoon
You leapt nightly swooped us up, sang
our names in customized tunes
Where did this generous knowing come from?
The invisible one baked luscious peach pies
played fragrant fiddle and magic mandolin
gone too young, dead too soon
for some now preventable liver something
I scour the demographic facts for clues
of how you came to be,
best, sweetest, wondrous Daddy
turning the world’s denials into lessons
poverty into provenance, war into
nonviolence, street into smart,
taking our pain away
I can’t kneel to pray and yet I do
praising, thanking and missing you.

Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:26:06 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Let's Eat It!

the question, for me
isn’t which came first
so much as who ate first?

I’m curious about
that fried egg
staring back at me
from my breakfast plate

who is this person
that one day thought
let’s crack an egg
cook that gooey stuff?
it will be tasty
with butter and salt!

and what about
the culinary genius
who turned ruined milk
into curds and whey
butter milk and cheese?

it’s rotten milk,
sour and a bit chunky
but hey let’s give it a taste
it might be great!

Grandma always told us
you have to par boil
and drain poke salad
three times or it’s poison
Wikipeda says it’s true

I just wonder who
figured out that
thrice-boiled trick
and did they first
watch two others get sick
and risk tasting the re-boiled
stuff one more time?

I don’t even want to know
why people in Asia
bury cabbage or eggs
and let them rot

who decided rotten food
was a epicurean delicacy
an acquired taste?
and who would want
to acquire such a taste, anyway?

not to mention
calf fries or cow brains
gizzards or tongue
or boiled crawfish heads
I just wonder how
this crazy buffet got started
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:26:23 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
What You Don't Know Will Kill You
by Clark D. McEwen

You don't know much.
You don't know about a 1978 swingers party
with ecstasy and lines of coke
inhaled off a pregnant belly.
You don't know about feeling
so close to creation.

You don't know about
a child, wide mind,
terrified of a belt that hangs
from an oxidized iron nail.
You don't know about a deaf
right ear, or a matrix
of scars behind the hairline.

You don't know about
a bathroom noose,
a father's dangling legs.
You don't know about a mother's
bottle of Jack, about
a babysitter's orchestra of orgasm,
about counting cracks in the wall
while the wail becomes an infection.

You don't know about
Crayola drawings of alien hatreds,
or schoolyards of menace,
about failing again and again,
and living up to every expectation.
You don't know about the clutch
of Christ's stigmata
dragging a youth's face across Hell.

You don't know about
a 16-year-old with a syringe
and a charred spoon,
about an adventure
that shattered knuckles on brick,
about a glory of Russian roulette,
or a victory through dying.
You don't know about losing.

You don't know about
a psychologist
backed against a wall
with a red blotch forming
where a pocketknife kisses a fat neck.
You don't know about
anti-psychotics, gambling
with cigarettes, three
squares a day, and a new
rape on every third.

You don't know about
a jilted lover with a subpoena,
about dollars evaporating,
paying to raise a strangers'
strange son.
You don't know about a dropped
transmission, about four hundred
bankrupt dollars between bills
and meth earlier today.

You don't know much,
except a gun in your face
and five seconds to live
if you don't give me
your fucking wallet.
Clark D. McEwen
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:27:13 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

Not just a cosmetic company
Primordial, primitive, fundamental

Of an idea, a philosophy, a purpose
A key

To living, to life, to a life well-lived

Unknown mystery
Unknowable mystery

We grope blindly
We grasp eagerly

How can we know
Ever?

What can we do
But trust?

But, oh, to know
The unknowable

Is this the origin, then, of faith?
Trust?
Belief?
Shana
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:28:01 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
PAD- April 2009
Prompt: Origin

The Mischling’s Dilemma 4/1/09
According to Nazi law,
I am a mischling of first degree, a mixed breed.
Two of my grandparents were Polish Jews.

My maternal grandparents were German Protestants.
If I were raised in Germany in 1942,
I would be sterilized, or worse.

But according to Jewish law,
I am not Jewish, because
my mother was not.

I adored both sets of grandparents.
They emigrated through Ellis Island, must have wept
at the sight of Liberty, in the early 1900’s.

Should I make the impossible choice of my heritage,
like the two women who before Solomon,
claim to be the real mother?

No, I stand,
a full fledged humanist in the twenty first century,
proud of my lot and legacy.

(C)Gretchen Gersh Whitman April 2009
Gretchen Gersh Whitman
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:28:07 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Me

My mother was a gypsy queen
My father a pirate brave
They left me in a cabbage patch
Or maybe in a cave.

My foster mom a grizzly bear
Who nursed me through the winter
She sent me off to a lumberjack
Who called me “his little splinter.”

Or maybe mom’s a fairy queen
And dad’s a figure skater
They left me ‘cause I’m clumsy
But I know they’ll be back later.

I looked at both my mom and dad
Just knew I didn’t belong
My little ma, my stocky pa
And here, I’m thin and long

Their eyes are brown and mine are blue
And so I did believe
My parents weren’t my parents
And so these tales I’d weave.

I couldn’t be their lovely child
That was my base perception
At least it was until I found
About my real conception

I made my entrance to this world
Nine months, six days – too soon
For them to find and adopt me
I’m a gift of their honeymoon.

And so I know my parents
And I started then to wonder
Do they think that I’m a treasure
Or their darling little blunder?
Sharon Harris
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:28:44 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
This fragile body
The matrix
For mind

This fragile mind
The matrix
For soul

This fragile soul
The matrix
For God

This fragile body
It is me
It is you
Brooke White
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:30:17 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Ideas Freely Formed

Starting slowly like a hazy fog in my mind.
Growing stronger, more colorful, increasing details.
Reaching to my conciousness, interrupting my sleep.

Mixing with reason and thought, starting to form.
Moving and changing, merging with my pen.
Feeling the smooth paper absorbing the scene.

Seeing the movements in my mind's eye.
Pushing, stretching, getting it right.
Completing, accepting, fully formed on the page.




Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:31:09 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"A Moment's Monument" a poet mused
so many years ago....
And now - today or tomorrow -
so reported a tv reporter,
we'll get two more moments of daylight
as scenes and sounds of Spring
inch their ways into our lives.
What 'monuments' will you make
of these gifts of two precious iotas of time?
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:31:19 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

Left by the side of the road
Homeless.
Strangers took pity.
Driven into town,
Sheltered with two sisters.
Waiting for someone to love them.
With sad eyes longing for a home.

A little girl, waiting for a life long dream to be fulfilled.

With sad eyes,
Begs her mom, pleading,
Wanting to give her love.
Driven into town,
Looking at the shelter
Leaving with the dog of her dreams.
One no longer homeless by the side of the road.


Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:31:29 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Word Is Born

You come to me at all
kinds of odd hours, not
keeping anything even
approximating a normal
schedule but that's OK
because neither do I

Some days you bleed out
all into my brain and onto
my pen and all over my
pretty white page, spilling
out like a stuck pig or a
desperate hospital case

Other days you are not so
generous or voluminous and
maybe you even tease and test
and mock me from afar, toying
with my personal and professional
livelihood like so much yarn

I take it any way I can
get it, I mean it's not like
I can predict your moods
any more than a man can
divine the exact wishes and
whims of his wandering woman
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:33:22 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
It’s time to get this passion on paper
To allow the expression in a small sampler

I have to write there is so much to say
So, why not start with a poem a day.

Here I go on this road again
Just my thoughts and paper and pen.

I hope to gain a lot of knowledge
Through this poetic challenge.

I feel the need to write it eats at me everyday
I’ve tried to ignore it by it just won’t go away.
Terri Quick
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:33:45 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
starry host

Psalm 33:6 By the word of the Lord were the heavens made;
and all the host of them by the breath of His mouth. (KJV)

exhaling the Milky way
sighing Andromeda
“let there be…”
and it was good

a fiery sun to warm
the stubborn creatures
of a tiny planet
and a cold moon

to call their eyes
upward to the space
between the stars
to origin

Becky Haigler
April 2009
becky
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:35:07 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
the origin of spring

Yellow
Daffodils bloom
Forsythia boughs bend
Born in the sun
Yellow
Betsey Farlow
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:35:10 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins of a morning

Beatles playing in my head
before my eyes even open
no light peaking through
fingers desperately searching
I wish I could lay here
just a little while longer
“Good morning mommy,
can I come out now?”
Forcing myself into the shower
hot water beaming down
spraying me all over my body
soft cotton against my skin,
thanks to my awesome bathrobe
smell of coffee
hanging on my breath
finally at last
I can make sense of my morning

Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:35:14 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
THE COLLECTIVE, STILL UNCONSCIOUS



The weathered peaks of ancient memories
Grumble from beneath,
In the core of them.

Gentle earthquakes cause them to swell and recede,
Sometimes pressing our internals
So we feel the discomfort,
But can't find its focus.

It’s a dullness we bear.
Like a young bruise,
It will collect and discolor,
But the blood will recycle
And we will be left,
On the surface,
Good as new.

Washed by the necessary chatter.
It moves the world along
But does not weigh it down enough.

By the rumble of electricity.
It keeps us warm
But muffles the silence.

We use much for distraction,
Convinced we are building
When all we manage to do
Is recreate.

We long to sharpen those peaks
So they might break through.
The pain would be great, but the wounds would heal,
And chronic ache might cease.

The beginning of time, and earlier still,
Is a far grasp.
It is difficult to grab hold.
So we search, instead,
For a strong foothold in the middle,
And pray
Unceasingly
For the gift of balance.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:35:18 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Remembrance

Downy tufts of baby hair
tied with gingham ribbon
Satin satchels with tiny teeth placed in them
Prints of little hands and feet hanging here and there

Yellowed letters of love
Lapel pins and lockets
Perfumed handkerchiefs crumpled in pockets
Stone etching “In Loving Memory of…”

Bullets, grenades, helmets, and guns
Purple hearts and silver stars, medals to hold
Flags to drape, fold, and unfold
Sepia-toned photos of the lost ones

A rambling walk down a path long unseen
Fir trees and violets with foreign sounding names
Gardens and plots that all look the same
Among the beds, rosemary, woody and evergreen
Rebecca Hickey
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:37:28 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Your Origin

Invisible in my
ever-expanding sea.
Tests confirming you
despite your allusiveness

Originating from the death
of a relationship,
the last remnants
of love gone very wrong.

Then the pulse,
barely imperceptible.
All heart.

He could not get to you.

Protected by nature’s layers,
not yet developed,
You clung to life by sheer
will, your strength
saving me.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:38:50 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Laughter

Laughter is born in a burst
It rifles like a mad man in my brain
Then explodes like a gun
Shot out of my body.

Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:38:52 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hades or Hell or Hotel Rooms

Sitting around idle one day,
a man wanted to understand
where people went
when they died.
Since he always seemed to cross them
and loved fish, he envisioned an enormous
river. With such a voluminous river
came a raft steered by a strong, taciturn ferryman.
He named him Hades,
since he had never seen the gentleman.
Feeling he had imagined enough for one day,
he named the place that, too.
He figured since people always
had to pay for everything in life—food, women, wine—
that Hades would take payment as a matter of course,
and since dead people had no pockets,
they would carry coins in their eyelids.
His idea became so widespread
that Greece and its copycat dominator Rome
adopted it without giving the poor man credit.
Thus, hell and plagiarism were born.

Hades did not quite suit the Christian,
Catholic probably,
need for a place to send
sinners when they died,
so a theologian replaced water with fire,
called it hell, polished the brimstone
with care, tolled the bells, sculpted
the gargoyles, and warned
people that if they committed the deadly seven,
they would end up there after death
with no refunds. Always the first
to spot a moneymaking opportunity,
the Church sold indulgences to the faithful
who did not want to go on an extended,
external, and sweltering vacation. They lacked
a villain for their morality play
conjuring up Satan, a red man with big horns
who looked like Satyr with Adam’s loincloth.
This concept held sway, at least until
the twentieth century when other manmade concepts
of eternal resting places became viable.

Sartre came up with his own French-occupation
version in No Exit, required reading
for apathetic high-school students everywhere.
Existentially set in a sparsely furnished hotel room,
he invented a new hell for a new century
construed with new horrors—
the Holocaust, the Atomic Bomb, the 70s.
It became strangely appropriate,
because although he wrote the play
in the pre-rockstar era, many recorded idols
have OD’d in hotel rooms across much
of Europe and North America and even groupies
have been stabbed at the hands of strung-out
Sid Viciouses. These ghosts now torment
disgruntled business travellers who have
no use for such frippery and just want a
corporate-sponsored good night’s sleep,
a precursor to these ends
imagined by a bored man, a sinister
cleric, and a coffee-swilling Frenchman.

Sean Hanrahan
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:39:45 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Troubled eyes stare rigidly out into
an unknown future as the train
pulls out, taking the
past forever out of reach

Dark memories and scars locked
into a hidden corner of a mind
searching for a grip on the new
reality

Suitcase in hand she gathers
herself and steps out into the
dim light of dusk, one step at
a time moving forward
never wanting to look back.







Eaton Bennett
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:40:50 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Before My Time"
By, Esther B. Reese/Glassick
April 1, 2009

Me, Where did I come from
And who will I be.
Born in early December
One amongst a million to be adorn.
My family tree is of no significances
No heroic stories of days gone by.
Roots from France, England and Germany
My descendants wore everything from tunics to cowboy boots.
Past has left
And I know not where the line was cast.
Before my time life came and went
Not much to ponder or ignore.
Me, where did I come form
It's dark, I can not see.
Esther B. Glassick/Reese
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:41:22 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
YAY! Happy April everyone! I have looked forward to this month. And what a great way to begin [haha ;)] Here goes:

"Virginia"

In more ways than four,
it all began here:
the building and planting,
the lessons and loss.
It is not hard to imagine
what they saw in this world,
sailing into the mouth
of the great Bay,
verdant forests and swamps
lacing the coast,
quiet creeks leading
to another nation.
They named it for
untouched purity,
then they made their mark.
For centuries,
have left footprints
and artifacts
and litter by the wayside.
Grown as a nation and
changed the world view.
Four centuries
have seen begin
and end
changes
unforeseen.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:44:41 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Beginnings

Through blood and bone
we enter the world
encased in a warm blanket
wrapped tight in our mother's womb
because we all have a mother
whether we love her or not
we got here some how
though some of us may not recall
I don't, I remember
singing in my baby car seat
to War, it was Spill the Wine
and I was enjoying the breeze in my face
the radio was playing and
we were going to my Grandma Mary's
my sister wasn't born yet
it was just me and
I remember being happy,
with my parents
it must have been
the summer of 1969,
Newton, Iowa,
I wasn’t even close to three
the Beatles still played together
and Elvis lived free.


Angie Trudell Vasquez
April 1, 2009
Angela C Trudell Vasquez
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:48:08 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Start at Normal

Sandbags are hidden by snow
disguised in the white on white
of outlandish made customary.
They are the background
to sloppy lines of sopping feet -
passing a bag, passing a bag -
co-opted into stilts for gallows humor
and a startling amount of flirting.
Cops and firemen and guardsmen,
a dry wit mayor, more bags,
and the chatter on AM radio
prompt the normal of sly glances
at tired asses under coveralls.
Kris
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:49:53 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
THE CHALLENGE BEGINS
By Diana J. Baker



I thought about beginning this challenge
To write a poem each day
And, of course, my initial reaction was…
There is absolutely no way!

I’m up to my ears in editing,
And I’m writing a book or two.
I haven’t written a poem in several years;
This is not something I need to do.

But there’s something about a challenge
That is hard for me to pass by.
I knew many others would take it,
And I’m sure they’re as busy as I.

So I pulled out a clean sheet of paper,
And I put my “thinking cap” on.
And with that I began the challenge
By composing this simple poem.

Now I’m sure it hasn’t impressed you…
It’s not something about which you’d write home
But at least I got something on paper
As I set my busy mind loose to roam.

I know I’ll do better tomorrow
And each day ‘till the challenge is done.
So give me a break; cut me some slack…
After all, it’s only day one!

Diana J. Baker
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:51:04 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
By the Roots

Restless, irritable, discontent --
shared traits of diverse folk
who wander to these rooms
seeking sanity in twelve steps.
Mansions, trust-funds, untapped wealth
or cardboard homes beneath a bridge,
fears and doubts prod them all
to search for love, for kindness,
for ephemeral goals unreachable.
Dissimilar lives yet strangely kin,
a feeling all are home.
Mystery solved when fearless
search shows taproots
born of palpable fear.
Barbara Rollins
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:51:39 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Junky

He wears
sorrow savagly
The mantle covers him
Leaching all his
colors
bested by the
false brightness of the
poppy.

He was once
harbinger of the
sun
master of ideas
Now blinded to the
bright land of
possibilities
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:51:43 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Your Past

It must have started with lust
sometime in the sixties, backward
walking into the ladies rooms
at universities, your thick hair
mostly capped, your glasses
half down your nose shaft

Or maybe it was being called names,
Pock-Face or Wheeze-Boy-- or Nose-Brain,
the make believe curse you taught us
to keep us from saying something worse

What drives an addict from pot to theft
must be the same force
turned around
that drives a dreamer to a lover to a lech

No, what I mean to say
is that I understand your origins,
but what can I learn from your past?

Darla Himeles
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:52:44 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Onion Origins

My friend was an avid poet
loved to write from her dreams
ate onions before bed every
night to trigger bizarreness
in her sleep.

One night my poet friend
met a woman
from Sai Gon, Vietnam
a woman who told her
painful story of that final

day of April when she
tried to grasp the last blue
Chinook helicopter but she
failed, fell into the sea
stumbled on the concrete.

My friend became entranced
by all things Vietnamese --
the setting, the history, the food
the calendar, the language
but most of all, this woman

who didn't know why
she appeared in a dream
whether she was from yesterday
or tomorrow, or the thin things
in your mind you can't quite find.

Where is my friend now?
Yes, in Vietnam, teaching
young students English
in honor of her dream woman
all triggered by a meal of onions.

Diane Truswell
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:53:58 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Birth of Red

In straw-floored pantry
young girl pinching saffron smiles
Mother's arm rises
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:55:07 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My Name (or: The Origin of Time and Space)


My name is time
and also space.
Between the two
Of them I grace
The metaphysical
From start to end;
Without me they are
simply pretend.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:57:15 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
If it's any good
the poem begins with thermonuclear fusion
radiating into outer space at light speed
obviously
a single beam
bullets through the earth’s atmosphere
disperses into a particle haze over a field
halos your body, your pointing finger

If it’s any good, by now
the poem burns with unearthly, face-melting
mushroom cloud heat
a sparkling diamond sewn to the sky
it dazzles you, makes you hot, makes you want to pluck it
and keep it in a red velvet box lined with gray silk

If it’s any good, at this point
You’ll reach out to pinch at nothing
the core has burned out long ago
a black coal rock the size of the earth
turned cold and floating and dead

If it’s any good,
the poem ends in beams of sourceless light
and it does not owe you anything
Jason Bellipanni
Thursday, April 02, 2009 1:58:19 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
i didnt want to drive
so he did
freshly shaven to avoid offending
my very southern family
i sat in shirleys front room
page boy collar itching the back of my neck
participating in this game of pretend

it always feels like sunday
when ppl gather to give ending
to the place they began

all family members should walk in first
cram close together in three pews
sing w/my mother as she tearfully
exposed the center of how great thou art

i kept my eye on uncle teddy
taking his cue of when to cry
when to look away
when to clutch the hand of the cousin next to me

as the preacher battled for the safety of our souls
my finger traced his face on the program

this is where my nose is from
long bridge w/ a bump in the road
these are the angles of my eyes
height of each cheekbone

my cheap heels dug blisters
into my right ankle
as we shuffled passed for one last look

i’ll just look at his hair
i thought
remember each soft graying curl

in a moment of panic
i looked down
& saw my mouth being buried
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:01:40 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
It Began With A Seed

It began with a seed, as all great trees do, not a cutting, woody and layered in the air musty with moss and condensation, trapped in a cellophane chrysalis. A seed, dropped in the middle of a field, the benefit of a few precious weeks lapse in the mowing of that field and a young girl, just out to pick wildflowers, there it was, raised out of the deep dark fertile earth in what felt like an instant, among the little white blossoms and the purple wild violets, a little green thing, fresh, smart, wonderful in its intricate simplicity. A tree could be from this; and she gathered the rocks around her, the other thing the field grew in abundance was rocks, and after moving away the old leaves left of fall she made a circle, broad enough that her father would be sure to see that this place is special and it is in this way – exactly this way that the tree began – and her father did notice the new and sacred place, and did, in has way, agree that here would be a fine place for a tree and so it grew, watched at first daily by the little girl, then visited on the odd remembrance. And now she sits in that field, leans up against the broad trunk at least sixty rings thick and remembers her father’s kindness, and watches as her daughter walks to her in the new unbalanced way that is becoming familiar, her seed growing, planted with the wild love that has taken root in this place. With effort she too sits and leans against the tree, the promise, the love of a little girl that has become a place of strength and solace for generations of life.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:06:51 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
God Made Me

I came from Mom
And Dad
From grandmas who through desertion and death
Raised their children all alone
From Baileys, Bryans, Grahams

I came from Georgia
From Florida
From 1958
From the sixties saddle oxfords
And seventies disco

I came from my husband
From bearing babies
And baking birthday cakes
And teaching
From lot of macaroni and cheese

I came from books, music
And pictures
From schools, churches
Neighborhoods, friends

I came from summer
The ocean, the beach, the wind
From sunburns and sand

I came from life
I became a part of life
I live
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:07:48 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Unknown Origins

Where do they come from,
these black widow spiders
who weave their Jackson Pollock webs

on fence post corners, under the deck
and in the basket next to the television
where cats like to sleep?

How do they survive winter snow
and blistering summer heat, when
the exterminator comes every month

when we smash the egg sacs
with trowels, with shovels,
and pressure wash every dark corner?

They are like the cockroaches
we are told will survive nuclear war.
Where do they come from?





Renee Goularte
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:09:12 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Sarah

Middle child
Unnoticed.
Flashy style
Pay attention
She'll be something.
Favorite Teacher
Didn't look
Did't encourage talent
Even when given
An apple.
Defeated
Sarah disappeared
But only for a moment.
Because now
Her light shines
In her flesh.
Her children
Carry on her courage to survive
And this makes the world
A better place.
Kimmbr
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:10:13 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Where Is The Beginning?

When I reached the end I didn’t know
How it was that the whole thing began
When I finally stopped I didn’t know
How far it was that day that I just ran

I kept on going, and I never turned to see
Where everything had started behind me
I didn’t want to know the evil plan
I didn’t want to know where we all stand.

In the end destruction, that I knew
But why, or how or what escape was there?
On and on, away, away I flew,
Heading for destruction, heading where?

Where had all things started? Where were all things born?
Who had made the sun set? Why did it rise each morn?
Who commanded darkness? Were did it all begin?
Who would end this battle? Who would let me in?

Somewhere there is power,
Stronger, truer, best
Somewhere there is freedom
Somewhere there is rest.

But where is the beginning?

Katie Daniels
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:10:29 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Parasite

A parasite has the insight, respect and courage to know that a host must die.
It understands that no one mind can -define- life;
The origin has never been love
But acceptance. The end of strife. Resolve.

So very involved in the self
That we forget those things revolving around us
self-centric; selfish (rightly so though)
Forgetting
That our heads are buried in a host.

We writhe and wind and whine
Gelatin spined insects who play with insecticides
Crying to defy the natural order
Lying to whomever would tell a truth
Our mandibles grinding flesh into goop
Bordering blind and beyond the view

The answer has never been love
For love should never be questioned
And it needn't answer

It is acceptance
That will let us
Find mutuality
Spite our parasite conception


Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:11:30 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Original Sin

How can we please our God
When condemned from the start
By our predecessors, who were
Only human, and we follow
In their footsteps and
Commit acts we know are
Wrong and unpleasing
In our Lord’s eyes
And we hang our head in shame
Reach out and ask for forgiveness
And because of Jesus, we are saved
What greater love could there be?


Rita Weatherbee (ritareeact3@live.com)
Rita Weatherbee
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:12:01 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Eight piece dark”
I ordered, trying to be
sexy and seventeen

“Sure thing”
You winked, with your
16 year old baby blues

Fast food flirtation
on a fried chicken
Friday night

End of summer.
Beginning of us.
Kimberly T. Thompson
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:15:29 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Daughter

Scandinavian eyes, from her great-grandmother,
Blonde hair from me, family-nose from her father,
Sings like her grandma, (we all wish she wouldn’t),
Smart like her grandpa, there’s nothing she couldn’t
do, swims like a dolphin, (she got that from me),
but where did she get all the rest that is she?
Her family of origin gave her their best,
but we just can’t explain where she got all the rest!
Kristy Worden
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:17:23 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"ME" The origin
Who is the person I call me. I am suppose to be free. Free to feel, free to be whatever I want to be. But, I am lost in this place called finding me. Divorced,single, life is life. I love the freedom, I love doing and just being but, what now. Life is a plan they say, so where is mine. The origin of me is just to be. To be happy, free, laugh, love and live life the best I can, enjoy every moment, breathe every breath, love with every ounce, laugh until I can I die. Just be the best me I can be.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:18:23 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hooked

In the middle of the field
Lies a small pond
Fenced off from the cows

I got hooked on fishing
At an early age here
Beginning my career

With cane pole
10 feet of line
A hook and bobber

Bluegills
And Largemouth Bass
The quarry
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:22:36 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
If I count ahead
three months
or back
nine, I see
my parents in a hot
July 1957 sweat
on the tips of their
noses--perhaps they
kissed
Andrew Binks
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:23:39 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"One Hue: A Biography"

It was a necessary blue,
a color of immensity
and the souls of bells,
something cloudless,
something quivering,
color of flute notes
crossing open-window moonlight.
It began with winter silence
and bird shadows,
sat under bridges
with the fleeting water.
It loved empty wells,
repeatedly told the wind
where it lived
among the stones.
Hours and hours
slipped past its hands.
Then, one day and suddenly
it was not able.
Then the choices began.
It hesitated. It deepened.
It turned restless.
It grew in a certain wildness,
a thicket of wings,
until it became
everything that rains or falls
or flies off---a yesterday
of squandered violets,
their tenderness,
even the simple truths
of their drenched names.





Melissa Carl
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:24:17 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April 1, 2009
Same Road Traveled
By Erin Diane Sweeney

bonds can break
pictures fade
tears will come
steps may falter
breath quickens
pulse races at what might be

whisper with intent
only good intentions
promises made
promises kept
one direction
our direction

history unraveled
we are what makes us
it is what you make it
what you work on
how you try to be

you and I
eye to eye
harder than it seems
look in mine and you will see
my all to you

among the sun, against the storm
I became we, we become stronger
you and I together, we hand in hand
the day I knew we were made for us
the day I knew we could weather any
Erin Sweeney
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:26:37 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Beginning

Eyes lock
Bodies shift
Breath quickens
Noses rub
Lips press
Hands grope
Arms circle
Voices whisper
Buttons undo
Clothes fall
Kisses explore
Fingers weave
Arms cling
Legs entwine
Backs arch
Wondrous begins.


Joan
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:26:48 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Love”
From the corners of the alphabet
A v creeps along towards the center
Picks up the o and the L
And onward towards e they go.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:28:10 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Poem

You’re in there, I know you are.
Buried deep in the minute pores
of a gray lead core, I am certain
that I can feel you, tremble,
aching to splinter your wooden
confines, and spill your pink
squirming new-born body
onto any blank surface.

This birth is the worst:
the labor contractions
vibrate through my arm
and seize the joints
of my fingers, until
I am compelled to press,
hard. Then, the relief,
and the slimy mockery
of a baby, on the page.

I have seen this before.
Lead or ink, all with skins
the same. Shameless glittering
of wetness or a guiltless fuzzy blur.
How many hundreds of children
I have borne, each a mass of lines,
each line the mutated joint of a word.

Every new creation started in a vessel
that at first might seem harmless.
But we cannot know the intentions
of its contents: angelic or demonic?
Only that it begins and never ends,
that I make it, but can never posses it.
Crystal Groszek
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:30:24 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Propagator

His trowel slid in,
separating her,
making room
to put his seeds in
then smile and pull back,
satisfied.
He will quench,
and nourish,
watch and wait,
for her to again
separate…expose
vital life.
Two gentle hands grasp
miraculous gifts
as she tears.
Cheryl Foreman
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:30:49 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Peace

Tonight, a fire warms my back
and my daughter sleeps heavily
on my feet propped up on the stool.
Her body rests on its knees, her arms
curled around my ankles, her mouth
open in a dream-smile. A diamond
strand of saliva from her tiny
mouth colors a dark orb on my jeans.
The crackle and spit of wood-kissed
flame is the only sound in the room
rimmed with shimmying shadows.
This life is better than my best dream,
so I stretch and sit back, content
in stillness as the world turns around me.

~Monica Sanden
Monica Sanden
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:31:06 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Itch

Tickle
Tickle
Wiggle
Wiggle
Shoe moves left, shoe moves right.
Shoe moves up and down
Wiggle
Push down on the toes, raises the knee
Push foot deep into shoe
Tickle
Tickle
Wiggle
Wiggle
Use other shoe
Remove first shoe
Tickle
Tickle
Wiggle
Wiggle
Push down on the toes, raises the knee
Push socked toes to the ground
Rip off the sock
Start scratching.
scratch
scratch
scratch
Sweet relief
Back to work.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Right ear lobe
Tickle
Tickle
Wiggle
Wiggle
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:31:49 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
the origin of a word

how do words begin?
on the tip of your tongue, right there
but wait – gone now
my son relishes a new word
yelling it, laughing – try it again, again!

I have tried for years now to stop this from coming
this word leaves me cold
leaves me speechless, hopeless
pitiable

this word leaves me where I never thought I would be
who I never thought I would be
I’m that woman, that thing
everyone glances back as they pass by
dear, dear what a shame

this word leaves me here
at the origin of the end
where everyone does their leaving
where everything I know is right here
wait – gone now
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:31:53 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Guns, Germs, Steel

The fate of Ioseb Besarionis dze Jughashvili
was death at an early age. Born at the bottom
of the Gorian heap to jackals fighting over scraps,
at a crossroads too mean for the devil to deal.
When the Russians cut out his mother tongue,
he fashioned his torn arm into one of steel and
gave himself the name to match: a zealot and
and a martyr for no dead god or tzar but living progress.

Stalin, you were a thug and a thief before you became
a savior, populating public works and parks
with more murals and statues than Christ himself. Now history
asks not whether you meant to harvest the future with that iron fist,
but how many you saved with its terrible strength,
aside from yourself. The wheat is shorn and the grouse
take flight, under the quiet of a long Georgian night.

Kelly Searsmith | searsmith at yahoo dot com
Kelly Searsmith
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:33:52 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Crimson Fruit

Greenest grass and bluest sky
beneath the garden grew.
A tree rose at the center –
tall and straight and true.

Beneath its shade a maiden sat,
a serpent did pursue.
“Excuse me, Miss. A moment please.”
So began their interview.

“Can I ask? Did God say
no fruit shall you imbue?”
“Oh, no, my friend, only from
this tree right here in view.
All the others for us to eat –
just this one taboo.”

So the fatal conversation went
And before the Woman knew -
To her hand the crimson
fruit of sin had flew.

Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:35:50 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


Cocoons, T-Ball, March spring


Weeds rise out of the skull of a batting helmet,
and the old farmer agrees again to take the mound
of his rusty tractor to sweep the field of purple clover.
Above the gummed and besticked benches
wasps crawl and neck, their eyes as slick
as new baseball bats, their wings as hairy
as a scrape. The cocoon rots off dusty wings
in the hollow reaches of the stands
that bow like a broken bough, that both beam
and hoard darkness, damp, and darkness.
S Whitaker
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:35:52 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Holy cow! 600+ already! How am I going to read 'em all??? (Or are some of them feedback? I'll have a look in a minute.) I now know that when the day begins for you is getting on for my bedtime - so I'm probably always going to be composing and posting next day. Never mind - here's my first. (Third attempt at posting, sorry if it comes up again and again.)


YOU AND ME: OUR ORIGINS
(to Andrew)

It began when you came and walked on my land.
Later you said you vaguely remembered
a man with a dog. You’d spoken to him briefly.

That was my husband, my dog, my house.
We’d hired the place out for Jenette’s workshop.
He made himself scarce around the paddocks,
I was in town for Reiki training.

I got home just as the light was changing.
The workshop people had all gone.
Bill and I were already living
separate under the same roof;
I suddenly knew I had to get out.

Later I said it was your energy
in my space that galvanised me –
but then we had no idea of each other,
no inkling of a joined future.

Jenette’s next workshop brought us together.
Over dinner on our first date
we discovered so many friends in common,
so many tastes and passionate interests,
it almost became ridiculous.

And we recollected earlier meetings:
the spiritual group, the activist group.
But the time wasn’t right; we’d barely noticed.
I wonder, though, did our auras brush?

Hugging me close one night, you whispered.
Shocked, I knew I’d heard that voice
in meditation years before.

It began when you came and walked on my land,
this time. But as to the origin….


2/4/09



















Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:36:33 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"On the Carry"


Running,jumping,moving
All the way down the field.
Diving, hustling,hitting
Right to the endzone,
I score!
I am adored
By the crowd.
Congratulations for my success
I hear.
Celebrating,partying,cheering
All the way home.
Josh Duncan
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:39:07 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Pen in hand slips
loosely across the page, as
blankly staring, I discern
shape, meaning, hope emerge
the way a thought becomes act,
the way a day unfolds.
Sarah Bartlett
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:39:31 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
In Search Of The Origin
By Bill Kirk

Who's to say where we would be
Were it not for THE RIB?
And why was such an obscure body part
Chosen above all others in the first place?

Could it quite simply be
There was just such a plenty?
After all, might fingers and toes
Have worked just as well?
Maybe.

But, alas, even added together
You will only get twenty.
Besides, fingers' work is, you know,
Just so manual.
As for toes, how often are they in a jam?

So, enough with conjecture.
When you get right down to it,
The ribs are the grandest of guardians
Of such vitals as
The breath of life,
The beating heart
And, at least partly,
The electronic trunk
Through which all signals flow.

Without ribs, would we live as long?
Or be far too frequently snuffed out
With a well-placed blow,
Before ever being able to add to the species?
And wouldn't humor be non-existent
In the absence of a good ribbing now and then?

Although far from God-like, I too, would
If given the choice,
Gladly have given a rib for human-kind.

Perhaps that's why
I've always been partial to ribs,
Especially the hot, spicy ones laden with sauce.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:41:13 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
When a Star Dies

The brief flash that sticks
In the molasses dark sky
Causes the waving fists of infants
Teenaged hands on 86 Escorts
The taste of first kisses
To stick in our throats
For light years
Helen Peterson
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:42:15 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Oh, this is so fun! I can't believe it's April already and that over 700 people are poeming.

Here is my offering:

Origin

I came from pine straw
and sandy soil,
the round logs of a cabin,
its shady porch.

I came out on the bank
of a wide gray river
running deep past the city
to the sea.

I came up from
a brown eyed woman
with long swinging hair
a ready laugh.

I came into a world
of vivid color
altered states of consciousness
a steady drumming beat.
Beth Browne
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:42:28 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
JUST DESSERTS

Say not more, his litany
curtailed at number one -
layered chocolate mousse cake -
why resist temptation?

This waiter, thin and young,
has no need to entreat
this white-haired pair to share
memories with spoonfuls sweet.

Their larger derelictions known,
friends for more than forty years,
few mysteries left except perhaps
why reason fails to interfere

with cravings for indulgent treats.
A mother, already dying, and so too late,
tasted one Godiva chocolate,
told her daughter - Don’t you wait.

How could she, when she’d seen
grape jelly ladled, jelled, beheld
the bottling of root beer, fizzed,
bottles lining a basement shelf,

their brown dark glassy promise
once exploding (to her delight),
boughten birthday cakes frosted
with Crisco frosting, shiny white?

When Auntie’s pecan sticky buns
looped yeasty swirls, and blueberry pie,
crust rolled on a wooden pin near
the tin-lined flour bin in a pantry?

When those pies were savored so
that children could lick their plates?
When ginger ale twitched their noses?
When Cushman’s bakery truck

parked outside her own front door,
inviting walks between two rows
of glassine covered cakes,
a treasure-filled tableau?

Told she had a sweet tooth,
she pursued her destiny.
Chocolate’s anti-oxidant,
that mousse cake her necessity.

Sheila Murphy
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:42:51 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Oh Robert, what HAVE you unleashed!

G'day, Nancy Breen!

Dear Pearl Pirie, your mum sounds like mine!

Dear Jennie Fraine, knowing the subject of your poem makes it doubly enjoyable.

I read about 500, will have to come back and read more at leisure - which will apply to the whole month, I strongly suspect - and started a list of people to give shouts to, which got to over 50. Then I encountered THE outstanding piece imho: a huge shout to Alana I. Capria for that stunning Mandrake mythology!
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:42:54 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
In Search Of The Origin
By Bill Kirk

Who's to say where we would be
Were it not for THE RIB?
And why was such an obscure body part
Chosen above all others in the first place?

Could it quite simply be
There was just such a plenty?
After all, might fingers and toes
Have worked just as well?
Maybe.

But, alas, even added together
You will only get twenty.
Besides, fingers' work is, you know,
Just so manual.
As for toes, how often are they in a jam?

So, enough with conjecture.
When you get right down to it,
The ribs are the grandest of guardians
Of such vitals as
The breath of life,
The beating heart
And, at least partly,
The electronic trunk
Through which all signals flow.

Without ribs, would we live as long?
Or be far too frequently snuffed out
With a well-placed blow,
Before ever being able to add to the species?
And wouldn't humor be non-existent
In the absence of a good ribbing now and then?

Although far from God-like, I too, would
If given the choice,
Gladly have given a rib for human-kind.

Perhaps that's why
I've always been partial to ribs,
Especially the hot, spicy ones laden with sauce.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:46:16 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
To realize the snow on Mt Fuji
was born
of the puddle beneath my feet
reminds me
... there are no unreachable heights.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:46:34 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

In the city of perpetual spring,
where night and day
balance on the equator,
where light rain falls in the afternoon
and high noon sun is as oppressive
and white as the Eucharist,
where church bells explode colonial stone
and houses rest on the lap of a volcano
nearly dormant, but not quite,
my mother and father meet.
Alicia Vogl Saenz
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:47:06 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
JUST DESSERTS

Say not more, his litany
curtailed at number one -
layered chocolate mousse cake -
why resist temptation?

This waiter, thin and young,
has no need to entreat
this white-haired pair to share
memories with spoonfuls sweet.

Their larger derelictions known,
friends for more than forty years,
few mysteries left except perhaps
why reason fails to interfere

with cravings for indulgent treats.
A mother, already dying, and so too late,
tasted one Godiva chocolate,
told her daughter - Don’t you wait.

How could she, when she’d seen
grape jelly ladled, jelled, beheld
the bottling of root beer, fizzed,
bottles lining a basement shelf,

their brown dark glassy promise
once exploding (to her delight),
boughten birthday cakes frosted
with Crisco frosting, shiny white?

When Auntie’s pecan sticky buns
looped yeasty swirls, and blueberry pie,
crust rolled on a wooden pin near
the tin-lined flour bin in a pantry?

When those pies were savored so
that little children could lick their plates?
When ginger ale twitched their noses?
When Cushman’s bakery truck

parked outside her own front door,
inviting walks between two rows
of glassine covered cakes,
a treasure-filled tableau?

Told she had a sweet tooth,
she pursued her destiny.
Chocolate’s anti-oxidant,
that mousse cake her necessity.

Sheila Murphy
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:47:25 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
FROM WHENCE

I thought it moved, that speck I noticed
and intended to scour later when
I returned from work. On the upper
left hand side of the century old tub,
just above the spot where the porcelain
has worn clean through to the green -

was it me or it that moved?

I count its legs, all six of them as
it discovers and extends them
one by one as I draw
back the curtain, Comet in hand, ready
to turn on the faucet

and make my mum proud.

Shall I kill you, I wonder,
too early to know if its a
widow or a recluse who might grow
into my lethal equal,yet unlike me
doing without question what wisdom
and predisposition

insists will be best.


I hesitate, after all,
I grew up on nursery rhythms
about itsy bitsy spiders
that didn't end with me murdering
them just because they elected
to begin life on the moist steamy
surface of my

leaky four legged tub.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:48:25 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Thanks Alton

Fat and Fatter are stuffed in the
Artic by my smooth, aching hand.
They'll never feel a blade
once the are frozen solid...

..when I'm ready...

Cohorts are made ready for the process.
Flower will never grow once I
salt the earth.
Spray where you want. It's over once the lid closes.

Pulse
Pulse
Pulse
Pulse
Pulse
...
Pulse

Bag'em, tag'em, and put'em on ice

Turn up the heat, ready the metal.
Paul Pikutis
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:49:53 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Chinese Warring States Period: Hu (Wine Container) 4th Century BC"

Careful indentations pressed into top, sides, nothing so casual as thumbprints or smudges. It takes her thirteen days and thirteen nights. Well. Thirteen days and perhaps four nights, but the legend is more impressive then and thirteen is sacred. She carves out the lines with hands trembling, starting with the simple—four lines for death, because death begins life. Happiness, chastity, protection, ferocity, joy. Frowning, she adds joy until her fingers ache.

On the sixth day, she halts. Closes itchy eyes against the lines methodically cross-hatching her vision, turning the view of the garden through the window into a sandstone meditation tracked by the truly neurotic. Up, down, up, down, prayers for the living and dead.

Joy. Joy. Ferocity. Joy. A kiss stolen beneath the stone walls of strangers’ houses. The whisper of her name in someone else’s mouth. Peace. Warm hands. A snatch of laughter glinting in straight white teeth. Patience. Fingers folded neatly, the knuckles delicate. Joy. Joy. Us. Joy.

Joy carries it through the years, rolling smelling of shit and blood from a ditch, the joy of war, the pure fur-toothed joy of war. Callused hands cradling it for treasure, thumbing the lines for want of soothsaying under a starry sky. Count the smiling gods, count the lines, count the winks between until you fall asleep. Joy. Joy. Sleep, joy.

Bobbing in a spit-slick sea of brine and time and salt, rescued from a fishy end by a curious oh of a child, who places a rock in its mouth and prays for a mother. Joy of faith. Joy of sun, joy of California, joy of air-conditioned planes and antiseptic and rubber gloves. No thumbprints.

Joy of solemn eyes. Joy of a hand pressed up against the glass. A murmur of please-yes from across the room. A wink, a promise, someone sailing.
Kathleen Jercich
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:54:08 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Puddles

The storm began
south of the border
a weak disturbance
urged by a pushy wind
that rattles clouds
spill, it beseeches
rains that have cycled
for centuries
only to pool, muddy
in the ruts in the driveway.
Janet Richards
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:54:45 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of Love

When did it start
This love I have for you?

It wasn’t at first sight
I didn’t see you as handsome.
I didn’t find you clever.
I wasn’t struck by your intelligence or wit.
You’re really not my type.

But you said something goofy
And made me laugh.
Was that when it started?

We became friends
because you wrote to me
and made me bare my heart.

Friendship carried us along
And it was good but it wasn’t love.
Was it?

Did the love start when you kissed me?
That kiss certainly flipped my world.
But I didn’t want to give you my heart.
Bad idea
Bad idea
Bad idea
So I didn’t

Did I begin to love you while laying in the grass
Watching shooting stars streak across the sky?

Was it the worry on your face that won my heart,
when I forgot the phone and got delayed and was late arriving?

Did it start on Christmas Eve
That silent holy night
When you touched me like a treasured gift?

When did it start?
And how can I stop.
It’s breaking my heart.

C. L. Banahan
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:55:00 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Origins"

a word
now four
maybe i will write a sentence
or learn to capitalize
or punctuate

yesterday i learned to rhyme
in time
i can learn meter
and won't that be sweeter

i'm done
nothing left to say
only more to learn
and write
a poem
Cayle M. Ayley
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:57:24 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Start Here

It always starts with light
real and metaphor:
a minuscule point
floating
in the deeps,
one moment quiescent,
the next—
the universe
cracks open.
Fractions later, the shrapnel flies
at the speed limit of sight,
us and anti-us,
bangs around like bumblebees in a bottle
(those will come much later)
smashing itself
back to nothing first, then
smaller, hotter, faster, fortunately
more us than anti.
Baryons
shimmer into being,
condensing like raindrops
(again, much later). The universe
quarks.
A chill sets in, the particles dance
for warmth, and couple
the way everything does
in long, cold nights.
Hadrons and leptons snuggle;
deuterium is born,
grows up to be hydrogen.
Soon there’s a periodic family
at the table.

In the space of
a hundred breaths:
light and matter, and
all that matters.

Lee Kottner lee_kottner AT NOSPAMmindspring DOT com
Thursday, April 02, 2009 2:58:47 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Parent

Round perfect snail
Spit up from the creamy slit
Of the perfect ivory calla lily (which
will eventually collapse
Under a diaspora of perfect, round holes).
ina Roy-Faderman
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:00:02 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Legacy

I got my Texas daddy’s height,
his sense of humor,
his optimism,
his problems with short “e”.

(Kin you lind me a pin?
Mine’s outta ink.)

My mama gave me
big brown eyes
big Italian nose
but sadly, no big Italian boobs.

My smart-mouth nature is my own,
unfortunately passed on
to my daughter.
Susan Peters
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:03:58 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
At First

unintentional subliminal:
just happened to taste a sweet clementine
when you saw the Cattle Egret

artificially influenced:
packaged vacation
mouse-shaped pancakes for days

lightly leaned on:
because he is your brother
wears the same size shoes as dad

evident lovingkindness:
dog volunteers in the park
unexpected smooch in grass
Rachel Simon
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:04:43 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The King of the Sea Turtles

Her breasts pain her when she remembers
the fat man's name, the regal one,
the King of the Sea Turtles, his face
with its center of balance just above
the mouth, just below the misaligned
prow of a nose, and his half-useless hands.
O but he's gone, after some rail
of a woman he's gone away.

There's a story she never was told:
how the first parents of the human race
sprung from the marsh as a single spartina reed
and the god tore them apart for their own good;
they reunited; and two children were born
that they loved so tenderly they couldn't help
themselves: the father ate the daughter,
the mother the son. And the god, chastened,
had to reduce their capacity for love
to one one-hundredth of what they'd had:
something we might call human.

And there's a story she knows: his hands
that touched her as a blind man touches a mirror,
amazed how smooth a thing he’s stumbled on.
The King of the Sea Turtles is gone off loving
that rail, or some other one,
with his prominent mouth. And so her body
pains her, what with its turning
blood into milk for the fat man's daughter.

Randy Cauthen
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:05:34 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Daffodil

Tucked beneath an oak-leaf blanket
she sleeps undisturbed
through Winter’s long, blustery nights.
Rain drop fingers tease her awake,
nudge her toward Spring.
In her golden bonnet, she stretches
like a cat in afternoon sun.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:06:25 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Breadcrumbs


I keep going back to it, believing in the fresh
start, keep beginning to say it again, but
there is no returning, no going farther back
than the stomach demands, since a spring
is only the overflowing of a deeper and more
distant source, and to reach that requires
a greater significance than thirst. For instance
I remember, as a child, filling jugs at a natural spring,
my hands rich with the scent of the moss
I leaned against, the rocks gurgling, the smell
of wet soil saturating the air with a kind
of habitable baptism, a slaked freshness I rose from
and turned homeward. Now, years later, I realize
as I pass a construction site each morning and there’s
a little more cement, a few more girders, more wiring
and wood fused under acetylene flies and hammers,
that when it’s done, no one can say they did it —
all those hands, all those minds pick their way
through halls of carbon and fly ash, trace potentials
down molecular paths of iron, water and gravel,
these bits and pieces just breadcrumbs
trailing all the way back to subterranean lavas
and prehistoric furnaces, the inhuman fires
that go into making every habitation and home.
Michael T. Young
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:06:29 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Her first love was her big sister.
She followed her around
hungry baby bird
blue eyes, fragile as eggs.
Her sister never turned around to pick her up
her gaze fixed on trees
and other bigger things
that could hold the weight of childhood.
Hannah Mickunas
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:07:26 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
It began when I lost everything.
She already had a lover.
I wanted to end it that night.
I was afraid of crying in the daylight.

I thought I had the white light.
I drove to the redwood trees,
Climbed before my mind could
Get fancy. Watched the dawn explode.

I decided to stop before a dead wind.
My murdered child stood like a
swaying stethoscope.
I could bury my lips.

She came back for the sake of
her white laptop. In her poems
my ghost was soft and lonely.
I testified to a sunken cloud.

I wrapped fire around the theater.
I shot my couch. Because the sand
Was forgiving, I attacked. I was bored
And hostile. I fell through it

Toward something warm.
Meadow Phoenix
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:09:09 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Exhalation

Buried by the sea
We seek only that one breath
It tastes of honey

And of unknown things,
Our chests rise as we almost
Burst, then we exhale

What new land is this?
Our legs carry us ashore
Limbs new, unafraid

Once upon a time
We were here, first woman thought,
Now we have returned.

Will we make it right,
Or will we once again sink?
Only we decide.

Every thought and dream
We had of being human
Has come down to this.

To lie down again?
To lie down beneath it all
And just endure it?

Or to change, to live,
To live the womb within us,
Arise, humanity!

See woman and child,
See how they breathe, just like you,
See them, see them. See

We are all human
We all breathe in and breathe out
Until our final

Breath, forgive, Father,
Until we draw our last breath
Hour of our death...

Hail Mary,
Amen.
Nixy di Stefano
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:12:54 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
She came from where the river did.
She came from where the wind began.
Her parents were the first spring and summer.
Her name was whispered by the trees.

Her touch was like a drop of water
On a boulder at the base of a fall.
One drop would not be missed.
Would it?

Her breath was like a breeze
Turning a leave hither and yon.
A dormant leaf would not matter
Would it?

Her leaving was like a sunset.
Her leaving was like a snow fall.
The light and warmth would return.
Wouldn't it?
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:13:15 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Corpse
13th century Anglo-French

the body un-earthed

the word for decay
un-uttered

before plague
and feast of rats and lime.




Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:13:25 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Love's First Look

A curious glance,
A tentative smile,
A cautious hello,
A welcome reply.
With a chance encounter
Sparks fly
To the origin of love.

LBC
LBC
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:13:33 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A beginning,
Without sinning,
What price life?
Or the dice of lady luck,
A handful plucked,
The branches of trees,
And family branches,
Signified the root of life.

Spreading outwards,
The human chain,
Hands and feet, and torsos plain,
Eyes asunder, hunters we became,
Spears of life,
And slivers of pain,
A simple brain knew no fear,
But eyes betrayed a tear of fear.

As man sought woman,
Woman sought man,
A union bound without rebound,
And tied in ribbon with silk and sound,
Little wonder that we became,
A killer race of pounding flesh,
With pace and zest and total sound.
Liam Mullen
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:13:45 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Saucy

I stare down at the large silver stockpot on the stove
No flame yet, but there soon will be
I sigh heavily, knowing the task ahead

High flame
I know the rule –
Hot pot
Cold oil
No stick –

Two tablespoons of olive oil
Diced onions
Minced garlic
Stirring, smelling the fine fragrance fill the air

I lift the can opener from its resting place in the kitchen drawer
I spread the handles
I place it on top of the can of Roma tomatoes
Whishhhhh
The air escapes from the can

I take the tomatoes and crush them, crush them in my hand
Dump them in the pot
Again, another can

Tomato paste seasoned with Italian seasonings
A can of tomato sauce
Plop into the pot

I stir in some basil and oregano
Then parsley flakes and a little bit of crushed red pepper
Oh, yes – some salt too

Mmm …. It smells marvelous

Stir it, simmer it for several hours, stirring occasionally
Adding more seasoning to taste

At last, I have most excellent spaghetti sauce
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:14:01 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Giant Sequoia Tree

From a distant past
I burst through the mossy soil
From the life-giving roots of my parents
I began my unmoving journey overcoming many a toil.

The shadows above
Of all the huge ancients stood
Would I grow? Would I survive? Would I last?
As the months, the years the centuries pass, I realize I could.

Fires came and went
The Earth would shudder and shake
But still I endured, the deep water sustained
And even the wonder of saplings from my own roots would take

Creatures from below
Would gaze in awe up at me
Names they have given, words of me they say,
Wawona, Toos-pung-ish, Hercules, but now Giant Sequoia Tree.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:14:07 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Liquid Assets

Group of twenty summits
behind a band of steel
to parse out pie pieces

of human manufacture:
googles of geld, papyrus
piles, artificed between-go

of want-need or loinlust?
In balance, more is more
is better: amber, ivory, satin

cowries, jade, beaver pelts
and kettles of rice, mustangs
once of the veldt, salt, wampum,

gongs, opium, slaves,
umiacs and zappozats.
Blood-money, cattle-chattel

capital of time-place,
standard common baubles fill
leather purses, power craving.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:16:21 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
concrete

by L’Oréal Snell

I used to wear this suede look-liked velvet burgundy jumpsuit
long sleeved and hot in the summer
paid no mind,
as it high watered as I grew
like the taunts and laughter of my cousins, my brother, and my sister
because my velvet burgundy suit made me rich and we were poor

looked-liked velvet burgundy hot in the summers
running errands for my grandma,
getting her pop and frozen chicken from the corner store
with the taunts and laughter about my jumpsuit annoying
my brother’s friend to pick up a brick as I walked ahead
paid him no mind
falling in crushed crunchy leaves
whooshing red
blotchy shadows
quiet

searing a jagged crescent moon
behind my eye
red blotchy shadows
whoosh quiet
not like the hot taunts and the laughter of my cousins, my brother, and my sister because in the summer I used to wear this suede look-liked velvet burgundy jumpsuit,
long sleeved and high watered, it made me rich, cause we were poor and I grew,
paid them no mind.
L’Oréal Snell
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:17:28 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
One Night at the Green Parrot

It was simply a matter of being
at the right place
at the right time
(or the wrong place at
the wrong time, if you want to be
funny.) I had worked
the other side of a bar as you
were doing that night. I had some
experience with misplacing a customer’s
credit card and you had mislaid
one. I was sitting alone
at the table, Paula having gone
to the can, and watching
two waitresses go through the
trash and I asked what are they
looking for and you said customer’s
credit card and I said Oh look in the machine,
look under the machine, look under
the mat the machine sits on and you
found it. And then you bought me
a Mai Tai I didn’t need as a way
of saying thanks and Paula
came back and an hour later you cleared
my tab and I asked you are you married
(no) do you have a girlfriend (no,
did I?) are you in a frat (no) gimme
your phone number, which I had never done
before and the only reason I was in that fern bar
was that Paula had been banned from our usual
bar and it was Mai Tai Night and it’s been
twenty-two years and two kids and too many moves
and I’d really like you to buy me another
Mai Tai sometime soon and tell me
where you found that missing credit card.

L. L. Lundstedt
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:19:10 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I haven’t had the time to read through all these, of course, but I find Maril Crabtree’s “Migration” quite marvelous. I enjoyed the playfulness of Anne Corey’s “The Origin of Chicken Jokes.” Emma Rose’s contribution has a wonderful kinship to the wise tone of Jane Hirshfield. And Melissa Carl’s “One Hue: A Biography” is beautiful, fluid and deliciously tactile.
Michael T. Young
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:20:46 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins of Gossip

I thought I was a flying superhero, once: a short history of
Cracked pebbled creek beds with my very secret fortress of shady trees, A half-shortcut to school
Through a ravine rising up up a shady hill to nowhere with each day Equaling not hard love but old, rusted old worn out old train Tracks…and Nowhere
To go,
No place to run to in the afternoons…except to detention: on Purpose, just to stay away
From things in general, for an hour or two, with air conditioning. We wrote essays
By letter, from the encyclopedia spines sitting on the very deep and very Wide windowsill -- Mine was “B” so I chose the Bronte sisters. They Talked about interesting Stuff and they
Stayed in my mind even when I was at 7-11 picking up
The Heart Healthy Cheerios box for my dad. Beyond the trees was
The town and around the
Corner from a
Grove
Of too-tall winter grass and broken glass beer
Bottles that glinted like rainbows in the too-skinny, paled sunlight
Which twisted like no one AND nowhere or like the middlest
Part of the tracks….though. I took a leap and flew over and also invisibly Hovered like a bat a dark hummingbird
Above my general upside-down circumstances…only difference I knew How to ignore backward glances – and the fake tortoise shell eye
Glasses I’d had to wear since before and then before forever.
I easily forgot where I came from originally, no problemo…You know, It’s not like you can’t not just go to school every single day, and play the Part of the chalk erasing
The chalkboard, the part of
the playground swing, swinging…
The rusted swingset now upside down, somewhat fluidly so…and then, Just ten Minutes later,
You could still be not-quite-even-ever ever fully-yourself at all, but more Like a Magic new gumball prize in a machine, or a metal pinball racing Past closed lockers or across the over-waxed floors in P.E. class – sliding From one end of The sweaty gymnasium to the other – a hazard, a near-Accident --
It’s a litmus test, but you go faster than any given circumstance, or happenings,
Or even potentially fated accidents, just flying -- almost REalLy really Flying: faster than Anyone ever even can, even in comic books.
And so you learned to watch the watchers stop, though you still break Records
Easily, here and
There: confusing things, temporarily turning the not-so-invisible-wide-World upside down. When at first it may match your own sense of Perspective – or seems to, remember this is only a dream until you Figure it
Out and hit pause twice, in case it’s jammed. Meanwhile: people halfway Stare Until the school bell breaks the afternoon its briiiing like a loud bird Shriek that sends us, black-clothed, or plaid and scattered, or brown Nosed, though all of us: brown blown leaves bypassing the sky on the Brisk walk home. Graham crackers cracked
In two, and two halves, your little brother watching Scooby Do the back Door
Swinging open and the dog watching as I walk up the carpeted stairs to My small, lamplit attic with a small neat bookshelf
Room.
Where is my dad, now?
AM I not
YOUNGERandyounger
andYOUNGER now, somehow, though? When will I get a dog? Hey mom, Will I be able to get a dog??
Some
day?
To take care of I mean? For real??
“You’ll have your
Brother,” she said…words which turned right into the past as she Said them because the red suitcases filled with the perfumes and socks
From her cracked dresser were
Already
Gone
By the time I
Woke up
I had been
Doing my
Simple sums
Allnightlong
The break of
Dawn woke me --only because of scattered, allwrong sunlight there in That town and there was ink
On the left side of my right cheek, the markings of the very very Beginning of a new story I am always and always
Trying and trying and trying and trying again not-to
Quite
Remember.


Ashlee R
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:22:20 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Deepest"


I see you as you stare out into the distance,
Maxine Kumin in your midst,
at a John Holmes workshop
in this picture taken so long ago...

Yet you are here--right with me.
I am your shared shadow--
The one who doesn't matter enough
as I felt you felt.

I see your eyes searching for meaning,
belonging:
Confessional Poet, Anne Sexton--

Why do I feel you felt so inferior?
Where do I get this from?

My soul born twenty years later,
yet right there with you
inside your sorrow.
Inside your forgotten tomorrow.
Inside. And pen can only hold so much.

Our Sorrow swells until the ocean
takes our heads to relief,
yet mine stays intact, somewhat--
my hoping,
as I sort deepest emotion
of Troubled Life, Life I have quandries with,
yet Life that shows me some unconceived promise,

that quietness plopping up in mind
from deepest woe--
my questioning thought, heart,
deepest soul could
not find.
Debra Cochran
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:24:15 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
At Another Beginning


Birth starts in water,
the amniotic slop, the gush
and rush as a baby
shoves into raw air.

More water than bone,
you barely remember the swim
of your own infants into your world,
know better how they've grown

to dry land. Yet you stay
drawn to this pond by the ocean,
still water a stone's throw
from the salt's tides.

In Rome, the ancients knew the dead
left through a lake--Averno.
Wet door into the other life.
Far from dying, you stand

at these shores to look
on the glassy surface
as in a mirror, see your years
behind and maybe what must come.

You watch as a way to be born
even as spring brings its hints
of young green, and a warmer wind
stirs the reflection gone.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:24:31 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Words are a gentle drizzle
That fall softly
On the grasslands of my mind.
From the nebulous clouds of ideas,
Triggered by mountain of emotions

I collect a few drops,
on the palm of my heart
Pile them up in a verse
Hold them close for a moment,
And then see it flow till the end.

Tethered at the very edge,
Swirling in an unknown rhythm,
The verse transforms.
In the light of inspiration,
The poem glitters!
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:25:10 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Each dream vents itself with fluid confusion,
a swift rotation and disappearance of fixed objects,
the bureau and basket cycling through the backdrop
of the unidentifiable continuous casualty.
The room, or apartment, or house a figment
of a unstable architect,
each place too small to hold their circling contents -
and this is the bearable aspect, mirage -
There might be enough latitude to level your anxiety
if you can grasp the geometry of loss.
Your mother is always angry, disappointed, or mourning
the thinness of her once ample sex.
This is your responsibility,
to watch her rot and shed
till the silver skeleton shows through.
Meanwhile, the bowl of apples unfolds slowly
onto the floor, each one slick with motor oil
and bruising past your fingers to bounce
before being digested by the wooden slats.
The ex-boyfriend is always back to sort things out,
to start over in a world with less gravity,
his forlorn hope edging you
into a steep solitary panic
while the back of your head splays open to the present,
trying to draw you inside out, into the calm
bed of what your sleeping self mustn’t hold, the unfailing
kindness of a lover who floods you with surprise and relief
every time you wake in this practical space,
the walls a uniform honeytone barely breathing
in the morning light.
JBF
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:27:03 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins of Self, Part 1

If you type “disability”
into the online etymology dictionary,
at least the one I found
during a five second Google search,
you don’t get the origin of the word “disability”.

Instead you get “handicap”,
as in a way to determine horse racing odds,
used from 1754 on,
followed by “encumbrance, disability”
first used in 1890.
Third meaning: The verb sense of "equalize chances of competitors"
dates back to 1852
Fourth meaning : “put at a disadvantage" becomes acceptable in 1864
The main modern sense, "disability," is the last to develop;
handicapped (adj.) comes into common useage is 1915.


Or “poster”,
where impairment related usage
-i.e. poster children- becomes common
in the 1930’s, when disability related charities
began “featuring child sufferers” as a fund raising ploy.

This poet, poster child turned protester
knows there’s a poem
hidden inside this strange array of facts
but requires more than the 24 allotted hours
to unearth it.

Martina
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:27:35 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
WOW. Just wow. I am amazed at the volume of talent and volume of words... fabulosa. Peace, Linda
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:29:21 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Goose Bumps

I'm trying to write you a letter
but the quill protests horribly,
each stroke claws at
the cheap recycled printer paper,
picking up bits of fiber, tearing,
the ink bleeds.

I wish you hadn't sat next to me
on that narrow piano bench
and asked me to tea.
I wish you'd never folded your hands
around that chipped white mug
at the kitchen table and waited, waited,
waited for me to let my guard down.
I wish I hadn't lain on that crimson blanket
in the backyard, your breath
smelling of oranges and bergamot,
and told you the stars were
exploding silver pearls
and if we held hands
tightly enough
we could become
the dewdrop on a blade of grass.

What I'm trying to do
is write you a letter,
but the feather itches my fingers,
the carpet whispers distractions to my toes,
the chair holds the small of my back
like a perfect gentleman,
but when I reach back
I touch only wood.

I wish I could walk, away,
and not end up in the kitchen,
sipping from a chipped white mug,
goose bumps rambling,
rampant.
christina
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:29:39 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Start Somewhere"

Because I am not fooling anyone.
Seven years of love
six months of uncertainty, then
five weeks stable before
four days single.
Three hours since I cried,
too much in pain to breathe
another moment.

So the journal reads,
~Day one:
Wake up. Breathe.
Try again.~
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:31:24 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Woo-hooo...it's that time again! Hi everyone, here we go...

What Was I Thinking?

I don't know where it began,
the first thought that bubbled
from a hidden singing spring,
then like rapids rushing in
they carried me away with them.
Stroking back against the flood,
I dove to rescue my point of origin.
Lorraine Hart
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:31:26 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April 1, 2009

Hearing grandchildren sing
The songs they have learned
Makes grandma happy

Bonnie House
Bonnie House
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:31:41 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Time

"Boom"
God touched a point in space and the earth appeared.
"Let's have some fun today my sons," He said, " Let's put some stuff down there."

The Angels watched as the mist dissolved, water, land, plants, and man appeared.
Light, dark, sun, moon, stars and time was born.
Why 24 hours in a day?
Why 365 days each year?
When I meet God one day I will ask him.

I have several questions actually, like why do some days feel longer than others? And why is a twelve hour shift at work longer than a twelve hours at home?
A week of vacation is gone in the blink of an eye, yet pregnancy last it seems a lifetime.
Let's not talk about labor and the 18 years it takes to raise a child.
(Here again is another trick of time, they are born, give you grey hair and are gone!)

In the blink of an eye.

Time my friend waits for no man...

King soloman wront " Time and unforseen occurances befall us all."
But why? But why? But why?
"BOOM!"
You're gone in the blink of an eye!
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:32:26 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Beginning

A dark nothingness
Save for a small speck of gas
Exploding, life starts
Jeremy Corter
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:32:47 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of a Friendship

First, you find a person, or an animal, or maybe a plant.
Then you nourish them with good and positive attention
and plan fun things to do.
You will have good times, you will have sad times.
Time will tell, if this friendship will last a lifetime
or if it just withers and dies.
Judy Stewart
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:33:02 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"in physics rising"

They say in physics rising
is the same as falling:

gravity pulls with constant
negativity to earth so

if things are looking up your eyes
are playing tricks on you.

But don’t trust Newton.

He made up gravity after a granny
Smith stumbled down a flight
of boughs onto his head

landing squarely on an overripe blood vessel
which popped and flooded his neurons with A-negative

stream of nonsense that just
can’t be right because

then my blood pressure
my breathing chest
my body temperature

actually
fell the first time you said my name—

and I don’t want to remember you
as an apocalyptic lover from the start.

Vera Herbert
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:33:30 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin Haiku

Flowers begin the
Joyous burst from winter sleep
Origin of Spring
Maggie Landess
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:35:15 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING

Pen, pencil, paper,
notebook, Moleskine, laptop,
iPhone, quiet park, café table,
noisy bar, bathroom stall,
lower back, scarred wrist,
broken heart…

A poem is not truly alive
until it is read out loud
for someone else to feel.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:35:33 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Mercury

Displaced dust and sweat fly
Thrown from sleep under Nike soles
And land again, folded in, and melt into the mettle
Of time’s fearless, faithless furnace
That hates the petulant sleep
Of earthy chaos;
That demands, cajoles,
Implores, persuades
From cracking man-made firearm thunder
To straining, pumping hearts
And souls incandescent
All straining for a broken tape
And rewards rescued from the sorry sleep
Of the undiscovered mine;
Indifferent, vulgar, drowsy thoughts
Of lost Godling children
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:35:53 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Today it starts,
“Mommy, I don't think that was the real Easter Bunny.”
My heart, it stops.
“I saw shoes. He was wearing gray shoes”
Of course, bunnies don't wear shoes!
Here comes reality;
it will take awhile to fully get here,
but I know it's on the way
Today it's Easter Bunnies and Tooth Fairies,
Next is true love and justice.
Soon enough my little boy will know what does and does not exist,
And how long until the little boy is just a dream of yesterday too?
Kate P
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:37:15 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My People of Origin.

In order to know where we are going
We need to know where we’ve been
We need to go back and trace our origins
To dig up a past that’s unseen
I have been on this journey
For many long years
And have discovered a heritage
Of denial and fears
It all started for my ancestors
Just over 200 years ago
When white man came to this country
With their diseases and guns in tow
They believed Australia to be Terra nullius
A land with out human occupation
Even though my people had walked this land
For many a generation
Though at first they tired to come in peace
Soon the fear began
Because my people started dieing
From the diseases of the white man
Small pox killed them in the thousands
For they had no immunity
Others became addicted to white man’s rum
Living as a fringe dwelling community
Then they were dispossessed
Of their way of life and their land
Forced on to native reserves
Into a life style they didn’t understand
Next their children were stolen
In the name of integration
Leaving them with no identity
In confused isolation
So they began to hide their identity
Behind denial and lies
They claimed their race as European
And lost all Aboriginal ties
Is it any wonder then
That my people live today
Lives so often dysfunctional
So far from the old ones way
In order to find a way through it now
All of us need to acknowledge the wrongs of the past
To forgive and accept apologies
That are being given at last
But there is something more important
That in order to go forward must be done
We need to proudly accept our Aboriginal origins
And stand together as one.
© 2009 By Stacy-Jane Etal.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:37:31 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Yemaya

If life began
in the blackness
of blue,
then call her:
Mami.

We burst
from her womb,
that groundswell
of eternities.

Crawled
away like crabs
fleshy and raw
beneath homes
anchored to our
hearts and backs.

We journeyed,
up mountains,
through deserts,
but still...

This ache, it echoes—
Mami, Mami, Mami—
beneath our flesh.
Li Yun Alvarado
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:40:04 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

Word love started before kindergarten
Word love animated me, Pooh and Piglet filled me with delight
Word love protected me from a bullying brother.
Word love made mysteries to solve, worlds to conquer
Word love made me a heroine in all my dramas
Word love soothed my spirit, struggling to stand up to
The assault of all the world’s fears.
Sandra J. Robinson
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:40:24 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
origin

It is the nauseated feeling
that stirs with each passing glance
the one that makes blood rush
to the head and flush the face
feet stop dead in their tracks
and eyes become high beams
blasting light around figures
to illuminate like a painting in a gallery

for each pair of hips that swivel past
define another chance at nirvana
each half grin - pouted mouth - pierced gaze
returned, is an affirmation
every incidental brush against shirt
against skin, is a card in the game

this ancient ritual never gets old
never stagnant
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:43:48 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I don't know my origins
but I know that I was born
near a furnace
in a basement without files

I was given to two people
she adoring, he was drunk
when he yelled about my face rash
she feared a torn contract

They raised me like their own then died
And I live with the regret
That I never asked them why they named me
And for this and that I want them back.
Donna LaFlamme
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:45:14 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Spring Melt

I snap at the kids, some enormously irritating infraction:
water pitcher unfilled, a light left burning
in an empty room. My father’s familiar inflection
in my voice; blood rushes my cheeks as it colored his.

My father’s anger is the Red River
oxbow-bending the heart of Fargo: not enough sand
in North Dakota to shore up these banks.
I’ve read beneath the covers after lights out,
his purloined flashlight barely illuminating the words
I need; or taken a third cookie after school,
rearranging the few remaining in the box
to cover my greed. No shelter from the rising furies;
hold my breath till it peaks—
hope against raised fists—
till it breaks and he storms out,
slams me in.

Grandpa was sharp, a well-loved
drunk who supplemented what the store brought in
with late-night poker, fed wife and six kids
till lung cancer took him young. GI bill and
hard-hat summers carried my dad
through grad school, first scientist
in the family. Every August he’d leave the lab,
drive us eight hours north, back to the up-and-down
duplex on the wide, silent upstate street
three blocks uphill from the summer-lazy Mohawk River;
sit quiet-like in the matchbox kitchen with his mom
at dawn while the house slept. A stranger would think
they had nothing to say, so at ease
they didn’t need words.

A half hour after erupting, he pads
up the stairs, knocks softly on my bedroom door, opens it
without permission to ask forgiveness. Won’t leave
till I agree, tantrums if I refuse.

I squelch the urge to demand absolution
from my own kids after my pop-off, suppress
but can’t excise the tumor-bed of anger: family
melt-off. Can’t sandbag enough therapy, meditation,
plain good loving to keep from passing it on.
Just shovel as I can, build up those levies year
by year, a little higher each time the flood waters rise.

Sammy Greenspan
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:47:08 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
How It Begins
by Judy Kneprath
4/1/09

The glance,
Arresting in its uniqueness
The word, tilting out of
The ordinary
The catch of the ear, grasping a sound
Out of the roomful of noises
The one, the something special, out of
The many
Sometimes, no rhyme or reason
For the origins
Of love
But oh
The varieties of its middles
And the pleasures
Of its endings

Judy Kneprath
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:48:02 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Origin of Snow

Black lake.
Shapeless still water except
for the wake
of geese. Out of caves in clouds,
first snow falls,
stellar, rimed, sharp,
on dark feathers.
The birds chariot the snow round the lake.
People 2,000 years ago named
it "sneigwh."

Now geese search for deep water
as ice spreads in from shallows, across a continent
where in English, they say "snow,"
and in German, they say "schnee,"
and in Armenian, they say "nu."

Same sounds murmured
as eastward snow clouds approach.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:48:41 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The origin of me
By
Arrvada

Spawned and spewed in infancy
From birth to now, in mock decency
Brought forth into this world
In a room filled with song and hymn
To a family of religious conformity
False gods called the One
Raised to blend, behave and be
Meek and mild and never wild
I followed slow and patiently
Made myself what they should see
Never released the pent emotions
Save through poem and prose
And dark night dreams
Grew to hate the lie
They made me be
Rebelled at last
Thank god I am free
Follow now the god in me
For all I am
Blessed be
Arrvada
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:49:10 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

I want to tell you something:
evanescent. The corningware tea-kettle is piping
the paper hot off the wall and my mother is a gaslighter.

A rearranger with a harpoon eye that sticks
and sticks and sticks and a mouth
that never quits, never opens without chapping

my cheek. To make poetry out of it has become
an incessant curdle. How facts switch with ease: sex is not really sex.
The loss of a coherent sense of self

means I’m witness to nothing but imagination: the squeaky bed
as car door, a worn down shoe, a bunk floorboard. Maybe
it’s swimmer’s ear coupled with my rotten eyesight.

The kitchen burner clicks like a fast footed high-heel.
Mother’s gaping mouth with saucer and teacup, with
such small spoons. Look, I am vanishing. Chug-chug-chug.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:51:44 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Life

Utter, total darkness, blackest of black,
Mist swirling, rising, falling
The Spirit moving, back and forth, over all,
Searching, seeking, feeling only emptiness.

So the Spirit lifts the mist,
Separates the land from the sky,
The waters separate from the land forming seas, Surrounding a dry, barren ground.

The Spirit, searching, still in utter darkness
Senses no living thing
Vegetation sprouts, trees,
Seed-bearing plants of all kinds.

Tiring of searching in utter darkness
The Spirit makes two lights.
A great light to govern the day,
A lesser light to govern the night.

The Spirit seeks, searches for companionship
Now finds fish and birds and
All manner of life for sea and land
Still, nothing to join His Spirit with.

So God gathers the dust of the land,
Forms a man and
Breathes the breath of life into him
And says, “It is very good.”
Julieann S Powell
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:51:45 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Cyber friendship

A quick reply
to an email on the fly

A short suggestion
on your next direction

An opinion here
a comment there.

A quick question
asking for your suggestion.

A short talk
about your walk

Soon we know more and more
far too much to ignore.

Our topics broaden
and our feelings deepen

Before long our bond is strong

A freindship formed that will be life long!
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:52:31 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
of course, I forgot to add the title of my poem, which is - "Gaslight"
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:53:54 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

Spaniards sold mangoes

and firecrackers each day.

Only memory.
Kevin Olitan
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:53:54 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin Poem Challenge

How It Began
By Cassie Casler

I saw your father
Standing at the Dairy Mart
A Viking of striking good looks.
A full red beard and blond hair.
A body clothed but naked
Beneath my virgin stare.
And that was when I fell
Into the origin of my first love.

I was 18 and naïve
And agonized in the dark
For my sins.
Why did I fall so hard for him?
Why? It was the origin.
You came much later
And were built from love
And now, you too, begin
The dance on your wedding day
With your very own origin.

Cassie Casler
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:54:51 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Music

Love of mother earth granted
The gift from the heavens
Singing winds inspired
Whistling birds and buzzing bees
Whales join the masses
Heard through the ocean breeze
Instruments voices the
Passion within
Harmonious spirits fill halls of hearts
Glorious classical pieces divine
Moves the soul
Feeds the mind
Eclectic vibe
Worldwide subscribed
The beat of every country
Lies within the culture of all
Distinct sound is heard
All throughout the world
Our international language
Closes the barriers
Shared experiences
By all living things
The sound of every creature
Exalting the creator of
Stars and the sky
Given talents to chosen individuals
Freely crooning the lullaby
Of a new day.
Charlene Navoa Lee
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:54:52 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of time

"BOOM!"
God touch a point in the sky and the earth appeared.
"Let's have some fun today my sons" He said, "Let's put some stuff down there"

The angels watched as the mist dissolved and water, land, plants, and man appeared.
Light
dark
Sun
Moon
Stars

Time was born.
Why 24 hours in a day?
Why 365 days in a year?
When I meet God maybe I will ask him.

I have several questions in mind.
Why do some days feel longert that others?
For instance, why is a 12 hours shift at work longer than 12 hours at home?
Why is a week of vacation gone in the blink of an eye, yet pregnancy last a lifetime?
Let's not even talk about labor and the 18 years that it takes to raise a child.

( Here again is the trick of time. Children are born, give you grey hair and they are gone in a blink of an eye!)

Time waits for no man.

King Solomon states that "...time and unforseen occurances befall us all:
But why?
But why?
But why?

"BOOM"
You're gone in the blink of an eye!

4-1-2009
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:57:46 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Nine
Like a fool, I took you.
Hot, sweet, over
I hate you.
Sickness, waiting, pain
It was worth it.
Beautiful New Year
Michelle
Thursday, April 02, 2009 3:59:27 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Jealousy

Love can make us krazy can't it
your here
I'm here
Both faithful to one another
then the eye see things it wants us to see
Why are you looking at her?
Why are you looking at him?
whose looking at who?
I ain't looking
then why the rage?
beacuse I'm being accused
accuused of being something I am not
what is is really?
This rage and anger
why are we fighting
jealousy?
no, fear
fear of what
fear I love you too much
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:00:48 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Soldier (Brother)

He wakes with a pulse so full with fear
He looks at his reflection and realizes death is not near

The sun is still hidden
but his day has begun
as the steady beat of the drums go on

Like the brother he never had
he looks to the weapon resting in his hand
and says in a silent prayer
"I hope I'll never have to use this again"

As his life trickles down
he realizes this must be the end
yet with a last bit of courage
he uses his brother again


When the sun lies down beneath the land
he discovers the soldier lying in the sand
with his brother resting in his hand.

Courtney Miller
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:03:35 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Oak Trees

Oaks, so mighty, from such tiny seeds:
Acorns forgotten among the weeds,
Kissed by sun, and wind, and rain;
Twigs turned, in time, to trunk and grain.
Roots dance deep where Life’s begun;
Elegant crowns reach toward the sun.
Each catkin is hopeful that, indeed,
Squirrels forget which weed hides its seed.
F.L. Topliff
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:03:56 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Sacrifice and Ennui

Cain is more like Mother – envious, restless,
a flattery craver, who never gets enough. But I,
thinks Abel, am good at naming: warm, cold,
sad, yearning, laying plans. Abel has named the
sacred offerings that please parents. Mother hopes
to forestall God’s unforgiving wrath that rises like
lava, licking closed the way to peace. Father
would expunge the sin. Cain’s rotting donations
lack all charm, like the donor, who cannot name his
lack. As Abel arrays fine peaches and potatoes, he
hears a sound of scraping. Unease shades his mood.
He hears Cain say, I’m bored, a new word. Abel
imagines ‘murder’ as the rock comes crashing down.

~~ by JoAnn Anglin
JoAnn Anglin
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:05:08 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins of Memories

Just like the phoenix that
Rises from its ashes
Just like Venus
Was born of the sea
How years of waves
Can turn rock into sand
Everything has a beginning
An origin
Though my memory
Is distorted as spider-webbed mirrors
I stand holding the culprit stone
And examine the pieces which
Reveal fragments of my past
And through my memories are gone
I have mementos
Which are mysteries to me
Where did they come from?
And then I remember...
That I threw the stone
And discovering the origins
Of my mementos
May be more bitter than sweet.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:05:55 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
FELL for it AGAIN

When I get an email from an old and trusted friend,
usually I will read it from beginning to the end.

I trust the things they send me
though I know it's just passed on

From some friend of a friend of a friend of a friend
who lives to heck and gone.

I don't know why it doesn't occur to me
as I read the things they email

That it might possibly not really be true,
that the framework of fact is frail.

I guess I'm just gullible,
one of the poor, hapless dopes;

For whom some intelligent person created
a website known as Snopes.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:06:14 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Insanity...

Within the deep boundaries of a heart
of stone
Like a prison or an asylum
Hollow and cold as hell
this is how she lives her life
to see her is to want her
to want her is to proceed
to proceed is insanity
But to be insane is human
Just as if you were walking through cold halls of an asylum
your footsteps echo as you step lightly on the icy cold floor
this is the feeling she has deep within her entire being
as she walks through the halls called life
Is she insane
or just broken
cracked like the walls of the corridors in the asylum
She is ageless graceful unique
as if someone has painted the perfect portrait of the broken hearted
so to roam the empty halls of the asylum is her destiny
You are no one to her
cause you are like the rest
willing to play
to love her at arms length
or are you
the one who has painted the gray walls of the asylum light blue
did you melt the cold heart of the hollow walls of her soul
were you in
did you get her to respond
will you be the only one who has reached her
or will you be the one to push her further into the dark cold hollows of the asylum
I ask you is this insanity or reality
you decide
is it a waste to want something so bad knowing you will never obtain it
or is this insanity on those who inflict the thought that someday they might get it
To be real is not insane
one must have a heart
to have a heart one must have hope
to have hope
one must have someone to be hopeful about
to have life the asylum must have color, presence and hope
I doubt the tunnels will ever see sunlight
I doubt that she will ever have a heart
sunlight cannot shine where it cant get in
love cannot grow where its never been
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:06:58 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I am having trouble posting. I enter the text of my poem, the code and click on save comment. I have done this three times and still am not able to list my poem. Help!
Cheryl B. Lemine
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:07:17 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
low coolant level

like bare heels on gravel.
being out of practice: superdelicious.

insert, reverse, peach.
i could feel her tits.

late tuesday, the walk-in freezer
at work. drawstrings, hike, squeeze.

lets get out of here i said,
swallowing a mouthful of pornography.

baking hot, radioactive gorgeous.
liquid icing from tangiers to mexicali.

antifreeze. antifreeze. antifreeze.
Poet Lori-ette
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:09:00 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Vengeance

He scurries across the blacktop
Scared little mouse in search of shelter
Dodging hurled insults like bullets
Aimed at his most fragile of parts
Four Eyed–Geek Boy-Monkey Face-Dog Breath
Each word taking away a piece of him slowly
Book worm-Momma’s boy-Retard-Loser
Until he is nothing but rubble
swept into a Monkey-faced pile on the asphalt
Wishing to grow strong one day
Strong enough to smite them all
Make them pay in ways unfathomable to their pea-sized, inbred intellect
One day…
But today he is small, a dust mote, a bird fart
So he sits, and he reads and he waits
All through high school where beautiful,cold-eyed girls wished him dead,
And football players gave him wedgies and shoved him into lockers
He sits, he reads and he waits
Again through college where glassy-eyed girls give him half-stoned stares of disgust
And football players in the secrecy of dorm rooms pay him to do Calculus.
They all work for him now.
Monkey face is now Mogul
And with a flick of a cuff-linked wrist, they are all downsized, laid off, passed over
Loser is now Lover
With an array of long-limbed girls pouting at him over countless dinners that end in breakfast and not much else
He is armored by his possessions – the living and the non -that protect him from the past, transforming him into a Godlike power-force whose day has finally come.
Shauntice Rodriguez
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:09:31 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Your aromatic future history is written,
though kept sealed in the akashic records,
still remaining a faint taunting whiff
of a mystery subconscious to me
now.
I don't know if you will manifest, or on what day,
or what then or how.
Coming through me or gifted to me or both,
origins made of me, from above me or the seas
of mud and sex, of light and dark,
of cumulonimbus, sunshine and rain,
of lotus flowers and pink peonies
and earth and fire and flesh and angel's wings
and every time the way off wild wind sings
I wonder if it's your rebel yell whispered song
brushing my skin
from a yellow spiraled future I imagine
but can't fully fathom or yet begin
because you have not yet originated into form
or ripe fruit or even sprouted seed.
or indeed, perhaps you have in anther dimension
in a creation of symbiosis,
yet still altered by bilocation and separation
and I'm always asking the question of your conception
when will a unity create thee into me
or another she and when might you arrive?
I dive into the depth of my minds eye
as I think that i can smell you in a bouquet of baby's breath
between the fragrant lilies on my nightstand
and blue cornflower fields in the twilight night light
in the palms of my hands.
I wonder what it will feel like the first time you wrap
all your perfect tiny fingers around one of mine,
Just visioning, I know you are all ready to be
the goddesses greatest flawless design.
But when my sweet darling, will you be my manifestation,
my adorations of you are you as natures birth of the divine.
Diana Delaney
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:09:52 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hidden in the shadows
of my basement
lies a leaf

found by a man
I once knew
and loved

handed to me
as he said
to hold dear

so I did
and now it is
held by glass.
Shannon Cameron
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:11:03 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Year One"
by Matt Castaneda

Call it dumb chance or call it fate
This midnight visit to my estate
A bat flew through the open window
Leather wings bound on to a shadow

Beating wings pierce the still of night
Perched on a bust, under moonlight
As if an omen, as if a sign
As if threads of fate began to twine

My calling in it's nocturnal eyes
With this fearsome bat as my disguise
I'll stalk these streets 'til morning's break
To halt and heal my deepest ache
And when my beacon disturbs sky
The city is under my watchful eye

A bat burst through the window glass
Last gift from father, after he'd passed
My parents are dead, no sense in that
From this night forward, I am a bat

Matt Castaneda
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:11:39 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Donny Hathaway

A bouncing baby boy born singing
By three, an old soul bringing gospel
A prodigy in control of the microphone
A young man, heralded a musical genius and
praised a powerful voice delivering liquid soul
laced with emotion deep and love strong
Gradually or suddenly something slithered in like a virus
No one knows why or precisely when it began
When he descended into staccato octaves
into a place or places where he was overtaken by voices
louder than his own
When there were enough things to check off
To give this thing a five syllable name and a two syllable remedy
Multiple hospitalizations, 14 daily pills, and isolation
Did the sound of applause, the piano
and the voices of the closest ones
became deafening whispers or a crescendo
never reaching their full height
Was he being chased or was he chasing something
through an open window high up in Essex Hotel that
landed him in a pool of quiet leaving music behind?

Tracy Chiles McGhee
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:12:15 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Black Tulip Hour

When time and thyme--equally concrete
or abstract might flavor or exact
the same rhyme from life to recipe
The nun warns:the sin thought
the deed wrought and you,
you were such a beautiful poem
before I wrote you,such a gorgeous dress
hanging in the closet where some nights
I dream fantastic fabric, bicycling birds,
seahorse florals even that tulip: midnight
satin, not the maroon lanterning
off the queen of the night varietal
but Dumas-dark and holding

Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:14:32 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Morning played out in tones of gray,
clouds strummed the skies
back and forth across its muted rays;
trees bent low, begged for spring’s embrace
even with its showers and fickle winds;
dancing winter’s dirge with shadows cast
impatient for sultry days,
where memories turn upside down
and oceans drunk on fairy tales
swallowed along life’s shores;

Here the old return,
fill pails with silent tears;
remember May’s first dance
nights shadowed by summer’s bloom,
children just beginning
what seems a thousand days,
innocence granted its season in the sun.

Morning played out in tones of gray,
clouds strummed skies
back and forth across the muted rays;
followed the Maestro's Hands;
“Circle of Life“, the symphony’s song
skipping along shores,
over and over again.
CARLA PROCIDA
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:14:37 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Questions"
When did this begin? Did God choose me before the fall?
Where will it end? Will I do anything right at all?
I say I believe. Does this mean I'll never doubt?
He didn't say it'd be easy, but his grace keeps us from falling out.
Do the little things matter? Are they worth the quarrel?
Perhaps we shouldn't be particular, just show his love to the world.
Allie B.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:17:28 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Spinster thoughts weaving daggers in my mind
Steep wells combing my entrails with grace and swiftness
The likes of which gods could not induce.

Drifting and listless limbs lie still
Timing their kind with beats of otherworlds
Lone and forgotten gossamer and ephemeral.

Would the writhing womb wormed and flooded
Bring forth firstfruits fetid and furiously wrought?

Or in the stark blank sun shrivel crying shrilly:
“My Maker’s mark! My Maker’s mark!”

Talismans and incantations wryly pry me, ply me.
I live.
Nicole D. Gadbois
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:17:28 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Your 1st Christmas

You came to me
Terror in a tiny fur ball
Eyes wide
Hunger in every step, each sniff.

Would you have entered
My yard, walls on all sides,
if your pangs were not greater
than the fear inside you?

Ear ragged, bleeding, raw in its pain,
Stark reality hitting home
that your Mama was gone
and competition now ruled your world.

I trapped you for your own good,
you know, and you re-paid me,
as you climbed the brick wall to retreat,
ripping into me, blood dripping from my hands.

Christmas day, a present under my tree.
A tiny, scared creature, more claws than meow.
Caged, for now, but not for long.
Welcome to my world - where love overrules fear.


G.M. Smith
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:18:24 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Cinderella and Casey

Cinderella believed in lifelong laughter,
And knew nothing of ever after.
Not happy and gleeful or otherwise,
She was naïve and not mother- wise.

As every child has a mother, so did the Prince,
This mother was cruel, and ugly, and made maids wince.
Once upon a time she was young and fair,
But youth is gone, as well as her colorful hair.

She was named Casey, queen of all
She managed the castle, and designed the ball.
Never thinking of her future as mother in law,
No woman was good, as far as she saw.

So when the Prince got married,
Lots of resentment she carried.
Cinderella was always sooty and poor,
Casey hated her, and called her a whore.

The Prince, too in love to allow this,
Or to notice that something was amiss.
A prenup arrived, long and bare.
To be signed by husband and wife with care.

Cinderella was quiet, with hurt and betrayal,
Prince Charming tore it, and threw it in the pail.
Casey came by, stern and bold,
Her responses came out, curt and cold.

Her consent not given, if no prenup signed,
Both Prince and Cinderella felt resigned.
Secretly, a plan began to form,
A new prenup written, not of the norm.

One that spoke of love and trust,
No money or heirs to be discussed.
Written lengthy and wordy, no one would assume
This was not the real prenup, only a costume.

Casey found out, as time would have it,
Not to be outdone, she bought the lavish.
All money to be spent, no treasure left,
Son and wife to be left bereft.

The King found out, finally his role to be played,
The money returned, all debts repaid.
Casey was scorned, Cinderella she blamed,
For this she’d somehow have to be framed.

Cinderella and Prince, desperate for baby,
Kept having sex, and hoped for maybe.
Prenatal vitamins, a new breakfast fave,
The scene of revenge Casey so desperately craved.

Vitamins for contraceptive, an unlikely twist,
Something a naïve girl would surely miss.
No baby for years, no heir to come,
Cinderella became desperate, worried and dumb.

To Casey she went, a bargaining plea,
“Tell me how to get pregnant, make me like thee!”
For Casey 10 children had come and gone,
No muss, no fuss, and had not taken this long.

Casey told Cinderella, “Allow the Prince to stray!”
Something to break this marriage, clear as day.
Cinderella reported to the Prince this new plan,
But loving his wife too much, this he banned.

The Prince took the vitamins to a doctor he knew,
Who told him they’d never turn the stick blue.
All pills down the drain, quick as can be,
Cinderella was pregnant, with a Prince baby.

Mom and Dad and baby make three,
No need for a queen in this family.
The King, who had strayed for years,
Said the word “Divorce!” to a wife full of tears.

Bouncing babies now fill the manor,
For the King’s attention they all clamor.
Cinderella and Prince, never again dare utter
“Happily ever after” for fear of his mother.

A lesson learned, of trust in disguise,
The phrase “keep your enemies close” Cinderella does despise.
Mother- in- laws may turn out nice, but be sure to halt,
Take kindness and gestures at first with grains of salt.
Angie D.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:18:56 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My Child

There was a holy moment before conception
A sacred silence

Before your cells began their explosive division
Their frantic dance of life

Before the formation of your embryonic structures
Before the umbilical cord, blood, and brain

Before your synaptic connections fired their microscopic stars into the universe

Before the whoosh-whoosh of your heart beat

Before the wrestle and toss in your mother's womb

Before your fingerprints and eyelashes

Long before your first scream and breath

There was a moment when your spirit made a decision
And readied itself

That is when I fell in love with you
Tom Smith
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:20:41 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Things in the Dark

Your footfall licks open the room’s silence.
I watch shadows of the dogwood tree
keep perfectly still under your boots.

I close my eyes and feign sleep
as you walk towards the bed.
The cliché can have its way.

I am under the comforter you
had to have with the gray
and white triangles; under

your moon, tucked away
like the 5th season
that never rose to be had.

You touch my face like your fingers
have no secrets from my skin,
as if they don’t hum to rivals:

"we will teach and be gurus"
Wet slips from the side of my mouth.
Think it got lost on its way

up to my eyes. A goodbye speech
slides up and down my throat.
It is a blade being sharpened.
Yoly
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:22:02 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My Sin is Aboriginal
So I sense the mood
Walk the walk
Listen to currents
And whisper tragic love
To those around
Of course
Cells divide into loneliness
I wander out further
To the edge of my ceiling
Raking threads of dried pleasure
Into piles of conceit

R.S.White


Rebekka White
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:22:06 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Sleeping Baby

A baby cries.
Dad enters.
Feeble, gorgeous human in jammies,
keep little memories now.
Open possibilities quietly rocked.
"Sleepy time, understand?"
Velvet waves exude your Zzzz's.
Alyssa Poinan
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:22:46 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"I Hate Angelina Jolie"

Not in the beginning. Not when
she was Frenching her brother and
fucking Billy Bob in the back of the limo and
bragging about her knife-play in bed.
(Did you see Girl, Interrupted?)
Not when girlfriend had a girlfriend
before she married that guy from Hackers
wearing a t-shirt (bridal white)
his name on the back in her blood. I had high hopes for
that Angelina
in a post-feminist world. (Madonna’s shtick was getting old.)
Not when she scored the Cambodian kid (Laura Croft:
Tomb Raider—did you see it?) or stole People’s
Sexiest Man Alive. Scooped Pitt up
like an after-dinner mint.
But:
That’s where my beef begins.
"The love of a good man changed my life"?
No coke boogers for the Santa Angelina,
so dubbed by Perez. No humiliating
cum dots. Tamed by the uterus! Hilton uses his
doodle pen to
crown her with a halo. (Did you see
The Changeling?
Me, neither.)
"Brad has been the best of fathers!I love being
pregnant! Makes me feel all the things about my body
are suddenly there for a reason." All that edge—
blood vials, sex dungeons—
Angie’s Daddy issues. Epic fail in the resolution of
her Electra complex.
Get that bitch on Dr. Phil. I want my cutter back.
Padgett Posey
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:23:52 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
One day
you turn around
and see her
hulking, overbearing.
She pays no attention
to you
as she pushes forward,
crushing those things
that you loved.
And yet until today,
you hardly noticed her,
passed over her
like a problem solved.
Where did she come from?
now unleashed
with tempers flowing
a torrent
to be dealt with;
her tributaries swollen
proud and angry.
The Red River
marches northward.

Ryan C. Christiansen
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:24:15 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
She was late and I decided
to pull out my notebook,
detail every nugget of our
conversations leading up to
this meeting.

She was late,
and my cappuccino was getting
cold, the Rio Grande Mud Pie
disappeared into my belly
mixing with the butterflies
churning my emotions and now what?

Out of the corner of my eye
I catch her faintly smiling at me
between sips. My pen is
cooperating. Words traverse
the connection between my
out-of-nowhere and finger tips.

She’s still smiling. I smile back.
Nothing more than a smile. She rises,
making her way toward my table. I turn
back to my notebook. As I finish
the last line with a period,

she utters

“Are you Sal?”
She already knew the answer.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:27:35 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April Fool’s Day

Jokes and hoaxes are here
April first every year.
On a Fool’s Errand send a friend,
Do what you can to embarrass him.

When did it start? Nobody knows
But through time, here it goes:

Noah of the Ark, released a raven too,
It came back – April Fool.

Spaghetti trees in Switzerland abound,
Look all you want – they can’t be found!

Left-handed Whoppers? Ask for one,
Oh Burger King says they have some.

The Taco Liberty Bell you can see-
Ringing on April 1, in the Land of the Free.

Water on Mars?
Candy bar under a glass!

All are April Fool hoaxes from the past.
Nedrajean
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:28:02 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Robert, bless your heart. I have no idea how you can weed through all of these!

The comments below are based upon the many poems I read this morning. One thing I know is it is sometimes easier to know a good poem than to write one. Some days the prompt helps me write almost automatically. Other days like today, I simply put words to paper.

N. D. Smith: Good description of a child's emotional response to a "time out." At first I thought it was truly a sinister situation

David Blair: excellent description of blind ambition and greed

Amel: I haven't yet figured it out, but your poem is well done, inviting me to read it over and over.

Margot Suydan: excellent descriptions

Brenna Ehrich: intriguing

Jill V Woodword: well done; I can see it all.

Marie Elera: funny

Carrie Anne: Excellent use of your own writer's block

Juli: a creative way to look at the fall

Andi: well done

Elsie: well expressed

Orphan Verse

What is the origin of origami?
Why are oranges called oranges
when lemons are not named yellows?
Does the orangutan twirl
round and round when he feels joy?

Can an ordinary poem
be organized in an
extraordinary fashion?

Can order or alliteration
belie lack of original thought?
or should the uninspired poet
put such fluff
in a pile of orphan verse?
Sheryl Kay Oder
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:28:29 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Step 1

Standing in the rain
on a crickety saltwater dock
I push you off in the life raft,
and stand screaming
silent against the night,
where prayer's supplanted
by the wild claw
of detox.
Steve King
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:28:56 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of Peace

I come from green.
From the ancient; rocks stacked
in places quiet and still,
sheep graced hillsides;
floating, hovering.

Green. Hills with heather growing
prepare peace, prepare air.
This is where I breathed my first
heather and peat-moss and stone.

The hills rebirth, repeat contentment.
Salt air refined by green
permeates, infiltrates, saturates;
where peace grows wild
Urgently
Falling into the sea.
Marcia Gaye
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:29:04 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Birth of the Mullet

Oh yeah I’m tired of that slicked back hi-top
fro-go hair, no, don’t let it all hang out
‘cause I need a job and the man don’t
go for no hair down to here
when a girl does it better so

do something man, I mean
business. Make me the best of both,
the best man, a real man. I’ve got
muscles fighting muscles and a serious
tan, but I’ve got to keep my cool

so give me something fresh something
to take me from the buttoned-up days to
the party-down nights ‘cause I’m man
enough for both worlds and I want it all.
Damn that looks good. Take a look, sugar.

Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:29:29 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
NECROPHOBIA



It didn't begin with the boy down the street getting hit
by a blue sedan.
It didn't begin with the assassination attempt.
It didn't begin with the first fish she caught and scaled.
It didn't begin with the fall from the wall and the
ambulance ride.
It didn't begin with the sick smell of the retirement home.
It didn't begin with the writing of the suicide note.
It didn't begin with the reading of her father's will.
It didn't begin with the revision of the suicide note.
It didn't begin with the first biopsy. Or the second biopsy.

It began as she held the small dog in her arms, both crying
like babies but only one of them knowing this is as close as she will come to having a child; both of them trembling together but only one knowing in the morning she'd be still and alone.; probably both wanting it to end but only
one knowing that this was the end. That's when it began:
the first time she thought, my god, this is something
I can't control.
Christine Brandel
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:30:05 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“An Empty Page”

A blank page lies before
Like a seed,
An open door.

I fall within
The world of white,
There I begin
To write:

An open world
Lies before me
All possibility,
Sets my mind free.

A lustrous dragon
Lies in wait,
He curls his claws
He conquers fate.

His emerald scales
Shimmer gossamer gold,
Not a single tale
Is he not told.

A knight goes forth
To find his courage.
He sets North
As dragon lurage.

The lofty lizard
Glides through the air,
A journey delivered
The knight's trusty mare.

The two will battle
For their own heart's lust;
The dragon pride,
And the knightly just.

Water-lilies will whirl
About
Perhaps a girl
Has sought them out.
But alas! time runs out!
I'll start again
When the sun will wake,
Or else I'll write on 'til ‘tis morning's brake.



















Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:30:15 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Love Song"

From heart ache to heart break
Her vocal cords were strung,
From all her pain to all her gain
A new song is begun.
Ebony Haywood
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:30:41 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Battle for the Body”

It began a simple cough-
miniscule and trite
in comparison.

A sneeze coupled
with a sniffle
almost as if for show.

A bottle of OJ,
complimented by Sudafed,
ready for “battle royale.”

An explosion ensues:
an expectorating glop
crawling up my throat.

I’ve lost the fight,
and languidly give over
my body to the cold.
John Pupo
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:31:00 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Like Father like Son


I gaze into my father's newborn eyes
and once again can see a grand design.





Tanya Leiner
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:32:27 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
i am lost
inspired by a woman posting a missing pet poster

exhibit a: this poster
with the heading — “missing” –
in black marker, desperation in all caps
– “PLEASE call if found.” a photo of me
with my head tilted to the side.
physical description: red collar,
floppy ears, brown spots, friendly.

exhibit b: this footprint
and that one right next to it.
i’m going in circles. i’ve been at the base
of this giant oak twice already.

exhibit c: the gas station
on the corner, its stern attendant.
she won’t give me the key
to the ladies room anymore,
says she knows i’m washing up
in there every morning.

exhibit d: the man in the woods
from whom i try to hide
my panic. he watches me
come and go, asks if i need
drugs, tells me he’ll get me some
if i watch him jerk off.

exhibit e: what i can’t hear
from here — moving water.

exhibit f: a green sign
that says, “leaving city limits.”
i thought i was heading to
the heart of it.

exhibit g: the phone book
has no listings for my last
name (my husband’s) or my
maiden name (my father’s).
the sections for each of those
letters has never existed.

exhibit h: this message
– push play. listen. –
it’s my mother’s voice:
“where are you?
i haven’t heard from you.”

exhibit i: the missing poster
again. try to explain to someone
on the street, “this is me.”
they say, “no, it’s not.” argue.
they say again, “it’s not you,”
show me my reflection in a store front.
they are right. it’s not me.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:33:26 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Is it safe to post our poems on here without them being stolen?
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:34:36 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
wow!

This poem began

a little past two, when a coffee spoon idea popped up
between upstate New York and my trolling caffeine simian.

Anxious to fill the cloth, I stood in the shower measuring
what words could take hot water without falling into Jersey.

Walls, I build walls so high, there really is no getting over
a single one of them. I can’t seem to conjure anymore.

The patience of the past the poet said but didn’t finish
groans under us. Don’t be alarmed, it’s only cliches turning

memory- the most holey of all wisdom, who gets its freak
on we, the star-trusting toddlers who only invoke our age

to kindle the sum of all knowledge, our birthright, to riot,
destroy all that came before and with a BOOM, we are heros.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:36:12 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of a Friendship

Seeing
Meeting
Speaking
Smiling
Recall fondly, seeing, meeting you,
and as we stood speaking, smiling, a seed of friendship grew.

Sara McNulty
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:37:43 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
ORIGIN POEM: A New Word

So long to stress!

When we're in a tizzy.
When we're in a fuss.
My sister has a special word
To help the both of us.

"Chillax," she says so simply.
"Chillax," she says with glee.
"Don't let life's little details
Get in the way, you see."

"Come and you can chill with me,
relax a little, too.
Don't let life's little details
Get the best of you."

Take the words relax and chill.
Then squish them both together.
Poof! You've got a funny word
to help you feel lots better!

So,
Chillax when you are happy.
Chillax when you are sad.
Don't forget your magic word.
CHILLAX! You'll be so glad!
Cheryl B. Lemine
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:39:21 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
One Plus One Makes Three



Mixer: Ovum, Spermatozoa meet and greet, shake
hands, then separate like yolk and white, flight


to opposite sides of the room. Wallflowers
flounce. Nuns and priests turn the volume up


till the whole house is rocking—floorboards
vibrate so hard, Ovum shimmers and shakes


despite her best intentions, rolls downhill
with the slant of the floor. Spermatozoa takes


his time, coated in a slick of slime, and heads
her out the door. They get busy in the back seat.
Julie Mahfood
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:40:09 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Mendel's Peas

How quickly Mendel bred his peas,
how like a monk,
in the confines of an abbey,
to create such strains,
yellow or green,
round or wrinkly,
nothing in between,
each egg and sperm
carrying its own allele,
deposited tidily,
in cloistered boxes
not free to propagate,
but anthers castrated,
pollen dusted fastidiously
by Mendel’s own hand
without taint or stain,
and how docile those peas,
unlike his hybrid honeybees,
who had their own ideas.

Barbara Westwood Diehl
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:41:01 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
nightlight

I have found a new way
but that’s all I can say. You see,
the daylight side of me
can only come to be from night,
the long hours of fright
that hide beneath the light. Spinning
as sure as time’s killing
may keep me from winning, I ride
calmly darkness’ tide
leaving my mind to glide through mean
kisses, guitars so clean,
and scenes more than once seen. I work,
too, perhaps my best quirk,
‘til the stab of the fork sets in;
drawing thoughts from my bin,
trying to fix my grin, you see.

--starky morillo
Starky Morillo
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:41:35 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Flint rock etched onto a cave canvas
Yesterday's hunt gloriously depicted
The feather of the fowl left on an estuary
becomes embalmed in ink and unifies with parchment
In a reservoir filled with blue
a single click exposes its mark
Inspiration is bled
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:42:29 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Plan


In a momemt that was not,
eternity screamed from a single dot.
searing light in troubled thought,
a hand,
...Creation

Moments not as they seem,
silence in a broken dream,
eyes opening to color born
out of darkness,
...form

Breathless lips
aware, now open,
gasp,
a lung is full,
...air

Dry to formless
ferminent lay
from tears beyond
salty rivers bound,
...the Sea

A tree whose fruit
gave living seed,
Green plants to
fill the hungerer's need,
...Food


First behemoth
to rule the sky,
fusions grand explosion
drives the night away
...Sun

Cold the vast and endless night,
silver sheds it shimmering light,
round; to half,harvest seasons then,
reflect the sun into the night
...Moon

Beneath the cool and deeping tide,
then in the air new wings spread wide,
filling places above the sky,
they swam and flew new journey there
The fises and the birds declare
...Life

Hoof and claw began to make
this place their own as young
proclaim the land their home,
Herds and gaggles each
assert their space, leaving
their mark upon the ground
...with each their kind

Then God
begat in likeness of his own,
a man who feared to be alone,
a friend from mans own flesh was torn,
first day, new morn,
He and She arise and eat
...The Fruit

When perfect was the balance then,
and toil in day had come to end,
universial timeings, clock tic began,
and with each day, hourglass and grains of sand
...Time

Creations plan













Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:42:37 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Ode to a Little Green Lizard

I’ve caught you in my lens, friend.
You’re paused, midstride, soaking up
warmth from the stone path as I soak up
you, green and scaly, unlike anything
I’ve known back home. I wonder
how many fences you’ve scaled,
how many visitors you’ve started in this
sculpture garden. You’ve startled me and
I’m beginning to think about what you’ve
seen, how long you’ve scuttled through
New Orleans. Your skin is dry, ancient.
Your eyes, bright and wise. You, little
companion, have observed great things,
rehabitation, regermination, the origins
of City Park in the twenty-first century.
You’re older than me, and so significant.
Tell me, green friend, when did it begin?
Did it feel like an end? How can I begin
to tell one from another, anyway?
It’s all the same—We’re all the same
it seems, but some of us have better
camouflage. Oh lizard, I’m not done
speaking, I still don’t fully understand,
but you’ve ran—scurried off into the bushes
leaving me alone and wondering,
on the path.
Stacey B
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:43:32 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Model

I murmur a thought.
My mind unhinges
In scribbled excitement.
Designs slowly envelope
A Fluttering concept.
Electricity toggles my
Fingertips,
As a singular shape
Takes form.
I can see the idea,
Through the grid and
Static in the distance,
For I am unsure.
The shape is vague.
Lines overlapping
Lines
On top of color.
I make love
To the solid form;
Cautiously.
I move and adjust and
Delete.
The solid form
Becomes the thought.
I whisper with electricity,
As the concept
Flutters with life.
Cam Spurlock
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:44:03 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Where My De-sire Begins

I want to meet the man who is his own
root goes deeper than the horsetail
dragged up from Pleistocene
& still couldn't see the end
I could love him & be wrapped
in needles, broader leaves
pulled into richest layers of Earth
before I pull him back into air
(or all that I can see
of him, a rhizome
I know will never rape

but swallow all the land
that's another thing
not to be avoided
(o let him share w/ me
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:46:48 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Road Knows Her Footsteps

Night after night, she returns to the
dreary old building.
Walking on a familiar road,
Sometimes singing softly
Sometimes wiping tears that
streak down her face.
Sometimes speaking words that no one hears.

Walking on a familiar road,
Pausing, as if to salute an oak tree
for its grandeur and strength.
The road knows her footsteps.
The air is crisp and she draws her jacket
in tightly.

Walking beyond…beyond and now the road slopes.
She can still return, but doesn’t.
The familiar road is disappearing with each step.
She turns and glances at the dreary old building.
The weathered brick disappears into the darkened sky.
It’s windows of light appear like ghosts.

Even the unfamiliar road seems to know her footsteps.
She sees the dawn of a new day.

Tally Hall tallyhall55 gmailAT dot com
Tally Hall
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:46:48 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

When I Discovered Rock and Roll

It started with a second-hand
blue Woolworth record player
and a stack of borrowed 45s

Freddy Cannon sings "Palisade's Park"
Everly Brothers harmonize "Bird Dog"
And Johnny Rivers covers "Seventh Son"

Then I ventured into my sister's room
To liberate Cream's "Disraeli Gears"
and The Beatles' "White Album"

The Doors,
Lovin' Spoonful, Janis
and Jimi quickly followed

And so began my
secret life as a
third-grade rocker
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:47:51 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Flare

Someone has left a flare still winking
red-bright in the left hand lane
just north of Hamilton,
punctuated the smooth ride home
with this homage to fast-rushing blood,
elevated pressure, nervousness,
catharsis, solution, effort, sweat.
We steer around it's dualness--two
strands spitting evidence, combustible--
think of stars winking in distant black,
obscured by clouds,
the brightness of each wink,
faded white by all this distance between us.
In the fade so many moments, catalytic,
instant, sudden, loud long after
fire met fuel, fuel met action,
light met finite space
then burned its language--warm, hot,
quick into our vision.
Here or there, no matter.
Each one bright, unowned.
Relative.
Punctuation.
Rose M Smith
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:48:29 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Index finger stops,
Eyes scan, checking for mistakes.
(Should I hit delete?)
Cristina Rosales
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:49:04 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Reaper


It was early morning,
the beginning of spring, a white sun,
and I was the only one in my garden

to notice the rose-bud taking birth
on the bending stem.
I could not touch the bud

of the plant I'd bought two years ago,
the thorns overpowering my fingers,
and the stem bowing towards the earth below.

The birth of petals in the dead plant will
never find a way to die,
I thought, as I left the garden by the east

and walked into my house
returning to the kitchen
where the bell pepper on the counter

was like a beautiful rose
in full bloom
how red the petals and green the thorns.





Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:49:36 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Sleep Cycle

Fold up.
Tumble out.
You are laundry.
You just won’t dry.
Sleep-soaked.
Soapy still.
Stained.
Wring it out.
Stop wrinkling.
You have things to do.
You’re clean enough.
Good morning.
Now move.
Sarah Strickler
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:51:04 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
*Sorry for the repost--here's hoping the computer doesn't alter the line breaks this time*

NECROPHOBIA

It didn't begin with the boy down the street getting hit
by a blue sedan.
It didn't begin with the assassination attempt.
It didn't begin with the first fish she caught and scaled.
It didn't begin with the fall from the wall and
the ambulance ride.
It didn't begin with the sick smell of the retirement home.
It didn't begin with the writing of the suicide note.
It didn't begin with the reading of her father's will.
It didn't begin with the revision of the suicide note.
It didn't begin with the first biopsy. Or the second biopsy.

It began as she held the small dog in her arms, both crying
like babies but only one of them knowing this is as close
as she will come to having a child; both of them trembling
together but only one knowing in the morning she'd be still
and alone; probably both wanting it to end but only
one knowing that this was the end. That's when it began:
the first time she thought, my god, this is something
I can't control.
Christine Brandel
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:51:27 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Goose Goose Duck

Years later, they couldn't remember
if it had started over scallion pancakes
and plum wine at Moon Palace
or pan-frying haloumi at 2 a.m.
in her best friend's kitchenette
or ramekins of pickled garlic
on his father's back porch
the day before Rosh Hashanah.
They'd been arguing, as usual,
about the chicken and the egg,
the rain and the sea,
the ball and the bat,
stars and wishes,
festivals and religions, and on
and on, but they always returned
to chickens and eggs and falling skies
and roads that _were_ taken --
and before they knew it, it had become
how they knew each other. IMs began
with "goose goose duck" and
"grace of full, mary hail" and
"ye afore Scotland" and even
"bark wandering." His dying
made widows of the questions he liked to answer
and stranded the answers she liked to question.
Before the undertaker arrived, she leaned
close to his lips, as if she could hear
a phantom punchline within the absence of air,
and then she whispered, "Who's there? Knock, knock."

Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:51:49 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Michelle McEwen -- I really enjoyed your poem

Lanette Cadle -- loved it!

Diana
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:51:53 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
First a glance
Then a stare
He looks at me
I’m unaware

Then I look
Slyly, fast
He looks back
And it lasts

He takes my hand
And I take his
What a rush!
This romance, this..



I wait and wait
He never comes home
It’s over now
I’m all alone.
kathryn frey
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:53:52 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
We believe.
Faith, entwined in science and philosophy
Origins ignorant of continent, race or color.

Early man discovers faith in simplicity,
in finding basic food and shelter.
He rejoices as the sun rises another day.

Faith has evolved with us.
We find it, we recognize it, we celebrate it.

At Stonehenge, entrenched in ritual,
carved deep in cold, stone caves
and painted in hieroglyphics on pyramid walls.
middle eastern idols, golden charms and offerings,
native peoples with their chants and offerings
o great spirit, hear our call

Yes, the Christianss in their cavernous cathedrals
praying in mournful unison
studying the meditations, the holy Bible a
yellow brick road to divine righteousness.
Open to interpretation, yet grounded in faith.

Even the atheists lose the fight
for who among us can't believe in life?
From the simplest cell and our divisions,
proof of the miraculous in
the crowning head of the infant emerging
to our final rattle when death calls us onward.

We exist.

The journey is perpetual
the next life, whether heaven or purgatory,
or rebirth in our return to soil.

Faith is found,
hovering in torrents from angry skies,
cascading in eruptions of molten lava
or waving in fields of brilliant green grasses.

Dwelling within,
the essence of humanity, our persistent struggle
good vs. evil
love becoming hate, becoming love again.

Strength in family
in believing in each other.
Reliance on politicians,
protecting our interests,
exchanging our ideas and goals
creating hope

Faith
like a shadow
always there
brother, sister, friend or foe

We have to believe
Denise Noddin
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:54:06 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Florida

I recall bright navel oranges.
A small window
looked out on me
then 7-years-old
watched by an 18-year-old man
who bobbed up and down
breathless in his bedroom
as I climbed trees,
picked juicy fruit,
while larger hands
unseen by me,
curled against his flesh,
impatient.

Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:54:09 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
January fades into the yearly flow and ebB
Eggs lay shattered for a life to livE
Sunrise lasts just minutes to make way for morninG
Ultimately, inspiration dies to the ideA
Sacrifice is key for change to begiN

Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:56:25 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Florida

I recall bright navel oranges.
A small window
looked out on me
then 7-years-old
watched by an 18-year-old man
who bobbed up and down
breathless in his bedroom
as I climbed trees,
picked juicy fruit,
while larger hands
unseen by me,
curled against his flesh,
impatient.

Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:57:19 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"BOOM"
God touched a point in space and the earth appeared.

"Let's have some fun today my sone", He said "Let's put some stuff down there."

The angles watched as the mist dissolved and water, plants, land, and man appeared.

LIght
Dark
Sun
MOon
Stars
Time was born.
Why 24 hours in a day?
why 365 days in a year?
When I meet God maybe I will ask him.

I have several questions in mind.
Why do some days feel longer than others?
Why is 12 hours at work longer than 12 hours at home.
A week of vacation is gone in the blink of an eye, yet pregnancy last a lifetime.
Let's not talk about labor and the 18 years it takes to raise a child. ( Here is another trick of time)
The child is born, gives your grey hair and is gone, in the blink of an eye!

Time waits for no man...
King Solomon wrote that "...time and unforseen occurances befall us all."
But why?
But why?
But why?

"BOOM"
You're gone in a blink of an eye!
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:57:51 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I don't know their origins with certainty, but I suspect
the roses in pots in my backyard
take their pedigree from the famous rose garden
in Balboa Park. My grampa tended that garden for the city,
and as he grew all sorts of things with cuttings, seeds,
and grafts
it stands to reason that he brought home plants from work,
or at least brought home their offspring.

The roses are an analogue for me. While I know my
paternal family tree
as far back as Virginia in 1790, and a man named
Peter Weller
(who, we think, came across the Atlantic),
my gramma and grampa adopted my mom
from a divorcee
in North Carolina in 1955.
We only know my mother's mother's name, and that
her marriage
failed, and that my mother had two siblings.

Yes, it would be nice to know exactly who my mother's
mother's
mother was, but I'm not sure I would be any happier
than I would be with the roses if I knew for certain
that they came from this stock or that.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:58:48 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin

The night we were born,
The pain shot straight through,
Bottom to top and back down again.
Fast as lightning strike,
Sure as tick-ticking.

Pressure squeezed tight,
Pushed and molded,
Our muscles gone taut,
The countdown began.

Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
From inside
We chanted our name.

Seven.
Six.
Five.
Falling, falling, silken and slippery
The ground rose up to meet us.

Four.
Three.
Two.
The world blazed white.

One.
We were one.

The pain fell away
As our cries
Filled the room
With life.

Amy
Thursday, April 02, 2009 4:59:31 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of Feeling

The flutter of feeling
deep down inside her,
that tingle that made her heart skip,
that jolt that made her breath catch,
started where, she wondered
with a glance?
that slightly too long look into someone’s eye
that allows you to see past their mask
and into who and what they are.
with a scent?
that hint of fragrance that catches you off guard
and reminds you of
apples in the fall
or
hot sweaty sex
or
spring flowers.
with a caress?
that glides across your skin
making each hair stand on end
each nerve ending anticipate its turn
to be touched.
with a sigh?
that gentle sound that escapes and lets you hear
their impatience
their desire
their subtle call.
with a taste?
that makes you want to drink them in,
the salt on their neck,
sugar on their lips,
you on the tip of their tongue.
where did it start?
maybe, she thought, it started with a little bit of each of them…
Suzanne Ritchie
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:00:02 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Mestizaje

Born to the New World Venus de Milo
Woman with skin deepened brown like earth shed from drought
she, the lover of the rain god's reincarnation merged
with Mars
and his demonic love of war,
allowing the crimson fluid of red blood to caress the earth,
seep into its seams.
The continental drift seperated the White Man and Brown Woman
the armored conquistador and the Aztec Eve
the yang and yin
once again finding themselves reunited in each others arms
as the pyramids breathed out their last life sighs
as swards sunk into the adobe flesh of a people deemed unholy
as the human epitome of la frontera, racial confusion, mestizaje was conceived
Cami
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:00:50 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Unexpected Origin

First time we met, at a party neither
of us planned to attend, we talked
nonstop five hours about books, music,
family, hopes, fears, hopes, life, death.

First time we met I was happily married,
weeks away from my second pregnancy,
deep in motherhood, grad school. You lived
with your Golden Retriever, worked, hiked, read.

First time we met I confided in a mutual friend
you were someone I could have married.
The day of my husband's funeral, our friend
shocked herself, told me you were still single.

First time we met, I didn't believe in fate,
destiny, soul mates. Twenty eight years
later, I nuzzle your familiar neck, thankful
mystery unfolds independent of belief.

Victoria Sullivan Hendricks, April 1, 2009

Victoria Hendricks
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:01:23 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Jane Eyre's birthday

A lonely governess
plain as pencil
imagines a lonely governess
scribbling
to a man who can't see her
a cruel fortune teller
on a dark horse
hiding his jealous wife
that disembodied laugh
rising in a column of fire

Denise P.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:02:45 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Whatever happened then, in the beginning,
Goes begging now for sense.
No recompense for knowing now
The wayward way of things,
The steady forward
Jostled and nudged along the path,
Like a deeper breath wobbling
The blue surprise of a red balloon
Floating up, and out,
But never back,
Until the final settling down
Where it all began.

Boyce Miller
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:02:52 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins: Animal, Mineral, Vegetable
(Enneagram Type #4: The Romantic)

Where do they come from, within the particle and wave of me,
all these feelings imagined, ideas felt --
strands unraveling codon by codon from and into
the loving hands that held me.

No answer can signify in the present,
help me not snap at the kids or overcome any day’s anxiety.
But I embark upon the journey of asking like a sequence of games,
from charades to hide and seek or sardines,
one looking for many scattered selves, or joining a group,
all squashed into my mother’s broom closet.

So many ways to play;
today a road trip back to childhood’s endless miles
of Twenty Questions: animal, mineral or vegetable?
At heart, at the core, at root, who am I?

Animal. At heart, seeking intensity, certain,
with each contraction that the rhythms of life
must sometime falter;
systole cannot follow diastole so easily, for so long – can it?
What cardio-electrical voodoo, what drama
must I enact to keep it all flowing?
In the rhythm of daily living with people we love,
why can’t our hearts be always gladdening,
the honeysuckle on the vine bearing forever
its one sweet drop?

Mineral. The Enneagram says I lost sight of the essential truth
that we are all connected, and came to believe that connections would be broken.
Floating above the molten center, great tectonic plates
of trust and love collided and thrust upward
the Blue Ridge of my defenses, eroded to silt in the rivers of my days,
as I sift it for the native garnet and blue quartz.

Vegetable. Above the volcanic , metamorphic planet, tuber, rhizome,
Fibrous, and tap roots wait for the signals of spring.
They are saving up for hard times, spreading out to form community,
holding fast, and going deep.
All the types of root tell of different strategies:
the corm of the crocus, the garlic bulb, and the strange legumes,
with their colonizing, endosymbiotic bacteria, fixing nitrogen
the way a lover fosters connection and laughter,
sending out runners, and making fairy rings.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:03:03 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Florida

I recall bright navel oranges.
A small window
looked out on me
then 7-years-old
watched by an 18-year-old man
who bobbed up and down
breathless in his bedroom
as I climbed trees,
picked juicy fruit,
while larger hands
unseen by me,
curled against his flesh,
impatient.

Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:07:10 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Pt. A to Pt. B

Attention Ladies and Gentlemen
we should be moving shortly.
Please be patient.
Never before has the train
been so empty
to Coney Island up and
over the Gowanus like a
dream be patient please
with Fort Hamilton Pkwy
chain link boots
and packages
that won’t go away
there was never as much
as a screaming of brakes.

Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:08:23 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
1//30
[the gardener]

It doesn’t matter whose finger
pushes the dark pod under the soil.
Another ear could warm this ground,
close enough to hear the change: the seed
coat’s cracking, the theater of roots.

If not me,
another woman could weed this bed,
other fingers plow this dirt. I want to know
nothing about her. Bury me. Or don’t.
My green shoots will break the earth.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:09:01 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of Your Death

Like an umbilical cord coiled
around your neck, from the moment
you first sensed her absence,
an emptiness in the crib
that caused you to silently howl,
you never could quite catch
your breath. Like the watch
in your pocket you found
on the ground, your life was
never yours. Mother was a queen
bee; mummy was a goddess.
Mother was a cloud. No one
believed your claim that winter
had teeth, that ovens were mouths.
She wound you up and set you running
fast into the snow. It’s not her fault.
How could she have known?
Now the bees have abandoned
the hive. The queen died long ago.
And you, her golden boy, swing
like a pendulum, slow, slow,
until they cut you down.
Laurel K Dodgeg
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:13:31 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Now, love, see,
that's a wonder of its own,
that grows and grows
out of a single seed planted
(and watered)
by you and me.
Started from
a brightly colored packet sealed
to keep the life safe inside, it's
a small pocket meant to hold
the beautiful things inside.
We used to think love was a supermarket crash:
a random collision of two carriers
carrying all that they believed.
We used to think that it was when
they were glancing down at their lists
or gazing at the cartons of milk that love happened.
Passed over them like an artificial ceiling light.
But we grew old,
and we knew.
We knew afterwards that love
was not such an accident.
We knew then that love
was something we had to find and take.
Find and take.

Allison
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:13:41 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Bibliophile Birth

The needle poked
my flesh, left side,
then right.
I was only four,
barely aware
of anything.
Next thing I knew
I had twinkling green
in each ear
and my first book,
an ABC book
with animals
contorted into letters,
my reward
for enduring pain
without crying, instead
a mischievous smile.
Lisa Kwong
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:14:10 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin
“For dust you are
and to dust you will return." Gen 3:19

They left, hand in hand,
daring not to look back
at Cherubim and flaming sword,
and moving forward,
donned skin, sin, and the promise
they’d return to dust now thinned of life.

She, leaving Sodom,
dragged her feet in the ground,
grabbed pots, pans,
(anything to make the new place like home)
And, turning back for one last glimpse,
Become salt, not dust,
a Pillar, for her originality.

Beth Melles
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:14:16 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Apologise if this double posts - I posted it several hours ago and it still hasn't appeared:

Winter and her boots


winter and her boots scraped the pavement
her wet hair had frozen into
stiff rat tails

she’d been looking at yet another apartment
that yet another landlord wouldn’t rent to her

she knew because he’d looked her up and down
like he was trying to eyeball the weight of a melon
and said, “I’m not going to rent to you.”

too risky
and student loan money
doesn’t count as being independently wealthy

now she was walking back to the place
where she was staying

dusk on the main street
and all the lights were just beginning to turn on
in all the houses

and it felt like every light
waited until she’d passed
to blink on

her ex would have said,
“It’s not real.”
so now she said, out loud but low,
“I know. But it’s how it feels.”

at the end of the block
the house where she’s staying
is dark

no lights for her
just a couch that makes her spine
want to nautilus in on itself

she considers the wisdom of a bar
a drink, the empty bar stools
next to her like invitations

she coughs into her gloved hand
enjoys the brief feel of warmth
that blooms on her palm
then fades

a sedan pulls up next to her at the curb
the window slides down
and she can feel the heat
even from a foot away

it’s the kind of town where a man
will proposition a girl
even in winter
when she’s wearing a winter coat
that makes her look like a trash bag
with legs

the man says
“Do you want a ride?”

she steps closer
considers the bar, the couch, the car

“yeah,” she says
her hand’s on the car handle

“How much?”
he says.

to not go to that house?
to not sit on that couch?
at least for a little while

“$60”

“Hey, what’s your name?”
he says while she’s buckling her seatbelt

“Stephanie,” Eva says.

“That’s nice.”

when the car passes by the house
the light stays off
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:14:58 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
CROW

Crow used to be white.
His feathers were translucent,
like crystal. His song
was soft, like leaves
waving on stems.

That was before rain,
before he put on his black
coat & hunkered down
in noisy resignation.

Listen: he's picking
through your
trash now & laughing.
Before long, he'll peck
out your eyes.

Crow makes no excuses
for his behavior.

(I see I forgot to title the poem and I made one small change. I couldn't figure out a way to erase my previous post).
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:16:00 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
In the beginning,
there was the word.
And then there was the exit,
unwilling.

"I want" preceded
the crying babe,
leaving one woman
with empty arms
and another filled.
Both done and undone
by the word.

My genesis,
from the word I came.
To the words
I grow.
Such haphazard creation,
who knows what the word
will bring.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:17:03 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The origin of me
Began
With the origin of you and you
And back it goes
Two by two
By two
Until
There was just
one
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:23:22 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Beginnings

He had no idea he was a poet
when he felt his heart aching
for a rusty wheelbarrow glazed in rain,
He had no clue he had poetry in his soul
when he discovered his trousers rolled
as he read an apology for having no plums
in the icebox. But when he found
the right words for the first time, he knew.
Audell Shelburne
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:23:45 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
:you:

well, you see … you were born
because mommy and daddy had sex.
Made love. Exchanged life nectar.
No, this is the wrong way to go about this.

When a man loves a woman …
Well, that’s all well and good as far as song lyrics
from the 90’s go. But there’s a question
mark ahead.

Cells splitting. Spit and … erm, other fluids.
Liquid creation, that’s where you
came from. A mingling of souls,
a blending of sacred loved.

Or as mother might put it, you were
written in blood. Dotted in ink.
Sealed by love.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:25:17 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origin of Fear

My father's leather heel ground
my bare toes as he stepped back
in Yankees Market and the smell of
sausage, sawdust, cigarettes and
dry goods is forever
lodged together somewhere between my nose
and deep inside my ear
together with fear
even though it was an accident.
Nan Coleman
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:25:23 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Seeds by Melanie Sievers April 1, 2009

They think she’s nuts –

and maybe it did start there, at that.
In Santa Rosa with the black walnuts
whose hard dark shells were covered
in spongy green skin. They had to dry
on a window screen propped up on legs
for a long long time before you could eat them.

There were Concord grapes, too,
round round and serious tasting.
With seeds, so you couldn’t be careless,
just popping them in your mouth. No.
You had to eat them very thoughtfully.

The seeds of her, so to speak, were planted
and a few shoots grew, but she was uprooted
again and again. For instance –

In Georgia there were pecans and jumping rope
to rhymes and reading poems to her parakeet
to teach him to talk, but he never did. He just
pecked at his seed and preened his green feathers.

He died of the heat one August when they moved
again. Her parents left him in the car
in Kansas in August. And she thought
about the song and kernels of corn
and her father, the colonel, and her mother.
And she thought about words for all the things
there were no words for.

In Germany, chestnuts,
Virginia, peanuts at the circus –

(I know – peanuts aren’t nuts; they’re legumes –)

You see? You see how it just goes on and on?

But it couldn’t have started, could it, with seeds?
Because seeds have to come from something.
Don’t they? Something that once
was young and green.




Melanie Sievers
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:25:25 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Original Heartbreak


Tick-tock
Mocks the clock.
Time stops, and so does her heart.

New truths beat in her ears
Following its relentless taunting rhythm.
Suitcases line one wall
Soldiers standing at attention
On their way to one last battle,
And a final surrender.

Her anger
The only dam against a flood of tears.
Her heartbeat
Her only companion besides the cruel clock.

And then
He comes in.
Her lover, her life, her betrayer.

He comes in.
As if it is any Wednesday
of any week
of any month
of any year.
As if he is not a Judas
And she, not a fool.

He comes in
and the damned clock
etches his every move into her memory
as time runs out on them.

He comes in.
And so begins
The beginning of the end.
De Jackson
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:28:21 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
This face does not belong to me.
Though adhered to my skull
and pasted in the picture window
known as my identification,
I know it is not mine to own.

This is the skin of my mother.
The pockmarks of poverty
from when I couldn't afford Proactiv
like the pretty girls.

These are not my eyes.
The fiery awareness of Jack and Gratton
who traveled from Tulsa to Coffeyville
and watched Emmett get shot twenty-three times.

And these lips -
I choose to relinquish ownership to you,
for you have always found better things
to do with them than I.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:35:42 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Happy April Fools Day, You Fools!"


A country booby or city tit?
Patch, the fool, or full of wit?
Ferdyshchenko, flip the finge . . .
Err . . . Well, even Pocket's saved some brilliance in his bag of wind!
And all Patsy Schlemiels are pushovers!
With their droller pranks and mountebanks
Outfoxing every sucker in cunning circumvents . . .
Very deceptive tricksters, they are, some with sidekicks, namely, Muggins
They're thigh-slapping jesters . . . and now I'm thinking my one leg might be longer than the other . . . ?
I was duped! ...led on to delude . . .
Cozened like a cod, knowingly misled, and you?
Chump if you may, yes man, I marked a fish out of water and
Named it Trump!
You'all are arses! . . . Donkey ears with bells on . . . folly, frippery and fun!
Well, that's fine. . . until their belly laugh becomes my punch line!
Puck! Moving Bucket! . . . Duck!
There's a harlequin!
Preying on the aim, a comedienne . . .
But, if he blackguards me, he'll be sure to grape
He and his so-called antics, I'll just purple his gags of japes!
Such idiots! . . . baubles in hand, oaf performers, they bumble to amuse, their hangers-on-err's!
Would any cavalcade hunger for this piece of cake?
Maybe a lubber, a tag, or a very merry Andrew, that SOB lampoon . . . !
Had me laughing til I wheezed, the big buffoon!
Oh! ...and Costard, such a silly man, who's carrying the pickle now?
Damn, didn't Dylan steal it from Presley, the crown?
You ain't nothing but a hound dog!
Here . . . sniff this!

Happy April Fools Day, You fools!

Copyright April 1, 2009
Kimmy Van Kooten
Kimmy Van Kooten
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:36:57 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
the tangled web v1.1

Al Gore never said
"I invented" the internets
he just said that he
"took initiative in creating" them
leave it to a politician
to take the initiative
to spin some convoluted story on
the origins of the internets
a vast network of cables, of
egos and friends and viruses and
diggs

the truth is that
the internets began in a
dark damp cave in Spain
somehow some spiders
mutated and spun
webs of wires and cables that
creepily crept 'round
the world, like a
superhighwayofcurcuitslinking
us all, and
everyone atwitter and
where will it end?
stewart clayten
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:37:09 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Great idea - I'm in!
Joyce
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:43:40 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Spring evening falls.
Rain washes away winter.
The Earth is renewed.
Rita E. Valenti
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:44:48 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
ignition

splashing forth in yelping noise
a result assisted by rubber toys

while washing away most the dirt
find better reasons it will hurt

ignore pressures and your stress
just let us see that party dress

consider time lost alone forlorn
opportunity knocked you are born

Billy Austin
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:45:57 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Seeds

They've waited
sometimes centuries
to be buried,

do the bidding
of higher life forms,
give hope of a green

future. All that's within
them, unseen, loved
into the light of day.
Billy
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:51:01 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Fear

My eyes opened
Wide with innocence
Look into yours,
Wary
From experience.
In shielding,
Protecting,
From what you know
I’m changed forever,
No longer whole.
Jeanette Shumway
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:52:31 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Elegy of the April Fool from A to Z(an ottava rima)

April Fool’s Day has come and gone again
Beginning Summer no longer his intent
Countries of thinking, practical jokester men
Duplicates el dia de los innocent
Engulfed in pranks against both foe and friend
For many, the day’s end is of heaven sent
Global involvement, collective frustration
Hoaxes abound throughout all of our nations

Iranian pranks known throughout the land
Jokes, tricks, and lies over the united globe
Killings, Conflicker Worms, the Economy at hand
Luck failed, embarrassment, fears and curses of old
Mysteries, absurdities and foolishness planned
New Year’s Day history forever untold
Origins of Prompt One still vague history
Possibly continues a shared mystery

Questions, folktales, myths and parables arranged
Religious renewal festivals through time
Spring’s announcement impacted by primitives’ changed
Theories which that don’t fit this meter and rhyme
Understanding communication is strange
Visions of the future wandering past prime
Wandering aimlessly through forced compliance
Xenophobic or other reliance?

Nikki Griffith
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:54:44 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A thought, first
A daydream about
What if
What if we did have a baby?
I can see myself holding her.
Well, it could be a he, I suppose.
I can see us watching over him, it
Whatever.
Back to the
Baby
Wow, a baby.
Hmm.
I wonder what would he think?
Was I trying to trick him
Or trap him
Or something bad
When all I want is that
baby.
A baby’s hand
And that smell.
mmm. I love that baby smell.
What’s wrong with me?
God, like I’ve never
seen
a baby
before.
Diana
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:55:11 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
ORiGINS

No one knows when it began.
It was small; it had a plan.
It didn’t take any space
It was all in one place.
It grew and took at random
All it could; it was wanton.
It silently worked; cell by cell.
As yet, no one could tell.

Just onward,
and outward,
and upward,
and inward
24/7it grew
and it grew
and g-r-e-w.

It was ready
to take away steady;
It took fast; that was in the past.
It made it only able to be last.
It was here to stay
And never go away.

It’s mission became plain;
It was here for the brain
And, it was being slain
That was very plain.

It would make life so slow
And it would show
How it would progress;
And make living a mess.

It was a dirty trick
It eventually would pick
all it wanted to take
It never, ever gave a break.

Carole
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:55:15 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Cherry Blossoms


It’s the way
My younger son
walks with his back
Straight and proud
Like a Samurai,

With head held high,
The firelight in his eyes
Sparkling with wit and humor,

Like a star shooting
Across the early morning sky,
I recognize the flash of
My mother and her family
In him.

She laughed infectiously,
All eyes upon her
Stately bearing
counterbalanced
With an earthy warmth
That embraced everyone--

The woman who
I held in awe
Until the day she died,
Living largely and
with a vivacious
spirit of verve,
Proud of her
Japanese heritage.

In California,
I anticipate the superb
Display of abundant pink
Blossoms, the buds looking
Fuller and ready to open
Each day,
The centerpiece of my
Front yard,

The cold morning
Indicates that it might be
Two or three more days
Before the tree will
Reach it’s apex,

Every morning last week,
The tree calls me to inspect
The branches carefully,
Building anticipation of the
Impending grandeur,
And finally, when every blossom
Is open,
A profusion of
almost white pink,
Very light pink, and
cotton candy
Pink,

I am reminded of
That shooting star and
My mother’s love of
The weeping cherry tree
Planted in front
of our
Maryland home,

Without warning,
The north wind begins to
Blow in a hurricane blast,
And like the shooting star
Disappearing into the
Horizon,
The blossoms take
Flight like confetti
And we are left with
The traces of those
Memories until
Next year.

Nancy Hatamiya
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:58:21 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Silver

When I hear,
“you are younger than you look,”
I think of my grandmother
white-haired at twenty-five.
“Have you considered coloring it?”
They ask me at the salon,
and for a moment
I am tempted.

In my family
each generation gets to keep
their dark hair
just a few more years.
But the single white strand,
already growing in the black of your sideburns
makes me wonder if the trend will change back
with you.

Silver hair wouldn’t be the only thing
you’d have in common
with the early ones.
People would drop what they were doing
to look at them
never suggesting
they were anything
but beautiful.







Teresa Sundmark
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:58:24 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Cathexis

Cherry blossoms are foolish,
clinging eagerly
to the first green
quickening that awakens;

the slip flickering of dark
caverns in time
slower to yield
or burst from formlessness.

Sometimes a closed fist opens.

The eye turns backward,
becoming solvent
unleashed among
the canyons of the mind;

quick sipping inspiration
exhales deeper
than the galaxy
folded under iliac crest.

Somewhere the universe is returning.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 5:59:16 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
ORiGINS

No one knows when it began.
It was small; it had a plan.
It didn’t take any space
It was all in one place.
It grew and took at random
All it could; it was wanton.
It silently worked; cell by cell.
As yet, no one could tell.

Just onward,
and outward,
and upward,
and inward
24/7it grew
and it grew
and g-r-e-w.

It was ready
to take away steady;
It took fast; that was in the past.
It made it only able to be last.
It was here to stay
And never go away.

It’s mission became plain;
It was here for the brain
And, it was being slain
That was very plain.

It would make life so slow
And it would show
How it would progress;
And make living a mess.

It was a dirty trick
It eventually would pick
all it wanted to take
It never, ever gave a break.

Carole
Thursday, April 02, 2009 6:00:44 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
ORiGINS

No one knows when it began.
It was small; it had a plan.
It didn’t take any space
It was all in one place.
It grew and took at random
All it could; it was wanton.
It silently worked; cell by cell.
As yet, no one could tell.

Just onward,
and outward,
and upward,
and inward
24/7it grew
and it grew
and g-r-e-w.

It was ready
to take away steady;
It took fast; that was in the past.
It made it only able to be last.
It was here to stay
And never go away.

It’s mission became plain;
It was here for the brain
And, it was being slain
That was very plain.

It would make life so slow
And it would show
How it would progress;
And make living a mess.

It was a dirty trick
It eventually would pick
all it wanted to take
It never, ever gave a break.

Carole
Thursday, April 02, 2009 6:02:52 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Part 2
Elegy of the April Fool from A to Z(an ottava rima PLUS)

Yet change as a rule’s miscommunicated
Zenith of tomorrow shows its history’s ill-fated
Nikki Griffith
Thursday, April 02, 2009 6:04:07 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins
[Life]
In the beginning,
God was.
And He created man
and woman
and all was good.

[Sin]
No, not that old myth about
the apple – rather the Tree of the
Knowledge of Good and Evil – the
one that bore death for mankind.

[Redemption]
“It is finished” Christ cries out
from the cross.
No, not His death – rather the
end of His work – and the
beginning of new life
for believers.

[Resurrection]
The beginning of
Christ’s reign in heaven.
Alleluia!
Gerry
Thursday, April 02, 2009 6:05:03 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Way of Tea

“Come, oh come, Ye tea-thirsty restless ones! The kettle boils, bubbles, and sings musically!” – Rabindarath Tagore


Five thousand years ago, or so the story goes,
Emperor Chen-Nung of China preferred his water boiled.
Legend says, a breeze came through and blew,
tossed leaves into his glass,
and tea was born.

Such lore inside my cup! Witness:

800 AD The Cha Ching is written. Then!
Buddhist monks make taking tea a way of finding peace. Soon after!
Marco Polo, explorer extraordinaire, brings tea to the ‘New World.’
Oh, Lord! (Here comes the part where we all should shudder!)
Sea-faring, tea-bearing clipper-ships flooded our shores.

Taxation without representation—um, NO.
One beautiful night in Boston in 1773— we just said NO.
We dump 10,000 pounds of tea—into that beautiful black
and blue harbor. And America
was free.

In the 19th century, Queen Victoria, it’s told,
fell so in love with tea,
she made a ‘tea time’ a rite for all of England.

A few years ago, when I lived in Boston,
I dated a British man who walked the ‘Revolutionary Road’
of Boston backwards.

“You can’t take it back,” I said, “you know,”
“We won. And now we’re free.”
“I know,” he smiled, “and I agree.
You won your revolution.
And you won it over tea.”

Thursday, April 02, 2009 6:06:56 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
How she became a mother

When she was young,
Just a little wisp of a thing.
Her grandmother decided to make
Her a leader.

Grandmother taught her the herbs
to help with healing.
Grandmother taught her the secrets of
Being a midwife.

Grandmother taught her that service
Was the most important.
Grandmother took away her childhood.

She grew up, serving her neighbors.
Birthing their babies and healing their sick.

She grew up and no man wanted to marry her.
Who wanted to marry the woman who had all the answers.
Who would marry the woman who everyone depended on.

She grew tired of service,
She grew restless, and wanted to know the world she had missed.

Grandmother woke up one morning and she was gone.
She left the country and went to the city.
She entered university and became a doctor.
She married and had children of her own.
She made sure they enjoyed their childhood.

Pam Williams
Thursday, April 02, 2009 6:09:09 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Armadillos

Armadillos are
Heaven’s overruns of speedbumps
Given life on earth.

Thursday, April 02, 2009 6:09:56 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Duck’s Quack

Written by Miss E. -age 9

One time, in a land far away,
Jeff Coal went out to say,
“King oh King you’re handsome so,
But what are you doing with that rope?”
The King did not like that Jeff Coal,
So he tied him above a steaming stove.
Jeff Coal was terrified by this cruel attack,
So he screamed and it sounded like he said, “Quack!”
A duck came and jumped to save that Jeff,
And he fell on the stove to his death.
The King said, “That works.”
And then he left.
Miss E.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 6:10:02 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A New Day


Sheets crumpled

Covers rumpled

A good night’s sleep is done.



Bed made

Pillows laid

A new day has begun.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 6:10:46 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Origins


Back then it was a nine-day wonder,
an entire store in Harvard Square
devoted to make-up, cleanser, rinses
of various kinds, lip gloss (I’m pretty
sure there was lip gloss), night cream,
all-day/every-day lotion with SPF,
whatever that was, all of it packaged
in glass jars whose wooden tops
lay perfectly flush, the glass etched
with elegant script, a shade like “sage”
that none of us had seen on any make-up
product before — not that we wore much
really or haunted the counters, mascara
once in a while and I had a gray-blue
pencil liner I liked, mostly it was lipstick
for special occasions — it really blew
our minds, achingly tasteful but hip, too,
organic back when food co-ops actually
ran on cooperation, none of this corporate
nonsense co-opting the word, the glass
opaque enough that the contents looked
mysterious, even miraculous, reminding
me now of that line from a poem although
I had yet to read it then, this chronology
is mixed up, that says something like: You
can’t have it all but you can be grateful
for make-up: half-spice, half-amnesia, a line
I have always loved for its understanding
of women and therefore of beauty.
Thursday, April 02, 2009 6:10:50 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I don't believe in your
original sin this thing
that sticks like tar heel gravel
try to scrape it
just picks up more
dead grass, carpet fiber

now I find myself
painted into a corner
with Miss Jennifer Tilly
step stool chunky heel
stands tip toe looks me in the eye
You know, what women really want is
the unavailable man.
Easy in, easy out
shake the change from pockets
nothing to pick up.


Thursday, April 02, 2009 6:15:26 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Mustardseed"

In our 4-br on Lilac Drive,
There were no birds,
There were no bees,
And the stork certainly couldn't out-wing the wren.
There was only the outstretched belly,
Your belly,
A luminous moon on you.
Your outstretched belly
And a mustardseed.
"It's what I said," you said.
And you winked. And I believed.
That you swallowed a mustardseed
And, full of faith, expected a girl.
"A baby sis for you with dimples