# 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!)


General | Personal Updates | Poetry Challenge 2009 | Poetry Prompts
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 t