Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer - April PAD Challenge: Day 28

Doubt I can finish the month...spent the last 24+ hours in ICU after my husband suffered an accident. Had to be airlifted to a city 3 hours away (40 min. by air) Will get back and follow the rest of you once I am able to be home for a while. It has been a great month celebrating poetry.

Emily Blakely |ecblakelyAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

Please send some goodwill Emily's way; as you can probably tell from her comment, her husband's accident sounds very serious.

*****

Maybe Emily's horrible situation will put things into perspective for today's challenge, which may very well be the hardest poem of the entire month for many. Today's prompt is to write a sestina. (If you need a subject, you can write about catastrophe or loss or hope--to mirror the news above.)

So, what is a sestina? For those who have a few minutes to spare, please go to the following link: http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/Sestina6x6339+Thats+Math.aspx. Once there, you can read up about what a sestina is and can be.

For those in a hurry, here's the basics on the sestina:

* It's a poem consisting of 7 stanzas.

* The first 6 stanzas have 6 lines; the final stanza has 3 lines.

* There are only 6 end words to each line throughout the 39-line poem.

* They rotate in the following pattern:

1-End Word 1

2-End Word 2

3-End Word 3

4-End Word 4

5-End Word 5

6-End Word 6

7-End Word 6

8-End Word 1

9-End Word 5

10-End Word 2

11-End Word 4

12-End Word 3

13-End Word 3

14-End Word 6

15-End Word 4

16-End Word 1

17-End Word 2

18-End Word 5

19-End Word 5

20-End Word 3

21-End Word 2

22-End Word 6

23-End Word 1

24-End Word 4

25-End Word 4

26-End Word 5

27-End Word 1

28-End Word 3

29-End Word 6

30-End Word 2

31-End Word 2

32-End Word 4

33-End Word 6

34-End Word 5

35-End Word 3

36-End Word 1

37-End Words 1 and 2

38-End Words 3 and 4

39-End Words 5 and 6

Usually, the best strategy is to pick out 6 words you think you can have fun with and that are probably somewhat flexible in how you can use them (this includes modifying a word here and there--like changing "cold" to "clod" to fit your purposes). Maybe throw in a word that is a little unique--if you really want to challenge yourself. And remember to have fun.

Here's my sestina for the day:

"On the fly"

I am a big fan of eating Lemonheads,

little yellow spheres tasting like a kiss

on a summer day while sitting on a bench

and enjoying the words of some expert

on how to be true and love me tender,

maybe while watching the birds fly

overhead and swatting away a fly

or two. That is, I think Lemonheads

are worth more than they're tendered

in convenience stores. How do you kiss
and put a price on it? I'm no expert,

but I'm also not some dime-store bench

warming philosopher. I can bench

my weight in mistakes and open flies,

because I've always been one to expect

the need for a Plan B. That is, Appleheads

taste even better and led to my first kiss

in a long time--and at a very tender

moment. Maybe I'm just too tender-

minded. Maybe I should sit on the bench

of whatever court decides good kissing

practices. Maybe I should check my fly

before starting any hot talk on Lemonheads.

Maybe I should leave it to the experts.

After all, they are supposedly the experts

for a reason, right? I wonder if they tender

a smooch for the same price as Lemonheads.

I wonder if they set some kissing bench-

mark and expect us all to hit it on the fly,

just something we do without thinking: A kiss

on the cheek counting as much as a kiss

with tongues is blaspheme, whether experts

declare or not. One needs wings to fly

or we'd all slingshot crazy and turn into tinder--

a bright flaming star, a burning bench

where once I enjoyed eating my Lemonheads.

And the Lemonheads will always lead to kisses

on hot benches with or without the experts

to approve the tender moment of wanting to fly.

4/28/2008 10:35:09 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Comments [188]

4/28/2008 10:54:08 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

i think it is very cool that you chose to write a sestina with common words and also a more difficult word like "lemonheads". not an easy task, and you played with the language quite well. and speaking of lemonheads, totally weird that you used that word because i personally had two separate conversations this weekend about The Lemonheads and evan dando. nice job!

k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

4/28/2008 10:55:30 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily...Many prayers are going up right now for your husband's healing. Know that you are on all of our mind's right now. Robert, Thank you for letting us know about this.

And, wow!, what a challenge! I have never tried a sestina, but am looking forward to trying!

Cheryl Wray |cherylwritAT NOSPAMaol dot com

4/28/2008 10:57:13 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily - Prayers to you, your husband, and family. Bless all of you.
Heather

Heather |tjbhebAT NOSPAMaol dot com

4/28/2008 11:04:10 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

I Strangled The Muse
And Now I'm On The Run!
But she's alive,
this ain't no fun!

Ever since they let me go
I've hidden in dark places.
Watching the mobs run to and fro
And watching their rabid faces.
They kicked me out of the jail
Knowing that a rope
Waited for me without fail
And very little hope.
Oh why can't they leave me alone?
Hiding in fear is rough.
She's alive for others, But I'm unknown
To her. Isn't that enough?

You'll notice I'm still following my own drummer?
Oh well.

Prayers for you Emily. And your man.

Don Swearingen |opaswearingenAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

4/28/2008 11:06:05 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily,
My thoghts and prayers are with your family.

Today's challenge is going to be very challenging
Debra

Debra Elliott |anngrayelliott1960AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 11:09:17 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

COMING TO GRIPS

Grips, unless they’re saving, were meant to be broken.
So I abandon the heart of every matter and launch
A decoy of my faith in words so some brand of mercy
May return without being too obtuse to believe in.
Having laid waste to the givens in the equation of me,
I search for a warm law full of beautiful lies

And curious ways that confirm that what lies
In meaning can only come from what’s been broken
Down by a gross process of eliminating me
In a net letting go of the past before I launch
The confidence game I play in
Trying to cram myself to the hilt with mercy.

But in all the reasons to play the game of mercy
There are as many that say these words are lies
I build around myself to place my faith in.
All my pledges and promises come up broken
Only to be reassembled in a phrase that will launch
Some other bastardized improvisation called me.

Versions are the last thing to trouble me—
Provided they are born from the spirit of mercy.
I’m sure some old self would never think to launch
Much beyond the spirit of lies
That aim for the heart to be broken
Up and watch patiently as the chest caves in.

There is nothing left or at least new to believe in
Which is over half the reason why I am sick of me
I can no longer tell what or if anything is broken
But what I feel and see is cloaked with mercy.
Does this help me believe the whole lot of lies?
No. But it gives me a direction to launch

Out in. It is peaceful to think I’d launch
In the very direction of what I want to believe in
Even if it is another one of the self-told lies
I seem to have grown into the habit of telling me
But to think of it this way gives me hope that mercy
Is a faithful back that won’t be broken.

There is no turning back once the silence is broken.
I’ve grown faithful to my love affair with lies
And abandon at least this way to pray for mercy.

Aaron Fagan |faganismAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

4/28/2008 11:11:36 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily - Even if you don't see this until later, know that I am praying for you and your husband this very minute (Monday morning) and will continue to do so. Elizabeth

Elizabeth Keggi |lilycalrissaAT NOSPAMhotamil dot com

4/28/2008 11:19:00 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily - Sending lots of positive thoughts, energy and healing to your husband, you and your family.

Robert, I was right after all, you are a sadist. :) This is truly a difficult challenge, but I'll do my best.
Maureen

Maureen |sajwriter06AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com dot au

4/28/2008 11:31:37 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily, My thoughts are with you and your family. Heartfelt bestwishes to you all.

Robert, Like many I've been waiting for this fore-warned prompt. Unfortunately, it clearly requires me to be a real poet... Cats out of the bag!

Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es

4/28/2008 11:40:04 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

YES! I love sestinas. I haven't written one in a while so I am very excited about this prompt.

satia |satia62AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 11:50:06 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily, sending good vibes your way. I hope your husband makes a complete recovery. :)

I'll be back later with today's poem ... probably much later :p

John H Maloney |callentureAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 11:51:32 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Summertime

There are few things I am as eager to taste
as tomatoes in August that are ripe and sweet
a bushel of them is like the candy
of summer
along with days at the beach
which always seem too short

the heat of July brings out the shorts
some are too skimpy for my taste
they are more like something to wear at the beach
than in the village enjoying something sweet
men enjoy the flesh of summer
they call it eye candy

one never gets sick of that kind of candy
especially in mid-life when time feels so short
every day is to cherish especially in summer
when food is so luscious it awakens the taste
and love is best served hot and sweet
the sweat of your skin reminds you of the beach

you smile when they say life is a beach
just as you did when you bought penny candy
one cent for a sweet
the pleasure is as short
as the taste
of ice cream melting in summer

there is no point in dwelling on those summers
building castles at the beach
wondering if the taste
of his lips were like candy
he made you feel brave and pretty and short
as he held your hand on the boradwalk which was quite sweet

but not half as sweet
as the nights of that summer
when the days together got shorter and shorter
like the beaches
diminished by hurricane Candy
the house that you loved that suited your taste

would be hit by a storm with a taste for sweet revenge
she swallowed it like candy, gone like summer
and the beach you loved. The time to destroy was shockingly short.

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

4/28/2008 11:59:43 AM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Noooooooooo! I may be working on this prompt 'til April of next year! haha.

KP |kerritothepointAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

4/28/2008 12:05:41 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Whilst contemplating the enormity of the challenge and having it jar my nerves as being far too contrived for the outcome to be any good (in MY case, I will be in awe of anything that seems spontaneous from others!) I am reminded that years ago at school we had to write a computer program. A girl & I wrote seven rhyming couplets each, but not an actual Sonnet & the random generation script required. Amazingly almost 40% of the “Sonnets” generated made some kind of sense & a few were actually quite good! I could do with that program now!

Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es

4/28/2008 12:07:09 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Prayers and positive energy coming your way from Vancouver, Emily and family.

All the best for a speedy and complete recovery.

Corinne |c dot dixonAT NOSPAMtelus dot net

4/28/2008 12:18:13 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Best Wishes Emily Blakely.

H. Michelle Cooper

Michelle Cooper |hmcoope1AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 12:29:26 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

If you're feeling intimidated by the sestina form, my best advice is to just pick 6 end words and write. That's all I did. Don't worry about the meaning of the poem--just try to get from end word to end word. When you finish, take a look at what you've got--you may be surprised with how much you like it. If not, at least you can say you completed the Day 28 sestina challenge: who cares if it's any good? :)

Best of luck and happy writing,

Robert

Robert Brewer |robert dot brewerAT NOSPAMfwpubs dot com

4/28/2008 12:37:51 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Home Is Somewhere Down Memory Lane

In the well-worn garden
of the last decade,
I planted my blues.
My long-lost childhood avenue
was found inside a Polaroid
while the earth flew from its spindle.

Now I am spending
more time gardening
and harvesting my polarity
before I am decayed
and buried beside an avenue
paved with the blues.

I wear blue
eyes well, while spinning
alongside the avenue
of memories; guarding
my heart, I am the decoy
of myself, polarized.

You and I take Polaroids
with broken cameras, blues
and yellow hues mottle a decade
of shapes, time and spending.
We awake in a garden
of technology and revenue.

Home sweet avenue:
the place where I am not annoyed
or afraid of garter
snakes, and the sky is bluest
when the spindle
threads another sewn decade.

I can't decide
which monumental avenue
I will take next; mostly I dwindle
and stumble through the parade
of heart-soaked blues,
wishing I was in Kindergarten.

In the garden, another decade
sleeps on its back; a blue avenue
of days is mirrored in Polaroids, spent.

k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

4/28/2008 12:38:10 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily, I hope by the time you read this the crisis will be over
and your husband will be working on a speedy recovery.
Sending you lots of love, light and good thoughts with prayers for returned health and strength for you to cope with all this.

Essa Bostone |essybeeAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net

4/28/2008 12:46:09 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily, you are in my thoughts and prayers. All these poets sending all their love and good energy will help at some level. My very best to you.

mjdills |mjdillsAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 12:47:34 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Trying to explain all I ever did want
Was a life that was normal and sane.
Could be I was asking too much
Since the circus I’ve lived in has been three ring
And I’ve never really known
How the future would turn out?

I’ve often pondered what life is about,
Seeing what other people want.
We do have a quest for the unknown
That can help to keep us sane;
Knowing the peace it can bring
If we don’t think about it too much.

If you do feel there is much
You truly can’t figure out,
Grief can undoubtedly wring
The tears whether or not you want
To deal with the feeling of insanity,
Laughing at what you’ve known.

But then again it can be hard to own
Up to what seems like so much
Attention on keeping from going insane;
That in the end it will wear out
The desires we think we want
When in fact the lines are blurring.

Which sets me to pondering…
How I could ever have known
If I want what I want,
Even though I seem to desire it so much
It’s hard to actually figure out
If I’m just plain insane?

And questioning my own sanity
Never was something I could bring
Myself to find out about;
For all the reasons I have known
Or not known inasmuch
As to what a person really wants.

And so I guess I want people to see me as sane,
Though it might be too much caring
On my part to know if I’m found out.

mjdills |mjdillsAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 12:48:26 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

This was quite a challenge for me as I have never written a sestina.
But here is my attempt for today:

Pondering Life

I sit at my computer
daily wondering what I am going
to do with my life, I ponder
the old age question that all have ask
how did I get to this point?
I really don't know

To know or not to know
I stare at my computer
trying to get to the point
of where I am going
I ask
as I still ponder

Here I am still pondering
life's question of what I know
and what I need to ask
is the answer on my computer
where is my life going?
do I serve a point?

Is life my point?
I often still ponder
my meter still going
I still don't know
if the answer lies in my computer
who else can I ask?

I really don't know who to ask
I'm at that point
where I hate this stupid computer
for it makes me ponder
what I use to know
that I must be going

But where am I going
I have to ask
I really don't know
I have not made my point
in life I ponder
I still hate my computer

So my computer must be going
and I am still pondering whether to ask
what's my point, do you know

Debra Elliott |anngrayelliott1960AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 12:49:38 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

I'm late because I was out of town all weekend, but yesterday's prompt was kind of fun, so I am posting it here too! Hope that's okay. :-) I will work on today's prompt later.
Emily-my prayers are with you!

An Excerpt

"It's just not working anymore."
"No, he never listens."
"Yes."
"Yeah, I tried that actually. He said
I did well but nothing's changed since."
"No."
"No, he says it's all in my head,
that I'm just imagining things."
"He just sits there. I talk, and talk,
and talk, and talk, and talk, and he
just sits there. I don't think he even listens."
"It's been like this for years now. I need more."
"Exactly, you are so much more understanding than
he ever was, you meet those needs he doesn't even
comprehend I have, he won't even miss me I bet."
"Yes, I'm ready to make the move."
"Ha,ha, yes, you're right again. I know I'm ready."
"You're the one I've needed all this time, I just
wish we'd met earlier, before I wasted all those years."
"So you agree then, you'll be my new shrink?"

Lori |BrightiiizAT NOSPAMaol dot com

4/28/2008 1:00:25 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily - I'm sending prayers of healing an wellness to your and your husband. Michelle Hed

Michelle H. |mik_1000AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 1:05:17 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

The Wind

The wind whispered the faintest of tune
Whishing through the trees soft and free
I strained to hear her lullaby
To listen carefully for whom she would sing
Times past I had been told
Pay attention, the wind will tell you what you need to know

In the deepest of night the forest knows
That the wind will change her tune
The trees warn with shaking leaves and the creatures need not be told
Danger waits for those who by day roam carelessly free
Tonight, it will be the wind, she will be the one to sing
Take cover, burrow in, and listen as she belts out her nighttime lullaby

With morning’s approach, the wind gently hums her sunrise lullaby
Sometimes she is quite still in her approach, one never really knows
Her voice can be so soft it’s hard to imagine that she ever sings
But she’s saving her voice, holding her tune
For a time of day when others are free
To listen closely without having to be told

The wind is waiting, so I’ve been told
For us to listen with our souls, to hear the truth within her lullaby
To experience what she feels when she sings; to be free
She is giving us what we need to know
Trees, flowers, creatures, beings, unknowingly resonate to her tune
Her song is so important they can’t wait to hear her sing

Blazing sun, in mid sky, the wind is geared up to sing
She has a message, a story to be told
She will blow her melody, strike you with her tune
She will ease to the most gentle of lullaby
So that you will know
She is touching you, pushing your spirit to fly free

The wind understands that not everyone is ready to be free
But with all her might she continues to sing
In time, all of us will know
The many stories that have been told
By the wind through her varied lullabies
And tunes

The wind’s tune has set me free
I’ve listened to her lullaby and now my soul sings
She’s told me I’ve been deaf to my soul, she’s been singing forever, how did I not know?

Heather |tjbhebAT NOSPAMaol dot com

4/28/2008 1:05:42 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Oh well, here goes...

Cats, Poetry & Death #3

I could, I suppose compose a sestina about my beloved Cats
Or who knows? Juxtapose a Stanza or three about the mystic muse
A line or two or is that seven that cover good old death
But I am a rambler who likes to rant in wild and manic prose
A word or more could be said on the lightness of butterflies
Though I am drawn to discuss the eating of Sammy the secret Snake

The structure is beyond me for it wriggles like a snake
'Twould be much easier, the feline route, to speak just of cats
And I don’t seem credible or honest when I lie about butterflies
My spontaneity has left me for 'tis I that’s lost the muse
I’d be much better to rehearse or drop the verse, stick to my prose
A sestina, bless my soul, of me ‘twill be the death

A curse on form and function, I curse them all to death
I hope they all lie dying in a pit with a monster snake
So I can return to ramblin’ in a note-book full of prose
Or draft the odd comic verse like my Ode to Cats
It’s just the kind of trick I’ll use when I’m without a muse
Then I’ll get some free time to myself, chasing butterflies

You know that once mushroom induced, I saw how butter flies
Luckily I knew which ones to eat for the others do bring death
They, I’d eat all day and be without excuse for being without muse
But if I ate too many I’d get a belly-ache and vomit like a snake
Then crawl reptilian homewards-bound to sleep, a nap with my cats
And afterwards I never could compose, not verse, certainly not prose

‘Tis true, for days I’d be bereft of thoughts of verse or prose
My stomach churning somersaults and all manner of butterflies
The best I could manage, three days in bed, snuggling with the cats
I’d swear that I was closing rapidly upon my un-pitied tragic death
And that never would my words once more down the vellum snake
For without life there is no rhyming and definitely ain’t no muse

Arising from my death bed I’d breakfast on –li and perhaps some muse
Then finally I'd journalise the events in my journal full of prose
I must admit there where times I’d rather have eaten a juicy snake
But I must not complain for spiders only eat nicely buttered flies
I was ever thankful to so handsomely avoided a painful fungi death
And live to tell the tale again, at least to my beloved little cats

And so this tale of Cats who had so often given me the muse
Along with death, (the standby) to write my flowery prose;
Flits away as butterflies and lurks out of sight, like a slimy snake

Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es

4/28/2008 1:12:48 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

4/28/2008 1:16:04 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Violaceous

This planet is growing all too very snug.
How will we make enough ravioli?
Ah, faster food you had in mind,
something nutritious and cosmic purple.
I see: your wedding cake is simply gorgeous,
a mulberry stuffed, violet-ice- cream castle.

Last night I dreamed of a burning castle
while abed with feline guardians and husband, snug
ethers coalesced, and the cotton candy road turned falsely gorgeous;
and with my pillow then, now Godzilla’s recipe for a sonic ravioli,
my soul blushed instantaneous purple
upon ascension’s hill, this febrile mind

upon the maraschino cherry chakra of this mind,
the high school I never attended was a castle
nuked in mist atomized purple
and my destination loomed no longer snug,
and perhaps cracker jack surprises inside ravioli
will not reinvent this world more gorgeous.

These days I feel neither safe nor gorgeous:
I hope you don’t mind,
but I can’t make homemade ravioli
like my mother in kitchen castle;
these clothes are subway snug
and bruise me purple.

For ascension, you need to empurple
the garage, the cubby holes, to make their walls, wine- gorgeous,
gather the grape and berry crayons snug
and color your mind
the garage, the attic, and woebegone castle,
use beet juice to tint the nutmeg-dusted ravioli.

See now the midnight clouds are Raisinets and ravioli:
inside the dough, the filling’s purest purple;
you may fly a sample over the remains of the castle:
“pretty enough to eat,” is the meaning of “gorgeous,”
petits fours for the gluttonous mind:
help us, Angels, we are trapped snug,

snug as stowaways inside our deep fried ravioli,
we seal every mind in an aura, purple,
gorgeously still, amid amethysts shards of the schoolhouse castle.

Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

4/28/2008 1:32:36 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG?

WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG? LET'S KEEP IT REAL AMERICA...WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG? FOR DAYS THEY WAITED THEY HAD BEEN DONE LOST ALL THEIR STUFF AND HOMES...WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG? THEY HAD WITH NO WATER, LIGHTS AND DEAD BATTERIES IN THEIR CELL PHONES...WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG? THEY WALKED FOR DAYS JUST TO

MAKE IT TO THE UNSAFE SUPERDOME...WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG? THEY COULDN'T TURN BACK CAUSE THEY KNEW THEIR CITY WAS GONE...WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG? THEY HAD TO WALK PAST DEAD BODIES AS THEY ENDLESSLY ROAMED, SOME CRIED ALL ALONE...WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG? IT GOT DARK ONCE AGAIN AND THEY JUST WANTED TO GET IN BED AT SOMEBODY, ANY

BODY'S HOME. WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG?
THEY WERE ON THEIR HOUSETOPS, JUST SITTING ON THE ROOFS WAITING FOR SOMEONE UNKNOWN...WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG?
THIS CAN'T HAPPEN AGAIN AMERICA JUST CAUSE A CITY IS FLOODED OUT OF THEIR HOMES...WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-O-O LONG?
WHERE WAS THE COMMANDER? WHERE WAS THE CHIEF? THE NORLEANS DIDN'T

KNOW WHERE TO GO TO FIND NOT EVEN A PIECE OF RELIEF...WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG? NO SECURITY, NO POLICE NOT EVEN A NATIONAL GUARD; WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG?
WITH SO MANY FIRES, SO MUCH DANGEROUS UNCLEANWATERS AND WHERE IN THE WORLD NOW IS THE FRENCH QUARTERS...WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG? THE NORLEANS DIDN'T MEAN TO HURT NOBODY, THEY

DIDN'T MEAN TO STEAL; THEY WAS HUNGRY AND TIRED LETS JUST KEEP IT REAL. WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG? PEOPLE CALL FEMA? FEMA KNOW AIN'T NOBODY GOT NO PHONE AND NO ONES HOME. WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG? PEOPLE WERE SLEEPING ON BRIDGES, ALL IN THE STREETS AND SOME IN PEOPLE'S HOUSES WHO THEY KNEW THEY WOULD PROBABLY NEVER MEET...WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO

WAIT SO-SO-O LONG?SOME PEOPLE STILL HAD CARS WITH NO GAS, THE STATIONS NEAR AND TOO FAR TO WALK RAN OUT REALLY FAST... WY DID
THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG?I SAW SOME NORLEANS TRAVELING IN A CONVOY ON THE FREEWAY IN HOUSTON. I HONESTLY CRIED AS I REFUSED TO WONDER WY... I KNEW, MY SYMPATHY HAD TREMENDOUSLY GREW... WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG? MURDERS AND

RAPES IN AND OUTSIDE OF THE SUPERDOME...HELP JUST SIMPLY CAME
TOO, TOO LATE... WY DID THE NORLEANS HAVE TO WAIT SO-SO-O LONG?
MY GOD, MY LORD STILL HEARS A SINNER'S PRAYER...

Michelle Cooper |hmcoope1AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 1:35:23 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

The King’s Fling

A long time ago there was a mighty king
Who loved to hear songs the singers would sing
So much he offered a precious diamond ring
A most expensive and shiny gold bling-bling
To the winner of a kingdom-wide singing fling
A bling-bling, sing-for-the-king type thing

But they could not sing any old thing
Their song offering must please the king
For embarrassment at the King’s singing fling
If they perhaps choose the wrong song to sing
Would lose their chance to win the gold bling-bling
That precious, coveted, shiny diamond ring

So large was the diamond on that precious ring
No jeweler could begin to appraise that thing
The greatest piece ever of gold bling-bling
Had ever been offered by any other king
All for the one who would best choose to sing
The right song sung at the King’s sing fling

Then came the night of the King’s sing fling
Under glass, on display was the priceless ring
Many entrants lined up, all so ready to sing
A song that they hoped would do the right thing
And make them shine in the eyes of the King
To win the prize of the diamond bling-bling

With minds aflutter with that diamond bling-bling
One after another, they failed at the fling
As the night neared the end, the face of the King
Saddened, for who would be worthy of the ring
Who would be worthy of this priceless gold thing
Who, oh who, would choose the right song to sing

Then the very last entrant proceeded to sing
A song so amazing, a song with bling-bling
More beautiful and soothing than any other thing
That the King has heard at his own singing fling
A song and a singer worthy of this priceless ring
A song worth waiting for, indeed, thought the King

And that night the King heard a nightingale sing
She won the ring, that gold and diamond bling-bling
The last at the fling; and she sang the right thing

Earl Parsons |ejpearlAT NOSPAMcox dot net

4/28/2008 1:36:53 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily - Many good thoughts, prayers and positive vibes to you and your husband.

Robert - I have never written a poem in a specific form. This is gonna be tough. My thoughts to you right now are not so positive.
;-) (I think I can, I think I can...)

Susan Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

4/28/2008 1:37:47 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

I HAD 6X6+3 BEFORE I SENT THIS POEM THROUGH.

H. Michelle Cooper

Michelle Cooper |hmcoope1AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 1:38:28 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Earl, That, as they say, that we like!

Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es

4/28/2008 1:39:44 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Butterfly in The Garden

In the garden, my lover and I were greeted by a butterfly
who was resting her tired wings after a sordid tryst
with the wind, and she flew to us to present the evidence
of her soft and subtle affair with the corner-hugging gardenia,
and the aroma filled my head and to my lover I said yes, oh yes,
we held hands until the world was adrift with silence;

In the garden, my lover and I peered at the world, silent
through the trees, and the only sound was the soundless butterfly
and the faint flutter of her wings; we lay in the grass and, yes
oh, yes, we consumed each moment of our subtle tryst
in the garde,n alive with the sweet scent of gardenia,
hoping beyond hope that the garden concealed the evidence;

Outside and far away, songs of soaring sparrows was evidence
of the garden where my lover and I lay, we kept our silence
from the world, and for us alone was the smiling gardenia
whose reach stretched beyond the walls, and the butterfly
flew away to relive the bliss of her wind filled tryst,
as we lay head in hands, my lover said to me, yes, oh yes;

Obscured by trees and an ivy-sided wall, we said yes
oh yes, we will never part and my lover said, the evidence
of how I feel is symbolized with this ring, and our tryst
became a lovers’ bond that strengthened in triumphant silence,
as he longingly looked into my eyes, again returned the butterfly,
red and blue with a greenish hue, she sat upon the gardenia;

Under the crumbled garden wall, her world the smell of gardenia,
our multi-hued friend beheld as I screamed to my lover Yes!
Oh yes! I will adore you and love you always, heard the butterfly,
you hold my heart forever in your hands, please take this as evidence,
I parted my lips and with a tender kiss, the garden grew its silence
like a Blossomed tree, pink and new, for the love of a lovers’ tryst;

My lover’s hand caressed my thigh, lightly touched, our secret tryst
remained unnoticed still, but for the silent eyes of the gardenia,
his warmth and breath embraced my skin, we loved in raging silence,
and my lover and I slept arm in arm and the moon said yes, oh yes,
I will confirm your forever love and marry you to the wind, evidence
of lovers’ love held only by the red and blue and multi-hued silent butterfly;

In the garden, the butterfly bore witness to a gentle lovers’ tryst,
and she held in her eyes the evidence, shared only with the gardenia
where my lover and I said yes, oh yes to love in the scented silence.

Marin Christensen

4/28/2008 1:45:09 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Dear Emily,

Everyone fears the chance of something horrible happening to their loved ones. Hang in there, my dear, and know that there are many of us praying for you and your husband. Have faith that the Lord will answer the prayers, but know that whatever happens, all things work for the glory of God. I personally pray that both you and your husband have a relationship with Jesus Christ. He will see you through.

In Christ Always

Earl Parsons |ejpearlAT NOSPAMcox dot net

4/28/2008 1:50:07 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Iain - thank you very much

Robert - Do you have any plans for May and beyond to keep this group together? How about we send you prompt suggestions to your email address? That way it would take some pressure off you brain. I believe that with the talented poets your challenge has gathered, we could, possibly, keep this thing going indefinitly. Just a thought.

Earl Parsons |ejpearlAT NOSPAMcox dot net

4/28/2008 1:54:51 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily, you and your husband are in my thoughts. I so hope that things are turning out okay and he is already on the way to a strong recovery.

Joannie

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

4/28/2008 1:57:35 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Marin, That, also, we like. Beautifully crafted.

Everyone,
You guys have done this before methinks... Me? I'm going to the pub! No-way you're getting more than one out of me today! Look forward to reading the rest later...

Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es

4/28/2008 2:02:25 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Thanks, Iain -- today's poem was definitely a challenge! Cheers!

Marin Christensen

4/28/2008 2:21:34 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily,
I am praying for you and your husband.

...as for the poem, this might take a while.

Laurie Kolp |lkkolpAT NOSPAMnetzero dot net

4/28/2008 2:22:18 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Sammy snake is alive and well!!! Thanks, Iain, for keeping him in your thoughts and poem. I can assure you, he's in my thoughts, NONSTOP . . . where is he????

Heather |tjbhebAT NOSPAMaol dot com

4/28/2008 2:26:00 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily,
I am praying for you and your husband.

...as for the poem, this might take a while.

Laurie Kolp |lkkolpAT NOSPAMnetzero dot net

4/28/2008 2:32:56 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily ~
My prayers are with you and your family.

I tried writing one of these before, and it beat my butt. This is going to take a while.

Monica Martin |lilmunkey2369AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 2:41:54 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily, you and your husband are in my prayers.

Robert, I'm not one to whine about prompts but,
whine. whine, whine. I've never written a sestina I liked, but here it goes. It may take me awhile.

Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 2:54:28 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

The Road of Life

I was walking down the road of life
When upon my journey I actually
Found my life joined by a companion.
He leads me through a forest
With trees of orange, gold and red
Until we came to a crossroads with paths of seven.

We decided to take the seventh
Path, a new fate on the road of life.
As we started down this way a balloon of red
Floated overhead, and I wondered if it was actually
A symbol of life through which forest
Are rebirthed and new friends become companions.

Moments floated by for me and my companion
Until the moments turned into years of seven.
We finally came to the end of the forest
And bright sunshine entered our lives
We were happy and content and actually
Enjoyed sunsets of the deepest hues of red.

The distant light of war cast its glow of red
Across the eyes of me and my companion
Until we could no more hide from the actuality
Of our journey, so we ventured across the seven
Seas to seek out the meaning of life
And again we entered the cool darkness of the forest.

This was a deep, dark and bitter forest
With no leaves of gold or red.
This new road was unknown, taking the very life
Out of my soul and my companion.
So the last seven years seemed like seven
Seconds, he was no more, gone, and had he actually

Been here? Had we really made this journey? Actually
I hope this is a dream, this dark forest.
I want to wake up and know seventy
More years of joy and roses of red
If we go back and choose a different path, will my companion
Be with me? Continuing on a different course of life?

This trip called life has actually
Provided many companions in a multitude of forests
With many reddish hues and paths numbered seven.

April 28, 2008
© Michelle H.
Robert - I took your advice and picked 6 words - I had no clue where it would go. It was fun. I've never written a Sestina before, however mine did go kind of dark and I don't like the last stanza but here it is anyway!

Michelle H. |mik_1000AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 2:57:12 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily -- I'm sending healing thoughts and prayers to you and your husband.

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

4/28/2008 3:01:03 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Emily, I am praying for you and your husband.

I will be doing this poem as part of multitasking today. I have never written a poem this long before, but I am not surprised this is today's prompt after the early warning.

Kudos to those who have finished all ready and had those poems sound spontaneous.

Sheryl Kay Oder |SkoderAT NOSPAMaol dot com

4/28/2008 3:02:32 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Please, don't whine
everything will be fine
just don't try and overthink
or your sestina might stink
it was my very first time
I just made it a rhyme
took a story, don't you know
and the words began to flow
I won't say I want wild
I just thought like a child
because way deep inside me
there's one hiding inside me
so, have lots of fun
and get your sestina done
y'all

Earl Parsons |ejpearlAT NOSPAMcox dot net

4/28/2008 3:04:37 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

A Lace Looting Loon

There was a loon
In the lake
Who liked
To live
On loot
Of lace.

All colors of lace
The loon
Did loot
On his lake
Where he lived
And was liked.

He liked
All lace
And lived
For a loon
On a lake
That could be looted.

He hid his loot
That he very much liked
Under his nest on the lake
Which was made with the lace
This very funny loon
Did take. He lived

A very long life
And he had much loot
This very old loon
Who liked
All kinds of lace
And lived on Lull-a-bye Lake.

This was the lake
To live
On if you liked lace
That had been looted
And was liked
By a very old loon.

The loon on Lull-a-bye Lake
Liked to live
For looted lace!

April 28, 2008
© Michelle H.
Okay, I was inspired. I tried to do a humorous Sestina with words that started with the letter "L". Hope you enjoy!

Michelle H. |mik_1000AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 3:05:07 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Michelle,

I have a little poem I wrote years and years ago that addresses the 'darkness' that I want to share with you. Light comes with dark and we, as poets and artists, must go both places. Thank you for sharing your poem, I really enjoyed the imagery. Here's the little poem I promised:

"An artist to an artist once said,
don't be afraid of the dark."

Marin |marinchristensenAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

4/28/2008 3:07:43 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Obviously, my last comment was addressing Michelle's first poem . . . :)

Marin |marinchristensenAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

4/28/2008 3:13:25 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

My thoughts go out to Emily at this very difficult time.
I know so well the fear and helplessness of watching someone fight against the terrible injuries an accident can cause.

Carol A. Stephen, Carleton Place, Ontario

Carol A Stephen |carolstephen2AT NOSPAMaim dot com

4/28/2008 3:17:37 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Cold Days of Heaven

Had I now seen the last of love?
Gone early, lost to me in death.
Touch cheek, lips encounter cold.
Life, departed, has taken warmth,
Gone to seek cold days of heaven,
Embraced in sleep: eternity.

Call the dead from eternity,
Yet call in vain for even love
Cannot retrace the path from heaven.
That spark, life’s essence, in death
Gone, there is no light, no warmth.
Nights stretch eternally cold.

Life paces on, the soul is cold.
Days, days stretch to eternity.
Thoughts stir tears for memoried warmth,
Yearn again for the light, for love,
For new life beyond grief and death,
Respite from cold days of heaven.

Conversations with heaven
Speak with misted shades of cold.
Time fades memories of death.
Grief’s pain, held in eternity
Softens, remembrance of love
Sustains memories of warmth.

Love’s loss remembered, yet warmth
Cannot pass down from heaven.
Thoughts turn, imagine new love,
An end to grief’s winter cold,
Love in a new eternity
Turns away from thoughts of death.

From memories of love’s death,
From keening cries for its lost warmth,
Time brings a second eternity,
Another chance before heaven.
Life no longer bleak and cold,
Arms open, beckon, “Here is new love.”

Love touched eternity, defined death.
Favoured anew with love and warmth,
Life’s stanzas shun cold days of heaven.

Carol A Stephen |carolstephen2AT NOSPAMaim dot com

4/28/2008 3:24:54 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Timbucktu

Timbucktu was a base, a mighty hill
where I was sent during the Vietnam War.
At the beginning being there was a thrill
to Cambodia I could see from above,
far away from all the fighting and hell
having some peace among the war zone mell

The firebase over the clouds was a mell
that gave some beauty to the treeless hill
I thought this place was far away from hell
a vacation for me instead of war
that from the enemy I was far above
that for sure this was going to be a thrill.

Filling sandbags was always the first thrill
to build some nice bunkers into the mell
though up there, needed to protect from above,
does not matter if you are on a hill
they are many the variables of war
and in anywhere a rocket can be hell.

Before I knew we were covered with hell
then there was desperation, no more thrill
face to face then with the unwanted war
with much blood tinted our brotherly mell
the bunkers full of soldiers on the hill
guessing a witted foe coming from above.

The order to strike back came from above
but already we were drowning in hell
in a dead bed we converted the hill
the tears ran down and that was no thrill
adding some spice to our sorry mell
with the sad memoir of the Vietnam War.

It was just a battle within the war
as the commanders thought somewhere above
for us, the ones that were there in the mell,
those ones that for three days were living hell
cannot forget one moment of that thrill
cause the souls left behind on that hill.

It was a hill that was there in the war
that wasn't a thrill in my head or above
but only hell in the forthcoming mell.

Marcos Cabrera |marcoscabrera2006AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 3:30:48 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

The Warrior
By Bill Kirk

“I came.
I saw.
I conquered.”
That’s what
The warrior
Said.

And since the day he said
He came,
Each warrior
Who has come after the one who said he saw,
May think he knows just what
That warrior supposedly conquered.

But could he have conquered
All that he said?
And is all of what
He came
To tell us he saw
The true tale of a warrior?

For which warrior
Has ever conquered
All he said he saw
At precisely the time he said
He came?
Can we be sure of whom or even what?

Alas. The truth of neither whom nor what
Can be verified because the warrior
Who so long ago came
To tell us he had conquered,
Simply said
Only that he conquered what he saw.

Might his tale be just another old saw—
The stretched and embellished bits and pieces of what
Has for centuries been said and re-said
About what this fabled warrior
Might have done were he to have conquered
All that he said he did when he came?

Nay. As all warriors then and since, when he came and he saw,
He could only have conquered or been conquered, for what
More could be asked of any warrior? What better could be said?

Bill Kirk |RnBKirkAT NOSPAMaol dot com

4/28/2008 3:38:28 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Thanks Marin! I appreciate it, and you are right. - Michelle Hed

Michelle H. |mik_1000AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

4/28/2008 3:54:01 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Ode to my Sour Patch Kids

I want to tell you about one of my favorite things.
They’re a little sweet,
a little sour,
and they’re something I love
to devour!
Ode to my Sour Patch Kids.

Oh, Sour Patch Kids,
What would I do without you little things?
It’s you I love to devour.
I love how you’re sweet,
and I love
how you’re sour!

Sometimes when I eat you my tongue tingles; you are way too sour.
And sometimes it creeps me out how you are called “kids”
but it is you I love,
you weird little things,
you’re just the right treat, and just the right sweet,
and it’s you I love to eat; it’s you I can’t help but to devour.

Even though I know I shouldn’t devour
a whole bag of you. You’re way too sour,
but then again you are so sweet,
and with that I can’t compete. Oh, how I love my Sour Patch Kids.
You are one of my favorite things,
and it is you I love.

Even though it is you, little candy, that I love
the more I devour
you, the more I realize you are one of the things
I should give up. It is my stomach you sour
and, anyway, who in their right mind eats something called “kids”
If I could give you up that would be really sweet.

I could prove to myself I can live without your sour and sweet,
and instead lunch I would eat. I would love
that. You hear that Sour Patch Kids?
I will no longer devour
your sweetness and your sour.
Take that you weird little things.

My favorite things, you are so sweet
and you are so sour, and it’s you I love, love, love
to devour, but now it’s time to say goodbye kids.

KP |kerritothepointAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

4/28/2008 4:11:34 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

“Like Pure Gold”

Crouched on the floor, he picks up his guitar.
Plucking the “G,” he tightens the string,
Too high. Then loosens, too low, until he gets the note
Just right. If only his voice was rich, like gold,
Not tinney and weak, then he wouldn’t just strum,
But shout out his song, and everybody would listen.

All night in bed, he wears his earphones, listening
Until dawn to his iPod, analyzing the lead guitar
In every song, so tomorrow when he starts to strum,
He will be Paul McCartney, or close, and every string,
Will join in a perfect chord, like pure gold.
And when he picks, he will get, perfectly, every note.

Once, he stopped playing for a week; not one note.
His mother would pause in the hall, listening,
And he’d turn up his speakers, playing the Top Gold
albums of 1968. She asked, “Where’s your guitar?”
And he shrugged, thinking quickly. “I need new strings.”
She smiled. “Get some soon. I miss hearing you strumming.”

That week, his fingers itched, like Poison Ivy, to strum.
If he heard a song on the car radio, he hummed the last note
All day, in Algebra class, during lunch, imagining which string
Could hold that exact pitch, and trying not to listen
To all the other sounds (teacher, loudspeaker) that weren’t guitar,
That shut out the chord, the melody, the true gold.

If only he could hold out a little longer, and not want gold,
Not want to stand on the stage, strumming,
Before a crowd of dancing (females), hoisting his guitar
Like he was, yes, Paul McCartney. He would hit every note,
Pure, true, so that the audience held its breath, listening,
And he was all together; fingers, arm, throat, voice, string.

On Wednesdays, his mother watches American Idol string
one bad singer after the next; tin voices, hollow gold.
“The best never win,” she says, and he tries not to listen.
But he watches the boy with dreadlocks and ukelele, strum;
and the Irish girl with black tatoos, hold the high note;
and the hippie nannie try a Carole King song with an old guitar.

Today, he picks up his guitar again, tunes the strings,
and finds the song he wants. “All notes are gold,”
Paul says. You just need to listen, then strum.

ann malaspina |amalaspAT NOSPAMaol dot com

4/28/2008 4:16:59 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

LOVE

How do you spell love?
I read it in hugs
I see it in children
It is sealed with a kiss
It can surround you in warmth
It is ultimately a blessing

Looking at you is also a blessing
I feel the sincerity of your love
My body is enraptured in your warmth
I can't get enough of your strong hugs
I can't resist the sweetness of your kiss
I pray this union produces children

I hope to pass on this beauty on to those children
Sharing this passion with them will be a blessing
They will learn the significance of a kiss
They will be overpowered with our love
They will never be void of hugs
in them, they will feel true warmth

True and sincere love produces this warmth
This I hope will be passed on to their children as well
I want their arms to be sore from hugs
They will know that affection among family is a blessing
They will not shy away from love
All these lessons will be sealed with a kiss

Sadly, love does not always deliver the feeling of warmth
Sometimes the harshest realities of hate are bestowed on children
Some do not know the comforts of hugs
They don't know the meaning of a blessings
They don't know the beauty of love
Heavy hands are delivered instead of kisses

I want to rescue those children also with hugs
Overrun them with gentle kisses
On them, I pray mounds of blessings
To shoot down the coldness of others with warmth
We should do all we can to protect all children
So that they know the reality of love

Love shown through an abundance of hugs
Our children's cheeks covered in kisses
All of this warmth delivered to them is a definite blessing

Christa R. Shelton |c_writesAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

4/28/2008 4:38:59 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Iain:
"You know that once mushroom induced, I saw how butter flies
Luckily I knew which ones to eat"

I really love that line.

Elizabeth

Elizabeth Keggi |lilyclarissaAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

4/28/2008 4:42:16 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

Waiting for the Fever

Looking out my north face window,