# Saturday, April 18, 2009
April PAD Challenge: Day 18
Posted by Robert

After today's poem, we'll be 60% of the way through this challenge. Woo-hoo!

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem with an interaction of some sort. The interaction does NOT have to be between people, though it can. For instance, you could write about the interaction between a bee and a flower; or an owl and a field mouse. Or just write about a traffic cop getting into an argument with a speeder. Just as long as there is some sort of interaction going on.

Here's my attempt for the day:

"Only Gets Worse"

I watch the boys run around
the new playground. Another
father approaches me and
says, "Kids," chuckling to himself.
I don't know how to respond,
so I don't. "Yeah, my little
one--that girl in the green
dress--she's a handful for
sure." I never understand
why some people feel the need
to talk about nothing when
there's nothing to talk about.
He exhales a long sigh,
"Yeah, her mother's a bitch."
He waves gnats away from
his face with his hand. "How
long you been married?" He
apparently hasn't noticed I haven't
been communicating, and he obviously
doesn't care, because he says,
"It only gets worse," and
then adds, "It only gets worse."
He waves away some more gnats,
takes his leave of me, and
makes his way to a single mom
on the other side of the play
area. She watches him approach,
clutches at her purse, and
smiles nervously when he laughs.

 


Poetry Challenge 2009 | Poetry Prompts
Saturday, April 18, 2009 1:37:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)  #  Comments [868] 
Saturday, April 18, 2009 1:43:01 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The rabbit and the Crow

Shape of shades
shading sharply
light and shade
shading distant foregrounds,
backgrounds in close range.
concave, convex, curvatures
crows balancing
on the perch
caw-caw calling
on the wire,
orange, blue shapes
beyond the horizon.
red radishes blossom
on the brown earth
eroded by the rabbit,
pulled by the crow’s beak.
sharp shape of shades
shifting sides
black crow on the perch
white rabbit on the ground
mirror images
moving shades.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 1:47:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Poetry prompt day 18 prompt word: "interaction"

BUTTERFLIES (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater April 18, 2009

Two by two they flutter by
On the whiff of the wind in the pale blue sky;
A dance of romance in the summer air
As they lightly touch down, this colorful pair.

"Be fruitful and multiply. Replenish the earth."
The command went out to all creatures at birth:
The grass and the flowers, and beasts of the fields,
As well as to man in likeness to yield.

The garden I visit in colorful form,
In storybook fashion teaches the norm:
It is not good but to be alone,
Creation was set in a dual tone.

The insects, the birds, and the flowers I see,
As I walk through the garden in the shade of a tree,
Reveal a new world that is often forgot,
But the lesson I learned is the one that I sought:

The meaning of life and a happiness plan
Requires two people, a woman, a man,
And children to come in their time as they're sent,
A family forever --- is the way it was meant!
Saturday, April 18, 2009 1:55:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I talk to myself
voicing hollowing echoes
answered by no one.
Jessinchina
Saturday, April 18, 2009 1:55:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
KNOCKING AT YOUR DOOR (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater April 18, 2009

Knocking at your door
Like I did before
You're the one I idolize
You took me by surprise
At the door.

Tell me what you see
Can it really be
On a still and quiet night
You came into my life
Like a dream.

I was a loner that night
I came and walked into your life.
You were a lovely girl
With sparkling eyes and a smile
That took my heart.

When I saw you there
Nothing could compare
To the way you touched my heart
You took me from the start I declare.

Knocking at your door
Like I did before
You're the one I idolize
You took me by surprise
At the door.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 1:57:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
MacBoingboings
April 18, 2009
—For Joseph Sherman, brilliant Canadian poet and intellectual
who died January 9, 2006 age 60 years.


Joe nicknamed them
the macboingboings
those nervous well-wishers
who positively bounced
around the outside edges
of his final discomforts
spouting pious denial
dispensing their treacle
sticky and unpleasant
and him already nauseous.
What he wanted to do
was talk symptoms
living, fears and pain
talk all those passions
for life and for his writing
concern for family and friends
he still carried everywhere
like a precious briefcase
be as alive and well
as humanly possible
while he was able.

J. Hugh MacDonald
Saturday, April 18, 2009 1:59:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
OK, I AM NOT CRAZY! Here is what I found for today at 8-ish this morning:

April PAD Challenge: Day 18
Posted by Robert

I'll pick back up on the highlights on Monday. Spent last night working on my Writer's Market book, which goes to production next Friday. By the way, isn't it cool? We've made it 60% of the way through April--once you write today's poem. I'm sure anyone who's made it this far will be able to cross the finish line on the 30th.
Today's prompt is to take a line of my choosing and incorporate it into your poem in some way. You can use the line as the title of your poem, as the last line, as the first line, or even drop it somewhere in the middle--but you must use the line somewhere. And a special note to you "rule benders": No, you cannot break up the line into individual words or phrases. The whole line must be used, though you can definitely insert a linebreak or two if you wish.
So, what's the line anyway? It is: There is no connection.
No connection to what? And who is speaking? And in what context? These are questions you should ponder before tackling this prompt.



Here's my poem for the day:

"Convergence"
We arrive late in Atlanta to learn,
"There is no connection available
from Hartsfield-Jackson to LaGuardia
tonight." Some of us head to hotels
as others loiter, stranded south
of the Mason-Dixon line. A man
holding his cell says, "I can't talk
in here. There's no connection."
One woman tells another, "It tears
me up to hurt him like I do, but
whenever we're together there is
no connection. It's like, 'Okay.
Let's get this over with already.'"
Those of us who stay and don't
talk listen to those of us who do.
This is what happens when things
don't go according to plan. One
person unloads all his frustrations;
another acts as if she might be
somewhat interested; and there is
no connection between the two.
 

Now the prompt is s"interaction" and the poem I posted for the above is GONE. What is the deal with this? This is the 3rd time this has happened.


Carol Bachofner
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:00:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
WENT TO A DANCE (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater April 18, 2009

Went to a dance the other night,
Saw this "Chick", she was out-of-sight,
Oh, well I got caught dancing in the middle of the floor,
The girl I was with I didn't want no more,
Saw this "Chick", watched her with my eye,
I said let's dance, she said "I'm with this guy!"

She went around, and around, and around and around
She went around, and around, and around and around
She went around, and around, and around, and around
She was a dancing to the music, and a groovin' to the sound.

Looked at the girls all around,
There's only one girl that could really turn me on,
Oh well, I followed that girl all about,
Prettiest girl, without a doubt,
Saw this "Chick" she really turned my head,
I said, "Let's dance!" , then she shot me dead!.

She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She was a dancing to the music and a goovin' to the sound.

Next song played, I really "dug" the sound,
I knew this was my chance, I began to turn around,
Oh well, I got caught dancing in the middle of the night,
The girl I saw, she was out-of-sight,
Now my chance, I couldn't pass it by,
I said, "Let's dance!" , she only said: "Goodbye!"

She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She was a dancing to the music and a groovin' to the sound.

Just kept waitin' for the time to lag,
The guy she was with, well, he made my life a drag,
Oh well, I watched that clock, it was nearing twelve,
I knew my chance was a sittin' on the shelf,
Asked that girl, I knew this was my chance,
Before I got to speak it was the last dance!

She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She went around, and around, and around, and around,
She was a dancing to the music and a groovin' to the sound.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:02:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Trust me, be my friend
I walk with a prong collar around my neck
Message says, "Beast, do not touch."
Don't forget I have to be trained, don't
judge my looks,
I am lean and powerful
My eyes are soft, my heart is innocent.
Approach me gently and let me nestle your hand.
A smooth bronzed hand, gently strokes my nose
I do not jump, I do not rush
Though young and vigorous, we both savor this moment
Trust you, trust me.




Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:03:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The nice Lady

She patted me on the head
“So that’s Ella” to me said
“Good for you old man
Get help where you can
Keep that mind in flight
Talk to the doll it’s alright.”
I told her where Ella’s been
She almost smiled and then
“Remembered all that did you
See it will help you through”
I wanted at her to scream
“I’m not as old as I might seem”
But then she walked away
Me her good deed of the day.
And I didn’t smash her head
Run her over, leave her dead
Condescending old broad
Who died and made her God.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:04:37 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I am boldly adding a second interaction poem today. I hope no one minds too much.

Butterfly House
April 18


In the butterfly house
all the butterflies
have damaged wings.
They are born here
pupas suspended
on parallel bars
like the arms of a rotisserie
inside a closed box
with one glass side
curtained so visitors
can peep inside
view the intimacy
of their moist entry
into this the first
of their prisons
the initial unfurling
of their magnificent wings.
Once dry
they are released
into a deceptively
wider world
the netted confines
of this glass house
with its illusion of sky
its blurred impressions
of enfolding wilderness.
Butterflies never eat.
But they drink here
become intoxicated
on nectar and rotting fruit
stand like tattooed
cardboard cutouts
on the heads and shoulders
of paying tourists
beat their fragile wings
against wood and glass
in their yearning
for some distant
indescribable
destination.
J. Hugh MacDonald
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:06:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Well, no matter the disappearing prompt, I am re-posting the original one I did for today. Just so happens it fits with "interaction" too:

Ejucation

She cannot spell or pronounce
words like “tylenol,” “education,” common
words everyone uses. Her spelling is off
by a few letters, or sometimes so alien
I have to guess by context. Her grammar
by all accounts is only a distant cousin to accurate.
Same age as I, educated in the same state,
she missed something. Was it her teachers?
What about the difference in our towns? Parents
pushing me and not her? Ever hurrying to the next task,
the next idea, maybe she never stopped to suss
out the rules, the process of proper English.
She sees herself as inferior, somehow flawed
in comparison, calls me the educated one.
Counting her bad grammar, poor spelling, odd diction
would be a mistake. There is no connection
between eloquence and friendship, no link
between spelling and neighborliness.
At every bizarre turn of phrase, I cringe,
keep reminding myself there is no connection.
No connection, not connected. Not.


Carol Bachofner
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:14:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
DEAR MIKE

She has a
wonder filled heart
and it finds hope
in the oddest places.

You are like her.
So Am I.
No wonder
we like her.

I wish I’d said that,
he said.
You did,
I said.

I see,
he said.
I’m sure I haven’t,
but it’s nice of you
to say.

He said,
I wonder what
you'll say
I said,
tomorrow.

Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:15:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Something in Common

Two strangers arbitrarily
Roomed together in a strange city
Genial hallos and chit-chat
Where are you from?
How was your trip?
A common goal quickly decided
Seek out the school where both shall train
Look at maps
Discuss the route
The Metro hurtles them under the strange bustling city streets
Slowly they come to know each other
Not intimately but on the surface
The way people do when they first meet
Take the right turn but get confused
Turn back
Turn again, start from scratch
Finally figuring it out
Amongst the things they have in common:
Their situation
Their accommodation
Their lack of knowledge of the city
The idea that they will share much over the coming month;
Amongst all these things it becomes clear that there is one thing
A tiny thing, a detail that they do not have in common
In fact quite the opposite
For the each have a different set of directions
Which explains why the school is not where they thought it was
But somewhere in between
Like them
Neither at home yet nor out of their depth
But somewhere in between
Somewhere in Barcelona


Iain
Iain D. Kemp
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:17:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Carol _ I'm not surprised you are confused, some how you have looked up the prompt from day 18 from LAST YEAR!!!

Iain
Iain D. Kemp
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:18:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
For the frustrated Carol Bachofner you are not completely crazy you just appear to be a year behind! Somehow you are looking at the prompts for the April 2008 challenge you must be clicking that link instead of the 2009 because I just looke dup April 18th 2008 and the prompt you have is the one for that day..so you may want to try 2009!! That should end your frustration!

I will post my poem later on..just wanted Carol to stop ripping her haor out.
:)
Melissa Rossetti
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:20:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I cannot meet you

I would love to meet you
But I am afraid
Of your rejection
Or your stares
Or your surprises
You might discover
When you see me
That
I do not qualify the
Image in your mind

It is not my fault
If you drew the picture of me
In your soul
Reading my thoughts
My opinions
My words
From your virtual sight

I never said
I am pretty
Rich
Influential
Nor did I ever
Discuss my age
You adored my rambling
My wit
My style
Imagining a God
With feminine delight

Damn you
And your desires
To see the skeleton of me
I truly cannot match
The fabric
Nor colours
Nor nirvana
Of your wayward mind

I want to be away from
Your binary wildest dreams
You sit at your own desk
And I will, at mine
We can still drink coffee
And chat online
We can carve out poetry
From my lines

But let me be me
My true me and me
I truly cannot meet you,
This evening
Offline
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:20:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Haiku: Guidance from the Spirits

Spirits came to me.
They showed me the way to go
to find fulfillment.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:23:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
blend into my morning coffee, cream. swallow you down with the warm earth
so easily disposed of in single-serving capsules. balance this restless tincture.
smooth over the aggression of the Americas. I want to be your friend.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:23:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Elevator up


it seemed so insignificant at first
a quick glance only but a moment in time
yet
it lingers on my mind
all day
the color of his eyes
like penetrating rays
of my favorite african violet
a purplish-blue


the attraction undeniable

I wonder if he believes in love at first sight
Valentine deFrancis
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:28:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Interaction: A Whale of a Time



Whoosh of water
Wonderful whale
Whizzing along with
The wake of my boat...
Wet waves weave a whacky tale

Wiggle and waggle of
Wriggly tail
Walloping the water
Whacking the waves

Wee eyes winking at me
Watching the
Winning ways
Weaving wonderful worlds
Welcome,
Wonderful wanderer,
Wow!
Whale!
Tanja Cilia
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:29:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
IN THE FIFTIES (1950's)
(C)Richard-Merlin Atwater April 18,2009

In 'the Fifties' upperclassmen had a lifestyle of their own,
On a Saturday night it wouldn't be right to leave your "Baby" home all alone.
In a Chevy Coupe, a two-door, with a paint job in two tone
On a Saturday night, to your "Baby's" delight you'd cruise with the radio on.

Tuesday, or a Wednesday, you would meet her in the hall,
By the lockers, after classes, Graffetti on the wall!

Well, if you should be like "Fonzie", with a fine tooth plastic comb,
On a Saturday night you would be the highlight of the dance at the High School "Hop".
As you dance to Elvis Presley; Bill Haley's Rock 'n Roll,
On a Saturday night to your "Baby's' delight you'd 'Jitterbug' all night long.

La Verne and Shirley wouldn't feel just right to sit home by the phone,
On a Saturday night while the lights are bright They'd be down at 'the Drive-in show',

When the clock struck after midnight, and it's time to take her home,
On a Saturday night when the moon is bright, the two of you all alone,
As you walk her to the doorstep, but you're moovin' kind of slow ,
On a Saturday night to your "Baby's" delight you whisper soft and low:

Tuesday, or a Wednesday, you will meet her in the hall,
By the lockers, after classes, Graffetti on the wall!

'In the Fifties', that's the lifestyle for the teenage High School zone,
On a Saturday night, well, it wouldn't be right to leave your "Baby" home all alone,
'In the Fifties', that's the lifestyle for the teenage High School zone,
On a Saturday night, well, it wouldn't be right to leave your "Baby" home all alone!
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:30:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
User Manual For Interacting With Humans

If you want to be interesting,
be interested.
Share the credit.
Bring something to the table
besides your elbows.
Don’t mistake caffeine
for enthusiasm.
Choose being wrong
over being ridiculous.
Try not to confuse vested interests
with moral truisms.
Be prepared to lose
once in awhile.
You don’t ask,
you don’t get.
If everyone agrees with you,
it’s likely that you’re wrong.
Never pass on an opportunity
to keep your mouth closed.
If you can’t spot the sucker at a poker table,
you’re probably it.
Never watch
the eleven o’clock news.
Kindness is everything.
Say thank-you.


Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:37:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Corpsman & The Jap

You see those movies about the Pacific
and it’s always big time stars at the front.
A hundred yards back is the surgical tent,
no stars are there. We even stopped sending
white guys to gather the wounded. The
Nips would shoot a guy in the leg, not bad
enough to kill him, but kill whoever came
to get him. They were worse than Germans.

The Army sent us all their Mexicans and
Indians and we made them stretcher-bearers.
They were much better at dodging bullets.
After our guys got patched up, we did Japs.
Once, when I was doing triage on prisoners,
they brought a Jap with a bullet in his side
and I cut his shirt open to see his wound,

A snapshot fell out of a woman and child,
like everyone’s pictures it was a little dirty,
yellow and wrinkled from handling, but you
could see right away it was his family.
He was hurt pretty bad but he reached
for it as I picked it up and whimpered
like an animal. I handed it back to him.
You know, he took my hand, and kissed it.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:41:37 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Interaction

It is what is unsaid
I interact with the most
Why wasn't I chosen to serve?
Why was I one of the ones chosen for the layoff?
What isn't being said.
It keeps me up at night
in bed
Non=interaction
is where
most things happen
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:49:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Meeting Baby Hunter

Stressful hours, pacing, checking, watching inane shows on the waiting room TV.
Finally a teary, new Dad with a subtle, half-smile appears unobtrusively to signal
That his son has finally arrived.
So many eager faces and hearts wish to see the chosen one and his weary Mom.
Two at a time the hushed pilgrimage begins
A proud Dad has been turned into a prouder Grandpa
A shoulder rub for his baby girl before scooping up
Her baby boy eager to begin whispered introductions.
“Hi Hunter, I’m your Grandpa”
The oblivious infant cradled carefully in the crook of a bicep twice his size
Stirs then resumes the slumber he’s earned after a long day.
A bigger smile Grandpa has never had, a scratchy kiss to the forehead
And he’s reluctantly relinquished to his next new relative.



Melissa Rossetti
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:53:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
THE CHICKADEE

Not so fast as the blue jay,
Nor swift as the swallow or loon.
Not so bright as the cardinal
With his colorful coat of red.

Not so tuneful as the nightingale,
Nor as melodic as the whip-or-will.
Not so great as the eagle
Who soars with the stars above.

Not so persistent as the woodpecker,
Nor chaotic as the ubiquitous crow.
Not so common as the pigeon
Who messes on everyone's row.

Not so annoying as the seagull,
Nor the sandpiper down by the beach.
Not so funny as the puffin bird
With his long and flamboyant beak.

Chosen by man as symbol of state---
State Bird of my native Maine.
The Chickadee, bird of my youth as it were;
Indelibly pressed in the chamber of my mind's grain.

Sweet, lovely bird, of heavenly song,
And fuzzy, and soft like a chick!
The dee-dee-dee-dee of his chirping sound,
And her merry return ever so quick.

Not like a Dickie-bird who bops up and down,
And swirls as it were on a stick.
Whose beak touches water, but never does drink,
Because all he does is pick!

Lively, black-capped bird---The Chickadee,
Gray-brown wings, and light belly beneath;
He swings upside down on the branches tip
In search of insects to feed.

A titmouse bird of family Paridae
Who flocks with other birds too!
A friendly bird with small pointed bill,
The Parus Atricapillus Latinized view!

In the secret chambers of my soul
The Chickadee lives in my heart.
For once in my youth I took the life
Of two Chickadee's playing loves part.

There on a branch all covered with snow,
Next to the river's edge;
Hundreds of chickadees perched there and sang,
'Til the hunter came with his wedge!

I as a youth, foolish and brash,
On the sixteenth year of my birth;
With a cherrywood Remington, new as a gift,
I went shooting and stalking agirth.

First tin cans, and bottles to shoot,
And then a twig or a branch.
But finally aloft the perfect shot:
Two Chickadees, in love, with one bullet perchance!

Male and female, love birds entwined,
Side by side on the tree.
Chickadee birds created by God,
But they were felled by me!

Blood on the snow, two Chickadees lie---
Then I began to cry.
All the way home I wept that day,
And I almost wished that I die!

I the hunter----never again,
Never to ever take life.
The cherrywood Remington my mother sold,
And I to learn from my grief.

Chickadee birds----the state bird of Maine,
In resurrections great day
I will seek you out to seek forgiveness
For youth's foolish, errant ways!
Saturday, April 18, 2009 2:57:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
His Dog

She was his buddy from day one
when he took her from the shelter
where she was delivered by the police
after raiding yet another abusive situation.
Her loyalty was unconditional.
When he was sick, she never left
staying at his side, even lying outside
the bathroom as he showered
the day’s pain and strain from his
tired and weary body parts.
Thirteen years she was there for him -
day or night, hot or cold, sick or well.
How could he imagine the day would come
when suddenly she would not rise
to his call and come running to where he sat,
or that she would refuse the treats offered?
But, his loyalty was equally as unconditional,
as he laid on the floor beside her
comforting her with words of praise
until, wrapped in the comfort of his arms,
she slipped quietly into the next existence.



Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:00:16 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
This is old, but when Robert mentioned a cop, I couldn't resist it. I'm just bad, I guess.
Yield Sign

There on the corner, the sign said, "Yield."
So I looked left and right, and what did I see?
An officer. An officer of the law, looking at me.
I slowed way way down, as my hot blood congealed,
'Cause I knew he was waiting for me to make
One little mistake, I knew he was waiting
To see me go wrong, the thought began grating
On my nerves, 'cause I knew he wouldn't give me a break.
Nothing was coming, and I looked and paused
And went around the corner and rode
Away on down the road,
But I heard the siren and wondered what caused
The cop to chase me down. He asks for my license and looks and clucks
And I asked him what happened. "You didn't stop."
"But that was a yield sign," I told the cop,
"Is there no difference?" "Yep," the policeman smiled. "About twenty bucks."
Dang. I can't get it to form right. There are only 16 lines!


Don Swearingen
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:02:59 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Swans

Swans are known for being
a graceful, proud bird.
I see them every day
eyeing passerbys' carefully.
Swans do not interact with
other swans very well.
The male swan can we a
ruthless bird indeed.
Loyal to his wife and
children, but the dominate male
swan doesn't interact well with
other swans.
Yvonne Wills
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:03:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
How to communicate with a worm

No matter how much I tell them not to,
They still do it.
Each evening, as the sun sets and the dew falls,
They creep inside,
Under the front door, over the welcome mat
With its smiling porcupine motif,
Tiny wire-thin red worms from the compost bin.
Why do they ignore me?
It isn’t as if I don’t feed them.
I do. Strips of apple peel,
Long enough to spell my name; carrot tops;
Printed paper cartons; a feast
For any self-respecting worm.
Each evening I gather them up
In the palm of my hand and return them
To their home.
I am not sure that I will ever discover
How to communicate with a worm.
David C Johnson
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:05:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Two Body Problem

A planet wriggles
indecisive
Between its parent stars;

Julia worries
her teeth
and two possible jobs.

Sam reassures her
thinks
"I could do something else."

But she can't stop analyzing
geometry
Of a physicist and a doctor

Pulling one home
between
Manhattan and Sirius.

--
Marie
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:08:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
ROBERT OR ANYONE ELSE THAT KNOWS: Is the prompt interaction or no connection. They are both great propmpts but quite different, just wondering do we have two prompts today?

Merlin the magician of words, good work this morning!

J. Hugh I loved butterfly house, it made me think of people who have never come to know the love of christ. It gave me chills, very poignant.

Happy writing to all the wonderful poets today!
Hannah Bowles
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:08:30 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Goodbye

Little toehead sliding fingers
Into granny's crippled hand...
Smiles of great great grandma
Fill the parlor one last time.






G L Brookover
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:08:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Freddy

"His cucumbers grew to massive proportions.
Historic, I'd say, which brings to mind
the shed midst the veggies -- the place to enjoy
the unforgettable fire of his loins."

"The what?" I said, "You surely don't mean...?"
"I do indeed. Seriously biblical."
"Hefty, you mean, and weighing a ton?"
"Something like that," Sue replied.

She snorted and wriggled in fond remembrance
till Alice turned round and gave us a look.
I blushed. The topic was far from ideal
for the back pew at poor Freddy's funeral.

"But did you ever...?" I asked, still curious.
"Of course," said Sue. She pulled out the photos.
"Good grief," I cried, "Historic indeed!"
And on that note we had to leave.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:09:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Modern Psycho

Candy has a diamond necklace,
And I want one too.
Betty has a red ferrari,
Only one of a few.
Leila has a figure
That leaves nothing to be desired,
But let me tell you girls
She has cellulite on her thighs!

Carla has a new lover,
You'll never guess who it is.
Donna came round crying
Cos her man can't pay the bills.
Wish I could tell you about Susan
But the she asked me not to say
Really Jenny,
the things she said about you yesterday!

We are the modern Psycho high society crowd
Are you in or are you out?
Depends what you're all about

Lola wants a baby,
Says she’s been trying real bad
While little sister Brenda,
She doesn’t even know her dad!!
But thats nothing Jenny
Guess you haven't heard the word?
They say that Mona’s bustline,
Isn't really hers!

Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:12:17 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
There are two wonderful consequences to participating in the April challenge. One is the exposure to the heartfelt, honest writing of people we'll never meet, strangers we now know so well. The other is the frequent surprise to one's self, when something surfaces that has been wayyyyy down deep for so very long. Here's one that made its way to my fingertips this morning.
----------------------------------------------------------------

Shared Quarters

I awoke
to see
an NVA
or was it
really a VC?

He was
only
seven feet away
or was it
only three?

He was
badly hurt,
wrapped and tied,
or was he
actually free?

He was
obviously
a prisoner,
or was it
truly me?

He was
suddenly
convulsing,
dying now,
or trying to get free?

I awoke
to see
my enemy,
and he
was simply me.


Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:12:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"False Morinings"

As you lie alseep beside me,
I try to nudge you awake.
As I think to myself "this just can't be",
Another wasted day I can't take.
You grunt and groan and push me back,
Are you really that tired,
Or is it motivation you lack?
Then you turn and flash me a smile,
pull me to you with a hug.
I realize you were faking all the while.
Oh, your attitude is smug.
Donna Bachmann
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:13:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Talking to Myself

Do I have time for a run?
No, the kids want breakfast now.
Let’s see... eggs, bacon maybe a muffin-
Did I make it balanced? Enough nutrients?
Roddy has a game today and needs lots of energy-
They both like orange juice- that probably covers it-
I need to get Roddy’s haircut- I need to finish Nicole’s laundry-
I need to clean up the clutter in the kitchen that’s been sitting there for days-
What about my garden? What about my poem? I want to tick something off of a my list today-
Where shall I start? I need my coffee first.
I really wanted to run at least 2 miles. Forget about it- Do it tomorrow- It’s a beautiful day-
Plant some flowers- I can’t wait to see what they look like- I want to inhale the moonflowers-
I need to do the bookkeeping- I hate the bookkeeping- There is never enough $$$ to get the numbers to balance.
Gawd! My nails look awful! When was the last time I did them? Two days ago Julie… you remember- the polish never lasts- got my hands in too many things- Oh yes, I painted mom’s room yesterday- that’s why my nails are speckled and cracked. Actually, the design is kinda’ cool.
Did I call that guy to fix my air conditioning? I know I did. I think he was supposed to be here two days ago. Why didn’t he call? You can’t rely on these guys. Doesn’t anybody want to make any money?
Shane’s been awfully quiet lately- I wonder what’s up? Is something bothering him? I need to find a quiet moment with him.
I hope mom likes it here. She spent her whole life in a quiet town in upstate New York. Virginia is beautiful though and she has company and we are easy to get along with. She might miss her friends and her privacy. I hope it’s less stressful. She needs to start enjoying herself.
Damn! It’s 10:00am already! Did I do that load of laundry yet? Who put these fingerprints on my freshly cleaned window? Didn’t I just clean that?
I made my bed didn’t I this morning? I hate it when I go to bed at night and my sheets aren’t cool.
I need to get my lesson plans started for my class. I wonder what these new folks will be like? I wonder if they enjoyed my show the other day? I wonder what I can do to make their experience wonderful for them. Dare I think,…even transforming?
Oh my gosh! I need to buy those Styrofoam balls for the party next week! Maybe I can run there after the game today. Did I fill the car with gas?
Oh yeah, I did that while I was waiting for the kids to get to the bus stop.
I need to send that thank you note out before I forget to. Gosh, I had a nice time at the theatre the other night. I felt fabulous on stage. I wonder what the audience thought? Can’t wait to do that again…
Who left this mess in the middle of the living room floor?
Is anybody listening?
Julie Hairston
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:16:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Apology...."Goodbye" correction:

Toehead should have been spelled "towhead".....aaargh!
G L Brookover
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:20:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Thoughts While Watching another Viewing of That Movie
(for Julie)

A woman in round sunglasses:
Obsidian orbs
She sips iced tea
Wears white
Her hair is pulled back

A man with short hair
American
but much-travelled
well-liked
a demi-god to the masses

He, teasing, in a voice
Reckless with practiced nonchalance:
“Do you know how much power you have?”

She, in a voice faraway
With youth and immaculate inscrutability:
“Power?”

She looks at him
Turning her head only slightly
He can not see her eyes

She turns her head away
Looking beyond him
Past him. Exquisite.
Watching the seagulls along the cliffs

In fright his voice leaves
For safer shores
He whispers:
“Perhaps you do?”

Peyton Ellas
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:21:13 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
THE BLOOMINGS OF MY SOUL

My soul blooms with these words of love.
Budding brilliance planted deep within my heart and mind.
Nurtured and tended with the awakenings of life.
A good life made more perfect by you, my gentle gardener,
who encourages the growth of my love.
The growth of this man.
Your eternal sunshine beams forth by the glowing of your gardener's heart.
This sunshine brightens my days
and illuminates my thoughts,
making my growth fertile,
and fruitful and productive.

My soul blooms with thoughts of love.
Thoughts brought to light
like the first flowers of Spring
as they break the earth
and show their potential.
You my gardener, cares for me
and loosens the soil around me,
freeing my roots to branch out
and allowing me to grow full of life.
Full of love.
For I will give back to you
my "caregiver" with a very bountiful harvest
of the bloomings of my soul.
You are my gardener.
I bloom brilliantly for you.
Walt Wojtanik
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:22:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hannah - the prompt is interaction. The no connection prompt is from last years PAD

Iain
Iain D. Kemp
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:22:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Garden (by Jeanetta Chrystie)

I step into the garden,
weighed down with care.
I smell the flowers and damp greens,
God meets me there.

“Oh Lord, I feel so weary.
What shall I do?
My days just seem so busy.”
“Spend time with You?”

“I’ve so much to accomplish,
Where shall I start?”
“Read My Word and pray, to have
peace in your heart.”
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:22:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
With one hand I push you away
and with the other I take my hand to draw you in
you come close
and I move away
with one hand I'm pushing you away
with the other I'm calling you in.
all through my life it happens
always wanting what didn't happen
the choices I didn't make
the places I didn't go
the roads not taken
I don't know when it happened
I remember sitting in a workshop with someone named Jason and the seven somethings...
something he said, I can't recall what it was
I saw myself, the hands moving in opposite directions
it's a dance between wanting and not wanting
what could have been
what might have been
possibilities.
that's why I don't commit
what else may come
I remain
alone
with my two hands one pushing you away
the other drawing you in.

Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:26:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Go ahead.
I can’t.
Yes you can.
No I can’t.
You must.
Why?
Because you will regret it.

I can’t.
Yes you can.
Oh, God.
It’s OK
She picked up the
chili fried grasshopper.
Tasted.
Its good.
Told you.

kimberly
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:26:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Potter and the Clay

Slick and light grey,
Cool to touch the musty smell.
The Master throws the clay
On the platform it fell.

Around and round as in turmoil
The clay slowly responded.
Unformed and clutched from soil,
The Master and clay bonded.

Supernatural the beauty birthed
Between His agile fingers.
What mystery was there unearthed?
His soul in clay so lingers.

The spinning stops and now to see
A beauty built of purpose.
A vessel there to bear the tea,
His vision on the surface.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:27:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Just Do It

"I wish I could be more like you,"
she told her sister, which was me.
"Driving fearlessly in hail or big thunderstorms
is something I have always wanted to do."
Coming in from the rain, socks wet inside my shoes,
I looked at my big sis and said,
"Then just do it."

"How can you drive contently by yourself
during bumper to bumper rush hour traffic?"
asked my mother, with fear in her eyes.
"I guess years of experience,
living on my own and independent
gave me strength through my cries.
You just have to do it."

Laurie K.

Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:28:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Silence Speaking"

My father wasn't one
for words
He left that to my mother

Saturday mornings
I followed him
from blade to blade
while he mowed
clipped
trimmed

Rode shotgun while he drove
Truck smelling of dirt and
gasoline

We would feed the grass clippings
to horses
Their huge teeth always made me
a little afraid

Stopping at the A&W afterward
drinking cold rootbeer from a mug
almost too heavy to lift

A roughened work worn hand
placed on my shoulder

I knew I was loved.

- m.u. 04/18/2009
Morgan Underwood
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:32:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The following poem was intense to write, and for some, it will be intense to read because each of its stanzas tells the story of a sexual assault survivor. These stories are about some of the most brutal interactions young girls can experience, but they are also about how light can come into even the darkest places. I have found that when it seems like evil has all the power, and we are completely powerless, that light still shines with the hope of redemption.

INTERACTIONS

In Thailand, her parents were so poor
that they sold her, and she became a child prostitute.
Above the bed where they forced her, she nailed the words
from Psalm 27: “The LORD is my light and my salvation:
Whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life;
of whom shall I be afraid?”

In Ghana, West Africa, her parents believed they were cursed,
so they gave her to the village priest to be a slave to the gods.
She had her first child by him when she was twelve.
He called her “Gold,” named after the stolen thing her body paid for.
But when she was set free, she chose the name “Mercy,”
and that is her name today.

In Moldova, Eastern Europe, she had no parents
because she was an orphan. She watched the mafia-men come
to the orphanage-door and take other girls away. When she was raped,
she became pregnant, but kept it secret. She knew they had forced other girls
to abort. So she hid in her room, praying, praying. When she ran away,
she found a home, and her son came into the world alive.

In California, her father left her, and her mother ignored her.
Something happened when she was nine. In high school,
she was raped by two drunk boys, one after the other.
All she wanted all her life was for someone to listen to her
and love her for who she was, body and soul. At seventeen,
expecting the unexpected, she asked God to save her.

In Martinez, her parents said she could go stay at her best friend’s house.
Uncle Johnnie was there from West Virginia. In the middle
of the night, he held her head down and forced her on the hard floor.
She couldn’t scream, but her terrified soul cried out, and Jesus
appeared in the corner of the bathroom. Her soul flew out of her body,
and she hid her face against his heart until it was over.

All of these things happened.
All of them are true.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net







Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:36:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Rocking


Rocking in the waves
Tucked into my dreams
It never dawns on me
Til your knee is in my spleen
We so need a bigger bed

Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:37:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Editor and the Writer


The email read:
I don’t play golf.
So maybe you could explain
your column better,
signed Mike.

A retired guy
who doesn’t play golf?
Rewrite piece again and again.
You’re very welcome,
signed Cathy.

Oh, he said,
Now I get it.
Look for column in April issue,
send the invoice,
signed Mike.


Having trouble
finding April magazine.
Maybe you could send it along,
with payment.
signed Cathy.


Ran out of room.
Sorry! Mike.

Use it for May.
Thanks! Cathy



Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:37:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
MILLIE SAYS


Millie, don’t tell me
Tony’s been that way
for as long as you can
remember. I find that
hard to believe
you knew him
rough as sandpaper
a heart of granite
a mouth that spewed
disparaging words
to make your life
small and insignificant
and still you said “I do”
as if you had no choice
had to marry the brute
or face a bloody end

Johnny, let me tell you
Tony’s always been that way
but he was the master of
disguises. He knew how
to hide behind the blue eyes
of a solicitous lover
his hands were smooth
and in their palms were gifts
that swore they’d glitter forever
you had to see him then
that raucous laugh of his
the honeysuckle words
that dripped from lips
that held black wasps
between teeth grinding
for the right time to gnash
out at me and sting the hell
into me. You just don’t know.

#



Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:44:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Undemanding Empathy by Lynn Potter

I sit knees to chin pondering
then
change my mind.

No, the fetal position is more
fitting.

From the depths
of where I have never been before
come
sobs, gut wrenching sobs…

He looks up,
cocks his head,
moving
gently toward me.

I lean over,
rub his ears.
Tears drip on his coat
as he sits by my side.

We bond at the touch,

Me in my misery,
He in his mercy

He demands no explanation.

He’s my friend,
the quiet comforter,
a canine called “Buddy’’.


Lynn Potter
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:45:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
IF I HAD A BANANA LAUNCHER

Andrea fished a slice of banana out of her cereal bowl
and balanced it ever so carefully on her spoon.
With the box of “Crispy Flakes” to hide her every move,
she pulled back the end of the spoon
and with a flick of her wrist,
launched the mushy piece of fruit
toward her older sister.
Melissa saw the flying object
and moved her head out of the way at the last moment…
just as I walked into the room
from behind the teenage girl.
Something very soft and very wet
splattered against my forehead.
Milk rolled down the end of my nose,
as the banana fell off my head
and into my shirt pocket.

"What’s the big idea here ladies?” I demanded?
“I can’t even walk into the room
without there being a problem?”
A slight grin slowly spreading across my face.
My sense of mirth was interrupted by
the shrill sound of my oldest daughter’s
familiar words.
“STOP DOING THAT!” Melissa yelled.

I stopped and without turning to look,
reached back at Andrea
and grasped the end of her tongue
between my thumb and index finger.
“What have you been told about
sticking your tongue out at people, little Miss?”
I said sharply.
“I’m getting a little tired of always
having to remind you Andrea.” I finished.
“Now, I’ve got to change my shirt for work.”
came my complaint.
As I turned back to the door,
Andrea made this correction.
“Rebecca” she said, rather matter of factly.
For some reason she despised her name.
"I want to be Rebecca!"
I looked over my right shoulder,
with that look that ALL father’s possessed.
Andrea knew she had crossed the line.
Walt Wojtanik
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:46:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Turtle And Music

Turtle asleep on rock
Classical music plays
She dances with front feet
Bonnie House
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:47:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)





Day 18 Prompt: An interaction


An interaction

She walked into the kitchen
and looked at me, hopefully.
“I know what you want and the
answer’s no.” She didn’t move
but kept up ‘the look’. “It won’t
work. I said no and I mean
it.” I continued preparing
tea, trying to ignore her
but she edged closer, looking
even more hopeful. “Alright
then, here you go”, and I held
out a piece of cheese for her.
“Good grief, you wouldn’t even
have tasted that. One more piece
and out you go.” She swallowed
that piece too and left the room
knowing instinctively that
I wouldn’t give her anymore.
I think she knows me better
than I know myself.

And they say animals are dumb!

Maureen Sexton




Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:48:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Taking my Husband to the Poetry Festival

Invited to read at the poetry festival
beach town, ocean beckoning,
you come along, fishing poles
balanced in back seat, spinners
float in their little cases.
“Why don’t you come,
just to my reading, please?”
I crack a smile, knowing the answer.
“I can’t sit through two hours of poetry.”
“I know.” I shrug, give up as usual.
Last week we went to Barnes & Noble
to find a good book on fishing.
I lingered in the poetry aisle,
choosing Mark Doty’s prizewinner,
a book of essays I needed.
The checkout is always interesting.
I flash my teachers’ union card,
she looks at the fishing book,
the poetry, then at me.
Another bookstore visit
accomplished, card slides,
discount attained.
Last time it was
“Finances for Dummies”
and Elizabeth Bishop’s letters.
Today I will read my poems
to an appreciative audience,
and you will fish for stripers.
Tomorrow, we are going whale-watching,
an adventure we both enjoy.

Lori Desrosiers
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:50:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Sorry, need to change poem a little bit

Turtle And Music

Turtle sleeping in water
Classical begins to play
Turtle dances with front feet
Bonnie House
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:50:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Lost touch

“Only connect. . . .” E. M. Forster

Lost is the urge, when passing through an unfamiliar town,
to flip through the phone book in the hotel nightstand,
searching for our own names and then for names we know.
Now with the world a mouse click or cell phone call away,
Now that we can find anyone, we don’t.

We lose touch in random fashion, just as
The brain synapses fail, losing first the name
that goes with a face, then finally the face.
No more movie script surprises: I was just passing through
and thought of you.

Nancy Posey
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:52:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
More changes

Turtle And Music

Turtle sleeps in water
Classical music begins
Turtle dances with front feet
Bonnie House
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:53:12 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The sun goes down
The lights go on
Fat, juicy bugs gather round.

All night they flitter and flap
Around the bulbs so hot
Dropping on frame and ground.

Now sun comes up
And lights go out
As dead bugs the light surround.

To attract the birds
Soaring in at morn
To feast on these bugs they found.

The mockingbird struts
Across the littered sand
Pecking for once without a sound.

Now the Painted Bunting flits
Then briefly settles on the fence
Before he darts for morsels that abound.

At last the Green Jay proudly comes
Landing softly on the frame
And assesses this treasure crowned.

Capped with such a profusion
Of bugs so tasty and grand
His ji-ji-ji-shk-shk resound.

He is professing for all to hear,
“This buffet for birds is mine
But further I shall not expound.”


Wanda Gray
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:53:23 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Dragonface Pipefish

In early morning, two find each other
and begin their dance, twining
and swirling snake-like, red snouts
pointed at the sky. They twirl vertically
for hours, a slide-and-curl two-step.
As they hover and spin, the female pats
eggs onto the male’s spotted belly,
where they mature until they hatch
and the tiny pipes are on their own.
Tell me any creature is too small
to matter, too small to dance out
its wild love in the anonymous sea.

Marie-Elizabeth Mali
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:55:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Unchained Conversation

“Hey, where’s the,” I ask.
“Oh,” she smiles, “I think I left it on the table.”
“On the patio, you mean?”
“Yup,” she nods, sipping ice water, “Right there.”
Later, she calls from the veggie beds,
“Hey, can you,”
“Sure,” I nod, “Which one, the compost?”
“Uh huh,” she smiles, “Just one bag.”
Behind us, the neighbors are home.
We know because their Beagle and Hound
take up a caterwauling of welcome.
I stand and she’s looking at me, smiling.
“Me neither,” I nod, “Because they’re sweet dogs.”
She nods back, still smiling.
When we’re done, we straighten up and hug.
As we part, she looks at me,
one eyebrow raised and adds,
“Cool, so you’re cooking!”
Saturday, April 18, 2009 3:57:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
TOILET PAPER WASTED
By: Hannah Bowles

"Oh no!" I exclaim as I open the door
to the bathroom. There on the floor
lies the remnant of most of a roll
"Help me, please?" asks my precious
son. He doesn't realize what he has
done is naughty. So I take a deep
breathe and let him know his actions
were faulty. "Will you please not
waste the toilet paper?" I ask while
thinking he doesn't know the meaning
of wasteful, this caper of paper. He
wants to flush it down the toilet now
pushing it together into one big ball
"No honey we are going to save this,"
I say scooping it up and putting it
away. That sent him into howling and
he was ready for a fit, empty cardboard
toilet paper tube gripped in his little
mitt. "Come out of the bathroom now would
you please," I try and seize the moment
of calm before the storm, before big salty
drops began to form. Inaudible speech is
all that he could beseech with, “ okay let's
go 1, 2, 3 ." He liked the sound of this,
numbers he couldn't miss, he perked up and
picked himself up and the storm was averted.
"Wow" I thought to myself,” that works?" I
think with surprise. I always hear those moms
who do that and I never really thought it would
have such a calming affect. Moments later we're
sitting in the computer chair together, peering
through this tube of cardboard paper. Laughter
abundant, who would've known his naughty moment
could've sown such a simple pleasure after all.


This poem is for the interaction post. True story as you probably guessed,this really did happen this morning!
Hannah Bowles
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:01:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Me And The Eighteenth Rotten Raisin

It’s the last one in the box, my tongue
is gooey sweet, then a disgusting taste,
what a waste my snack time pleasure,
raison d’etre, a shocking spoiler core.

Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:02:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Nest Builders

The birds on the balcony
resent my intrusion
since they were there first.

They reprimand me,
plead with me, twitter
at me, all in perfect pitch
when I step outside to water
the geraniums.

"Go build your nest
somewhere else," they chirp.

I've seen them since March,
twigs and straw in their beaks,
resting on the rail
before the last leg of the flight
to the roof where the nursery
is being renovated.

Guilty and feeling like an interloper
I hurry out and do my chores
begging their forgiveness
and cringing in the presence
of their displeasure.
Bill Stewart
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:04:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
THANK YOU IAN, I appreciate the explanation I see what happened now after reading the interaction. Ha! funny coincidence.

Hannah Bowles
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:04:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Take It Outside

Screeching laughter
Piercing giggles
My ears hurt
My heart sings
Deafening voices
go from play to fight
"Give it to me!"
"They are mine"
Booming footsteps
clomp on the hardwood floors.
Chasing, chasing
CRASH!
Silence. Crying.
I wait. I listen.
"Wanna play outside?" the big one asks.
(little one is crying)
"Do you? (stroking his little brother's hair.)
Wanna play outside?"
(crying subsides)
And out to the playhouse they go...
Screeching laughter
Piercing giggles
Faraway footsteps on a sun-burnt lawn
Neighborly noises mesh with their voices
Ahhhh My heart sings!!

Sharon Spielman
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:05:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
JANE- your piece really moved me thank you for posting this.
Hannah Bowles
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:07:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Visit to Relatives Nearby

I stared at the ceiling beams
and studied the altar.
I watched the flickering candle light
make shadows move and falter.
My mind absorbed the sacred silence when
suddenly a voiced interrupted my solitude.
"Is everything okay, my dear child? May I help you?"
Quickly wiping away the tears,
I looked up at her from the pew.
A matronly woman with kind eyes,
studied me, her manner mild.
I should have said that
I don't come to church since my mother died,
but all that came out was, "No, I'm fine, thank you."
She continued, nodding at my reply,
she did not say it, but I knew she was
wondering silently at why I had cried.
She said, "Our service is not for another hour yet.
Are you new? In all my time here
I do not remember ever seeing you?"
"I don't live her any more.-
I'm visiting relatives nearby," I replied.
"Oh, that is lovely," she, like a dove, cooed.
"Just in case you don't know the booths are open
for confession for another hour or so,
before the evening service begins."
"Thank you," I said while my mind
dwelled on my human frailty and sin.
Her eyes had an inner calm that glowed,
radiated and somehow soothed.
She softly whispered, "I leave you in peace then."
"Peace be with you," tumbled
out of my mouth as if by cue.
Echoes of sacred rituals still resided in my head.
I had not been to church in almost ten years, the
amount of time that mom has been dead.
She rests in the cemetery nearby,
on a grassy knoll,
looking up at the sun, clouds, stars and blue sky,
while the traffic and people
in the frenzied pace of life
hurriedly zoom by.
Barbara Nieves
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:07:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
YOU ARE WHAT ALL ARTISTS SEE

We come to sit together
to view the last faint traces
of a summer sunset in a silent sky.

The glow of yellow-orange light
is refracted by the silhouetted trees,
Shining, peeking through quietly,
catching your eye as you look my way.

You glide your hand through your soft auburn hair
Perching the gentle tresses behind your ear,
And in that solitary moment,
I am home.

Your beauty reveals itself,
the hidden treasure of the truest heart.
Beneath your loving exterior
you have become where I want to be;
my humble abode; my sanctuary safe...

I have become mesmerized by your presence
which is soothing and warm and passionate;
Calming and reassuring.

In the distance,
the gulls disguise their lilting melody
and you saunter toward me
to engage me in a tantric slow dance.

And you make my heart sing
a beautiful song in which the only lyric
is your name.

Second by second,
I begin to recognize that
this enchanting glow to which we give witness
is the reflection of your sensuous brown eyes,
hidden as in an abstract painting.

You are what all artists see,
the shadow and texture; the tint and hue.
The palette of penetrating colors
spread across the canvas of our love.

You are who my poet’s heart sees,
you are fanciful alliteration,
the turn of a well worded phrase.
The rhyme and the meter that drives my soul.

You have become my poetry.

You are truly my life’s art…
Walt Wojtanik
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:08:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Cats, Poetry & Death #37

The Trilogy

or

How it all fits together

Now be prepared for a scare
Perfectionists please take care
Some of this poem rhymes
And some doesn’t

A simple ruse when lacking muse
A trick, a sleight of hand (or pen!)
To write about three good old standbys
That seldom fail to jolt the mind
From slumber and sluggish mood

First of all of course, the art itself
For that is closest to the heart itself
To scribe a rhyme or verse or prose
About which best the Poet knows
Well, poetry of course

Second most comes the Cat
All poets have one, it’s a fact
The familiar sparks familiar themes
And words are conjured from cat dreams

The third is dealt with by all
For all some day will hear his call
The Spectre that away will take your breath
The third of course, our old friend Death

But, now wait! It’s much more complex
There are times when all three join the text
But One or two might just suffice
A simple Cat poem can be quite nice

The poet is inspired by the cat, the cat
Annoys the poet while writing
In a fit of pique the poet kills the cat
Who just deleted
One hundred words
In verse which caused the Poet
To more than curse
So now here is the dilemma
To write about all three is clever
(oh Come on! Nothing rhymes with dilemma!!!)
Oh except for Emma, ahhh! Dear sweet Emma!
But I digress as is my wont
I shouldn’t do it so I won’t
But if you pick just one
Any one, just for fun
Is it still within the breadth
Of the remit
Cats Poetry and Death?

And sometimes you choose to rhyme
Then choose not to for a line
Or two or three who’s to say that ain’t right
It’s my poem so I’ll do what I like
So now number thirty-seven is up
Its time that I had a cup
Of coffee
See! No rhyme there!
Its time to sign it
To say farewell
To Cats, poetry and a muse-less hell
Whoops! Did it again!


Iain

Iain D. Kemp
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:08:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
MARIE- I simply loved your "Dragonface Pipefish." There is no creature too small! Thank God!
Hannah Bowles
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:11:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
early evening in mid-summer
in a dusky yard fiddling with hoses
and sprinklers a huge winged bug
darts about through water
droplets wait not a bug
a hummingbird diving about
careening from point to point
just for a manic tinnitus instant.
i watch intently turning and swerving
in my own seemingly manic dance
but then this: it pulls up hovers
inches from my face staring
staring some more at my motion
less wonder wondering about me
maybe my slowness wingless motion
no hum in the damp air
quite a brief pair
there
then gone
Bill DiBenedetto
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:12:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I just wish I could read you guys' poetry and blog works all day but I'm expected at a baby shower. Here is the poem I wrote for her card which actually is an interaction of sorts in itself. Just felt like sharing!

Baby dreams,
midnight screams
and everything there after.
Love and hugs and lots and
lots of laughter. If you’d have
your druthers you’d have a sister
or a brother to share your love.
Time will show that above all else
your patience grows and a mother
Is the precious heart of this family.
Hannah Bowles
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:13:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
(Really enjoyed your poem today, Robert.)

Conversations with God

"But when I die,"
I began, nervous,
undecided about going on.
"When I die, will it..."
"Hurt?" she asked,
a faint glint
of grin, at first,
that later stretches
to a face cracking smile.
"Yes. I suppose
that's what I'm asking."
God looks at me,
flutters her skirts
about her porcelain skin,
does a slight pirouette
about my trembling body.
"Will it hurt?" she says,
laughing this time.
"Just a hint will do,"
I say, not sure
I really want to know.
She looks to the blue
sky above, raises
a long thin hand,
points to a puff of cloud.
"I think you'll do just fine,"
she says as a finger freezes
to the cloud and points
it off to the left
just a little.
"There," she says,
turning back to offer
a supercilious smile.
"That cloud was gnawing
on my sense of symmetry."
I am left with nothing
but a notion, less
than what I started with.
"But. But. But I want to know..."
She begins to walk away,
"It is mine to know,
young man. Yours
to unravel
when the time comes."
I consider a sort of plea,
but decide there is no
begging God.
"Just live. Just
do what you do."
She waves as she prepares
to disappear.
"Oh!" she says.
"Yes? What? What is it?"
"Please. Keep your pretty eyes
on the buses
as they pass you by.
You know. Just in case."
Kevin
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:17:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Quiet Transformation

It is quiet
so quiet
deep in the darkest
recesses of the closet
where
on a white
plastic hanger
tucked deep
in the back
behind loudly
patterned jackets
blouses
vests and shirts
screaming their
polka-dots
paisleys
and stripes
the black dress
is silent
quiet
calm
so self controlled
with quiet optimism
just waiting
waiting
waiting
for her
to need
the power
it holds
in its simplicity
dark fibers
flowing softly
as her hands
smooth the
fabric of her skirt
she twirls
the mirror
catching
the magic
of transformation
with the flip
of her hem
from soccer mom
to goddess
the little black dress
shouts
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:20:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
To Ush or Not to Ush

“I love my job,”
he’ll happily gush,
“because the theatre
is where I ush.

I’ve seen ‘em all:
comedic actors
and drama queens
and benefactors

and sets and props
and lights and sound
and divas who are
Broadway bound.

I know they sleep
and dream perchance
to make it big
in song and dance.

But as for me,
I keep the beat
with ‘Sir - your Playbill;
here’s your seat.’

I tell ‘em all
‘Enjoy the show
from Overture
to Standing O.’

At curtain time,
a thrilling hush...
but ‘til that point
just watch me ush.”

(Note: According to the Worthless Word for the Day, 'Ush' [a verb] means the act of being am usher.)
RJ Clarken
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:21:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Daniel, Great to hear from you. Looks like you are off to a great start this morning. Give it hell, Cowboy! This is a most excellent adventure!

"Obi-Wan" Atwater, what can I say? You the man! You're both teacher and mentor. I'll try my best to keep up without passing out.

Hannah, loving your efforts as well. Tremendous contribution to this "Book of Life-Poetry" we have going here. Added plus, your support of the rest of us is a great motivator. I'm glad you're out there reading all we do.

Outstanding Work all!
Walt Wojtanik
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:22:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


I Took a Trip with God
by Diana R. Wilson

I took God Fishing. Straight out of a cliche ’70 mobster movie.
Muddy water lapping against my weathered boat with God piloting.
I figured it was the least I could do, let him navigate this last time.
He’d never managed to steer my course straight.

So we’re out on the lake. The morning threaded with distant woodpecker
cries with a ghostly dance of mist and campfire smoke just above water.
This beautiful place, where those little girls were found
raped and butchered.

We’re bating our hooks, God wearing his corporate smile.
Telling me, with a politician’s hungry-eyed leer, of his wonders.
We don’t talk about the things he already taught me. Like not to touch myself.

He’ll give an all access pass for those who smear their
oily hands over you, but for His sake,
‘keep your hands off your body.’

Then, between his cheesy litany, he says,
‘Sorry about all that shame you’re carrying around.
Oh. Um. Why did I let it happen?
Free will. Blah blah,
The Devil. Blah blah.
Sin! ‘

‘Pretty sure
it’s your fault
somehow anyway. ‘

‘Do you want an all access pass?
All you have to do is pay the fire insurance and we’ll cut
you ahead in the line.’

Just like a Wall Street hustler who never takes responsibility.

When I returned home, my heart felt
quiet for the first time in my life.
I washed the stink of fish and guilt from my hands.

No one asked me what happened
to God.
I wonder if anyone does.


Diana R. Wilson
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:25:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

‘i am full of it’
he says
and she nods, because she knows it is true.
but suddenly she wonders if he means
bullshit
beer
love for her
the sushi they just ate
…or some combination therein?

she knows
she really should ask him
to be more specific
but she is afraid the answer might be a bit dyspeptic.


De Jackson
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:26:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Tigger and the Big Black Snake

Tigger was a gift at Christmas
A mixed breed, skinny, girl dog
Very quietly introduced into a pack gathering
Of friends rescued by my daughter
The four dogs crowding around the new dog
Some welcoming her some grumbling,
A low rumbled growl, probably a warning
“Don’t try to take my bones and toys.”
But Tigger is curious and tries to grab
The nearest bone, which gets snapped back
More rumbles and growls, and she’s off
Exploring the back yard
She finds a long black snake and follows
The entire path from in the fern covered tree
To under the protective shed
But once the snake disappears,
Tigger turns her head in both directions
Trying to squeeze under the shed
She thinks she’s made a new friend.
The snake bites her on the top of her head
“Yowie” she seems to bark and
Walks away abused and confused
She thought she was making a friend.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:27:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Maureen Sexton--- I really enjoyed that! As soon as you said 'cheese' I knew who the other 'person' in the interaction was! My Golden Retriever is the very same. Thanks for sharing!

I'm enjoying spending time here reading poetry. Good work is being created by all.
Kevin
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:28:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Disclaimer Needed

Today
she emailed,

an exciting discovery
need to have
(for family communication)

Last year
I emailed

an exciting discovery
great to have
(for family communication)

a dumb idea last year,
a brilliant idea now

the source remembers
each and every time

but clings to disclaimer,
self-generated,
"subject to new information"
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:30:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


Dear Moosehead,
Goddamn it man!
sometimes I think you are
even more half-witted than
your no-good sister. Don’t
talk about interaction like
you know what you’re saying!
It’s all interaction, all of it, all
of the time. The way those
crazy broads drive me crazy –
interaction. Your cousin sleeping
with the Knicks is definitely
interaction, the snippy notes
I get from Greek Jimmy are
not just annoying but interactive.
Hell even this is interaction
twixt you and I old friend.
The most important interaction
after that between the players
is that between the players and
the fans. Do ya geddit?
Any way interact with this later
and pick me up at seven.
Bring money I want to interact
with some beer and chilli-dogs.


Yours fed up with explaining it all

Ringo the Howler



Iain D. Kemp
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:37:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Acorns in the Sand

by Therese Haberman

Elegant oak acorns
rest rigidly
on soft sandy surfaces

Down deep dribbles
of seedy saplings
send fingerlike feelers
into dry beds of succulent soil.

Deep down
under dregs of sandy dunes
dry tree eggs
wait their turn to erupt.

Dreaming of lofty loads
of lusty leaves


Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:39:18 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
her papers fall

she is an important woman
about to speak
about hunger, about suffering
about the things that matter.

i sit next to her, i watch her eat.
she eats hardly anything.
people ask questions.
she answers -- strong tough.
she has all the answers.

but she drops her papers, she needs
something to drink.
the others talk on oblivious.
i bend down, draw the scattered
pages from the floor.

i get her water, wine, i make
sure she eats more.

and she raises her eyes to me
clever eyes -- she ran for mayor
of new york city once --

and she says, simply
thanks.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:39:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
How it was

She sat in her chair,
my mother,
bored
because of ever-worsening symptoms
of old age.
She came in,
her little great-granddaughter of five
bringing her favourite book
which she handed with a questioning look
to my mother
she took the book and smiled
The girl climbed into her lap
and when they were both comfortable
my mother smiled
and read the story
and named the objects
and answered questions,
discontent banished
while she felt
needed.
W. Yvonne O'Neill
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:40:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
HILLSBOROUGH


We were in the crowd in the away stands.
It was my first football match. I was as much a tourist
as a fan, an observer more than a participant.
Sometimes it seemed I was watching a film,
the extras chanting and shouting and shoving,
but I was there and I thought back to the pictures
I saw of the disaster and I know I'm a girl
and I know I'm American but for a moment
I felt very afraid. You go to matches to watch
football and there was too much noise to hear
my voice even if I spoke so I didn't. I didn't
even look at you, I looked at the pitch and hoped
my mind would stop blending then and now.
I felt your hand slide into my gloved hand.
We both kept looking forward but I knew I was safe.
Christine Brandel
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:40:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Untitled woods and forest logs


Stilled out and hollowed is this moss shrouded log
Where I sit cross legged just outside a lone ray of light
Filtered down through the myriad leaves above
Of these sighing trees too old to count
And though I know them all by name
I listen to them talk and I remain silent this day

My heart is heavy in my chest,
Like my mind is wearily drudging through the week hardly past
Sometimes stumbling over what was said, and when and how
To who, always to who and I wonder all over once more of she
The one trusting in me with hope flickering and fading I think to fear
And I fear and wallow here in this great wood of emptied people

Will I find all that which once lived to breathe inside of me in past moments this way before
Or will I fall all over once more and again
Forever losing that which births a smile inside this light
Will I be cast adrift forlorn of my own hands and mind...again
Like never before, was, will be anew

"Those are heavy thoughts Oshkabay'wis," Salamander says softly from inside this log
All I can do is nod my head, yes, but always worth it
"What is it Oshkabay'wis that chokes your voice from her?"

"I do not know my friend," and this I mutter in quiet. "I don't know."

Herein lies the bitter joke and truth of me in this now
I know and I don't know,
Two things unspoken that may just be and all the same may not be
True
And if they are illusions cast across my mind
I will die a death unlike any I have known since or fear, Dread to believe
I will ever again..

"So you run from that which you wish to be and hold dear?"
My salamander friend says from his log
Once more I look to the sky
Barely glimpsed through those million more leaves
The sun is setting, or rising I have forgotten which
Mayhap never knew
"That makes perfect sense Oshkabay'wis."

"Oh it does, does it?"

"Or not, I was just sayin," and I hear him, no feel him shrug and smile
Not an unkind smile, but one filled with a sadness for a friend
He's a kind soul, always was and will ever be

"So what do I do Kyrill?" I asked already knowing the answer

Still it is a long moment before the salamander speaks
I watch the motes of dust seemingly hanging in the air of light filtered
So slowly do they fall in this drawn out moment
Between beatings of my heart,
Where my soul gasps with held breath
And then

He speaks to shatter the stilled out peace that was once a moment

"You're just going to have to speak to her about it dewd
There's nothing else to be done about it
You can't hide it,
You can't bury it,
You can't replace it,
You can't lie about it either
She will see through all those things,"
Kyrill the salamander falls silent then

Our moss covered log creaks under my shifting weight
As I stand with a shrug of my shoulders
And shake of my head
He's right though I think and sigh with a setting of my shoulders
He's right

"What are you going to say?" salamander asked before he steps into the light
Thus signaling his having nothing more to say
For salamanders do not speak when they can be seen

He smiles half sadly when our eyes meet
And I nod
He nods
I smile a sad kind of smile

"I'm gonna tell her that I love her,
That for me the sun rises and sets on her
That I cannot find the air to breathe without her
That when I am in her eyes I can be whole again
I can do anything all over once more for never having known this before..."

I end with a sigh and heavily so

"Then I'll mutter something about the computer and my coffee,"
Even as these last words fall from my lips
I know full and well

"She's gonna kill me isn't she?"

Kyrill, the salamander, only nods

Once, twice

I swallow

"Thought so."



Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:42:30 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“The Attack of Inner-Beauty”

You claim that you “weren’t
talking to me,” yet you addressed
yourself to the general public
when you were spouting your
anger and disdain at the poor cashier.

“I should just leave my stuff here,
and walk out the store,” you
spouted hastily, after a slur of
insults directed here, there and
everywhere, pointed for all ears.

Just because I stood up for a
seventy year old woman, who
probably doesn’t want to be working
let alone take hackneyed ribbing
from some woman all pissy
and grouchy she can’t be home
wasting her time flippantly watching
television or chatting on her cell.

“She’s new, give her a break,” is
all I tried to expunge. Your pride
and bitterness (which is not attractive,
by the way) exuded itself in its
true form, arms folded, crossed
in disdain. You forced me to resort
to tactics on VH1 reality shows
when after your babbling, all I could
mutter was a “Do you want to
start something?”

You have the ability to reduce
people to something so ugly
and banal as provocation. I hope
when you retire, due to
circumstances built up by
the squandering US public,
you find yourself geriatric, but
needing to find a job to just get by.

On your first week, you’ll be
somewhere, trapped – deer in the
headlights look plastered across
your wrinkled face, a slight small
drawn upon your lips, trying not
to manifest your true fear building
up slowing inside.

Too scared to make a mistake
and cause unwanted anger towards
you, you ask frequent questions
of your co-workers. They are
patient, but the people you serve
grow agitated, frustration crossing
their brow.

They have no clue (nor do most
of them care) that your husband
of thirty-seven years just passed
three weeks ago. Bills piled high,
from two years he spent in the hospital,
and the grand-daughter you’ve
been elected to raise, since your
daughter went missing five years ago.

This wasn’t what you thought
retirement would be. Montego Bay
is nothing but an ad tucked away
back in a magazine you shuffle
into its rightful place because
someone impatient riffled through
its pages, waiting on your speed
of service.

While all of this is going on for you,
I want you to remember this
day, now many years ago, that you
were impatient and self-important.
I want you to remember the
woman here, that you will become,
trying to do her job to survive.
And I hope you cry, showing
the first real emotion you’ll
probably ever have.
John Pupo
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:46:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Iain D. Kemp -- Cats, Poetry & Death #37
You suckered me in! :) So much fun.

Diana R. Wilson
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:46:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
THE SWELL AND YOU

You stand on the shore with your bare feet in the water
and it is warm and comforting.
And the strength of each wave is very powerful.
But your footing is sure, your step is confident.

The current flows the same as it has for all of your forty years,
your memory struggles for old familiarity
and the strength of our past is very powerful,
but your heart is sure, its beat is confident.

You look out across the water to a place directly opposite
from where you stand on the shore.
But, the strength of the expanse before you is getting clearer,
and your mind is sure, with a certainty of confidence.

The waves at your feet swell larger and wash over you
the same as it has for forty years.
The strength of these feelings is potent
but your instinct is sure, your emotions are confident.

You wade into the water, suddenly mesmerized by these waves.
You swim against the current, but it draws your out even further
and the strength of your will consumes you
but your soul is sure, it heads home with confidence.

The wave pulls you close and the image fills your eyes
the same as it has filled your life for longer than always.
The strength of this wave grows sure
and your own current gathers a gentle turbulence.

Finally you stop and you look up at me where I stand.
The same place that I've been all this time,
dropping pieces of my heart into the water
very sure that the concurrent circles that flow outwardly find you with confidence.

Like ripples in water, my love flows forward from my heart
radiating in all directions, gaining strength to reach your shore.
The strength of my love grows every day with you
and my heart is sure that you're safe in my arms.

I stand here on the shore with my bare feet in the water
and it is warm and comforting.
And the strength of your love is very powerful.
Much like ripples in water, your love flows to fill my heart.
Walt Wojtanik
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:47:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Tree and the Leaf

"Welcome, my new friend,"
said the tree to the sprouting leaf.
"It's good to see your budding face."
"I'm happy to be here,"
replied the little green leaf.
"It's an honor to be a part of Spring's renewal."

Darla Smith
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:48:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Grubby little hands hug my legs from behind.
Busy with dishes, laundry, some to-do of the day,
I reach down and absentmindedly pat the blond head as it exits.

“I give you dat to make you life better,” sweet two-year-old warble calls,
already on her way back to the busy-ness of books and blocks and babies.

My heart stops briefly, records the moment
and files it away for a rainy day.


De Jackson
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:48:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
At Sunset & Vine


the gumwad, pink and oozy, wears a furred grey
sweater, pricks up when it notices the incoming shoe,

doesn’t try to avoid it, though it knows that there’s only
a thirty percent chance that it will get picked up, and,

if it does, everything will change. It knows that in order
to move on it must leave a piece of itself behind, and that

the moving on will require a stretching, a breaking off.
It has seen this done. It knows how painful it can be

but ultimately it is just a matter of time. There will come
a day when the gumwad ceases to exist. It is already

happening, a slow integration into the surrounding
concrete, a drying out at the edges, a chip blown off

or a bird-pecked stringy pit. Whatever touches
the gumwad changes. The bird-beak with its glop of pink

gradually acquiring a coat of muck. And the shoe. If
the shoe should fall in the exact right spot the gumwad

will release, will peel from the walk and then, with each
step, gather grass, or paper wings, leaving pieces

of itself wherever it hits ground. It has seen this happen,
watched longingly as its sister trailed off on a Sunset-

bound heel. But already the shoe has come and gone.
The gumwad has been passed over again.

Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:48:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
:hands:
You embrace me now and then,
and i’ll touch Your hand. ever under watchful
eyes of unblinking faces. love is never digital.
we rendezvous on the quarter hours,
time passing like a slow march toward
its own end. life hanging by the length of
a stranger’s wrist. we pardon the interruption
of seconds passing by, as they carelessly
intrude upon Your long embraces, knowing
in a minute’s time ours will end. the strangers
ask the time, and if only they knew how late,
how long, the hours, oh!, the hours!
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:51:06 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Thanks Diana

Iain
Iain D. Kemp
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:52:52 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


Midwifery



I type, and my
words appear on
the page. Birth
of a poem, albeit
small and insig-
nificant. Still, my
words, this paper,
new life. The page
has birthed me
through my
fingers.


Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:54:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
So many words, so little time. You all are doing some amazing writing. We're on the downward slide now, maybe I can catch up when we hit home.

~~~~~

A Comfort
(*Super Tanka)

interactions ‘tween, synergy exists
a pair of needles and yarn, a pattern and yes some skill
helps me to create, building stitch by stitch
a gift of comfort for one, warmth and care rolled into each
living within cancer’s grip, with hope ever in their grasp


Nita G Isenhour
April 18, 2009
PAD Challenge prompt # 18: interaction


(*A tanka is a traditional Japanese poem. The Americanized version consists of 5 lines, unrhymed, with a syllable count of 5,7,5,7,7 for the lines. A Super Tanka takes two tankas and makes them work together. They can be done as separate stanzas or connected by commas, where they finish the thought yet are separate thoughts. I got this form from a friend who said he wasn't sure if it is a real form or not. I liked it, I use it.)


Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:56:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Caught Again

I sit at the computer,
read today’s prompt,
wonder what interaction
I will see, what I’ll write.

Then, below the window,
comes a growl followed by hiss
and I jump up, ready
to fend off bloodshed.

Poke fingers, pull slats apart,
apply eye to Venetian blind.
Through the closed pane
I say to the new cat on the turf,

‘Patch, don’t you hassle Java.’
Say to the black cat hunched
and defending her own, ‘Java,
leave him alone, he belongs here now.’

Java twitches one ear,
doesn’t change her focus.
Patch swivels and stares
at the all-seeing face above.

I can almost hear his dismay,
the thought running through his brain.
‘Does that blasted woman have eyes
in the back of her head?’

Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Saturday, April 18, 2009 4:57:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Bird Does Not Spread Its Wings to Fly

The bird does not spread its wings to fly,
or soar within the bounds of earth’s sweet gravity,
nor take advantage of the wind, and glide from tree to tree.
The bird instead, hangs from a tree branch, curiously, precariously,
up-side-down, head toward the ground, one leg trapped the other free.
It flaps its wings, furiously battling, in hopes of flying free.
But trapped it is, as trapped it shall stay, fulfilling its destiny.
Silently now, it hangs from the bough, as if placed there gently,
carefully, lovingly, purposefully,
By the hand of God.
H. Marable
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:00:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Voice Purge

“You ain't nothin' but a punk ass boy!”
was only a portion of the venom I heard spewed
into the cell phone of a large teenage girl
wearing lime green sweat pants;
I shook my head in disgust and dismay as I
loaded my groceries into my car's trunk;
What an abuse of the English language
(not to mention the “punk ass boy's ears);
I sometimes wish I could mute the world.

The next day I went on a nature trail walk
all by my lonesome,
I wore no ipod, I didn't even hum to myself;
Purging myself from the human voice.

I heard many voices in many languages
but, fortunately, none of them human;
The baritone croak of bull frogs,
various chirps, twitters and trills
of jays, finches, wood thrush and the like,
The rush and surge of water cascading
over river rocks,
the plop of lazy snapping turtles
rolling off their nap-time logs.

My ears were soothed by the foreign whispers
from wind to oak leaf;
Purged from even my own thoughts.

I returned to my car and started the engine,
catching myself before I reached to turn on the radio;
I needed to stop by Kroger for a half gallon of milk
but I wasn't yet ready to hear even a kind
“Thank you. Have a nice day!”
The milk could wait 'til tomorrow.
Terri
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:00:36 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
18

I'm fairly sure I've lived at least 18 turns of the wheel,
And been utterly baffled every time at this love thing.
But this love, unconditional, passionate, soaring...
Where have you been all my lives?

Lisa Mrazik
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:00:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
She awaits
almost
pensively
For a touch she will never feel
From a man she does not know
or
necessarily
care for
In a mood not of her feeling
from a place she does not know
hasn’t
ever seen before
Smile demurely, melancholy feeings.
It will be wonderful you know.

The Model
By Gregory Gusse
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:03:33 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
CAN I WARM THAT UP FOR YOU?

Clanking silverware echoed an
oblivion in the cavernous diner,
as chatter about the events of the day
provided an appropriate counterpoint.
There was something about the waitress
who scurried from table to table.
Beth was fair of skin and slight of figure;
she was more beautiful than
the likes of this joint should be allowed to envision.
Her blonde hair flowed in a cascade to her shoulders
hindered only by the silver barrette that clipped it
neatly around her sculpted face. Her skin
gave the appearance of porcelain,
clean and fragile, contributing
to her doll-like demeanor.
She had her flaw, though.
Everyone has a flaw.
Her pulchritude somehow
overcompensated for all that she lacked in grace.
The load on her crowded tray
awkwardly shifted in her hand.
She could not stop its descent.
A cacophonous crash brought all activity
in Magadan's to an abrupt halt.
The patrons glanced up briefly
from their meaningless mire of self importance,
only to return to their political dissections
and baseball box scores. This old girl had seen her day.

As the corner stop for the steelworkers
who found sanctuary and a cheap beer
waiting for them after a long day at the plant,
she was a haven. When the factory closed,
this favored gin mill met a similar fate.
Graffiti laden plywood became her window.
Decay became her disease.
The wrecking ball pleaded for a chance
to put her out of her misery.
Good fortune came in the guise
of an investment developer’s eye
providing a heroic rescue. Magadan's
made her return as a family restaurant,
catering to a more technologically advanced work force.
Her memory held the charm
of your run of the mill greasy spoon,
and therein lied her appeal. The breakfasts
would raise your cholesterol level
merely by reading the items off of the menu.
The lunch clientele fared a little better.
Dinners were the choice
of the long haul truck drivers
that passed through Buffalo
on the way to more important
and vibrant locales.
Walt Wojtanik
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:04:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
This is an old one, not written this month, but I thought it fit the prompt.





The Heat of a Kiss Never Had


They stand in the parking lot for over 2 hours,
Saying goodbye.

He on the other side of her car door
She with one leg in, as if to leave at any moment.
And yet, they linger
Heat rising and falling between them with every breath
Despite the night’s October chill
Laughter full of sparks
His blue eyes piercing her green
In the dark.

And she wants desperately to kiss him.

No, that isn’t it, exactly.
She longs for him to kiss her.
Old fashioned, maybe, but true.
And yet, somewhere deep,
Alarms are going off
And with every fiber of her being,
She dreads the moment, too.

Their first kiss.
Perhaps the beginning of something
Amazing.
But surely the end of something magical.
This place they are now.
This
Best friends
Endless all-night phone conversations
So much in common
So much still unsaid
Can he really be for real
Is she only dreaming
Place.

For surely from here
Things will escalate
At her usual pace.
Always quick.
Never painless.

She will fall fall fall
(from grace)
From her soft cocoon
And land hard, bruised.
Screw it up somehow, confused.
Wondering why her heart is such a temporary place.
And by the light of day,
He will be just another…man.
(Shoulda been a four-letter word, really.)

And still, she lingers.
Her heartbeat is a stranger in her own chest.
And she wants this conversation to go on forever,
Not even sure what they’ve been talking about.
So busy is she memorizing
The curve of his fingers on her car door
The set of his shoulders
The weight of his smile.


Just after 3am.
I’ve really got to go
She says it for the eighth time.
He laughs, a sound she commits carefully to memory
In case it is the last time it sounds
This musical
This sexy
This
Perfect.

They hug,
Linger.
Pull back,
Glance.
Her heart gasps.
At last, whew.
No kiss.

Later, at home, the phone rings.
Bliss.









(And yes, it really happened, just like this. Ridiculously happily married 10 years now.)
De Jackson
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:05:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Between you and yourself”

He pounds the hammer day after day,
driving the hurt and the demons away.
She clutches her arms so close to her skin,
trying to rid his dirt and his sin.
Anger does fly, claws are unsheathed,
beaten for greed, they're never reprieved.

While we sit in our homes, with our ears firmly plugged,
they're raped and they're tortured, by murderous thugs.
Slavery's past, we repeat to ourselves,
while children are sold on proverbial shelves.
Anger does fly, claws are unsheathed,
beaten for greed, they're never reprieved.

I'm only one person, there's naught I can do,
How easily the lies have replaced what is true.
You can stand up and fight, be the voice for the lost,
And work to end slavery regardless of cost,
to your time, to your pocket, to your own peace of mind.
It's His call and His voice crying out to the blind.
Anger does fly, claws are unsheathed,
beaten for greed, they're never reprieved.

Open your eyes and see what is real.
The wounds and the pain, just reach out and feel.
Brothers and sisters, take up the charge.
We're small individuals but together we're large.
Slavery can be stopped cold in its tracks,
if only their burden we'll place on our backs.
Anger does fly, claws are unsheathed,
justice and mercy can offer reprieve.

He pounds the hammer day after day,
driving the hurt and the demons away.

Karin Larsen
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:05:43 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My Guitar – By Jane Eamon 2009

You always know
When I need you
Offering solace in the
Darkest moments
With a promise of release
And unconditional love

You rest there
Waiting patiently
For that moment when
I pick you up
And strum that first glorious note

You challenge me
With untold mysteries
Of chords and shapes
I’ve yet to discover
You know I won’t
Turn you away

You beckon with all
The power you have
In your silver strings
Chastising me
When I neglect you

I let you go for
28 years
A long time to be without you
But I won’t forget you now
You’re a part of me
As I’m a part of you

You sing when I cannot
You cry when my tears are dry
You uplift me
When the weight of the world
Presses in

You are my solace
And my confidant
My guitar
Jane Eamon
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:07:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Walt..."dropping pieces of my heart into the water..."
Oh, my.
De Jackson
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:08:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Man Next Door

The man next door mows the lawn
Not for him
The winding flex
Of an electric mower
Moaning and whining
Complaining in two octaves
Ripping and slashing at grass
No time to ponder
Urgent matters wait in the wings

The man next door is a purist
A hand mower
Rattling gently
Up and down
A gentle conversation
With blades of grass
Nipping and snipping
Inhaling grass cuttings
Exhaling contentment
Melanie Kerr
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:10:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Terri, I can relate! I had a day of silence recently - no TV, email, music, etc. It was wonderful. Already looking forward to the next one. It's amazing what birds - and God - can say to you when all the background noise is shut off.
De Jackson
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:15:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Moment

Who does he think he is -
President Obama?
Instead of sitting here,
I could be in my pajamas-
But just outside the doorway,
I see his handsome face,
As he slowly strides into the room
With elegance and grace
And helps himself to all the food
That I did so provide,
And then he sidles up to me
With merry eyes so wide,
And playfully about my hands
He rubs his flaxen head
Forsaking velvet cushions,
He takes my knee instead,
And settles down so happily
With a purr that has no end,
I spend a peaceful moment
With Babboo, my feline friend!
Katrelya Angus
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:18:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Chill

Son is home from university
His window is open for that fresh air
Sparrows and grackels and robins are
Scavenging the lawn and budding trees
In the back yard.
Time to get the morning paper.
Out front, in our soon to-be-red maple,
I hear a steady beat
tap-tap-tap
tap-tap-tap
There in the middle of the tree is a
Red-headed woodpecker attacking the trunk
I quickly run to get the camera
Hoping for a quick digital moment of this first-time
Bird in our front yard
I press the on/off switch--no response
No sound No photo
Time to recharge the batteries
Sit back
Finish the coffee and the crossword
Enjoy the sounds of a spring morning.

PM27
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:18:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
RESERVATIONS



You call me musically fickle – you have never been so grieved
that you could not listen to the same genre
but had to change the dial to something new and distracting
without memories that choke up suffocating sobs.

My bookshelf surprises you – you have never been so
hair pulling distraught that you could not look at
another self-help book and had to flee to a murder mystery
that would not, in fact, help.

You say I clean too much – you have never been so powerless
it dropped you to your knees where the close proximity to the
cracks between the tiles saved your life by injecting it with
purpose.

You think I am too reserved – you don’t know what it’s like
to hyperventilate from sobs that want to stop
your drowning heart.
Would you like to reserve a place at that table?






Deanna Northrup
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:21:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
When Will the Estranged Wife Smile?

The bets at the office range
from never to within-the-hour
because now it's Sammy B's turn
to try. No dick jokes, no
staged falls, he knows better
than to hand her a rose. All week
the possibilities have scrawled
across his notebook in cartoon
bubbles. He's watched her
chew the eraser from her pencil
in a meeting with the coatless
men from accounts. He's timed
the slow blink of her black
mascaraed lashes and studied her
muscled calves as they leave
her cubicle for the bathroom.
He begins to see her perched
on the edge of his own bed
one leg crossed over
the other and finally sliding
in between his own thin
sheets. And then the hour comes
and he finds himself
on the elevator alone with her
and she turns toward him
with an expression he has learned
means hope which casts
his eyes down to the dirt
creeping up the leather of his shoes
and he is too ashamed.
Lisa McCool-Grime
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:21:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
move
slow
griping
very tight
little by little
a walker is so frustrating
but can't walk without
Damn aging
tired
feel
old
Sandy Senay-Ellefson
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:22:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Raindrops from treetops
Soak the ever fertile ground
And new life begins
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:23:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Lucky in Cleveland

The lights are so low
I pass for late forties—
no glasses, hair tinted
the right shade of caramel.
This younger guy
who grows younger the nearer he gets
comes over and asks me to dance.

I have a fifteen-year limit
and I think he’s under it
so I keep to generalities
until he asks: So, where are you from?
and I say: Kansas
and he thinks for second
then grins and says: Kansas!
The Jayhawks, right!

So there’s a connection,
and since he still lives with his folks
we go back to my place.


Susan Peters
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:23:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Alley fight

Big black cat circles
little orange tom back steps.
tails fluff
hisses spit.
Black one snakes a paw
full of claws out,
catches the little one behind the ear.
Orange one pounces
all out on bigger ones back.
Colors blur as back legs kick
and tails lash.
Splish splash,
as a bucket of water
goes across their backs.
One last hiss and a spit
and sodden warriors
go their separate ways.
Jean
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:27:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Signing the Poems


I’m in love with the woman signing my poems.
She is young and not unbeautiful.
She molds my words into shapes of air with her hands,
exotic birds, conveying color, motion,
what it takes to ascend. Word after word
I watch her and wonder how what I say
could seem so full of grace, hope, gentleness.
I grow jealous of those she faces, fearful
she gives too much away. I want to keep
these soundless syllables for myself. I want to hold
her hands in mine, cup them to my ears.
I want her to smear vowels across my face.
Her fingers are smooth and seductive.
I want her to put them in my mouth
until I suck the poems away.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:28:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)



Land of My Fathers.


Where have you gone to land of my past,
where are your days so bright?

Where are the hours of warm content
spent safe asleep at night?

Where are the strong authorities
kindly and concerned?

Where are the staid academies
where earnest children learned?

Where are the sparkling hospitals
with nurses crisp and clean?

Where have you gone to land of my past,
as if you had never been?


This is the poem that insisted on being written before I could get my prompt poem done today. I hope no one minds me putting it in here as well.

Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:28:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Merger of the Queens


Says the White Queen to the Red, “There is much which I suffer from, the premonitions that haunt me so that I live in the future and neglect the present and past.”

The Red Queen responds, “I have grown so afraid of hearts and chess, of magic and mirrors, of black cats and white cats, of kings who sleep when I need them most. There is no future for me. I am surrounded by everything which has already happened.”

They do not see Little Alice standing behind the curio cabinet, repeatedly stabbing a sampler with three long needles while the White Queen bleeds from her nose and ears and reaches down to rub the ache from her soles.

When Little Alice turns her attention to a deck of gold backed card and proceeds to rip down the center, the White Queen screams, “Oh, oh, something is stabbing me.”

Little Alice comes behind the Red Queen and steals her crown, adorns herself and stares at the mirror's reflection. “All hail me,” she says. “I am Queen Alice. I make the world as I see fit, beginning with roots that extend from the sky and flowers that hunt the mice.”

Then Queen Alice reddens in the face, opens her mouth wide and wraps her tongue around the Red Queen and the White. The Red Queen stares at the ground, the White Queen stares into the air. Queen Alice's face becomes a beating, bleeding heart. “Off with their heads,” she screams and bites down between the chin and shoulder.
Alana I. Capria
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:29:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Lost Cause

The day that you told me
we were drinking early
a bottle of Stoli
encased in ice.

The day was gray for Hawaii
and my little efficiency
overlooking the freeway
witnessed demise.

As I remember, it was New Year’s Eve Day
Gen was a baby. I was breastfeeding—
Unwed women on welfare
behave in such ways.

We had angst for breakfast
We ate tears for lunch—
life death love lust
enough was too much.

I went on to grad school I got married
twice. You took took those cocktails—
you’ve probably died. We lost touch
In 90. I was not a good friend.

It was two other people drank Stoli
back when.
Kelly Ellis
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:30:01 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Here's my prompt poem. Inspired by the recent interactions between the police and the G20 protesters in London.


The Thinning Blue Line.


When you got up you didn't know
what you would be getting up to.
You brushed your white teeth unaware
how soon you'd be brushing with death.
Got in to work, followed commands,
swapped numbers with your colleagues,
You had their back and they had yours.
That's what teamwork is all about.
If you can't trust a mate what's left
but you against the screaming world?
The enemy is everywhere
and you are the thinning blue line.

So how do you explain away
exactly what you did today?
You knew it could not be erased
when you saw his eyes go dim, then glazed.



Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:31:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Torture

The source you don’t trust

I’m kept alive just barely
Awake, disoriented, stressed
To the extent you expect I’ll spill my guts
On the hope you won’t spill mine
Hovering over the abyss I’d like to choose death
Even a long slow one
Staked out under the sun
Carrion-recyclers pick at my
Pulpy red mass for hors d’oeuvres
With too much blood left

As a signal of human life
I hear the voice of daughter
She pleads for me to give up
the demanded information to spare her innocence
For whom am I willing to sacrifice
My potential for a long life
I choose to give my life for you
What I don’t give up you’ll just invent

And I become a disposable asset
To a regime nobody trusts
Lyn Michaud
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:37:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
GOOD DEEDS, MORE OR LESS

Sundays at the clinic,
I come down to your room
with a pitcher of water
and some pure white towels,

but I'll never get used to it,
those matchstick limbs all
twisted around themselves
covered in sores,
quivering with each ragged
penultimate breath.

It's all in the eyes, you see:

all the helpless panic,
the hateful humiliation while
that wet towel of mine
peels up scabs and skin alike;

but deep down in that gaze
I can see the years you spent at the beach,
the little ones you let go,
simple pleasures, like the last time
you ate a steak and could
still remember how it tasted.

Not much longer, says the doctor:

and silently, my work complete,
I drift out of your room again,
on to the next one,
the barbs of your gaze in my back;
I know you hate to need me,
but at least when you go,

you'll be comfortable.
Joseph Harker
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:38:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Conversation at 7:00 PM

I'm hungry.
I'm writing.
When can we eat?
When I finish this poem.
I might starve by them.
What rhymes with satyr?
Just finish it later.
Thanks. Later will work.
Work? Will you get paid.
Only in satisfaction.
Sally Valentine
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:49:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
BLACK AND WHITE CAT
A black and white flash jumped behind some bushes.
When I came out to trim the roses,
she ran across the driveway and
through a missing wooden slat in the fence.
Later that day, I saw her lying down
under the neighbors rusty 1974 van.
I tried to coax her out
by cooing, “come kitty, come”
gesturing, beckoning with my hand.

She immediately ran to safetyland for refuge.
For weeks, just the sound of my voice,
regardless of the tone, frequency, tempo or words,
would send her into hiding.
Then one day when I spoke, she just sat
and watched me. I was silent for 90 seconds
while we stared at each other.

I began putting out small bowls of kibble.
When she began eating,
I stood at the French-windows to watch her.
Next, I dropped the kibble in the bowl outside
so it made a tapping sound.
Soon she would come into sight
when she heard the tapping.

She needed a name.
White except for a black-ink mask covering her eyes
hinted at Snowball, Snow, Mask, Bandit,
but I chose Inky.

Gradually, she came when she heard her name,
keeping her distance at first.
She laid under my car,
then moved to the steps,
Now Inky eats with me on the porch.
I inch my way toward her.
I look forward to when I can touch her
stroke her, and have her come to me
on her own and even come into my house.

Muses have I wooed, enticed, pleaded, cajoled, sweet-talked.
Now I invite them to eat at my feet, to purr into my ear,
to help me release the cat in me, the lion, the frog,
the princess, the wench, the nun, the witch
and all that inhabit my world that have a story to tell
and for ink to record.
Rose Anna Hines
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:52:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Continuing with my series of poems about color.



Silence Is Golden

The Glow
from the computer screen
highlights Yellow’s
flushed face.
The volume is off,
he tries hard
to stifle his own volume;
of shudders, stutters.

He doesn’t know
Starburst
other than through Mysapce
and some chat rooms
but soon after
they met
Starburst started flirting,
slipping in very suggestive
statements.

Yellow liked it.
It felt dangerous.
It felt rebellious.
It felt right
sharing these things
with another boy his age.

This evening
Yellow suggests
they talk on Skype.
Starburst agrees.

Soon he is watching
Starburst,
their fingers in sync,
a gradual swelling
coming to his pelvis.
Reaching the edge
Yellow speaks to the screen
“I Love you so much…”
before his head spasms back.

Reaching for a dirty sock,
he cleans up
and comes back
to the conversation
his new flame
looking frightened,
fumbling with his mouse.

A figure grabs his hair
and shoulder with hands
bigger than boulders
jerking him out the chair.
Starburst cowers
as he is beaten,
mouthing screams
Yellow cannot hear.

Yellow panics,
sinking in his seat.
Any help he offers
will only get him
similar fists.

The figure finishes
his session
and turns his attention
to the screen.
The enormous hands
reach at Yellow.
He backs up unwilling to chance
that this being could
travel through wires
and watches the fingers pick up
the keyboard.
The Skype window goes blank.

Yellow logs off
and creeps to bed
where he hides himself tight
under the sheets
weeping loud enough
that he wakes up
his half sister
Chartreuse
who comes in
and curls secret comfort around him
like the fence of colors
that protect the center
of a rainbow.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:52:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
4/18 Interaction

Times are tough
Money there is not enough
As my mood turned unhappy
I decided it was time to talk to me

So I said
“hold up your head
Things are not as bad as can be
With friends like Vicky and Lee”

What could I say
But absoulutely
Hard to be sad
When friends make you glad!

So with the talking done
I decided to have fun
By seeing what type of reaction
I’d have to a prompt of Interaction!!!
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:54:38 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Rose Anna Hines...loveloveLOVE your last paragraph!
De Jackson
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:55:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Pilot Season

Beside me, you dig your fingers
into the top of my hand
the skin edging white
a spreading pressure stain

"What's wrong?" the start of
chained events unsaid
as our eyes stay fixed
on flickering screens

overrated BBC programmes
elongating the night.
"Um. Uh. Um." You sputter,
an engine on it's last legs,

and I watch as your eyes
swell to tears, another ending
I wanted, the perfect finish
of our year long sitcom.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 5:58:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Heather Taylor - NICE! Love it!
De Jackson
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:00:19 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
city frog

in my barrel pond
one pacific tree frog croaks
I hear no answer
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:03:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Morning Volley in the Car

She tosses it into the air
You chuckle, hit it hard outside
She whines and picks it up
then hits a volley with a spin
Me the net between you two
stuck in the front seat, looking out
You drive, she serves one fast
I referee the conversation
try to keep the fouls fair
when all you each really want
is to spike it hard just out of reach
and WIN
Marcia Neu
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:06:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
somehow, we struck a spark
in the dark

and..

the spark grew and i passed it you
and you did something new and you passed it back.
i blew on it, let it go, gave it to who took it,
then it was gone, with life of its own..

and next time i looked it was a raging blaze!
it burned for days and it only got brighter
and we gazed amazed on the fiery haze
and we knew through and through that it was right,

and now the flame's burning everywhere!
it's grown so far i can't see anything else!
it fills all the earth and the seas and the air
but no-one remembers - we did it ourselves..
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:08:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Unattended

If I had attended the rosary
for the seguridad who tried to stop
the kidnappers from taking
the sixteen-year-old boy,
the guard whose name I have been told
since his murder and beheading
was Juan, the guard with a sister
who looked so much like him except
perhaps older than his middle years
but the same white hair, brown eyes,
lined face from incessant smiling,
the guard with a wife
who could not wail
or speak
or see
because what beat for a heart was gone
from her chest and there, inside
that coffin, flown forever from her chest
to lay with him in his –

if I had attended
I would’ve searched out a brown cricket running
along the foot of the wall, looking for a way out.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:17:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Voter Registration, 1963

It was East Texas summer hot.
He was old, I was young.
He was a judge, I was a student.
He had a shotgun, I had a card table,
a handful of registration forms,
a few hopeful people lining up
to claim their right.

The officers who took away the gun
and led him back inside
were no more pleased than he
with what I was doing
only more aware of what could
not be safely accomplished under
the East Texas summer sun.
Del Cain
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:20:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Interaction

Dodge:
What in the hell were you thinking,
You crazy ass pile of stupid?
I guess your turn signal must be broken, huh?
You must not be thinking straight, cuz
What kind of foolio
Would cut in front of a broken, faded old
Piece of shit Ram like this one
With a pretty little Beamer like that?
You are Out of Your Head!!

BMW:
Oh my God –
Oh my God –
Oh my God –
I can hear him wheezing from here,
And he’s already had five
Neb treatments, and
I’ve just got to get him to the hospital –
Jesus –
Am I going the right way now?
Thank God that truck let me in –
O God –
O God –
He’s breathing so hard
Back there in his car seat –
I just have to get there.


Beth K
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:23:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The child harries the mother in so many ways
I want milk, says the child
no, says the mother, it's too close to dinner
but the child doesn't understand and throws a fit
I want my toy, says the child
no, says the mother, it is too close to bedtime
but the child wants the toy and will have it no matter what
mother will you wrap your arms around me? asks the child
The mother scoops up the child in her arms
and takes her off to bed
of course I will hold you, says the mother
and she does until the little one dozes off to sleep
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:24:13 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Don't Play With Your Food


"I'm going to eat you", said the bird
"No, really Bird, that's quite absurd
I'm just a slimy little wormie
all wiggly and squirmy
and really, kinda germy!

Bird, you should probly eat a fly!"
The fly heard that as he flew by...
"That's just nonsense, then said he
I'm no bigger than a flea
Not enough for tea!

Bird, you should probly eat a bee!"
"Eat a BEE? I slap my knee!"
Said the bee with eyes ashine
"See this stinger in my behind?
Change your mind!"

Then they heard a tummy growl
The bird said "I am hungry NOW!
Flies and Bees are snacks for fun
But I eat wormies by the ton!"
gulp gulp gulp, "I'm done!"
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:24:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Ol' Nell

She lay down one last time,
lowered her head,
submitted to cruel fate.

In no time the fly had arrived,
deposited eggs,
moved on.

Rain washed over her brown coat;
moving air toweled her off.
Larvae tunneled.

She lay there, passive.
The black birds circle.
She does not move.

They come closer.
The bravest lands
and begins his feast.

All her life she has given,
unselfish, gentle.
In death she gives yet again.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:24:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Ich Sprechen Sie


"You know, you have to do this"
I looked down
So cold
"I don't know anything
You're just an object
No feeling
No emotion
No pain
I wish I was you instead"
I couldn't even cry
"At least I have a purpose"
My laugh sounded like a bark
Harsh and abrupt
"No, you are meaningless without me
I own you
I decide how you'll be used"
I sat there
Silent
Breathing in and out
Listening to my breath
The meditation of sorrow
The prayers of regrets
All I could hear
Was the rush of air
In and out of my lungs
And my heartbeat
Strong and fast
In my ears
And that little voice
Coming from the gun
Coming from inside my head
"It would all be over"
I lifted it to my head
Unlatched the safety
Closed my eyes
I could feel my pulse
In the finger
On the trigger
Pounding
"Shouldn't this be easy?"
I didn't expect to hear anything
"No"
So quiet
So still
It hadn't come from inside my head
It hadn't come from the gun
I spun around
And jumped to my feet
Gun still to my head
And there you were
Suddenly
I felt shame and guilt
You were so small
Crying
Silently
I lowered the gun
Dropped it on the chair
"Don't leave me"
I couldn't tell which one of you said it
I didn't care
I knew which one I wanted
I ran to you
"I am meaningless without you
You give me purpose
You decide how I will be used"
I couldn't tell
Which one of us said it
It didn't matter any more
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:25:23 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Mowers

Saturdays are days of rest, Sundays too, and evenings have their hours,
then a recliner makes a quiet throne for enjoying peace and power.

Or would but for the mowers working over suburban spring
constantly sheering the grass of dreams, on which his sheep should fling.

They roar down the television in which his rest is wrapped,
they worry him about chores undone, and criticize his nap.

What can he do but gnash his teeth, and curse their persistent roar,
as they take down his castle: every window, wall, and snore.



Kelly Searsmith
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:32:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Go Lay Down

You’re bugging me, big brown eyes with a spark
of excitement, ridiculous pointy ears tipping left
then right, yes I said ‘go’, no, I didn’t mean now

really, go away, I’m busy, I have a dozen chores
to complete without you under my feet at every
turn, faithfully following just in case this is now

good dog, lay down, front paws crossed, long chin
resting on top, big brown eyes disappointed under
stubby dog lashes, he sighs, I sigh, arms crossed,

what about the dishes, the shopping, what about
the laundry, the banking, I haven’t even made the bed,
pointy ears pop up, irresistible, I sigh, he smiles
Kristy Worden
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:43:25 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Prickly

“You're prickly,” my husband says.
“You're hard to get along with
“and you're snappish.”
I just stand there.
“I'm sorry for being prickly,”
is all I say.

I am never so blunt
and critical of him,
I can’t find fault so blatantly
because he’d retort,
“I guess I'm just not good enough.
You should just find someone else.”
And, with that
I’d quickly shut up.

I wonder what prickly means.
Do I hurt to the touch
like little pin pricks?
Do cacti envy my prowess?
Do the cats that roam the streets
and sleep under cars hiss
and scatter when they see me coming?
Do the few stars that burn through the haze
look down at me in wonder?
Does my steel rankle our nation’s enemies?

Out of love I sleep far from him
to protect him just in case.
I don't want my prickles
to hurt him anymore.

I also wonder why he offers me
a hug when e wake,
as if he had never said those
words to me at all.
Doesn’t he know how his words sting,
how his prickles bore into me?
No, I don't want to hug him back this time.
We both have some smoothing over to do.

Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:44:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Other Answers
By R. Chazz Chute

I remember them pulling me up,
standing me straight, as if
vertical was the go-to cure when
you find your kid passed out
on the neighbor’s lawn.
I had disappeared on them,
Mom and the neighbor-lady.
(That’s what I called
Mrs. Thompson then.)
It is a mystery, where I went
and how I ended up, face up,
staring blank at a empty blue sky,
long before I knew the word azure.
I saw something only for me,
but I didn’t have any words yet
to calm Mom, “worried sick” she said
over and over. “Worried sick.”
I don’t remember the secrets whispered
from the sky that day but I have a feeling
they are waiting for the right time.
The doctor listened to my heart
and took my temperature
and told Mom I fell asleep.
“Epilepsy if it happens again,”
but it didn’t so I must have been dreaming.
“But his eyes were wide open—“
“Must have been dreaming,” the doctor said
since he had no other answers he could trust.
Later, years and only a moment later,
Mom slumped and looked at me with
empty eyes for twenty minutes,
rheumy eyes staring and twice rolling
(scary that)
and seeing things that weren’t there
as far as I knew
since I had no other answers I could trust.
I was still holding her hand,
taking her pulse
(and deep calming breaths for me)
when she came to, smiling a little.
“Where’d you go Mom?”
She hesitated and squeezed my hand
with a new grip, stronger than
arthritis and too many birthdays.
“I was dreaming, Robert.
I was running home!
I saw Mary Thompson. We ran together
like we used to. We didn’t speak. We just
laughed and ran again…in step.”
She looked down at her twisted feet
beneath the heavy wool blanket.
Mary Thompson went home last spring.
Pneumonia. (The Elderly’s Friend, they say.)
Mom faded a little then, smaller still,
the memory of what she’d lost
killing her in a way that the cancer couldn’t,
making the ugly job complete.
“It wasn’t a dream, Mom,” I rushed to say.
And you’ll be going home.”
I could tell she wanted to believe me
almost as much as I wanted to believe.
“Soon…soon.”
It was that moment that the thing waiting inside
broke open and I knew the secrets
hidden in an empty forty year old sky.
Ready?
It was this: believe in other answers you can’t trust.
All else is unthinkable.

Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:44:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
MY BEST FRIEND

My best friend
is a dog named "ACE".
He's my pet,
and he lives at my place.
We go running
each day of the year,
And the things we do
bring happiness and cheer.
He wags his tail
when I call his name.
He makes me smile,
For friendship is better than money or fame.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:45:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"The Gone to Hell Debate"

I flunked the debate
The this-generation-is-going-to-hell
Teenagers-today-are-worse-than-ever one.
I should have know better than to debate
An 84 year old woman on the phone.

Ancient Greek parents
Ancient Roman parents
Victorian parents
Hippie parents
Yuppie parents
Rock parents
Disco parents
Heavy metal parents
They alllllllllllll said that.

How can you argue with over 2000 years of evidence?

I shouldn’t have thrown in the
Every-teenager-in-the-1970’s
Tried-pot-once-and-they-turned-out-alright clincher.

My aunt won the debate
With stony silence.
Kata Kollath
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:46:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Frank Napoleon Brown

What I remember about
Pittsburgh is my address— Apt. 306
in the three story walkup on Melwood Avenue
and you, Frank.

You could've phoned,
but instead you'd holler
from the alley below, "Melissaaaaaaaaaaa"—
the accent on the "suh"
and not the "liss."

I'd say, "Hey, Frank Napoleon Brown"
'cause I liked the sound; a name
fit for a jazz musician living
in the Steel City, but you worked
for the University of Pittsburgh.

You'd say, "Come outside." I'd
always have an excuse: "My hair isn't done"
or "I'm getting ready for class."
But you'd wait for me on the curb
or the fire escape, maybe wanting
to be invited up and sometimes
I'd let you in.

You'd ask, looking through the fridge,
"Need anything from the store? Eggs? Juice?"
"No, but I'm in the mood for…"
And you'd know and say, "Pizza."
Not from Papa John's, but from
a mom and pop. You'd get it. And we'd
share it in the kitchen/living room like roomies.

And I'd forget that I hardly
knew you, only knew you
through my sis who met you
in the William Pitt Union, when you,
putting out chairs for an assembly, said to her,
"You look like you lost? Where you from?"
She said, "Connecticut,"
and you said, "What part? I'm from
Bridgeport. I'm Frank Napoleon Brown.
What's your name?"
Melissa "Missy" McEwen
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:51:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Finally found an angel
to play a game of tag
or even hide'n'seek
without Mom 'n' Dad.

We walked into the woods
between every tree,
sleep overtook us
Then, the angel set me free.
J. McNamara
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:56:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
DESERT LOST

Issued a rifle, canteens of water
and left on the Mojave –
no street signs, yard signs, signs of any
sort. No arrow pointing you a path,
no boundary-markers or direction.
Miles of sand and creosote,

lava-shine, heat-shimmer.
Prisoner to your sun-block shadow –
what optical trickery rolls the color blue
into a puddle just beyond your reach,
your will to keep on walking?
How beautiful the sky’s mirage.

for J.
Taylor Graham
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:56:17 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Daddy and Son”

“I want to be just like you, Daddy, when I grow up.”
“Well, son you can be whatever you want,” he said as he lifted his cup.
“A fireman, a doctor, a lawyer, the possibilities are endless my son,”
“Read me a story, Daddy until it’s all done.”

As he rocked his son and read the book of how much I love you
His son’s eyes grew tired and he closed them tight as he was through.
“I love you Daddy more than the stars in the sky way up far”
“I love too, Son, more than the miles I can possibly drive in the car.”

Daddy rocked on holding his son as he did sleep
Looking and remembering never uttering a peep.
So peaceful his son lay there in his arm
A silent pray, “Please Lord let there be no harm.”

Then reluntantly Daddy arose from his chair
And tucked his son in with his favorite teddy bear.
He kissed his forehead and wished for nothing less
So his son would grow up safe and far from stress.

As Daddy turned and looked once more
“I love you, Daddy, don’t close the door.”
His Daddy left it opened a crack with the nightlight on
“God bless you, son, sleep safe until it is dawn.

Daddy went back to rocking in the chair
He reminisced and ran his hand through his hair.
Oh the sweet age of innocence if only he’d stay young forever
Or just a while longer so his childhood would endeavor.

Daddy crept up the stairs to sleep
Checking once more his heart did leap.
For his favorite time of day was night
Reading and tucking his son in tight.

“Good night my son, my precious one
I wish the world for you my son.”
Christina Bass
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:57:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Evil In the Garden Was No Snake, Advice to Gardeners

for those foolish enough to keep roses
let them die in on themselves in a wet garden,
feet in rotting mulch

and you tending your herbs
how much basil can one cook use?
the aphids will destroy your yield

you on your knees, clipping and pulling
offending grass blades,
what are you measuring?

lop limbs from oaks—they fall on power lines
hack at maple roots—they buckle the drive
and that old skinny pine is eying your roof

blackberry briars fight seven sisters
to smother the pond fence
to trip up the little ones at play

suburbia is no place for tomatoes and corn
flowers weep and fold—
malevolence in a half acre

Patricia Bostian
Saturday, April 18, 2009 6:59:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Check Out

She keeps a steady rhythm
the chorus of barcodes piping
the same song every day.

Sometimes the tune falters
so she taps out each number,
a quick dance across the keys.

Her head is bent over the scanner
then she looks up and she smiles,
everything is not just black or white
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:01:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Victor

In the supermarket, my mother ran into an old
co-worker from Travelers. “Here comes Victor,”
she said, straightening up because Victor
used to always get on her for slouching. “Hey Sarah!”
he roared and banged his shopping cart
up against hers— his full of the things
he would need to make tonight’s dinner. His man
he said was in the next aisle over reading
magazines. “I do all the work while lover
just sits on his bee-hind,” Victor said & Ma did
her don’t-I-know-it nod. “Sarah, let me tell
you…” he said and he went on and on
about the old 4th floor bunch— brought up
the ones who teased him, called him the F word
even when he was dating women. “Ol’ what’s-his-face,”
he said, “is nothing but a bum now— teeth so rotten
you know he isn’t getting any from woman or man!”
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:01:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
You came home last night and would not look at me
I left you a note to give me back my keys

You came home last night and avoided any conversation
I left you a note to go stay at a friends house from now on

You came home last night and waited till I left the house
to get on the computer - then texted me to get the password

I left you a note to get a storage unit for your stuff

You said good morning - and nothing else
I went to work - with all the notes on the table

When I got home my keys were there - and you were not
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:02:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
KA and me
****************

KA is weird,
He always appeared,
When it is unexpected,
Sometimes makes me doubted.

When he does not contact me,
I always worried,
Coz he's my baby,
Tell me what's wrong I can't mind-read.

Turns out to be he was sickly,
And slept in at home after going to the doctor,
I don't want to be clingy,
Just want to care about my lover.

Maybe he does not want me to worry,
But when he does not answer my call I am,
Makes me like a bear that is cranky,
That is true; it is no sham.
Nadura Kamarulzaman
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:02:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
PB & J
---------

"Hello Peanut Butter,"
Said the Jelly.
"Hello Jelly,"
Said the Peanut Buter.

"Goodbye Peanut Butter and Jelly,"
Said the hungry little boy.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:05:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Michelle, your poem is great and well-written and I am cracking up. I love the ending!! See what prompts get you!! This poem is great!
Melissa "Missy" McEwen
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:08:38 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Donald R. Anderson
The Book and The Reader

The book stated emphatically,
but the reader she wasn't yet convinced.
The book said "this is the world
as it should be,"
but she said, "this is the world
that can't be."
In another few pages the book told her
that the main character was someone
who she knew the main character wasn't,
and she told the book that it ought to know better.
Somewhere in-between coffee and tea,
she sat down and glanced at a verb,
but the verb said emphatically,
"ain't" though she knew that could not be.
Never in her life had she seen
such an atrocity.
It was as if the hands of fate
were trying to make the character's words
a mockery.
But she wrote it off
to the character's upbringing.
In the deepest recesses
all these notes seemed to build
until she found she must write
what foul independent notions filled her head.
So she wrote herself silly,
a little each day,
in a journal dictated
to the book she read before that day.
And little by little,
the words they took form,
until she was surrounded
by the characters.
"Finally," she said,
looking at the protagonist,
"I want to ask you... why?"
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:11:43 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Ooh, some good ones here. I love reading the poems on this site.

I really enjoyed reading "FRANK NAPOLEON BROWN" by Missy M. You captured Frank well!

Also, I enjoyed: "Taking my Husband to the Poetry Festival" by Lori D. and "Lucky in Cleveland" By Susan P.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:13:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Dating in Heaven

I had a dream that you were dating in heaven.
That’s what they do here, you said,
although I can’t imagine what that means
how the dating service would go and

who picks genders: “the boys” you used
to call them, but not for lovers.
It must be easier than here,
no waiting for phone calls or playing coy games.

The sex must be marvelous and noisy.
You can enter a body at will; no worry
the distraction of love will keep you from
your angel duties; harping and singing.

I tell you I could swing high to be there,
fly from the trapeze with no net, but
they won’t let me in, even read my profile yet
and besides, you were always the one in the circus.


Lesley Pasquin
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:13:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
MAINE and “School Days” (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater
April 18, 2009

I often think about the place,
My native landscape scenes,
The wooded backdrop there to grace,
The rivers, lakes, and streams.
The State of Maine still echoes, calls,
Of days of yesteryear,
A schoolboy walking in the halls,
Of red-bricked "Burns" and "Thornton" dear.

Maine Civics class, a favorite,
Brings memories of that land,
And lighthouses which now are lit
To send a gleam across the sand.

The Songo locks, Sebago Lake,
And the favorite swimming hole,
Lie dimly in the conscious wake,
And touch the heartstrings of the soul.

"Deering Oaks" on weekends spent
With my mother in the park,
To watch the swans in glide, descent,
With Portland's skyline in the back.

Old Orchard Beach, and summer sand,
With French girls on the beach,
From Montreal, on East Avenue Grande,
At Pine Point, and on to Ocean Park's reach.

And Kennebunkport's Arundel Inn,
Was Seacrest-Inn-on-the-Sea back then,
And I a dishwasher, bellboy with a grin,
Viewing Walker point to St. Ann's at the rivers bend.

And Sunday School at the G.A.R. hall,
A rented room for a small select group of Saints,
With Lincoln's photo on the wall,
And harmonica hymns played to a small boy’s taints.

But most of all was 'home sweet home'--
Though only an apartment on the poor side of the street;
But Mom and Dad and twelve siblings roam
From school to play to the family meet.

For what is Maine but 'family and friends'--
Relationships in the environment of time,
The things we did, the happy and sad blends
To crystallize into memories sublime.
==========================================================

Poet's note: My middle school years of 1956-60 were at Jamison School--Old Orchard Beach, Maine; and C.K. Burns School, Saco,Maine; and high school was Thornton Academy of Saco, Maine established in 1811. "Deering Oaks" was the main park in Portland, Maine where Longfellow (and I) used to roam and both of us wrote about in our poetry (150 years apart). The Inn where I worked as a high school sophomore (dishwasher) overlooked "Walker Point"---the now $4 million summer home of George H. W. Bush--named after his family name of "Walker" which he bought from his Aunt Walker to become his summer "White House".
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:13:54 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Disaster Relief Training

She tips her yellow hat, and says, “I’m so pleased
to see you all here.” And she smiled with ease.
“You’ve come, ‘cause you’re tired of sitting in the pews,
not hearers only, but someone God can use.
Here’s an opportunity you can seize.”

“I’m here to talk about disasters and disease,
quakes, floods,tornadoes, even an arctic freeze.
Here are some pictures which were in the news.”
She tips her yellow hat.

“Sounds worthwhile,” the crowd agrees.
“Lots of fun,” said one, liking to tease.
“Come to the next meeting and pay your dues.
We need your help. Please don’t refuse.
Have your training and get one of these.”
She tips her yellow hat.
Connie L. Peters
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:22:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
POETRY

I was once told by a professor and poet:
All poetry is just about death.
As the writer of poetry seeks to keep alive
His immortality through what he bequeath, or saith.

But as for me, I would counsel, and likely surmise:
All poetry is really about life!
As the writer of poetry reveals his view,
Since death is a part of life, and strife.

We came from whence, and go between,
Through the phase of mortality's plan.
Then on to the goal of life hereafter,
By the touch of "the Master's" hand.

So when you write, either poetry, or prose,
Peruse your words with distilled wisdom,
And seek to balance truth with beauty,
With the knowledge of both life's and death's total sum.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:23:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

The baton was raised
we waited

First a high note
broke through the silence
joined by others
not a cacophony but
a symphony.
a beautiful rendition
of the composer’s
vision.

one, two, three, four
arms waving around
instruments relate and interact
one with another
they dance, they play
together now
in unity

we watch,
we listen
our spirits soar
from overture to coda
we are enthralled

They play
we listen
they sing to us
in the language of music
and we listen with the language of soul
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:24:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Fatal Interaction

We thought it was funny
when one hen, bolder than the rest
came to visit on the back porch
where (incidentally)
we feed the dogs.

They hadn’t finished their breakfast that day
and there were really lots of kibbles
left in the bowl.
The hen, apparently delighted,
began to partake.

Our largest dog, sweet
male golden
Labrador retriever,
arrived on the porch
and watched with wary eye
as the hen ate with gusto.

Next day
Once again, the dogs
left kibbles in their dish.

Bold hen arrives again
and begins to eat.
How cute they were, dog and hen,
eating, sharing contentedly from a common dish!
They had apparently become friends.

Next day.
Kibbles left.
No one saw what happened next-
we could only examine the evidence to draw our conclusions.

Little spot on dog’s nose, where he’d obviously
been pecked.
Headless hen, lifeless now- so sad an ending for the story.

Dogs now leave no kibbles in their dish.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:26:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

FATHER SAYS

Father says
I was once knee-high
to a grasshopper

This causes
me to have nightmares
of being eaten

by bugs
I've crushed while running
around in the yard

a jungle
of hungry insects
who want me for lunch

Kimiko Martinez
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:28:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Untitled

Quickening heartbeats threaten
To choke the air from panicked lungs
As the tug of war begins
Between my head and my breasts.

Pride’s surefooted hold
Is reinforced by my flexing heart
As the life sustaining flow
Of air within my head
Loosens wisdom’s rocky ground.

And I
With might to spare
Unable to decide
Which team to lend a hand?

But wisdom seeks an ally
In my body’s central hub
Brain quickly responds
With its powerful righting force.

A message soon is sent to palms
Quick! Rid yourselves of sweat.
To calm my lungs the message is
Slowly fill with air.
And heart, pride’s best ally,
Is told to take a rest.

Ah! None too soon
For there she stands
Right in front of me

With wisdom’s help I open my arms
To receive the hug she offers
For though still hurt
In my head I know
She is my family

Daunette
Daunette Lemard-Reid
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:30:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I Love You But...

Where do I go from here
She says - with me
not caring that we've
been trying to get away
for awhile now

I don't think that's a good idea
She says - but i love you
a great thing to hear
when things are working
but not when they're not

I love you too
but we need space right now
She says - but we have something good
only thinking of the comfort of our union
and not the passion that's missing

We do but we need this time
to live our lives, figure out what we want
She says - right, but...
i ask for silence
so my heart doesn't fold.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:35:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“A Shooting Star” By: Melinda Elmore


Watching the sky
Late at night

All of a sudden
The eyes catch
A beautiful sight

A shooting star
Cascades across the sky

Hearts pump
On the wish
For tonight

As it descends
Upon Mother Earth
A sacred sight
From Heaven to Earth

Another wish
Another promise
Made tonight
Upon a shooting star
Means so much

By: Melinda Elmore
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:37:01 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
interaction between a foreign visitor and a native philosopher

ON THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA (C) Richard-Merlin Atwater
April 18, 2009

On the Great Wall of China I was walking one day,
And up popped a China-man who said, "Hey! Hey!,
Glad to see you, Good to know, And I'm glad that you're here,
On the Great Wall of China give a happy cheer!"

On the Great Wall of China in the month of May,
We both walked along and he began to say,
"Glad to see you, Good to know, and I'm glad that you're here,
On the Great Wall of China give a happy cheer!"

Beijing, it makes me sing,
Quong Chow, and Xian- Ling!
Shanghai, a happy tune!
On the Great Wall of China in the month of June!

On the Great Wall of China as we walked along,
He whistled at a tune and sang a song,
"Glad to see you, Good to know you, and I'm glad that you're here
On the Great Wall of China give a happy cheer!"

On the Great Wall of China, north of old 'Peking',
We both joined together and began to sing:
"Glad to see you, Good to know you, and I'm glad that you are here,
On the Great Wall of China give a happy cheer!"

Beijing, it makes me sing,
Quong Chow, and 'Xian'-Ling!
Shanghai, a happy tune,
On the Great Wall of China sing a happy tune!

On the Great Wall of China as he went away,
I'll always remember that happy day.
"Glad to see you, Good to know you, and I'm glad that you're here,
On the Great Wall of China give a happy cheer!

On the Great Wall of China there is harmony,
Brotherly LOVE, and charity,
As we all sing together, "I'm so glad that you're here",
On the Great Wall of China give a happy cheer!

Beijing, it makes me sing,
Quong Chow, and 'Xian'-Ling,
Shanghai a happy tune,
On the Great Wall of China sing a happy tune!
===========================================================
Based on a true story that happened to the poet-writer
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:37:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


Broken Baby Bird

You pulled me in close with your sweet fragility,
your soft-spoken sadness well-earned, well-practiced.
A baby bird stuck in broken-wing pose,
you led me past your nest, pitiful and broken,
to the best fantasy I knew I could not re-place you in.
Then you called me cruel when I pointed to the truth;
you dragged your wing in the dust around us
and turned away.
I love you.
I cannot save you.

Lorraine Hart
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:45:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Past time

The Pitcher tries to make
a good pitch.

The Hitter tries to make
solid contact.

After that
it's just Baseball.
David Yockel Jr.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:45:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Morning

Woke up and saw the light
paling through the blinds,
snugged myself to your warm back,
pulled up the covers again
and dozed and felt you stir,
turn over and reach a sleepy arm
out for me, ran my hand
up over your chest to hold
your shoulder, nestled my nose
against your neck, felt your beard
tickle my face, your lips warm
on my cheek, your legs
tangling mine like tree roots
anchoring us to this place,
this sweet moment.
Jenny Doughty
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:49:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Haiku (5-7-5)

Sparrow eyes cricket
hiding in the tree, sits close
sizing up for lunch
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:49:24 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Akwardness at the Muffler Store
Glued to the chair
sweat collecting on her upper lip
ignoring the heat
and the second hand on the clock
crookedly hanging
on the wall of the muffler store
feeling the eyes scanning her right side
making her every movement amplified
concentrating on a book
concentration is broken by
a voice and a throat clearing
Realization that the voice belongs to the eyes
inward groan
Then shuffling while answering the
various personal questions about
her relationship status and accepting
compliments she doesn't trust
bracing herself
against the chair
waiting
well, he says he's a lucky man
thank you
and he walks out the door hesitatingly
looking over his shoulder while
her eyes burn holes in her magazine

April
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:51:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Brief Exchange

The evil bug growls in frustration,
I tell my daughter I growl the same,
but the bug, I'm nothing like him.
I don't know if she gives me any blame.

She doesn't respond,
only laughs at the evil and benevolent
battle going on before her. Does she belong?
I'm not sure if she knew what I meant,

When I told her about the bug.
She barely glances my way.
I only see her when I get a hug,
Not from only me, but from all others she's stray

Speaking and interaction aren't natural to her
So I keep from the tears and the scowl
And my mind a blur,
With my daughter I laugh at the growl.

by: Natasha Gruss
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:51:37 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Cleopatra

and Marc Antony
used to dress down
like us common folks and
go into town to have fun
like us common folks and
buy fruit and wine and get a little drunk
like us common folks and
forget about the Caesars in our lives.

But we knew, we knew it was them.
Yet we didn’t bow, throw ourselves on the floor,
shakes their hands, didn’t try to get their autographs,
like us common folks do
when we run across the eminent.
We left them alone, played their game, and tried not
to let them know they were obvious. I mean, hey,
once a queen, always a queen, you know?

And they took such delight in each other and their game
that spoiling it would have been treason of love if not of state.
I caught her eye one time, naked, unlined,
shiny with happiness that dimmed just a bit
when she saw that I recognized her.
But we seemed to agree: I would not remind her
that she was a queen and
she would not remind me
that I wasn’t.

L. L. Lundstedt
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:55:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
STARMAN

We no longer have the old gods
to birth us to wonder.
Movie characters change us in small ways.
We cry in the dark where no one sees us.

Give us the being of pure light
who will visit us from a star unknown
become like us, suffer the needs this body has
for sex and Dutch apple pie.

We seem to have the galaxy to ourselves.
When the beloved dies there are no second chances.

Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:56:34 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Seed

it started small
that tiny seed
a speck
in the palm of my hand
dropped to the ground
like dirt
onto a magnetic field
sparked with life
that plugs into the earth
and sunsets marked
the time that passed
with rain like tears
that wept
then wispy emergence
of a slim tendril twisting
climbing hair-like thread
coiling
around and around
attaching to the support
curling
and winding
like something warped
turning, bending
twirling
deeply entwined now
interwoven
like a spiral twisting
two ribbons of smoke
curved into their tendency
to grow together
ringlets and wood shavings
crests of breaking waves
maneuvering through the helix
looping through the vortex
a sinuous whirlpool
of lust
even with
your ring on mine
that succubus
has you tightly wrapped
around her little finger


Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:57:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Little Buck
Head down and bounding
along the path,
you stood in my way,
pawing the earth.
Your little antlers
the first thing
I saw.

You pawed the earth,
and I copied you.
But, you stood
there looking at me,
ready to fight.
I hid behind a bench,
and you slowly walked
into the canary grass.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 7:57:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Free Loader

He is hopping
along
looking and
waiting for
the
right ride.

Here
it comes
jumps on
digs in
No tip
he leaves.

Moment
the check
is due
he runs
out the
back door.

His friend
the dog
is busy
scratching
and biting
and cussing.

The flea
no
remose
Onto the
next
meal!

Robby Lynne Strozier
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:02:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My Reason for Bleeding

I'm sure it started
Inside the womb
This relationship that
Will last forever
The first sound touched
Something deep inside
Within my heart
Within my soul
It was the sweetest caress
Gentlest embrace
Lightest touch
I was changed forever
Each time I hear the
Sound of my love
I cannot breathe
We thrive off one another
It runs under my skin
Those notes pound through
Every beat of my heart
Music is my endless love
My reason for bleeding Audioblood
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:05:01 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Free Loader

He is hopping
along
looking and
waiting for
the
right ride.

Here
it comes
jumps on
digs in
No tip
he leaves.

Moment
the check
is due
he runs
out the
back door.

His friend
the dog
is busy
scratching
and biting
and cussing.

The flea
no
remorse
Onto the
next
meal!

(Redid poem - typing error made!
Thanks!)
Robby Lynne Strozier
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:07:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Reflections in My Rear-View Mirror: An Interaction of Some Sort

Above all, remember what your mother said:
Never, Never, Never pick up hitch-hikers!

Lately, on my journey down the road of life,
I've been stealing glances in my rear-view mirror.
Check the lipstick, pat the hair,
make sure the smile's still there.
It happens now with greater frequency since
I’ve noticed that my smile has faded a bit.
In its place are little wrinkles of regret,
dark circles, a bit of puffiness around the eyes.
My mind, the part of me that lives
in sunshine hope, wanders back to you
and endless promises, possibilities...
I swerve to miss a concrete divider
Someone stuck in the road when I wasn't looking.
Rule number one:
Keep your mind on your driving.

Perhaps the circles have disappeared
Now that I'm not crying anymore.
I shoot another glance in the mirror
And see behind me women,
all ages, sizes, temperaments
heading in the same direction, some slowly,
some more quickly, but all are coming.
Every one of them is weeping.
And then I see the men,
all ages, sizes, temperaments
traveling in the opposite direction, all going,
some slowly, some more quickly, and eventually
they all look the same in the rear-view mirror.
No wonder the women are weeping.
I want to shout and warn them, encourage them:
Keep your mind on your driving.
Keep your eyes on the road ahead!

If you do not, you will be
distracted by those people going.
It doesn't matter who they are.
They can be good and godly,
Sweet and sexy, sensitive and shy,
proud and profane, raunchy and rebellious,
straight and square, or wise and wonderful;
it doesn't matter. They are always
going.

Of course, they go in different ways.
Sometimes one of them seems to turn
and head in your direction. As you slow down,
he jogs to your window and speaks.
You listen for something: a certain word,
a sigh, a special softness in reply
and you hear it, whether or not it's there.
He jumps into the front seat; the talk
begins as you go on and on. At first
he seems to listen, but remember,
he was headed in the opposite direction;
how can he concentrate when there are
so many coming toward him?
Eventually he grabs the handle and jumps out.
He's going.

Or sometimes he goes on and on
about himself. How wonderful he is,
how many women he's met coming,
how many more will come.
Once in a while he may ask a question,
but before you take another breath,
he's talking again.
If you are smart, you open the door.
He's going.

And sometimes--often--he sits in the back seat
And does your driving for you.
"Watch out! Don't hit that! Be careful!
Turn around. Go that way. Quit swerving.
Think! You are an accident waiting to happen."
Then the door is jammed; no one can get out,
but little by little,
he's going.
Keep your mind on your driving,
Keep your eyes on the road ahead,
Keep your hands on the wheel!

Once in a while,
something sleek and soft and furtive
darts into the middle of your road.
He looks at you with dark and soulful eyes;
you know if you don't do something,
he'll die and so will you. You are tempted
to stop or swerve to miss him, and
then run back to see if he's still there.
He's not. He knows how to avoid being hit.
If he were female, she'd be coming, and
the approaching lights would blind her.
He's going.
So you'd better keep going, no slowing,
Keep your mind on your driving,
Keep your eyes on the road ahead,
Keep your hands on the wheel,
And--don't brake for animals!


Marsha Schuh
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:14:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Observed Pleasure

Early morning on the path
they walk hand in hand
with matching strides
talking without heat or hurry
enjoying the cool fresh air
and quiet surroundings
Middle-aged slim and healthy
both greying slightly both
unwrinkled and unharried.
Does this demeanor spring
from love or is their obvious
well-being an enhancement?
I think they've been together
long and happily without
too many trials to mar life's
beauty. I think uncommon
is the word I'd use for such
a content couple, unclouded
on a cloudless day.


Charmion Burns
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:15:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
TWO IN THE WOMB

"Move over."

"I was here first."

"Prove it."

"Hey, that's my thumb you are sucking."

"Get your foot out of my face."

"We are suppose to interact, you know."

"After nine months of you, I am tired of 'inter'."

"What's that noise?"

"Sounds like water running."

"I feel like I am falling."

"Me, too."

"I'm scared."

"Me, too."

"Hold my hand."

WAAAAAAAH

*
*
*
*
*
WAAAAAAAH

Jean Lutz
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:15:47 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Golden Comets: A Poem for Amanda’s Hens

They want my eggs.
Why else are they
trying to butter me up?
If I could fly,
I would leap
out of this coop
right now.
But wait.
They are gentle
to me, give me
plenty of food.
Ok, maybe
this could work.
I’ve got eggs
to spare.
As long as no one
grabs my neck,
I won’t peck them.
I’ll keep my beak
sharp, just in case.
Lisa Kwong
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:19:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


QUENCHED THIRST


On a hot, humid day
Perspiration accumulates on the forehead;
Seems as if it shot out of nowhere
Coming face-to-face with a red
Coca Cola machine, accepting coins,
Dispersing red aluminum cans
After the sound of ka-thunk
Extinguishing thirst.
Stephanie Thomas
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:22:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Day 18, Interaction

Well really, it was too cold
to do yoga at the River,
seeking for some peace of mind,
trying to quell the quiver
in my uncooperative thigh.

Calming down to meditate
finding solace by the River,
focussed on sounds of Ruby Creek,
trying not to shiver
while I posed upon the rocks.

So close to blessed quietude
that I sought at the River
when my neighbour's dog,
escaped from his caregiver,
jumped and offered me his stick.

Then my dear old Toby
who loves playing at the River
decided to protect me-
from the intruder to deliver-
and climbed into my lap.

Laughing, I picked up the stick
and threw it in the River,
opted for a cup of tea
and promised myself to never
try yoga on the rocks.
Trudi Jarvis
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:22:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Sorry for the re-post...formatting issue.




The Heat of a Kiss Never Had


They stand in the parking lot for over 2 hours,
Saying goodbye.

He on the other side of her car door
She with one leg in, as if to leave at any moment.
And yet, they linger
Heat rising and falling between them with every breath
Despite the night’s October chill
Laughter full of sparks
His blue eyes piercing her green
In the dark.

And she wants desperately to kiss him.

No, that isn’t it, exactly.
She longs for him to kiss her.
Old fashioned, maybe, but true.
And yet, somewhere deep,
Alarms are going off
And with every fiber of her being,
She dreads the moment, too.

Their first kiss.
Perhaps the beginning of something
Amazing.
But surely the end of something magical.
This place they are now.
This
Best friends
Endless all-night phone conversations
So much in common
So much still unsaid
Can he really be for real
Is she only dreaming
Place.

For surely from here
Things will escalate
At her usual pace.
Always quick.
Never painless.

She will
fall
fall
fall
(from grace)
From her soft cocoon
And land hard, bruised.
Screw it up somehow, confused.
Wondering why her heart is such a temporary place.
And by the light of day,
He will be just another…man.
(Shoulda been a four-letter word, really.)

And still, she lingers.
Her heartbeat is a stranger in her own chest.
And she wants this conversation to go on forever,
Not even sure what they’ve been talking about.
So busy is she memorizing
The curve of his fingers on her car door
The set of his shoulders
The weight of his smile.


Just after 3am.
I’ve really got to go
She says it for the eighth time.
He laughs, a sound she commits carefully to memory
In case it is the last time it sounds
This musical
This sexy
This
Perfect.

They hug,
Linger.
Pull back,
Glance.
Her heart gasps.
At last, whew.
No kiss.

Later, at home, the phone rings.
Bliss.









De Jackson
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:22:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Fly Fishing Dance

From down below the surface
laying nestled in the stone
sunlight drenching my gills
as the cool river rolls over me

Watching you dance upon the surface
coy, floating, anxiously waiting.
Yes, I see you, tantalizing me
with your subtle dance.

Thinking how tasty you would be
should it be my fortune to
finally catch you

The time is right
for me to strike
with swift precision
I do bite

I caught you, silly fly!
Your dance is finally over.
No longer will you tease me
as I open wide my mouth.

But now I realize the truth
behind your cleaver dance

Tonight I’m someone’s dinner,
I never stood a chance.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:24:38 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Carried

littered street, windy day
limp, white/black plastic bag
stuck to damp pavement
blown dry and up
and out, open wide
hovering atop
antennaed building
stuck
loosed by dust devil
flapping as a free-faller’s windsuit
smack into dogwalker,
visor launched like a Frisbee,
then straightforward
through back/side streets
winding to main street
to the grill of a mack truck
that pays no mind to wind

Andrea Boltwood
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:27:37 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
She tries to
be patient

She crouches
crumpled pillow edge
stares
purrs

finally
the blankets move
a face emerges
unwilling
to surrender sleep
to the light of
Saturday

She moves forward
they are
nose to nose
then reaches
the extra half inch
a kitty kiss

She purrs
but makes
a token protest
when she is
suddenly hugged

Good morning,
little four feet
halfmoon_mollie
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:28:19 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Just This

The miles ahead are not infinite.
Under the dimming summer night
I strain to read the stars as this fire
throws embers into the air. As each
dances, my heart leaps for you. I am left
trying to find my compass points
knowing when morning arrives I must
navigate by way of land marks
I may not be able to interpret.


And This

A moment lost in the rain. Five
seconds of wind where I cannot see.
This disorientation, this spinning
inside my head will always be mine.

Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:30:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

A flock of fifteen goldfinches
on a wire above my yard,
arrayed like Christmas lights,
they chirped and trilled,
and fluffed themselves
high up in the air,
except for three of the braver ones
who swooped down toward the ground.

One settled on a chair arm,
but then flew back to the wire.
The other two pecked
at seeds and mites,
hopping here and there,
both of them oblivious
to my long haired calico cat.
Low to the ground,
she inched toward them,
her yellow eyes fixed and sure.

Then she pounced and caught one
in her teeth. I didn't think she would.
I started to intervene,
but my efforts came too late.
In a trice she'd killed it,
then batted it, tossed it,
and toyed with it,
like her favorite catnip mouse.

My big black tomcat sauntered over
to sit and watch her show.
She growled at him,
snatched up the bird,
and slinked off toward the shade.
And there she gnawed
and pulled and chomped
through every bone and sinew.

When I went out later
to look at the site,
the only things I saw were
four yellow feathers,
part of its head,
and one small
curled brown claw.



Elizabeth Claman
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:32:22 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The neon sign flickered
On
Off
On
Off
As the lightpole sent out
A morse code
Signaling one to the other
That the night had begun.

Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:32:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Dear Lord in Heaven, may I say that I have won the race
the souls of mortal men now live and die without your Grace.”
“You are the adversary,” said God to Lucifer
“Why should I believe a word you say, you vile cur?”
“Dear Lord,” the fallen angel cried “Did you not make me thus?
I live by what you asked of me and hesitate to fuss.”
“I made of you the morning star to be a guiding light
and tempt the wicked men to Hell with creatures of the night.”
“Yet you complain of empty space, when Heaven has been left
to angels and the pure of heart, if any are bereft.
In every way your equal, I have one final grace
to guide the souls of mortal men to leave this cursed place.”
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:38:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April Interaction

Friday 10 am began the roar
I was dreaming deep andsweet, I’d been up til four
It grew louder, came near my door
then a fear took hold I could no longer ignore
the unexpected motor and what was in store


I rush as best I can to rise, to dress,
rock and roll immobile legs
by twisting hips, bang my shin in my hurry
to cover the most personal bits, grab a blanket
slide fast, to the door to address my worry

He doesn’t hear me scream
He pretends not too
Though I know I have lungs,
I’ve sung, I have volume

I imagine blinds flutter at other windows
as I bellow his name ------!
Then I rush from the front door to the back
trying to catch him, before all is lost
As he blithely mows and mows and mows

Stop, STop STOP!
Finally he senses something, pauses, feels my energy
“Don’t mow there, where my flowers grew
Don’t you remember what you did last year?”
“O yeah” he grins, “the rose bush I razed, the bulbs I sheared
but that spot is my only way into your yard.
Your new ramps bar easy access.”

That does not explain the fence
where the daisies and echinacea once bloomed
“You had things there too?” he smiles
“And please, please, leave the back alone,
I’ll figure out another way to get it groomed”
I hate my state, that I pay for this rape
how it aches to not tend my yard

“They’re having a garage sale over there” he said
where the now dead fat man neighbor lived
who flirted with the bar brawling whore
thankfully, no longer renting next door
whose tethered tortured dog would
slip the leash and pile against my veggie fence
and in my yard, his rank and sad odure

Why doesn’t this lawnmower know
what anything is until it’s full grown?
killing the flowers just as they start
any wayward green, cut, contained
like so many other small men
drunk on the power of their tools.


Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:44:43 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Secret of Life

I lean closer to catch her words
Keep fighting,
is all she says.
Cara
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:48:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Surface Tension"

You guide me to
your plane of
tranquillity.
Flat, black,
reflecting the
sunlit sky,
you entice me
down.

I land on your
invisible top
and slip along
your suddenly
gooey surface.

By what trick have
you caught me
here? My wings are
no match;
my legs agitate,
against your
grip. I stall, sink
down.

"Surface tension,"
you ripple in reply,
the last thing I hear.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:48:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Newborn

I held out my arms to the
Blanket-wrapped bundle I
Whispered so softly “Is it
Really you?” Her eyes squinted
Together her nose a brief button
Her lips drawn and puckered like
She was ready to cry. I had to be
Careful, mustn’t upset her, her daddy
Leaned over to say “hello” too.

He’d seen other babies, his nieces and
Nephews, but she was so tiny and his
Very own. “Hi there,” he whispered
Like in a cathedral, I, too, felt suddenly
Holy – part of a miracle, this perfect
Small human we brought into this world.

The nurse bent to help me slip up the
Nightgown, I moved so her head would
Be close to my breast. Her mouth didn’t
Open, a moment of panic, “oh, please
Let me feed her” An invisible prayer. The
Nurse stroked her cheek, her
little mouth opened and I pressed
My nipple between her small lips..

“She likes it”, said hubby and I felt the
pressure as she sucked like she’d done
it for all of her life. She knows what to
do and no-one has told her, I cuddled
and kissed her, our sweet little daughter
our family complete.
Marian Veverka
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:51:46 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Where are you calling from?



Even as I punch the numbers I will never
forget icewater begins to seep and slosh
about my heels tingling. I wait for the
signal and begin to speaking knowing you
will screen and wait for the lapse before
grabbing up the phone. You say you have
missed me and the words are like salve
and a bandage of linen, sweet, aromatic
unguent sealing the leakage, quelling
the insistent scrape. I don’t want to think
about the rising ocean bath, cuttle and
jellyfish making a loop around my ankles,
nerve endings starting to shut down.
You ask about my impending departure,
offer advice about the last poem I sent,
I thank you for your efforts to find another
place where we can meet, another table
where we can cluster and nurture
one another, the green cradle a perfect
fit in a villanelle, the line breaking before
the preposition to tease another layer
of meaning. I remember the monastery where
I brought us for retreats (sacred to me in my
youth) and where I can now never return.
The friend I brought to our meetings now
estranged and evasive. The kelp and anemones
sway beneath my throat and my temperature
continues to drop. I listen intently, smiling
while prayers suffuse my brain like a million
thwarted tears and frustrated acidic howls,
that will catch before they ever reach
the surface. Bubbles blip and dissolve as I try
to respond, wreathing my temple in light-
headed confusion. Where are you calling
from? You ask. Ann, I do not know. I do not
know. I do not know.
Christopher Stephen Soden
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:53:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I wish
they could all get along
my three adult children

I wish
they could get over
whatever it was
that happened
when they were younger

that wielded the sledge
and drove the wedge
creating some pledge
that exists between
the one in the front
and the one behind
of the one
in the middle
who wishes she had
a brother and a sister
that she could
talk to

and they could undo
whatever it was

that wielded the sledge
and drove the wedge
that created some pledge
that exists between
big brother
and little sister

and keeps the one
in the middle
the one on the edge

Robin Waring
Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:56:19 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Some Sort of Interaction

“I love when you come like this,
round, twisting, deep...”

“Yeah, I like your kiss,
and how you make me weep...”

“I can't avoid it! It's just the way I spin
and when I see I'm up to your skin.”

“I enjoy it, though. And I can't stop the flow! We go round and round until I'm dried out!”

“Oh, and your juice is so delightful... It's a real treat!”

“They all say so... And look, there's more coming for you to fleet! They have a full bag!”

“O-oh! My motor will overheat! I'll need a time lag!”

The oranges had a short and agitated life,
and lots of fun.
Whereas, the orange squeezer had quite a strife,
it was done!
It worked so hard
and ended up in a junk yard.

© Rosangela C. Taylor / 04-18-09



Saturday, April 18, 2009 8:58:13 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Brothers

It is the give and take
of punches and wounds
that makes us brothers.

Mother never understood,
crying in her room over the stress
of her fractured family: the times
I peed in your shoes, broke a glass table
over your back, and over all the years
you pummeled me with heavy objects
from those hiding places, held me
down so you’d be victorious.

If mother could have lived
to see us now, she would be calmed
by the sight of us, parents of our own
boys and girls, who bully each other
until they cry, and the next moment
laugh together until it hurts, and marvel
at their father and uncle, wondering how
we survived those times as brothers.

It is still the love and hate
of older and younger brothers
that makes us brothers.

J. Martin
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:01:01 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hang Ten

Rays of sunshine on a warm summer day,
little ripples ebb and crest,
Perfect to go surfing on my surfboard anyway,
hang ten to my very best.

Paddling with my hands and feet to carve a wave,
no competitors or obstacles here,
As I look up to the sky, a moment to go save,
no plans to wipeout to have fear.

A ripple rose higher by a few inches to a few feet,
clouds no longer a shade of white,
A unpredicted storm forecasted and now incomplete,
dread follows a sliver of cold fright.

Before the rain, thunder and lightning to bring doom,
I enter the wave inside,
As others take this opportunity before me in gloom,
carve a niche to ride.

During the storm, it becomes bigger and even more force,
my wrist restraints by a strap,
Bobbing up and down in motion, thunder loud to pierce,
sighting a much deadly trap.

I hanged on tight, until the storm faded and ended now,
all in one pierce by God too,
Invigorated by the water and an adrenalin rush somehow,
heading home, black and blue.
Kristen Howe
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:01:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Dolly Partons

You said the lobular cancer likes me
the cancer has returned
I said I remember when you asked me
if the body knows a thing
before the doctors can detect it and
I said I think it does, remember
Yes, you said, you did
I guess my body did
I guess it did, I said
You said I guess I get a brand new pair
I laughed and said you take this well
and can I pick them out
Of course you said but not the Dolly Partons

Do you have a catalog I asked
and I was laughing
and you said I will on Thursday
and I didn't say a word
but dreamed of all the breasts I knew
and wondered whose I'd choose

J. Alvey
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:03:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Interaction: a mutual or reciprocal reaction

Reading my stuff aloud always gives me a rush
But the night I debuted in an organized fashion
That is to say, it was advertised, and I had ten minutes
Just me, my poetry, the audience to hold or not
No flighty one poem, open-mike risk, this, oh no
This was suddenly the real deal, at least that’s how
It felt – and to make matters worse – my love
Was in the audience, he of the non-poetic soul
Or so he likes to describe himself, although I disagree
He thought it a given that I would want him there
And of course I did, didn’t I? Well, didn’t I?

So, as is my wont, I rehearsed some pieces
And took some out and put others in and was careful
To time them exactly, knowing well how resentful
Other poets can become of the ones who tend
To think their work so fine, they can outstay their
Allotted time – it is tempting if things are going
Particularly well, to just keep going and going
But of course, that just begs disaster, as any
Stand-up performer will tell you and I wasn’t
About to tempt that God – oh no, not this newly
Minted poet, just newly reading aloud
And only recently published as well

At any rate, I worked diligently to put together
A good sampling of poems of varying lengths
A few on the melancholic side, one profoundly sad
And several, including the last, with a definite comedic tone
After reading them, and timing them too, over and over
Into a tape-recorder, I was finally satisfied that they
Were just over nine minutes – giving me enough time
For speeding up with nerves, and some patter between
Then, I bit the bullet, dressed to the nines, not every poet’s
Mien, but one I decided suited me and gave me confidence

Well, let me tell you – that night was my ultimate experience
With interaction; never, before or since, have I enjoyed such
An intimacy with anyone, individually, or in a group
It was as if, every line I read reached into the audience
And spoke to each person alone, and while I couldn’t see
Every set of eyes, of course, I could see many, and they
Were indeed, looking right back at mine, reflecting pain
Sometimes, tears, or crinkling with laughter, at other times
I didn’t risk looking at the love of my life until the end
Which was probably a good thing, as I might have come undone
As he sat there obviously stunned and in love, with admiration
Plain on his face; when I sat down amidst much
cheering and applause
He bent to whisper and hug me at once, saying,
“I knew you were good...
But my God, you are amazing...I spent part
of the time just watching
The crowd. You touch people...they were laughing, then crying...wow –”
It was gratifying to hear my work validated by this one who had
Always been supportive but had never really known,
until right then
I don’t think – well I know, for he told me, he had come to the reading expecting
To listen politely, but now felt he should stand on his chair, shout to the world,
“Hey! This amazing poet, this woman right here, she’s my wife!”






S.E.Ingraham
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:09:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Happiness

I asked her
“What would you trade
happiness for?”
She crawled into bed
as I closed the door

She didn’t really answer
She mumbled a line
about “most people ain’t
happy most of the time”

Is it safety in crowds
that merely go with the flow?
Or house in a neighbourhood
that sits row by row?

She didn’t really answer
She mumbled a line
about “some people ain’t
happy even if they ain’t cryin’”

Is it having a ring
that don’t mean a thing?
Getting married ‘cause
the clock says it’s time?

Is it working a job
that just pays the bills?
Is it staying with something
that long lost it’s thrill?

I aksed her to tell me
as I turned out the light
She didn’t really answer, and
just whispered “Good night”

Joe
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:10:12 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
She scoops the coffee, holds the pot
under the tap. Her hand
clutches the counter, firm. I long
to touch that foreign land.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:11:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
typo.."asked"
Joe
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:12:30 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A conversation at Superstore

“you can’t take it with you”
handing over the bills for change

a quick shocked glance
as the cashier counts out coins
“you don’t believe in reincarnation?”

stunned for a moment
he searches for a response
“nope, maybe next time!”

Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:15:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Neglected Interactions

Since the beginning of time
Opposing views have existed
One view is nearly always right
While the other is logically wrong
At least in hind site

Such is the forbidden fruit
Willfully eaten by both
Knowing all the while that
Their actions were dead wrong
Ironically
Death was the punishment
For their willful disobedience

Then mankind as a whole
Decided to push God away
Except for a chosen few
Closed inside the ark
While all others perished

On and on the examples go
Missed opportunities by many
Neglected interactions with God
Our backs turned away
Not His

In light of the past actions of mankind
Why do we continue to neglect our Lord
Why do so many refuse to interact
Why are our backs still turned away

We know the rules
We know the consequences
We know right from wrong
Because He made sure we know

It’s in His Word
Injected in our DNA
The truth that He exists
All we need to do is interact

Yet we neglect His callings
We turn away from His truth
We trust in ourselves for direction
We neglect interactions with Him
And we remain lost
On the wrong road
Just as it has been from the beginning

The question remains
Will we continue to neglect Him
Will our backs be turned away
When all that we know
Comes to an end
And we stand before Jesus
On Judgment Day
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:15:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Morphine

Your lips are like morphine
And your eyes pull me down
Between the sheets of the bed;
Pulling lightly on my hair
You call out my name
As we intertwine our legs.

Your hands touch my legs
And it feels like morphine.
On my lips lies your name –
All you need do is bend down.
Your scent is in my hair
From our time in my bed.

You’re not the first in my bed,
Nor the first between my legs;
You’re not the first to stroke hair
And inject me with morphine
So that I’m sinking down
Somewhere that has no name.

I want to scream your name
Even when we’re out of bed.
No one can pull me down,
Not even by my legs;
I’ve got too much morphine,
I’m “floating on air”.

Sweat soaks my hair
And I cry out your name
As your shot of morphine
Lifts me from the bed.
I can’t move my legs
So I remain lying down.

You sigh, fall down
On top of me, smell my hair,
Lift up, and shift your legs.
While whispering my name
You recline on the bed
Like you’ve just had morphine.

Soon I will need some new morphine to bring me down;
Another bed where I’ll play with someone else’s hair
And moan another man’s name as he moves between my legs.
Melissa Hogle
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:15:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Listening Game

In yestertimes
we’d play a game.
Go outside. Sit
down. Be quiet.
Eyes wide. Say “start”.
Listen. Say “stop”.
Tell the sounds heard.
Close eyes. Say “start”.
Make mental notes
of all sounds heard.
Listen hard; close.
Listen near; far.
Take a deep breath;
another one.
Really listen.
Deep breath. Say “stop”.
Eyes open. We
compare mental
notes of all sounds.
Did you hear this?
Did you hear that?
You heard a what?
Are you certain?
Let’s do it one
more time. Eyes closed.
Deep breath. Say “start”.
Listen hard; close;
near; far. Say “stop”.
Eyes open. We
share, smile, talk, laugh.
Close times. Much love.
In yestertimes.

Willy Kalnins
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:16:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Courage of Cleo-Belle

The timid ginger cat
creeps up carefully on the balloon
as it rests on the living room floor.
She pauses, as a stray breeze
fools her into thinking
the mylar casing is alive.
When all returns to stillness,
she moves warily forward.
She stops one long stretch away
and cautiously raises her paw.
She holds her breath and bats.
The balloon skitters across the tile
and she bolts behind the chair.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:20:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“No it’s much better to face these kinds of things
With a sense of poise and rationality”
Panic at the Disco


An interaction,
Words exchanged,
Lives officially merged
By the simple act of
The repeating of vows,
Sealing the fate of
Two mismatched souls –
The alliance a disaster
From the moment of
Uttered conception.

“Do you promise?”
“I do.”
“Yes, I do too.”

Chaos, mayhem,
Disastrous disorder.
The sloppy kiss of death
Blessed by both the
Church and state,
Sending forth
Into the world
The union of two
Who now cry out,
Who today
Beg for relief
From the irrational
Interaction they so
Foolishly began
An entire
Lifetime ago.




Patti Williams
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:21:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
09-0418

You won’t make me cry
not this time
I’m keeping my distance.

I know how you are
I’ve worked with you many
times before.

But this time, I won’t let you
hurt me.

No, I won’t stop using you.
I won’t. I like what you add.
It’s important to me
to add just the right
flavor
to the situation.

So, don’t look at me like that,
I’m taking this knife to you
and you will submit
you
onion
you.

Diana
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:21:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

"Alone"

Who can help but whisper
when the air is full of warmth
and light flows like vintage into the empty rooms?

And the forgotten blossoms are cold in the window
and the books often opened are stacked by the walls?

A hand in the darkness is never warm.
And an eye in the daylight is shrouded always.

Because I am ever hiding.
I am ever knowing
that something still more miraculous
is waiting for me.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:22:17 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Herbal Romance”

Rosemary:
I’ve always said we go
well together.

Thyme:
With poultry, certainly.

Rosemary:
What other herbs
have a song?

Thyme:
We don’t have a
song. We’re in a song.

Rosemary:
Song, sing, sing a
song. We’re legends.

Thyme:
In our own thyme.

Rosemary:
Very funny! So like
you not to toot your horn.

Thyme:
Parsley and sage made
the chorus with us.

Rosemary:
Don’t bring those two
into this. No rhymes there.

Thyme:
Perhaps so, but you will always
be a true love of mine.

Rosemary:
Ohh…you! True love
never smelled as sweet.

Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:23:36 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Bully Surprise

I saw the large boy
bullying a small lad,
treating him like a toy,
making his life sad.

About to intervene
I couldn’t believe my eyes,
the smaller lad became redeemed
flipping the bully overhead.

Bewilderment had taken over,
then the bully upped and fled,
The little lad acting sober,
Nothing more need be said.

Sharon Chaffee
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:25:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Kitty Cat Capitulation

Ok, you win:
Kitty Kaviar will be sprinkled
On your Alaskan Halibut and Rice.
I will buy you more cat grass
And give you crunchies every night at 8 o’clock.
You can sit next to my computer
And put your paw on my arm.
I will carry you from room to room
With your head on my shoulder
And your drool on my neck.
You can be a crotch cat
And sleep between my legs.
I will sprinkle catnip
On your Boogie Mat
And let you roll in it,
And give you little dishes
Of your favorite people food,
Chevre and yogurt and
Mixed salad greens.
I will do all these things
Even though
You meow at me in frustration
And climb up my leg
And look at me in that tone of cat,
Because I will never understand
The finer points
Of whatever it is
You want me to do.

Anne Corey
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:35:06 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
For Body & Blood

I've been waiting for communion
of sun & rain
to bless my drug store seeds

layers of priestly soil
chant obscurities
I'd understand in Latin

all I can do is prepare
a bed free of strangling vines
and full of worms

make my Easter vigil
between rhododendrons & trees
and learn to identify my sprouts

when they have risen
have risen indeed
alleluia zucchini amen
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:36:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Then There Was Emily

spending her time in a corner
bedroom of her father’s house.
A poem a day plus one she
wrote in 1862, then hundreds more.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning
gazed from a frame above her bed,
at a writing desk and chair.

A simple life of solitude
relating to one’s self, one’s muse
…a poet’s answered prayer.
Sharon Mooney
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:36:52 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
De Jackson - you totally captured that moment.

Marian, "Newborn" made me weepy. Love it. :)

Joe - I like your "Happiness" poem. Insightful and a bit sad.
Diana
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:40:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Duality”

Why, when I pray for patience,
that is when the rage comes;
when I ask for tolerance
I see all our stupidities?
It seems so contradictory
to seek the middle road and balance,
yet find a cesspool of dark emotion
roiling just beneath the surface.
What is it doing there,
balled up tight, until calm release
invites it to the light?
For I have compassion,
and at times the generosity,
to forgive, and give, of myself;
quite often, as it happens.
Perhaps this alchemy,
older than the interaction
in a chemist’s lab,
is necessary as the breath of life.
For what is light without the dark,
which caresses and inflames,
the brightness to shine forth?
Kit Cooley
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:44:08 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Why they really call extra large pantyhose "Queen" size

As I rang up a tall transvistite at my retail job in his full get up, he asked, "Do these pantyhose on sale come in queen size?" I could just image his large boned man body trying to get into those as I looked at his sloppy mop of a womans wig on his head. What a queen all right. Hence-the term queen size panyhose. (Based on a true story)
Laura Ciorlieri
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:46:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
You With Your Baby
By Judy Kneprath
4-18-09

To gladden my heart
And make my eyes brim
All I had to do
Was watch you look at him

Intent and fully present
Engaged to the max
In love with that baby
He stopped you dead in your tracks

He smiled, you smiled
He fussed, you cooed
He burped, you rejoiced
He was hungry, he got food

Playing on the floor with him
On a walk to the park
Rocking in the night
Or together on a lark

Always he came first
You loved him so
A treasured memory I have
You watching him grow



Judy Kneprath
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:46:59 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Day 18: Involving interaction

When you live alone,
you talk to yourself.
Daily.
You ask yourself,
“Where is. . .?”
and “What did. . .?”
and “How could. . .?”
and you answer
yourself.
Sometimes when you
can’t remember something,
you say
“He would know” or
“She would know” but
they aren’t around, and so
you sit and try
to remember
and discuss possible replies
with yourself.
But I am good company
for myself because
I was a solitary child and
a young widow, and now
I have an empty nest and
like it that way.
So I talk to myself,
discuss things with myself,
ask myself questions,
and answer myself, and
it’s all good.
How tragic it would be
to live with someone
to whom you can’t speak
freely,
someone who won’t keep
your secrets
and doesn’t understand how
you think and feel.
I understand myself, and so
it’s all good.

Judy
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:47:58 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Purgatory

An angel breathed-

I arrived into the abyss
surrounded by a heavy cloak of darkness,
a dim light off in the distance.

“You’re to bypass my questioning,
you are to meet,
Him,
face to face,
for your inquisition.
Review your life quickly for you only have one chance.”

An angel breathed-

I arrived at a fallen sequoia
offering a bridge
to a majestic mountain peak,
lovingly painted in layers of purples and pinks.

A sunlike orb rose,
sounding a flute’s whisper
morphing into a symphonic boom,
the surrounds reverberated.

“Did you ever decide what was in your heart?
After you questioned, tested and sought?
Are you my child today, and forever?”

“Before today, I never understood. But, today,
there is no question. I see the Truth behind Your words.”

“But you had to see first, for you have had little faith.
Here, I reward those that blindly seek and blind the seeking;
what shall I do with you?”

“As a lost sheep, I have spent as much time
avoiding the wolf, as the shepherd. I have forsaken.”

“Then let the light carry you into the mountain. You may
discover a path lined with thorns and pebbled with glass;
or a path lined with garlands and covered in roses.”

An angel breathed.

A M Forret
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:48:14 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
interaction between a modern man with characters from ancient history as it unfolded in Xian, China

THE TERRA COTTA WARRIOR SONG
(C) Richard-Merlin Atwater April 18, 2009

The 'Terra Cotta Warriors' down from 'Xian!'
They all jumped forward to shake my hand!
Up jumped 'the Emperor' from his grave!
He said, "My boy, You need a shave!"

I stood dumbfounded as I could be,
For what was I to say, or to believe!
From the "Quin Dynasty'. By the way,
'The Terra Cotta Warriors' are made of clay!

Ancient history from 'Xian",
'Terra Cotta' shake my hand,
I remember from TV
When the 'Terra Cotta Warriors' were brought to me!

The 'Terra Cotta Warriors' are all Chinese,
Some of them are standing down on their knees,
Some of them are setting up on horseback,
Some of them are serious, matter-of-fact!

The 'Terra Cotta Warriors' of 'Quin Shi Huang',
They all live together and get along!
None of them are boisterous, or very loud!
They seem so very quiet, even in a crowd!

Ancient history of "Xian'.
'Terra Cotta' shake my hand.
I remember on TV
When the 'Terra Cotta Warriors' were brought to me!

Now the 'Terra Cotta Warriors' are after me!
'Cause 'the Emperor' with me is not very pleased!
Hiding in a cave with old 'Chiang Kai-Shek!
The 'Terra Cotta Warriors' said. "What the heck?"

Listen to this man who knows history!
He's nothing but a "Mormon missionary'!
The 'Terra Cotta Warriors' are now so good,
And that's because they're now so very converted!

Ancient history from 'Xian',
'Terra Cotta' shake my hand.
I remember on TV
When the 'Terra Cotta Warriors' were brought to me!

The 'Terra Cotta Warriors' down from 'Xian',
They all jumped forward to shake my hand!
Up jumped' the Emperor' from his grave!
He said, "My boy, now, we are 'Saved'!

The 'Terra Cotta Warriors' now serve 'the King'
Of righteousness, and Heavenly things!
They now belong unto the Lord,
Because they have received His word!

Ancient history from 'Xian',
'Terra Cotta' shake my hand.
I remember on TV
When the 'Terra Cotta Warriors' were brought to me.

Brought to me as a Mormon missionary!!!
=========================================================

Poet's Note: The Terra Cotta Warriors were featured on the front cover of National Geographic magazine in 1975 after their discovery by archaeologists subsequent to thousands of years buried undiscovered. The "Emperor Quin Shi Huang" (Anglicized as Chin) is where the name "China" comes from after his name. I was a "Mormon Christian Missionary" 39 years ago. My subsequent visit to China led to this experience through my imagination after visiitng Xian and seeing the Terra Cotta Warriors in person. A later Hollywood movie of The Arabian Nights (about 2001) featured the Terra Cotta warriors coming to life in Aladdin's Lamp story chasing him in a cave. They came to life for me in this song!
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:50:36 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Sunday morning light is warm.
Front porch. The Times and coffee cups for three.
Sam has the Book Review.
The sport section is open on the table, and its pages
are moving slightly in the breeze.
Richard has set aside the crossword, and is explaining.
The birds are singing and Calliope is listening to the birds.
Richard might be the breeze ruffling the paper.

Sam chuckles, as if to himself, that low laugh he uses the way a surgeon uses
a scalpel,
the way a juggler uses knives.
It is a rich laugh, bitter chocolate, and captures the attention like cascading blades.

Richard pauses, annoyed.
"What's funny?"
"Something I remembered. Something Callie said."

Calliope crashes down from the tree and the song.
She shudders inside.
"Who, me?
"Have I become amusing now?"
She hides her dread beneath banter,
And waits for the words that will chill the sunlight and still the birds.

Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:50:48 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I kept thinking about reactions with cops. I can't help it.
Confession

She weighs ninety pounds maybe soaking wet.
Standing in the intersection, on a stand
Moving beasts, with a wave of her white gloved hand
That would make thirty or more of her, I'd bet,

She stands above the asphalt, the melting tar,
And waves me on and smiles,
And I give her one of my best male chauvinist pig smiles,
And think, "Oh baby, you move my car!"

Don Swearingen
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:55:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Relics

In browning afternoon we shared
a bench outside museum flanking
the Tar Pits, their prehistoric steam,
their worrisome stench. A colorful mix
queued for Kahlo and (they just had to
do it) Rivera. Earlier, in the pricy
gift shop, fury built, you flipped
through staunch books
a nasty critic, snarling down
from your clouds above us
startled jerks, small crowd
riveted by your swipe
at a world you must de-
construct. One of us doubted
your rampage with a tiny, yes,
but—-and you were asked
to leave the store, take
your vicious theory out,
out. So oddly dire—-height, street-
boy prettiness: we had to watch you
storm for the cappuccino cart,
snare the bench speckled in pigeon
crap. Look (you promised me), I prefer
a modern stance. Embarrassed, I shone
for you, cluttering your fingers with mine
and the ghastly pits sucked and oozed
as you stared above them
into addled air over Wilshire
as I prattled
about luck; later: a step be-
hind you on notorious boulevard
as you groused us forward in-
to stress and danger (always
a step behind).
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9:55:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
For shame

Once simple interactions like
a handshake,
exchange of pleasantries in the lobby,
a hand waved when crossing paths in a public place,
are avoided now
with downcast eyes,
in-turned shoulders,
hands shoved down in the pockets so far they would reach to the floor if they could.
For shame,
once simple interactions torque.
Genevieve Fitzgerald
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:01:02 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April's cruelty
doesn't begin with Tax Day
juat ask a Cub's fan
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:05:59 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
THE LAST TOUCH BETWEEN FATHER AND SON

Two days of fight brought him to deaths door,
"We need to talk about how to make
your father more comfortable"
I swallowed and nodded.
I knew the life he lived was full
and at seventy-nine, although not
old, his body had given up the ghost.
"I understand, Doctor" I finally heard myself speak.
"Don't let him hurt anymore"

The nurse came in and adjusted his morphine drip.
I saw the greyness starting to permeate his face.
His eyes were glazed, vacant, distant.
All the while, I grasped his left hand.
He gurgled for a few seconds,
as if trying to speak.
To say goodbye.
"I know Dad, I know. Don't try to talk."
His eyes got wide and he blinked.
A lone tear sought a path down his cheek.
I felt a faint squeeze on my hand.

Mere weeks earlier he spoke of regret.
How he could have been a better father. And husband.
He took a sorrowful tone in his confession
of how his demon (alcohol) consumed him
and regurgitated liver cancer.
His decline was swift.
From diagnosis, to illness, to death's door.
And now I held his hand.
His breathing took a labored tone,
the gurgle became more of a gag reflex.

And then he smiled.
Eyes wide again as they took in the
antiseptic expanse of his room.
In a clear (for him) voice I heard,
"I see Irene"
His butterfly eyes flickered
and his light extinguished.
His breathing was no longer shallow.
I was just no longer.
And his lifeless hand felt the same in death
as it had minutes before.
Irene was my mother, dead twenty years
almost to the day.
And she came to take him home.
Walt Wojtanik
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:06:33 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

He called to me from across the park
A small black dog with a tentative bark
I picked up a ball and threw it his way
He rolled on his back wanting to play

No collar or tags to tell me his name
We waited awhile but no one came
I carried him home more than a mile
He rested his head on me, making me smile

He slept at my feet and cuddled in my bed
Licked my nose, loved my pats on his head
Shared my sandwich, bathed in my tub
Warmed my heart during each belly rub

He walked miles with me day after day
Sniffing and sprinkling along the way
He barked at the mailman, chased squirrels and cats
Rested beside me wherever I sat

When walking was more than he could do
I let him go, our love still true
I held his head as he drifted away
Our hearts still touching as they did that first day

I still miss my Parker, my dear loyal friend
Who loved and served me right till the end
Each time when I walk around the park
My heart skips a beat when I hear a bark


Terilee
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:07:16 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
My Artistic Muse

stretches canvas
for my poetic wanderings

backdrop for the mind-world
of rainbow streams

they trickle over pebbles
rush to the brink of forever

mists swirl in the eddies
of tomorrows and yesterdays

a silent dance in mirrors,
the rivers of the soul.

My Muse holds the key,
unlocks the flow, or

withholds the key:
a mental block ensues,

he speaks to me in tongues
of a thousand dialects,

calls across the void
to spark my musings,

My Muse amuses himself
in my poetic voice,

then hides himself
beneath his shroud of feathers

until the next poem calls him forth
a master of words, a genie—

“Come, serve your purpose, Muse!
Let the dance of words begin!”


Carol A. Stephen
PAD Challenge poem
April 18, 2009


Carol A. Stephen
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:07:17 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Interaction?

I wish we could interact
In a peaceful way.
Not snap and bark
Heedless of what we say.

I wish instead of anger
We could share some joy,
Laughter and teasing
Like a young girl and boy.

I wish that we could learn
To read between the lines.
To ignore thoughtless words
And appreciate the “tie that binds”.
Nedrajean
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:11:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"A Lesson"

Four lines of coke, neatly separated
on a rectangular mirror small enough
to nestle with the fingertips of my left
hand, two of which were ready for me
to snort through my rolled-up, weathered
dollar bill.

“No,” she interrupted, “no,” more emphatically,
reaching for the mirror, which I relinquished.

Concealed in one hand was a two,
two-and-a-half inch segment of drinking
straw, striped vertically blue and red,
which she waved in the air like chalk
in a frustrated instructor’s hand, declared,
“This is what you use,” then snorted
all the lines, including mine.

She giggled, “Money’s just a waste of money,”
picked up the razor blade from the coffee
table next to the overfilled ashtray, split
the straw from end to end, unrolled it,
licked the powder inside.

I nodded with understanding, added,
“My turn,” nose twitching with anticipation.

“Oh,” she replied with a hint of surprise,
“that was all of it,” shrugged and then giggled.
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:17:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Move

Weekday festivities at the mall,
They like to climb on the “climby thing”.
We head to the food court for lunch,
I’m psyched that they’re into Subway these days.
We order: two turkeys, a veggie for me, drinks and yogurts.
Finn immediately spills his chocolate milk.
Everywhere.
I go back to Mr. Subway man and ask,
“May I have a few napkins? My son just spilled his milk.”
“No,” he answers and quickly looks away.
I stammer. “But it’s all over everything…”
“Move,” he says matter-of-factly and walks away to service someone else.
“Move?” I question, not quite getting it.
He smiles and nods.
Later, after at least ten strangers offer their extra napkins,
I share all my black olives with Finn, all my banana peppers with Riley.
This would normally make me crabby.
I say to my kids,
“Isn’t it interesting how the kindness of strangers
makes you want to do something nice, too?”
They agree.

© 2009 Molly Logan Anderson

Molly Anderson
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:18:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
PAD- April 2009
Prompt: Interaction

That Night

I attend the junior prom because
she says, “Go! Dance, mein Kind!”
I come home to her empty bed.

Days later, at the wake,
a profusion of flowers.

My grandmother’s deep brown eyes
are shut. Her peppered black hair in
a crown, braided by my mother. Gray
slate face. Cheeks rouged, lipstick crimson.
Cold hands clasped across
her crisp dark blue suit.

“That’s not my grandma!”
I scream and tear out.
My grandfather follows,
scoops me in hard bull-like arms.
“Nicht weinen,” he says, “Don’t cry.”

“Look what they did to her,”
I say. “All that make up-
That’s not her!”

My grandfather’s shoulders quake
for the first time,
since her year long siege,
his blue eyes ice behind
gold wire rimmed glasses.

I gently pull him back in.

© Gretchen Gersh Whitman April 2009
Gretchen Gersh Whitman
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:19:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Thanks Diana....i thought your poem was going to be sad and then I howled!
Joe
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:20:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Inner Demons.. A Perspective
Pessimistic me…

An invisible speck in the fabric of time
Trapped inside an aging mortal frame
Cruel indeed, your perishable wisdom
Hey! Man, what can you ever become?

Optimistic me …

Countless selfless acts , not random
Extending beyond ones’ minuscule lifespan
Impressive ability to rise above storms
Hey! Man, what can you not become?

Pessimistic me…

Time honored episodes of self-fulfilling truisms
Driven by dogged cliche-trapped minds
As sentiment overrules wise pragmatism
Hey! Man, what can you ever become?

Optimistic me …

Altruistic deeds driven by a limitless mind
Unshakable beliefs driving collective empathy
Extraordinary sense for compassion so divine
Hey! Man, what can you not become?
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:30:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
let us dance


you came in
and my life has changed
few dances ago
you have changed my life
when you’ve said to me
let us dance now
dancing makes free


I didn’t know what I need
I hated my noisy street
I hated my neighbor’s car
and every shining star
and now I feel
that
I like my street
and now I know
what I need
I see it now so clear
please stay with me right here


You smile so bright
when you dance
you make me feel so light
so light again
I remember this
I have felt that way
a long time ago
well
can you stay
can we dance some more?




Bozena Intrator
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:36:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I Don't Know

i say what do you want
she says i don't know
i say what does he want
she says i don't know.

another says
i hear mixed messages
on the one hand you
say he doesn't see the

children and on the
other hand you say
you don't want him to
I'm confused.

she said don't worry
it is only paternity.
i say what is his goal?
she says I don't know.

I said try to find out
it is not simple as it appears.
I think my own thoughts
he is a trickster

not to be trusted
nor underestimated
I am silent now, fear, don't
know what to say or do.


Mary Kling
Mary K
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:37:39 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Storm

Furious storm
Chasing sparrows home
Lightening snaps across the sky
Wearing itself out
Thunder rumbles
Arrvada
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:53:17 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Definition of Insanity

So, your room—it’s a mess, clothes do not make
A good carpet, I need for you to clean this up—
And your bathroom, wow, there is cleanser behind
The toilet and on the shelf in the shower—are you
Familiar with how they work?
YES, MOM, I’LL GET TO IT.
Next day: I thought you were going to “get to it,”
But it looks….worse, oh, I see why, there’s yet another
Laundry basket with clothes I washed for you
Yesterday parked on the floor right where I left it,
MOM, BACK OFF, I’LL CLEAN UP LATER.
Third day: sigh.
Doing the same thing over and over
And expecting a different result:
The definition of insanity.

Lyn Sedwick
Lyn Sedwick
Saturday, April 18, 2009 10:54:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Stoner

Outside the Wells Fargo bank, I consider summer flowers
under an Iowa sky that threatens rain. A bearded man, jeans
ill-fitting but clean, sits across from me and says Nice night.

I nod my assent, and he leans toward me, elbow on his knee
as if to share a secret and asks, Do you need any weed?
Flush with Midwestern manners, I don’t want to be impolite.

I answer, No, thanks. He nods and walks away, scans for
a more eager mark. I check the time, gather my things, and
hurry off to the bookstore for a different kind of fix. I choose

a chair in front where I can watch the poet speak. Words rise
in the air, linger near the ceiling. Lines pass from ear to ear,
dwindle to fragments I grip with my fingernails as I breathe

the syllables in, hold them as long as I can in my chest then
sigh them out, sated, yet still hungry, always hungry for more.




DJ Vorreyer
Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:03:45 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
there is a monkey dead
face down in the water
the waves rushing in
pummel it over and over
throwing it out and pulling it down
but it just floats back to the surface

the red water says the monkey didn't drown
but no one knows how the waves got that carcass

or what wound was inflicted
or maybe the monkey was infected

however it got there it's floating along
then wrapped up in a hug of foam
then another wave rushes in and it's gone
carried off to places unknown

Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:04:56 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Links


cause, effect, action, reaction
everything linked, chained by the staples
of inevitability

each single avalanche the fault
not of the heaving mass, the weight
the inertia

but a single delicate snowflake, crystal shimmer
blushing as it glanced the bank
of its kin

and this was always the way, my path, the jonah
in our marriage, everything touched falling into
my remit of flaw

the cracks, the shatter of tempers flared, the lies
careful drip, twist, drip, twist of words turning
each disaster

into another blame for my burdened shoulders
until I stumbled, fell, and even the grazes were
my clumsy fault

cause, effect, action, reaction
everything linked, chained by the staples
of inevitability

you never know until you hear it's roar
when the snowflake lands, the blush redder
in it's guilt

than I ever imagined, delicate balance upset
reaction thundering in my head, burying all trace
of your last action

in momentous sweep of cause and effect, and these cuffs
are linked, chained by adjudged staples, sentenced with
sad inevitability

©DP April 09
Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:06:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Interaction Between Sam And Jake


I think I got away quite well
with it today, Sam.

Wow, didn’t your mom notice
a difference in snack quotas, Jake?

Nah, she’s not aware
of how high in the air I can jump.

If I had your agility
I too would have ability to reach.
Don’t you find it strange
that with my body’s range, I cannot
get to all the nooks where treats and books reside?

Face it, Jake, even with ears of silk
the door to the milk is out of your grasp.
But, you are superb at retrieving
balls and sticks, and deceiving your folks
by eating every scrap on the floor with no begging.
Sara McNulty
Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:06:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Pastoral


In the dream you are playing a guitar
in a place that is very green,
and the rocks around you
are flat and hot from the sun. And I don't know
where I am, but wherever it is, I can't
quite reach you, or call out loud enough
for you to hear. Or move. And you
are playing guitar and there are
sparrows eating out of your hat,
which I suddenly notice is full of crumbs.
And the thing that happens next
always gets me. There is a little door
in the middle of everything green,
and it opens very quickly and right in the middle
of the door frame—which I suddenly notice
is painted red so everything together
looks like Christmas—is a little girl,
maybe five or six years old. She has
low pigtails tied with ribbon and she is smoking
a long cigarette. And she has crumbs
in her hair. And you are playing guitar
by the door and she walks over to you
and sits down on a flat hot rock
and you act as though you don't notice her
but I can see something change
next to your eye, I can see something move
above your thumb knuckle. She
is eating out of your hat, like the sparrows.
She is smoking a long cigarette. And when
she looks up I do not know how far
I should go to swim myself out of these eyes.
Elizabeth Wilcox
Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:11:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Swift River Inn


One, two, three…nineteen, twenty…twenty-six
chickens flying in bedraggled;
A cow or two sliding down the stairs on their sides,
As though slippery fish down the chute,
Arriving at the door looking alive
The bull came ashore, massive in weight,
What to do when he awakes?
Direct him outside
With as little damage to the furniture and insides

Salvaged from the great, swift river
They fell in a heap
Lying there at my feet
I ran through the halls, the dining room,
Lastly to the vast kitchen,
“Help!” I cried out to no one, “Someone help!”

“I’m here.”
A voice I knew without a doubt,
There my brother Dan reached out his hand,
“I’m here for you Bren.”
“I’ve been looking all over for you, where have you been?”
He stepped foward, his hand in mine,
Walked right through me and his words:
“I’ve been here all along,”
Smiling, happy he appeared, his voice uplifted,
“I’m always with you and I’m fine.”

Brenda Skinner
Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:25:30 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Computer and I

Even though my computer was designed
to solve many problems I don’t have,
we usually work well together,

until I manage to hit a wrong key,
which sends the computer off on a tangent
that neither of us ever experienced before
or know how to get back to where we were.

At this point, my hitting keys at random
only makes matters worse until the computer
settles down and lets me restart it, but,
of course, everything I typed earlier is lost.
John Larkin
Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:26:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
encounter

I step into the yard
squirrel chuff, chuff, chuffs
a challenge

I laugh
he flips me a tail
Joy Harold Helsing
Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:28:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Respiration

We breathe in the molecules
From the ashes of Pompeii,
From the exhale of Mary Magdalene,
From the winds of Magellan’s sails.

The DNA of all history
Passes through us
As we pass through tomorrow.

How much of each other do lovers inhale?
How deeply do our children’s sweet scents
Remain with us after they are grown?

I feel you entering and leaving me with
Each sentimental sigh.
Have I left you breathless?




Nancy Hatch Woodward
Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:33:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Brunch Munch

She said, “It’s way past breakfast, but not yet lunch.
Would you like to eat some brunch?”

He said, “Food sounds good.
Yes, I would.”

She said, “Bacon, onion, bell pepper and cheese.
Would an omlet your tummy please?”

He said, “Food sounds good.
Yes, it would.”

She said, “Are you sure?
Can your tummy that meal endure?”

He said, “That sounds good.
I think it should.”

She said, “The cheese is Swiss.
Would you take that amiss?”

He said, “I should hope
That I can cope.”

CLA
Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:37:52 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
#18 CONVERSATION

There’s nothing like watching the pianist
Slip the melody over to the sax player
Who blows it up and down his horn,
Then sends it out into the air on a wave of cool

By the time it reaches the bass,
That same melody is sporting
More ornaments than a Christmas tree
Recognizable as the same tune only
Hanging by a chord or two

And the drummer pulsing along
waiting to grab and run with it
Winds it up to a fever pitch
with cymbal at the end of the chorus
Providing the only relief

Then the melody returns in its new guise
Like a soldier marching home
A little quieter, more mature
And very familiar
Till it sweetly fades away
SusanB
Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:38:47 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
De jackson- Your piece about filing away the memory of those sweet words your baby said really hit home for me. Time goes too fast and my baby is already almost two and a half, it seems like he was born yesterday. I loved how honest and real it read. Thank you for that glimpse into your life.
Hannah Bowles
Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:44:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Me and the Gecko

At the bottom of the stairs
Is a very green gecko.
He is a Large Lizard,
About seven inches.
He leers at me with black buggy eyes,
Mouth opens,
Closes.
I wait for him to say
“Fifteen minutes can save you….”
But he continues to stare.
Sliding on the balls of my feet,
I move forward,
Stop about a yard from this brilliant green reptile.
“What are you doing in my house?”
He doesn’t move.
One step nearer;
He dashes up the wall.
Straight over the kitchen transom.
This won’t do.
I need no lizards in my house.
The last I see of him is the end of his long tail, a little brown tweek at the end.
I assume he’s had an earlier encounter with the cat.
I’ll need to talk with her further.
Not that it will do any good.
She never listens
Being a typical cat.
mjdills
Saturday, April 18, 2009 11:51:21 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Patricia A. Hawkensen- I loved how organic and microscopic your piece was, it threw me for a loop at the end. It was like looking into the grass with a microscope or looking into space with a telescope. Very cool.
Hannah Bowles
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:03:48 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Session at Matt Molloy's

A hornpipe playing
One foot tapping
Your eyes were dancing
Play me a song

The fire's warm now
Both feet tapping
A hornpipe reeling
Rest a song

Tune your banjo between the sets
A lone lass singing
whiskey sipping
we sang along

Your eyes were dancing
The music laughing
We never met
But I played along

And all the while
I was writing you
As you were playing me
And we stayed a song
Emily Snyder
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:04:42 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Put to the "Question"

Should be so proud of himself -
Taken a stand for the things he believes
Or pretends to believe for the sake of an outdated promise
"So we won't have kids, then"
Words spoken when I tell him
That based on the fact that I was honest from the get-go
I will not stand before the altar and ask for something
That insults the miracle of creation, in my humble opinion
His half-story - "You don't have to worry, 'cause I'm not
One of those church-going fools" begs to differ with the truth
That, once again, a quasi-Catholic has spoken
And I should have acknowledged the common fact
That their way is the way
To raise a child, even if the only thing required
Is a quick baptismal sacrament - "freedom from the slavery of sin"
Is the definition they pound into anything that listens
Babies born as slaves to sin - are you kidding?
They still talk to angels while they sleep!
I would rather free him from the slavery of fear
"I will not take that chance" - such a closed-minded statement
From one who swore he was not beholden to such archaic requirements
So he goes the route of those medieval, puritanical power-mongers
To condemn and deny me - and I thought he was new-school
But he will blackmail my wants and needs until I ultimately relent and give him
What he promised to do
Even though it really doesn't matter
Either rack me or set me loose
L. Vidal
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:05:25 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Marian- I don't know if it's because I just came from a baby shower but your "Newborn" poem made me weepy too. I'm one of the ones who crys watching how happy the moms are when they first see their babies on those T.V. shows. That was a very intimate moment you shared, thank you.
Hannah Bowles
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:07:13 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Camera and the Poet

Why did you capture
dancing in the shadows
of an empty house
twirling in a loneliness
hidden from all eyes
in peace and solitude
you caught the quiet of a womb
before bursting
from her sanctuary
into a world illumined
by the sun that closed
a young girl’s pupils
once dilated to receive
the darkness
in the safety of her room
Oscar C. Pena
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:08:17 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Butterfingers:
Making dinner,
Nothing special,
Just macaroni and cheese.
I’ve made it before, but this time,
After I put the noodles in,
I realized that I lacked butter.
I shouted to my brother to help me find some,
But he didn’t come down.

Anger bubbled in my veins,
And I yelled until he replied.
He thundered down the stairs,
Annoyed words blasting into my ears,
So I grabbed his shoulders,
Screaming at him
To listen to me.
My control slipped,
As though the missing butter
Coated my fingers.

As quickly as it came,
I felt awful.
We ate the food in silence;
I cleaned up.
Later, I apologized,
Gave my brother a hug
But I felt awful.
No amount of forgiveness could help me
To forgive myself.
I hated myself, loathed my existence.
Wished I could turn back the clock,
Mute my voice,
So that the knife-edge of my tongue wouldn’t strike,
So that the billows of my lungs would cease,
And rationality and love would guide my lips.
Kyhaara
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:12:19 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Gossip”

The sun beats in through the
window on a late winter afternoon.
We are seated at the
kitchen table. He takes an
envelope from his back pocket and
hands it to me. I study
the address and postmark as if
surprised, but it’s just what
I expected. His eyes are
on me hard, wanting me to
open the envelope. I don’t
like the pressure so I
drop it into my pocketbook.
He stands up, his eyes growing
wide. “It’s private,” I say
quickly, wondering why I have
to explain that. “There’s no reason
for you to know.”
He sits down, grinning and
takes a sip of Cointreau.
Then he stares at me,
hoping to win this game.
I sit back firmly, folding my
arms in defense. He reads my mind,
understanding that I won’t waver,
and leans in too close.
I can smell the alcohol
on his breath.
“Haven’t you ever heard of gossip?”
he asks, and shakes his head.

Karin Contovasilis

KARIN CONTOVASILIS
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:16:07 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Walt- That was a serious tear jerker. Such honesty your work. Thank you
Hannah Bowles
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:18:37 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Powerstruggle

Broken backs and tired hands
Built a wall that cannot stand
A futile effort of the weak
To make their lives a little stronger

From above the calloused rich
Look down upon the avarice
They see within the hearts
Of those who would live forever

We can see the retribution in those eyes
As those who have fear those who don’t will take their pride
We can see the demonstration of human inhumanity
There’s no love found in our brothers, only cold indifference

When we fade into the darkness as our feeble wall falls
They will see the reliance held within our symbiotic fold
Will innocence remain after the guilt is washed away
Or will we see the end of everything in the cleansing flames?
Alan Deeth
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:19:24 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Doctor’s Appointment

Awkward under the starched sheet.
I wait with my eyes on the ceiling
for the technician to come
in for my preliminary exam.
Take in mauve wallpaper
and a tattered magazine rack.
She arrives wearing a professional
friendly smile and pokes, prods, takes
temperatures. We talk only to answer
required questions. While gently
kneading my abdomen
she asks where it hurts.
“When?” I say. She looks at my face,
more closely than before
and gestures to my right side.
“There’s no pain?” she returns,
“You’re not here because of pain
in your right side?” I feel frozen, unable
to react the way I normally would.
Mind screaming, should there be pain?
What does that mean? I look steadily up at her,
vulnerable, frustrated, “No, I’m not here
because of pain on the right side. I’m not here
for any pain. I thought this was a routine follow-up.”
“Oh,” her ominous clinical response.

--Marissa Bell Toffoli
Marissa Bell Toffoli
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:23:56 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Elizabeth Wilcox- "Pastoral" would make an excellent painting, what a vivid piece, I loved how she was eating crumbs out of the hat like a sparrow. I wonder what it all means, got me thinking!
Hannah Bowles
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:26:18 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Life & Death

The warmth of life
Is warming.
The chill of death
Is chilling.

They battle each other,
and Life prevails.
But it soon grows old,
And death sees its chance.

They battle once more,
The light and the dark,
With a terrible storm raging on.
Then silence comes, death has won.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:28:28 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Interaction

Riding in the car, the two of them alone
The silence is deafening
The only thing between them are
An ocean of sadness
And mountains of regret
Because life was not supposed to be like this

They envisioned their days filled with
Endless laughter and easy conversations
Instead they struggle to fill the emptiness
Years of neglect have left them
No common ground existing
Barely a connection to one another

Struggling to break the awkward quiet
One offers, “Looks like it’ll be a nice, sunny day”
While the olther answers with, “Yes. Nice.”
For a moment the thoughts and words unspoken
Are hanging thick in the air, waiting to be heard
Instead, they continue on in silence on this road to nowhere

Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:36:14 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
On Breathing Easy

11 p.m.
I push the button on

Every night
It’s the same
And I’m breathing easy because…

Sometime, somewhere, somebody
Paid attention in science class
And medical classes
While her peers devoted themselves
To other endeavors.

One day, somebody realized
That people like me
Could die in their sleep
Because they stop breathing
Hundreds of times each hour.

Then somebody went to work
Applying what she knew
And learning what she didn’t
To invent what insurance companies call
Durable medical equipment.

With a computer brain
And a motor to thrust pressurized air into my nose,
I can now sleep all night, every night.

I’m glad somebody knew
I’d need a button to push
to begin the night
so I could be ready for tomorrow.

6:50 a.m.
I push the button off.
Cheryl B. Lemine
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:38:55 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Another Money Poem...

Things are the best things
in life. Despite recent turn
of events, I believe that phrase
completely within my immortal soul.

Money won’t bring joy,
justice, fairness, freedom,
legitimacy, correctness, equity
ir truth to oppressed being on Earth.

But, it would
grant one small, selfish wish
to this community organizer
who has, of late, been reexamining life strategy
and reinstate her disconnected cable.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:43:50 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Cheryl, My CPAP machine has saved my life many times as well. I can share in your respect for medical science getting a grip on apnea. Good piece.
Walt Wojtanik
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:44:02 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
watching football after midnight

Just before he settled himself into bed,
my son walked to his father,
to whisper, “Do not forget to come
wake me up later for the match,”
and then, to put a fine point upon it,
remembering past failures, added,
“You stagger. Try waking me every 15 minutes,
and if on the third try I don’t awake,
it means I’m not watching the match.”

He said it in all seriousness.
It’s his father who kept a poker face,
smiled conspiratorially, knowing
this boy is an eternal optimist
forever chasing that elusive
football match after midnight.



Irene Toh
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:44:02 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Interaction

Iconoclasts - with respect to Sundance Channel TV show.

Bringing together disparate individuals
appearing to be foreign to each others’ worlds.
Different races, genders, professions, generations,
interacting with cameras watching.
The tennis player discovers the competitiveness in the musician.
The current diva-off-the-moment shows much respect to the actress
whose career spans a multitude of generations.
In talking, a young actress learns that the reporter who covers wars from the front lines
is afraid of heights.
Even the “famous” among us, learn from those who seem so different.
And we learn from a high-school-age goddaughter that there is hope for our world
with a generation not judging by appearances alone.


Sandra J. Robinson
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:44:07 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Poets and Cheerleaders

We write because
that’s who we are,
the man says.

Oh yeah?
Then what about
the readers?

And the cheerleaders.
Is that who
they are?

‘cause some of them
are writers too,
remember.

I mean, those gals
Hannah and Marie Elena
need us, too,

but then,
they are us
as well, so

do we return
the favor of
their smiles,

or is it
simply enough
that we exist?

What came first,
the needs of the
reader or the writer?

And while I’m
at it, why did the
writer cross the road?


Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:46:41 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Jasper and Mazzy

"Come on Mazzy, you can still do it.
We're never too old to stretch and roll
in the grass that is just turning green again.
We can't let our old age take it's toll".
"But Jasper", she said as her back leg shook
"This idea does not exactly sound great.
Don't you know that in dog years
we are both going to turn ninety eight?"

So Jasper and Mazzy sat in the sun
pondering what to do.
Then both of them looked at each other
and Mazzy said, "O.K., after you."
Stretch and roll the two of them did
on their backs with the sun shining sweet.
Mazzy found out she is never too old;
in fact Spring weather makes her light on her feet.

"Thank you Jasper" she said to her old canine friend
"You're welcome. Now see, that wasn't so bad.
But when the sun shines again tomorrow
I don't think my muscles will feel so glad".
"Oh come on Jasper", Mazzy said
"Don't let your old age get to you.
We'll just take it easy for the rest of the day
and tomorrow you'll be as good as new!"


Robin D.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:48:08 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Marine

My brother came home
A changed man from the war
He wasn't the same person
It's almost as if we never met before
Rereading the letters he sent
I searched for what had made the change
Nothing too telling, but a story
Of a skinny, starving dog he encountered
When they reached Kuwait
That ran in front of the tank he was driving
The dog's eyes vacant as if no longer
Able to see or no longer caring
About anything other than finding food
Every once in a while he would
Start to open up to me
Reminisce of our childhood
Then shut me out again
Years later he went across the country
For the summer to work
He came home a changed man again
More like my brother
Kim Jakway
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:55:03 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Hannah,
I loved your piece on the interaction of your son and the cardboard tube, and then your interaction with him. Heart warming. Your do the cheerleader thing well, but let us not forget your brilliant writing abilities. Shine your own halo, lady, you do good work.

And thanks for the sweet comment on the story about my Dad. These challenges a cathartic to say the least. I miss him greatly. Happy to share.
Walt Wojtanik
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:58:20 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Justin Evans and Marie Elizabeth Mali, your poems are both beautiful today! I love them!

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:01:31 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The bamboo knows which way is up
He always grows straight
against gravity
they are not enemies - gravity and he
just partners pushing each other

Tip his pot - he'll grow straight up
as if telling gravity
which way is down
just push against me - he says
and you'll be right
every time
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:03:16 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


Happy Saturday Everyone! This PAD exercise has been a great journey and certainly makes one look at the written word in such a different way. It’s nice to “meet” you Marie Elena; and Walt…two days in a row…you know they say that three’s the charm!

I hope you enjoy my poem. This was a great prompt that brought out a lot of different things in people. Kudos to all…
Oh…and if you happen to be a hockey fan…Go Canucks Go!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prompt: interaction
Day 18
April 18, 2009

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tumultuous Bonds
by Faye E. Arcand


Mother’s still in bed. It’s been weeks now.
I plump her pillow; sponge her gaunt, stagnant body.
Her eyes unseeing; I don’t ask how she feels.
She speaks from time to time—says she can’t go on.
I tell her she must try.
I ready the younger children for school.
Faces scrubbed, clothes spotless, hair brushed.
She would expect no less.
I mend Father’s overalls and prepare for supper.
He’ll come home looking forward to a hot meal and conversation.
I hang laundry on the line.
The wind catches it along with my spirit, lifting them high…soaring; lucid; full of exhilaration.
I look down from afar, as I savor the freshness of freedom.
The sun envelopes me as I soak in its warmth.
Suddenly, she stands pale and fragile before me,reeking of stale sweat and urine.
Trembling with frenzied energy she insists the silver be polished; walls scrubbed.
Every nook and cranny bleached and sterilized.
Her mood’s now whimsical.
She sings.
I smile.
Chores completed. We embrace.
She holds too long, unyielding as she whispers…you must never tell!
Panic fills her faded blue eyes: her delicate, porcelain skin looks ready to shatter—to feather crack in a million pieces.
Rapt within the private walls of my reality, I make the promise.
She nods and begins to dance.
Her arms float enchantingly through the air; neck extended—tall and elegant.
Twirling and skipping…laughter filling her sunken face.
She’s a free spirit; once again full of light and softness.
I say a silent prayer as I allow myself to dream…to even hope…for her return.
A moment caught between us…we giggle and conspire…then silence.
The vacancy of a familiar stranger returns once more.
She pulls me to her lap; unwavering in her exhausted strength.
She holds tightly as she silently strokes my hair.
Hugging…Sobbing….Rocking…
I weep knowing the secret.


Faye E. Arcand
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:03:47 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
It comes just after
And doesn't to my wife me endear
That I always seem to belch
When I drink too fast my beer
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:04:19 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Today I was sitting on a park bench in the sunshine
feeling sad, writing poetry about feeling sad,
thinking about a lost lover,
the fact that poets are 50% more likely to kill themselves than anyone else

And two people stopped just in front of me.
She said, "Is your foot on the ground?"
He looked down at his feet, sitting in his wheelchair, "I don't think so..."
His right foot had slipped off its support and was scraping on the cobblestones as she pushed him along the seawall.
He noticed it and started trying to right it.
In the process he tipped up the foot support, making it more difficult to land his difficult foot where it was supposed to go.
She moved forward to help him just as he found it and placed his foot back where it was supposed to go.
"That one always falls off," he says about his own body as if it is a thing, a machine.
She nods and keeps pushing, they continue on their walk.
I find myself oddly envious,
just for a moment,
bike by my side, poetry in hand, sun on my face,
I have everything,
but they have each other.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:06:59 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Follow Through

Did you write your poem today
You’re over halfway there
I can’t seem to get going I said
I’m tired it’s Saturday my muse is asleep

Wake him up
There are no days off
You accepted the challenge
You’re right—wake up deadbeat!
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:07:25 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I hope this counts...it's an interaction between...well kind of me and my thoughts but it also involves my dog.

Can Only Get Better

"Stop jumping" - why do these words
part cursed lips? Two ears never hear
still my hand reaches for the black
coated monster. The broom and I sing
in unison, sweeping miss cotton tail -
wagging, "Look at the way she's wagging
her tail" - a happy little bugger -
how can one be so destructive? Licking
my hand, a sign of so many things -
a nurturer, I've become a loving mother,
when not yelling - "Get out of there",
"Give me that", "Stop biting the cat"...
things can only get better.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:07:41 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
CHECK

Their bodies met
with a violent crash
a spray of sweat
the clatter of blades
on ice
a masculine grunt and gasp
no eye contact
no hesitation
a two-second crush
of armored men
who then whirled away
in pursuit of smaller prey

Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:09:37 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Follow Through

Did you write your poem today
You’re over halfway there
I can’t seem to get going I said
I’m tired it’s Saturday my muse is asleep

Wake him up
There are no days off
You accepted the challenge
You’re right—wake up deadbeat!
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:13:26 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Old Love – New Love

Oppressive, harsh, depressing, gray,
With you I never want to stay.
I am not sorry, I will not sigh.
I will not regret saying good-bye.
I will not regret leaving you,
winter skies.

Delightful, open, sunny, light,
With you my life is happy, bright.
I am now cheery. I will now forward look.
I will be happy for this step I took.
I will love you forever,
Summer skies.
Gerry
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:13:38 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
De and Marian: We parents of twenty- and thirty-somethings hope you really do hold onto those precious moments you describe so touchingly. They are the stuff parental dreams are made of. Lovely work.
Theresa Cavicchio
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:17:01 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Third Law of Motion*

Once the vows were said
your caress became a slap.
I wept and walked out.


*To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction - Newton.
Kathleen De Witt
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:20:50 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)



Dogs of Love and War

Beautiful bronze-bodied dog,
I hear your splayed paws slap above me,
Scrape through the hard red clay,
Your nails painted red by the sultry soil,
Your red tongue aching for flesh,
Your red heart quavering obscenely--
I smell upon you her scent,
Feral and as well-known to me as my own
And which others have smelled with their fat nostrils dilated
Filled up with rank knowledge
The knowledge of other bodies upon that body
The knowledge of tongues upon that tongue
The knowledge of the panting of that dog who has unearthed her
And who comes for me.


Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:30:45 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Interaction 4/18/09

You dance closer
flirting your way towards me
my heart skipping a beat
as you rise in the wind
suspended in time
toying with me at every opportunity.
Vengeance in my aim to strike you
Call into play, patience
My focus speed of life
slow motion vision
with only you in focus
Desire forces me to pause
a woman's hand all you need
Drop beads of perspiration
as you tease my grip tightens
before I reach out
slap you with all my force
Running in the opposite direction
as another person hurls you homeward
to meet me at first.

Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:31:19 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
CHANCE MEETING

Six months after our break-up
we accidentally met
in a restaurant and
we both said “Hi” and
then she asked “Are you
still writing poetry?” and
I said “No” and she said
“Gotta go now, I’m meeting
someone” and left me
to continue editing my new
book of poetry, all of them
written in the past couple months.

Alfred J Bruey
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:33:47 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
(Day 18) April 18, 2009



"Who Cries for Me.
------------------

"Who cries for me," said
the little baby, "Who weeps
for me when I'm gone."
"No one to fight or stand
by me. I'm afraid and all
alone."

"I don't want it," she cried.
"I'm just a kid. I have a
life to live. I have to finish
High school. I got a lot to give."

"Don't take my life away from me.
Don't swipe me out of your life."
They led her to the operation room.
As the doctor picks up a knife.
Leslie
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:39:57 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Daily Shuffle
(for JD, who listens, but not to class)


“With your earbuds in,
I’m just a silent movie—
Useless lip service.”

“What do you got to
Say I need to hear? I gots
Music to teach me.”

“There is a music


In a new idea. A fresh
Thought hums in the brain.”

“Whatever. You talk
About junk nobody with
A real life needs, wants.”

“I am the spirit
Of 100,000 years
Of guessing gone right.”

“You so strange, Mr. S,
I guess you think you’re da’ shit,
But your shit ain’t it.”

This is the soundtrack
Of our daily argument—
And he plugs back in

To the river of
Voices in the small machine,
His earbuds stoppers

Against the tide of
My teaching, beyond reaching
Yet my words still move

In his direction,
hoping one day he’ll download
me into his shuffle.
Brian Slusher
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:44:35 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
18/30: Prompt: Write a poem about an interaction.

“Answers on the Spot” (Deep Theologies for Early Morning)
for Madalyn (6)

She asks one morning,
while I am still half asleep,
I barely hear her small voice
my slumber has been so deep.

She wants to know about my spot,
the place she lays her head,
whenever she wakes up early
and comes into our bed.

“Does everybody have a spot?”
looking up with eyes so blue,
“Yes, we all have spots,”
and one day, you’ll have one too.”

“You see, God already knows
who the good Daddies will be,
and He gives them special spots.
See? He already gave one to me.”

“They start out very small;
we don’t know always know what they’re for,
But, in time, we begin to realize
that they’re meant for something more.”

“At the end of my arm,
and close to my heart
is where God has put my spot
so we’ll never be apart.”

“So when you cuddle close
and feel me next to you,
that’s why God made my spot
and just what you should do.”

“Cause spots are good while we are here
but even when we’re not,
I want you to know one thing about spots
that should not be forgot.”

“There is one special spot
that we carry deep inside,
it was created for you and me
when He opened his arms wide.”

“That special feeling that you feel
when we are close together
was first created by my Father
in a place we call forever.”

“Yes, spots are given to Daddies
from their Father up above
so all the sweet little girls
can feel their father’s love.”

The answers to these questions:
the how, the when, the why’s
are best responded to in love
and echoed with a sigh.

Laying her head back down again
and falling fast asleep,
I thank the Father for his love
and pray our spots to keep.


Paul W.Hankins
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:44:41 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Pink Tulips

If a woodchuck could read
I would hang the no trespassing sign
In front of my new flower bed
And trust he would obey my request
ambling his pudgy, fuzz butt to another patch of earth

If a woodchuck could sympathize
I would tell him that though those green leaves do look delicious
the bulbs weren’t planted to feed him this spring
but to honor her
and nurture my sad soul

He can’t read or sympathize
But he does listen to my nightly tirade and retreat
As I run towards him, a cry of frustration spilling off my tongue
Determined to protect those delicate tulips
In a world where life is too fragile
Karen Decker
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:49:23 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Odd Couple


Sam
large and impressive
long in tooth
worn by life
ready to rest


Scamper
not much to look at
young and lanky
ingrained to herd
with vim and vigor
ready to serve

He taught her to howl
at sirens with the
pitch and velocity
of a tornado warning.

She insisted
he run and play,
nipping at hind quarters
pushing him out
the door,
much to his chagrin
and embarrassment

Wisdom and enthusiasm,
Age and enery.
Because of her,
Sam lived four more
years than expected.
Because of him,
Scamper reminds us
all to care for
others and ourselves.

Friendship brings life
even when unwanted
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:53:08 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Lasiren And Her Consort

A boat is on the glassy swells
and Lasiren blows a golden horn.
Her coal black hair lifts, wreathing crests,
clinging to the waves like moonlight on branches.
Her shining breasts make sailors eager.
They come smiling, bringing treasures
to this star of the sea. She takes their gifts,
dresses in ruby, wears emerald and silver.
The seamen cannot resist her.
All but one will drift to the ocean floor.
The one who pleases her best
swims with her and flaunts a grouper for a hat.

alana sherman
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:01:09 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Brief Interaction

This day seemed without interaction
until two ducks began to converse
as they flew into the open field.
The conversation grew louder and more diverse
as more of their flock flew in.
As quickly as it started they flew off
leaving no sound.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:13:29 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Song of Love

She sings
Her voice
Trembling
At first,
Shaky
With
Deep emotion
She smiles at
Him
Her love
Sitting there
Listening to
Every word
Tapping his
Fingers in
Time to the beat
Her voice
Steadies
As her confidence
Soars
Her voice caressing
The notes
Declaring her love
For him
To the world.

Kathryn Varuzza
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:15:00 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Conversationus Distractus

we sit and talk,
you across from me
hair glistens golden
slanting light
setting sun

gaze
into your eyes
endless depths
glint with life
spark my soul

words float
across short span
between you and me
sound mingles
with your scent

hear your words
disconnected mind
warm glow
you so close
to me

nod
cow-eyed
blithe agreement
anything
you say

RIck Blacow
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:16:56 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
When a Bowl hits a Tree

You would think when a bowl
hit a tree, the sound would
be fierce, a loud clatter
as stoneware explodes on
birch bark, dispersing shards
in daffodils and grape
muscari, but the noise
is gentle, a thudding
clink, like empty bourbon
bottles rattling hollow
in Monday morning trash,
yet this contusion of
wood against ceramic,
a sound unto itself,
is never forgotten.

Perhaps it was the arc,
how the bowl hurled across
the yard, arugula
and spinach spinning, slow
motion; perhaps it was
velocity, anger-
fueled heft behind the hand;
or perhaps it was the
meager mass that rendered
such feeble protest; or
maybe it was the years
of other things broken
at louder, higher pitch
which has inured us from
giving any more damns.





Peace, Linda
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:18:12 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Day 18 An Interaction

An interaction with my doll is just imagination.
An interaction with a grapefruit brings me no elation.
Communication with my cat may cost me several scratches.
I need a friend to throw a ball so I can make some catches.
Margaret Gates
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:22:49 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Matchmaker

A sales associate gave a girl
her card across the make-up
counter. The girl passed on
her number to this guy friend.
He called her the night
before the blind date. They
met at the food court. She
liked his wide smile. He bought
her a Samba cookie. One year
later they married.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:24:09 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Saturday Afternoon

Measure twice, cut once
That's what they used to say at the shipyard
It's not my fabric, I can't waste any
There's this guy at work
What is eighty-six minus forty-eight?
They call him Cutty
Forty-eight from eighty-six
Why don't you use the calculator?
Twenty-four and twenty-four is forty-eight
His real name isn't Cutty
Forty-eight...eight is sixteen
Forty-six
No
I found out why they call him Cutty
You told me about Cutty before
Use the calculator
Eight and eight is sixteen carry the one
Why don't you just use the calculator
Thirty-eight. Go on
There is this liquor called Cutty
Oh
I saw it on TV
What is this?
Star Wars. They are showing all of them
All six?
I think so
Will they show them all again, I didn't see the second and third ones
Do you want some of this leftover gumbo?
I don't remember the fifth one either
I don't know
No
You sure?
Yes. I don't think I paid attention to the story before, I just enjoyed the characters
This is the one where you find out why Darth Vader wears that uniform
Hmmm. What is thirty-nine plus twenty-three?
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:24:34 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Saturday Sleep In

You tried:
Running along my side,
sliding down the slope
of my quilt-warm shoulder,
patting my mouth
with the pad of your white paw,
licking my nose
with your rough tongue,
nuzzling my neck with
your low rumble vibrating against my ear.
None of it will
get me up to feed you.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:24:34 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Conversation with God

Rush in from outside
close the door softly
sign in binder for
round-the-clock worship,
pop-in visitors
a stop on their way.
Time has no limit
for adoration
before the Body
of faith, love, and trust.
He waits patiently
for me to visit
come in from the cold
to find warmth and love.
I kneel before Him
bask in His glory.
Honorable one,
with you constant friend.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:26:37 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Conversation

I remember my mouth moving,
words spilling out upon the hospital blanket.
I remember him answering
in between labored breaths.
I wanted to lean in closer
so I could hear what he said
but I was still afraid
to get too close to him.
I remember that everything in the room
seemed larger than he did
and that I kept clenching and
unclinching my fists
like they were jellyfish,
like if I opened and closed them enough
I could propel myself right out the window.
I remember looking at
the potted orchid
beside the soap dispenser
and how the labellum
looked like a polka-dot pocket
full of words left unsaid.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:31:56 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Fishing Season Begins

The fish they mutter under the shadow
Wondering to each other who gets up
At 4 am leaving his wife snoring softly
In the dark to make it to the fishermen’s
Breakfast and the gun and tackle club
What kind if man spends all winter looking
Forward to the day he can throw on the baseball
Cap, frayed at the rim, and the jeans as faded
As his sun deprived skin that have been sitting
In a box all winter in the basement along
With the cooler, bucket, and tacklebox
Stocked with freshly tied lures he loaded
In the rusted out station wagon sighing quietly
To itself yonder under the budding willow
Helen Peterson
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:31:58 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Slow Dancing to Emmylou

He stood up and took her in his arms,
pulled her close and clasped his fingers
into hers. They danced in place,
spinning slowly. She looked up at him
and he kissed her, tasting her mint-
flavored lips. She placed her cheek
against his chest and he felt her fall
into him and give herself to his arms.
Just like I’d imagined. How does she do that?
But it didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore.
He was there, and she was there,
and the music was perfect. Nothing left
to say. Nothing left to do, but this.
They danced until the album was over,
the stylus clicking out its beat on the red
plastic Fisher-Price record player while
he stood in her kitchen with the two
of them, one woman who knew how to sing
about love, another who knew how to do it.

Paul Scot August
Paul Scot August
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:32:24 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

A Meeting of Strangers

He took me by the shoulders
leaned in over the platter I carried
and kissed my cheek.
Then as I stood there
speechless
he leaned over and planted one
on my other cheek.
I had not expected this,
this sudden deliverance
of affection
not part of our culture
but some other,
foreign, exotic.
My cheeks felt the mark
of his lips and flushed.
The eyes of another century
looked out at me
through wire-rimmed glasses
so that at last,
understanding passed between us
and I kissed him back.

Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:35:27 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Morning with my two-year old”

What next?
I don't know.
Build a train?
Chairs move.
Line up.
Sit down daddy.
Obiediently, I sit.
Where we going?
Gramma's house.
Choo choo.
We're there.
Where's Gramma?
What next?
Easter basket,
over the head,
around the waist.
This my drum.
Where daddy drum?
I find a drum.
March, sing.
Laugh.
Read book?
What’s that?
What’s that?
What’s that?
Chev Shire
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:41:32 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A JOURNEY UNFOLDS
By: Hannah Bowles

I sit and ponder the
tiny life that wonders
aimlessly across my palm,
the tiny legs all follow one
after the other and defying
gravity makes its' way up my
pointed finger. I remember the
funny smell that the little beetle
makes when startled, as kids we
would yell about it, and rub the
yellow liquid on a sister or a brother.
I let the little creature make another
loop, red wings glistening in the sun,
black dots like that of a new spring dress.
She rests awhile and cleans her antennae
much like a cat would, licking feet and
rubbing off the dirt that she meets in her
travels. I like to think that she is like those
God given thoughts that you don't like to let
go, so you let them travel through the paths
of your brain, touching every little spot, till
all that’s left is all of Him. And then when
you know that the time has come you allow
her to reach the peak atop finger's perch, she
fluffs her wings Marilyn Monroe style and
takes flight. You let that thought go to touch
those around you until every part of them are
all of Him.
Hannah Bowles
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:47:15 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Deer Blind

People always talked of hitting deer, chasing them
from the garden, looking for the twin orange lights
of them at roadside. For me, they were a rumor.
They were like ghosts. Then I moved house
to the village on the coast. One fall night, driving home
from a poetry class, I ascended and then, over the crest
of that hill past Bristol, skidded to a stop. It was
a doe, sagging midway and skin over bones elsewhere.
Her face fixed on mine; she made no move to dodge
the SUV. Then, as if the dinner bell rang, she leapt
westward over the gully into the brush.

Two days later, in the selfsame ditch, I saw
an upended carousel horse, I thought, faded tan legs
stuck up akimbo. A twisted head below, black nose
the period to the sentence. The body was whole.
A rare snow fell next day. It was nearly Christmas
when a thaw exposed her again. Won’t the county
clean her up? I wondered. That task was left to
the turkey vultures, one of whom stared me down
the next Sunday, and two days after that, and
just yesterday, his meal down to bones but still
shimmering with the truth she’d offered me.

Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:49:39 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


the subject of my next poem : an interaction

Priapus has been much with us

our curious quiet spying
pre-teen, her cover blown
by a brother’s grade-two
sniggering with his
kindergarten side kick
pre-school tag-along

a girl and three boys

imaginings
dragged beyond cartoons
to covers thrown the grown-up
double-bed pyjama-party pillow fight
they’re knocking for their invite
beyond the Saturday morning door.


Paris Elizabeth Sea
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:50:03 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
e~mail

i rebelled against it
for years,
proudly bearing the callous and stain
of hand written sentiments.
i waited in impatient lines
for the "pretty" stamps,
and prayed no one was going postal
this day.
i decorated envelopes with moons
starfish and return addresses.
stuffed them
full with memories and glimpses
of myself in each stage of metamorphosis.
i demanded rebuttal.
still, my box remained empty.

so i surrendered.
bought a laptop. joined facebook.
and proudly bear the carpal tunnel
in my fingers
in exchange for the invisible life generating current
created
by words,
no matter how they travel.






dana stone
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:56:01 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Of movies

The lights go down
And I await the moment
When I will be thrust into a new world
A world so far from my own.

Over the next two hours
I may laugh
I might cry
But I will always think.

Lost in the images before me
As powerful as my memories of seeing them
The best ones are works of art
Theater that touches your soul.

They can provide you with magic
Seeing things you never thought possible
Foretelling things not yet imagined
They are reflections of all of us.

Our hopes
Our fears
What we wish to be
What we cannot be.

They are made to entertain
To earn a dollar
But they can be so much more
In the right hands.
Mario
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:57:38 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Sacred Desire

Quiet time spent with You
darkened holy space
flicker of sanctuary lamp
blessed, peaceful silence
leaves me longing for more.

I don't mind the longing so much
on some days.

On others, there is such a
deep yearning,
way down in my soul,
and the silence
and the shadows
and the straining
for the sound of Your voice
only make the longing
more acute.

At those times it seems
that only Your touch
will satisfy and calm
my restless spirit.

I do not ask for much
just the merest, slightest
resting of Your hand on my head
lying in Your lap.

Anyone who has ever heard
a newly-fed baby's sigh of contentment
would recognize the sounds
emanating from my soul
if ever I experience
that touch.
Theresa Cavicchio
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:58:03 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Systematic
Hello mam, I’d like
No I don’t have an appointment, but it
Yes, ok the blue window
Hello I need, no I don’t have a ticket
The room at the end of the hall, ok
I’ve come for, only on Wednesdays you say
I can go where? But I need an appointment
I can make one where? But they won’t see me without a ticket
Oh, so I need to come back on Wednesday
But that’s a holiday, next week then
Thanks?


Susan LeFort
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:58:22 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
IT'S LIKE THE WIND
By: Hannah Bowles

"Look over there," My Dad says
pointing as a tree blows about
in the wind. "Do you see that?"
he questions with intensity. I
don't answer because I know it
is not a question. "That's what
God is like you can't see Him
but you know he is there, you
see the results of Him," he
states humbly. "Yes Dad God
is like that." I manage to
say, with ripe tears ready
for the plucking.
Hannah Bowles
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:59:04 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Love me.
I do.
Then hold me.
I did.
Want to talk?
I don’t.
You promised.
I didn’t.
Love me.
I said, “I do.” Wasn’t that enough?
Sunday, April 19, 2009 3:00:40 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


Reality TV

Lulu Louise loves Doctor Lancet,
Who saves sickly housewives
Every afternoon at four
On high definition TV.
Chained to her Panasonic,
She scribbles her symptoms
On perfumed stationery
And sends them to her shadow surgeon
Sitting, waiting for her cure.


Sunday, April 19, 2009 3:02:25 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

I’d like to write a poem today,
Read what others had to say,
Dip into some fun wordplay,
And keep our daily soiree.
However, much to my dismay,
Sometimes life gets in the way.
I’ll tell myself that it’s okay…
We’ll interact another day.
Marie Elena
Sunday, April 19, 2009 3:03:17 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
L.A. Fwy

Whumpo rear ender
for all to see
and ya wind up
in Emergency

It's the kinda
interaction
that'll put ya
in traction

Stay home
hug your Tv
be glad you're
not with me
N.E. Taylor
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:15:48 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Could do better

If you enclosed
An envelope
Addressed to you
And stamped to suit
Then we we’ll return
The thing you wrote
With this
Rejection letter.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:20:56 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
ESCAPE

My eyes drifted toward the window once again.
The lightning danced across the skyline
like a herd of gazelles, leaping
and scurrying past each building top
and distant tree branch.
The raging magnificence of this storm
was merely a distraction. My focus
was much more myopic than
the electric horizon in the distance.
I leaned my head slightly forward
so as to reach the soft tufts of
auburn hair that rested ever peacefully
on my warm, bare chest. She,
of incredible heart and unflagging beauty,
had finally found a place
to comfortably lay her tired head.
I planted a gentle kiss on the top of her tresses,
nestling my lips into her hair
and holding them there for the briefest forever.
I listened for her breathing.
It was music, pure and simple.
Symphonic and moving.
It became pastoral and stirring.
The sounds of life,
which had vacated my ears for a seemed eternity,
were now mine for the moment.
I traced a trail of random kisses upon her hair,
until my right cheek finally found refuge
against her forehead. She seemed to settle
into a new sense of comfort
with that last cuddle. She pressed herself
closer to me as if fearing
being sucked into the torrent
that flailed mercilessly outside the hotel window.
One last kiss found it’s home
on her lovely brow. A sigh of contentment
escaped from her soft, moist lips.

“Mmmmmmm”, she purred.

My hand found her exposed shoulder in its ascent.
The soft and satiny alabaster that was her skin
felt smooth and sensuously alive.
Tenderly, I stroked her arm,
tracing a finger in soft circles
across her freckled flesh.
My rough hand glided most effortlessly across it.
Her silkiness reconnected my synapses,
resuscitating life into long held memories,
and stirring a renewed longing for her
that I had since denied myself.
One of the million thoughts that
danced in my head rose to the surface
to find the light of this sullen day.
This moment we shared was laced
with an aura of disbelief.

“How did we get here?” I quietly whisper,
smiling inwardly, knowingly.

I sheepishly lifted the edge of the sheet
that covered our nakedness,
and took notice of the relationship
of our bodies to one another.
She lay motionless, conveniently filling
the space that my slightly rotund frame
had left uncovered. We were molded together
as perfectly as nature could have intended;
as nearly as I could have wished
over the time and distance that had lapsed
between such interludes. My eyes wandered,
taking in the full richness of life
that presented itself in her very existence.
Her “lines” were classic and graceful.
Her skin exuded a luster that was a vision to behold.
In my eyes she was purely beautiful.
That opinion had not wavered in those
twenty-eight years. Many miles and twists of fate
had passed their hands between the both of us.
However, there was no more glorious twist
than finding ourselves in this embrace,
at this very moment in time.

In one thought, I felt extremely unworthy
of her acceptance of me back into her world.

My pulse quickens as
the memory of that rainy afternoon
replays itself in my mind.

Walt Wojtanik
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:21:15 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


“Tonal Therapy”


The man didn’t bother to mask his identity—no
pantyhose to flatten his features, no ski cap
with a naught of surprise left open for the mouth, infinity
cut-out for the eyes—just strode up to her, bald-faced and
bare-headed, in the parking lot of the Giant

and it wasn’t a gun but a knife he pulled from his jacket
pocket, a knife that sprung open at the push of a
button—a switch blade, she thinks it is called; a switch
blade or a jack knife, she only knows the terms she has
heard on the television

the man pushes the button and the blade shoots out, locks
into place, locks onto _her_, points at her, an accusing
finger, and this young man who has not even bothered to
cover his face says

Get in the trunk, bitch, don’t make a sound and I won’t
hurt you

she doesn’t make a sound but she freezes—one hand
gripping the shoulder strap of her white vinyl old-lady’s
purse, the other hand holding a plastic shopping bag with
a Snickers and a bottle of antacid tablets—so he is
forced to repeat

Get in the motherfucking trunk

she maintains her grip on the old-lady purse (why?)—
she is an old lady and she knows it, white hair like pillow
batting, body that reminds her, when she dares to look,
of melting candle wax, but she doesn’t look often, doesn’t
_take stock_, does, in fact welcome the invisibility
old age blessedly confers

even though her granddaughter tells her that sixty-eight
isn’t _old_ these days—sixties are considered young-old
and seventies are considered middle-old and
not until your eighties are you considered _old_
and Alma just smiles at her granddaughter—
Alma is the name of woman holding the
Giant grocery bag

(the antacid tablets are for her husband, the reason she’s
made this late night trip, but she decided to reward herself
for the effort with the Snickers)—

Alma always smiles, indulges her granddaughter’s
sermonizing but says nothing to contradict her, says,
in fact, nothing at all, which is part of her problem,
Alma’s problem, according to the girl

You never speak up, never speak your mind, it’s like
you’re afraid of the sound of your own voice.
What you need, the granddaughter says—you need
tonal therapy. Sound is creative, her granddaughter says,
sound and vibration

and usually it is at this point where Alma loses the
thread, something to do with mysticism, what would
Alma know about that, she a Southern Baptist by
default—those modifiers, _by default_, supplied by
her granddaughter

We as women, the granddaughter says—not only are we
loathe to take up space, we are shallow breathers, loathe
to suck up too much air

and here she pokes her index finger into Alma’s breastplate,
underscoring her point

Tell him to get his own goddamn tablets, her granddaughter
would have said. Tell him you are tired and your knees are
hurting and you are not a delivery service, you are not his
own Girl Friday

but Alma told herself instead the trip would give her the
opportunity to sneak the Snickers bar, a proscribed indulgence
she would eat it in the car, sitting in the parking lot before
heading home—she doesn’t miss the sex so much but
sure does miss the sugar—

eat it, and stuff the wrapper in the glove box; small selfish
act, her secret, silent revenge—


I _said_ , get in the _trunk_, bitch—

strikes her in the face to punctuate his words, strikes her
with the knuckles of his left hand, not the right hand
holding the knife, the switch blade or the jack knife—
maybe if it had been a gun she would have reacted
differently—he strikes her twice and she drops the
bag with the antacid tablets and the Snickers bar

but retains her grip on the purse, the man raises his
fist again but keeps it lock-loaded at shoulder level,
a comma in this exchange, giving her a chance to
catch her breath.

She doesn’t hear the antacid bottle hit the pavement but
knows the sound it must have made, a sound like
one half of a pair of maracas, and still she herself has not
made a sound, just as this young man requested she
not, don’t make a sound and
I won’t hurt you

watchwords to which this unmasked man has boldly
put the lie.





Padgett Posey
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:22:39 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Chit Chat

You’re a good man,
I said, which meant
he is a good man who
put his hand on my knee,
pit-pat, just like that.

He could have slid it up
my thigh. Two tequilas
and a beer chaser,
I might have let him
sit-sat, just like that.

Ineligible proxy,
evening broncos and
boxes of popcorn.
He might have offered
tit-for-tat, just like that

his palm unexpectedly
upon me. A hand, I said.
A knee. We laughed
as he pulled back.
He’s a good man,

I told his wife later.
Chit-chat, just like that.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:27:04 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Tree Frog

Tree frog beneath dead leaves watches me as I weed.
I’m on all fours, picking out each curled hand
discarded by the trees last fall. You watch me
long before I know you’re watching me.
So much depends, for you, on this,
although you do not know, how, in my mind
how beautiful you are, how you are not my dinner.
I see you poised just beneath a dead curl of leaf,
your golden eye, its black pupil wide and watchful.
So, carefully I weed this habitat of yours, leave you hidden
beneath your leaf, so tonight under the cold, cold stars
you too can hear a thousand tree frogs sing.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:27:35 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“A Death Row Inmate Sings A Ruba’i”
Or
“The Last Interaction”

A night that held my hand and promised a day
To you, to field flowers and the sunshine of May
Is witness to my vice or folly
Uncommitted. So take this last petition and put it away.


Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:28:44 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I tried to get this one in on time, but the website was being wacky. Oh, well...

Untitled

Let the joystick lead the way.
Square reloads cold alien steel
and the X moves me over tough terrain.

No God or cheat will save the nameless enemies in my
picture tube eye.
Moving twitch reflexes on plastic nerves,
thumbs and controller are one and neither world,
real or fantastic,
can stop this union.
For the fates have been decided
when 0s and 1s first
created life.
Paul Pikutis
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:31:18 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Final Choice

Driving you to San Francisco
you're sleeping in the
passenger seat
blanket and pillow
from your girlhood,
on our way to check out
one of the last two schools
on your list, this one close
enough to come home
for Friday dinners,
the other so far
you have to take
a flight and a ferry
to get there,
up in Canada,
your father's country,
foreign to me.
Beatles on your ipod
plugged into
the car stereo,
freeway at dawn,
Saturday morning
empty, after Fairfield
the fog so thick
it could be fire,
leaving the sun rising
in the rear-view mirror.
It's not my favorite,
driving in the city,
but I can do this:
pass by Franklin
Folsom
Fisherman's Wharf
left on Fell
to Fillmore, Fulton
go further than you think
until the spire flares
on the flowery hill. College.
Having been through
this myself I can only hope
you find a place you
feel free enough to flourish,
figure things out
on your own, forget
the future for now,
fall in love a few times.
You are seeking
perfection as always,
a place where friends
will be true, all beings free,
all things fair, four years of fun.
great recycling and
organic food.
You want to fuse
art with math
and follow your
forked path
in every direction
at once. I am in awe
yet feign indifference.
After so many choices
we've made together,
this one's up to you,
”don't look at me like that”
you say as I search
your face for your feelings,
looking for a flash
across your fair-isle eyes
We hear about formulas
for financing and how to
rent a fridge for the dorm,
visit your sophomore
friend who’s flying next
year to France, take
a photo of the two
of you for Facebook.
On the way home
I fight the 4Runners
on the Bay Bridge
but after that
the fast lane’s
free-sailing,
you nap again
instead of finishing
your calculus,
feverish with senioritis,
the setting sun through
the flecked windshield
your stripe-socked
feet on the dashboard
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:32:03 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Fear of Commitment
by Michael A. Wells

People often approach poetry
as they might a dance partner-
a few with confidence,
most without.

The dance that follows
often lacks grace -

poetry is fickle; it will not allow
for a lazy partner. It expects
you to enter into the dance with it,
not just be along for the ride.

Why do we want to interrogate
poetry, to slap the shit out of it
until it surrenders everything
we want to know?

We expect it to give up all the answers.
It's what we do best... dance in circles
instead of entering into a commitment
with the poem.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:34:05 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
They’ve Got our Numbers

N umb,
U nder pressure,
M umbling guttural sounds
B efore dragging out the folders showing
E verything bought outside Illinois but used here
R evealing software, clothes, book and meat
purchases
S o some bureaucrat can earn his keep, muttering with me about the dreaded Use Tax.

Sheryl Kay Oder
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:38:32 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Opinions

Everyone has one –right?
Though many swear they haven’t any
when pressed for theirs.
IF they do, they will still beg off;
it would be easier going to face
a dentist than stripping down to that layer.
What if my opinion isn’t yours?
How shall we progress from this?
Will this cause you to glance away,
or worse – over the top of my head?
Perhaps it will be me who decides to move along;
with the small, fixed smile, and sidling step.
We swear we love opinions that diversify; we embrace it,
when we aren’t spending our time to trying to erase it.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:38:51 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
MY RELIGION


The thing that really
Had me going when I first got out,
Amazed me the most, was how
Technology had been transformed by a huge
Splash of innovation. Relatively speaking, in a
Mere eye blink of time, everyday life had
Evolved past recognition. Digital cameras, for
Instance, were suddenly ubiquitous, and
Nothing was safe from their beady little eyes.
There were cameras included in cell phones,
Hidden in streetlights, miniaturized in videocams,
Embedded in laptops, and of course, commonly
Sported in every pocket and bag in the city.
People pulled out their cameras and captured
On-the-scene, as-it-happened moments as if
They'd been photojournalists all their
Lives. Blogging was born. No one could hide.
I was fascinated by my own new Kodak,
Given to me by my mother. The promise of
Having immediate access to inexpensive photos
Teased me, seduced me, inveigled me into
Trying it out. I began experimenting with a
Religious fervor, taking photos of everything:
Yawning mouth, unmade bed, irresistable and
Impractical close-ups obscuring identity,
Normal shots of pets, parks, parents and partner,
Great shots of vacation spots, even one on the
Toilet- only one of about ten thousand and
One photos of myself. ("Taboo"-- as you well
Know-- was never in my vocabulary.) The
Essence of this, my interaction with the lens, is
Ecclesiastical. My soul, repeatedly stolen in all these
Photographs, reserved in memory, reborn to afterlife,
Uploaded to files in electronic Ascension, is converted and
Preserved in the belief that, there, I might just live forever.


(April 18, 2009) Dianne Borsenik
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:40:00 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Fiddler

At first, when you start playing,
Nobody stops what they’re doing.
Then without consciousness they begin
to slap their legs,
tap their feet.
Soon the conversation
stops.
They’ve heard this music before,
maybe hundreds of times, but this
is the first time they’ve felt it as
it must have felt
in the woodshed,
in the kitchen,
on the front porch
under a full moon
in the hills
a century ago.

Teresa Sundmark
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:43:07 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
hugged and shoved

picture
yourself, she says,
where are you going now?
I can't find the chords to sing to
her with.
With her, I am a lit candle
but my flame has no reach.
I will frame this
picture.

--starky morillo
starky morillo
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:44:42 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The interaction of my hands
My bare hands
with the dirt
Pulling,
ripping,
tearing at
Weeds,
grass,
roots
Digging deeply
dirt on my knees,
my hands
Under my nails.
Dann Norton
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:47:58 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Reactions to Covalent Bonding

It's more than chemical, but its acts the same
As vinegar and baking soda, this way sometimes
We go at something or at one another, like we
Catalyze as we cauterize, this wound,
That hurt, those scrapes,
These friction burns of oxidizing love
Rusting or sizzling or just rubbing off
The wrong way, on the wrong day, with
The wrong words said the worst way,
Till some dynamic douse of cold water dissipates
The slurry of interaction, dilutes
Somehow the flashfire consuming the air
We breathe and feel move through us,
Waking up what grains of compassion still linger
To find the calmer plain this storm can pass on over.
Boyce Miller
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:51:24 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
TANGO
BY: NIKKI MARKLE

Hand to hand;
Right to small of lady’s back;
Left to gentleman’s shoulder.

Lady leans into cradle of
Gentleman’s arm;
Joined hip to hip;
Tension.

Man’s left foot forward;
Lady’s right foot back.
Man’s right foot forward;
Lady’s left foot back.
Tango close.

Quick
Quick
Slow.

Connected at hands, at hips, at eyes;
Dance of simmering passion.

Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:52:52 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Real Questions

Can we share a cup of coffee, he asked,
or maybe a glass of wine? Can we watch
the sun disappear along the strand
where Spenser scrawled Laura’s name
or anticipate its rising beyond the hills
where Jig found some way to go on?
Can we nap beside a lazy river,
or roll our pants and stroll the beach,
listening for Prufrock’s mermaids?
Can we talk about measures of joy
and pleasures of measureless joys?
Can we hold hands, lock fingers,
tangle eyebeams, trade breaths,
embrace minds and mingle souls?

Audell Shelburne
Sunday, April 19, 2009 5:58:12 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Note: I tried to post earlier, but the server was down, at least in the half hour prior to midnight. Glad to see things back up.


Spaghetti Sauce Worship

My kitchen is a temple of sorts,
where I replenish myself and my family
with food and our sense of purpose.
We gather at the table in communion;
breaking bread and sharing wine.
I rejoice at the love that goes into
the preparation of this savoury sauce.
From the start of this service, there
is harmony and an interaction that
evolves from olive oil sizzling in a pan,
singing like a heavenly choir that fills
the room with culinary music when
the garlic joins the hot oil in chorus.
Chopping is done with a joyous heart,
celery, onions and peppers, diced and
heaped in a skillet with ground beef;
brown the meat, cook the vegetables.
Tomatoes simmer in a stock pot, oregano,
basil, thyme, blending together in tasty
union, the combination complete when the
meat mixture is added and left to mingle.
Senses overloaded, comfort food awaits.
Homemade spaghetti sauce,
the evening offering for my congregation.
We share the peace with each other,
passing platters of pasta and bread, filling
our cups, heads bowed over our plates,
our message: celebrate family in worship
with food blessed by the Holy Spirit and
the faithful hands that prepared it.
Denise Noddin
Sunday, April 19, 2009 6:03:05 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Interaction of some sort"

"But, I love you," says

Balloon. Dusk. Wind blows. Rain falls.

Said Cactus, "I know."
Kevin Olitan
Sunday, April 19, 2009 6:08:11 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Get Involved

That's what the sign read at the center today
I signed the sheet, looked for the pamphlet and was on my way

The eyes that caught mind were filled with innocence
That was three years ago, I started the youth program that day been here since.

The eyes belonged to an eight year old filled with mystery and wonder
Next to her stood her sister she was at least three years younger

Neither opened their mouth but their thoughts spoke loud and clear
Just don't sign up, get involved we need you here

I had no idea or desire to start a program, I just wanted to volunteer, give a helping hand
But as I scanned the room, I heard the chatter of the children looking for a platform to take a stand

I filled in all the information and paused before writing in the comment box making my application complete
I wrote, "I want to work with the youth those who think there's on fun in the street.

Get involved, I know no other way and I still see it in their tear filled eyes
Get involved or they'll see through your disguise.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 6:08:41 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Interaction

Look
Listen
Feel
Process
Think
Wonder
Doubt the obvious
Then yourself
Make noise
Interpret response
Adjust
Laugh
At yourself
Nervously
Everyone does it
Differently
Another day
Rat race
Who’s your mama
Come to papa
Get away
Get lost
Hold me tight
Wanna ride
How high
Will you fly
With me
Last stop
Last drop
Lonely dream
Outcast
Can’t last
All alone
Must go
Rise up
No shame
In my game
Join me
Run fast
Fast life
Easy living…



Rebekka White
Sunday, April 19, 2009 6:10:47 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I wrote two today and couldn't decide which one to submit. So here's a pair of interactions.

Covalent Bonds

Elements then,
Partners to a lesser degree
Electrons and aromatic rings
Two resonance forms
They reel around one another
Seemingly stable
What one has
Or does not have
Bond that depends on the angular location
Or the view of one partner
Or another
These two needn’t be the same
Or different
In the midst of the dance
Held together by mystery
And mutual need
Orbiting around one another
Until time degrades them
And the earth passes away

White Man

When we come
With our pinked cheeks
And our blue eyes
We come for war
We come to devour
And we don’t wish to hear your wisdom
Your old life
Your ways of living, long on lush land
We don’t want your dark skin
Your keen eyes
Your mother truths
Your heart, earth old stories
Of turtles and crocodiles
We don’t want to hear of Kaang, Amma and Brahma
We come knowing
We leave behind bloodied bodies, bastards and bones
We cannot explain why you do not kill us
You warm us at your fire
And surrender your beautiful, old life
As if it always belonged to us

Stephanie Miller
Sunday, April 19, 2009 6:11:35 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Horizontal, Vertical

Comfortable as night married
to day, steadfast as the shore dashing
down to kiss the sea, mountains
spill forth on the horizon
without the midwife of foothills
to intervene. Thrust abruptly
from the earth by unseen Titan
hands, a symbol of hopeful transition
never intended by an impartial
nature, who buries her malice
amidst snow-capped peaks.
An almost imperceptible
tilt of plain and prairie leans
travelers forward in anticipation.
From a great distance, traversing
the security of a horizontal
world, the muted wall of mountain
appears tranquil, mirroring
distant ocean before a storm.

Sunday, April 19, 2009 6:19:05 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Okay, this is weird. Boyce Miller and Stephanie Miller, we are indeed husband and wife, however, we did not consult on our poems today and by complete coincidence came up with almost identical titles "Reaction to Covalent Bonds" and "Covalent Bonds" And we are not chemists or even scientists so this is just some kind of odd meeting of the mind.
Stephanie Miller
Sunday, April 19, 2009 6:19:36 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Connection

Being our first dinner date at his place
I really didn't know what to expect

candles set low...
champagne on ice...
soft music
and scent of after shave
invited romance

his eyes met mine
as single red rose
was tenderly placed in my hand
followed by...
soft kiss on cheek

manly fingers
gently slid wrap off shoulders
and with arm around waist
led me toward table

as he pulled out chair
warm breath
'gainst nape of neck
teased feminine
inner desire

from where I sat...
his mesmerizing smile
danced in champagne bubbles
putting sparkle
in my big brown eyes

no words were spoken
yet I knew..
somewhere 'tween
red rose
'n after dinner kiss
our hearts
made...
that special connection


(c) 04/18/09
RMS
Rose Marie Streeter
Sunday, April 19, 2009 6:48:54 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
True Love

Why do we let it bother us
when people do as they like
not as we like wish prefer desire
Why do we let it pester and fester
and gnaw at our spirits
we don't want to hear it
just do as I say as I say as I say

Why do we think the person we love
trust caress know
partner friend guide soulmate
Why do we think that person will
abandon ship
when the empty sails blow past

Why do we gaze around the bar
the cocktail party
the barbecue
and ever so slightly
tighten our grip

Is there anything they can ever do
to prove a commitment is true?

Why do we spend two years
setting up house
and
making things perfect
then get petulant when a whisper
catches our ear
what do we fear?

But why are there people
who give us reason to think these
things
And why are there people
who have betrayed us
when we trust
like we do now?

And why do we try again?
Sunday, April 19, 2009 6:59:33 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Interaction

From the balcony
I watch my sons
bat around a ball
with the neighbor kids.
They are seven and eight,
old enough to make
their way without me
in the neighborhood
if not in the world.
When an older boy
scolds mine without reason
I want to rush down there.
When a finger is bent back
and somebody howls
I force myself to look upward
at the pinecones in the trees,
growing without my help,
layering rows after rows
of fingernail-shaped scales
in Fibonacci sequence,
each row depending
on the two preceding it.
But not a single scale
looks around to check
if the number of scales
in its row is the sum
of the scales in the two
previous rows. And still
that’s how they grow.

Jessica Goodfellow
Sunday, April 19, 2009 7:05:16 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Let Go Of Her?

You are going to have to let go
of her, I said. The cab won't wait.
He held on just a second more, still
in stage makeup and Oberon tights,
she in her best dress with turquoise
jewelry I made for her, and her mother's
kitten heels, hair brushed down her back.
So young, just friends, they say, taken
ballet together since he was eight and
she was five, eight years growing up
watching, listening, helping, supporting.
She surprised him after the show, his
first real lead, top billing. He didn't know
she'd come and of course she spent all
week planning outfit and transportation.
He grabbed her hard, grinned, even asked
his mom to snap a picture. He hates
being photographed. She leaned in close,
beamed, glowed. You are going to have
to let go of her, I said. Maybe not.






Victoria Hendricks
Sunday, April 19, 2009 7:14:29 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Miss Quinte Contrary Goes to the Mall

She holds my hand and chatters
turns her head
and forgets to watch where she’s walking
I’m glad to have alone time with her

in Old Navy
she picks out purple jelly shoes
and a variety of clothes
in every size but her own

in the pet store
she kneels at the aquariums
enchanted by water
she talks to the fish
moves from glass to glass

she chooses Staples
for her sprint
out of sight
I rush to follow the giggle
she covers the whole store

she holds my hand again
in the rain
as we walk back to the van
in time to pick up two sisters
and two friends.
Janet Richsrds
Sunday, April 19, 2009 7:20:16 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Days like this

There are days for staying in bed
but this day isn’t one of them
She has been up since eight o’clock
showering, dressing, sipping tea
readying for this afternoon

Today she grabs her bifocals
pulls on the light-weight blue jacket
she found in the second-hand store
propels herself through the front gate
toward the small park two blocks away

She sits on her bench facing west
eager as he enters the park
to sit on his bench facing east
He comes each day at six pm
She welcomes his quiet presence

He always greets with cautious nod
and today is no exception
Today she responds in full smile
He moves to join her. On their bench
they watch the sun set side by side

Barbara Moore
Sunday, April 19, 2009 7:24:34 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A hundred smiles seen through the creases of your eyes
A collection of scrapbook entries
Crisp pages hold fast,
A multitude of memories

Old letters in your wooded chest
Crumpled and tea stained
Collecting an army of past thoughts,
An anthology of moments lost and gained

Tarnished brass jewellery and worn out packets of pot-pourri
That is what you have
It will be your legacy
It holds you in time

Your floral shirt, bright and gaudy
Chrysanthemum pink and cadmium
Plastic pearls adorn your neck
Your waist widened by the years of cakes
You’re back ever so slightly bent

We sit opposite and I regard you
My reflection forty, maybe, fifty years from now
The wisdom of your presence engulfs me
I feel safe, embraced in your company

You suck your mints in calm repose
Lines draw further down your cheeks
Penny for your thoughts?
A life of rich tapestry
Woven with the kisses of grandchildren

Hand made glitter covered cards
Trips out to the seaside in the family car
The deep reservoir of loss
Left over now your beloved has gone

Thirty five years well spent
How many seasons came and went?
Following the natural order of things, he left before you
Left you to proceed alone
Now it’s all about bridge and flower arranging
Preserving stasis as the world keeps changing








Rebecca Simpson
Sunday, April 19, 2009 7:35:35 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)


Please bear with me. I wanted to make a poem out of this: but I couldn’t express it in any other way . . there was suddenly just too much emotion . . . I feel like you, my fellow poets, would understand better than anyone else and I thank you for allowing me to share this with you.You all write from the heart too. God bless you all! C.

Day 18 Prompt - Interaction

I wrote a page about the overheard trivia
spoken by the gathering of relatives
brought together to wish God-speed to
their child, brother, son, cousin, nephew.
Grandson, future father and husband.
A greatly varied group with all sorts of ties
to him.

Among us all, the common thought was not
just our relationship to this brave young man.
laced among the jovial comradeship and jest
was the underlying emotion of fierce pride and
unabashed, and heartfelt prayers for his
safe keeping and for the hand of God to keep
curled around him to protect him as he goes
off to war to fight for our rights to disagree
with the present people in power in Washington.

The tea parties symbolize the truth of his mission.
And that we are free Americans and we are NOT
racist just because we disagree with the black
man in the White House. No. We disagree with
the man in the White House who just
happens to be black.

It is very important to believe in our young men
and to realize they go forth so young and
innocent just to be the best they can be in
this world so beset with corruption and avarice.

God help us all!


Carole




Sunday, April 19, 2009 7:56:43 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Interaction

A Day of Revisions

I have to be an adult about these revisions.
They won't get done magically.
I have to do it.
There's no one but me.

Well, and Pye, who tries to help.
Making a nest of the papers on the table.
"Pye, not there."
Settling in for a nap on my keyboard.
"Pye! No!"
Pawing at me for a head rub.
"Pye, I need to work."
Sitting between me and the monitor.
"I know it's time for bed. I have more work to do."
Nipping my feet.
"Yeah, yeah, I know it's time for dinner."
Looking between me and the litter box.
"In a minute!"

Revisions are hard work.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 8:22:58 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)



underground


I drop my hat. A jacket gestures my loss
as skirts, T-shirts and mandarin slacks
all stop talking to sigh in sympathy.
Other sleeves rustle, trainers thud,
even mute tights and stripy leggings
whisper to each other, while the bolder
clothes jabber non-stop
as they loll, sway, stamp, bustle colour.


But not a word
from the mongrel bodies they walk.
Eyes sidle, pray, stare like zombies,
reject all contact.


I pick up my hat and my coat shuffles
nervously, nods its thanks
with a slight tilt of the collar,
shifts away from my downcast scarf.
Only my reflection
looks me directly in the eye,
and even it refuses to smile,
slides away silently across the glass.


Sarah James, UK.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 8:36:55 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Phil Boiarski's "The Corpsman and the Jap" (damn--this was excellent) and
Lisa Kwong's "Golden Comets: A Poem for Amanda's Hens"
both stood out for me today.

Iain D. Kemp--More Ringo the Howler! ("Bring money I want to interact / with some beer and chilli-dogs"--freaking hilarious! Thanks for giving me a new way to use this verb!)


Happy Writing!
Padgett Posey
Sunday, April 19, 2009 8:58:25 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
TO LET THE STRANGER IN

Rain drifted softly
onto the roof last night
not waking any of
the sleepers.

I know this only because
the driveways and paved
areas were wet.

Last week, it rattled
on the pergola roof,
as if being spat out.
I thought it was hail
or pebbles.

Even so, the driveways
and paved areas were
not as wet as we
expected.

I want the roof to be a drum.
I want to hear drumming.
I demand the rain fall
like sticks and stones
and hurt the roof, and
hurt the roof, and attack
the soil until it, the rain,
is forgiven for its pretences,
and the soil has given up
resistance, opened itself up
to let the stranger in.

Jennie Fraine
Sunday, April 19, 2009 9:18:40 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
INTERACTION

---Port Authority, NYC, 1987


I thought I was disturbed
when the businessman
in his long, black wool coat
tossed his cigarette
on the station floor
after a mere three drags
in order to board
the waiting bus.

Then the second man scrambled
from behind the trash can
and across the pavement.
He walked slowly back
to the dark, stained wall
with the smoldering,
partial thing;
he looked almost happy.



Melissa Carl
Sunday, April 19, 2009 9:49:07 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Soloist

Fingers on steel
sliding, shaking.
Notes held then bent
almost to breaking.
Complex patterns
well rehearsed.
Once calm and smooth
and then a burst
of speed, aggression.
A manic squall,
sound and fury,
passion's call.
Each measure sculpted
flawlessly.
A magnum opus.
Divinity.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 10:34:40 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Three-fer today, two serious, one not so much...

I Come Running

At two-thirty-six
My sleeping three-year-old shouts
"More hugs and kisses!"

--

"But Ons, In Speciall, In Thin Array"

Once you were a planet.
Lush with all that was wanted.
Reticulated, energized,
Inactive and complete.

Wanting for almost nothing,
A perfect sphere, live, open-armed
To travelers bearing nothing but
Enough power to arrive,
A capsule with which to
Rush the atmosphere,
And messages like songs
Of the place from which they came.
And they strove toward her that was you,
Raging into her cloud cover
For a chance to survive,
One dives -
Unnoticeable and yet the change!

The positive rush,
The calcium, so ionic,
And suddenly all about her is
Pellucid and impenetrable,
Acidic and complete.
She is a fortress.
She is encased in glass,
Inside of which the
Inevitable cannibalization
Is taking place.

She gives a dim transferral sigh
and disburses the remains,
The skin, the tail.
Not even the generators are of use.
But what he carried, when he came
In peace,
The words, the picture of how he was made,
In the place from which he came,
These she combines with her own stories.
She creates the unrecognizable.
And safe as sand inside a pearl,
Waits to find a landing place,
To burrow into a soft and pulsing wall,
To end her life as a lonely planet
And start what becomes the future
You.

--

Conjugation

It starts with an Hfr chromosome
(A little circlet of love)
The blueprint of the factor, F,
(The crowning jewel of love)
Which lets it build a pilusian tube
(A little tunnel of love)
And into that tunnel goes the F,
(That little rondel of love).

F takes mischief to the mate,
(Those fine little gifts of love)
"Toxins make, those drugs resist"
(The magic protection of love).
And when the transfer is complete
(Regretfully ends their love)
They're both now, yes, F-positive
(The transformative act of love!)

Encounter small and trivial until
You see the signs that
Bacterial love has moved those gifts
Into your intestines.
ina Roy-Faderman
Sunday, April 19, 2009 10:45:53 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Esprit

In French, the word for "mind" is spirit.
How feeble the human brain is,
for all its 100 billion neurons,
when compared to that flicker centered
in our heart, that always flutters skyward
when set free.

Madeline Strong Diehl
Sunday, April 19, 2009 11:33:26 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
pub talk

sitting in the pub
perched on a stool
waiting for my cheeseburger
wondering if i should
have a beer
local farmers i suppose
four of them
"can't let a woman have a working dog"
"you are so right!"
"absolutely ruins the dog"
"women just don't understand"
"aye, no way should a woman
be allowed near a working dog"
"too much mollycoddling"
a tight knit group
drinks in hand, men with working dogs
obviously a superior species

All materials Copyright © 2009 by Eryll Oellermann
Eryll Oellermann
Sunday, April 19, 2009 11:35:24 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Interaction


Morning sun breaking through a night’s sky
Kissing the moon good day
Still waters awakening misting to the light


http://paigeofabook.blogspot.com/

Sunday, April 19, 2009 11:39:29 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
April 18, 2009 poetry prompt: interaction of some sort

Grandfather and Me

I long
for some love and
he searches his pocket
for a single shiny quarter
instead.

~~ Julie Eger
Sunday, April 19, 2009 11:42:21 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
After Hours


A stout man enters the inner chamber of the bank.
Afternoon light splits itself into a half light
as he fumbles for the bank card in his wallet.
He’s tired, and smells faintly stale.
Maybe he just got off work, needs a few bucks
For gas or beer or for tonight’s dinner,
pork chops and potatoes,
a meal his wife will surely to cook
as soon as he walks through the door.
His fingers tap the ATM keys. Then
there is this unexpected song,
a mouthful of air gathering
into a chorus of “No, No, No, No, No, No, No”
in synch with the machine’s rhythmic beeping.
He pauses; listens to his own breath come and go
as he tries to catch it, his funds Insufficient,
the question of capital asked and answered—
the money is somewhere yet nowhere.
It takes him a moment to remember where he is
and that he is not alone. He calls his wife
to have that uncomfortable conversation
about not having enough, about what to do next.
And for this you don’t have the words.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 11:43:48 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Summer Ending

“Today, when it’s cool, I sense
The summer ending,” you said.
Every Saturday night
You came over my house,
Ate scrambled eggs,
Watched movies, went walking.
The trees inhaled
And exhaled green.
The ocean beyond the mansion
In the park whipped
White foam. I didn’t know
You were dying. You gave
Yourself away when you stopped
To rest on the trail,
Or in the photo I took,
Your face pale,
Its brightness gone,
Or when you mentioned
The summer ending.
Linda Benninghoff
Sunday, April 19, 2009 11:49:03 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Summer Ending

“Today, when it’s cool, I sense
The summer ending,” you said.
Every Saturday night
You came over my house,
Ate scrambled eggs,
Watched movies, went walking.
The trees inhaled
And exhaled green.
The ocean beyond the mansion
In the park whipped
White foam. I didn’t know
You were dying. You gave
Yourself away when you stopped
To rest on the trail,
Or in the photo I took,
Your face pale,
Its brightness gone,
Or when you mentioned
The summer ending.
Linda Benninghoff
Sunday, April 19, 2009 11:53:41 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"Questions"

Mommy?
What-ee?
I have a question.
Your favorite expression.
Where did I come from?
You do know I’m your Mom?
Was I made with love?
Sent from God above.
Do I make you happy?
Flat out goofy, sappy.
Do I make you proud?
I’ll shout it out loud.
Do you love me?
We shall see.
Mommy!
Baby!

Poem by Vanessa V. Kilmer © April 18, 2009

Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:11:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"I Was So Wrong"

I was the one that day on the bus
who sprinted to conclusions
about the other one:
coughing
sneezing
wiping nose
sucking lozenge.
GO AWAY
Contagious!
You scare me.
But, when I pulled the escape cord,
and she moved aside to let me out,
she tossed me a thousand lux of
sunshine with her smile.
“Have a nice day.”
“You too.”
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:55:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Storytime


I turn the pages slowly, breathing in the clean
scent of your silken hair
as you snuggle deeply in my lap.

Your tiny finger reaches out
to the primary colors of the simple
pictures on the page
and I am distracted
by the nape of your downy little neck.

My voice rises and falls in pitch
as I bring the characters to our rocking chair.
The printed words have long been spoken,
but I am still lost in the magical world of you.

One day you’ll realize that a picture book
doesn’t last
for an hour.
Juliann Wetz
Sunday, April 19, 2009 12:58:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Predator and Prey

Prey always unsuspecting
Carelessly meandering
Sometimes taking the backstreets
Dodging the raindrops
On the way home

Predator eyes them sharply
Marius tosses his coat
Turn up the collar
To the rain
And begins the hunt.
Jolanta Laurinaitis
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:00:41 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Wedding Poem, Part Two

They met on the beach at the taco stand, she was a vegetarian
and he was not but ordered frijoles for both of them
out of thrift. He was studying for the ACT and so was she.

They met in the library, reaching for the same Kaplan Guide
and after taking a quick measure of each other’s stubbornness,
decided to study together. They met at the first Falcon’s football

game of the season. He was a senior, she, a freshman. Snow
began to fall and he lent her his scarf in BGSU colors--
brown and orange. She was amused by his chivalry

and they went to the Dairy Queen after the game. They met
in a flurry of friends on the only hill in Bowling Green,
sledding on the golf course and afterwards he cut donuts

in the parking lot, the Crown Vic showing the exuberance
he felt but rarely showed. The met at Howards on Sunday
afternoon for live music. He was the quiet one and she

was not; each enjoyed that about each other. They met
at the high school production of A Midsummer’s Night Dream,
each there to see the boy who played Puck, who plays no part

in this poem except to note his maddening luck off stage.
They met painting the rock; they still don’t know why.
They met at the Grill over cheeseburgers and onion rings

and bonded over watching the crew bolt over the counter
to chase a nonpayer. All of these happened at the same time.
None of these are true. All of them are true,
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:04:04 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Gen’ll Lee, sir?

Since yur down talkin’ to all
us unimportant folk, I was hopin’
you could consider my mind a bit.

I know yur a smarter man than me –
if I had stronger brains I’m sure
I’d be wearin’ two shoes ‘stead
of just this here sorry one,

but me and a few of da boys
been thinkin’. We been marchin’
here and there a good spell
not knowin’ where we off
to any more than my ass
knows where my feet are headed.

Kinda like we just some big
gray cloud floatin’ here and ther
as the wind sees fit ta push us.
Kinda like those old Jews after
they bucked out of Egypt, started
roamin’ the wilderness. Now,

don’t take this sour, sir. I’m
sure you thank the Almighty
before supper’ but you ain’t
no Moses- so I’m wantin’ ta
know what ya got in store for us.
My ear is yurs, sir…bend it.

Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:07:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Inter-action

I’m putting out my
Purple Adirondack chairs
Candles and twisting lanterns
To a smooth dj pumped over
The late afternoon sunset

It’s someone’s
Birthday over there
Their laughter punctuated
with fake sirens and barbeque
the crowd through the trees
plays horseshoes to
thrumming disco sets

interesting background
to trimming rhododendron
and thinning branches
my dog in her pink neckerchief
multi-colored ball in mouth
doesn’t know what
to do with the juxtaposition

They might be
able to glimpse me past the fence
so I fight the weird impulse
To dance wildly



Denise P.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:08:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
The Fifth Cat

North Cat show her distress
With frequent tail wagging
While West Cat hovers
Three feet above ground
On a cross beam
South Cat, the curious one
Already got a whack on the nose
And cowers
But my tiny East Cat
The slightest one of all
He is in charge
Ostentatiously poses in plain sight
Next to the newcomer
Quietly conveys territory
In peaceful demonstration
This far and no farther
Because this realm is mine
And the fifth cat
After testing its limits
Crawls backwards
With ears flat to its head
And wails
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:15:26 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Thomas Summers: Great poem!
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:19:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Did you return all my books, she asked.
I will, I will most certainly; but why do you ask?
Is it possible for me to return all that you gave me,
It runs into volumes-
Filling my whole existence ?
The distant dreams in those books;
But you gave me chariots of hope,
Pulled by determination,
Reigned in by convictions.
Believe me they still run
On the bumpy roads of reality
Under the downcast sky.
When the dust settles,
I will see the green meadows
Under a clear blue sky
And the streams will sing
The saga of your struggle.
Aliashesh
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:21:28 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Miss Quinte Contrary is darling!
Carole Egler (well put)
Padgett Posey (disturbing, sad, touching, frightening)
Daniel: LOVE your user manual! Shared Quarters is excellent. I read it several times -- so much meaning there.
Jacquelin Tomaschko – Unfortunately way too true. You’ve hit on one of my pet peeves, and described it glaringly
Broken Bird by Lorraine Hart is so dear.
Jessinchina, your few, carefully chosen words touched my heart.
Tanja Cilia, I can see and hear your whale. :)
I just discovered another Mr. Atwater! Your Unchained Conversation gave me the grins this morning!
Hannah, you’re a peach! And thank you for pointing me toward Patricia Hawkenson. Patricia, I love your creative mind and style.
I love Sharon Spielman’s Take it Outside.
SusanB’s Conversation is brilliant.
More greatness from RJ Clarken
S&B Miller, that’s astounding!
Love Mr. Maloney’s Soloist
Vanness Kilmer, you had me at “What-ee!” Darling!


R.M. Atwater, I could sit down with a book of your writing and be content for hours. Thank you for sharing snippets of your life along with your poems. I believe your words will be passed down from generation to generation. There can be no mistaking that you are a true gentleman, poet, and teacher … much like the One you most admire.

Walt, my friend, you obviously feel deeply, and love unconditionally. I don’t need to hear your laughter with my ears, as I see it clearly on the page. I didn’t have to witness your childhood with my eyes, as I can see it clearly in your writing. Bless you.
Marie Elena
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:27:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I tried to post last evening but there was apparently a server crash here. Glad to see everything back up!
Once again I have two for today:

For Jaap

I’m thinking of George Harrison’s
“All Things Must Pass”,
what a good elegy it would be for you.
I never actually heard your voice,
but it came through in unique messages,
little enigmas that were never straightforward,
always making me work a little to decipher,
riddles couched in poetry
that made you sound wise and eloquent.

In our electronic village,
where passion for music is prerequisite,
we all enjoyed your musings,
how you worked your favorite songs
into an eccentric philosophy.
Then we learned this week that,
after a long absence, you had passed on.
The silence was excruciating.

We miss your grace and kindness,
your gentle playfulness, your voice.
Whenever we talk music again,
there will always be a pause,
a gap where you would have said
something significant, cited a song,
and we would have listened.


Susan Boyle

Millions have seen it now –
a frumpy middle-aged Scottish woman
strolls on the stage of a British talent show,
announcing the she will now sing a song
from Les Miserables. Snickers erupt
from the judges and the audience.
Then she opens her mouth –
eyebrows lift and jaws drop.
Her voice is gorgeous,
and the song is enough to bring
one to tears. The audience,
who were rolling their eyes and laughing
less than five minutes ago,
are on their feet, a standing ovation.
The judges give her perfect marks.
Now she’s been interviewed
from around the world, and will have
her pick of recording contracts.
We should never presume
the contents from the package.




Bruce Niedt
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:28:11 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Carla Occaso, I forgot to mention yours. Excellent.

As usual, I don't have nearly enough time in my day to read all these incredible works of art. Doggone responsibilities anyhow!
Marie Elena
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:30:09 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
"We should never presume the contents from the package." Amen, Bruce Niedt.
Marie Elena
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:38:12 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
“Tell me”

The rose-colored sequined cloth beckoned me
closer as it called my name.
“Hello my dear, have a seat,” her gravelly voice murmured.
“Shuffle the deck, choose 5 cards, and
make a wish,” the Madame’s eyes challenged.
I obey, and look up.
“Well, my dear, this card is
interesting. The King of Wands. A new
relationship with a charming, generous young
man is coming your way. Well, well.
Look at this next one, it symbolizes
communication. This young man will
call you, and ask for your assistance
with something you both enjoy. Oh,
this next card, The Star. You have a
certain good luck streak about you, my dear,
something that will follow you for
the rest of your life. Someone, perhaps a
lost loved one, is watching over you.
The Seven of Wands—see this? Things
are moving too quickly right now, you need
to slow down and concentrate, think before
making decisions. Finally, my dear, you
have The Tower. You are about to face
unexpected, sudden change with your existing
way of life. Be prepared, but remember to
slow down and think about it.”
Her aged slate eyes lock with my naïve emerald ones,
and in that moment
I knew she had told me what lay in my cards.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:38:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
We can't do this,

We can't be alone,

It was all different,

When it was just the phone.



But this face to face,

Isn't working at all,

It feels so good,

But it's all wrong.



We aren't supposed to be here,

We weren't supposed to fall,

How could we have known,

It started so small.


But just one bite,

And we ate the whole thing,

The bittersweet taste,

Of you and me.

Sunday, April 19, 2009 1:58:03 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
I know this doesn't make the interaction deadline but I tried to post this around midnight when the site was acting tweaky just wanted to put in my last two scents.

I WAS IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD
By: Hannah Bowles

I knew it would be a surprise
he never expected me to walk
through the door. Just thought
it would be one more of the many
customers. I craved that moment
when our eyes would meet and the
recognition and light would come
to his eyes like it would with no
other. For I am his lover, his bride
to be, the mother of his son and his
best friend. I swing open the door to
the tattoo studio and the smell of green
soap fills my nose, man I miss the days
when life was care free and I could hang
out for hours, watch my man tattoo and
sometimes I would get work done. But
now times are different, we have offspring
and commitments. I stay home and write,
while he inks through the night. Can't
complain its good money and he's my one
and only honey. Has been since the day we
met, high school sweet-hearts and eleven
years later, on this day when I make an
unexpected visit, our eyes unite, and it's
like the first time our eyes met only better,
cause now the storms of life we’ve weathered.
Hannah Bowles
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:00:17 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Man and the Forest

The forest stands so majestic until man enters there
Masters of the bush land with no time to spare
Companies hire lumberjacks, their job is to fall
The trees of the forest so straight and so tall
Fall, limb and top them skid them to landing then buck
In sixteen feet, lengths, then load these on a truck
Haul logs to a sawmill make lumber for to sell
Chips and the shorter ones used for paper mill
Man has caused the interaction I am sorry to say
By destroying our forest, jobs are lost each day
Nature has it’s own way of dealing with man
So preserve our forest leaving some timber stand


Raymond Alberts
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:00:47 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Just checking to make sure the blog is accepting comments again. Sorry if this was acting up yesterday.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:06:32 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
CINEMATIC INTERACTION

Fade in.
Lights up.
They stare across the breakfast table
over cereal bowls and coffee mugs.
They find themselves locked in a dance
of please pass the sweetener
and nightly television show self hypnosis
before falling asleep in reclining chairs.
Back to back they read books in bed
with their own individual booklights,
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, good night.”
Lights out.
Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:08:16 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
Genetics


“He begged me to marry him,” I heard my daughter sob.

“But he has no money and he has no job!”

“But he loves me Father, and I love him too!”

And that will buy you what? His promise to be true?”

“You don’t understand Dad; he means the world to me!”

“And that would be enough if they gave you food for free!
I’m looking out for you dear, as cruel as it may seem;
I know that life costs money and you can’t live on a dream.

“It’s more than just a dream Dad; the love we have is real,
But you could never comprehend just how he makes me feel.”

“Now wait a minute darling, you know your mom and I,
We were also young once and heard your passion’s cry.
Both just out of high school, a lot like you and James,
No prospects for our futures, no pennies to our names.”

“Then why the strong resistance? Your lives turned out quite well –
A house, three cars, two children, a timeshare in Carmel.”

“It took a ton of sacrifice; I cannot overstress.
So many times that earnest love was challenged by a test.
It takes a strength of character, a tough, persistent will.”

“And knowing I’m your daughter, that need I can fulfill.”

Sunday, April 19, 2009 2:09:55 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)
A Complicated Relationship

Laurel & Hardy
Martin & Lewis
Larry & Moe
& Curly

Wally & The Beaver
Wilbur & Mr. Ed
Rocky & Bullwinkle

Boris & Natasha
Gomez & Morticia
Ricky & Lucy

Liz & Nicky
Liz & Michael
Liz & Mike
Liz & Eddie
Liz & Richard
Liz & Richard II
Liz & John
&
Liz & Larry

Liz & MJ
MJ & Priscilla
MJ & The Glove

OJ & The Glove
OJ & The Jury
OJ & The Jury II
OJ & The Jail Cell

Tom & Jerry
Heckle & Jeckle
Mickey & Minnie
Buggs & Fudd

NBC & CBS
& ABC

Emerson & Zenith
GE