Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer - Poetry Challenge 2008

Interview With 2008 Poetic Asides Poet Laureate Sara Diane Doyle

Mon, 30 Mar 2009 14:21:27 GMT

Quick note: I plan on sharing the complete rules, how-to's, advice, etc., on the 2009 April PAD Challenge tomorrow right here on the blog. There's no special registration required--so just check back in tomorrow to get the full scoop on what's expected.

*****

Okay, so one of the cool things about the 2008 April PAD Challenge is that I was able to select a Poetic Asides Poet Laureate. It was a tough decision last year, but Sara Diane Doyle shared some truly great poems through the month. See the announcement (and read some of here April poems) by clicking here.

She even shared a new poetic form with the group after the challenge was over called The Roundabout. You can check out that poetic form by clicking here.

Anyway, she recently let me interview her to see what she's been up to and to share advice with poets new to the April PAD Challenge.

*****

What've you been up to since being named the 2008 April PAD Challenge Poet Laureate?

You mean besides enjoying life in Colorado? Well, I've spent the last year mentoring teen writers, including challenging them with a 12-week poetry project last fall. In November, I wrote a novel with National Novel Writing Month. As of January, I've been focusing on submitting my work, both poetry and prose, to markets.

Who (or what) have you been reading recently?

In 2008, I read 100 books, so I had the chance to read a lot of great writers, including: N.M. Kelby, C.S. Lewis, Alice Hoffman, Madeleine L'Engle, Jane Austen, Garth Nix, and Billy Collins. This year, I'm taking it easier. My current favorites are Jim Butcher's Dresden Files, and my favorite poetry collection of the last few months is Billy Collins' Ballistics. Much of my reading time goes to reading the writings of the teenagers on the forum where I mentor.

How did you manage to write so many good poems throughout the month of April last year?

I don't have a secret recipe, if that's what you're asking! But I know that the more I'm thinking about poetry, the more I'm reading it and writing it, the better I seem to get. So being able to read the poems others were posting helped--it kept spurring me on to better poetry! Also, having the prompts helped a lot. Normally, I have one good poem every so often, largely because I wait to be hit with a great idea. But having a starting point helped get those ideas going. I also tried my hardest to find a different angle on the prompt each day. For example, on day one, when the prompt was to write about "firsts," I saw many poems about first love, first kiss, first child, etc. So I said to myself, "what is a first no one else has written about yet?" That's how I came up with the idea to write about the first time I donated blood. I love to find the tiny, hidden subjects. And if it makes anyone feel better, I had some real clunkers last year--they STILL make me cringe when I read them. So don't try to write 30 amazing poems, write 30 good poems and some of them will be amazing.

Any big plans or goals for 2009?

My goal this year is to get published. So I'm sending out submissions of both poetry and short stories on a regular basis. I'd also like to finish my current novel. And maybe learn another language. I like to have fun goals, and some that I know I can reach with a little effort. Unreachable goals aren't helpful at all.

What's the best piece of advice you've ever been given? And by who?

There are two that vie for first place. The first was "celebrate rejection." My high school creative writing teacher, Mrs. Warner, made this a huge part of our class--she threw a party for the first rejection slip, and really taught me how to embrace the more negative part of the writing life. Rejection is part of the writing business, and if you can't deal with it, or if you take it too personally, it's going to kill you. So I celebrate every rejection I earn--earning a rejection means I'm putting my work out there, and that's how I will get published.

The second is from one of my favorite authors, Jodi Picoult. Her advice: "You can't edit a blank page." That statement has gotten me writing more times than not. A blank page can be intimidating, and I know how easy it is to give into the white space. Sometimes, we are afraid for writing crap, afraid of what will come out, afraid it will be true, etc. But we can't do anything with that fear. We can't edit it, we can't cut out the bad parts, we can't make it better. But if we are willing to write, to fill the blank page, then we can move forward. Most writers aren't brilliant in the first draft. We all have to just get the words down. Once we've done that, it's much easier to make things better!

Do you have any advice for the poets who are entering the 2009 April PAD Challenge?

Yes! Get up and read the prompt early each day. Get it into your head. Then take some time to see it from all sides before you write. Some days, an idea will jump out right away, but some days it might take until nine at night. Don't be afraid to let the idea brew for a while! Pull out all the old tools you were taught in grade school: alliteration, meter, imagery, similes, metaphors, symbolism. Put them to good use. Try some new forms, even if the prompt doesn't call for it. I often use www.shadowpoetry.com as a resource, they list all sorts of poetic forms.

Then, just write. Get it out. Remember, you can edit it later.

And most of all, have fun! I had a blast last year, and I'm looking forward to this year's prompts. Let your friends and family know what you are doing, let them read some of your work. Be excited about poetry!

AWP Update & More!

Sun, 15 Feb 2009 13:46:36 GMT

Grisel Y. Acosta has shared some more of her experience at AWP in Chicago: http://writetoright.blogspot.com/2009/02/awp-or-zombie-fest.html

Looks like there was plenty of room for surprises at the event.

*****

Also, I see that the Poetic Asides Chapbook Champion, Shann Palmer, has self-published and is selling copies of her winning chapbook: "Change." If you want to check it out, go to: http://shannpalmer.blogspot.com/2009/02/buy-my-change-chapbook.html

I'm sure Shann would appreciate your support!

NaNoWriMo for Poets? PAD Challenge for November?

Fri, 24 Oct 2008 16:22:10 GMT

Okay, we're getting closer to November, which for some writers of fiction means it's getting closer to NaNoWriMo time. (Btw, NaNoWriMo translates into National Novel Writing Month.) There are would be novelists lining up to attempt writing 50,000 words or more during the month of November. There's even a NaNoWriMo website you can visit to check out this phenomenon at www.nanowrimo.org.

Anyway, that's all fine and good for those who write fiction. But what are the poets who don't write fiction supposed to do during November? After all, their fiction writing pals are all busy cramming 50,000 words into their laptops and hard drives.

I'm thinking it might be a neat idea to try writing a poem a day in November with the view of trying to have the makings of a chapbook heading into December. If there's enough interest, I would challenge myself and others to write a poem-a-day (as we did in April). I'll provide a prompt-a-day as well to try and help get the poetic juices flowing each day, but you can decide to follow or ignore the prompt as you see fit. After all, our main goal would be to have 30ish poems at the end of the month that you can then try turning into a chapbook submission (or heck, I guess you could self-publish, if that's the route you want to take).

I can tell you now that I won't have the time to highlight poems (as I did in April). But if there's enough interest, I will definitely work to do the prompt and poem each day. So, if you're interested in taking part in such a challenge with me, please let me know in the comments below this post.

Exclusive Interview With Poet Joseph Mills

Mon, 23 Jun 2008 18:10:47 GMT

A-ha! Here’s an interview with a poet who participated in the April PAD Challenge and wrote his first ever sestina as a result. As Joseph Mills, author of Angels, Thieves, and Winemakers (Press 53, 2008), comments, “It was smart of you (meaning me, of course) to put that towards the end since by then we were invested in finishing.”

In recent years, Mills has published two collections of poetry through Press 53; the other collection is Somewhere During the Spin Cycle (2006). With his wife, Mills has also put together two editions of A Guide to North Carolina’s Wineries (John F. Blair, 2007). It seems only natural that Mills’ knowledge of wine-making and poetry would create its own poetic blend.

Here’s a favorite poem of mine from Angels, Thieves, and Winemakers and originally published in North Carolina Literary Review:

“Aging”

To speak of a wine’s future

is to speak of our own desires,

how we hope as we age

that we’ll become more

harmonious, less acidic,

that our tannins will mellow.

We recognize right now

we have a burst of flavor,

an energy, a liveliness,

but also a harshness

which later may soften

until we’re more balanced,

more approachable,

easier to appreciate.

Hold onto us;

we believe

we’ll get better.

What are you currently up to?

At the moment, I’m working on a novel set in “Carolina Wine Country” and a young adult novel that deals with the nature of time. I’m also drafting a sequence of poems about my mother’s dementia and other work for my third poetry collection tentatively entitled “Love and Other Collisions.”

So, what led to an entire collection of poems about wine?

In the last half dozen years, my wife and I researched and wrote two editions of A Guide to North Carolina’s Wineries. As we traveled the state, talking to winemakers and winery owners, I found myself with material that wasn’t appropriate for the guidebook, but that I was interested in exploring and using. I wrote a few poems dealing with wine, and they appeared in my first collection of poetry, Somewhere During the Spin Cycle. The wine poems kept coming, and once I had more than a dozen I realized that there would be enough for a collection, and that this would give the volume a nice coherence. Eventually I wrote well over a hundred and then culled the best.

Do you think of yourself as writing for poets who enjoy wine or for wine lovers who enjoy poetry?

For the guidebook, I had a clear audience in mind--people interested in touring or at least learning about the state’s wineries. It’s nonfiction with a straight-forward purpose. For poetry, however, I never think of an actual audience. I write for myself. I work on a poem, and I try to shape it as best as I can. Sometimes I’m not satisfied with it, and I shelve it. Sometimes I’m satisfied enough to consider sending it out for publication which is a way of both inspiring me to work on it more and, once it’s sent, having it out of my sight for a while. Even with publication in mind, however, I don’t imagine an audience, someone actually reading it. I learned a long time ago that when you publish poetry, you shouldn’t expect any kind of response. If you do, you might be waiting a long time.

I hope the book appeals to more people than a Venn diagram middle of poetry lovers and wine lovers. In fact, maybe it will get people more involved in both. My brother, who is a teetotaler, has told me that the poems make him want to drink wine, and my wife likes to say that it’s “poetry for people who think they don’t like poetry.”

In your collection, you use specialized terms, such as "thief" and "angel's share." Do you feel jargon helps the writing process?

I love the specialized language of a field when it is in some way metaphorical. For example, the “angel’s share” refers to the evaporation in the barrels. I find this thought-provoking as opposed to technical language like “thirty inch cartridge filter housing.” I’m interested in the language that’s evocative rather than intimidating or limiting.

Jargon can sound pompous and it can obscure, but the specialized vocabulary of almost any field can be fun. On a film set, when you “cheat” something, you’ve set up an unnatural relationship, moving things too close together, so that it will come out on the film looking right. I find the term fascinating. In music, there’s a chord called “the devil’s interval” which is a terrific phrase.

Religion seems twisted into the wine. Do you find that writing about both religion and wine is a natural?

Because of the nature of grape-growing--the seasonal cycle of pruning and rebirth in the vineyard--and the way wine involves a transformation of grapes, even people who aren’t religious tend to use spiritual language to talk about it. Since what I love about wine are the stories, and historically wine has been an element in so many religions, it’s probably inevitable that I would write about the relationship at least a little.

Who are your favorite poets?

I love the work of John Ciardi, James Wright, and Philip Levine. Billy Collins consistently delights. There are poems by W.H. Auden, Margaret Atwood, Elizabeth Bishop, Randall Jarrell and Gary Snyder that I have returned to dozens of times over the years. I’m a fan of “The Writer’s Almanac” because I like reading just a poem at a time, integrating it as part of the day, and having its selection be a surprise. (It’s why I like the shuffle feature of my iPod.)

What are your favorite wines?

The ones I drink with my wife and with family and friends. The joke in our household is that we only “cellar” wines that we don’t like. If we like it, we drink it. The second part of the joke is that there are only two bottles in the cellar.

One piece of advice for other poets: What is it?

Consider it a life’s work. After twenty years, I’m finally writing poems that I think reward attention. I hope in the next twenty years, I’ll learn to write poems that hold up. And in the twenty years after that…

You write a little bit at a time, consistently, and it adds up, and the work improves. I’ve often had the experience of discovering a way to finally revise a poem that for years hasn’t been quite right or how to use a few lines or ideas that I have squirreled away long ago.

Finally, you're stranded on a deserted island and can only have 3 things with you: What are they and why?

My wife. She’s the only person I know that whenever we leave each other, I immediately want to call her up and see when we can meet. Plus it would finally be a chance for us to have an island vacation together. I would take our two kids, but they would probably get bored, so how about my iPod with a solar charger. It not only has thousands of songs, but also audio books and lectures on subjects that interest me, such as Mark Twain and the Civil War. I also would want a writing utensil that would work until we were rescued and something to write on. Wait, that’s two, isn’t it. Can we consider “a writing package” one item? How about an incredibly durable solar powered laptop? But, then I wouldn’t need the iPod, so what about a guitar with indestructible strings? That’s it: wife, laptop, guitar.

*****

For more on Joseph Mills, check out his Web site at http://www.josephrobertmills.com/.

Here are some of his poems available online from New Works Review:

* "The Thief"

* "Release"

*****

If you're a poet or publisher interested in an interview on the Poetic Asides blog, read more here.

Day 22 Highlights

Mon, 23 Jun 2008 15:17:21 GMT

On Earth Day, I asked poets to write either a poem about nature or industry; many poets chose to write about both. Here are the ones that caught my eye.

*****

A Haze over Holland

A haze over Holland

looks yellow and gray.

It comes from machines

of this modern day.

Those noisy leaf blowers,

plus busses and trains;

They all make their noises

and spew smoke like rain.

The brooks that are babbling

speak to no ear.

And the whispering winds

we no longer hear.

Loud honking geese

fly unnoticed, it’s true.

Long gone is the quiet

creation once knew.

So out to the country,

a day trip, I’ll take.

I’ll bask in the sunshine

where life’s not so fake.

I’ll listen to bird calls;

hear rustling leaves.

From the haze over Holland,

I’ll have my reprieve.

Sue Bench |hd_ultra_96AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

"Rantings of City-Folk"

I care about the Earth

and all that is in it

I really do realize

our only home is this planet

But out lives are much easier

with modern convenience

Technology improved

from the way we lived once

No longer a candle

or oil it need be

A flick of a switch

for incandescence to see

Forget the horse and buggy

or a ship to sail by

Cars go much faster

and planes let us fly

If you truly miss me

a phone is all you need

Better than waiting days on end

for a letter to read

I know the air is harsh

and the water is muck

And we do so much worse

just to save a buck

But I rather like living

in my city today

And I really wouldn't have it

any other way

Chris Granholm Jr. |chris7baAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Oasis

Western Texas is a desert

so I shouldn't have been surprised

to see a herd of seven camels

in a field near the highway.

But I had only seen camels

in the zoo and at a live nativity.

I held the image close to me

on the long drive home

with the broken A/C

and the fuel tanker overturned

on the interstate, blocking all lanes.

We, and about a thousand other cars,

took the back roads, clogged them

with our impatience, traffic crawling.

Staff members from the nursing home

next to the road ferried out

cups of water to passengers

mired in sweat and road grit.

As the cool liquid passed my lips,

I thought of camels, seven of them,

their field impossibly green.

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

"Earth Day ‘08"

On the very first Earth Day

my first college girlfriend and I

helped plant trees on the campus.

We were naïve enough to believe

that putting a few saplings in the ground

would help save the planet.

We didn’t do enough – big enough,

hard enough, soon enough.

Now the future is a gamble,

but everyone is going green

because it’s very chic

and a hot-button business.

I did my part today –

walked to the supermarket

instead of taking the hybrid,

but forgot my reusable canvas bags.

Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net

*****

Desert Seagull

Swirling hawk over man-made lake

Seagull of the desert

Dipping and diving

Looking for a single tasty fish

Ever vigilant in his watch

He is master of his domain

Water, land and sky

Satisfied to be soaring now

Looking for just one

Day’s worth of sustenance

Content to live only for today

And let tomorrow take care of itself

Tonya Root |booklet dot geoAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Where is the Nature

Not in the lilacs beginning to bud

nor in those three rose tulips--

not in the leaves of the Japanese maple

beginning to unpleat themselves

like small hands made of feathers--

not in the plum blossoms that litter the ground

like yesterday's leftover snow--

not even in the ravine

where moss climbs the tree trunks

in shadows and paves the road a brilliant green.

You'll find no wildness here, unless

you can spot the possums, raccoons--

unless you can see the belly of the coyote

who comes out only at night.

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

*****

So easy

To get spooked on the lake,

Where deep water meets the bank,

Not near the houses with their sand beaches

Sloping into clear water where matted weeds

Support the squawky little birds that like

To walk on them, not there, but in the brown murky

Water near Leu Gardens where thick ogre fingers reach up

To rake the bottom of the canoe. And when

I look down, their ragged sleeves of moss

Give them so much life that I flinch,

Even knowing they are only

Dead tree branches.

Lyn Sedwick |LASMD925AT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Nature's Kaleidoscope

Butterflies, ladybugs, bumblebees,

Lend color to the sky like a kaleidoscope.

Hush and hear the hummingbird

Adding his melody to the evening sounds.

Soon the sky will be filled with the twinkle

Of fireflies flitting about.

Living creations on a miniature scale

Painting a moving canvas if we but pause to observe.

Dragonflies, moths, and cicadas too

Wear their camouflage to blend in.

As they move the patterns change

Never the same view but always beautiful.

Iris Deurmyer |mfumcyouthAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net

*****

Naming

"and then awakening naked

to be tattooed by the rivers"

---Pablo Neruda

Rivers all leave their mark

as easily as ink---

your pink flesh stamped

blue-green forever,

colors shifting in the sunlight

turning muddy brown

when your mind

is troubled with grief.

The pain of the rivers' needle

will never fade. Each prick,

10,000 tiny stabs, will all

prove unique, seperate pains

& while you lay beneath the stars

rubbing the place they claimed,

the rivers will call to you

& you will remember their many names.

Justin Evans |evjustinAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

As I drive

rays of sunlight

seep through

gray, indifferent clouds.

Soothed by

my passenger's Jamaican lilt

I ask,

where are you from.

St. Mary's.

It's a lil country town.

It's quiet.

No chasing after

ten o'clock.

There

you wonder

where it is.

I dream of

sitting on sandy shores

as blue see-through water

laps at my toes,

with a plate of

green bananas

and callaloo

balanced on my knees.

Will you ever go back home

to live,

I ask.

No, he says.

We all say

we will

but we don't.

I suddenly close

the windows

as smoky air

leaks in.

I clear my throat

trying to expel

the odor

of progress.

Carla Cherry |cmcmagiconeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Chance Encounter

They were there as we rounded the bend

on the highway, myself not driving so I

had the chance to glimpse them for a

second and turn my head to the right

And the wonder I never quite got

over from seeing their delicate brown

bodies suddenly dart across my vision

filled me with amazement and fueled

my every breath as if watching them

were powering my soul.

Nibbling on the tender grass shoots

their heads down and close to the

earth I felt an intruder in their world.

Heedless of the speeding cars passing

them they dined on their favorite dish.

Dozens crowded the two spaces gathering

together from their hiding places during

the day to appear at twilight as if in a

dream holding still like a Seurrat painting.

Their eyes weren't visible from the road, but

I remembered close up eyes innocent and

startled staring at me in horror from past

encounters and prayed no eager young fawn

would venture too far off the grass into the

incoming traffic. Nature needs a boundary

to survive these days.

Barbara Ehrentreu |lionmotherAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

SPICE RACK

These days, my clean mugs and dinner plates

spend their drying time in a chrome dish drainer

that glints with pride at its airy and streamlined efficiency,

and where my belts once flopped over the rod,

now they hang, subdued,

on a maple rack near the lightswitch.

There’s a silver basket for soap

stuck with suction cups

to the back corner of the shower,

it is so easy to get clean,

and I’ve wound the hose into respectable coils

on a keeper by the spigot out back.

Little by little, I’m replacing the clunky

ordinariness you left with good design a lá Target.

I can find the paring knife, my spices are all in a rack

and there’s no one home to cook for.

Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu

*****

Nature

I stepped outside

into a spring

so alive

I could feel

my pupils shrink.

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Spring in the Fred Meyer Parking Lot

So what if the keys are locked in the car,

it’s warm sitting on the hood in the spring sun

and the cherry trees are blossoming, pink popcorn

petals waft by in the breeze, scattered like confetti

on the sidewalk.

The smell of fried chicken permeates

the air, a crow flies by with a French fry

in it’s beak, dusky sparrows peck at weeds

coming up through the pavement, the AAA man

arrives but we are in no hurry.

Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

A Cold Spring

Every year it’s a scheduled surprise

How fast the buds take their leaf shape

From tiny nub to eager crumpling

Of green ready to photosynthesize.

Too fast, as it turns out, this time-

After a cold winter, a colder spring

(It seems)-the pummeling breeze

Snaps the seedlings at their tethers,

The sparrows pretending to be plump,

But only full of frosty air and feathers,

And the pale leaflets hang from meager

Branches while the tiny ice balls

Flail and fall.

Hope Greene |hopeAT NOSPAMhopegreene dot com

Day 21 Highlights

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 12:53:34 GMT

That's right! I have not forgotten there are still 10 days of highlights left from the April PAD Challenge--well, actually, 9 days after this one. :)

For Day 21, I asked poets to write a "snooping" poem where they take some overheard conversation and work into a poem. Here are the highlights.

*****

Listening to Life

As I passed by the

corner booth in the

all-night diner I heard

the girl say "be sure to

be on time" and he said

"I will be but you be sure

to have the bathtub filled

with spaghetti" and for the

first time in my life I realized

that adventures I didn't understand

were going on all around me.

Alfred J Bruey |ajbrueyAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

The Properties of Imaginary Space

Balloons in pink and green

rest still by the fronds of time

the emergent behavior of aliens

is not that of predation

in the constrained dynamics

of the way things are.

But the conversation moves on

and those in its wake

blink and wonder

when the coffee will be drunk

and whether the square root

of negative one is of any consequence

to the niche we fill.

Beth Browne |womenswritesAT NOSPAMinbox dot com

*****

Quien sabe?

Who knows?

I pick up a bit here

a bit there

(Isn't that what Tonto said

just about every week

to the Lone Ranger?)

what else did she say?

Quien sabe?

Poco a poco

Little by little

living in Mexico

has gotten through my

stiff United States

psyche so I can

be happy

poco a poco.

Ni modo.

No dice

it translates in my

Spanish English

English Spanish

dictionary

but what they mean is:

oh well

that's how it is

ni modo

Poco a poco

we pack to leave

Quien sabe

when we shall return

Ni modo

this not knowing.

Kimberly K |kekinserAT NOSPAMmac dot com

*****

What a Week

Don’t they think we know anything?

These kids say four-twenty like it’s

Some secret code known only to Gen-Y.

The snickers they think go undetected

Don’t.

Why, I haven’t gone to work on four-

Twenty since Columbine; I haven’t flown

Since before nine-eleven,

Since Katie was born.

They may find amusement in that

Holiday that Hallmark forgot,

National Pot Smoking Day,

But those of us who catalog

These things think of

Hitler’s birthday, Waco,

Columbine. Knowing the eerie

Play of anniversaries, we hold

Our breaths—

At least one day until Earth Day arrives.

When our world goes green,

We don’t plan to dry it and

Keep it in a Ziploc.

Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

*****

The Pope's in Town

"Where are my papers?"

asked the lady with the wild eyes

who came to court with a sitting stool

to make sure her son, his many voices

making chaos in his head, gets a fair hearing.

But it's never fair,

not for her golden-hair boy,

held at Rikers for brandishing a knife

at a Starbucks in Midtown;

not for her,

and the class she'll almost certainly fail

because she can't keep her notes straight,

or finish the tests,

or keep track of papers.

Nor is it fair, during this glorious

springtime in Manhattan,

(did you hear the Pope was in town?)

the magnolia trees blooming on Fifth Avenue,

the crowds wildly waving flags

for the man in white,

who has a surprising look of delight

on his stern face,

that she must go home without her son.

"Where are my papers?" she asks the lawyer,

who tries to be patient,

knowing she can't save her son, nor can he.

ann malaspina

*****

Overheard Conversation/Mom and My Brother

“Did you try to see him?” I heard her ask,

and I think she was nervous. “Once. He

chased me away with a shotgun. Told me to

get off his property.” I’d heard them talk before

about my brother’s real father, not the name

on the birth certificate, but the husband

of her sister. They were divorced now, and

he lived on a small patch of land in a small

trailer. “Did he know who you were?” I don’t

know if they even remembered I was in the

back seat. “Yeah. I told him. He didn’t care.”

I sat in silence, like I had so many times as

a kid. “Well, you tried.” But here I was, an

adult and still sitting on the outside, “Yeah.

I tried at least. All I can do,” listening in.

Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Behind the Register

Lines form at all the cashiers.

Naturally my friend and I

Pick the wrong one

We’re next but the young cashier

Is busy flirting with the male cashier

To her right

The merchandise sits on the

Counter like a purchase mistake

That no one wants

“Ooh, I just got a paper cut.

Do you think it’s going to bleed?”

She asks the male,

Batting her eyelashes. Her nails are

Bent over the tops of her fingers

Like my dog’s claws

“Well, they don’t always bleed,”

He says. She lifts the afflicted finger

In the air and

Bravely rings up our purchase

All the while pushing at the

Cut. “Oh I know

It’s going to bleed and I hate

Blood. “If it bleeds,” he says,

“You can leave early.”

She smiles and deftly places the aging

Item in a bag, staples the receipt, and

Hopes for blood.

Sara McNulty |smcnultyAT NOSPAMsi dot rr dot com

*****

“Hon, have a dime?’

She hiked up sagging hose,

pink lines snaking up brown arms,

and as she bent over

her skirt bunched in the back

and her mouth split open

into a snaggled-tooth grin

and a crooked cackle that floated

over the low roar of vendors

hawking, “turkey wings

two bucks each” and “get your

dry roasteds here.” The man,

austere in grey pinstripes,

black wingtips, and a frown,

stepped ‘round her cairns

of blue plastic and brown paper

and rolling malt empties,

shaking his head with a “no money,

sorry”, fingering his back pocket

as he stood in line for a Mary

Mervis roast beef special.

Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Coming Together

Gleeful Guy starts gathering them around.

“Com ‘ere, come ‘ere, come ‘ere…”

“See how comfortable these chairs are

when you *first* sit in them?”

He spins, leans back,

gleaming at the gathering cubical lemmings.

“Are you kidding?”

a nerdy lemming responds

bumping Gleeful Guy aside

to maniacally type away.

“Check out this video of a pole dancing class

that ends in a chick fight!”

“I’ve got one now,”

says the Blonde, sliding between them,

easily taking over. Then she

frowns, stares, sighs.

“Okay; that’s impossible.”

“Did you forget something…again?”

Pole Dancing Guy, dripping with sarcasm.

“She’s just twitterpated,” Gleeful Guy jumps in

thinking he’s chivalrous.

“Poor thing,” Disdainful Dame says

watching,

arms folded,

entranced by the whole thing anyway.

“Where is everybody?” the Boss’s voice rings out.

“I got an urgent message.”

Workers scatter like cockroaches,

caught

under sudden, harsh,

unexpected light,

while a distant voice says

“What do you mean you’re going on vacation?”

Rox |babayagaAT NOSPAMbaymoon dot com

*****

Did something crawl into you too

You watch

The bird

On the wind

Soaring

High above the world

Looking down

On the ones it passed

On it’s way up.

You see the butterfly

Emerging from it cocoon

And taking flight

And the caterpillar

Crawling into its nest

Of silken fibers

Ready for its transformation

And you see the worm

Chewing its way

Into the heart

Of the peach

Hiding, destroying, corrupting

And you

You are that worm

Or did something

Crawl into you too?

Anahbird |anahbirdAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

You’re Not My Friend Anymore

The good morning song

is interrupted by fatal words

proclaiming the dissolution

of friendship between

one five year old and another.

In Kindergarten, solidarity

is a tenuous proposition

hinging on simple acts:

the reclaiming of an offered toy

a decline to share fruit roll ups

or the choice to sit next to

someone else.

Renee Goularte |share2learnAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net

*****

Why Can’t I

But, why can’t I stay home with dad

“Because I said No”

I promise not to drive him mad

I don’t want to go

Grandma’s so boring

Besides, when she gets mad

she starts ignoring

Why can’t I stay home with dad

He’s more fun

I promise not to be bad

anyway, I’m not the only one

Dora, Misery and Wojo

get on his nerves

I don’t want to go

If I promise to be good

I’ll bet if you ask him he would

Go ask him, betcha’ he’ll say yes

I won’t just be good, I’ll be the very best . . .

©Rodney C. Walmer 4/22/08

Rodney C. Walmer |wasitchuAT NOSPAMoptonline dot net

*****

“We’ll have some kind of opening something. Something will happen.”

Something doesn’t tell me anything.

Something could be one thing or nothing.

The world is full of somethings.

But please give me something, anything.

Everything is a something.

And something could be anything.

So please give me something that’s not anything.

And I’ll be able to figure out what the heck that something is.

It could be everything.

Something will happen?

I know something will happen!

But that something could be anything.

That something is everything.

If that something is nothing, that’s something.

I need to know if that something will be nothing.

I need to know if that something will be one thing or another thing.

I need to know if that something could be everything.

KP |kerritothepointAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

HAWAIIAN EARRING

He spends his days developing

theories of of geometic topology, his nights

playing video poker and occaisionally

his wife coaxes him to step

out of the darkness to pour wine for guests

he won’t look directly in the eye.

“I’d do that,” he says of walking

the length of the Appalachian trail,

not to prove himself against the distance

or immerse himself in wildness, but

for the routine, to get up each morning

knowing you will walk thirty miles,

the only way is forward.

Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu

*****

My trip to Phoenix was a disaster

I got this present for you in Sedona

This little bead of a bone cat that sleeps

Trimmed in rough polymer paint

With whiskers of black and cheeks of peach

a little old 96 year old woman makes these.

You can do with it what ever you want

I just used the string to get it to you

My daughter was mean

Said I was repeating myself

Said I couldn’t watch her children

I’m not trustworthy

I finally told her

“Bite me”

Barbara Torke |sparkyspiderAT NOSPAMkaycee dot net

*****

mystery prize

we are being

led on a leash

all the way

to the back

of our cracker-

jack mailboxes

sniffing through

the sweet

and finding

it's just nuts

we are waiting

for the check

that balances

out distress; the economy

has gone

broke or broken

this supposed

free money, dangled

hopes and paper

above the masses

"is it the key

to controlling

all of mankind?"

we are fish

bound to find

the hook, wormless

the price

of lives and gas

is a series:

games greater

than equal-to

and less-than signs

let us wait

patient as dominoes

for the finger

to tip us right

over

k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

OVERHEARD CONVERSATION

Normally I'm not a nosy person,

but sometimes I can't help but snoop.

The other day I couldn't resist,

listening in on your private conversation.

You were telling your friend about,

how you're cheating behind my back.

I even heard you laughing because,

you believed I would never find out.

You may think that you're very clever,

but here real soon you will realize,

how a scorned woman gets revenge.

Darla Smith |writer_darlaAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Symphony

“I want a piece of quiet,”

you order, just like you order

a turkey sandwich on rye.

So I’ll try to pull out

the piece of quiet, right next

to the slice of serenity.

But my body resists the lock

of stillness—my toes tap,

my fingers drum, I click my pen

in time with the music

I hear in my head.

When you look up, I freeze,

waiting for another reprimand.

But you smile and wink,

“Oh, I love the sound of you.”

Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

'Cause Here's the Thing

All you have to do is look interested

I'll babble on about things that might

seem uninteresting to you,

And I'll be completely oblivious.

'Cause here's the thing,

Nobody's more interesting than me

I'm in to everything you're not.

I'll interrupt interesting conversations

you're having with someone else

'Cause here's the thing,

I never learned social grace

I was too wrapped up in myself

to notice there are rules

Social rules that one learns by doing

'cept I never do it, so don't blame me

'Cause here's the thing,

You'll only know me for a short while,

And in that time some nugget of wisdom

or truth may sneak out of my mouth

It might take you a while to figure out

'Cause here's the thing,

Something I say will stick in your head

And as you roll it around in there, a

light bulb will come on

And you'll actually learn something from

the experience

Justin M. Howe |howefitzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

April PAD Challenge: Awards Ceremony

Wed, 21 May 2008 15:27:08 GMT

It's been 3 weeks since the end of the April PAD Challenge. I hope everyone's continued writing regularly since the end--even if that only means a poem or two per week. After all, that's part of the challenge, I think, is turning writing into a regular (or, at the very least, semi-regular) routine. Based off the participation in the Wednesday Poetry Prompts, I'd say many of you are still keeping at it.

The challenge involved more than 400 poets who posted at least one poem during the month and more than 4,000 total poems. My current records show that more than 120 poets actually completed the April PAD Challenge through the blog. Anyone who thinks poetry is dead should not visit Poetic Asides during the month of April, because they'll experience severe culture shock. And for that, I thank all of you.

So anyway, I named the 2008 Poetic Asides Poet Laureate earlier this morning: Sara Diane Doyle. To see the official announcement and read some of the poems she posted to the site, just click here.

In addition to the 2008 Poetic Asides Poet Laureate, though, there are a few other special mentions I would like to make.

The Most Prolific Poet Award is actually a tie between Rodney C. Walmer and Iain D. Kemp. The two actually seemed to have become friends during the month, swapping poems and music. I'm not sure who posted more poems (I can't count that high), but they both surely surpassed 100 poems each.

The Poet Most Likely to Write About a Comic Supervillain Award goes to Kateri Woody, who not only wrote about the Joker throughout the month of April but also inspired several poets to write about the Joker's foil Harley Quinn. Way to stick with it, Kateri.

The Most Hated Poetry Prompt Award goes to Day 28's write a sestina prompt.

The Most Loved Poetry Prompt Award goes to Day 28's write a sestina prompt. Apparently, poets feel passionately one way or the other on this prompt--and poetry should always be about passion, right? (Now I'm gonna get flooded with reasons why poetry should not always be about passion, huh?)

*****

For the final award, join me in congratulating the 120+ poets who completed this April PAD Challenge. They are (in no particular order):

Alfred J Bruey; Anahbird; Angie Bell; Diane Mowery; Rebecca; Roxanne Nicholson; Bonnie; Tonya Root; Lori; Barbara Tzetzo Gosch; Salvatore Buttaci; Corinne; Christa R. Shelton; John H Maloney; Carol A Stephen; IleanaCarmina; Cathy Sapunor; Carol Boudreau; Cheryl Wray; Chris Granholm Jr.; Carla Cherry; Connie; Lisa McMahan; Carol Brian; Liza; Linda SW; Amanda Selset; Beth Browne; Bonnie MacAllister; Bruce Niedt; Devon Brenner; Don Ford; Don Swearingen; Emily Blakely; Earl Parsons; Justin Evans; A.C. Leming; Jeanette J. McAdoo; Genta; Sue Bench; Deb Hill; Michelle Cooper; Justin M. Howe; Iain D. Kemp; k weber; Margaret Fieland; January G. O’Neil; JL Smither; Yoli; Joannie Stangeland; Joe; Kate Berne Miller; Kimberly Kinser; Christine Kephart; KP; Kevin; Mike Padg; Karen; LindaTK; Kateri Woody; Lyn Sedwick; lynn rose; LBC; Khara House; Laura Hoopes; Monica Martin; Elizabeth Keggi; Lin Neiswender; Barbara Ehrentreu; Laurie Kolp; Linda Brown; Linda Hofke; Lorraine Hart; Omavi Ndoto; Marcos Cabrera; Matthew Abel; Susan M. Bell; Maria Jacketti; M. Schied; Michelle Hed; Mike Barzacchini; M J Dills; Robin Morris; Judy Stewart; Jolanta Laurinaitis; Sarah; Nancy; Patti Williams; Bill Kirk; Rosemary Nissen-Wade; AlaskanRC; Sarah; Maureen Sexton; Sara Diane Doyle; Shirley Ann Tracy; Satia; Sally DiUlus; Sharon Ingraham; Shana; Renee Goularte; Callan Bignoli-Zale; Dee IKJ; Sheryl Kay Oder; Marcus Smith; SaraV; Barbara Torke; Lyn Michaud; Kriss; Paige; Sara McNulty; Suzanne Poor; Tad Richards; halfmoon_mollie; TaunaLen; Judy Roney; Teri Coyne; Susan Reichert; Terri; Jay Sizemore; Virginia Snowden; Rodney C. Walmer; Victoria Hendricks.

Congratulations to all of you! My month/year/decade has been made by your amazing commitment to this challenge--as well as your crazy praise that will have me blushing until the 22nd century rolls around.

All finishers will receive an award to place on their blogs, sites, etc. (created by our magazine design team). In addition, they'll receive these cool certificates of completion (created by our book design team). I'd like to thank both design teams for volunteering their time to this poetic cause.

(If your name was not among the finishers and you think it should've been, just send me an email at robert.brewer@fwpubs.com with the subject line "Where's my name, yo?" I'll be sure to work with you to get your name properly listed.)

*****

Okay, so after you get done congratulating each other, everyone should head on over to the Poetic Asides group at http://forum.writersdigest.com and share your thoughts on the challenge, the awards, and anything else.

Oh yeah, and remember: I'll be answering questions in the Poetic Asides group tomorrow from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. (EST) if anyone's got questions about poetry, publishing, etc. I'll be sharing my advice with any who show up. See you there.

*****

And one more time: Thank you all sooooooo much for participating in the 2008 Poetic Asides April PAD Challenge! See you all next year--when I offer up 30 straight days of sestinas (just kidding--or am I?).

Sara Diane Doyle Named Poet Laureate of Poetic Asides

Wed, 21 May 2008 12:38:28 GMT

Before getting into this post, I want to say that the April PAD Challenge is not about competing as far as the quality of poetry is concerned. It's very simply a challenge to write one poem per day for the 30 days of April. If all goes well, you'll have 30 (or more) poems more on May 1 than you had on March 31.

Also, as part of the spirit of the challenge, it's assumed that the poems submitted for the April PAD Challenge are all either first or very early drafts of poems. So please don't worry yourself over who is or who is not highlighted each day and/or any other type of spotlighting of certain poets. Nothing done here should be done in a competitive way. Instead, everything should be cooperative. After all, we are (or, at least, we should be) a community of poets trying to help each other succeed.

That said, I want to congratulate Sara Diane Doyle for being named the 2008 Poet Laureate of Poetic Asides. There were many poets shortlisted for this honor, but after going through all the days' poems several times, it became apparent that Sara deserves this year's honor.

The honor is purely symbolic. Sara receives no compensation (sorry Sara) and is not expected to do anything specific (after all, she's not receiving any compensation). But my hope is that she will do her part, in whatever small way, to spread the poetic gospel--both online and off (no pressure intended, of course, Sara).

So anyway, please join me in congratulating Sara--and maybe next year one of you will be the next Poetic Asides Poet Laureate. In the meantime, I'm going to include a few of my favorite poems from Sara during the challenge.

Mischance

The doorbell rings
just as the phone
starts to buzz
and the kids run
through the room,
voices shrieking on high.
The dog joins the chorus
and she shakes her head
as she watches the words
that were almost a poem
sail quietly out the window.

*****

How My Memory Behaves

Like aged lovers, too many years together,
we bicker over the details.
I learned long ago you have your faults,
but joined as we are, I can't grudge them.

We take walks down that proverbial lane
and you dawdle, you lollygag,
you stop to smell a flower that looks familiar
but you won't tell me the name.
And when I call you to my side
with a question, sometimes
your eyes glint--impish elf!--
and you withhold. Other times,
not so proud, you pull
the answer from a dusty shelf.
But my favorite times are the ones
when you close your eyes, you know
you knew once upon a yesterday,
but can't for the life of you
recall when. Later, you'll wake me
from sleep, eager, smiling, to give
the answer to a forgotten question.

We will grow old together--
sit on the swing swaying forward
and back, back and forwards again,
laughing at how much we can't remember.

*****

Muse

At three p.m. I push back
the silk eye mask that shelters
my delicate eyes from harsh daylight.
I've left my charge to wade
the early hours of the day
alone, unguided, uninspired.
After a quick tossle
of my auburn curls,
I start my daily stretching
routine--poke the fantasy
still ten chapters away from completion,
poke the short story idea
she still hasn't put to paper, poke
the poem, the one about the plum,
that she just can't figure out.

My workout complete, I lounge
on a velvet chaise and eat cold grapes
until she calls for my aide.
I sip wine as she pounds
her head and the keyboard--
a slave to my whims.

*****

Explanation

Forgive the laughter--
it bubbled up
from my toes
and spilled out
over my lips
and had nothing
to do with
your coming in.

Day 20 Highlights

Mon, 12 May 2008 13:43:45 GMT

On Day 20, I asked you to write a Love poem. And the sparks started flying immediately. There's no better way to start a week than with a little love, so without further ado.

*****

Helping Hands

It would be better to think

you were made for me

a custom order

handcrafted to please

those hands that have held babies

carried groceries

and tarped roofs

were just praciting

for that day in the yard

when you reached out

to steady me

and keep me from falling

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

After the Whole Day

Let me feed you

cheeses on a plate.

Let me roll for you

raviolis of gorgonzola,

swirled in a cream sauce

with walnuts, tarragon.

See how the water simmers.

See how the windows steam.

Let me serve you a salad--

frisee and pear,

delicate curls of pecorino,

a whisper of truffle oil.

I have in my kitchen

scallops to sear,

chicken to roast,

and a medley of roots

tossed with oregano, balsamic,

and then a little lemon tart.

When you come home

with the sound of the saw in your ears

and mahogany dust in your hair,

let me pour you a glass of Champagne,

let me take your hands

and lead you to the table you made.

Let me feed you, fill you.

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

*****

My Mistake

Tentative touches cannot explain

how much you've actually

changed me.

Long, light strokes down

a make-up smeared cheek

try to tell you that

I care.

Finger tips pressing lasciviously

into firm thighs attempt

to get you to realize

that I do want you.

It was a mistake to try and

send you out of my life -

to try and hide the fact

that I do, love you.

It's too late for me to

try and take that back;

to un-tell you that I can't

have you, have these

feelings.

But I can try to win back

your favor, your desire

with the slightest whisper

of a kiss on your painted mouth,

promising much more than

words ever could.

Kateri Woody |kwoody66AT NOSPAMutica dot edu

*****

One Incarnation of Love

cleans the litter-box,

cackles, wakes me up with

political commentaries,

of a world pregnant

with entropy, a blue rose with warts.

Good love is a mentholated powder

on the prickly heat of this world.

Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

*****

I Miss My True Love

Once again, dear, you’re on the road.

We’re separated by miles and highways,

But linked by cell.

Several times a day, we’ll talk,

But the other half of the bed tonight

Will stay cool, empty, and neat.

I should be used to kissing you goodbye

By now.

But I’m not.

I want you to come home, kiss me good-night,

And lie beside me till I hear the reassurance

Of your warm breathing,

The rhythm of your sleep,

The sure, sweet, safe knowledge

That you are here

And always will be.

Karen |kphillipsoAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Awaken

The Man in the Moon knows.

He stays up past dawn

To watch us.

The morning doves

Nest near our window

For inspiration.

And daffodils

Bow in our direction,

Accepting the warmth.

While the world

Is aware of

Our love,

We are oblivious

To all but

Each other.

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

How to Write a Love Poem

Choose an iambic vessel for your pleasure

An octave and sestet for good measure

A dash of onomatopoeia will suffice,

Boom Boom,’s too much, but pit-a-pat is nice.

Ask for my heart. Surely I’ll recognize

Synecdoche and give the rest as prize.

Love, dove; strife, life—use no rhymes so cliché;

Choose simplest words for what you have to say.

Give love its legs, you must personify

A living thing, but do not let it die.

Don’t mix your metaphors, but be direct

Use similes as well that may reflect

A view of love by what it most resembles

And spice it up with literary symbols.

But don’t dare use the least hyperbole

If you want to get within a million miles of me.

Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

*****

Tell me Saturday,

Monday, Wednesday afternoon;

Tell me riverside,

Mountain, desert canyon, sea.

Lover, tell me – and soon, soon.

ck |kephartceAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Sweet apple blossoms

and succulent plums

sit tired and spent beside us

on a now stained picnic

blanket. And you lace

flowering white in my hair

as the pulpy red hearts

disappear across the grass.

And we wrap ourselves in sheets

of light and hold each other

firmly by the core.

And the sun sinks into universal dawns

as you whisper those

plum somethings in my

blooming ear.

Khara House |leftnwrite08AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

The volume could be lower.

Silence would be best.

Tonight the History channel

vies with ESPN. World War II

echoes around me as I try

to write a love poem, today’s

poetic aside.

Serious tones announce German attacks.

Next voices rise with excitement:

the 76ers have won a NBA game. Innings pass;

76,000 men are taken prisoners.

I think love is here

in this rented room,

in the words I do not speak,

in the poem I don’t write.

Beth Camp |bluebethleyAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

I’d Like To Take You To Dinner

At the Rockin’ Comet Diner

the waitresses wear t-shirts

that say, “Nothin’ could be finer,

than this Carolina diner,”

and we sit at a small chipped table

crowded with condiments

and a dented napkin holder.

You order liver and onions,

I get fried green tomatoes and fried okra

because this a Southern diner, after all

and Southern food is all about fried,

but we skip dessert,

which might have been banana pudding,

partly because we’ve eaten enough

and partly because we can’t wait

to get home.

Beth Browne |womenswritesAT NOSPAMinbox dot com

*****

In Tent

Bluejays riot in the campsite:

s'more debris, hot chocolate powder

and apple peels overlooked in last

night's rush to bed are their morning

feast.

Eventually we will

have to open the zipper,

get up and clean up

the table.

Let's just lay here for now

remembering our own discovery

and content.

Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Green Lakes

I wore the sunburn on the back of my neck

like a badge. Earned from an hour spent

in a paddle boat, on that lake. That lake.

The bacteria makes appear it green, the sign said.

A glacier compelled by invisible forces,

carving into the soft pre-history earth,

made it deep. And the sunfish swimming

just below my floating body, made me scream.

You laughed pulling me to you.

I said i hated you, for not telling me it was there.

Your face found the curve between my neck and shoulder.

My feigned fury dissolved into the water.

Days like that, never last forever.

Crystal Cameron |crystalclouded731AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

geese bring the

spring time

back with them

their V across

the sky ripping

winter in pieces

with them comes

earlier dawns

later sunsets

rising of sap

blood courses faster

there are those

who would waste

these hours

but in your company

they seem all too

short I watch you

more through the

honey light and

feel my heart swell

and open like

the buds of

lilacs that

wave behind you

in our window

halfmoon_mollie |tamsinAT NOSPAMtwcny dot rr dot com

*****

The Awakening

I wake to the curve

of a familiar hip,

draped with a swath

of modest sheet…

nakedness reveals all

and sometimes that is too much,

in the morning light

this baring of body and soul.

And filtered through the

blinds, horizontal punctuation marks

of last night’s encounter

are reminders of spent love.

You turn,

the sheet slips away

and in the first rays of

consciousness

I know why I am here.

anne |atkrakAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Lust and Exhaustion are lovers,

they stay up all night, every night

it’s like being young again, only

they are not. Lust drives to work

in the early morning light, moon

sharing the sky with the rising sun,

too tired to see straight, thinking

half of what I’m feeling isn’t love,

it’s sheer exhaustion: The gritty eyes,

the illusion of floating off the ground,

the champagne bubbles in the chest.

Back in her apartment, Exhaustion

rolls over in her sleep, smiling.

Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

Day 19 Highlights

Fri, 09 May 2008 13:34:22 GMT

On Day 19, I asked you to write a poem about a memory of yourself that you personally could not remember. For instance, something from early on in your youth, from blacking out because of drinking or medication, or from just having a horrible memory, I guess. I used some anecdotes from my youth and something I said in my sleep, for instance.

The poems you came up with were awesome. There's always so much honesty and passion behind these poems. And they ran the gamut--from terrifically funny to terrifyingly tragic.

*****

Four lives before age six

I recall reaching

For the orange cup.

But don’t remember

How the bleach burned

Going down my throat.

I see the storm door

In my mind’s eye.

But don’t remember

Going through it

arm first.

And I see the pavement

Pass inches below

My nose,

But don’t know how

The car door opened.

And I don’t remember

Falling from the

Second-story balcony.

But still feel the cool grass

Beneath my broken shoulder

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Night Terrors

When I was a little girl,

One night I awoke

On the kitchen table

Beside the salt and pepper shakers.

My mother tells me

I used to dive bomb

Out of my crib,

That she could not build

High enough walls to cage me.

If anyone nears my eye

With a finger or brush,

I immediately recoil and tear.

My mother tells me I ran

Directly into her extended finger

Around the age of three.

I retell this forgotten story

As my mother stabbed me in the eye.

My father made hamburger

Of my fist as I placed my hand

In greased pan. Sometimes I wake

With heated palms. I would later dream

That my sister was cooking our mother

And our mother was still talking to us.

But the oddest of all memories

Is a white dress hovering

In the linen pantry mirror,

And my mother asking me

Why I was in the closet that night.

Bonnie MacAllister |bmacallisterAT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

*****

The Last Time I Leaned out a Window

It was one of those New York days

when steam rises from the sidewalk.

Warm air, oppressive as a wool blanket,

drifts through the open window.

I hear barking in the courtyard

six floors below. I climb

on the sill, lean out the window,

stare at the snarling dogs.

Large hands pull me back,

turn me over a cotton-clad knee

and, for the first and last time,

spank me.

Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com

*****

The Recipe

You tell me

I recite recipes

in my sleep.

Last night

I was out of tomatoes.

You asked

crushed? or chopped?

I replied

get out of the kitched.

Shannon Rayne |shanpidAT NOSPAMshaw dot ca

*****

Humble Beginnings

What Mom remembers is that

on the day of my birth,

since I was the fourth child,

I came very suddenly and

she barely made it the fourteen miles

to the hospital.

She didn’t have time to

wash up the hand-me-downs so

she had to bring me home in

a tattered sweater.

She always felt bad about that.

Dad remembers that I was born

on the first day of squirrel season,

and he kept falling off a stump

from being so sleepy

from staying up all night.

When my children were born

I tried to tell them more interesting

stories about their births.

Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Retribution

My forty year old son

reminds me of the time

after supper

I threw the dishes

and broke most every one

because I was angry

at his father

over something

he did/didn’t do

three years before

I divorced him

and the reason

he remembers

after all this time

is because he still

thinks it’s funny

that my only comment

was “At least

they were dirty.”

Linda Brown |llbrownAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

*****

Grandpa

There are bits and pieces of memory

Hands groping

Touching a little girl

That was me.

There are bits and pieces

That still today

Torture the woman

That is me.

The bits and pieces

He left behind

Are still mine

Even though he is dead.

patti williams |pwilliamswriterAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Banana Shoes

I am six years old in the picture,

sitting astride a tortoise,

twice my size.

I guess it was a petting zoo

and I am grinning with delight.

My mom says that after she snapped

the picture,

with the old Polaroid camera,

the tortoise caught sight of my yellow

sneakers and thinking it was a tasty

treat, tried to take a bite.

I don’t remember any of this

but the creature’s head was at least

as big as mine,

her mouth much wider

and I guess I should be glad

I still have both feet.

Beth Browne |womenswritesAT NOSPAMinbox dot com

*****

A Moment in Time

Three years old and riding on a

Subway with my mother. Cane seats worn

And shredding, women complaining of runs

In their nylons which catch on stray strips

They tell me I was a `pincher’ in my

Toddler years and Mom never knew

When it would happen or who the

Victim(s) would be or how they would take it

Mom and I sit in seats facing others, men

All wearing hats and reading newspapers

But then, a group of nuns in full habit sit down

“Who are those funny ladies?” I yell

I had never seen a nun before, and

Demanded an explanation. Impatient with

Mom’s apologies to the women in black and white,

I launch out of my seat, over to the nuns and pinch their knees.

Sara McNulty |smcnultyAT NOSPAMsi dot rr dot com

*****

Memory Forsaken

(For the Cousin Never Known)

The photo black and white

sepia-stained at the crimped corner,

me laughing, snug on Auntie's hip

a bag of taters and her, not twenty,

bouffant hair, pursed lips and puppy-sad eyes,

evoke dreamy deja-vues of distant toddler-hood

in her mother's house: the creaking staircase;

packing boxes of books - Honey Bunch

and Bobbsey Twins – closet cached

under summer-hot eaves; the cuckoo clock

that magically played the Batman theme;

the sun slanting into the dormered room

each morning; cider-tinged orchards

and shiny buckeyes to collect; chipmunks skittering

over lichen-lacquered stone walls;

the cool dank cellar of glittering glass,

jars of relish and ‘maters hiding half-full bottles

of gin; the scent of sadness creeping round corners

hushed and still; Auntie weeping, always weeping,

for a daughter she will never know,

holding me instead. Holding me.

Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Past and Present

I call my older sister, figuring she’d know.

“Tell me a story about myself I’ve never heard.”

She’s helping her son with homework.

“When you were two and I was ten

I got mad at mom and ran away with you.”

“Why’d you take me?”

“Didn’t want to leave you with them. I liked you.”

She tells her son she’ll help him in a minute.

“So I got some graham crackers and a diaper

and propped you up in the back of the wagon.

Mom knew. I went all the way to the stop sign

and around the corner. Far enough

so mom couldn’t see.”

“Why’d you come back?”

“I realized I couldn’t take care of both of us.

Besides I’d made my point.” She laughs.

In the background I hear her son say,

“I’m getting out the graham crackers.”

Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

*****

Cigarette Machine

My mother and grandmother loved to tell stories

of my precocity, how I could read as early as three –

or so they claimed. They said they realized this

when I’d go with them to the cigarette machine

and pick out each brand – Winstons, Chesterfield Kings,

Camels, Pall Malls. Maybe it was just pattern recognition –

the Pall Mall package, for example, was almost solid red –

but they claimed it was proof of early genius..

No doubt, I’d even help them get their favorites –

they slipped coins in the slot and I pulled

the glass-knobbed lever that released the package

with a "ker-chunk" to the bottom tray. Maybe I made

faces in the mirror – all cigarette machines had mirrors,

I’m not sure why. They were everywhere – in the diner,

the bus station, the office, the bowling alley. It was cool

and sexy to smoke – the crewcut man with the skinny tie,

the platinum blonde in shirtwaist and pearls, sharing

a cigarette break. Even doctors smoked on TV.

My grandmother died of lung cancer

about eight years ago, a smoker almost to the end.

My mother died not long after. If only I had the power

to see the future then, instead of the power of early reading,

I’d stop their hands before the coins went down

and the Pall Malls or Winstons came out.

Instead, I went on reading like some prodigy.

I never quite lived up to that.

Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net

*****

A Sudden Stillness

She told the story until

I felt sure I remembered it

from some space between lifetimes,

my kicks inside her wet womb

before storytime with her first graders.

'Once upon a time' and I lay still,

listening to the tales unfold,

was still again as a baby with croup,

pain carried on the wings of 'once upon'

into the late rainy night.

She was Mnemsyne, divine lover of Zeus;

I was her child-muse, being gifted these sacred

stories, yet to be scribed, my feet motionless,

my heartbeat a mere breath in the wind.

Pris Campbell |camprisAT NOSPAMbellsouth dot net

*****

Coma

There are moments

But not often minutes

When I see. It is possible to

Be awake, but

Only with great effort

Or none.

The joy of life

Is incompatible

With the business of being alive.

My cherry tree is about to bloom

It is fully awake

Its only sound is a sigh

Of disappointment as I walk by.

Gratia Karmes |glk222AT NOSPAMtds dot net

*****

Jenny and the Pine Tree

“We always get a spruce pine

for Christmas,” Mom repeats,

then tells the story of when I,

pre-school-aged and already in trouble

at daycare for biting other bratty kids,

stood in front of the Christmas tree

for a picture with my even-tempered little brother.

I took a step back, and one of those spiny branches

reached out and pinched my neck.

More startled than hurt, I turned around

and bit that horrible little branch,

then yelped and let go when it had the nerve

to poke the roof of my mouth.

Angry, I bit that stupid tree again.

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

Day 18 Highlights

Wed, 07 May 2008 14:13:32 GMT

There is no connection: That is the line I asked you to use in writing your poems on Day 18. It was a line that'd been rolling around in my head for awhile, though the context is totally lost on me now. As it should be. It's amazing how one line can go so many different directions.

Finding the connection in these poems is as simple as the line I asked you to use, but outside of that there appears to be no connection. (Hahahaha--yeah, I know. Bad joke.)

*****

:“mutually exclusive dinner party invitations”:

Between her old self

and her new self there is

no connection

anymore They sit on opposite

sides of the room They

sleep in

separate beds

They eat dinners in silence and rarely

call company to

toast their exclusive successes Between

the two of them

there is little room

for change Maybe someday

But for now there is no

connection

Khara House |leftnwrite08AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

FALSE LOVE

There is no connection between them anymore

False loving glances are exchanged across the table

for the sake of the children

The excuse they use to stay together

But the children see them sleep in different places

and overhear the muffled arguments at night

The tension between them chokes and suffocates

the life out of all those that come into their presence

but they continue hiding behind strained smiles

and forced affectionate rubs on the back

a piece of each of them dies everyday

knowing that life would be better apart

but it's so much easier to play the role

than to accept the truth that lies in their hearts

Christa R. Shelton |c_writesAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

A Reason

“Why did this happen? I haven’t been a bad person.

I’ve lived a good life.” There had to be a reason for

what the doctor was telling me. Cancer didn’t just

happen. There had to be a reason.

“I assure you, there is no connection between the

type of life a person has lived and cancer. You haven’t

done anything wrong.” His words flew past me, over

my head. All I heard was “cancer.” In my mind, that

was the only word that counted.

I looked back at the previous 40 years, trying to

locate the point in time where I had gone astray,

walked off the right path, jumped the tracks. I

wasn’t a perfect angel by no means, but cancer?

“I used to shoplift. Maybe that’s it.” I had to find

a reason. “I cheated on a test in high school. Wasn’t

very nice to that Jenkins girl.” He reached out and

patted my hand. “Listen to me, there is no connection.”

There had to be a reason.

Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

The Myth Is

there is no connection between

lollipops and pumpkins,

skyscrapers and hovels,

terrorists , saints,

the aliens that abduct

and those that intervene in angel garb:

not smithereens of a chaotic big bang –

or the fuselage of a big kahuna-deity’s

ark smashed to puzzle pieces –

but string theory, the divine quipu,

waiting to be read, quarks

to unravel, embroider,

or hang by in ignorance,

for the science and god, one,

that we have yet to touch.

Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

*****

Well-connected

Scientists are up in arms

at the speed of global warming.

Environmentalists shake their heads,

no one will heed their warning.

A ten-year window is all we have

until the point of no return.

"To hell with that", say executives,

"We've got tons of coal to burn".

Our planet cries "Stop it now

before everyone gets hurt".

Lobbyists still earn their keep

while politicians hit pay dirt.

Industry must motor on

til it hits that intersection

marked "Turn back before it's too late",

and "It's OK. There is no connection".

Joe |joemackinnonAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Schism

How can you say there is no

connection from the crow's glistening

wing to the night that flies

away at dawn. No link

between the winter wind

and the hard sweep of grief,

no coupling between the bell

and the waves of its ring

in an empty courtyard?

How can you know there is

no chain pulling taut

the distance between tears

and the ocean--or, say,

Antarctica, the mountains and shelves

of ice, the white blindness held

together by cold until weight

or melt makes them calve,

fall apart with a roar

that echoes in your blood,

that binds you, even in sleep,

to more than one ending.

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

*****

Even Teachers Get to Have Fun Sometimes

---------------------------------------

Today in class one of my students, not

knowing how to start an English essay asked,

How is the past an indicator of the future?

I am a history teacher, and as you know,

teachers know everything. We have no life

outside of school. In fact, some of us

live in our classrooms, pulling our Murphy beds

from beneath the chalkboard, shower up

in the denizens of the faculty lounge. Her logic

in asking me was, shall we say, inspired.

Trying to act the clown, or just to see her face

I replied as straight as I could, There is no

connection, no way to tell from one day to the next

what is going to happen. I pause before adding,

Haven't you ever heard of Chaos Theory?

This is the part I always like best, when they

ask themselves if they heard me right, decide

if they can trust what I have told them.

Sometimes, they catch on right away, think back

to the beginning of the year when I told them

about Heraclitus, how you can never step

into the same river twice, how all things

are connected. Then their smile comes

and they know the real answer is yet to come.

That's when I know I have them, know when

they are going to really listen, give this whole

school thing at least one more shot, let in

just a little more light into the cave and

dust down the shelves of their minds.

Justin Evans |evjustinAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Proximity

I'm walking down French Road

and I see a familiar vista -

up there, to the south of me,

a miniature mountain rises

(we Uticans call it Crow Hill),

a mountain crowned with trees,

four of which stand out

like the straight spikes

of a truncated stegosaur.

There is no connection

between them and the rest

of the little oak forest

that's been standing there

for a hundred years or more.

It's like something sudden

and completely unplanned -

like a wicked windstorm,

or a minute meteor,

or an errant bulldozer -

just so happened to pass

through that small space

and thus forever changed

that fractional footage

of Oneida County landscape.

Whatever it was, it left

the dwellers of this valley

with a place that radiates

that sort of bizarre beauty

that throws the futile

humdrum claptrap of life

into relief and makes you say,

"Well, I guess maybe things

aren't so awful after all"

as you look up at those four trees,

thinking of how close they might be.

Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

In Rio de Janeiro,

a pregnant woman throws up

for the second time today.

In Perth,

unable to sleep, a boy watches rain drops

snake down his bedroom window.

In Cambridge,

two teenage girls kiss

under a blooming dogwood for the first time.

In Palo Alto,

a computer crashes as a student

tries to save the final version of her thesis.

In Cairo,

a woman cleans her kitchen

in preparation for her mother-in-law's visit.

In Bucharest,

a man on a bicycle is knocked into a ditch

by a small truck that doesn’t stop.

In Kawagoe,

a man holds his granddaughter in his arms

and feeds her a bottle of milk.

In Reykjavik,

an old woman dies while drinking her afternoon tea,

which spills across the front of her blouse.

There is no connection.

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Special Information Tone

I learned the annoying, ear-piercing,

three-toned chime that sounds on the phone

when there is no connection,

is called a SIT code.

Three sharp pings, aptly called

SIT, command the listener

to wait for special information.

But those three notes, the ones I hear

several times a day, always

make me jump.

I hang-up before hearing the message—

I already know the number is disconnected

because you no longer live there.

And you didn’t tell me goodbye

because there is no longer a connection

between you and me.

Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Even then

Even when there is no connection

Even when it rains like slate

Even when you can’t smell anything

Even when your legs stop working

Even when you can’t find work

Even when someone you love dies

Even when you loose a favorite earring

Even when you can’t breathe

Even when your car breaks down

Even when someone is mad at you

Even when the fridge is empty

Even when the birds wake you at four AM

Even when people are rude

Even when you have a headache for three days

Even when

Even then

beauty suffuses every molecule

Even then

your smile restores me.

Jacquie Wareham |wareham dot jacquieAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

THERE IS NO CONNECTION

“Don’t be so stupid -

there is no connection

between butterflies

and typhoons,”

she exclaimed.

The child went quiet

and hung his head.

A great sadness

fell on the school

after that

and things

were never the same.

Maureen |sajwriter06AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com dot au

Day 17 Highlights

Tue, 06 May 2008 14:25:24 GMT

Before we get into the highlights: I'm going to be posting the Wednesday prompts here on the blog starting tomorrow. Let the good times roll!

Also, the community is buzzing along in the Poetic Asides forum at http://forum.writersdigest.com. It's free and easy to sign up and start talking with your fellow poets.

*****

As far as the highlights, we're up to Day 17 now, which was to write a poem in the third person--with the subject open to whatever. The poems you wrote were great, great, GREAT!!!

They're provided below.

*****

Virtual Reality

She leans forward half off the couch

twisting the Wii remote,

using different muscles than when

she makes her bed or plays her flute.

AiAi or MeeMee or YanYan

roll across the screen

in plastic protective bubbles

racing across the dessert

or the jungle or a volcano

always to the rainbow-circled goal.

Yesterday she realized she was

steering the half-eaten pizza slice

in her hands while watching

someone else play the game.

“I should be able to beat this world

this afternoon,” she declares

as she powers down

and heads off to seventh grade.

Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

*****

Parting

Her pink platform sandles click

on the stone path as she rubs

legs shaved smooth for her lover's

delight. She smiles to herself,

drives home through the summer

night while the man in the moon

hangs by a silver thread halfway

down the sky, Her lover

washes the sheets, then drifts down

to the bar for a last draft ale with

the guys who hang out on the corner.

The next day he buys a jeep,

dark green, detachable roof,

packs it full of bits of

a soon to be former life, then

leaves without saying goodbye.

Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com

*****

The Lurker

They call him the ‘lurker’

He slinks door to door

His feet are so greasy

They slide ‘cross the floor

She tries to ignore him

To hint that she’s working

But he hangs like a vine

He keeps right on lurking

He looks out her window

He mindlessly yaks

He sneaks peaks at her chest

He touches her slacks

He’s hard to get rid of

He won’t go away

‘ oh please, let the phone ring,”

she silently prays.

There’s no easy way

To get rid of this jerk

Cuz it seems he gets paid

By the hour to ‘lurk.’

Carol -Amherst, Mass |cboudreauAT NOSPAMhampshire dot edu

*****

In the Dairy Aisle

Some people long for what they can't have,

but she feels a little guilty

because she doesn't much want

what she can't abide.

Tempting--so many delectable flavors.

She has tried them all, but not even

strawberry cheesecake or coconut cream pie

could entice her now.

It's supposed to be good for digestion,

but something always holds her back--

that bite, the tang

of live and active cultures.

She admits it. She hates yogurt.

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Pride Don’t Pay the Rent

He leans to the left as he walks to the desk –

scoliosis, he tells the worker –

it bent his spine like a green twig.

Back in the day, he was a drummer,

did a lot of gigs in the Sixties, even

sat in with Miles once in the Village.

Played Newport in '68, Montreux in ’72.

"You must be proud of all that," the worker says.

"Pride don’t pay the rent," he replies.

He still wears a beret, his striped shirt

is neat but faded. White stubble

dusts his dark chin. The worker

peppers him with questions,

then pushes some papers across the desk.

The jazzman signs them

with an arthritis-gnarled hand.

"It must be hard to ask for help,"

the worker says, trying to be sympathetic,

"after all you’ve done in your life."

The jazzman stands, pushing himself

up on his cane, and says, "Yeah,

but the worst part is, I’ve lost the rhythm."

Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net

*****

Up Up and Away

He thought he was pushing her

The way she wanted to be pushed,

Sometimes going under the swing to give it

That extra umpphh--

So it was a complete surprise when she

Fell off, out, crying--Daddy why

Do you want to hurt me?

Lyn Sedwick |LASMD925AT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Southwest Story

She was surprised

When Orlando showed her his cast.

He told her that Monday

He’d been in a coma.

His father and he rode on motorbike,

Over the hood of a car.

Orlando swore he’d never ride again.

His father is still in the hospital.

II.

After school, Rakeem tried to juggle apples,

He’d bite them and expel the juice.

Kaihla flipped them like flags,

Manipulating hands unbalanced.

The teacher allowed the two

A contest of push ups.

Each boosted arms,

Jutting up with breaths.

III.

Something told her to speak in the third person

When describing Ulea,

The little girl who clamored protests

Constantly for little reason,

No girl could pierce her more.

She thought of them on the subway

When the old, blue-eye African man

Asked her if her school had tennis courts.

She wondered how her kids would thrive.

Bonnie MacAllister |bmacallisterAT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

*****

The Reluctant Politician

He didn’t want to run for office

But he wanted to be elected

So he campaigned and he

Lost but he filed a protest

And paid for a re-count and

This time he won by eight votes

And he was sworn in

And the next week he resigned

From office because he said

He just wanted to prove

That he could win.

Alfred J Bruey |ajbrueyAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Angola

Unshod hooves thud and tamp

against the metal chute.

“Huuurrrraaaahhhh” echoes

as the weight of the parasite

settles on his back. A violent

shift left, the weight lifts

then settles. Ears flap and

horns strike the bars of the

chute encasing him as he

shakes his head, angry now.

“Bzzzzzz,” and the barrier

disappears. Two tons of

Brahma bull shoots forward.

Tail swivels as he jackknifes.

His attempt to throw the felon

successful a mere five seconds

into the Angola Prison Rodeo.

A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

The Wife or Sooner or Later

He couldn’t wrap his mind around

the idea that she was gone. The door

wasn’t opening, no matter how long

he stared at it. She wasn’t coming

home. He kept thinking that sooner

or later she would realize her mistake.

Sooner or later she would return, tell

him how sorry she was, then cook

his dinner. She would have to go to

the grocery store first. The cupboards

were nearly bare. And he’d sat in front

of the TV every night, listening to his

stomach growl. Sooner or later, she would

have to come back to take care of him.

Someone had to.

Sooner or later.

Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Mischance

The doorbell rings

just as the phone

starts to buzz

and the kids run

through the room,

voices shrieking on high.

The dog joins the chorus

and she shakes her head

as she watches the words

that were almost a poem

sail quietly out the window.

Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

THIRD PERSON POEM

She picked up her camera

walked out to the garden

photographed every flower

and leaf

she could see.

Hours went by

noticing colours

shades, patterns

light and shadows

tiny insects

she didn’t know the names of.

She felt the warmth

of the sun

through her shirt

and noticed pictures

in the clouds.

Then she returned

to the house

and saw

what she’d almost forgotten –

the opened bottles of pills

by her bed.

Maureen |sajwriter06AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com dot au

*****

At the Boat Show

Fuzzy newspaper photograph

taped to her refrigerator.

They might be her nieces

or just two random girls

with their dad,

at a boat show.

From the blur, only the redhead

whose hair color caused so much

family confusion is visible.

The only recognizable feature.

Not the brother or sister,

uncle or niece for sure.

Tiffany B |tbullenAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Beach Day

They were sitting on the shore

making castles in the sand

never seeing the two sharks

that had stopped by to play

a game of 'chase the people from the water'

there was sadness in their eyes

as the people trampled by

crushing their dreamhouse

in their wake of fright

And the sharks swam away

laughing merrily

with joy and glee

another beach day

interupted.

Sarah |safbail_2writeAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Photographic Memory

Sitting in the parked car in the dark after turning off the engine, the rain hammering on the roof, she rolls down the window and smells cedar, woodsmoke, wet earth. She leans her head back and closes her eyes, seeing the six-point buck by the side of the road, his eyes just beginning to film over, the possum dragging it’s crushed back legs into the bushes, baring needle-sharp teeth in a grimace, a dead garter snake slowly turning itself inside out, the ladder of its spine laid bare by the steady work of slugs.

She wasn’t there when they put her father on life support, didn’t see him blackened and bloated, lungs breathing, heart beating but no longer there. She wasn’t present when they finally turned off the machines and stood around his bed in the silence, released. She doesn’t have the image all the rest of her family carries, staining their memories forever. She can see him now, on the deck of the Alaskan ferry, eyes squinting into the sun, binoculars around his neck, hat brim turned up, laughing.

Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

The Copyright Symbol and Your Submissions

Sun, 04 May 2008 12:42:59 GMT

During the PAD Challenge, I noticed quite a few poets including either the word Copyright or the copyright symbol--a C inside a circle. While I understand the fear of someone stealing your work and may have even done that with my own fiction and poetry earlier on as a writer, I want you to know you don't need to include those markings, especially when you're submitting your poetry to journals and magazines to be published.

Reason #1: People don't tend to steal other people's poems. It's just not profitable AND if someone were so inclined, they would steal the poem whether you include the symbol or not. Once you set your writing down in fixed form, it is protected by copyright. But after more than 8 years working on Writer's Market, I have yet to hear of a case where an unknown poet has to take his or her poetry copyright case to court. (Of course, saying that, I do realize that there's a first for everything. For more info on copyright, go to http://www.copyright.gov/).

Reason #2: Adding the copyright symbol does not increase your chances of getting published. There is no editor who sees the copyright symbol attached and thinks, "Yay! We've got a copyright symbol; let's get this issue out now!" In fact, it often hurts your chances, because...

Reason #3: Adding the copyright symbol to your submission marks you as an amateur and as a poet who is paranoid that the editor will steal your work. While an editor would still accept exceptional work from a poet who includes the word Copyright or the copyright symbol, be aware that those markings will distract most editors from reading your work--even if just the tiniest bit.

So that's my practical advice about including the copyright symbol and/or the word Copyright. It doesn't decrease your chances of having your work stolen, but it does increase the chance your work won't be accepted. So, why do it?

April PAD Challenge: Wrap Up

Thu, 01 May 2008 14:42:12 GMT

Thanks to all of you, the April PAD Challenge was a phenomenal success. In fact, I think there's no way around making this an annual event moving forward. You can't even know how honored you've all made me feel throughout the entire month, and I'm thrilled to see that a supportive community has developed.

To keep that community going, I asked WritersDigest.com editor Brian Klems to set up a Poetic Asides specific group in their forum located at http://forum.writersdigest.com. If you have an account, just log in and click on the Poetic Asides link. If you don't have an account, it's super easy to create one--and it's totally F-R-E-E (and it don't even cost you any money). I have a welcome message up for the group, but you can begin your own topics and start chattering away. I'm sure there will be some crossover between the new forum group and the blog moving forward, too.

Also, on that main forum page, you may notice there are genre-specific critique groups in Critique Central. One of those groups is labeled poetry, and that's where you, umm, can critique, umm, poetry. Yeah, pretty obvious, I know.

*****

As far as the blog and prompts, I've decided I will continue to do prompts, though not at the breakneck pace of one each day. I'm planning on providing a prompt each Wednesday throughout the year--figuring there's no better way to get over the hump of the workweek than a little prompting and poeming. I hope that'll be a good pace for everyone until next April.

*****

I'm considering the possibility of critiquing one poem per week. More info on this later. But stay tuned--and prod me if I seem to forget about it.

*****

The Poet's Market newsletter is going to make a comeback starting later this month. If you wish to receive the free monthly e-mail newsletter, you can sign up at www.poetsmarket.com.

*****

On May 21, plan on attending the Poetic Asides 2008 April PAD Challenge awards ceremony--at this blog. I'll be recognizing those who completed the challenge, as well as some extra nods and pats on the backs and such.

Plus, at that time, I'll also be handing out awards to poets. Those who completed the challenge will be able to receive one or both of two awards: one is a badge that the magazine design group put together for poets who want to put the award on their blogs and/or Web sites (to show that you completed the challenge); two is a certificate that the book design group is working on that you can print up and tuck away somewhere safe (or proudly frame and display).

*****

On May 22, I'll be answering poetry questions all day somewhere in WD forum. More details to come on this as the event approaches.

*****

Okay, this post is long enough now, I guess. Let me know if you have any questions, concerns, comments, etc. And again, thank you so much for being so awesome!

Day 16 Highlights

Thu, 01 May 2008 14:12:52 GMT

On Day 16, I asked you to write a poem with a twist at the end--something I was calling the "Alfred Hitchcock" poem. I was really impressed with the results and the creativity.

Here are the highlights.

*****

Wanted:

Roommate willing to share the rent,

the bills, the responsibility; to

put the dishes in the dishwasher,

not the sink; to fold socks together,

rathering than ranting when one

disappears somewhere between

the closet floor and the laundry room.

Said person should be willing to

share the remote control, ESPN

balanced with the Food Network,

to carry on conversations

when required, to keep your thoughts

to yourself at all other time,

and to know the difference between the two.

Since the place is already furnished,

you won't need to bring anything

but your own clothes, your own books,

and, of course, your car.

I'm taking mine when I leave this place.

If he asks, just tell him I sent you.

Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

*****

"My Precious Angel"

The pillow still holds your scent

I can close my eyes

and feel the heat from your side of the bed

I spy a strand of your beautiful brown hair

and I can almost imagine

your soft doe eyes

looking back at me

Why did I have to kill you last night?

Chris Granholm Jr. |chris7baAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

DOING IT

Some people do it every day.

Some do it not at all.

My aunt she does it all the time,

Some do it near the wall.

Some friends of mine, they shut their eyes.

Some friends they say don’t worry.

Some friends tell me it’s not so bad,

Just do it in a hurry.

My Gramma did it day by day

A hundred times moreover.

My mother did it only when

Her family would come over.

I feel naughty, though, to do it not,

Shame cast upon my head.

For I kick myself come evening time,

When I’ve not made my bed.

Vanessa O'Dwyer |sheswede99AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Wandering Hands

I slide my hand down your back

I grope and fumble

But you remain quiet

Just giving slightly to my touch

My sneaky fingers glide around

Your bottom and I’m fumbling once

More. But you are passive

C’mon c’mon, give it to me!

Finally I’m on my knees

I drag your leg away

My hand searching for the

Treasure you withhold

I just don’t believe it

I was sure you’d give it up

But, sofa, if you haven’t goy my keys

Then where the hell are they?

Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es

*****

The aliens came today.

We were surprised

as they brought us

a message of peace

and love and then

told us how it would happen.

Our lives were wrong,

they said.

We must live like they did

and then used force to

show us.

For your own good they said.

We want to help

they said.

Help from them I cannot

need or want

So I held my head high

and they said it

would be better if

I didn't.

But I stood against

and as I saw the crater

in my chest

My last words were

"Go back to Earth."

Matthew |matthewabelAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

I Am Just Not A Party Animal

When we arrive, Hiro greets his pals, each in coat and tails. They rush excitedly to each other; I am ignored. With a sniff and toss of the head, my date abandons me for a drink.

It’s awkward standing here alone.

Just like junior high school mixers.

But in minutes, I run into Kathy from Curtis Park, and Nancy, and Carlo. We socialize loudly above the din; turns out we’ve got much in common.

Too soon, Hiro’s had too much. I drag him, howling and whining, to the car.

He doesn’t want to leave the dog park. Tonight, neither do I.

Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

The fire was beautiful.

It burned with ferocity,

frightening me a little -

I didn't want us to catch.

You smiled and vowed to

protect me. We shared

a glass of red wine as

we settled down to snuggle

and watch the fire. You

kissed my neck and told

me you love me. I smiled

and we turned back to the fire.

Wonder where that snotty witch will live now?

Monica Martin |lilmunkey2369AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

"Art on the Line"

Warm wind

Birds singing

My favorite lavender chiffon blouse

Fluttering in the breeze

Assorted vibrant colors

Billowing on the clothesline

Spring is here,

Warm days

Cool nights

my collage of beautiful colors

are dry and

must come down

Alas, the lavender blouse

Is gone,

Perhaps

the wind took it

Sunday morning

A new day,

Brilliant sunshine

Reflecting off the grass

And warming the tar driveway

next door

There is John, my neighbor

Jaunting out to

Retrieve his paper

He is stunning

In my lavender chiffon

Carol -Amherst, Mass |cboudreauAT NOSPAMhampshire dot edu

*****

Watching

"Every breath you take, every move you make, I'll be

watching you." ~Sting

When I first noticed you noticing me

I didn't think too much about it.

I didn't think I was your type,

a wife and mom of thirty something years.

But then I turned the corner and

I could still feel your eyes on me.

Staring, penetrating, unnerving.

I fumbled with my purse, and

glanced around furtively,

hoping to see something or someone else

that may catch your interest, but

I was all alone and your eyes never left me.

My hands shook, without reason.

I tried to pretend you weren't there,

to act normal and hope you'd go away.

But you inched closer, ever closer,

eyes roaming everywhere, searching.

I knew you wouldn't find whatever it was

that you were looking for, but still

you made my skin crawl and my nerves squirm.

I walked quickly away from you and out the door,

although I had done nothing to warrant your attention.

Maybe you were bored that day, or maybe you just

take your job as store security much too seriously.

Lori |brightiiizAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

"The Proposal"

His brown eyes showed serious affection

and he popped ‘the question’ as we stood

beneath a large old tree. We’ve been friends

for years now, at least three, but my parents said

more time was needed. I wondered if

they saw something that I didn’t and felt

it best if their recommendation were heeded.

Back beneath the large old tree the matter

was solemnly discussed and he and I concluded

that one more year would not be too tough.

By then we would both be six, quite old enough.

Emily Blakely |ecblakelyAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

*****

Tom

“Are you coming to bed, Darling?” you call

toward the bathroom door. I will soon,

Darling, but let me gaze upon you first,

study the way you remove your glasses,

carefully replace the bookmark in your novel,

and stretch to set them on the nightstand

before clicking off the lamp. The smell

of the jasmine outside the window surrounds

your image, making you seem even more delicate.

I watch the way you smile so sweetly

while you snuggle down into the warm blanket

that outlines your legs. I’ll be there soon, Darling,

the next time you forget to lock this window.

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

I can’t believe your cheekiness,

Your lack of disrespect.

You’re certainly the flakiest

Coquette I ever met.

With Manolos and Guccis,

You skirt cut up to here -

Originals by Pucci,

And your lack of underwear;

Might get you adoration

And a night of random sex.

Your brain is on vacation

And your mother asks “what’s next?”

I’m absolutely done with you

You sneaky little tart

You’ve made my life a total mess,

You broke my boy friends heart.

M J Dills |mjdillsAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

The geese are chasing the people away

from their eggs, down by the river.

The lawn is a beautiful shade of summer green

decorated with romantic iron benches.

Look at the Hollyhocks showing their hues of

sky, and blush, and sun.

The day is open, flowing wide toward forever

and I’m so glad you came to visit.

Cobblestone steps guide the way back to the patio

which delivers its closure.

The electroshock therapy is going well

please come to see me again.

maeve63 |maeveq63AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

“Unfinished Work”

She sits in the easy chair

Directly in front of the roaring fire

Reading my rough manuscript

She says can we have a late dinner

I want to finish this

I want to find out what happens at the end.

Oh you don’t want to do that I say

It’s not ready…I’m not ready.

Don’t be silly she says

Don’t be so damn insecure.

I watch her read

I’m beside myself

I’m not ready for her to…

For me to…

I’m on the last chapter she says

Just give me a few more minutes

This couple you wrote about

She’s so strong and he’s so…weak.

Just keep reading I say

As I gather strength

And move in behind her

Wanting more than ever

For her to be finished.

Oh my God she says as she turns to look at me

I think he’s going to kill her!

Marcus Smith |sleeperdesuAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

It’s not brain surgery

I can’t believe

They don’t

Put me under.

All that cutting

And slicing.

So close to

My brain.

I saw the

Diploma,

But I’m not

Impressed.

Just another

Butcher with

A sharp

Instrument.

I hate haircuts!

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

April PAD Challenge: Day 30

Wed, 30 Apr 2008 13:34:55 GMT

So this is it: the final prompt of the April PAD Challenge. We've made it; we've made it. I'd be sad that it's all over, but I think in some ways we're only beginning. (For more on that, check back tomorrow when I do the April PAD Challenge Wrap-Up.) Today, I want you to finish your poem, thrust your open hands high in the air, and say, "Go me! I did it!" (Or something to that effect, I understand that poets can be a reserved bunch--so maybe a simple smirk and fist clench will do the job just as well.)

The main thing is to realize that you accomplished something great in participating throughout the month. After all, you should now have 30 (or more) poems to play with and revise. But here I am trying to stall on the final prompt of the day--not wanting this month to end. :)

And today's prompt is probably predictable if you go back to Day 1's prompt, which was about beginnings and firsts. Day 30's prompt is to write a poem about endings, finishes, finales, etc. Because we've reached the end: great job!

Here's my poem for the day:

"Saturday night in Clifton"

After an evening of perspiration and
secondhand smoke inhalation, the lights turn on
as men with SECURITY written across their
backs herd us out into the street. We're pumped up;
we still want more (encore! encore!); but the planet
continues its mad spin. So I twist myself out
of the loitering mob and sneak down a side street--
head buzzing with the crush of mosh pit memories,
the push and pull of sweaty strangers united
for music adoration. For a moment, I
feel everything is possible, but then an
overwhelming sadness washes over me: the
vacuum between then and now. I walk until I
come to a sign that reads: KEEP MOVING. So I do.

Day 15 Highlights

Wed, 30 Apr 2008 13:22:11 GMT

Wow! On Day 15, I offered two prompts for Tuesday. And an overwhelming number of you wrote a poem for each prompt. Some of you even went well beyond that. I'm guessing it's because of the prompts themselves: one prompt was to write about taxes (it was Tax Day here in the U.S.); the other prompt was to write an insult poem.

In addition to writing about taxes, I also gave the option of writing about deadlines in general. And as the insult poems came in, a subgenre of Joker-Harley Quinn insults developed (thanks to Kateri Woody). I'm not going to pick favorites, but I have to admit that Bruce Niedt's ROBOT INSULTS had me rolling, especially since I can imagine the synthesized voice of a robot delivering the insults. Very, very funny.

As usual, I'm blown away by the level of participation--both in terms of quantity and quality. After only 15 days of highlighting, I've highlighted more than 100 poets at least once already. My head is spinning at that stat alone. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for making my month by participating in this challenge.

And now, I'll just shut up and provide the day's highlights.

*****

One Sided

You call me to see how I am doing

Or so you say

But then I hear about not only how you’re doing

But how your children are doing

What they’re doing

Why they’re doing it

And how many problems they deal with

And I hear about their children

Your neighbors and their children

The problems with their health

And your health and your medicine

The top twenty reasons why

You’re too busy to see me

On and on it goes

I’m tempted to put the phone down

And finish what I was doing

To see if you’d notice I was missing

If this conversation was a tennis game

I’d be pummeled by all the balls

I’d be a mass of little round bruises

Do you really care how I’m doing?

Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

A Smart Remark

Don't you give me no lip,

Not that you don't have

some to spare.

A clown's got nothing

on you.

Next time you make

a smart-ass remark,

try to live up to

the "smart" part,

since you've got the

"ass " covered.

Something you do best.

Joe |joemackinnonAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Belly

Hello Belly in my lap

What are you doing here

At first you looked so big,

I mistook you for my rear

Carol -Amherst, Mass |cboudreauAT NOSPAMhampshire dot edu

*****

A Love Letter

This is not meant

as insult, not a smear,

a sneer or a kick,

just the truth

in the way that I see it.

Don't get all bent,

I'll make it unsent,

with any luck

you won't see it.

Your mouth, though cute,

runs off like a shot,

obnoxious and hot,

and your voice

it does grind

an impossible shrill,

it's a wonder to me

I've not reached my fill

of the noise that you spill.

And I've said it before,

I'll say it again,

it's not an insult

but a quaint little truth,

those eyes that you have,

they're as crooked as sin,

I once thought them effectionate,

but that was the gin,

I believe if I look

in just the right light,

I can see how they turn

and cross with each other,

but that's not vanity,

your sorry attempts

to look at yourself,

I call it frustration.

With a nose like a tuba,

there's no way you'll spot

yourself in a crowd

with eyes that won't meet.

But let's not be hasty,

you know I prefer pasty

when searching complexions

you get my affections.

Oh, you know that I'm kind,

and quite crazy for you,

with that little mind,

there's not much you can do

so forgive me my insults

and love me complete,

you're lucky to have me

I'm terribly sweet.

Kevin |kevintcraigAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Insult Poem

I love your gown by Vera Wang

But did it only come in blue?

I think your color’s clearly red

The teal looks much too dark on you.

And that new hairstyle’s all the rage

Although it makes your face so thin

The way it curves around your cheeks

It plays up your receding chin.

The shoes are sexy on your feet

I’m glad you didn’t go for flats,

Except the cutouts at the toes

Do make them look so very fat.

The flab that hangs down from your arms

Is really only slightly there,

A jacket would have hidden it,

But never mind, leave your arms bare.

The tan you have, is it for real

Or is it from a tube, or spray?

It really doesn’t matter much,

It’s sort of orangey either way.

You look the height of elegance

No one would guess you’re in your prime

Your party sounds quite lovely, dear

Do go and have a lovely time.

Linda Brown |llbrownAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

*****

Insult Poem

Wow, an insult poem

that’s just not my style

when someone offends me

I just look at them with a face of stone

then I simply smile

I usually try not to let negativity

control what I have to say

anger clearly has no relativity

to what’s happening in my day

I am sure it’s well known

that when one lets anger in control

even just for a poem

one loses sight of the picture as a whole

and focuses instead on the fury

often by doing things in a hurry

Who to insult

well, I just don’t know

there are many I would not mind to offend

it seems as the world turns, the list will grow

would be nice to put an end

to some of them, and their meaningless show

guess that sounds violent

certainly that’s not how it’s meant

I just want some to learn the err of their ways

so that perhaps we can all have better days. . .

©Rodney C. Walmer 4/15/08

Rodney C. Walmer |wasitchuAT NOSPAMoptonline dot net

*****

"Mad Love"

It's not that I don't love the way

that your nasally, high pitched

caterwauling of 'Puddin'

greets me everytime you see me.

It's not that I don't love the way

you throw yourself at me at speeds

the freaking Flash would appreciate

whenever I'm not looking.

It's not that I don't love the way

you interrupt my work with propositions

in unflattering nightwear, complete

with 'Harley' sound effects to boot.

It's not that I don't love the way

you hang off of my every last word,

or how easily convinced you are

to do what any peon says.

It's not that I don't love the way,

you so desperately, needily, want me

to love you back - even though

you know that I'm just using you.

It's not that I don't love you,

I just can't.

Kateri Woody |kwoody66AT NOSPAMutica dot edu

*****

Settling the Matter

I think you'll agree that it's useless

to argue about who is the rubber

and who is the glue.

People often point out

my resilient qualities

and my springy disposition.

And your handshake

that one time, if you recall,

was quite sticky.

I know you had just been

kneading fresh bread dough,

but that is beside the point.

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

My insult poem (for the youngest among us):

An overcoat spoke to a coat of paint.

He said with conviction and little restraint:

"I cover a woman who wears a nice blouse."

"So what?" cried the paint, "I cover her house!"

(Toad Pizza poem #246 of 1,567)

Bill Toad of Toad Pizza |infoAT NOSPAMtoonutsproductions dot com

*****

Deadlines

make me panic

make me freeze

make me want

to do my laundry

run my dishwasher

count the ceiling tiles

anything but write

deadline pressure

delay and fret

until the

last

possible

moment

and then submit

then there’s

the whole

word count issue

don’t even

get me

started on that

TaunaLen |taunalenAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

INSULT POEM

your face is a dry river bed

with furrows wide and deep

your nose is warty and hairy

you snort while others sleep

your hair is sharp and wiry

with barbs made out of nits

your arms are big and saggy

we won’t even mention your …

chest

your intestines growl and grunt

you surely don’t have a heart

your back is pimply and rounded

and your hips are metres apart

your stomach reaches your toes

and your thighs could never part

your bottom’s as big as two mountains

you’re a very ugly old …

woman

Maureen |sajwriter06AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com dot au

*****

Insulting Sylvia Plath

We teenage girls all loved

a good suicide story. Belt noose,

waterlogged lungs, gas ovens,

The Bell Jar was our how-to

if we should want to push through

and blast a grand exit, though we never

did. We didn’t have to. What counted

was knowing we could have, if we dared,

this one small bit

of self-defeating agency.

But Plath was a poetic copout,

my teacher insisted, playing cheap, the tired

old trope of the lovely girl longing

for daddylove. Enough

with the depression, the pitymongering,

he said, look at Diane Wakowski

who showed us that at least

the world still has oranges in it.

But what teenage girl doesn’t feel

she’s got too little, or worse, too much

from Daddy? He’s an unreachable

shore, and we’re swimming till we drown,

either way. I like oranges, too, but

their sweetness is immaterial

when what you really want is not

daddy’s love so much as his power,

to grasp your tender life in your own hands.

Tria

*****

freshman deadline

date circled

topic chosen

followed by

late nights

researching

at the library

(insert panic attacks here)

piles pile up

notes piled between books

piled between more books

(insert lack of sleep here)

rough draft drafted

revised and cut

then final finalized

tuned in to wait

(insert

dread

regret

and

hours of second guesses)

for a grade

(and wishing

I had used

spell check)

satia |satia62AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

ROBOT INSULTS

He’s as dumb as an Atari 2600.

You couldn’t find your parallel port with both appendages.

She has a sensory receptor panel that could stop a chronometer at 6.75 meters.

The LED’s are on but there’s nothing contained in the housing.

He’s not operating with a full hard drive.

I wouldn’t network with you if you were the last compatible modular unit on the planet.

Go interface yourself.

Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net

*****

To the Joker, Love Harley

Yes, I hang on your every word,

laugh at your antics, throw myself

at you every chance I get.

And you think it’s all for the

nonexistent promise of your love,

your affection.

You fool.

While you spend your time trying

unsuccessfully to get rid of your worst

nightmare, the dark one, the one who

haunts your world, both waking and

dreaming, I take it all in. I watch and

learn. I know, one day, my chance

will come. What you think is a kiss

of passion, will be a kiss of death. The

death of your world, your mind, you.

I will take over.

It will all be mine.

And I will be so much better,

than you could ever hope to be.

Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Tax Relief, Tax Return

I'm an accountant's daughter,

so April 15th was always a holiday at my house.

My dad would re-materialize -

he'd stop staying out 'til six in the morning;

he'd stop spending so much time

with those overflowing piles of clients' files

and start challenging me

to Scrabble scrimmages and Monopoly matches,

he'd sit down to read the stories

I typed out for him on our old IBM 386,

and our miniature golf season

would at long last have its opening night.

But even now I'm grown and a hundred miles away,

I still think of Tax Relief as Father's Freedom Day.

Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Insult:

Two poets met at a pub

and after a ‘few’, their words began to rub

#1: I don’t like your assonance

#2: Well your misuse of tropes is quite flagrant

#1: Why don’t you take your iambic foot out of your mouth

#2: No wonder you can’t make a rhyme, your brain went south

The barkeep slammed down his fist and said, “I’ve heard quite enough”

Then the poets parted wondering why he had to be so gruff

Emily Blakely |ecblakelyAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

*****

Mad Love, Part Deux

It's not that I don't feel the pain

when your cackling laughter

goes on and on and on

every time you *think* you’re funny.

It's not that I don't feel the pain

at your pathetic double-crosses

as if green hair and a whoopee cushion

makes you the boss o’ me or somethin’.

It's not that I don't feel the pain

when you ignore all my propositions

to think about how to defeat Bats

without killin’ yourself.

It's not that I don't feel the pain

of you ignorin’ every smart thing I say,

or how stupid you are to think

I’ll come back to feed the hyenas.

It's not that I don't feel the pain

that you can’t stand,

like every other typical guy,

that I can be good as you.

It's not that you don’t love me,

Puddin,

but bein’ great on my own’s the

worst insult I could give.

Rox |babayagaAT NOSPAMbaymoon dot com

*****

Lifelines

These days no one asks for a daily report

to tally my accomplishments,

and I have no targets to hit, no papers due, no deadlines to meet.

There are no diners waiting for eggs-over-easy,

no coffee to pour,

no fish to fry,

no melons on the brink of spoiling in the truck I don’t drive.

There are no toddlers to lead through circle time, no envelopes to stuff,

I don’t have to chair the meetings I don’t attend, and

I am strategically planning for nothing in the coming six months.

I can spend the morning scouting nearby neighborhoods

for blossoming dogwoods and the first of the iris,

or lose an afternoon watching herons return to

their awkward roosts in the tops of tall trees.

Whenever I want, I can learn Italian, read those books piled by the bed,

practice the violin or take up Tai Chi.

And I will.

Just as soon as someone comes along and gives me a deadline.

Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu

*****

Taxing, 1985

It must have been unseasonably warm

in my small midtown room, a year

before I met Howie on Third Street

who wore thick glasses and didn't blink

at last minute taxes. Instead, I spread

numbers out on my bed until they swam

like fish, skittered like the cockroaches

cha-cha-ing in the kitchen. I inflicted

upon myself long division, multiple

multiplications, decimal places proliferating,

always adding up to something different,

always the same: not enough. Hours

after sunset, I came to some truce

of sums, carefully wrote in the boxes,

on the lines, and signed. Then I entered

the evening, went down to the thirties

where the big main branch of the Post Office

bloomed in the darkness, gold light spilling

from its windows and doors like exotic petals,

like portals to some ancient paradise,

and people streamed toward them

from all directions. Swept along in that current,

invited into that bright inside, I handed

over my envelope. Released,

I walked back down the wide stone stairs,

lifting ever lighter with relief, the city

opening into the April night.

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

April PAD Challenge: Day 29

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 13:39:13 GMT

Yay! So many of you have made it past the sestina! And I'm still alive, though I'm sure many of you no longer consider me your friend. ;)

It's nice to put in a very tough exercise every so often (don't worry, the final two days should be a little more relaxed). In fact, with the weather getting so nice around Southwestern Ohio the past week or two, exercise (the physical kind) has been big on my mind.

Way back in March, I must've known I'd be in an exercising mood, because the first "Two for Tuesday" prompt is to write a poem about exercise. For most people, you either love it or hate it. If you do exercise regularly, it would be interesting to know whether you do it for the end result (that is, good health, a trim physique, etc.) or the process itself (just because it feels good to move).

Prompt #2 is a little more open-ended for people who don't have any emotions whatsoever attached to exercise. For this prompt, I want you to write a poem in the 2nd person.

Here's my poem of the day (combining the two prompts into one poem):

"How to go running on an August morning"

Start off with some stretches. Do your legs
first, then your arms. Walk to your starting point
and begin with a light jog. Let your muscles and
lungs ease into a rhythm. Focus on keeping
your wrists and hands slack. Relax your shoulders
and bottom lip. After the first mile, lengthen
your stride while keeping your breathing balanced.
Listen to the birds. Keep your head straight.
Relax your shoulders, your hands, your bottom lip.
Focus on your next step, not on the finish line;
stay within yourself. After the fifth mile, pull
off your shirt. Feel the sun on your skin as it begins
to warm the earth. Imagine you are winning a race.
Imagine someone is only a few steps behind;
lose that person. Relax your shoulders but keep
up a fast pace. Do this through the finish line.

Day 14 Highlights

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 13:17:01 GMT

On Day 14, I asked you to write a poem with the title "This is how (blank) behaves" where you fill in the blank and go from there. Many people wrote about their hearts, their minds, their pets, and two people even wrote about Mr. Monk from that one TV show that I've never seen, though I've always thought it looks very interesting.

Enjoy the highlights.

*****

How Colorado Spring Weather Behaves

This April weather behaves

Like some mysterious stranger

Not willing to let you know

Who he is or what he’s up to.

Or like a naughty kid

Having a temper tantrum

With thunder and lightning one minute,

Sleeping peacefully with sunshine the next,

Then mischievously tricking you into

Thinking it will warm up soon, then it snows.

Or like an over-motherly mother

Telling you to put your sweater on,

The next moment telling you to take it off.

Or like a brooding teenager

All gray clouds one minute, sunshine the next.

Or a flirtatious tease

Urging you to come out and play in the sunshine

When there’s work to be done indoors.

Or like an irritating boss or teacher

Whose mind seems set to spoil your fun when

You try to have a picnic, but the blustery

Wind blows your plates and cups away.

This spring weather behaves like a schizophrenic,

Many personalities all wrapped up into one.

Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

How my Pen behaves

About thirty seconds after I’ve finished staring

at an indistinct spot roughly four feet seven inches from

the end of my nose and twenty million light years from reality my pen starts to move all by itself it seems, a spider-scrawl runs out of control back and forwards across the page faster than my eye can see much faster than my brain can think so I know it’s not me that’s in control and could write anything it could write prose or verse or worse combine the two

in something new that isn’t either and can’t be both cos that’s just wrong and sometimes it makes sense but even then I can’t read a damned thing when it’s finished and it’ll take three times as long to type out as it did to write

sometimes its gets a-musing which is amusing (sometimes) about philosophy and stuff like the meaning of life or Liff (which is a funny little book) like how or why

clever people would put household pets in metaphysical boxes and ask people whether they are in there or not, they should know, it’s like refrigerators

that’s the same thing, light on light off. Sometimes it turns out my pen has penned a stream of drivel and I’m glad it’s not my fault but I am scared that when I next open the fridge

I’ll have just killed somebody’s cat…

Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es

*****

How My Computer Behaves

Like a stubborn child,

my computer won't respond

when I click the mouse.

It's chomping away at

those binary bits, strings

of ones and zeroes

flickering faster than

my fingers can type,

turning on and off

and on again,

while I continue to click,

grind my teeth,

and swear.

Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com

*****

How My Left Ear Behaves

It doesn't, never has, there is

no use in trying a hearing aid

or cochlear implant or anything

else exciting science might dream up

because there is no nerve

within to transmit sound

so at concerts and ballgames and

when my husband revs up the

lawnmower motor, I have just

the right one to protect

and pamper, be extra nice to

and avoid damage; but

the "bad ear" gets treated

like a boring party guest.

If I ask you to sit on my

left at dinner one night, it might be

because I want to tune you out.

Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

How My Genes Behave

Cancer coarses through my bloodline.

And where we all once stood tall-

as anxious and eager as newly

planted trees, reaching out

with tiny arms to be cared for

and lifted up by Mother Nature-

we are now half of who we were.

When I was born I remember light

and life but then the divorce

epidemic struck. All the men fled

to drugs and death and the women

were too young and thin

and could hardly carry

milk in their breasts.

Someone twice-removed died

in the South, falling off a cliff

on a lawnmower. My grandfather was shot

by his ex-wife's new boyfriend. An uncle

tried to live by heart surgery

but then died of disease

in his blood.

The addiction to medication, self-help

and drink caught on early

for depressed cousins and brothers. Some

caught up in a cycle of sobriety

and relapse. Some of them

will die peacefully

in their sleep.

How sickness and the end

of everything

finds us while we are trying

to get through a day

destroys me with anger. But

anger is a disease with which

I refuse to live.

Leigh-Evelyn Martin |leightakescareAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

How Waldorf Salad Behaves

In its creamy bed of mayonnaise and sugar

and lemon juice

The crisp apples bite back at stalks of celery

and walnuts

Crunching with delight the flavors blend

to make a most delectable impression

maeve63 |maeveq63AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

How My Cat Behaves

She naps in the hall

I peek around the wall

She sees me

I duck back and hide

And she comes prancing

Around the corner

To find me;

The excitement

Of a three-year-old

Dancing in her eyes!

Anahbird |anahbirdAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

How My Hips Behave

As I was growing up

I put my hands on my hips

Loved the way the roundness

Would feel

And when the children

were babies

I’d swing them on my hips

Just to hear them squeal

Oh, how my hips

behave

They swell

With each sweet I eat

So I sway them

to tantalize

each man I meet

On future nights

they will cradle

my love to sleep

And during each day

He’ll think of me

rave about, and crave

the way my hips behave.

Carla Cherry |cmcmagiconeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

How my hands behave

Watching them work

is like discovering

a new species

at the ends

of my arms,

strange and curious,

like some form

of blind sea anemone

escaped from the depths

of the ocean

and attached itself

to my wrists

while I slept.

They seem restless

atop these warm keys,

nervous and twitching

between typing these words,

wanting to curl around

the cold comfort

of a bottle

and the familiar

movement of embracing

numbness.

Often it seems

as though they move

independent of my mind,

idly twisting a lock of my hair,

scratching an itch

I didn’t realize was there,

bunching into fists

or stretching,

popping knuckles

to relieve the stress

of arthritic over-use,

searching the contents

of my jacket pockets,

tracing the contours

and textures of a Zippo lighter,

wiping the gunk

out of my sleepy eyes,

or digging the extra skin

out of my inflamed ears.

They must love my beard,

for I find them there

most often

tangled in the coarse

black and gray,

massaging the jaw-line

of my stoic face,

probably sick

to death

of having nothing better

to touch.

Jay Sizemore |vader655321AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

How Canadian Geese Behave

Eight thousand feet up.

Fifteen hundred miles a day.

Sixteen hours at a time.

The lead bird takes the brunt of the wind,

making the flock 70% more efficient.

When he tires, another takes his place.

If two flocks meet, there isn’t a standoff

or a board meeting or a coup, they merge

seamlessly and keep on flying.

When a goose is injured, a few comrades

stop flying and stay until it gets better.

They mate for life.

They honk, my pastor says, not to toot

their own horn, but to encourage each another.

He urges us to honk a little more.

Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

*****

How Plastic Wrap Behaves

Like your embarrassing Uncle Mike,

it clings to everything you don't want it to,

especially your fingers.

And no matter how hard you try,

it refuses to hold onto the important things,

lets go, calmly watches them slip

from its grasp.

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

How my lusting eyes behave:

Green like grapes cut in half,

forty and flashing they haven’t forgotten

how it felt to gaze

Into blue, brown, hazel pairs.

so on introduction

they move of their own accord

not to lips or face or brown, red, black hair, no hair at all,

but that third finger on the left hand

with its circular symbol of rebuff.

Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu

*****

How My Memory Behaves

Like aged lovers, too many years together,

we bicker over the details.

I learned long ago you have your faults,

but joined as we are, I can’t grudge them.

We take walks down that proverbial lane

and you dawdle, you lollygag,

you stop to smell a flower that looks familiar

but you won’t tell me the name.

And when I call you to my side

with a question, sometimes

your eyes glint—impish elf!—

and you withhold. Other times,

not so proud, you pull

the answer from a dusty shelf.

But my favorite times are the ones

when you close your eyes, you know

you knew once upon a yesterday,

but can’t for the life of you

recall when. Later, you’ll wake me

from sleep, eager, smiling, to give

the answer to a forgotten question.

We will grow old together—

sit on the swing swaying forward

and back, back and forwards again,

laughing at how much we can’t remember.

Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

How the Bird Behaves

I saw a bird go flying,

Flying through the air,

Riding on a morning breeze

Without a single care.

He glided through the sunlight,

Landed on a tree,

Pulled a song out from his heart

And chirped the melody.

I stood beneath the branch,

Admiring him there,

When the happy singing bird

Put droppings on my hair!

Damn, bird!

Linda Hofke |LNSHOFKEAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

April PAD Challenge: Day 28

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 14:35:09 GMT

I was distressed to read the following message in the comments for yesterday's prompt this morning:

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

Emily Blakely |ecblakelyAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

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

*****

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

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

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

* It's a poem consisting of 7 stanzas.

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

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

* They rotate in the following pattern:

1-End Word 1

2-End Word 2

3-End Word 3

4-End Word 4

5-End Word 5

6-End Word 6

7-End Word 6

8-End Word 1

9-End Word 5

10-End Word 2

11-End Word 4

12-End Word 3

13-End Word 3

14-End Word 6

15-End Word 4

16-End Word 1

17-End Word 2

18-End Word 5

19-End Word 5

20-End Word 3

21-End Word 2

22-End Word 6

23-End Word 1

24-End Word 4

25-End Word 4

26-End Word 5

27-End Word 1

28-End Word 3

29-End Word 6

30-End Word 2

31-End Word 2

32-End Word 4

33-End Word 6

34-End Word 5

35-End Word 3

36-End Word 1

37-End Words 1 and 2

38-End Words 3 and 4

39-End Words 5 and 6

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

Here's my sestina for the day:

"On the fly"

I am a big fan of eating Lemonheads,

little yellow spheres tasting like a kiss

on a summer day while sitting on a bench

and enjoying the words of some expert

on how to be true and love me tender,

maybe while watching the birds fly

overhead and swatting away a fly

or two. That is, I think Lemonheads

are worth more than they're tendered

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

but I'm also not some dime-store bench

warming philosopher. I can bench

my weight in mistakes and open flies,

because I've always been one to expect

the need for a Plan B. That is, Appleheads

taste even better and led to my first kiss

in a long time--and at a very tender

moment. Maybe I'm just too tender-

minded. Maybe I should sit on the bench

of whatever court decides good kissing

practices. Maybe I should check my fly

before starting any hot talk on Lemonheads.

Maybe I should leave it to the experts.

After all, they are supposedly the experts

for a reason, right? I wonder if they tender

a smooch for the same price as Lemonheads.

I wonder if they set some kissing bench-

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

just something we do without thinking: A kiss

on the cheek counting as much as a kiss

with tongues is blaspheme, whether experts

declare or not. One needs wings to fly

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

a bright flaming star, a burning bench

where once I enjoyed eating my Lemonheads.

And the Lemonheads will always lead to kisses

on hot benches with or without the experts

to approve the tender moment of wanting to fly.

Day 13 Highlights

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 13:29:15 GMT

With Day 13's poems, I got the best of both worlds: poetry and music. I asked you to write a poem that's inspired by a song or lyrics from a song. Most of the music that inspired you was already known by me, so I found myself often humming the songs as I read your poems. Lots of fun, for sure.

Anyway, have fun reading (and humming) the highlights.

*****

Southern Paradise

Inspired by Song in C by Cary Hudson

“…takes a swig of whiskey

And decides

He says boys

This here’s parardise”

The smell of catfish frying in the hot oil

Hushpuppies bubbling up to the top

Fills the night air with a heavenly aroma

Making the men hungry.

The beers iced down

Getting colder and colder,

Better and better

Making everybody thirsty.

Jimmy Ray picks up his guitar

Plays a song about his dog.

Some of the men want to tear up

But don’t.

They shake their head instead

Grab one of those cold beers,

Some a nip of whiskey.

Because most of them knew that dog.

Songs like that cut straight to the matter,

No doubt about it.

Jimmy Ray picks up the pace a bit,

Plays a song about his truck, the girl that left him.

The men really like that one.

She was such a bitch.

The night goes on

Them sitting around the fire

Cooking up good food

Playing songs about life

Enjoying their southern paradise.

patti williams |pwilliamswriterAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Going Home

Inspired by "Blue Bayou"

(Roy Orbison & Linda Ronstadt)

The ancient Cyprus stand patiently.

Their branches, gnarled with age,

draped in tattered gray shawls of moss.

Gators float lazily in the sluggish pools,

waiting for dinner to swim by.

Catfish snuggle into the muddy creek bottom,napping in the heat of the day.

Here and there a sunbeam slips through the dark green canopy.

The small shack is dark..listing slightly on it's wobbly stilts.

It is afternoon on the Bayou.

Quiet, sleepy, waiting...for me to come home.

Glenda Widger

*****

Luckiest

“I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong, that I know I am… the luckiest.” –Ben Folds

I feel like I'm apologizing more and more

these days for the past I treasure, but,

I'm sorry that I defaced public property

to propose. I'm sorry I thought the best

way to explain how you've affected me

was to write a poem about erosion (you).

I know it may not've been the most tactful

approach to a proposal, calling you erosion

then graffiti-ing up Balboa Park that Thursday

when Nepalese police shot labor strikers

entering Katmandu, and the Solomon islands

rioted deep into the night, but you said yes.

The only explanation for the Nepalese

and the small island's full-scale riots I can figure

is that we offset the global equilibrium, somehow,

with the weight of exuberancy I carried

as we walked to the Prado, engaged.

We left the world slightly off-balance.

And I couldn't help but feel a little jealous,

when Ben Folds claimed to be the luckiest,

when the backyard was dimmed to table-candle

light, and we swayed to the music, half-dancing

and half just feeling the world rushing us toward

tomorrow, and the next day and the next day,

and I swear, it'll take an icepick lobotomy to remove

that moment from the tight clutches of my brain.

So don't even think about it, Ben,

that song belongs to me now.

Zebulon Huset |zebulonhusetAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

3 AM

"It was 3 AM when I heard the sound"

Jonathan Coulton-"The Big Boom"

By the time we heard the sound

it was already too late.

We knew that more were bound

to suffer Michigan's fate.

In the mindless din of screams

and stray car alarm peal

we watched as the stuff of dreams

brought a nightmarish ordeal.

The rising of the sun

just made the sight more appauling

as we heard that one by one

all of the cities were falling.

Now forced to move by night,

just one thing is understood.

We've all given up the fight,

hope is now gone for good.

John H Maloney |callentureAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

“Peace Train”

(“Now I’ve been smiling lately, thinking about the good things to come; And I believe it could be, something good has begun.” Cat Stevens)

Dad and I sang it in the car,

on the way to school,

every morning.

And, as a child,

it sure was easy to believe.

(Of course,

it’s easy to smile when

riding bikes,

drinking from honeysuckles,

and singing with a cool dad is your life.)

Life gets older,

things get colder.

and bills,

and arguments,

and “what are we going to do?”s take over.

And yet, in my mind,

I can hear our voices.

They sing to me as a reminder

that life is oh so good.

Especially when you still have a father,

and three daughters,

who you sing Cat Stevens with.

Cheryl Wray |cherylwritAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

The following prose poem was inspired by The Birds' Turn Turn Turn which was, in turn, inspired by a passage in Ecclesiastes. I am dedicating this to my mother who broke her Bird's lp accidentally and who has not forgotten the lyrics.

To Everything There Is

This is the season of forgetting. You send me emails with details that cannot align themselves with the stars of our past; the experiences you have had that cannot have ever been. Later when I enter your room you look blinking, pulling a memory that will tell you I am your daughter. I read to you from books until you fall asleep and your lids flutter. Do your memories come out to play in your dreams or are your dreams as confused as you are when you lean over my shoulder to try to discern the words you yourself taught me to read when I was the child, confused and grasping to find meaning in the glyphs, trying to remember the sounds of letters. When I visit and your face shows you know me, I forget not to cry and want to say a child being held instead of letting you go ever.

satia |satia62AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

LOVE SONG ON THE INNER LOOP

“This could be the end of everything…”

--Keane, “Somewhere Only We Know”

Wipers smear, taillights flicker red,

then fade; the world a greasy rainbow residue.

She sips tepid coffee as the radio

drones its headlines into tinny white noise -

Gunman opens fire, Marines press to remove Iraqi

forces, Turks angry over House genocide vote –

then segues into scratchy guitar wails

of unrequited love that curls

through a grey crush of monotony.

The familiar yearning flames from her gut

to her chest, catching her mid-sob. The sky opens;

God slices through the lifting fog

in brilliant gilded diagonals; for a perfect instant,

the City’s towers puncture the horizon,

shimmer into opalescent minarets, the receding cloudbank

transmutes into snow-capped pinnacles.

She smiles through her sip, and her heart

wings East, over the ocean to another continent.

To him.

Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

(Inspired in part by Hurt - Johnny Cash version)

Feel

I sit alone, always alone, speaking to no one,

talking to myself. I cut my skin, trying to feel

something, anything. Even pain is better than

this absolute nothing. Can you hear my cry for

help? You see the marks on my arm. “Why did

you do that?” You ask. “I don’t know.” My reply

is quiet. I wait for the yelling. “Shouldn’t do that.

It’s stupid.” You turn back to your coffee, fixing

your makeup. I watch you. I want to be you, cold,

aloof. I return to my room, listen to the music of

your youth. Old records that try to speak to me. I

cut my skin, and wonder if these records made you

feel.

Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

When I’m 64

I must remember to remind

my children not to let me

wear white anklets and plastic shoes

not to mention a flowered muu-muu

even when no one is at home.

Renee Goularte |share2learnAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net

*****

Winning Glory

"Glory days well they'll pass you by

glory days in the wink of a young girl's eye"

Bruce Springsteen

Basketball

physical game, mind game, winning game,

not just a game,

an all consuming struggle to the pinnacle of success.

Play the game on and off the court.

Be on top of your game

front the post, box out, take a charge,

sprint to the help, rebound,

stand alone on the foul line

she shoots, she scores.

The roar of the crowd,

adrenaline pumping,

fast break, take it to the hoop.

The buzzer sounds

game over,

defying gravity

the team remains unbeaten.

Cameras flash

team pictures,

smiles through tears,

the Lady Spartans pose

arms linked,

state champion medals around their necks,

standing for a moment in the glory days.

LBC |lcaramanAT NOSPAMtwcny dot rr dot com

*****

The Highway is a Clogged Artery Through the Heart of it All

"And you wake up

to the sound of a horn

that reminds you

that you're not dead"

-- "Traffic" - Chad VanGaalen

I am well-travelled

but only between

the same

two cities; I am

a master

of highway

hypnosis

My car

radio has been

asleep for two

years, I have too

much time

to think about

how many

people are passing

by with bodies

in the trunk

In Ohio

it is orange

barrel season: every

inch of us

is under

construction

with broken

roads

and hearts

In the fast

and slow

and stop

and go

again

we are large

eyesores

running quickly

out of gasoline

And even

in the right

direction

I am headed

the wrong way

k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

So let go, jump in,

what you waiting for?

It’s all right

cause there’s beauty in the breakdown-

It’s so amazing here

Let Go by Frou Frou

Let go

I want to turn the left side on my brain off-

unclasp the heavy buckle

that binds my heart closed,

swing doors and windows wide

to sun and breeze,

rush of love in and out;

I want to live at the centre

and breathe everything.

Jacquie Wareham |wareham dot jacquieAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

"Go ahead with your own life leave me alone"

(Billy Joel--My Life)

It wasn't my first affair, but it was my first divorce.

Fall of 1978.

I was driving down the highway from my disastrous job

With Billy Joel filling my head

When that old American Motors Eagle caught fire.

I grabbed a blanket from the backseat

(you can imagine why that was there),

jumped out of the car and opened the hood.

Flames were all over the engine.

I just started beating them with the blanket yelling

"I don't care what you say anymore this is my life!"

The flames died.

I started the car and drove on home

for the last time.

The flames were dead.

Nathan Everett |nwesignaturesAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

April PAD Challenge: Day 27

Sun, 27 Apr 2008 12:58:04 GMT

Well, we're working our way closer to the end. After we finish today's prompt, only three days will separate us from finishing this April PAD Challenge. On May 1, I plan to give a recap of the month and some details of how we can keep this community going beyond April. Something to keep an eye on.

Today's prompt is to write a poem that is only one-half of a two-person conversation, or what I like to call the "one side of a phone line" poem. I'm not even sure how well this is going to work out, but every once in a while, it's good to stretch ourselves and experiment a little.

While you could just get to typing one side of a conversation, it might be a good idea to write down some dialogue and then, cut out the person who is the least interesting. Anyway, as with all the prompts, be sure to have fun with this one.

Here's my poem for the day:

"Really?!?"

Hello?
Oh. It's you.
I didn't mean.
Whatever. Why did you call anyway?
Really?!?
He's a fool. Doesn't he--
Well, yeah!
Obviously.
He doesn't ever listen, and he's going to learn--
Really?
That's so--
I don't understand.
Oh. Well, yeah. If that's the case, then--
Better to just leave him on the side of the road.
Sometimes, you just gotta get tough.
No, really.
Next time he--
Well, next time he--
Okay. Call me back later then. I've got a lot more to say on him.
Yeah, bye.

April PAD Challenge: Day 26

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 13:26:08 GMT

Today's prompt is to write a poem with the title of "I'm so over (_____)." You get to choose what you're "so over" with, and write a poem about it. I'll be looking forward to reading these.

Here's my poem for the day:

"I'm so over commuting to work."

In getting up at 5:30 in the morning
to beat rush hour traffic. $3.59
for a gallon of gasoline is highway
robbery. For real. As in, I'm driving
on the highway, and my name is Robert.

April PAD Challenge: Day 25

Fri, 25 Apr 2008 14:33:59 GMT

A few times this month, I've felt like the forces working around my daily life are keeping track of my prompts (most of which I had set in stone before April started). For instance, I wasn't able to get Day 13's highlights up this morning (look for them on Monday), because my Clark Kent persona as a mild-mannered editor of Writer's Market had some indexes to go over late last night. Sometimes work just gets in the way of having fun and saving the world, I guess.

Anyway, the reason that is relevant to today's prompt is that we need to write an occupational poem today. You can write about your own occupation or that of another. Had a favorite job from the past? A least favorite job? A funny story from a job? Consider these questions before tackling your poem today.

Personally, I've held many jobs over the years, including baby-sitter, paperboy, bus boy, dishwasher, art gallery attendant, youth counselor for the City of Moraine, cashier, ice cream scooper, canvasser for a windows & siding company, night time stocker at a department store, and--being entrepreneurially inclined--I've had several odd jobs through the years as well. But I ultimately decided to write today's poem based off my experience working at a car factory making struts one summer.

Here it goes:

"Waking up in the evening"

They brush their teeth and dress
before flocking to the parking lot
protected by barbed wire fencing
and a wide open gate. One by one,
they swipe their cards and move
though the turnstile, cross train
tracks and plug their ears against
the sound of metal on metal,
a cocoon to keep them safe from
the harsh realities of the situation:
While others sleep, they labor
over machines in a repetitive
thrum of this piece here affixed
to that piece there and move
it on to the next station and
back to this piece here affixed
to that piece there until a machine
breaks and throws off the units
for the day. Then, the foremen
shuffle around and fuss at them
to remind them they're no better
than a machine. They defiantly
put up with the abuse until
it's time to go home, driving
the against the traffic caused
by the others, the people
who sleep while they work.
When they get home, they
take showers and have trouble
getting themselves to sleep.

April PAD Challenge: Day 24

Thu, 24 Apr 2008 13:40:23 GMT

Today's prompt is to use a photograph to create a poem. You can raid your dusty photo albums, look through your daily newspaper, scour the Internet, etc. But you must use a photograph. Them is the rules, yo!

(Sorry for the brevity today, but my book is soooo close to being done!)

Here's my poem for the day:

"Take a picture; it'll last longer."

She smiles at me through the mirror
applying her makeup with a towel
wrapped around her hair. She's dressed
for the office, and I haven't decided
upon my Manhattan game plan while
she's out. She's wearing a green sweater
pulled over a white button-down, and
I say, "I love you," before pressing
the button, waiting for the flash.

Day 12 Highlights

Thu, 24 Apr 2008 13:25:26 GMT

You were asked to write an apology poem on Day 12, but I want to start off by saying, "Thank you," for all the great poetry written on this day. Good poems are usually marked by a great degree of honesty (even when making things up) and fearlessness on the part of the poet. These poems were very truthful and close to the bone. For instance, I didn't realize so many women have thoughts of punching people--the things poetry teaches us. But seriously, there were some funny poems in the bunch, but also some that were truly heartbreaking. Thank you for writing them.

I also want to thank Amy Cornell for sharing this prompt with her women's writing circle at the Monroe County Corrections Center in Bloomington, Indiana.

Here are the day 12 highlights.

*****

#12

I atone…

I admit…

I regret…

I repent…

I confess…

I am sorry…

I am guilty…

I apologize…

I didn’t mean…

I am ashamed…

…it’s a beginning.

Are you listening?

Never mind. I need

to say it

even if you don’t need to hear it.

Cara Alson |csalsonAT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

*****

Inconsiderate Acts

I'm sorry snail, I didn't see you sliding across the sidewalk like a wad of butter on a slowly warming skillet. I'm sorry mailbox lock, for missing with my key and scratching your chrome. It's such a small key. I'm sorry mail key, for calling you small. You aren't small, you're compact. That makes you more efficient. I'm sorry house key, I understand the mailbox lock's smaller than door lock, and that he'd break off his teeth trying to muster the strength to move that heavy, oh, right, heavy and stiff deadbolt. (Yes, mail-key, I know that he's full of himself, I'm sorry for placating him, but if he decides to run off I have to call a locksmith and they don't accept apologize. The last one I called wouldn't even take a check.) So, so sorry, morning, for stepping on your sidewalks, I'll try to be more considerate in the future.

Zebulon Huset |zebulonhusetAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Sweet Nothing

I'm sorry you feel that way

was what you said

then later claimed that

as a true apology

As you slept

I wrote the note

and taped it to the

bathroom mirror

Sorry I didn't wake you

to say good-bye

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

I'm sorry I went back into the bar

after chatting over the bed of my

truck for 20 minutes. We went back

in and drank a bit more, then ended

up back at my place...

He never told me about you -- the

current wife, just spoke about

the bitch ex-wife, assuming I knew

about you. When I came onto the

scene, after you left,

after you were too pregnant to

train any longer. If I had known

about you, it would never have

happened, I never would have

been so sick at heart

at what I'd inadvertently done,

all unknowing. I would never

have impulsively left town to

visit my alma mater, my ex-room

mate and his new digs

and I would have never met the

man who would become my husband

that second time. I wouldn't

have been dive bombed by that

wasp or gone to the

emergency room and been given

prescription Benedryl, which

loosened my tongue enough to

disarm his sense of humor. So

I'm sorry you

still don't know. I'm sorry about

the whole screwed up situation. I'm

sorry it happened with your husband.

But I'm not sorry it ended up

with mine.

A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Letter of Apology

Dear John (or rather Robert),

I readily confess

That I partake of your challenge

But fail to pass the test.

I could blame it on my two jobs

Or my need for family time,

I could say my dog ate my homework.

Would that excuse work online?

I could plead I missed three days

'Cause I was subject to the flu,

I could argue I'm not a poet,

I'm just trying something new.

I could say that I am sorry,

I could post it on my shelf,

For it's not you I have let down...

I apologize to myself.

Linda Hofke |LNSHOFKEAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Sorry

I hope the consequences will be slight.

Sorry for not posting on here last night.

I was out to last call -

it was Friday and all,

so if I penned a poem, it'd be shite.

Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Sister

She’s still there, whether

I talk to her or not.

Whether I pick up the phone

and try to cross the bridge

that’s been bombed.

It wasn’t us—

we both agree—

but still, the bridge is gone

and I haven’t rebuilt it

with telephone wire.

Kimberlee Thompson |kthompsonAT NOSPAMpatmedia dot net

*****

Yellow

Sepia stains this house -

and you - with time passed,

time mourned, choices made

or not. Of fingers

jaundiced and shrunken,

swirling amber nectar,

ice clacking to moments

metered by the hissing

thump, thump, thump of air

coursing via canal,

to make red what’s blue

in you, now yellowed,

smoky-scented, canyon-

carved, starving for space

enough to utter

“I’m sorry.” But the tip

just flares, then fades. You

gasp, and all goes black.

Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Why I’m late

I left in plenty of time but

There was a train,

I had a flat tire,

My mom/sister/doctor called,

I was detoured,

I forgot my purse,

There was an accident,

The dog ate my homework,

(Sorry, wrong excuse list),

I would have called but

My cell phone battery

Was dead…

Oh heck, I just didn’t leave

Early enough. I’m sorry.

Lyn Sedwick |LASMD925AT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

The Lackluster Apology

I'm sorry that I have the energy

To smile and rub your shoulders

I'm sorry that I enjoyed my day

That I delight in the new flowers

The silly thing our son said

The bliss of going for a walk with a friend

That I have the time to make your life simple

And full of love and peace

That I am not miserable and having crazy days

Like you

That I'm clearly not as important as someone

Who has impossibly difficult days

And mountains of pressure and frustration

Over and over and over again

But mostly I'm sorry that you don't

Remember

How it was when I was stressed, fried

And miserable too

And the tension between the two of us

Just about broke us in two

And when I told you to stop buying things

That you ignored me and said "it's a homerun."

And now it's a headache

And that you still don't see it

But I'm not sorry that you're a dreamer

A risk taker, and an artist and still

The handsomest man I know

SaraV |slvinasAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

You're sorry?

You said you were sorry

For ending it all

On Valentine’s Day.

Well, just why

Were you sorry?

For keeping me waiting

In a car with no heat

While the petals

On the roses I’d

Brought for you froze?

For leaving out the

Notebooks filled

With love letters

I thought were for me

Until I read a little deeper?

For not having the guts

To look me in the eye

And say, “It’s Over.”

Instead, calling collect.

(Of course I accepted the charges.)

Or simply for the

Shoddy cliché of it all.

Dumped on Valentine’s Day.

Now there’s a rejection

That keeps on giving.

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

I wasn’t there

but I was there…

trapped in the body

of an eight-year-old child,

my short fingers capable

of sending my toys

to imaginary graves,

but not stopping

the tears

from streaming

down my mother’s face,

not stopping the faceless

fist from tangling

in her long blonde curls

and dragging her from my room

and down the hall.

I can still hear her screaming.

I can still hear the voice

of the monster

calling her bitch,

telling her he is going to

get out his knife,

he is going to

cut the baby

out of her guts,

telling her she will never

leave him again.

I can still hear the thud

of his fist in the wall

and the struggle

as she fights her way

back out of the darkness.

Moonlight falling in

through the rectangular windows

of this small trailer

in the Kentucky woods,

my sister and I

curled under the blankets

of our separate bunks

and held our breath,

our immature minds

incapable of knowing

that we could be hearing

the sounds of

our mother about to die.

But the light came on,

and with a flurry of shouts

and sobs we were in the truck

and gone,

leaving the demon

alone to destroy

everything that could be broken.

I was too young.

I couldn’t say

don’t go back,

I didn’t know

my sister’s innocence

was under attack,

I didn’t know

the words “abuse”, “sexual”,

or “victim”,

but I felt

deep down

a sense of wrong.

I’ll never understand

why she did it,

believed his apologies and lies,

left me for a year

to live with my grandparents,

while they moved back

into a different trailer

in a different town,

why he was allowed

to hold my baby brother

in his tainted hands.

I wasn’t there

but I was.

I’m sorry I wasn’t old enough

to know how to load a gun.

Jay Sizemore |vader655321AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Apology

I ran all the way

Through the rain,

Splashing in every puddle

'Til there was mud to my knees,

Hair plastered, heart pounding,

Lungs bursting, tears choking,

Ran all the way home.

I'm sorry. So sorry.

Sorry I went anyway when

You said you'd be busy;

Sorry I saw her there.

Sorry I saw you together.

Sorry I believed you,

Believed in us. Sorry.

Shirley T. |sat50AT NOSPAMtogether dot net

*****

Explanation

Forgive the laughter--

it bubbled up

from my toes

and spilled out

over my lips

and had nothing

to do with

your coming in.

Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

April PAD Challenge: Day 23

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 14:12:22 GMT

It's hard to believe that a week from today I'll be posting the last prompt of the month. We're already almost a month older than we were at the end of March. Time just continues to fly by--even in a poetry challenge, huh?

Well, today's prompt is sympathetic of the fact that time continues its march and that things continue to change and stay the same all at once. Today's prompt is to write about getting older.

No matter your age, everyone gets older with every. single. second. and. heart. beat. Seriously, even my 4-year-old laments over how he's getting older and misses the good old days of not going to preschool and having "to learn stuff."

So, you can lament over your glory days, express your insecurities of being in transition, or brag about how you're at the perfect age to live life completely content (lucky you). I'm guessing y'all will have a lot of fun with this one.

Here's my poem for the day:

"Today"

"Your hard work will pay off today."
-Fortune Cookie

Sometimes I wonder if today is the day
that everything comes together, and I
get the raise and the girl and the parade
through downtown. Is this when I get
my "pay off" for trying? But then, I think
maybe my "pay off" comes every day.
Maybe it's simply the process of getting
from here to there. Maybe my "pay off"
is hard work and two boys who love me,
that moment outside the laundromat
late at night, listening to her voice and
the stillness of a spring evening suddenly
broken by bikers cruising the streets
on their hogs. I'm still just a teenager
at heart and in love with the world, but
sometimes I wonder if today is the day.

Day 11 Highlights

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 13:47:08 GMT

Paper clips! There were a lot of paper clip poems written on Day 11--when I asked you to write a poem describing a thing. Actually, I found that your focus on description led to some really, really great poems. One of my favorites, in fact, is a poem about--you guessed it--the paper clip "Bent into a 'u', then bent again,/another 'u' into itself, this bit of wire/we entrust to keep our documents secure." Check out all of today's highlights below.

*****

Calendar Above My Desk

Every month a new world

bubbling brooks

scarlet sunsets

sailboats idling in the harbor

words like

Winnipesaukee

Ammonsoosuc

Mt. Monadnock

days morph into months

months yearning for vacation

a glance up from my monitor

is a journey away from here

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Everything Must Go

In the parking lot, behind the dollar general, at 2

in the afternoon, a young man thrust hands

into pockets of an old three-button suit fit

for someone half his size—as if he might

have fished it from a thrift-store or a pile

of clothes at a yard-sale, estate sale, auction

for the peeling home behind the elementary

school where people pick and peck at tables

on the outgrown lawn, silent as hungry

blackbirds after grubs. Nobody looks

into windows, knocks on doors. Nothing

to see here. Nothing they haven’t seen before

on every street in town. Another sign goes

up. Another. And someone gets a tax break

when they buy the place on Market for half

of what its worth. And damn, if they’d a let us

pay that price to start, we could a kept

the bastard. Or if the Ford plant didn’t move or if

And the walls ache empty as the stomachs

of strays who wade sunsplashed in river water

with a girl off route 222. Everything idles,

engines low on gas, turn, sputter out a grinding

song. Everything’s for sale. For rent. Fore

closed. Everything must go. And the young man

hums a melody that could be a spiritual, though

he doesn’t look like a boy to sing spirituals. Too

mod, too hip, too fashionably poor. And no-one

sings those old songs anymore, having lost the feel,

the touch that looks you up and down and says, “I know”

because we do. Or should. After all, it’s nothing

we haven’t heard before: the way we mutter

to ourselves, taking as we do what falls

to us with hands open as any supplicant’s. How

many doors swing idly in and out? And tell me who

wore the jackets we are wearing now?

Joel Peckham |joel_peckhamAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

The Nose

Well, as the old saying goes.

The thing you overlook’s your nose

A nose is such an odd looking thing

A bump, two holes, graced with wings

It blesses you with fragrant smells

Like cookies, lilacs, caramels

Or it curses you with things malodorous

Skunks, dirty diapers, a diesel bus

But above all, its kindest grace

Is to keep your glasses on your face

Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

WINDSHIELD WIPERS

Back and forth

back and forth

We wipe the tears of the sky

off the glass shield

to give you safer travels

while on slick roads

back and forth

We remove debris and dirt

that has piled up in your neglect to clean

as often as you should

back and forth

We grow weary from the frequent use

but keep going at whatever speed you choose

back and forth

You get frustrated with us because

we aren't as sharp as we once were

Smears and smudges leave a trail

because YOU refuse to keep us up

The next time you are squinting from the

glare of oncoming lights

because there is no more fluid

and we can't wipe the glass clean dry

maybe you'll decide to stop going

back and forth

without giving

CHANGING THE WIPER BLADES

a try!

Christa R. Shelton |c_writesAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

In Consideration of My Left Eye

Today will I consider my left eye.

Not my metaphorical eye,

nor the third eye my sister's friend

the astrologer says is wide open

even when I sleep. No, today

I will look directly into my own left eye,

taking into account everything I see.

First, my upper lid obscures the iris

unless I pretend to be surprised. The fine

window cracks of blood vessels in the whites

flow like mapped roads, driving beneath

the skin where I cannot follow.

On the inner wall of my pupil, beneath

the green ring which precedes the blue

for which I have received so much praise,

something geometric grows, straight, angled,

and a complete mystery. It catches the light,

making the study of whatever it is

quite impossible.

Approaching the mirror, I can see in the black,

the reflection of me, looking at myself. I am

small, as if I have captured myself, imprisoned

more than my reflection, more than myself.

When I turn and look straight at my eye,

I notice how part of my eyeball is darker,

almost jaundice. I pause to consider the line

between bright and dull, wonder if it cuts me

in half in other ways, intersects my life,

determines for me who I really am.

With nothing more to observe worth mention

inside my left eye, I think it best to avoid

the symmetry of my right eye, or perhaps

the disappointment of learning

they are in fact not the same as each other.

My final consolation is this:

At least I was, after all has been seen and said,

wise enough to avoid observing my nose.

Justin Evans |evjustinAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Moss

When we say “moss” in the South,

we specifically mean Spanish moss,

that kinky, grey wig that drips

from the old oak branches,

that red bug-infested parasite

that (with the smell of wet

cow pastures) reminds me of home.

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Manure

Every time you

spoil the lilt of my potpourri,

every time you stick to my feet or

my thoughts along

that path I want pristine,

I need to remember

that you are the Limburger cheese

behind all things verdant.

Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

*****

The Tree

stood in the front yard, next to its

brother on the other side of the

walkway. Small maples, beautiful

lush leaves. One of the reasons we

bought the little fixer-upper in the

first place, the nice visual at the

front door. One tree continued to

grow and thrive. The other seemed to

shrink into itself. As the seasons flew

by, the brother grew tall and strong,

while the sibling’s branches stopped

growing and curled up toward the

center. Then the bark started to peel

off, and we knew the end had come.

It was time to cut our losses and let

it go. I watched the saw cut into one

of the reasons we bought this small

fixer-upper and felt a sense of loss.

Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

The Treadmill

Symbol of my hope, my will,

rubber walk on frame of steel,

How I wonder how you feel,

my poor neglected treadmill.

She who walks you nowhere goes,

yet we keep you, I suppose,

not for walking, heaven knows.

I need a place to hang my clothes.

Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

*****

Paper Clip

Bent into a “u”, then bent again,

another “u” into itself, this bit of wire

we entrust to keep our documents secure,

has been attached to unexpected lore.

The story goes that some Norwegian

was the first to patent this invention,

and much later, in the Nazi occupation,

his countrymen wore paper clips

on their lapels, a secret solidarity

against the Reich and for their king.

Eventually this morphed into a symbol

of the Holocaust, and recently some kids

from Tennessee collected paper clips,

six million plus, to represent

the Jewish victims of that hellish time.

A humble turn of wire for a soul,

something we must fasten,

never to forget.

Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net

*****

Baby Fingers

Impossibly small

Perfectly formed

Lilliputian mimics

Of my ten digits

So tender and soft

Pink and clean

Translucent

Like a sea anenome

Exploring, reaching

Waving at the breeze

Giving my Gulliver sized

Finger a squeeze

SaraV |slvinasAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

his ear

shiny skin pulled tight over stiff cartilage

soft down covers boneless earlobe

the swirl and whirl of light and shadow follows

the sinuous curve which doesn't seem to end,

like a nautilus circling ever more tightly

around the auditory canal, which waits to

hear the words, "I love you..."

A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Spoon

It's a big and made of plain metal

with a wood handle worn by use,

by washing. It stirs the pasta

or the onions, the peppers in olive oil,

it serves wherever it is needed.

How bright the sun poured

as we walked out our new door,

under the thick leaves of old trees,

past the jail, circles of razor wire catching the light,

and onto the broad boulevard,

or that's what it was called.

Our first night in our first apartment

together, our first morning

and a trip to the diner for breakfast.

We lingered by the tables

of the church ladies' sidewalk sale,

and we bought this practical spoon--

our first utensil in our new life.

After two decades,

I'm on the other side of the country

and the husband has passed,

but the second-hand spoon keeps

its place in the drawer, more

treasured than the meat fork it came with

or the glass bowl I bought

when I was twenty, even

the colander handed down

from my grandmother

that has a dent and is missing

both handles and that I can almost

let go of. The spoon stays.

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

*****

My father’s shirt

My father’s shirt,

Soft brown cloth

The color of his cigars

When he smoked them

With the stitched deer head

On the pocket

That I’d snuggle

My cheek against

I snuck it from

The garage sale box

And wore it

For a few years

Now it’s folded

In my drawer

Sometimes

I take it out

To trace the stitches

On the pocket

And hold the worn cloth

Against my cheek again

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

My Parents’ Marriage

It will be 52 years this summer

And it is a hand played with finesse.

I watch them and soak them up,

Their fealty, concern for other.

How tenderly and diligently she

Cushions his world as the Parkinsons advances,

How dignified he is as his body cripples.

No trumping each other, though there were the years of that too,

Now transcended.

And when they were describing the accident

To me

(20 years ago, now?)

Each of them said, separately,

How when the car started to spin out of control

That they instinctively just

Reached

For the hand of the other, and held on.

No panic, like that, together.

Corinne |c dot dixonAT NOSPAMtelus dot net

*****

Canvas

What colors cast their spells

against this void of fabric

and gloss, blended from brushes

and thinners into magic potions

or portraits of the serene. Bleeding

fingertips of horses’ hair splash,

sling, and dapple, creating the shadows

and highlights, and highlights

inside the shadows of faces, of hands,

of trees. Reality is captured

or captured and bent through a diffuse

set of eyes and a prismatic lens

to give the world a taste and a glimpse

of something as pure and intangible

as a snowflake on the tongue.

It’s a hymen, a gateway, to all secrets untold,

but before that, it’s blank,

like this empty page, I filled with words.

Jay Sizemore |vader655321AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Sleek brown fox

peers over his shoulder

at his identical mate.

Ears sharply alert,

eyes deep and penetrating.

He poses with one paw

held in mid-air.

A sentry on my mantel;

Carved by great grandpa,

now guards our family.

Sue Bench |hd_ultra_96AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

and i will make you a mixtape

music holds

a history: i laugh

at my age

when a girl

asks me

about cassettes

and how

we used them

in the wayback

and bygone

era

i still

listen to tapes

and their hiss

and watch

as the toothy

gears spin

inside

the deck

the sound-

track of three

years

together and three

apart, the friendship

spanning

an ocean, a first

boyfriend, the saddest

songs known: all

recorded

magnetically

for me

and frozen

in time

i have sat

for hours

pushing record

and pause

to give someone

a rectangular, musical

reminder of who

we were

if only

for a little

while

sometimes

a love letter

finds its way

into the case

or a collage

from old

magazines

and sometimes

just the handwriting

from a friend: every

song inside

a little gift

k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

April PAD Challenge: Day 22

Tue, 22 Apr 2008 14:51:06 GMT

Today is Earth Day! Yay!

I think most people can agree that this planet is a good thing. However, wars are fought over how we should use it and/or live on it. So, today's "2 for Tuesday" prompts will play off the opposing sides of the environmental coin.

Prompt 1: Write a nature poem. This can about how much you love or hate nature. It can be optimistic or not so. You can write about global warming or about that time when a deer walked up so close you could almost pet it. I'll leave the specifics up to you, but it should be about nature.

Prompt 2: Write an industrial poem. This can be a poem about the benefits of transportation or the joys of urban living. It can cover technology, the comfort of cruising around in your car, etc. Of course, as with the nature poem, you can be optimistic or not so. I'll leave that up to y'all.

Here's my poem for today:

"It takes a car"

to get me there. And I walk along
a paved path before reaching
the post with green, red and blue
dots. The path becomes dirt
and rocks. My stride lengthens as
I head downhill toward the creek
that's perfect for wading in during
the summer. And I breathe deep,
realizing I can't hear any cars
or smell any exhaust. These trails
quiet my sense of anxiety, but
it takes a car to get here.

Day 10 Highlights

Tue, 22 Apr 2008 14:22:36 GMT

On Day 10, I asked you to pick a location and write about it. I feel so redundant, but these poems just keep getting better and better. Seriously. I actually had to do a couple rounds of cuts to get a manageable highlights list. Great job everyone! Here are the highlights.

*****

ROOM

Dirty jeans tossed on the green rug,

an old geometry test crumpled by the bed;

Harry Potter on the bookshelf,

and Western Philosophy by the computer,

fill the room by the attic stairs.

A few more months and he'll be gone,

but now the air smells of push-ups,

a first girlfriend, deoderant,

and Dr. Pepper.

Bed sheets are pulled from the mattress,

emo posters forgotten on the wall.

Red sneakers, white baseball caps,

black sweatshirts -

what's dirty? what's clean?

A mother's nightmare of a room;

will it disappear? will he?

ann malaspina

*****

where i am will always be

the city is simple:

a freckle

on a heart-

shaped state

anytown, usa

with a twist:

emilio estevez

once lived here

the litter of broken

glass sleeps

beside a dumpster

at night

and daytime

is a forecast

of grey and a 50%

chance of happiness

would we be

any different

if we wandered

anywhere else?

i change

my hair color

every few weeks

but no matter what

longitude

my chair sits on

home is still

that little river

city on a midwestern

map

k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Fear of Heights

In Battery Park

we board the ferry

boat blasting its horn,

ride across the chop

to Liberty's feet, climb

up and up, then

down and down

while the stairs

sway in the still air.

Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com

*****

Record Store

Brick-and-mortar dinosaur,

endangered species, whose habitat

is encroached by downloads,

mail-order websites and big-box

superstores – why am I still drawn

to it, why do I still walk right into

its welcoming mouth? It must be

the organized jumble, alphabetic chaos

of racks and racks of cases and sleeves,

CD’s and vinyl LP’s lined up

like thousands of ribs. What is it

about the air inside that renders me

amnesiac, forgetting everything else

to do in the world, as I flip methodically

through the rows, searching for treasure?

I could hunt for hours, the stack

of booty growing in my hands –

a used Miles Davis CD, a cut-out

copy of Bach cantatas, a mint-condition

vinyl of Dark Side of the Moon.

If the guy at the register plays

something I like, I could languish

all afternoon.. There’s something

real here, the slightly musty smell

of old records, the rainbow sheen of

the CD surface I inspect for scratches,

the lost art of the gatefold sleeve,

even just the heft of my catch,

that one can never get from watching

the crawling bar on a monitor

and the message, “Download Complete”.

Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net

*****

My Bathroom

Thank goodness walls can't talk.

These walls have seen me naked,

popping zits, throwing up in the toilet . . .

not all at the same time.

I keep my strawberry bubble bath

on the tub's ledge, seek solace

in its calming waters,

catch up on my reading,

work a few crossword puzzles.

This is where, tired of burned ears,

I learned to curl my own hair,

and later, to shave my legs.

This is where I first sat on the floor

as the now-familiar wave of nausea

that comes with migraines washed over me.

All my little soldiers line up

on the window sill,

the cucumber shampoo,

shea butter extra moisturizing body wash,

apricot face scrub, and the rebellious

razor that reclines where everything else

stands at attention.

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Backyard

I can see between

the blades of grass, never

cut short, soft to bare

feet, hand mower chuck-a-

chuck-a, the blades then

the release. Daddy never tries

to beat the dandelions—

good for making wine,

so we gather the little

sunshines for him and blow

away the ones turned shivering

white. Buttercups paint your

chin yellow if someone loves you,

says my mother, checking my

chin and smiling.

I tend my one row of sturdy

orange carrots. In fall I will collect

apples before they can turn to mush,

make butter and pies, breathe

the cinnamon steam.

All summer my big brother

shines like a sea animal,

all baby oil and swimsuit

in the lounge chair. In a family

of fair skin his turns to milk

chocolate while my own skin

quietly flakes away.

The grass is soft. I try to see

it from the insects’ point of

view and fear nothing.

Elizabeth K. Keggi |lilyclarissaAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Apartment 1

The day

begins with:

echos of life

racing down asphalt

warm coffee in hand

and not enough sleep.

and the pitter patter of neighbors' dogs

old couch cushions tilting

and my love handing out kisses

as we head out into the frey.

The night

ends with:

the next doors talking to loud

the across the courtyard

conversing on cellphones disregarding echo

while two floors up an argument flares.

In the alleyway

dog tags jingle

for one last

sniff before bed

and

inside this Apartment

is life

snuggling up for a

crime show episode

and dinner on the fly.

Jennifer Fagala

*****

Driving to Meet His Family

This is where, he says,

I lived until my parents were divorced.

He shows me his first school

as he takes me to

the only other home he’s ever known,

drives past the places of his childhood

points out where he first kissed a girl,

the school where he graduated before

settling down in his life. He brags about

the famous names that came from his hometown,

the third largest in his state, while I

try to remember how many places I called home.

I smirk at his pride, belittle it with

my descriptions of my big city memories,

moving from Chelsea

to the west side

to Alphabet City and,

very briefly, to Staten Island.

I mock his third biggest for being

Andy Griffith quaint but I don’t know

the exact location of where I had

my first kiss from a boy whose name

has also been lost in the crowd.

satia |satia62AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

“A Place In The Country”

The sound in the cafe was deafening

the clatter of dishes

the chatter of voices

human insects rubbing their legs together in unison

to create a symphony devoid of any real substance.

Yet somehow I felt comfortable inside this beehive

sucking in the energy from both inside the corner eatery

and from the world outside through the bright windows

and the parade of two and four-legged passersby

providing momentary diversions as they entered stage left

and exited stage right.

I thought of sitting in a country field miles from all this

and wondered if I would be more comfortable there

or if the quiet stillness would smother me.

A place in the country and a small city apartment

would be perfect for us she always said.

Now she was living in the country while I languished in the city

licking my emotional wounds, laughing at myself.

I thought she meant together.

Marcus Smith |sleeperdesuAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Up on Kail Road

Past the dark henhouse,

with its feathers in the corners,

the shed made by odds

and ends of two by fours,

and the plain white cabin,

past the line where the grass

was no longer mowed

and then to the top of the hill,

the pump that drew no water,

we ran through the sun

to the summer pond

with empty coffee cans,

waded into the water,

brown and green, warm

at the edges, cupped our hands

to catch the small frogs,

quick and as colorful

as gems that, left alone,

would sing to us all night.

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

*****

In The Tepee

A tepee is the Indians' pyramid, he said as

we lay staring up through the smoke-hole,

I spooned his ancient bones to keep him warm

while stars, turning in endless night,

fell to the fire and sparked gold

against deep red-grey coals,

shadows danced across the canvas,

the old man's stories braiding

dreams, memories and being, the smoke of

sage, sweetgrass, and cedar scenting the hides,

layering time in blue, curling tendrils

above the blankets and circle of stones,

knowing nothing would to be the same again,

I slipped my hand into Kipapanan's

and whispered to tell me more.

Lorraine Hart |lorrainehartAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Platform Attacks

13th Street Station

March 26, 2008

“36-year old Starbucks manager killed by group of youth,

(An asthma attack the official cause of death).”

Every second Wednesday,

I stood on this platform

At the same time of day.

Often I would stop at the victim’s store.

One night after Highwire Gallery

Spit us all out, post performances,

My husband pried me from a sidewalk

And inserted me into this station,

One part at a time,

Smoldering from street burn.

This very same March day, our friend,

An artist and musician was jumped.

The culprits did not take his new cordless drill,

Instead they broke his jaw, cracked his teeth.

Tunnel between 13th and 8th Street Stations

April 3, 2008

“12 youths rob and viciously beat 24-year old woman.”

I always refused to use the underground tunnels,

Especially when it rained or snowed.

The passages stretched too far

For any comfortable stroll.

They say this woman will recover.

She told police, "I have a headache

The size of Philadelphia.”

These girls and boys stole half her vision,

All of her belongings.

Every second and third Friday, I waited at 11 p.m.

At 8th street station. There were always youth,

But they were always attending our poetry series,

Not kicking a woman in the face for sport, or

Telling her to “watch her mouth.”

City Hall Station Platform

April 8, 2008 9:30 p.m.

“Woman is raped behind pylon.”

This was the scariest of all for me

As I walked alone from the Broad Street line

Onto this platform exactly one hour before.

Police say that this woman recanted her story,

But it still makes me shake every evening.

I used to say that as soon as

I get into SEPTA concourse, I am safe.

The Philadelphia night seemed much worse.

Now the city seems so hollow,

Gnawed out by rats, decorated by pigeons,

Skyscrapers that spell out Phillies light shows.

When I ascended to Fifth Street last night,

I felt my pulse in my feet,

My eyes survey a few times faster,

Shelter seems an anxious flashback.

Bonnie MacAllsiter |bmacallisterAT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

*****

Virtual Rock on Cape Cod

Flat planes shine in the sun

Inviting me to sprawl and

Spread out my Sunday newspaper.

My rock is surrounded by dark blue water,

And under the surface,

Yellow-green Fucus stems

And pretend-leaves swirl

And breathe in the soft

Surf of the Buzzard’s Bay.

My body takes up the rock’s heat,

Warms within as it bakes

without in its own right.

I give up on the newspaper

after the book review.

I lie on my stomach

And watch the tiny

Snails navigate the Fucus,

Watch the algae dance

Their minuets in rhythmic surges

Feel at one with the water..

Laural |lhoopesAT NOSPAMpomona dot edu

*****

Dog Park

Airedale anarchy

Beagle bedlam

Corgi chaos, collie commotion

Dachshund din

Elkhound excitement

foxhound fuss

Husky hullabaloo, Havanese hue and cry

Labrador lawlessness,

Malamute mayhem, Mastiff melee

Newfie noise

Poodle pandemonium

Rottwieler racket, Ridgeback rumpus

Samoyed scuffle

Terrier tumult

Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

April PAD Challenge: Day 21

Mon, 21 Apr 2008 14:17:22 GMT

Today's prompt requires that you do a little snooping. That's right: I want you to write a "snooping" poem today. Basically, you need to write a poem that incorporates a bit of overheard dialogue (can be in real life or off the television) or even a quote taken from a news story online (if you happen to be a hermit).

If you're not a recluse, then venture out to places where people are: grocery stores, malls, college campuses, cinemas, airports, post offices, etc. This is the perfect excuse for you to be among the people. And once among the people, don't worry about socializing; instead, listen until you have something that makes you want to write.

Here's my poem for the day (with quoted material snatched from co-workers this morning--used in an entirely different context, of course):

"The Pickpockets"

We gathered late at night
and looked over our collections:

a few wallets, some watches,
a very moving memoir

about a man who changed his life
while conquering his fears

by accepting the fact
all people have flaws.

We could definitely relate,
but when Sally's turned out pockets

once again revealed only lint,
one of us yelled out,

"She hasn't been trying, has she?"
Then, we set in upon her--

knowing what must be cut loose
to strengthen the pack.

Day 9 Highlights

Mon, 21 Apr 2008 13:57:25 GMT

On Day 9, I asked you to pick a word (any word) and write a poem about it or using it. My hope was that you would have fun and be playful with language, and y'all didn't let me down. It's becoming increasingly difficult to pick highlighted poems, because you're getting better every day. I'm guessing part of that is just the act of writing each day, and maybe part of it is due to reading and being inspired by your peers. Regardless of the reasoning, keep it up and enjoy Day 9's highlights.

*****

Saltshakers

There are clever things

being said all over this bar.

Previously rehearsed perhaps.

(Like a perfect toast.

Glass smile to glass smile,

they clink carefully,

so as not to shatter.)

I am too enamored with

the flickering candles and

eyelashes to join them. Instead,

I fondle the sugar packets and salt shakers

as if I could make the molecules separate.

I line, stack and gather to keep from shouting,

“Guys, can you believe the glow in this place!”

I don’t know why I’m here.

I feel like I’ve been clipped

from glossy magazine pages.

We all wear colorful scarves in magazines.

We wear jingling earrings and carefully ripped jeans.

We sip on drinks that sing like little status messages.

Kendall is easy and willing.

Ella is fed up with boys.

Chloe is quirky but loyal.

Lauren is scared that if a boy

comes up to talk to her she will

blurt out something ridiculous

or bland and he will leave to

find someone drinking a Yager Bomb.

So I go back to the salt shakers.

Memorize their edges and make guesses

at the number of grains that will leave

to become seasoning for someone’s

warm body tonight. The only substance

in this place that will intimately mingle

with tongues with no agenda

other than to make life less bland.

Lauren Zuniga |lazuniAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Underground

Not really underground;

There were no tunnels or caves,

No stalagtites or bats or sleeping bears.

Sometimes it was a river, the Choptank,

The current going the wrong way,

Her feet numb and her dress soaked.

Or a Baltimore street, her eyes down,

Bonnet pulled so low she could hardly breath,

Not underground at all.

If it had been underground,

Then she wouldn’t have put the

Children to sleep so they wouldn’t cry,

Or pulled her old mother along, thin hand

Tugging back home, to favorite grandchildren

And sweet Chesapeake mornings,

Or fear every broken branch and bird cry.

If it had been underground,

Then she could have finally exited

The bears’ den and the bats’ nest,

Instead of returning again and again,

until all were saved, but that was impossible.

ann malaspina

*****

Vermicelli

Vermicelli is my favourite word.

Don’t know why, just is.

A versatile little noodle, smaller

Than the big bold spaghetti but bigger than his tiny cousin

Fedelini, which is hardly worth the effort.

He translates as Little Worms and comes from Tuscany

But he’s often found in disguise

Sneaking into other languages and cuisines

In his native Italy his slyness starts:

Orati in Bologna, Minutelli in Venice

Fermentini in Reggio and

Pancardelle in Mantua

See what I mean?

Cunning!

But his guile doesn’t stop there.

Oh no! Heading east we find our skinny friend masquerading

In South East Asia as Shemai, in Bengal he’s Seviyan,

In Hindi they call him Shavige and to the Tamils he’s Semiya

Ah! You think. His trickery knows no bounds

And so it is as in East Asia he magically is made from rice:

Bee Hoon in Hokkien, Mai Fun in Canton.

The Burmese pin him down under the delicious pseudonom of

Kyar-Zun but in Vietnamese his nom de cuisine is Bún

Get the picture?

Master of Disguise!

And here in Spain or in Latin America he is plain old Fideo

But that’s not why I love him so, oh no!

It’s just his original Tuscan tag that gets me

Smiling broad as a lake

I just love to say it:

Vermicelli, Vermicelli, Vermicelli.

Go on, try it. You’ll like it…

VERMICELLI!!!!

Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es

*****

Canorous (Kuh-NOR-us; KAN-or-uhs)

It slips,

sips,

and saunters

across the way

up the stairs

of my soul

resonating

with each memory,

moment and meticulously

kept secret.

It curves

verves, and vibrates

melodic and methodic-

all in its tenor

and embrace.

I am speechless,

rendered helpless

to visions and vexations

tears and frustrations.

I sway, dip

spin and twirl

My body not my own

as it moves in,

out,

and through me.

Up and down

mixing emotion

and sound

until

I cannot

stand: Music

Jennifer Fagala

*****

Short

I've always been short

I feel short-changed

The short and sweet of it

is that it's a shortfall

But as this short testifies

Short is sufficient

Tonya Root |booklet dot geoAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Ahhh! Café, Kaffe, Coffee

To paraphrase the bard,

Would coffee by any other name

Taste, you know, like coffee?

Why, how could the question even be asked?

From the devout, there can be only one reply:

“Yes, a thousand times, yes!”

For proof, just consider the choices

In origins, types, flavors and roasts,

Not to mention additives and methods of preparation.

There’s café, café au lait, café latte,

Capucino, espresso, java and joe.

Get it for “here” or get it to go.

As for types, what’s you pleasure?

“High test”, half-caf, or de-caf?

Columbian, Kona, Mountain Grown (isn’t it all?),

Roasted dark, medium or light?

Then there’s Irish Cream, Vanilla Nut,

Macadamia and Chocolate,

Not to mention all manner of sprinkles,

From chocolate, to cinnamon to nutmeg.

As for additives, don’t get me started.

Well, OK. You don’t have to get me started.

I’m already there.

In milk alone, there’s non-fat,

Half and half, whole and even

Whipped cream for the decadent among us.

And did someone ask for non-dairy creamers?

What flavor would you like?

Sweeteners alone will boggle the mind,

From real to fake, from raw to refined.

Of course, it goes without saying

Coffee is actually meant to be experienced—

Not just consumed.

And there’s no more need to confirm (as in olden times)

That the last drop is as good as the first.

As a sign of largesse, I’ve even heard said

It’s polite to leave a tad in the bottom of one’s

Heat shield protected carry out cup,

That is, unless one is a regular who has

Invested in a designer mug

From one's favorite coffee emporium.

To demonstrate one's oneness with the earth.

I saw Black Pearl Coffee the other day—

Thought it was tea but it was coffee all right.

There it was, a bit exotic and aloof, if you ask me,

Just sitting right there on the counter

Next to an urn of brazen Amaretto.

It took me aback for a moment until I got my bearings

And found my usual—mind you, I ain’t sayin’ what that is.

Don’t want to be labeled.

Bill Kirk |RnBKirkAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Camp

We camp every summer

taking what seems like the entire house hundreds of miles by car to the mountains:

Clothes, bedding, food, utensils, chairs, stove, lighting, beer, magazines.

Once Jim brought his battery-powered blender and made daiquiris.

We eschew privacy—living, dining, conversing in the open air (or soggy tents) for days at a time. Ah, this is the life.

It's fun, an adventure! but not in 1942

for Nobuo—Sueko—Mitsuo—Tadamitsu—Toko—

—a hundred others of our friends and family.

Taken away: homes, possessions, farms and businesses, even children's pets, and toys. Taken with them: only what they could carry.

Relationships suffering; struggles to overcome bitterness.

Manzanar. Tule Lake. Jerome.

Shikata ga nai, many said. Can't be helped.

When it's over, what home is left to go to?

When camp is a verb, it's a joy.

When it's a noun, it's not.

Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

“Sucks”

“Well, life sucks anyway.”

Don’t know why he said it. The words

just came out of his mouth, unbidden.

They fell out and hung in the air between

us, as if waiting for a reply. “Why do you

say that?” I had to ask. Had to know the

reason someone would suddenly tell a

perfect stranger that life sucks. He shook

his head, stared at the scenery that flew

by outside the train’s window. Greens and

blues blurred by, as if an artists brush had

simply slapped the color across a blank

canvass. “Maybe sucks was too harsh a word,”

he finally said. “Maybe I just need to take

it easy and find my way.” I sat quietly, wondering

exactly how he would be able to find his way;

still wondering what in the first place

made him say those words to me,

a perfect stranger on a train.

Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Madness

The yoga teacher shares,

"Robaron el banco, esta la locura."

They rob the bank, it is the madness.

They kill someone, it is the madness.

The madness of a life off center.

We breath and stretch.

We concentrate on our bodies;

on the energy flow.

We allow the madness

to pass by on the street.

We learn to be connected

first with ourselves, then

with each other, watch

madness leap and dance..

Yes, it exists, but we need not

jump on that rollercoaster.

We breath and stretch,

learn how the energy flows.

We are connected like

a lamp plugged into the wall

we plug into the infinite.

Madness is part of life

he teaches with a smile,

don't ignore it.

See it, step aside and

let it roll by. Maybe

inertia will cure it.

Kimberly K |kekinserAT NOSPAMmac dot com

*****

Anger

Smoke gushing from

My ears

Nose beaming

Like a tomato on a shish kabob

Heart kabump kabump

kabumpiddybumping

Regrettable words spewing forth

I’ll be paying for that later

Watching it happen

Can’t reach it

Trying to get it back

Too late

Carol -Amherst, Mass |cboudreauAT NOSPAMhampshire dot edu

*****

Scale

I pass a pencil-thin

Asian lady on my way

Out of the grocery store--

She asks a buff blonde

Teenager who just stepped

Onto it, do you think the scale

Is accurate? He replies, with

A light laugh, I hope not!

And I think: I would scale

Ten fish, or a whole mountain,

Or sing an opera of scales

If I could get on that thing

Without crying.

Lyn Sedwick |LASMD925AT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Coagulate

It sounds like it is

the inside of a Tupperware container

with Grandma’s gravy

from last Thanksgiving

It is not a word you want to hear

from a doctor who is looking

at your veins

“all those cheeseburgers

have coagulated near your heart”

the sound is as bad as the news

Mom never said

take a shower before your sweat

coagulates

if she had

I would have showered more often

Oh some prefer congeal

or thicken

they are the ones who say things like

“he is in heaven now”

or “Aunt Mary passed away,”

I want my truth served

up on a platter

as solid as it can be

once it coagulates

it's too late.

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Hack

Wielding the backspace key -

the poet’s machete -

I hack through a jungle of letters

leering at me,

a grey kudzu strangling the clarity

of the perfect page,

the sublime paragraph,

faultless sentence,

the sublime word,

only to realize

as I survey once breathing syllables,

phrases, and crumpled pages,

such editorial masturbation

exposes my verity:

I am a hack.

Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

No Word for Love

Eskimos have over 2 dozen words for snow.

Ancient Egyptians had more for sand.

There seem to be literally hundreds of words for love,

although most of them

seem to apply only to the sex part,

which is fine, I guess.

I was trying to think of what word best describes

our love,

but what comes to mind

is your understanding special smile,

and how our bodies mold together

when we sleep,

and there’s no word for that.

Gene McParland from Long Island |iamgene450AT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Water

Water...

wawtuh...

wahdda,

forty-three years on

this side of the pond

and no one understands

when I say it...

agua...l'eau...warturr,

liquid-coolin'

thirst-slakin'

cowboy-singin'

WAAAAAATER!

where is that accent from

they ask...as my tongue peels

from the back of my throat and

I consider the glass half-full

on a neighbouring table,

WADAWADAWADAWADAWADA dammit!

the one word I can't seem to

say in American

Lorraine Hart |lorrainehartAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Word

The problem

with writing a poem about one word

is finding just the right word

because not any word will do.

It must be a word that sings

or creaks or seeks to evoke

an emotion deep in the gut,

a word that tickles in the throat

or hums with sweet nostalgia.

It can't be just an ordinary word

plucked haphazardly from anywhere

because a poem is better than that.

Renee Goularte |share2learnAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net

*****

Ways to Run

How many ways

are there to run?

To count them all

cannot be done!

You can run a race

or run a car,

run a blockade

or run for par.

The colors run

in my best dress.

The ice cream runs

and makes a mess.

You can run riot

and run about

and be run ragged

or just run out.

When you get a cold

your nose will run;

when you get a snag

your hose will run.

You can run a fever

or run around,

but let the mayor

run the town.

Run into trouble

run into a friend

run into a pole

run to the end.

You can run the risk

run up the bill

run off some copies

run at will.

Let the illness

run its course,

run off the road,

and run the horse.

Many thoughts

run through my head,

but now it's time

to go to bed.

Diane |annie_5675AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Perfidious

--deliberately faithless; treacherous; deceitful—false, disloyal; unfaithful, traitorous

Even the sound creeps up the spine

and stumbles out the mouth

as if the bitterness and shock

must slither in order to be understood.

While Penelope spun her lies

to stay true to Odysseus,

Clytemnestra arranged a bath

for Agamemnon so she could strangle

him as he washed and purified himself.

Humanity refuses to learn the lesson—

Judas did the same thing with his kiss.

Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

April PAD Challenge: Day 20

Sun, 20 Apr 2008 15:17:05 GMT

We are now 20 days into the challenge! Woo-hoo! And spring has definitely sprung here in Ohio. It's incredible. Since Thursday, I've been getting out every day and playing disc golf and trail hiking. As soon as I finish this prompt-poem thing-a-ma-gig, I'm gonna get back out there.

Now today's prompt is one you've either been eagerly anticipating and wondering, "Where the heck is it," all month, or it's one you've been quietly noting hasn't been prompted and crossing your fingers you can make it through the month without. But this kind of poem is what got me into writing poetry seriously. That's right...

...today's prompt is to write a Love poem with a capital "L" as in a loooooove poem. Think about wooing; think about being wooed; and then, write!

Here's my poem for the day:

"This Morning"

-for Tammy F. Trendle

The birds chant awake the dandelions
and flowers. They raise the grass blades
from their winter nocturne. We are
foolish to want more, but we listen
to the birds and know: It is natural to
want, and things will always happen
as they should.

April PAD Challenge: Day 19

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 14:29:21 GMT

Good morning!

Today's prompt will require that you use a little memory, but not your own; because for today's prompt you need to write a poem about a moment (or moments) you can't remember yourself that are about yourself. I think everyone has these stories about when you were a child, or when you were drunk, or when you were talking in your sleep, or when you were in a coma (hopefully not too many fall into this category actually).

If you need to jog your memory of things you can't personally remember, call up a friend or relative. I'm sure they'll be more than happy to recount those embarrassing moments for you.

For instance, we have a family reunion every year on Labor Day weekend up in northwest Indiana for my mom's side of the family. There are usually more than 100 family members in attendance, and they ALL know the "tree story" about when I was three years old. You see, I was at one of my aunt's houses and had to use the restroom, but they were all full. So my grandparents told me to go outside and relieve myself behind the tree. So my three-year-old self marched out there and rounded the tree one full circle and shouted back at the house, "Where's the 'behind' of this tree?"

Ah, sweet memories. I don't remember it personally, but every year on Labor Day weekend, 100+ people are ready to remind me.

And with that, here's my poem for the day:

"Blood"

My brother hung upside down
screaming his head off while my
face was covered in blood,
gushing from my eyebrow. But
I didn't cry--just kept touching
my face. Maybe in shock of
the closeness of pain. Maybe
why I wasn't afraid to hug
strangers at King's Island as
a child. After hugging people
in Yogi Bear and Fred Flintstone
suits, it probably only made
sense to hug others I'd never
met. With a big smile on my
face. Something people always
notice even when I don't know
I'm doing it. One night, I scared
my wife by calling out in my sleep
that Saddam Hussein was hiding
in our trashcan. Who knows
what I was dreaming? But then,
maybe it made complete sense
like the time I tried going pee
behind the tree at my aunt's
only to ask, "Where's the behind
to this tree?" Something my
family won't let me forget.
Like this scar on my eyebrow
reminding me the memory of
our blood.

April PAD Challenge: Day 18

Fri, 18 Apr 2008 12:40:38 GMT

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.

April PAD Challenge: Day 17

Thu, 17 Apr 2008 13:19:30 GMT

Before getting to the prompt, I think it would be nice of us all to send a little goodwill in Elizabeth Keggi's direction. Her poems have been highlighted a few times already this month (on days 1, 2 and 5), and she's having surgery today that will force her into a game of PAD catch up later this month.

Thinking of others is always beneficial--to both yourself and those you're thinking of; in fact, thinking of others has a ripple effect that often spreads beyond the initial parties. Even in poetry, it is sometimes a nice exercise to consciously take ourselves out of our poems.

So today's prompt is fairly straight forward: Write a poem in the 3rd person. You can describe a scene, an event, whatever. But there's to be no use of "I," "me," "my," etc.--not even "you" or "we." No, keep yourself completely out of this poem. I'll leave the subject of your poem up to you.

(Note: There is a way, of course, to include yourself. You can write about yourself as "he" or "she" depending on your gender. If you would normally write, I woke up in the morning, then for this prompt write, He woke up in the morning. It's an effective trick for people who just can't stop writing about themselves. This method also distances the poets from themselves, which can be interesting.)

Here's my poem for the day:

"Time spent with boys"

The clock erupts with noise
distracting him mid-sentence.
Eight o'clock always surprises
him as he reads stories to his
boys--both propped up on their
pillows and probing for answers
to the story behind the story,
as well as the intentions of
the author. He tells them his
best guesses and avoids making
things up--most of the time.

Day 8 Highlights

Thu, 17 Apr 2008 12:48:29 GMT

The prompt on Day 8 asked you to write a poem based on one of two paintings: "Piazza d'Italia," by Giorgia de Chirico, or "The Little Deer," by Frida Kahlo. To see the paintings, go to: http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/April+PAD+Challenge+Day+8.aspx.

Many of the poems added stories to the actual picture. I think this may have been one of the more effective ways of dealing with this prompt actually. Also, there were quite a few who twisted the two paintings together in their poems, which was very cool to see.

Here are my highlights.

*****

Little Deer

Little bleeder,

you were dying,

before you even knew,

primitive Kewanee

with your doe innocent eyes

so human, staring back,

majestic. Your pomp,

and surety startles in oils

just as it did in polaroid,

And the trees,

they surround your feminine stance,

pluck from you your wiles,

your masquerading tongue

that speaks of men and madness,

seas brought to froth by spite.

This branch I lay before you,

nothing but a trap

to keep you,

intrigue you from your winter

leaving.

And Fellini, just what

would he make of you?

So pretty, so disdainful and wry?

I'd bet he'd fill you,

side to side,

with arrows,

just to spite.

Kevin |kevintcraigAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

The Little Deer

Why have you taken refuge in the garden?

Being around trees increases the risk

of being struck by the lightning snapping at the sea and sky.

Oh, you are wounded, that's it

and you figure it doesn't make any difference

how or when or where you die,

it's going to happen anyway.

The hunters—oh god, am I one of them?—stalk nearby and know

there is no safe place, not even among the branches promised to shield you.

You could outpace those who want your crown for a mantle piece.

Instead you stand and stare and wait.

Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Piazza d'Italia

Alone at dawn in the piazza,

he and I.

We meet at last;

No turning back.

Sue Bench |hd_ultra_96AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Piazza d'Italia

We met upon a

Yellow Street

Beneath a pea green sky,

Nearby small scale Alps

Cast shadows long and high

Banners waved on building tops

The breeze was easterly

Business was concluded

Between my friend and me

We shook hands good-bye

Albeit solemnly

And as I wandered home again

Beneath a darkening sky

I realized that the architect's

Perspective was awry

SaraV |slvinasAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Frida Kahlo

What lies within

a mind

heart

sometimes

bleeds red.

Emily Blakely |ecblakelyAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

*****

Piazza d'Italia

Their paths converged in the piazza,

One walking east, the other west,

When their eyes noted the other,

Alighting their faces with recognition.

Their paths had parted decades past

After a shared history

Of childhood? war? college years?

My vantage point didn’t allow for hearing.

Their paths converged in the piazza,

And friendship, knowing no boundaries

Of time or place or years without contact,

Allowed them to pick up where they’d left off.

Kevin D. Washburn |kdwashburnAT NOSPAMmac dot com

*****

The Little Deer

The little deer

Fiercest of all

Ran through the forest

Ran by the falls

Ran over the mountain

And across the desert sands

Ran and ran

In search of the blesséd land.

But people were unhappy

With the little deer’s quest-

It stirred up chaos

And caused unrest.

They hunted and taunted

And tortured the fawn

They shot at it with arrows

From evening until dawn.

But in the light of day

They always disappeared

Hiding their deeds

From those who they feared.

And by this light

The little deer traveled on

With the strength of a lion

And the spirit of a horse

Each arrow in its hide

A pincushion of remorse

But it did not stop

It did not hide

The little deer sought

The thing few would find.

It kept going and going

Head held high

It would reach its destination

Or a porcupine, it would die.

Anahbird |anahbirdAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Piazza

They no longer come

To see the statue

The train doesn’t stop here anymore

The piazza, once swollen with crowds

Stands empty in the late afternoon shadows

It is agreed

No one cares for art

The train passes by

On its way to the city

Where the rides turn

The dice are thrown

Music blares from every open door

Car exhaust fills the cracks in the sidewalk

Where people talk loudly, but not to each other

Yet in the piazza

The only voices

Are the echos

Of two men

Saying goodbye

Ang |angie5804AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

The Delivery

They shook, and it was a done deal.

He would deliver the lion by train,

On a hot yellow evening

When the shadows stretched long

And the arches of the buildings

Kissed the windows, shuttered

Against the coming night.

The people prepared for the spectacle,

Flags waving gaily on the highest tower.

Amanda Caldwell |mailAT NOSPAMamandacaldwell dot com

*****

A Gentleman’s Agreement (Chirico inspired)

“I’m going to see a man

About a horse,”

He responded when asked

Where it was he was going.

To my ten-year-old ears,

It sounded plausible enough.

After all, he was a farmer—

A dairy one but still,

Even Holstein milkers

Could free up a stanchion

To accommodate a horse.

Of course, the reply wasn’t literal,

But in my childish mind’s eye

An agreement was all but struck.

He’d drop a few Ben Franklins—

He always liked carrying hundreds—

Into the horse owner’s hands

And seal the deal with a handshake.

Why then did an equine

Never show up in our barn?

I guess I never quite understood

The wink that always accompanied

Grandpa’s facetiously coy response.

Kathy Kehrli |theflawlesswordAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

April PAD Challenge: Day 16

Wed, 16 Apr 2008 13:49:19 GMT

I don't want to alarm you, but today's challenge was a bit of a challenge for me this morning. Hopefully, you won't struggle as much as I did. But even if you do, that's why it's called a challenge, I guess. Plus, we're like only trying to get our rough drafts done in April anyway. Then, we can revise and/or toss stuff in May and beyond, right? Right.

Oh yeah, the prompt for the day. Well, it's something I'm calling the "Alfred Hitchcock" poem, because I want you to write a poem that has a twist near the end. For instance, write a poem about talking to your best friend and then let us know at the end that your best friend is actually a sock puppet on your left hand--maybe even add to the intrigue by making your arch nemesis your right hand.

Of course, there are lots of ways to approach this one. What gave me trouble was figuring out how to do the twist at the end. Finally, what helped me was to think of how I wanted the poem to end and write to that ending--using an indirect route, of course.

(Note: I just began and ended that paragraph with "of course.")

And with that, here's my poem for the day:

"A call late at night"

Hey, baby. I'm guessing you're asleep;
I hope that you are. I'm so thankful
for you and sorry I have to whisper.

You're always so good to me, and I
wish you were here now. But if you
wake up and hear this message, please
don't call me back, because I'm hiding:

I think someone is in my house.

Day 7 Highlights

Wed, 16 Apr 2008 13:34:53 GMT

On Day 7, I asked for a "ramble" poem. As usual, you came through in a big way. So many great poems, and here are some that really stuck out for me.

*****

I used to love to open the cottage

in the spring when there had been

all kinds of unseen wildlife around

the door and the back deck

I wondered who or what

upset the boat so carefully

turned keel up on the blocks

was it a deer or maybe a moose

or possibly the wind that whips in

off the Big Lake that wind that

causes Lake Effect over us

things nested in the leaves

when you kicked a pile

you might kick leaves or

you might connect with

something solid, a squealing

wriggling body that burrowed

further into the leaves or

maybe bared its teeth and

charged out to run off

wildly in an opposite direction

Inside was a different story

no matter what we put out

in the fall there were always

mice scattered some live

some dead from eating the

cake of soap always left

on the sink I shivered

deliciously after we cleaned

and made the beds, wondering

if the mice knew whe

were living there again

the cottage was always

tamer than I wanted it to be

but wilder than my life

back in the real world

halfmoon_mollie |tamsinAT NOSPAMtwcny dot rr dot com

*****

Ready Yet

He grabs a water bottle and Power Bar,

red sneakers and backwards baseball cap,

and only mumbles when asked if he has

everything, eyes bleary,

cell phone in his front pocket,

ready, not ready, for English first period.

Yesterday we visited his university,

where in September, we'll drop him off,

jeans, t-shirts, laptop, red sneakers;

but this morning, I still have him,

(is he ready yet?)

in the front seat of the van, looking out

at a drizzly Monday, just April,

daffodils, still closed,

waiting to unfurl.

ann malaspina

*****

I went to the mall on Saturday

There was a kiosk in the atrium selling hermit crabs

I should buy one for my grandson

He would like a hermit crab

My daughter, Tina, had one when she was younger

She lost him (or her, its hard to tell with crabs) once for three days

We found him wedged behind the couch.

It’s amazing how many things find their way into tight places

Once I found a half eaten hot dog behind that couch

It was smeared with peanut butter—the only way Tina would eat them

The hot dog was shriveled and hard, the bread turning green with mold

Mold is used to make penicillin

They say Elvis liked to eat peanut butter and banana sandwiches

I wonder if he ever had a hermit crab.

Yea, I really should buy my grandson a hermit crab

But then again, maybe not.

Bonnie |bcholbrook05AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

The Dream Motel

It started about three years ago

the recurring dream of a seaside motel

sometimes I own it

sometimes other people do

but I am always there

and it is always dusk

First time it was Frank and his wife

he was rennovating it and I was trying

to find a room I could stay in

the second time I owned it

and Dad was back from wherever he went

after he died

he was with Bootsie, Cordy and Phoebe

I told him it wasn't a pet motel

he laughed and put his teeth on the counter

and shared corned beef with my mother

who was hiding her boyfriend in the pool shed

"He would die if he knew," she said

"He is dead" I reminded her

Everyone was there last night

Rich was at the bar and smelled like he did

that last time I saw him when I didn't know

it was going to be the last time

"I'm forty now too," he said

"and married and still unhappy."

Frank was fixing the siding

after the storm no one remembered but him

Jon came with his third wife

"This is Treasurechest," he said as he

stared at her breasts

"I can't love a woman with a normal name"

I know.

You were there too

with another man you think you love

As he checked you in you whispered

"don't tell him the truth about me"

as I carried your bags to your room

Outside the long island sound

lapped the pebbles of the rocky beach

I tried to remember where I parked my car

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Special Delivery

I waited for the mailman to come because there was a car parked in front of the mail box and he won’t deliver the mail if there is someone parked in front of the boxes. I don’t understand why he can’t just get out of his little truck and deliver the mail. But they say that is their policy. I don’t think I could get away with that on my job. Just let the people suffer because I am not going to inconvenience myself by standing up and walking three steps to help them. But he didn’t come. Or maybe he did and I missed him. Maybe he was early today because he was driving past mailboxes where people had parked their cars in front of them…

Ginger G |gingerbread dot caAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Chips

I got a light, tasty little banana chip here

Not a salty plantain

And I hope I can finish eating them

Before the patients arrive

They're always so early and I want to scream

Don't be such an overachiever!

Showing up forty five minutes before your appointment

Doesn't get you a little gold star

Like when you were in elementary school

Those heady, heedless days of construction paper

And the burgeoning social skills like muscles

Learning how to flex, how to strengthen, how to squeeze

An empty Valentine box one year and stuffed the next

With trophies of your building popularity

Before transferring to a new school

And starting all over again

IleanaCarmina |cathleenbakkerAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Open Mic Poetry Night

I went with Katrina to open mic poetry night

right away I was sorry

grasping the mic someone chanted “I’m a

wuh-ma-han! Yes a wuh-ma-ha-an!” thrusting

her hips at each syllable to the swelling

adoration of the crowd and I thought

good god I hope this gets better

not that I’m a purist, not that I think

I’m better (except that maybe I am)

the next at the mic tossed off an anecdote-

cum-poem whose resonance

lay only in her halting delivery

where do we poets learn this stuff?

the stilted [pause] vocalizations [pause]

that pass [pause] somehow [pause]

for significance [pause], the SEEsaw

alterAtions of enunciAtion that plAgue

texts about FLYing SQUEEZing DRIVing

or any other verbiage we must enact

and the rising tone…

as we leave each line…

trailing into the universe…

from the bar’s window I could see a television flicker

in a second-story apartment across the alley and I thought

how lucky they are not to be here

things looked up when a genuine poet

stepped up to riff on tones, pulled

pure wordmusic from his throat

unpretentious and genius jazz that soared

over most everyone’s head

after he left the emcee cruelly impersonated him

to the great amusement of most everyone

then launched into a singsong singalong

“everybody clap!” verse about Volkswagens and pot

that caused much whooping

as we left Katrina asked wasn’t it great

and I was polite but this is my answer now:

tria

*****

Hands

After I’ve dried the last of the dishes,

I light lavender incense

before carrying the garbage out to

the compacter chute.

I lock the door and collapse onto my sofa.

I look down at my hands.

My cuticles are dry and thickening.

I thought I had pushed them back

as I washed my hair last night.

I go to my bedroom and snatch the cocoa butter off the dresser

and as I moisten my hands,

I study them.

My fingertips are slightly bent, like my father’s.

I remember the flecks of black grease that used to dot our sink

after Daddy washed his hands when he came home

from long days of handling baggage at the airport

or fixing our neighbors’ cars.

My sister and I would tease Daddy

about his ashy hands.

He’d laugh, and

began keeping a tiny tube of Curacel in his car.

I’d watch him shake the lotion down into his palms

rubbing his long strong brown fingers

until they had a light fragrant sheen.

After he died,

I couldn’t bring myself to throw out

that little white bottle with the blue cap.

How I wish we had just

held his hands

in ours

every day

and said,

“Thank you.”

Carla Cherry |cmcmagiconeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Lost in Wikiburbia

It starts out innocently enough. You need

to help your fifth grader write a report on ants,

but soon enough you are following link after link

& you find yourself an hour later, alone at the screen

reading about John Wayne Gacy, the report

long since faded from your memory and that of your child

who gave up on you and is now watching Spongebob.

So you look him up to learn the creator

was a marine biologist. That makes sense.

From there it's only a click to find out the guy

who voices Patrick is the actor who played Tom Cullen

on The Stand. "M-O-O-N. That spells Moon."

You tell yourself ten more minutes because you forgot

that one actor from 16 Candles. Not Anthony Michael Hall,

but the guy who played Jake Ryan, gave up acting

to become a woodworker. And who was it

that wrote and directed Harold & Maud? It's all

coming back to you now, all the questions you had

when you were a kid. Getting Serious, you want to see

what people have to say about JFK's assassination

or if George Washington really did have wooden teeth.

If you're not careful, you will be reading all night

about this president or remember that you read

how Rosalynn Carter once posed for a picture

with then unknown serial killer John Wayne Gacy.

Now you are off thinking about Karl Jung, synchronicity,

how everything is connected deeper than we know,

only catching brief glimpses of our vast unconscious.

Yes. No. Perhaps. It's a quantum universe,

this world of Wikipedia. It is the world's biggest

practical Schrodinger Cat experiment, who in truth

never was convinced of quantum theory at all.

Justin Evans |evjustinAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Old glasses

Old glasses that I

Wear in private

Covering my face

Like two full moons

Fragments of those

Half-forgotten

Teenage years I

Wept because of

Not being beautiful.

Now I wear contacts

Everywhere, premium

Placed on success

And happy in having

Discovered lip gloss

Except for these

Late nights up

Writing poetry when

My half-forgotten

Teenage years

Come to peer out

Of my glasses

Like two full moons.

tara

*****

Seasonal Affective Disorder

This afternoon I spent three hours

riding back and forth on the Erie Canal Trail,

not giving a shit if I snuck up on people too fast

or if they caught me singing along with my iPod;

no, I was too far gone: too drugged-up

on the unspeakable beauty of spring, or just

too damn full of strength and stealth - and myself,

the quietest, quickest thing on that road,

the speeding bright yellow bullet,

the wheeled minotaur maverick

with that maniacal smile,

that rough facial contortion,

lips parted enough to let the flies in -

I was unrecognizable from the me of a month ago.

I was something new and elasticized and ready

or just recumbent, recombined like the phoenix:

I fell away to ashes when the cold came,

but the sun, sneaking towards summer,

pulled all my parts back together

in one-hundred and eighty minutes

as I pedaled past piles of pedestrians,

as I forced my way against the wind,

as I felt sunburn on my unready skin,

and as I thought of diving in Lock 21

to put out the crazed fires in me,

to cool down the searing strands

of feral thoughts in my mind -

oh, what the weather can do!

Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Waiting

At least she lives near a pond

where the spring announces

its presence in bubbles on the

water and tender green shoots

line the identical buildings and

it reminds me of our house on

Long Island and the revolving

garden in front where we planted

tulips, crocuses, and daffodils

for spring, and gladiolas tall and

haughty for summer. When the

snowdrops bloomed we waited

for the tulip blossoms, red and

yellow, delicate like the skin on

elderly veins I see all the time.

I'd wait for summer for the few

days the gladiolas bloomed

towering over the other flowers

in a cacophony of reds, lavenders

and yellows. Their delicate

climbing blossoms lasted a few

weeks, yet I waited for that all year.

She is late for our appointment

but I'm lost in the twitterings of

birds and the wonder of signs

of spring I used to teach. Would

there be skunk cabbage on the

pond's banks? I don't check, the

weather is changing and I seek

refuge in my car. Making a pact

with myself I plan to leave at

6:30 if she doesn't arrive. But she

arrives.

Barbara Ehrentreu |lionmotherAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

Nostalgia

Music catches memories like a net

drags them out of us like fish,

flopping around, gasping for air,

reminders of a turbulent past

in the cold clear light of the present.

I recall the song that drove us across

the country in our blue Ford van, Ohio to

Oregon, something about summertime and

distant thunder. Or that song I played after you left me,

alone in the third floor apartment, night after night,

verse after verse, a mournful ballad of leaving and being left,

how the neighbors must have hated that song.

Now this album, I remember we played it

when you called and asked me to come back, long

after midnight I left the warm bed of my new lover

and drove to your motel in the grey dawn.

You said you were leaving her, you said

she was out of town. That song was playing

as she came up the wide stairwell, fists clenched,

calling your name.

Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

April PAD Challenge: Day 15

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 14:05:51 GMT

Half. Way. There. That's where we're at after you finish today's prompt. Somehow we've made it--huffing and puffing--to the top of the hill and starting tomorrow we'll be running downhill to the finish line. Soooo...let's get to today's prompt, which is a "Two for Tuesday" prompt actually.

Prompt #1: Write an insult poem. There aren't really any rules attached to the insult poem, but it's usually done in good fun. If you write one, you can often open yourself up to a retaliatory insult poem. And that can lead to the equivalent of an insult poetry food fight.

Prompt #2: I've been trying to avoid mentioning it, but today is Tax Day here in the States. So it's time to either file them taxes or file for an extension--or just continue procrastinating, I guess ("Whatever floats your boat," as my father would always say.). Anyway, the second prompt is to write a poem that deals with paying your taxes and/or meeting deadlines.

Here's my poem (predictably associated with the first prompt, since I'm all about verbal food fighting):

"Smoke and mirrors"

My mama always said,
"If you don't have anything nice to say,
don't say anything at all."
And that's been great advice,
helping me get all the friends I've got,
avoid petty conflicts,
and find a steady happiness through all life's ups and downs--
but let's make one thing clear:
My mama ain't ever met the likes of you;
she ain't ever seen your rain cloud prophesies,
your blame shifting two step,
or your sanded down points that lead nowhere.
You've got answers but no meaning;
you have an image with no identity;
and everyone who doesn't agree with you is wrong.
Here's my advice, boy:
Next time they all gang up on you without giving a fair shake,
save up all your money to buy the largest mirror you can find;
then, use it.

Day 6 Highlights

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 13:39:02 GMT

On Day 6, I asked you to record the details of your day and write a poem about it. The resulting poems were great. While they may seem "routine" or "ordinary" to you, the rest of us "on the outside looking in" get to read a poem that is either out of the ordinary or something we can definitely relate to our own lives. Thanks for the great writes!

Here are today's highlighted poems.

*****

A Day in the Life Of

Soft sunshine on Frank’s face.

Clock says 8:11—oh no!

Turn on coffee machine.

Kitchen clock says 7:12.

Reset new-fangled clock

(manufactured before Congress

voted in new Daylight Savings times.)

Turquoise-stripped towel on the carpet.

Back exercises. Frank in the dining room

chair sipping coffee. Watching me.

Discuss Chris Vogler’s personal paradigm shifts:

1) Everybody’s gotta be happy=everyone but me.

2) Me first=monster!

3) Me too, but first=balance.

Pray for work for next week.

Pay bills.

Blueberry pancakes, bacon, and strawberries.

Nauseous. Kneel by toilet. Salivate. Spit. (Repeat.)

Almost throw up. What’s wrong? Those triple-action

weight-control pill before breakfast?

Go to church. Hugs. Love. Connection. Sing.

Song of Solomon—dating is the

process by which you observe and evaluate

a person’s character to determine if

they are the right kind—not entertainment.

Albertsons.

Carol-super-sandwiches for lunch.

Central Oregon Songwriters Association

annual awards. Wow! What talent!

Pinto beans and fresh yeast rolls.

Sense and sensibility.

Post this poem.

Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

*****

Choices

I shuffle my way into the kitchen.

I crack an egg,

pour in a teaspoon of wheat germ,

a pinch of salt and pepper,

and whisk the mixture.

I put an English muffin in the toaster.

I pour a dollop of olive oil in the skillet, and

as the turkey bacon and sausage

softly sizzle,

I attack last night's dishes.

One plate has dried pasta sauce on it

and I must use my fingernail to

scratch the red mass off.

After we've eaten breakfast,

I walk past the hamper full of laundry.

Upon entering my bedroom,

I stare at the unsorted mail

and the papers that must be shredded.

Had my mother come over

I am not sure she'd understand

that the reason for the disarray

was that I had

a poem to write.

Carla Cherry |cmcmagiconeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Spring Sunday

We slept late, my hand gently

laid across your sore ankle,

your hand tangled in my hair.

You bought pepper plants and

marigold seeds. We pulled weeds.

Read stories aloud to grandhildrem,

corrected rough draft, packed ice chest.

You kissed me before you drove back

to your weekday life. I already miss you.

Victoria Hendricks |seastarvshAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

sundazed

the morning stretched

six cigarettes long

and after weeks

of messages

from you

we meet

13 years later

to eat indian food

and 45

minutes drone

on slowly

then we say good-

bye but don't fall

in love

i nap cat-like

on my bed

in a sliver

of sunlight

that chases

the afternoon

across the sheets

and for 3

hours i'm

not obsessing

over my flaws

and why i probably

won't hear

from you again

even as a friend

tonight

law and order

marathons

babysit me

between my

escapes

to the backyard

where i count

the stars

winking back

through trees

and the smoke

of an evening

six cigarettes

deep

k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Sunday the Sixth

At 10:30,

I awoke in my hometown

to warmth, open windows,

and bird-songs

drifting upstairs

from the open kitchen door

to my bedroom,

then walked down to Main Street

to meet Dad for lunch.

I watched the cars pass

from a tiny park bench,

wondered how so many people

could be driving through

such a small city.

I joined the dreary deluge

of carbon and chrome

to come back north.

I stopped to see my man;

he was waiting, cross-legged,

his bright bicycle leaned

against the donut shop.

The sun was still shining,

but our shadows were so long

as we pedaled to day's end,

singing songs of spring

and sliding with the wind.

We said goodbye at nine,

and another week began.

Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

SUNDAY, THE DAY OF REST?

Sunday was meant as a day of rest, that’s what I’ve always heard

But when I think of the average mom, that statement seems absurd

Now since I am a grandmother, this day seems harder still

For now I have five grandchildren that go to church with us as well.

Today I got up early just barely half past six

I wanted to sleep in awhile but I knew I had to fix

Breakfast for my little gang, no small endeavor by far,

“I want some cereal,” “Well I want oats” “There’s no jelly in this jar.”

“Is soy milk all that we have left” “When did you get this bread”

I finally get one child in the tub, while another sneaks back to bed.

“Nanny can you find my shoes” “I lost my underwear”

“The zipper is busted in these pants.” “Where’s the ribbon for my hair.”

“Honey, can you iron my shirt? It’s almost time to leave.

Can’t you try to speed things up? Hey, you forgot to iron this sleeve.”

I finally make it to my room, and there’s a runner in my hose

A rapid knock, says, “hurry up” “Can I please put on my clothes?”

At last we make it to the church, a mere ten minutes late

And though I feel all tense inside I try to seem quite sedate.

But then I look at my little crew, and my heart is filled with pride

And I know that I am blessed of God to have them at my side.

Bonnie |bcholbrook05AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

But You're Not Here

I rose not at the crack of dawn

but at the static just off station

of the radio on your side of the bed

where I now lie.

I rattling around in the kitchen,

putting something on for lunch,

brewing three cups of coffee

just for me.

I would have made more

but you're not here.

I grab a quick shower then stare

into the closet for something warm

but not quite wintry.

Any other day I'd crawl back

into bed for five more minutes,

just a quick snuggle.

Maybe I would

but you're not here.

At church I slide into our pew

Leaving room for you--a habit's

hard to break. I'm ready

if anyone asks

why you're not here.

I grab a bite; what I eat

can hardly be called a meal,

just a few bites taken standing up.

Then dragging in the never-empty

well-traveled bag of student papers

from the trunk of the car.

I lug it to the couch, spread out

the folders, rubrics, find a pen

under the cushion where I sit.

Then I spread the Sunday paper

right on top, read what's new in

Arts and Books. You'd tell me not to

Work the LA Times crossword puzzle

in pen--if you were here.

Even procrastination fails

as the clock chimes slowly,

needing to be sound--

Something you would do.

But you're not here.

At least a dozen phone calls,

one wrong number, no one here

by that name, and no call from you.

The Sunday evening blues slide

in my windows underneat the doorjamb.

Friday evening's promise not quite met.

I move from my place to yours,

leaning back in the chair that bears

the imprint of your body.

I feel its chill

since you're not here.

Finally back to bed, not quite

to sleep, piles of unread books

and papers scattered on the covers.

I slip undercovers on your side of the bed

Since you're not here.

Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

*****

Toddler Science

he insists that the trees

make the wind, imagining, perhaps

tiny pursed mouths exhaling on each leaf

great trunkfuls of waiting air pushed

out by rhythmically beating branches

the trees: Earth’s respiration

he says that the bird’s nest

visible from his bedroom window

is full of eggs we should take and eat for breakfast

and also full of baby birds that will soon fly

but the eggs have nothing

to do with these baby birds

eggs are eggs and birds, of course, are birds

he contends that reading is impossible

without speech, reminds me disdainfully

that you have to say the words

to read, that word and sound

are inexorably bound

tria

*****

Two Days After the Dentist

Before I even got out of bed,

I took Darvocet on an empty stomach.

Stupid.

Dizzy and queasy all morning,

I spent the afternoon munching tiny bites

of mac and cheese and watching NASCAR,

ate my third Wendy's frosty--chocolate--

and dreamt of meat.

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

I wake up before him, quickly switching

off the alarm. I make him breakfast, thankful

for the microwave oven at 4am. Getting him

up, ironing his clothes, pushing him out

the door; each day begins pretty much the

same. I try to do some housework, usually

surrendering to the TV at some point. I write

poetry, prose, emails. Having dinner ready

when he gets home from work, so he can

quickly eat, grab his books, and head to

class. A typical Monday since I lost my job

Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Back in DC

I woke up alone again with a bloody

nose on a fold-out couch

to the sounds of NASCAR.

After I showered, we drove

to see the cherry blossoms in bloom.

We parked near the Capitol

and walked the length of the Mall,

my Mall (I hadn’t been gone so long)

with my museums and my trees

and my sculptures and grass and life.

In the sunshine, we wandered

around the Tidal Basin, snapping

pictures with the other tourists.

Sometimes, we’d catch a whiff

of the flowers on the breeze

and sniff like dogs to find it again.

We walked back through the city,

down Penn,

and I found my buildings

there, warm but still imposing.

That night, we barbequed hot dogs

and hamburgers in Alexandria,

and I hugged all my old friends

and tried my best

to welcome

their new ones.

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Sunday Afternoon

Even after the bitter

words of morning, he

canceled his plans

and drove back to me,

just so I could leave

him. Again. He put

away shotguns and shells

then opened the hood to

see what made the "check

engine light" ignite

before I made it to the

end of our road. Me busy

transferring bags and

books from one vehicle

to another, then dumping

dog paraphernalia back

inside. A brief kiss,

a serious look, and "I'm

sorry to ruin you day."

"It happens. Drive safe.

Call me when you get there."

A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Working Out

Today

I read essays online

with a lavender clay mask drying on,

my lips slathered in a balm of

the labor of bees and lemons

and herbs tweaked, symphonic,

eat your heart out, Estee Lauder:

here in my nightgown, in the living room,

listening to the conspiracy channel,

with truffles and green tea by my side,

I am happy as a sunflower

living through my computer,

making a living, diva-nerd, a library mule.

Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

April PAD Challenge: Day 14

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 14:49:37 GMT

Even before some of the comments left yesterday, I've noticed there is a community forming with this April PAD Challenge. Many of you have thanked me, but you should really be thanking yourselves.

A community is only as strong as those who are a part of it. Many of you have posted every single day and left encouraging words and praise for your fellow poets. I'm not doing that; you are; and I'm very proud of you all.

Personally, I think it would be a wasted opportunity--for all of us--to assign writing poetry regularly to one month out of the year. So I'm going to check into a few different options to keep our group together beyond April. There are already some great ideas in yesterday's comments--plus, I've had a few rolling around in my head. So together, I'm sure we'll come up with something amazing. More on this soon, but I know you're all ready to get Monday started off right with today's prompt.

*****

So, today's prompt is actually inspired by a song I love by Feist. The song is called "How My Heart Behaves," and the prompt for today is to write a poem with the title "How (fill in the blank) behaves"--with the poem inspired by whatever you put in that blank. For instance, you could have a poem titled "How Mr. T's mohawk behaves" or "How the homeless man on 9th Street behaves." Have fun with this one (I know you will).

Here's my poem for the day:

"How the playground of my mind behaves"

The girls are full of worry
beside the teeter
totter
afraid that Billy won't be stopping by.

And the boys are playing football
as the teachers fret and fuss:
Are there going to be any broken bones today?

Behind them, the bully
does his daily milk money shake down
and punches his sidekick in the arm.

There's a co-ed game of 4-square,
some girls with their jumping rope,
and boys wanting to hang from the monkey bars.

Beneath the hot metal slide
no one rides in summer,
Billy sits kissing his favorite girl
until the bell sounds for them all to go inside.

Day 5 Highlights

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 14:28:55 GMT

Day 5's prompt was sent via a cranky PC in an arcade in a little mall in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. It cost me $3 for 30 minutes of access. So, I pounded out my prompt and poem in record time--and a bit later in the day than I would've preferred. However, everyone came together and posted some really great "worry" poems. In fact, I have a few new phobias as a result. :)

Here are some of the poems that stood out for me with this prompt.

*****

Spiders

Spiders hide themselves

in silent spots deep

within the closet,

beneath the bed,

between the window

and the screen.

Spiders know

when you are asleep:

They are drawn

from their nests

by the sweet sound of a

little boy’s gentle breath.

They’re in the light

fixture above your head.

They guard the bathroom,

waiting for that midnight

visit made on your soft

bare feet in the dark.

Good little boys have

rooms free of spiders

and midnight venom.

Were you a good

little boy today?

I think not.

Elizabeth Keggi |lilyclarissaAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Decade

My ten-year-old Weimeraner,

the one whose leg may be broken,

who sports yet another set of stitches,

I fear the day I will have to hold her

muzzel close as she struggles

for air. I shy from the day I will see

her deep keel still, her eyes haze, her

tail cease to move, her paws lie still.

I avoid the thought of where she

will lay down for the last time, or

where I will spread her ashes, or upon

which mantle I will keep her urn. I look

into her yellow eyes and vow to spend

more time tossing the ball, scratching her

ears, rubbing her near hairless belly. I know

that I will forget that silent promise until the

next medical emergency will remind

me that she was 69 on her last birthday.

A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Always a Mom

They’ve been grown

and on their own

for nearly a decade.

From two hundred miles away

I wonder whether they’re

eating right, sleeping well,

getting designated drivers

on party nights.

On the phone I ask

do they have enough money,

are their jobs going well,

have they been to

the dentist lately?

I imagine they roll their eyes

the way I did at thirty

at the same questions.

Renee Goularte |share2learnAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net

*****

Worry

A song.

An overheard word or two.

When my wife is late from the store.

A late snow storm.

Frostburned flowers.

Arriving late.

My father.

Being chosen last.

Being chosen first.

Reading my poems out loud.

My peers, whoever they may be.

A burning smell when I'm driving.

All three of my sons.

Justin Evans |evjustinAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

At One With Nature

Back home, on the farm,

I clean mouse droppings

out of the cupboards.

The following day,

after a drenching rain,

I find the first ant.

Long ago, barefooted

on the way to the toilet

one night, I crushed a fat roach.

The moths are in the closet,

caterpillars on the curtains,

spiders in every corner.

In bed, at night,

I hear the scratchings

rustlings in the walls.

Only a matter of time

and mother nature will

take this place back

she, its rightful owner.

Beth |womenswritesAT NOSPAMinbox dot com

*****

Monday morning before the garbage truck comes

and the mockingbird sings,

I lay in the too-warm room,

your breath a steady,

irritating reminder

of nirvanic slumber

that eludes me.

Instead, my head

waltzes, thoughts

baraging my brain

like so much clutter

the whirring truck

will soon pick up -

the library books,

no bread for lunches,

and what's for dinner anyway?

The client meeting,

and calls for freezing rain

to snarl the overlong commute.

Forgotten birthdays

and unpaid bills,

the perfume on his collar

(not mine) slide into static,

white noise to accompany

tomorrow's appointment

with the radiologist.

Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

I'm worried

that talentless American directors

will be permitted to keep producing

rotten remakes of Japanese horror movies,

that someday the religious right

will succeed in sending a man

to the White House,

that society won't collapse

before I have to join "the work force,"

that the West Coast will be as dead

and depressing as this state's always been,

that a random psychopath

might see me riding on Route 5

and decide to hunt me down in his pickup

then rape, kill, and discard me

before rolling off with my precious bike,

that the fluorescent stars I taped to my ceiling

won't come off when it's time to move out,

that I complain too much

or dream or drive too much

or eat too much suspicious slime

at all these Chinese buffets -

but above all that I'm worried

I'll just run out of things to say.

Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

Lump

The doctor said there’s nothing to worry about

“But let’s keep an eye on it.”

How do you keep an eye on something

that cannot be seen but is felt

fingertips probing gently so as not to awaken

the beast that may lie within?

How do you not worry when every shower

reminds fingers soaped and slippery

of a presence that is not meant to be there

and may someday stir to be removed?

How do you not check more than monthly

for any changes that might occur

until one day the mirror shows you what

fingertips already saw and now eyes see?

How do you keep the fingers from

overshaking onto the wrong digit

as you dial to make an appointment

with a person who told you not to worry.

satia |satia62AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

The Progression

I cannot leave the house today,

for if I do, I might trip

over the welcome mat

and break my foot.

That would require a visit

to the emergency room

and probably a cast,

not to mention a needle

for the I.V., (I’m breaking out

in hives just thinking about it!)

and I won’t make it to work.

The eventual ramification

of my fall

will be the loss of my job,

followed closely by car,

house and sanity.

How much safer to remain

in the pillow-topped kingdom—

warm, settled and moments

from dreamland—than to risk

stepping out the front door.

Call my boss,

tell her I’m sick

with worry.

Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

*****

To Sleep, Perchance to Worry

I just know the salmon

I ate for dinner

Had gone bad.

But I ate it anyway.

And if I go to sleep now,

I'll be up in two hours

Singing Technicolor lullabies

Into the commode.

If I survive the salmon,

And manage to get to sleep,

The phone will ring

At 11:22 p.m. again.

It will be that brusque guy

Calling from India,

Offering to wave the fee

On my monthly VISA bill

If I pay now.

I keep telling him,

The fee I can afford.

It's the payment

I'm a little short on.

Really, it doesn’t matter.

If I sleep, I’ll just have

That dream again:

The one where the

Chimpanzee wearing

A red and yellow swimsuit

Chases me through my

Home trying to feed

Me a pepperoni pizza.

Maybe I should eat

Something before

I try to sleep.

I wonder if there’s

Any salmon left?

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

*****

Animal Anxiety Dreams

I worry in my dreams. Some people have anxiety dreams about being naked in front of the class, or performing in a play having forgotten the lines, but I have anxiety dreams about pets. I’ve dreamed disaster for every dog I’ve ever had. My Pembroke Welsh Corgi falls off a cliff, runs out into traffic, is lost in the neighborhood after dark (she’s small enough to make some coyote a tasty meal). I bet the queen never has dreams like this. My Siberian husky broke her chain and it is now wrapped around a tree deep in the woods where she will probably starve to death before I can find her. It is always my fault. When I got myself two fish tanks filled with tropical fish I thought my animal anxiety dream days were over…who can feel guilty about fish? Oh no, even Steven King couldn’t do better than my fish tank dreams. I’ve dreamed about that third tank I forgot I had, the one I never remembered to clean, the fish I neglected to feed. What is growing in the algae at the bottom of the tank? What is floating in the water when I take the lid off? And what about that tank so big it filled the whole wall, the one that I kept a walk-in freezer just for fish food? What kind of fish grows that big and what might it eat? And when the tank shatters, what kind of fishy dream monster flaps around in the glass shards, gasping for air?

Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

*****

Make Your Worries Count

Some folks worry night and day.

I hear them rant and yelp.

But after all is said and done,

Their worries rarely help.

As for me, I’ve only two:

Not finding words that rhyme.

And, yes, I’d like to rid the world

Of Daylight Savings Time.

Bill Kirk |RnBKirkAT NOSPAMaol dot com

*****

My Grandmother’s Worries

My grandmother

worried about

going barefoot

in months without r’s,

whether grandfather

approved her

new hat,

children without

sweaters,

men without

suspenders,

people without

humor,

plates without

gravy,

hair without

ribbons,

plants without

water,

children without

sweets.

I worry

about becoming

grandmother.

Lori Jackson |ljacksonAT NOSPAMtcsdk12 dot org

April PAD Challenge: Day 13

Sun, 13 Apr 2008 12:30:44 GMT

Heart. There has been a lot of heart on display in your poems this month. I just wanted to get that out there and say, "Thank you." It's been a real pleasure this month to wonder how you'll put life to each of my prompts, and y'all never let me down. And I think we're synchronizing a bit.

For instance, Jay Sizemore sent me a message on Facebook late last night mentioning it would be really cool if I could put together a music-response prompt someday this month. I'm glad he thinks so, because...

Today's prompt is to write a poem based off your response to a song. You get to pick the song, but I ask that you please indicate which song sparked the poem. You can do this by quoting a line or two from the song between the title and poem--as I've done a few times this month; or you can just put the song title and artist in parentheses after the poem.

I'm really interested in reading your poems for today's prompt, but I'm just as interested in seeing which songs everyone chooses. As you may have noticed from some of my recent poems quoting songs by The Beatles, I've been listening to Abbey Road quite a bit lately, which is why today's music-response poem is inspired by The Shins' "Sleeping Lessons."

"After April, there's always May"

"So enlist every ounce of your bright blood and off with their heads."
-the Shins, "Sleeping Lessons"

I wait for dandelions
and dream of seeds spreading
yellow through the grass.
There are reasons to forgive
invasion and the messing
up of perfection. Lawns
and lazy afternoons,
my thumb against stem,
want to break loose.

April PAD Challenge: Day 12

Sat, 12 Apr 2008 15:16:58 GMT

My sons are keeping me busy this morning, so let's get straight into the prompt. We're going to write an apology poem. You can apologize for ending a relationship, breaking a chair, or maybe you can even apologize for not being apologetic.

Here's my poem for the day:

". . . I'm sorry"

"Because the world is round, it turns me on."
-The Beatles, "Because"

Because the day was nice. . .
Because I opened the window. . .
Because I left for a run. . .
Because there was an unexpected shower. . .
Because the birds were driven inside. . .
Because the rain followed them in. . .
Because I decided to splash through puddles. . .
Because you beat me home. . .

April PAD Challenge: Day 11

Fri, 11 Apr 2008 14:26:23 GMT

Today's high temperature is supposed to be in the mid-70s, which is soooo great. The next 3 days are projected in the mid-40s: Say what?!? Gotta love Ohio in spring.

*****

The prompt for today is to describe something--only one thing--that is either very interesting to you or something you think is often overlooked and taken for granted. I'm thinking inanimate objects here, but I'm not going to restrict you to that. (Btw, I'm totally wondering what object Kateri Woody is going to describe--yes, I've been paying attention to all those Joker-slanted poems.)

Here's my poem for the day:

"Ornament"

-for Nancy Breen

Gold string attached to the top and bottom--
one to hold the tiny bell, the other to hold
everything up--it has blue wings, an angel
hugging a rose, words in the background.
Whenever it moves, the whole thing rings.

*****

The co-founder of this blog, Nancy Breen, makes these wonderful Christmas ornaments every Holiday season. Knowing that my favorite movie is "It's a Wonderful Life," Nancy made the ornament described above--a tribute to one of the most touching elements of the movie that "Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings."