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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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:

no

 

 

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

 

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.

 

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