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.

 

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

 

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.

 

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.