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.

 

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

 

Kudos to my managing editor Alice Pope for sending along the following press release from the Poetry Foundation:

CHICAGO — Poet Gary Snyder is the winner of the 2008 Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize. Established in 1986 and presented annually by the Poetry Foundation, the award is one of the most prestigious given to American poets, and at $100,000 it is one of the nation's largest literary awards. Christian Wiman, editor of Poetry magazine and chair of the selection committee, made the announcement today. The prize will be presented at an evening ceremony at the Arts Club of Chicago on Thursday, May 29.

In announcing the award, Wiman said: "Gary Snyder is in essence a contemporary devotional poet, though he is not devoted to any one god or way of being so much as to Being itself. His poetry is a testament to the sacredness of the natural world and our relation to it, and a prophecy of what we stand to lose if we forget that relation."

Raised in the Pacific Northwest, Snyder began writing in the 1950s as a member—with Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac—of the Beat movement. For most of the 1960s he lived in Japan and studied formally in a Zen monastery. Blending physical reality—precise observations of nature—with insight received primarily through the practice of Zen Buddhism, Snyder has explored a wide range of social and spiritual matters in both poetry and prose.

The judges issued the following statement in making the selection: "Gary Snyder is a true nature poet: there's no sentimentalism to his work, and he never uses the natural world simply to celebrate his own sensibility. A deeply learned and meditative artist, an impassioned ecologist, and a poet of great scope as well as intense focus, Snyder has written poems that we will be reading for as long as we've been reading Robert Frost."

"The selection of Gary Snyder as this year's winner of the Lilly Prize does honor to the tradition of excellence and importance that the prize has stood for since it was established over 20 years ago," said John Barr, president of the Poetry Foundation.

Snyder is the author of more than a dozen books of poetry, essays, and translations. His poetry collections include Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems, The Back Country, Regarding Wave, No Nature, Mountains and Rivers Without End, and Danger on Peaks. His essays are collected in Earth House Hold, The Real Work, A Place in Space, and Back on the Fire.

A committed environmental activist who has received the John Hay Award for Nature Writing, Snyder has also been recognized for his contributions to the theory and practice of Buddhism. His many honors include the Pulitzer Prize in 1975 for Turtle Island, an American Academy of Arts and Letters award, the Bollingen Prize, a Guggenheim Foundation fellowship, the Bess Hokin Prize and the Levinson Prize from Poetry, the Robert Kirsch Lifetime Achievement Award from the Los Angeles Times, and the Shelley Memorial Award.

Snyder was born on May 8, 1930, in San Francisco. He is professor emeritus of English at the University of California, Davis, and lives in northern California.

Judges for the 2008 prize were poets Eavan Boland, Sandra M. Gilbert, and Christian Wiman.

***

The Rabbit
A grizzled black-eyed rabbit showed me

   irrigation ditches, open paved highway,
            white line
   to the hill.
   bell chill blue jewel sky
         banners
Banner clouds flying,
The mountains all gathered,
   juniper trees on the flanks
            cone buds,
      the snug bark scale
         in thin powder snow
      over rock scrabble, pricklers, boulders,
   pines and junipers,
      singing.
The trees all singing.

The mountains are singing
To gather the sky and the mist
      to bring it down snow-breath
            ice-banners,
      and gather it water
Sent from the singing peaks
      flanks and folds
Down arroyos and ditches by highways the water
The people to use it, the
      mountains and juniper
Do it for men,

Said the rabbit.

First published in Poetry, March 1968. © Gary Snyder

***

About the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize
American poetry has no greater friend than Ruth Lilly. Over many years and in many ways, it has been blessed by her personal generosity. In 1985 she endowed the Ruth Lilly Professorship in Poetry at Indiana University. In 1989 she created Ruth Lilly Poetry Fellowships, for $15,000 each, given annually by the Poetry Foundation to undergraduate or graduate students selected through a national competition. In 2002 her lifetime engagement with poetry culminated in a magnificent bequest that will enable the Poetry Foundation to promote, in perpetuity, a vigorous presence for poetry in our culture.

The Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize honors a living U.S. poet whose lifetime accomplishments warrant extraordinary recognition. Established in 1986 by Ruth Lilly, the annual prize is sponsored and administered by the Poetry Foundation, publisher of Poetry magazine. Over the last 20 years, the Lilly Prize has awarded more than $1,000,000. The previous recipients are Adrienne Rich, Philip Levine, Anthony Hecht, Mona Van Duyn, Hayden Carruth, David Wagoner, John Ashbery, Charles Wright, Donald Hall, A.R. Ammons, Gerald Stern, William Matthews, W.S. Merwin, Maxine Kumin, Carl Dennis, Yusef Komunyakaa, Lisel Mueller, Linda Pastan, Kay Ryan, C.K. Williams, Richard Wilbur, and Lucille Clifton.

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.

 

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