Before getting into the cool news, I just wanted to let everyone know who's been looking for the rest of the April Highlights (Days 21-30) that I am still going to post them. I've just been busy supremo working on the 2008 Poet's Market, which will be going to production on June 5. Of course, the one complicating factor is that I'll be out the entire last week of May because of Memorial Day and the BookExpo America/Writer's Digest Books writer's conference in Los Angeles, California. So the highlights are coming--just trying to fit 'em in with the rest of my "day job" stuff.

*****

So now on to this really cool newspaper blackout poetry stuff done by writer/artist Austin Kleon, who is based in Austin, Texas. (Note: It's funny how cool news travels. For instance, this was passed on to me by WritersDigest.com editor Brian Klems through HOW magazine editor Bryn Mooth who heard it on NPR--one more reason to support public radio, right?)

Anyway, Kleon grabs the newspaper and a permanent marker and starts scribbling out words until a poem emerges. In many cases, the poems actually turn out quite beautiful.

Check them out at: http://www.austinkleon.com/category/newspaper-blackout-poems/.

If you want a Weekend Warrior poetry prompt, this is a definitely a good exercise: Buy a local newspaper and sculpt poems out of newsstories. If you come up with anything good, post them in the comments below.

 

I had to drive into work in a steady rain this morning. Those who know me very well know that I loathe driving on the Interstate in the rain, because of a hydroplaning experience I had several years ago in southern Kentucky. Ever since that crash (no one was seriously injured), I've had this phobia when it comes to driving in inclement weather.

Which leads me to today's prompt, I want you to write a poem that deals with one or more of your own phobias. Or--if you are truly without fear--write about someone else's phobias. Or--if you and everyone you know is without fear--write about an imagined phobia (or write about my phobia of driving in inclement weather).

Here's my attempt, which actually deals with one of my other phobias (yes, I'm suddenly feeling like Charlie Brown, who carries around the fear of everything): heights.

"Control"

Rollercoasters, elevators,
unenclosed stair cases,
railings, cliffs, airplanes--
I'm afraid of how I have
no control over gravity.
If I fall, I can only fall
and let myself be caught
by the earth below. It's
simple really, but I worry
about the "what if"s when
I should just enjoy the ride.

 

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

 

And if you're looking for a brilliant, cost effective, creative and last minute gift for Mother's Day, do what I plan on doing for my mother: Write her a poem.

Actually, I'm going to go a few steps beyond that. First, I've written the poem. Second, I will get one of those two-picture frames tomorrow. Third, I will insert the poem into one half of the frame. Fourth, I'll insert a picture of my two brothers and I in the other half.

Wow! Super easy. Super cheap. Super creative. And super last minute. But I guarantee you my mom will be knocked off her feet and overcome with emotion.

(Note: While this kind of gift usually works with moms, it's sometimes frowned upon by the dads. Better to stick to your usual gameplan of a tie and a Father's Day card that farts or burps.)

 

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