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

 

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

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

Here's my poem for the day:

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Here's my poem for the day:

"Today"

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

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

 

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

*****

 

Calendar Above My Desk

 

Every month a new world

bubbling brooks

scarlet sunsets

sailboats idling in the harbor

words like

Winnipesaukee

Ammonsoosuc

Mt. Monadnock

days morph into months

months yearning for vacation

a glance up from my monitor

is a journey away from here

 

 

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

Everything Must Go

 

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

in the afternoon, a young man thrust hands

into pockets of an old three-button suit fit

for someone half his size—as if he might

have fished it from a thrift-store or a pile

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

for the peeling home behind the elementary

school where people pick and peck at tables

on the outgrown lawn, silent as hungry

blackbirds after grubs. Nobody looks

into windows, knocks on doors. Nothing

to see here. Nothing they haven’t seen before

on every street in town. Another sign goes

up. Another. And someone gets a tax break

when they buy the place on Market for half

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

pay that price to start, we could a kept

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

And the walls ache empty as the stomachs

of strays who wade sunsplashed in river water

with a girl off route 222. Everything idles,

engines low on gas, turn, sputter out a grinding

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

closed. Everything must go. And the young man

hums a melody that could be a spiritual, though

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

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

sings those old songs anymore, having lost the feel,

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

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

we haven’t heard before: the way we mutter

to ourselves, taking as we do what falls

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

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

wore the jackets we are wearing now?

 

 

Joel Peckham |joel_peckhamAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

The Nose

 

Well, as the old saying goes.

The thing you overlook’s your nose

A nose is such an odd looking thing

A bump, two holes, graced with wings

It blesses you with fragrant smells

Like cookies, lilacs, caramels

Or it curses you with things malodorous

Skunks, dirty diapers, a diesel bus

But above all, its kindest grace

Is to keep your glasses on your face

 

 

Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

WINDSHIELD WIPERS

 

Back and forth

back and forth

We wipe the tears of the sky

off the glass shield

to give you safer travels

while on slick roads

back and forth

back and forth

We remove debris and dirt

that has piled up in your neglect to clean

as often as you should

back and forth

back and forth

We grow weary from the frequent use

but keep going at whatever speed you choose

back and forth

back and forth

You get frustrated with us because

we aren't as sharp as we once were

Smears and smudges leave a trail

because YOU refuse to keep us up

The next time you are squinting from the

glare of oncoming lights

because there is no more fluid

and we can't wipe the glass clean dry

maybe you'll decide to stop going

back and forth

back and forth

without giving

CHANGING THE WIPER BLADES

a try!

 

 

Christa R. Shelton |c_writesAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

In Consideration of My Left Eye

 

Today will I consider my left eye.

Not my metaphorical eye,

nor the third eye my sister's friend

the astrologer says is wide open

even when I sleep. No, today

I will look directly into my own left eye,

taking into account everything I see.

 

First, my upper lid obscures the iris

unless I pretend to be surprised. The fine

window cracks of blood vessels in the whites

flow like mapped roads, driving beneath

the skin where I cannot follow.

 

On the inner wall of my pupil, beneath

the green ring which precedes the blue

for which I have received so much praise,

something geometric grows, straight, angled,

and a complete mystery. It catches the light,

making the study of whatever it is

quite impossible.

 

Approaching the mirror, I can see in the black,

the reflection of me, looking at myself. I am

small, as if I have captured myself, imprisoned

more than my reflection, more than myself.

 

When I turn and look straight at my eye,

I notice how part of my eyeball is darker,

almost jaundice. I pause to consider the line

between bright and dull, wonder if it cuts me

in half in other ways, intersects my life,

determines for me who I really am.

 

With nothing more to observe worth mention

inside my left eye, I think it best to avoid

the symmetry of my right eye, or perhaps

the disappointment of learning

they are in fact not the same as each other.

 

My final consolation is this:

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

wise enough to avoid observing my nose.

 

 

Justin Evans |evjustinAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Moss

 

When we say “moss” in the South,

we specifically mean Spanish moss,

 

that kinky, grey wig that drips

from the old oak branches,

 

that red bug-infested parasite

that (with the smell of wet

cow pastures) reminds me of home.

 

 

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

Manure

 

Every time you

spoil the lilt of my potpourri,

every time you stick to my feet or

my thoughts along

that path I want pristine,

I need to remember

that you are the Limburger cheese

behind all things verdant.

 

 

Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

*****

 

The Tree

 

stood in the front yard, next to its

brother on the other side of the

walkway. Small maples, beautiful

lush leaves. One of the reasons we

bought the little fixer-upper in the

first place, the nice visual at the

 

front door. One tree continued to

grow and thrive. The other seemed to

shrink into itself. As the seasons flew

by, the brother grew tall and strong,

while the sibling’s branches stopped

growing and curled up toward the

center. Then the bark started to peel

 

off, and we knew the end had come.

It was time to cut our losses and let

it go. I watched the saw cut into one

of the reasons we bought this small

fixer-upper and felt a sense of loss.

 

 

Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

The Treadmill

 

Symbol of my hope, my will,

rubber walk on frame of steel,

How I wonder how you feel,

my poor neglected treadmill.

 

She who walks you nowhere goes,

yet we keep you, I suppose,

not for walking, heaven knows.

I need a place to hang my clothes.

 

 

Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

 

*****

 

Paper Clip

 

Bent into a “u”, then bent again,

another “u” into itself, this bit of wire

we entrust to keep our documents secure,

has been attached to unexpected lore.

The story goes that some Norwegian

was the first to patent this invention,

and much later, in the Nazi occupation,

his countrymen wore paper clips

on their lapels, a secret solidarity

against the Reich and for their king.

Eventually this morphed into a symbol

of the Holocaust, and recently some kids

from Tennessee collected paper clips,

six million plus, to represent

the Jewish victims of that hellish time.

A humble turn of wire for a soul,

something we must fasten,

never to forget.

 

 

Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net

 

*****

 

Baby Fingers

 

Impossibly small

Perfectly formed

Lilliputian mimics

Of my ten digits

So tender and soft

Pink and clean

Translucent

Like a sea anenome

Exploring, reaching

Waving at the breeze

Giving my Gulliver sized

Finger a squeeze

 

 

SaraV |slvinasAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

his ear

 

shiny skin pulled tight over stiff cartilage

soft down covers boneless earlobe

the swirl and whirl of light and shadow follows

the sinuous curve which doesn't seem to end,

like a nautilus circling ever more tightly

around the auditory canal, which waits to

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

 

 

A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

Spoon

 

It's a big and made of plain metal

with a wood handle worn by use,

by washing. It stirs the pasta

or the onions, the peppers in olive oil,

it serves wherever it is needed.

 

How bright the sun poured

as we walked out our new door,

under the thick leaves of old trees,

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

and onto the broad boulevard,

or that's what it was called.

 

Our first night in our first apartment

together, our first morning

and a trip to the diner for breakfast.

We lingered by the tables

of the church ladies' sidewalk sale,

and we bought this practical spoon--

our first utensil in our new life.

 

After two decades,

I'm on the other side of the country

and the husband has passed,

but the second-hand spoon keeps

its place in the drawer, more

treasured than the meat fork it came with

or the glass bowl I bought

when I was twenty, even

the colander handed down

from my grandmother

that has a dent and is missing

both handles and that I can almost

let go of. The spoon stays.

 

 

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

*****

 

My father’s shirt

 

My father’s shirt,

Soft brown cloth

The color of his cigars

When he smoked them

 

With the stitched deer head

On the pocket

That I’d snuggle

My cheek against

 

I snuck it from

The garage sale box

And wore it

For a few years

 

Now it’s folded

In my drawer

Sometimes

I take it out

 

To trace the stitches

On the pocket

And hold the worn cloth

Against my cheek again

 

 

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

My Parents’ Marriage

 

It will be 52 years this summer

And it is a hand played with finesse.

I watch them and soak them up,

Their fealty, concern for other.

How tenderly and diligently she

Cushions his world as the Parkinsons advances,

How dignified he is as his body cripples.

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

Now transcended.

 

And when they were describing the accident

To me

(20 years ago, now?)

Each of them said, separately,

How when the car started to spin out of control

That they instinctively just

Reached

For the hand of the other, and held on.

No panic, like that, together.

 

 

Corinne |c dot dixonAT NOSPAMtelus dot net

 

*****

 

Canvas

 

What colors cast their spells

against this void of fabric

and gloss, blended from brushes

 

and thinners into magic potions

or portraits of the serene. Bleeding

fingertips of horses’ hair splash,

 

sling, and dapple, creating the shadows

and highlights, and highlights

inside the shadows of faces, of hands,

 

of trees. Reality is captured

or captured and bent through a diffuse

set of eyes and a prismatic lens

 

to give the world a taste and a glimpse

of something as pure and intangible

as a snowflake on the tongue.

 

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

but before that, it’s blank,

like this empty page, I filled with words.

 

 

Jay Sizemore |vader655321AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

Sleek brown fox

peers over his shoulder

at his identical mate.

Ears sharply alert,

eyes deep and penetrating.

He poses with one paw

held in mid-air.

A sentry on my mantel;

Carved by great grandpa,

now guards our family.

 

 

Sue Bench |hd_ultra_96AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

and i will make you a mixtape

 

music holds

a history: i laugh

at my age

when a girl

asks me

about cassettes

and how

we used them

in the wayback

and bygone

era

 

i still

listen to tapes

and their hiss

and watch

as the toothy

gears spin

inside

the deck

 

the sound-

track of three

years

together and three

apart, the friendship

spanning

an ocean, a first

boyfriend, the saddest

songs known: all

recorded

magnetically

for me

and frozen

in time

 

i have sat

for hours

pushing record

and pause

to give someone

a rectangular, musical

reminder of who

we were

if only

for a little

while

 

sometimes

a love letter

finds its way

into the case

or a collage

from old

magazines

and sometimes

just the handwriting

from a friend: every

song inside

a little gift

 

 

k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

Today is Earth Day! Yay!

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

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

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

Here's my poem for today:

"It takes a car"

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

 

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.

 

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

 

i nap cat-like

on my bed

in a sliver

of sunlight

that chases

the afternoon

across the sheets

and for 3

hours i'm

not obsessing

over my flaws

and why i probably

won't hear

from you again

even as a friend

 

tonight

law and order

marathons

babysit me

between my

escapes

to the backyard

where i count

the stars

winking back

through trees

and the smoke

of an evening

six cigarettes

deep

 

 

k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

Sunday the Sixth

 

At 10:30,

I awoke in my hometown

to warmth, open windows,

and bird-songs

drifting upstairs

from the open kitchen door

to my bedroom,

 

then walked down to Main Street

to meet Dad for lunch.

I watched the cars pass

from a tiny park bench,

wondered how so many people

could be driving through

such a small city.

 

I joined the dreary deluge

of carbon and chrome

to come back north.

I stopped to see my man;

he was waiting, cross-legged,

his bright bicycle leaned

against the donut shop.

 

The sun was still shining,

but our shadows were so long

as we pedaled to day's end,

singing songs of spring

and sliding with the wind.

We said goodbye at nine,

and another week began.

 

 

Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

SUNDAY, THE DAY OF REST?

 

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

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

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

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

Today I got up early just barely half past six

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Bonnie |bcholbrook05AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

But You're Not Here

 

I rose not at the crack of dawn

but at the static just off station

of the radio on your side of the bed

where I now lie.

 

I rattling around in the kitchen,

putting something on for lunch,

brewing three cups of coffee

just for me.

 

I would have made more

but you're not here.

 

I grab a quick shower then stare

into the closet for something warm

but not quite wintry.

 

Any other day I'd crawl back

into bed for five more minutes,

just a quick snuggle.

 

Maybe I would

but you're not here.

 

At church I slide into our pew

Leaving room for you--a habit's

hard to break. I'm ready

 

if anyone asks

why you're not here.

 

I grab a bite; what I eat

can hardly be called a meal,

just a few bites taken standing up.

 

Then dragging in the never-empty

well-traveled bag of student papers

from the trunk of the car.

 

I lug it to the couch, spread out

the folders, rubrics, find a pen

under the cushion where I sit.

 

Then I spread the Sunday paper

right on top, read what's new in

Arts and Books. You'd tell me not to

 

Work the LA Times crossword puzzle

in pen--if you were here.

 

Even procrastination fails

as the clock chimes slowly,

needing to be sound--

 

Something you would do.

But you're not here.

 

At least a dozen phone calls,

one wrong number, no one here

by that name, and no call from you.

 

The Sunday evening blues slide

in my windows underneat the doorjamb.

Friday evening's promise not quite met.

 

I move from my place to yours,

leaning back in the chair that bears

the imprint of your body.

 

I feel its chill

since you're not here.

 

Finally back to bed, not quite

to sleep, piles of unread books

and papers scattered on the covers.

 

I slip undercovers on your side of the bed

Since you're not here.

 

 

Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

 

*****

 

Toddler Science

 

he insists that the trees

make the wind, imagining, perhaps

tiny pursed mouths exhaling on each leaf

great trunkfuls of waiting air pushed

out by rhythmically beating branches

the trees: Earth’s respiration

 

he says that the bird’s nest

visible from his bedroom window

is full of eggs we should take and eat for breakfast

and also full of baby birds that will soon fly

but the eggs have nothing

to do with these baby birds

eggs are eggs and birds, of course, are birds

 

he contends that reading is impossible

without speech, reminds me disdainfully

that you have to say the words

to read, that word and sound

are inexorably bound

 

 

tria

 

*****

 

Two Days After the Dentist

 

Before I even got out of bed,

I took Darvocet on an empty stomach.

Stupid.

Dizzy and queasy all morning,

I spent the afternoon munching tiny bites

of mac and cheese and watching NASCAR,

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

and dreamt of meat.

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

I wake up before him, quickly switching

off the alarm. I make him breakfast, thankful

for the microwave oven at 4am. Getting him

up, ironing his clothes, pushing him out

the door; each day begins pretty much the

 

same. I try to do some housework, usually

surrendering to the TV at some point. I write

poetry, prose, emails. Having dinner ready

when he gets home from work, so he can

quickly eat, grab his books, and head to

class. A typical Monday since I lost my job

 

 

Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

Back in DC

 

I woke up alone again with a bloody

nose on a fold-out couch

to the sounds of NASCAR.

After I showered, we drove

to see the cherry blossoms in bloom.

We parked near the Capitol

and walked the length of the Mall,

my Mall (I hadn’t been gone so long)

with my museums and my trees

and my sculptures and grass and life.

In the sunshine, we wandered

around the Tidal Basin, snapping

pictures with the other tourists.

Sometimes, we’d catch a whiff

of the flowers on the breeze

and sniff like dogs to find it again.

We walked back through the city,

down Penn,

and I found my buildings

there, warm but still imposing.

That night, we barbequed hot dogs

and hamburgers in Alexandria,

and I hugged all my old friends

and tried my best

to welcome

their new ones.

 

 

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

Sunday Afternoon

 

Even after the bitter

words of morning, he

canceled his plans

and drove back to me,

just so I could leave

him. Again. He put

away shotguns and shells

then opened the hood to

see what made the "check

engine light" ignite

before I made it to the

end of our road. Me busy

transferring bags and

books from one vehicle

to another, then dumping

dog paraphernalia back

inside. A brief kiss,

a serious look, and "I'm

sorry to ruin you day."

"It happens. Drive safe.

Call me when you get there."

 

 

A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

Working Out

 

Today

I read essays online

with a lavender clay mask drying on,

my lips slathered in a balm of

the labor of bees and lemons

and herbs tweaked, symphonic,

eat your heart out, Estee Lauder:

here in my nightgown, in the living room,

listening to the conspiracy channel,

with truffles and green tea by my side,

I am happy as a sunflower

living through my computer,

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

 

 

Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

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

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

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

*****

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

Here's my poem for the day:

"How the playground of my mind behaves"

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

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

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

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

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