...this really cool portrait painted by poet/publisher/artist Didi Menendez of MiPOesias, Ocho, Oranges & Sardines, Menendez Publishing, and so much more. The portrait is of yours truly, and you can see it at http://americanpoets.blogspot.com/2008/05/robert-lee-brewer.html.

When Didi's not publishing poets, she's painting them. In this year alone, she's painted several poets, including Suzanne Frischkorn, Courtney Campbell, Ron Silliman, and Billy Collins. To check out these and others, go to http://americanpoets.blogspot.com.

*****

The writers conference in Los Angeles went really well. I'm so glad to have met some of my blog readers there (thanks for introducing yourselves!). The event was successful again for all involved--with happy writers, editors, agents, and even the event organizers, who are notoriously hard to please.

Hope everyone had a good time in the forum (http://forum.writersdigest.com) while I was away. Or maybe an even better use of time would've been to write a poem or two and/or submit your work.

Until later, keep poeming!

I'm prompting from sunny Los Angeles this week. The weather is perfect outside and the palm trees are already swaying. But enough about me, let's get to the prompt.

For today's prompt, let's write a poem about commerce. You can write about haggling over Christmas tree prices, bleeding money at the gas pump, getting double-charged for shampoo in the checkout aisle, or whatever. Just make sure it has something to do with buying and selling.

Here's my poem for the day:

"That's It"

I don't need any cigarettes
or beer this morning, though
I'll be back tonight, you can
bet. Probably should get one
or two tickets. Yeah, better
go ahead and do that before
I forget. Give me a fifteen
and a seven. Throw in a two
while you're at it. Do you
happen to know who won
the race last night?
                           Really?
I wish Tony Stewart'd won
because I had money on him.
Gordon, eh? Geez, I wish Tony
had won. He broke my lovely
heart. I had money on him.
Could've made something had
he won. Geez, you better go
ahead and get me a twelve
and a pack of unfiltered.

 

Over the weekend, I was asked by a poet for tips on how to handle criticism as he tried thinking out whether he should join a writing critique group. With his work, he was afraid of a few things:

1. He wouldn't be able to handle the critiques. That is, he was afraid too much negativity would lead him to give up writing.
2. He wouldn't find the right readers to give critiques. He'd written a massive blank verse poem, and he's afraid the wrong group won't appreciate his words.
3. He won't appreciate the written words of his peers. He seemed to have a particular view of other contemporary writers--thinking much of today's writing is kinda like spam.

Now, I'm not going to get into a debate of his stance on contemporary poetry, which I personally think has very good vital signs. However, as a former participant of several online critique groups and a student that logged more than 60 credit hours in writing courses at the University of Cincinnati, I will speak a little on the value of critique groups.

So there, I've already tipped my hand: I think critique groups are valuable, even if you don't agree with the critiques. And here's why:

First, the only way to gauge if something is actually working for your readers is to solicit feedback. Sure, you know what you're trying to do, but you don't know if anyone else is picking up on it unless you hear it from your readers. After all, you can't go around explaining your intentions to every reader--unless you actually want a very small audience.

Second, bad feedback is still valuable, because it forces you to look hard at your work and try to justify exactly why a particular line or image is fine as it is. And you need to be honest with yourself. If you can't honestly defend your work, then you may have an area that needs revision.

Third, there's nothing better than good feedback. After taking in all the praise though, be sure to develop a certain sense of paranoia. Is everything really okay? Can I change a line here or there? I've found that when I receive absolutely no negative feedback that I'm usually more self-critical of my work. After all, there's no such thing as a perfect poem.

Fourth, critique groups give you the ability to talk out problems you're having. If you know something's not working, you can ask the group to pay attention to x or y and give specific feedback.

Fifth, critique groups provide camaraderie with other poets. And that's often hard to do, especially if you don't live in a major city--but even there, poets are a bit hermetic and love to fly solo.

So there are some reasons why critique groups--as well as workshops, conferences and creative writing programs--are a good thing (in my opinion).

*****

As far as handling the criticism, as mentioned above, you should always be prepared to defend and scrutinize your work. It's a crazy tightrope act, but one that poets need to perform to get the most out of their lines.

Personally, I always bring a new poem to my critique group hoping for the best and expecting the worst. Usually, I find my words are somewhere in the middle.

Currently, I'm not a part of a critique group, but I still have some trusted readers for poems that I feel are close to getting where I want them to be. These are the readers I trust to let me know if my writing is hitting the mark or falling short. I know they'll let me know, because we've built up a level of trust over the years--both in giving and receiving criticism. Hopefully, if you haven't already, you will be able to find such a group of trusted readers.

 

Okay, had a great Memorial Day weekend with my boys. And I'm now super tired, because something told me it was a good idea to go for a 3 1/2-mile run late last night and then follow it up with a 4-miler this morning. But such is life when trying to get in shape with a busy travel schedule. That's right, I'm headed out to Los Angeles, California, this afternoon with an expected arrival time of 9:06 p.m. (PST). Gonna be workin' the BEA/WD Writers Conference tomorrow--starting bright and early at 7:30 a.m.

If you're planning on attending, definitely feel free to pull me aside and say, "Hey," followed by what you like or dislike about this blog.

If you want to know more about the conference, go to http://www.writersdigest.com/bea.

*****

Related to my travel-o-rama, just wanted to let you know that the blog posts may be a bit spotty this week/weekend. I think my blogger friend Chuck Sambuchino (http://guidetoliteraryagents.com/blog) will have a laptop with Internet access at our undisclosed location--so Wednesday's Poetry Prompt should get up tomorrow morning. However, if there are any problems, I'll get it up as soon as I'm able.

*****

If you're bored in my absence and don't have me as a Facebook friend, please request me--I'm listed as Robert Lee Brewer, and I look kinda like that guy up in the upper left-hand corner of this page. ;)

For those of you without a Facebook account, they are free and easy to set up. And they offer online Scrabble. Is there anything cooler than that online? Outside of my blog, that is?

 

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

*****

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

"Control"

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

 

On Day 20, I asked you to write a Love poem. And the sparks started flying immediately. There's no better way to start a week than with a little love, so without further ado.

*****

 

Helping Hands

 

It would be better to think

you were made for me

a custom order

handcrafted to please

those hands that have held babies

carried groceries

and tarped roofs

were just praciting

for that day in the yard

when you reached out

to steady me

and keep me from falling

 

 

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

After the Whole Day

 

Let me feed you

cheeses on a plate.

Let me roll for you

raviolis of gorgonzola,

swirled in a cream sauce

with walnuts, tarragon.

See how the water simmers.

See how the windows steam.

Let me serve you a salad--

frisee and pear,

delicate curls of pecorino,

a whisper of truffle oil.

I have in my kitchen

scallops to sear,

chicken to roast,

and a medley of roots

tossed with oregano, balsamic,

and then a little lemon tart.

When you come home

with the sound of the saw in your ears

and mahogany dust in your hair,

let me pour you a glass of Champagne,

let me take your hands

and lead you to the table you made.

Let me feed you, fill you.

 

 

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

*****

 

My Mistake

 

Tentative touches cannot explain

how much you've actually

changed me.

 

Long, light strokes down

a make-up smeared cheek

try to tell you that

I care.

 

Finger tips pressing lasciviously

into firm thighs attempt

to get you to realize

that I do want you.

 

It was a mistake to try and

send you out of my life -

to try and hide the fact

that I do, love you.

 

It's too late for me to

try and take that back;

to un-tell you that I can't

have you, have these

feelings.

 

But I can try to win back

your favor, your desire

with the slightest whisper

of a kiss on your painted mouth,

promising much more than

words ever could.

 

 

Kateri Woody |kwoody66AT NOSPAMutica dot edu

 

*****

 

One Incarnation of Love

 

cleans the litter-box,

cackles, wakes me up with

political commentaries,

of a world pregnant

with entropy, a blue rose with warts.

 

Good love is a mentholated powder

on the prickly heat of this world.

 

 

Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

*****

 

I Miss My True Love

 

Once again, dear, you’re on the road.

We’re separated by miles and highways,

But linked by cell.

Several times a day, we’ll talk,

But the other half of the bed tonight

Will stay cool, empty, and neat.

I should be used to kissing you goodbye

By now.

But I’m not.

I want you to come home, kiss me good-night,

And lie beside me till I hear the reassurance

Of your warm breathing,

The rhythm of your sleep,

The sure, sweet, safe knowledge

That you are here

And always will be.

 

 

Karen |kphillipsoAT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

Awaken

 

The Man in the Moon knows.

He stays up past dawn

To watch us.

 

The morning doves

Nest near our window

For inspiration.

 

And daffodils

Bow in our direction,

Accepting the warmth.

 

While the world

Is aware of

Our love,

 

We are oblivious

To all but

Each other.

 

 

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

How to Write a Love Poem

 

Choose an iambic vessel for your pleasure

An octave and sestet for good measure

A dash of onomatopoeia will suffice,

Boom Boom,’s too much, but pit-a-pat is nice.

Ask for my heart. Surely I’ll recognize

Synecdoche and give the rest as prize.

Love, dove; strife, life—use no rhymes so cliché;

Choose simplest words for what you have to say.

 

Give love its legs, you must personify

A living thing, but do not let it die.

Don’t mix your metaphors, but be direct

Use similes as well that may reflect

A view of love by what it most resembles

And spice it up with literary symbols.

 

But don’t dare use the least hyperbole

If you want to get within a million miles of me.

 

 

Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

 

*****

 

Tell me Saturday,

Monday, Wednesday afternoon;

Tell me riverside,

Mountain, desert canyon, sea.

Lover, tell me – and soon, soon.

 

 

ck |kephartceAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

Sweet apple blossoms

and succulent plums

sit tired and spent beside us

on a now stained picnic

blanket. And you lace

flowering white in my hair

as the pulpy red hearts

disappear across the grass.

And we wrap ourselves in sheets

of light and hold each other

firmly by the core.

And the sun sinks into universal dawns

as you whisper those

plum somethings in my

blooming ear.

 

 

Khara House |leftnwrite08AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

The volume could be lower.

Silence would be best.

Tonight the History channel

vies with ESPN. World War II

echoes around me as I try

to write a love poem, today’s

poetic aside.

 

Serious tones announce German attacks.

Next voices rise with excitement:

the 76ers have won a NBA game. Innings pass;

76,000 men are taken prisoners.

I think love is here

in this rented room,

in the words I do not speak,

in the poem I don’t write.

 

 

Beth Camp |bluebethleyAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

I’d Like To Take You To Dinner

 

At the Rockin’ Comet Diner

the waitresses wear t-shirts

that say, “Nothin’ could be finer,

than this Carolina diner,”

and we sit at a small chipped table

crowded with condiments

and a dented napkin holder.

 

You order liver and onions,

I get fried green tomatoes and fried okra

because this a Southern diner, after all

and Southern food is all about fried,

but we skip dessert,

which might have been banana pudding,

partly because we’ve eaten enough

and partly because we can’t wait

to get home.

 

 

Beth Browne |womenswritesAT NOSPAMinbox dot com

 

*****

 

In Tent

 

Bluejays riot in the campsite:

s'more debris, hot chocolate powder

and apple peels overlooked in last

night's rush to bed are their morning

feast.

Eventually we will

have to open the zipper,

get up and clean up

the table.

Let's just lay here for now

remembering our own discovery

and content.

 

 

Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Green Lakes

 

I wore the sunburn on the back of my neck

like a badge. Earned from an hour spent

in a paddle boat, on that lake. That lake.

The bacteria makes appear it green, the sign said.

A glacier compelled by invisible forces,

carving into the soft pre-history earth,

made it deep. And the sunfish swimming

just below my floating body, made me scream.

You laughed pulling me to you.

I said i hated you, for not telling me it was there.

Your face found the curve between my neck and shoulder.

My feigned fury dissolved into the water.

Days like that, never last forever.

 

 

Crystal Cameron |crystalclouded731AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

geese bring the

spring time

back with them

their V across

the sky ripping

winter in pieces

with them comes

earlier dawns

later sunsets

rising of sap

blood courses faster

there are those

who would waste

these hours

but in your company

they seem all too

short I watch you

more through the

honey light and

feel my heart swell

and open like

the buds of

lilacs that

wave behind you

in our window

 

 

halfmoon_mollie |tamsinAT NOSPAMtwcny dot rr dot com

 

*****

 

The Awakening

 

I wake to the curve

of a familiar hip,

draped with a swath

of modest sheet…

nakedness reveals all

and sometimes that is too much,

in the morning light

this baring of body and soul.

And filtered through the

blinds, horizontal punctuation marks

of last night’s encounter

are reminders of spent love.

 

You turn,

the sheet slips away

and in the first rays of

consciousness

I know why I am here.

 

 

anne |atkrakAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Lust and Exhaustion are lovers,

they stay up all night, every night

it’s like being young again, only

they are not. Lust drives to work

in the early morning light, moon

sharing the sky with the rising sun,

too tired to see straight, thinking

half of what I’m feeling isn’t love,

it’s sheer exhaustion: The gritty eyes,

the illusion of floating off the ground,

the champagne bubbles in the chest.

Back in her apartment, Exhaustion

rolls over in her sleep, smiling.

 

 

Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

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

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

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

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

 

On Day 19, I asked you to write a poem about a memory of yourself that you personally could not remember. For instance, something from early on in your youth, from blacking out because of drinking or medication, or from just having a horrible memory, I guess. I used some anecdotes from my youth and something I said in my sleep, for instance.

The poems you came up with were awesome. There's always so much honesty and passion behind these poems. And they ran the gamut--from terrifically funny to terrifyingly tragic.

*****

 

Four lives before age six

 

I recall reaching

For the orange cup.

But don’t remember

How the bleach burned

Going down my throat.

 

I see the storm door

In my mind’s eye.

But don’t remember

Going through it

arm first.

 

And I see the pavement

Pass inches below

My nose,

But don’t know how

The car door opened.

 

And I don’t remember

Falling from the

Second-story balcony.

But still feel the cool grass

Beneath my broken shoulder

 

 

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Night Terrors

 

When I was a little girl,

One night I awoke

On the kitchen table

Beside the salt and pepper shakers.

 

My mother tells me

I used to dive bomb

Out of my crib,

That she could not build

High enough walls to cage me.

 

If anyone nears my eye

With a finger or brush,

I immediately recoil and tear.

 

My mother tells me I ran

Directly into her extended finger

Around the age of three.

I retell this forgotten story

As my mother stabbed me in the eye.

 

My father made hamburger

Of my fist as I placed my hand

In greased pan. Sometimes I wake

With heated palms. I would later dream

That my sister was cooking our mother

And our mother was still talking to us.

 

But the oddest of all memories

Is a white dress hovering

In the linen pantry mirror,

And my mother asking me

Why I was in the closet that night.

 

 

Bonnie MacAllister |bmacallisterAT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

 

*****

 

The Last Time I Leaned out a Window

 

It was one of those New York days

when steam rises from the sidewalk.

Warm air, oppressive as a wool blanket,

drifts through the open window.

 

I hear barking in the courtyard

six floors below. I climb

on the sill, lean out the window,

stare at the snarling dogs.

 

Large hands pull me back,

turn me over a cotton-clad knee

and, for the first and last time,

spank me.

 

 

Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com

 

*****

 

The Recipe

 

You tell me

I recite recipes

in my sleep.

 

Last night

I was out of tomatoes.

 

You asked

crushed? or chopped?

 

I replied

get out of the kitched.

 

 

Shannon Rayne |shanpidAT NOSPAMshaw dot ca

 

*****

 

Humble Beginnings

 

What Mom remembers is that

on the day of my birth,

since I was the fourth child,

I came very suddenly and

she barely made it the fourteen miles

to the hospital.

She didn’t have time to

wash up the hand-me-downs so

she had to bring me home in

a tattered sweater.

She always felt bad about that.

 

Dad remembers that I was born

on the first day of squirrel season,

and he kept falling off a stump

from being so sleepy

from staying up all night.

 

When my children were born

I tried to tell them more interesting

stories about their births.

 

 

Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Retribution

 

My forty year old son

reminds me of the time

after supper

I threw the dishes

and broke most every one

because I was angry

at his father

over something

he did/didn’t do

three years before

I divorced him

and the reason

he remembers

after all this time

is because he still

thinks it’s funny

that my only comment

was “At least

they were dirty.”

 

 

Linda Brown |llbrownAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

 

*****

 

Grandpa

 

There are bits and pieces of memory

Hands groping

Touching a little girl

That was me.

There are bits and pieces

That still today

Torture the woman

That is me.

The bits and pieces

He left behind

Are still mine

Even though he is dead.

 

 

patti williams |pwilliamswriterAT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

Banana Shoes

 

I am six years old in the picture,

sitting astride a tortoise,

twice my size.

I guess it was a petting zoo

and I am grinning with delight.

My mom says that after she snapped

the picture,

with the old Polaroid camera,

the tortoise caught sight of my yellow

sneakers and thinking it was a tasty

treat, tried to take a bite.

I don’t remember any of this

but the creature’s head was at least

as big as mine,

her mouth much wider

and I guess I should be glad

I still have both feet.

 

 

Beth Browne |womenswritesAT NOSPAMinbox dot com

 

*****

 

A Moment in Time

 

Three years old and riding on a

Subway with my mother. Cane seats worn

And shredding, women complaining of runs

In their nylons which catch on stray strips

 

They tell me I was a `pincher’ in my

Toddler years and Mom never knew

When it would happen or who the

Victim(s) would be or how they would take it

 

Mom and I sit in seats facing others, men

All wearing hats and reading newspapers

But then, a group of nuns in full habit sit down

“Who are those funny ladies?” I yell

 

I had never seen a nun before, and

Demanded an explanation. Impatient with

Mom’s apologies to the women in black and white,

I launch out of my seat, over to the nuns and pinch their knees.

 

 

Sara McNulty |smcnultyAT NOSPAMsi dot rr dot com

 

*****

 

Memory Forsaken

(For the Cousin Never Known)

 

The photo black and white

sepia-stained at the crimped corner,

me laughing, snug on Auntie's hip

a bag of taters and her, not twenty,

bouffant hair, pursed lips and puppy-sad eyes,

evoke dreamy deja-vues of distant toddler-hood

in her mother's house: the creaking staircase;

 

packing boxes of books - Honey Bunch

and Bobbsey Twins – closet cached

under summer-hot eaves; the cuckoo clock

that magically played the Batman theme;

the sun slanting into the dormered room

each morning; cider-tinged orchards

and shiny buckeyes to collect; chipmunks skittering

 

over lichen-lacquered stone walls;

the cool dank cellar of glittering glass,

jars of relish and ‘maters hiding half-full bottles

of gin; the scent of sadness creeping round corners

hushed and still; Auntie weeping, always weeping,

for a daughter she will never know,

holding me instead. Holding me.

 

 

Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

Past and Present

 

I call my older sister, figuring she’d know.

“Tell me a story about myself I’ve never heard.”

She’s helping her son with homework.

“When you were two and I was ten

I got mad at mom and ran away with you.”

“Why’d you take me?”

“Didn’t want to leave you with them. I liked you.”

She tells her son she’ll help him in a minute.

“So I got some graham crackers and a diaper

and propped you up in the back of the wagon.

Mom knew. I went all the way to the stop sign

and around the corner. Far enough

so mom couldn’t see.”

“Why’d you come back?”

“I realized I couldn’t take care of both of us.

Besides I’d made my point.” She laughs.

In the background I hear her son say,

“I’m getting out the graham crackers.”

 

 

Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

 

*****

 

Cigarette Machine

 

My mother and grandmother loved to tell stories

of my precocity, how I could read as early as three –

or so they claimed. They said they realized this

when I’d go with them to the cigarette machine

and pick out each brand – Winstons, Chesterfield Kings,

Camels, Pall Malls. Maybe it was just pattern recognition –

the Pall Mall package, for example, was almost solid red –

but they claimed it was proof of early genius..

 

No doubt, I’d even help them get their favorites –

they slipped coins in the slot and I pulled

the glass-knobbed lever that released the package

with a "ker-chunk" to the bottom tray. Maybe I made

faces in the mirror – all cigarette machines had mirrors,

I’m not sure why. They were everywhere – in the diner,

the bus station, the office, the bowling alley. It was cool

and sexy to smoke – the crewcut man with the skinny tie,

the platinum blonde in shirtwaist and pearls, sharing

a cigarette break. Even doctors smoked on TV.

 

My grandmother died of lung cancer

about eight years ago, a smoker almost to the end.

My mother died not long after. If only I had the power

to see the future then, instead of the power of early reading,

I’d stop their hands before the coins went down

and the Pall Malls or Winstons came out.

Instead, I went on reading like some prodigy.

I never quite lived up to that.

 

 

Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net

 

*****

 

A Sudden Stillness

 

She told the story until

I felt sure I remembered it

from some space between lifetimes,

my kicks inside her wet womb

before storytime with her first graders.

'Once upon a time' and I lay still,

listening to the tales unfold,

was still again as a baby with croup,

pain carried on the wings of 'once upon'

into the late rainy night.

She was Mnemsyne, divine lover of Zeus;

I was her child-muse, being gifted these sacred

stories, yet to be scribed, my feet motionless,

my heartbeat a mere breath in the wind.

 

 

Pris Campbell |camprisAT NOSPAMbellsouth dot net

 

*****

 

Coma

 

There are moments

But not often minutes

When I see. It is possible to

Be awake, but

Only with great effort

Or none.

The joy of life

Is incompatible

With the business of being alive.

 

My cherry tree is about to bloom

It is fully awake

Its only sound is a sigh

Of disappointment as I walk by.

 

 

Gratia Karmes |glk222AT NOSPAMtds dot net

 

*****

 

Jenny and the Pine Tree

 

“We always get a spruce pine

for Christmas,” Mom repeats,

then tells the story of when I,

pre-school-aged and already in trouble

at daycare for biting other bratty kids,

stood in front of the Christmas tree

for a picture with my even-tempered little brother.

I took a step back, and one of those spiny branches

reached out and pinched my neck.

More startled than hurt, I turned around

and bit that horrible little branch,

then yelped and let go when it had the nerve

to poke the roof of my mouth.

Angry, I bit that stupid tree again.

 

 

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

Beginning May 12, the United States post office is changing its rates (after doing so less than a year ago). First-Class Mail stamps will increase from 41 to 42 cents; however, those who have the Forever stamps can still use them--a savings of one penny per letter (or bill). I'm glad, because I've still got like 30+ of those Forever stamps, and it will probably take me forever to get rid of them, since I'm totally slacking on the submission front.

Anyway, the USPS increased its stock of Forever stamps expecting the demand to grow with the upcoming rate increase--so if you want to save a dollar for a roll of 100 or 20 cents for a pack of 20, go get 'em now before they run out of stock.

To read about the other rate changes that will go into effect starting May 12, go to http://www.usps.com/prices/welcome.htm?from=bannercommunications&page=prices.

 

Thanks to all of you, the April PAD Challenge was a phenomenal success. In fact, I think there's no way around making this an annual event moving forward. You can't even know how honored you've all made me feel throughout the entire month, and I'm thrilled to see that a supportive community has developed.

To keep that community going, I asked WritersDigest.com editor Brian Klems to set up a Poetic Asides specific group in their forum located at http://forum.writersdigest.com. If you have an account, just log in and click on the Poetic Asides link. If you don't have an account, it's super easy to create one--and it's totally F-R-E-E (and it don't even cost you any money). I have a welcome message up for the group, but you can begin your own topics and start chattering away. I'm sure there will be some crossover between the new forum group and the blog moving forward, too.

Also, on that main forum page, you may notice there are genre-specific critique groups in Critique Central. One of those groups is labeled poetry, and that's where you, umm, can critique, umm, poetry. Yeah, pretty obvious, I know.

*****

As far as the blog and prompts, I've decided I will continue to do prompts, though not at the breakneck pace of one each day. I'm planning on providing a prompt each Wednesday throughout the year--figuring there's no better way to get over the hump of the workweek than a little prompting and poeming. I hope that'll be a good pace for everyone until next April.

*****

I'm considering the possibility of critiquing one poem per week. More info on this later. But stay tuned--and prod me if I seem to forget about it.

*****

The Poet's Market newsletter is going to make a comeback starting later this month. If you wish to receive the free monthly e-mail newsletter, you can sign up at www.poetsmarket.com.

*****

On May 21, plan on attending the Poetic Asides 2008 April PAD Challenge awards ceremony--at this blog. I'll be recognizing those who completed the challenge, as well as some extra nods and pats on the backs and such.

Plus, at that time, I'll also be handing out awards to poets. Those who completed the challenge will be able to receive one or both of two awards: one is a badge that the magazine design group put together for poets who want to put the award on their blogs and/or Web sites (to show that you completed the challenge); two is a certificate that the book design group is working on that you can print up and tuck away somewhere safe (or proudly frame and display).

*****

On May 22, I'll be answering poetry questions all day somewhere in WD forum. More details to come on this as the event approaches.

*****

Okay, this post is long enough now, I guess. Let me know if you have any questions, concerns, comments, etc. And again, thank you so much for being so awesome!

 

On Day 16, I asked you to write a poem with a twist at the end--something I was calling the "Alfred Hitchcock" poem. I was really impressed with the results and the creativity.

Here are the highlights.

*****

 

Wanted:

 

Roommate willing to share the rent,

the bills, the responsibility; to

put the dishes in the dishwasher,

not the sink; to fold socks together,

rathering than ranting when one

disappears somewhere between

the closet floor and the laundry room.

 

Said person should be willing to

share the remote control, ESPN

balanced with the Food Network,

to carry on conversations

when required, to keep your thoughts

to yourself at all other time,

and to know the difference between the two.

 

Since the place is already furnished,

you won't need to bring anything

but your own clothes, your own books,

and, of course, your car.

I'm taking mine when I leave this place.

If he asks, just tell him I sent you.

 

 

Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com

 

*****

 

"My Precious Angel"

 

The pillow still holds your scent

I can close my eyes

and feel the heat from your side of the bed

I spy a strand of your beautiful brown hair

and I can almost imagine

your soft doe eyes

looking back at me

 

Why did I have to kill you last night?

 

 

Chris Granholm Jr. |chris7baAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

DOING IT

 

Some people do it every day.

Some do it not at all.

My aunt she does it all the time,

Some do it near the wall.

 

Some friends of mine, they shut their eyes.

Some friends they say don’t worry.

Some friends tell me it’s not so bad,

Just do it in a hurry.

 

My Gramma did it day by day

A hundred times moreover.

My mother did it only when

Her family would come over.

 

I feel naughty, though, to do it not,

Shame cast upon my head.

For I kick myself come evening time,

When I’ve not made my bed.

 

 

Vanessa O'Dwyer |sheswede99AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Wandering Hands

 

I slide my hand down your back

I grope and fumble

But you remain quiet

Just giving slightly to my touch

 

My sneaky fingers glide around

Your bottom and I’m fumbling once

More. But you are passive

C’mon c’mon, give it to me!

 

Finally I’m on my knees

I drag your leg away

My hand searching for the

Treasure you withhold

 

I just don’t believe it

I was sure you’d give it up

But, sofa, if you haven’t goy my keys

Then where the hell are they?

 

 

Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es

 

*****

 

The aliens came today.

We were surprised

as they brought us

a message of peace

and love and then

told us how it would happen.

 

Our lives were wrong,

they said.

We must live like they did

and then used force to

show us.

For your own good they said.

We want to help

they said.

 

Help from them I cannot

need or want

So I held my head high

and they said it

would be better if

I didn't.

 

But I stood against

and as I saw the crater

in my chest

My last words were

"Go back to Earth."

 

 

Matthew |matthewabelAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

I Am Just Not A Party Animal

 

When we arrive, Hiro greets his pals, each in coat and tails. They rush excitedly to each other; I am ignored. With a sniff and toss of the head, my date abandons me for a drink.

It’s awkward standing here alone.

Just like junior high school mixers.

But in minutes, I run into Kathy from Curtis Park, and Nancy, and Carlo. We socialize loudly above the din; turns out we’ve got much in common.

Too soon, Hiro’s had too much. I drag him, howling and whining, to the car.

He doesn’t want to leave the dog park. Tonight, neither do I.

 

 

Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

The fire was beautiful.

It burned with ferocity,

frightening me a little -

I didn't want us to catch.

You smiled and vowed to

protect me. We shared

a glass of red wine as

we settled down to snuggle

and watch the fire. You

kissed my neck and told

me you love me. I smiled

and we turned back to the fire.

 

Wonder where that snotty witch will live now?

 

 

Monica Martin |lilmunkey2369AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

"Art on the Line"

 

Warm wind

Birds singing

My favorite lavender chiffon blouse

Fluttering in the breeze

Assorted vibrant colors

Billowing on the clothesline

 

Spring is here,

Warm days

Cool nights

my collage of beautiful colors

are dry and

must come down

 

Alas, the lavender blouse

Is gone,

Perhaps

the wind took it

 

Sunday morning

A new day,

Brilliant sunshine

Reflecting off the grass

And warming the tar driveway

next door

 

There is John, my neighbor

Jaunting out to

Retrieve his paper

He is stunning

In my lavender chiffon

 

 

Carol -Amherst, Mass |cboudreauAT NOSPAMhampshire dot edu

 

*****

 

Watching

 

"Every breath you take, every move you make, I'll be

watching you." ~Sting

 

When I first noticed you noticing me

I didn't think too much about it.

I didn't think I was your type,

a wife and mom of thirty something years.

But then I turned the corner and

I could still feel your eyes on me.

Staring, penetrating, unnerving.

I fumbled with my purse, and

glanced around furtively,

hoping to see something or someone else

that may catch your interest, but

I was all alone and your eyes never left me.

My hands shook, without reason.

I tried to pretend you weren't there,

to act normal and hope you'd go away.

But you inched closer, ever closer,

eyes roaming everywhere, searching.

I knew you wouldn't find whatever it was

that you were looking for, but still

you made my skin crawl and my nerves squirm.

I walked quickly away from you and out the door,

although I had done nothing to warrant your attention.

Maybe you were bored that day, or maybe you just

take your job as store security much too seriously.

 

 

Lori |brightiiizAT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

"The Proposal"

 

His brown eyes showed serious affection

and he popped ‘the question’ as we stood

beneath a large old tree. We’ve been friends

for years now, at least three, but my parents said

more time was needed. I wondered if

they saw something that I didn’t and felt

it best if their recommendation were heeded.

Back beneath the large old tree the matter

was solemnly discussed and he and I concluded

that one more year would not be too tough.

By then we would both be six, quite old enough.

 

 

Emily Blakely |ecblakelyAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

*****

 

Tom

 

“Are you coming to bed, Darling?” you call

toward the bathroom door. I will soon,

Darling, but let me gaze upon you first,

study the way you remove your glasses,

carefully replace the bookmark in your novel,

and stretch to set them on the nightstand

before clicking off the lamp. The smell

of the jasmine outside the window surrounds

your image, making you seem even more delicate.

I watch the way you smile so sweetly

while you snuggle down into the warm blanket

that outlines your legs. I’ll be there soon, Darling,

the next time you forget to lock this window.

 

 

JL Smither |jlsmitherAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

I can’t believe your cheekiness,

Your lack of disrespect.

You’re certainly the flakiest

Coquette I ever met.

With Manolos and Guccis,

You skirt cut up to here -

Originals by Pucci,

And your lack of underwear;

Might get you adoration

And a night of random sex.

Your brain is on vacation

And your mother asks “what’s next?”

I’m absolutely done with you

You sneaky little tart

You’ve made my life a total mess,

You broke my boy friends heart.

 

 

M J Dills |mjdillsAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

The geese are chasing the people away

from their eggs, down by the river.

The lawn is a beautiful shade of summer green

decorated with romantic iron benches.

Look at the Hollyhocks showing their hues of

sky, and blush, and sun.

The day is open, flowing wide toward forever

and I’m so glad you came to visit.

Cobblestone steps guide the way back to the patio

which delivers its closure.

The electroshock therapy is going well

please come to see me again.

 

 

maeve63 |maeveq63AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

“Unfinished Work”

 

She sits in the easy chair

Directly in front of the roaring fire

Reading my rough manuscript

She says can we have a late dinner

I want to finish this

I want to find out what happens at the end.

Oh you don’t want to do that I say

It’s not ready…I’m not ready.

Don’t be silly she says

Don’t be so damn insecure.

I watch her read

I’m beside myself

I’m not ready for her to…

For me to…

I’m on the last chapter she says

Just give me a few more minutes

This couple you wrote about

She’s so strong and he’s so…weak.

Just keep reading I say

As I gather strength

And move in behind her

Wanting more than ever

For her to be finished.

Oh my God she says as she turns to look at me

I think he’s going to kill her!

 

 

Marcus Smith |sleeperdesuAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

It’s not brain surgery

 

I can’t believe

They don’t

Put me under.

All that cutting

And slicing.

So close to

My brain.

I saw the

Diploma,

But I’m not

Impressed.

Just another

Butcher with

A sharp

Instrument.

I hate haircuts!

 

 

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com