2016 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 12

For today’s prompt, pick a month (any month), make it the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible months include January, February, March, (cruel) April, May, June, or even July, August, September, October, November, and December. Yes, there are 12 possible months; choose well, or write 12 poems (yes, I’ve thrown down the challenge within today’s challenge).


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Here’s my attempt at a Month poem:


How ironic that voting occurs
in this month that begins with a “no”
as if rejecting what’s still to come–
longer nights & colder days, the south
burning slow like an ember.


roberttwitterimageRobert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of the poetry collection, Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He edits Poet’s Market and Writer’s Market, in addition to writing a free weekly WritersMarket.com newsletter and a poetry column for Writer’s Digest magazine.

He has been dealing with smoky skies all week from the forest fires of the southeast. Each time he walks outside, it smells like a bonfire.

Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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86 thoughts on “2016 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 12

  1. tunesmiff

    G. Smith
    All those birthdays in December:
    Bride and sister, sons and mother;
    Ah-mah? Christmas – I remember.
    All those birthdays in December,
    And holidays make them a blur.
    But March is saved for younger brother.
    All those birthdays in December:
    Bride and sister, sons and mother.


    G. Smith
    All of summer builds up to this:
    Blue skies and black clouds feint and dance;
    And tumble toward a rumbling kiss.
    All of summer builds up to this:
    A ball, a pitch, a swing, a miss
    But it ends with a school-ward glance.
    All of summer builds up to this:
    Blue skies and black clouds feint and dance.

    [If I may… A pair of Triolets where the first letter of each line is the rhyme scheme for this poetry type…]

  2. bethwk

    by Beth Weaver-Kreider

    Now we settle the fields for winter
    Once the final harvest is gathered,
    Verdant green of summer turning
    Ever into autumn’s golden.
    Morning sun sprinkles the hillsides
    Before the chill of night recedes.
    Enter the doorway to winter.
    Rest in the womb of the dark.

  3. Jane Shlensky

    Buddhist Monk in November

    His burgundy robe rustles
    atop his running shoes,
    a knitted toboggan over his ears,
    a long padded vest to his hips.
    Yesterday, the day was mild,
    sunny, good for walking rocky
    trails. Today, no gloves, no coat,
    his breath fogs the glass outside
    the Mellow Mushroom,
    home of his favorite veggie pizza.
    He waits in line, breathing bread,
    patiently impatient for the ovens,
    as November winds slap his cheeks
    repeatedly, scolding around corners
    of the post office and ski shop.
    He keeps his frozen face calm
    and hums tunelessly in a small moan
    something like Oooommmm.

  4. lsteadly

    September in November

    The months don’t line up anymore
    seasons are so off kilter
    that autumn falls into a summer of dog days
    meant for August

    Today I should be stepping in shin deep
    snow at the mountain’s feet
    but even when I get to the summit
    barely a dusting crowns the peak

    Who would have thought I’d be
    raking leaves and mowing the lawn
    a week before Thanksgiving
    in these northern climes

    The shovel hangs useless in the shed
    until April when the crocus
    should be peeking from the thawing earth

    Then the arctic winds will blast
    in late for the party
    that should have started in January

  5. Nancy Posey

    November, Birds before Departure

    As blackbirds play
    with total disregard
    for travel plans,
    the geese practice their drills
    before the flight south,
    lining up, perfect penmanship,
    of Vs, taking turns
    trading off the lead

    The blackbirds lift
    like a hot-air balloon,
    from the tree
    where they congregate,
    a mimicry of leaves,
    rising skyward as one,
    the tree’s dark twin

    a red-tailed hawk
    bored with his hunt,
    works their edges
    for a way in,
    outsider, unwelcome
    amid their anonymity

    even the buzzards roosting
    perching sentinels
    atop the street lamps
    stop their gossip
    to watch his failed attempt.

  6. Walter J Wojtanik


    All I know is there was this farm.
    Acres of open spaces
    to sit, stare, prance and dance.
    It was a chance to connect
    with the land; the bands;
    the lovely nymph passing acid
    and ass, a nice little lass
    at that! Summer never felt hotter.
    Would’ve spotted her, a face
    in the crowd – to remember,
    to launch a thousand trips.
    Piece. Love.Music –
    hair like Jesus; multitudes
    of chicks and dudes
    pissing on the beatitudes,
    beads and leather vests, chests bared
    and fellas without shirts too,
    true confessions in August,
    free love and granola.
    Mohair and moon pies and
    more music and sex and drugs.
    Old man Max throws a far out party!

  7. Penney


    Runny nose, November blows.
    Eyes water from
    a wind so cold.

    Wrapped against the breeze,
    I cant hold in a sneeze

    One minute liquid runs so free.
    The next Im plugged and
    sing like Cher with ease.

    Vicks and Night-Quill are
    My friends,
    but Tryptophan at dinner is the plan.

    Eyes water from
    A wind so cold.
    Runny nose November blows.

  8. Pwriter10

    JULY by DeAndre Oolong

    The forest is ablaze again
    with memories of ash
    and ghosts of pioneers
    whose foraging faces flash.

    The imagined life
    of fire is wild
    like the half-halo
    of an angel’s child.

  9. carolecole

    In June

    In June nostalgia hammers
    like a half-forgotten song.
    Robins are firm in their nest
    and lilacs threaten to explode
    in small lavender bombs.
    No one is free. No one can say
    “summer” like a kiss on the lips.

  10. jgweber1221


    Halfway through, an Indian Summer
    caught us by surprise. For a day or two
    dusk held on and doors lingered open
    a little longer than usual. Somewhere,

    one or two fireflies persisted. Eagerly
    we shed layers of extra cloth as well
    as those we weren’t aware of: tension
    and stoicism against an inevitable winter.

    In anticipation we turned our faces to a sun
    shining hotter than expected through
    yellow-green leaves, hoping for one last
    burn to carry with us into incoming cold.

  11. Walter J Wojtanik


    Jacket zipped and collar drawn,
    I walk the trail of hidden dreams
    all through the night until the dawn.

    Nature’s chess game with me as pawn,
    a victim of its plans and schemes,
    jacket zipped and collar drawn.

    The warmth of August will soon be gone,
    as September winds start gaining steam.
    All through the night until the dawn,

    the dew pressed footprints on the lawn
    are not as frightening as they seems.
    Jacket zipped and collar drawn,

    my solitude goes on and on.
    The fire in my heart forever teems
    all through the night until the dawn.

    Morning approaches, a quiet predawn
    and you have invaded all my dreams.
    Jacket zipped and collar drawn,
    all through the night until the dawn.

  12. Pwriter10

    MAY be DeAndre Oolong

    There are radio waves passing
    through our brains
    every second,

    playing songs we’ve never heard,
    songs we used to love,
    songs we hate,
    songs with voices too grainy
    to recognize.

    In other news, tears drizzle
    from God’s sky.
    She imagines it that way –
    if only to make those pasted on her cheeks
    not feel quite as lonely.

    Her flowers should have been watered in April,
    but he forgot to call.

  13. Walter J Wojtanik


    We step into November.
    A cup of coffee steams,
    leaves meander
    outside of my window
    and yet there’s a brightly colored Christmas tree
    plastered upon my TV screen.
    Bobby Darin crooning “Silent Night”.
    I’ve seen in the stores.
    It is filtering into advertising.
    But it will not infiltrate into my house
    until at least Thanksgiving.
    The seasons change on me overnight.
    I should have Seen it coming.
    And so it begins…

  14. Bushkill

    What a Year the Months Make

    Across fields of snow Where nature lays hidden,
    Amongst snowbird, ice storms, And temps unforgiving,
    We struggle for meaning And the sun’s warm light
    While sipping hot cocoa In a world blanketed with white.

    The calendar turns and Cupid’s arrows do fly,
    The temps aren’t any better it’s still not July.

    Then we’re into a month of feline brutality
    There’s cold, there’s wind, and a whiff of mortality.
    The temps begin climbing, and the days are now longer,
    I’ve secured Friday’s meal, fish from the monger.

    Then April arrives with new shoots and new leaves,
    There’s green on the bushes, plants, grasses, and trees.
    The first pitch is thrown out and fans frolic and cheer,
    While enjoying soft pretzels, hotdogs, and beer.

    Now May arrives like a bride on display,
    And bright flowers burst forth to augment her big day.
    While all over the land, yes, to and from,
    Younger misses step forward in regalia for prom.

    Then June ushers in Summer’s first crushing heat,
    And we relish the warmth and prep grills for the meat.
    Schools let out and kids race from hallowed halls,
    To run in the sand and kick giant beach balls.

    It’s just getting started, this warmth and its joys,
    Jet skis and dirt bikes, and outdoorsy toys.
    In a loud bang of color and Summer’s deep haze,
    The time is just right for intermittent laze.

    When August steps forth and the heat’s worn us thin,
    Bickering children force the question, when will school begin?
    The heat’s so intense and it keeps us indoors,
    We long for fall’s chill, and a campfire’s s’mores.

    As the days shorten and our tasks get all packed,
    We cheer for our team lest the coach get sacked.
    The temps are still great, perhaps the best of the year,
    But hang on a sec ‘cuz October is near.

    And then sneaking softly, nary a bump in the night,
    Come ghouls, ghosts, and witches and terrible frights.
    And fall colors burn bright echoing July’s festive fourth,
    But these are hung lower as the countryside morphs.

    With the chill winds of November a tune comes to mind,
    Whispering of sailors, and shipping, and names lost to time.
    The color of fall fades, and leaves tumble and crunch,
    Making a bowl full of soup sound like the perfect lunch.

    And then, the end in sight, the land bleak and stark,
    Chill days, chill nights, little light and all dark.
    Through windows bright colors, trees, a scene festive wild,
    To usher in peace with the birth of His child.

    The year holds such joys in each of its moments,
    I can’t pick just one month and be its proponent.
    So in each of these ways and all sorts of others,
    I hope you find merriment my sisters and brothers.

  15. Linda Rhinehart Neas

    born in darkest night
    howling wind announcing birth
    welcoming new year

    hearts and flowers thrive
    during dark days of winter
    love is in the air

    In like a lion
    roaring winds turn to zephyrs
    snow gardens bloom spring

    coyote laughing
    at the moon, high on the hill
    snowing cherry flakes

    everywhere flowers
    bursts of sensual delights
    color cacophony

    blushing, moon follows
    sun to vast bridal chamber
    stars singing love songs

    picnic by the sea
    interrupted by seagulls
    beggars demand gift

    trees whisper secrets
    flower bow heavy with fruit
    summer slips away

    colors splashed about
    cherubs played with Creator’s paint
    vibrant ecstasy

    pumpkins wear faces
    fields cleared for harvest table
    autumn gratitude

    flakes of ice falling
    faces lifted to the sky
    taste winter’s candy

    Twelve Haiku – one for each month!

  16. Jezzie


    The clocks have gone back
    and we’ve lost an hour at night.
    We come home in the dark now
    instead of the light.

    The weather is grim,
    it’s damp and it’s so dreary,
    and I don’t know about you,
    but I feel weary.

    There is mist at night,
    there’s mizzle in the morning,
    the forecast’s saying that there
    is a frost warning.

    Oh how I wish that
    we were back in September,
    instead of misty, murky,
    miserable November!

  17. SarahLeaSales

    October Rush

    It is the rude awakening from a midsummer night’s dream,
    the autumn just beyond the field where the ivy vines windeth.
    It is the shuttering of beachside storefronts and boardwalk shops,
    the cessation of baby’s breath—the final sigh of the Bristol Fairy.

    It is a time of scholarship and collegiate fellowship,
    of numbered backs racing around the track as the trees
    shed their crisp, motley graces, of the stale smell of sweaters
    stowed away in the attic with forgotten toys and old paperbacks.

    It is the season of the burned odor of furnace dust,
    of dusk’s early darkening and dawn’s early rising,
    of pumpkin coffee, cranberry scones, and all things cinnamon,
    of zombies, churchyard fall festivals, and traffic-light-hued apples.

    It is the month of holiday preparatory,
    of midterm study groups and library lounging,
    of heightened expectation, for time is winding down.

  18. MichelleMcEwen


    is no July—

    no fireworks
    no cherry bombs

    no jazz
    in Bushnell Park

    or Elizabeth

    no red
    white and

    blue tablecloth
    at the cookout

    no birthday
    cake for me

    on the 20th

    or for my first born
    on the 1st


    if you are lucky
    you’ll find yourself

    in a backseat
    one Saturday night

    in August
    after a movie

    with a new lover—
    his hands on your hips

    and you’ll think
    this almost makes August


  19. Walter J Wojtanik


    Clouds, dark and ominous,
    a predominance of wind and chill,
    not enough to kill the plants
    but enough to make them dance
    in the whip up of weather.
    A silence falls; precursor
    to a storm approaching,
    encroaching on a good day
    with the threat so offered.
    A mist begins, begetting a shower;
    a sudden downpour ensues
    while you rush to the car
    with keys in hand and a hope to reach
    the power windows before
    giving the seats a good soaking.
    Tough luck. It’s a shame
    you don’t move as quickly
    as you used to. Rain – 1, seats – zip.

  20. Walter J Wojtanik


    No fooling. April comes first. Spring takes root and leaves winter in its wake. April is the beginning month in the rebirth of the soul and spirit. You can hear it in the sounds and sights that surround us. The birds are chirpier, the days are sunnier and the poets all over the place celebrate. A cascade of words. A torrent of thought. A flash flood of frivolity. All rolled up into a month that promises to be creative and inspired. A shower? An April shower to bring the flowers of poetry to the fore, come what may. No fooling.

    Poetry abounds
    springing forth with the flowers
    and April showers

  21. RJ Clarken

    March 20th

    “Spring is when you feel like whistling even with a shoe full of slush.” ~Doug Larson

    …and…enter Spring. Hail, Equinox!
    It’s hot. It’s cold. It does flummox.
    The flowers bloom amidst the slush, and skies,
    likewise, are in first blush

    of weather that is so confused.
    The change occurred while critters snoozed
    in order to avoid the need for fare.
    Now they’re in search of feed.

    But never mind. The season brings
    back birds and bugs and other things
    which plan to land upon your car or shoe.
    Thank you, Spring-Commissar.

    Of course, I speak with words of jest.
    I love this date. I say this lest
    you think my heart is wintry-cold. Distraught
    I’m not. I’m glad, all told.

    (My son and daughter were born on March 20th!)


  22. James Von Hendy


    My wife lights candles. She says it’s comfort
    early darkness brings, a settling in

    that shutters out the busy hives of day.
    We rose in the long clutch of darkness, too,

    and though we saw the rosy-fingered dawn
    crest the hills and light suffuse the trees,

    it was before sun climbed above the clouds
    and morning fell to gray. This afternoon

    I sat alone and watched long shadows rake
    across the slanting light, the eastern sky

    already azure with the coming night.
    I thought of brevity, the frailty

    of flame she now stands above. She turns
    and sees my frown. The flame draws darkness in.

  23. terri9869


    Has many holidays

    In the US
    we celebrate
    St Patrick Day (3/17)

    I also,
    March 4th

    This day
    I got sober
    been sober for,
    11 years

    is anything that
    a dependency

    A need
    not to feel

    help is
    a phone call

    Copyright © TMC 2016

  24. carolemt87

    I have a set of monthly poems I’ve written over the years. I won’t bore you with all of them. Here’s one that combines both sides of the seasonal spectrum–enjoy!

    In August I dream of winter

    In August I dream of winter
    of soft pillows of snowflakes
    to sleep on
    of January wind
    dry sharp and cold
    of the silent and
    barren trees
    of glistening
    and harsh grey

    In winter I dream of August
    of emerald green leaves
    to rest upon
    of summer wind
    wet soft and warm
    of cicadas dripping
    from lush trees
    of misty
    and smooth yellow

    Carol Carpenter

  25. Anthony94


    The mockingbird sips from frost melt in the gutter
    while along the 152 the pair of eagles have returned
    to own the dead tree beside the creek that feeds
    the river. In the upper gardens okra droops, blackened
    leaves wrapping green stalks. Cold seeps through windows,
    settles into the floorboards and fills the sanctuary to hover
    over the spinet while she fixes the hymn board before
    the evening service. Air so sharp she can almost see her breath,
    fingers stiff, plying the keys. She considers how cold
    it must’ve been when Mohr and Gruber first played
    Silent Night on the guitar in that Austrian village, a hardy faith
    required to lift voices beyond the shaking of limbs yet to warm.
    She slips out to the sunlight of the foyer and marvels at the
    power of November to be both heat and light as well as
    the dusky cold of early sunsets, the nights of coyote and owl.
    She passes the rose garden where blooms yet catch both
    ray and shadow. Prepares to pull away but feels across
    her shoulders the drawing down of the year.

  26. Walter J Wojtanik


    It feels just like a sick day,
    I feel it in my bones,
    my hands, they shake and tremble,
    it won’t leave me alone.
    My throat seems sort of scratchy,
    these eyes are red and burning,
    my joints are badly aching,
    as far as I’m discerning.

    I won’t waste my vacation time,
    it really isn’t fair,
    I’d pray for a touch of fever,
    so my boss would know it’s there.
    I don’t take a lot of time off,
    it’s really not my style.
    I’d save myself some trouble,
    but I’ve got it all on file.

    The other guys around me,
    look like they are susceptible,
    there’s hacking, sniffing and malaise,
    it truly is perceptible.
    It appears an epidemic,
    Has broken out with sadness.
    I wonder if it has to do
    with a new bout of March Madness?

  27. Walter J Wojtanik


    The sun-baked sand
    where our feet stand
    offers the perfect
    point of view
    for you and I
    to witness the sun-
    set in the distance.
    I chance a kiss,
    the sip of bliss
    from your soft lips.
    Our silhouette
    unseen by eyes
    sneaking a peek
    of our tryst.
    In the evening mist
    I breathe through you
    and you breathe through me,
    in this moment
    Heaven sent.
    Whispered words of love
    and the crash of waves
    are the sounds we hear,
    along with heartbeats,
    strong and clear
    with one conjoined sound.
    We have found treasure
    in pleasures we bring,
    it makes our hearts sing
    On the sun-baked sand,
    where June passions land.

    © Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

  28. Walter J Wojtanik


    Your bitter comes before November goes,
    a harbinger of the vignette to come.
    Seeking refuge in the warm hearth of home,
    away from the cold that freezes your toes,
    sequestered from the Winter’s frigid snows.

    Bittersweet, you watch the children at play,
    in anticipation for Christmas Day.
    But it is certain the curtain will call,
    an abundance of Lake Effect snowfall.
    Until the New Year comes, December stays.

  29. taylor graham

    Another version:

    SEVENLING (This slant of daylight)

    This slant of daylight hints at stars
    reflected on dark water’s secret pools.
    Sun shines chilly on our half-lives.

    So far from ocean the creek still feels
    its tides, the moon coming closest,
    brightest to our hearts, then gone.

    Only the poem stays reflecting light.

  30. taylor graham


    Let’s walk the edge of creek, not quite
    a slough, winding our way along its reedy
    banks. This time of year the slant
    of daylight only hints at stars reflected
    on dark water, secret pools. So chill,
    the sun, bids us consider our half-lives.
    So far from ocean, creek feels the change
    of tides, the moon that comes closest,
    brightest to our hearts; and then recedes
    so just the poem stays reflecting light.

  31. Walter J Wojtanik


    Fighting a battle often lost in the darkness
    of a weary mind. There is no rest there.
    Cursing the single candle lit to offer
    its illumination; to infiltrate this
    mental stagnation. Accursed slumber
    why do you wage against my will?
    Will you release me like the leaves
    of October’s colorful flurry, left
    to scatter in the cool winds from place
    to place; a migration to discover the peace
    that I crave. You have found me, October.
    You have extended your lifeline in fine fashion,
    a saving assist for one clamoring for control
    over heart and soul,
    over heart and mind.
    I clutch your hand as I am flung over
    the edge of reason. Your season is here.
    You want me near, October, where I belong.
    Anything else would be just wrong.

  32. ReathaThomasOakley


    When it was just my birth month,
    before I learned it was so cruel,
    I begged my mama to let me
    change my first name,
    but keep the middle one,
    in fine old Southern style.

    April Mae would drink iced tea
    under a magnolia tree, know how
    to hold a fan just so. She wouldn’t
    be plagued with freckles, or a bratty
    little brother. April Mae would charm
    folks with her gentle ways and grace,
    in other words April Mae would be
    all Reatha Mae was not.

    I’m glad Mama didn’t heed my plea,
    because so far names she gave me
    have worked out quite well.

    1. Bushkill

      There’s your southern style I’ve grown so fond of. Your not alone in railing against a mother’s choice or of reflecting more positively after several score years have passed in its wearing.

  33. headintheclouds87


    The month of drizzly mornings
    With rain cold like the song
    That I listen to for comfort
    As the pitch-black nights set in.

    The month of exploding skies
    Where vibrant wheels whizz and bang,
    Lighting the dark with colourful trails,
    As panicked pets run and hide.

    The month of solemn remembrance
    With two silent minutes set aside
    To honour those fallen heroes
    Whom now rest in sodden ground.

    The month to stop and reflect
    On the year’s fleeting remains,
    It is but a short resting point
    Before festive chaos yet to come.

  34. Walter J Wojtanik


    Hear the crickets chirping across the field,
    in harmony with the cicada call. All is still
    in the evening when the day is through.

    You step out to the porch swing, bringing
    a cup for you and one for me. A cup of tea
    in the evening when the day is through,

    steeped and steaming, it has me dreaming
    of how mellow love is. It is the soft breath
    in the evening when the day is through,

    of a summer breeze, there is ease in her motion,
    a notion that soft caresses will soothe each heart
    in the evening when the day is through,

    as it has from the start. Listening to night fall
    not making a sound as it hits the ground,
    in the evening when the day is through.

    There is just me and you,
    our teas and the summer breeze!
    In the evening when the day is through.

    © Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

  35. Jolly2

    by John Yeo

    Fireworks explode brightly, lighting up the sky
    As January bows in on the back of the old year.
    Long dark nights and short cold wintry days.
    Depressive scenery for brand new beginnings.

    Frosty rime sparkles on the earthy bare fields.
    The silence is suddenly, sweetly shattered.
    A Blackbird bursts into melodious song.
    As England awakes on a January morning.

    New hopes to build, new dreams, new plans.
    January arrives signalling new beginnings.
    The seed is now dormant in the frosty earth
    Awaiting conditions for growth and rebirth.

    Lisa, lying prone in a hospital ward
    Feels the birth-pains acutely as a girl is born.
    Tom smiles and cuddles them affectionately.
    Our child is our future and a new beginning.

    Her name will be a symbol of renewed hope
    She will be named by her birth month, January
    Our hopes, our dreams our plans for the future
    Will be resting securely on our daughter January.

    Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved.

  36. Walter J Wojtanik

    FEBRUARY 3, 1956

    I was in no position to be born,
    in the breech; feet first, a fresh “face”
    coming to the fore on that frozen February morn.
    Until then, my days on earth up to the day of my birth
    were a placid float, suspended in muted serenity.
    But, the anguish of my poor mother would serve
    to provide shocks to propel me into action,
    gaining traction in this field of my amniotic shield;
    a permeable hideaway of liquidity.
    But damn the masked man in white, he startles me;
    a sharp slap sets my ass to flame and a tearful wail to my lips.

  37. Walter J Wojtanik


    First comes the thaw.
    A heartless tease from a gentle breeze,
    bringing showers and hours of warm.
    No storm in site; just the right temperature
    to make a nice White Christmas
    a fond memory. Every sensory stimulus
    is less provoking as I stand, choking back
    my enthuiasm. A wide chasm between
    reality and what I know to be an illusion.
    It is this intrusion of this lake; unfrozen and
    enabling, labeling these shores as
    the snow capital of nowhere. Glancing to stare,
    aware that the forecast calls for resurgent flurries.
    You scurry to catch a quick glimpse of the skies
    and there before your eyes you realize.
    The snow machine is well in tune.
    I hope it ends before we hit June!

    (C) Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

  38. JanetRuth


    Stark and dark, its still-life poses
    Like a thorn bush stripped of roses
    Like a painting, bitter-sweet
    Summer trampled ‘neath time’s feet
    Lithesome youth from green tree shaken
    Timeless truth, never mistaken
    Nature, stripped down to its bones
    Clings to tempered monotones
    Sings a lonesome lullaby
    In dead leaves cartwheeling by

  39. PowerUnit


    It’s so hot, how can people down south stand it
    All summer, no respite
    And we have to suffer three days, in the nineties
    Our winters became change
    We have either too much snow and not enough rain
    Or all rain followed by icy cold
    Oh, the penetrating cold
    Our automobiles are guaranteed to be covered by something, every morning
    Our trips to work, adventures of a twisted mind
    So cold three layers are not enough
    So wet on the way home you feel like a melting witch
    The futile, endless dumpings
    You hold your shovel with your sore back
    You sludge in your wet leather boots that never dry until July
    You watch a new storm descend and wonder why the snow machine never breaks
    And you don’t complain
    You wait for three hot days in summer to say
    When someone unused to the heat complains
    Remember February!

  40. Pwriter10


    I should have seen the signs:
    A rainbow framed in ice.
    The first good-bye of a great migration.

    But no!
    I let the world keep spinning.
    And now I see that look.
    A vacant pause. Throw-away tears.

    I blame October. But you blame me –
    As if I made October happen.


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