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. PSC in CT

    In her early days she was bright,
    cheery, full of light, an optimist
    offering up riots of leaves –
    so many shades – waves
    of yellows and oranges
    flooding into red, reflected
    in wind-rippled waters;
    thrashing shapes,
    turbulent textures
    against a blue background
    a bottomless welkin;

    but later,
    her trees denuded,
    filter a different light,
    softer, weaker, all the while
    her darkness growing deeper,
    disheartening, the shadows –
    glum, gloomy, foreboding
    a sinister storm brewing;
    such an inauspicious end
    to a month that began
    with so much hope
    and expectation.

  2. ToniBee3

    October’s Fall

    hanging alone
    Leaf unlatches herself from
    Mother Maple to join
    the rest of her family pool

    she parades her
    three-crowned pattern within
    a memorable path between
    sky and earth

    Sir Graceful Wind
    admires and cradles her
    and twirls her into
    a descending pirouette

    cascaded sibling leaves
    rustle below and stir
    eagerly in excitement to
    receive their awaited sister

    she lands with a
    whispering crunch
    among family and celebrates
    her completion of the fall

  3. tobysgirl


    The crunch of leaves under my tall black boots on a lunchtime walk.
    The smell of wood smoke in the air,
    and the buzz of a chainsaw in the far distance.

    Memories rise of fall mornings,
    preparing wood to be saved and stacked so we would be warm for winter.
    Dressed in flannel and thermal and denim,
    boots on our feet and gloves on our hands,
    sent out by our mother to
    help our father prepare for winter storms.

    Although we protested at first,
    our work quickly evolved into play.
    I don’t know who started it first,
    but every log we threw was thrown with a word,
    whether it was a
    Star Wars character, or
    things of a certain color, or a
    popular song, or an
    “and then” story.
    We kept it going until we couldn’t go any farther and then we started it again.

    Warming ourselves next to the wood stove,
    cups of steaming hot chocolate topped with melting marshmallows.
    Mom in the kitchen making lunch-
    peanut butter and jelly or tuna fish sandwiches,
    maybe some soup.
    Rosy cheeks and runny noses, bright eyes and yawns.

    My sweet November.

    Oh, how I miss it…

  4. seingraham


    February babies in the northern hemisphere
    are born into arctic air and weather inclement
    It’s not unusual for their birthdays to be stormy
    even blizzardly – with winds: severe, bitter, even
    biting – some are so described
    It comes as no surprise that no small number
    of the children born in the hyperboreal range
    during the shortest month of the year
    experience days that are dark, gray, overcast
    and sullen – with clouds lowering outside
    and discouragingly inside as well
    Many February psyches experience cheerless
    periods with cruel times laced with depression
    Oh, if only the February babies were all hibernal
    but none of them are, none of the humans in
    any case – they be hiemal, brumal – or just
    plain wintery – all of them are sombre with
    melancholy eyes which they keep downcast
    to match their moods unpromising
    And even if born in the shortest month, February
    babies find time moves with motion glacial.

    1. ppfautsch24

      December’s holiday coat, glistens and glitters;
      Days calmed from the hushed fall of a winter’s snow.
      Night’s secret anticipation and hopes build
      Around the hearth and the warm blaze by the fireside.
      As the month decorates the heart.
      By Pamelap

  5. Michelle Hed


    May I sing you a song
    of a month that is long,
    the fickle month of May.

    She might bring in the rains
    that feed the grains
    in the fickle month of May.

    The cold winds might blow
    just so you know
    it’s the fickle month of May.

    The flowers might pop
    and the grass might need a chop
    in the fickle month of May.

    But try not to worry or swoon
    because after May comes June
    ending the fickle month of May.

  6. Pat Walsh

    by Patrick J. Walsh

    starting weak and scattered
    in the dying days of winter
    a new sun strengthens
    as seasons trade hands

    racing the remnant chill
    from the east down to the west
    a new wind drives hours forward
    to turn the daily page

    colors gather and fill in
    field and scrub and sky
    and the new world takes orders
    from no other month

  7. JRSimmang


    My calendar today, what else can I say,
    was missing the month of June.
    October, December, were missing too,
    and February’s 29 days, just to name a few.

    I searched and I searched for summer July,
    I searched low, and I searched high.
    September has left a Dear John note.
    And May, well, that’s all she wrote.

    March had flown right out the door,
    And January has left the shore.
    April’s gone, and I’m no fool,
    without August, there is no school!

    There’s one month left, and where should it be?
    November’s still here, staring back at me.
    It doesn’t matter if, nor does it matter when,
    when you’re here, the new year begins.

    -JR Simmang

  8. deringer1


    here we go again
    chestnuts imploding,
    treelights exploding,
    dreaming of sleigh rides,
    singing carols in our sleep.

    it’s that time again,
    shopping ’til we’re dropping,
    partying without stopping,
    eating too much sugar,
    and wishing for more sleep.

    how did December come to this?

    could we live old times again?
    allowing peace to find us,
    with simple joys and no fuss,
    singing Christ Is Born and
    Silent Night within our hearts?

  9. Valkyri

    dog days of august

    paddle paddle kick kick
    practise going under water
    the inner tube smells
    like old burning rubber
    hot in my hands
    too hot to hold
    flip it up over
    there that is better
    paddle paddle kick kick
    stay away from there
    that end has leeches
    the horseflies bite hard
    but you go underneath
    that tricks them suckers
    the dragonflies ar pretty
    they are blue green
    hovering over the pond
    take a sip and
    fly off away away
    here comes another one
    duck under the water
    horseflies can’t bite me
    because summer is here

  10. Bruce Niedt


    We can’t ignore that the leaves are falling.
    Last month they regaled us with their brilliant palettes
    but now they are turning dry and brown
    and falling to the ground, readying their hosts
    for a long and bleak winter. When they were green,
    in the splendor of summer, we could watch the sun
    shine through them, and marveled at their industry –
    turning light to food, quietly and without fanfare.
    Then the cold rolled in, and they treated us
    to one final show. Now the branches are all
    but bare, and we worry that this winter will be
    the worst in decades, maybe the worst ever.
    But we can’t just hunker down, sit in a corner,
    throw a comforter over our shoulders
    and clench our knees. We must work to prepare
    for the spring, which will come back, inevitably.
    We must plant whatever we can to make sure
    that the seasons will continue with a vengeance.
    It may take a while, but there will be green
    sprouting up through the brown carpet of despair.

  11. Walter J Wojtanik

    Robert challenged us to write twelve month poems if possible. I wrote all twelve but only eleven would post. After long hours and twenty+ attempts on multiple devices, I realize the twelfth poem was not going to be allowed to post for whatever reason. SO my year’s worth of month poems will be missing her August! Such is life!

  12. grcran


    “Whatever May Be” old Italian saying
    “I yam what I yam” Popeye the Sailor-man

    Pre-winter comes the wondrous taste of yam
    Try coriander cumin oven-baked
    Use olive oil or butter not that Pam
    Endure the brisk which mild October faked
    May summer’s prelude breezes not too hot
    Go backwards in the year go retrograde
    As Scorpio opposes Taurus trot
    November negates springtime come what May-ed

    (thus the poet made May into Yam… mmmm, yammy!)

    gpr crane

  13. Sara McNulty


    Has a bittersweet sound.
    Air begins to cool down at night.
    Vestiges of warmth light
    an afternoon delight with gold,
    though days will soon turn cold.
    Catalogs feature bold new clothes.
    On each page, models pose
    in styles designers chose for you.
    Children return to school.
    September songs bring jewels to ears.


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