2010 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 20

Up early this morning. Actually, I’m about to hit the road for what will probably be a 16-18 hour road trip up to Ohio and back again (picking up my Ohio boys for Thanksgiving break–yay!). So if you see someone between Duluth, Georgia, and Fairfield, Ohio, today wearing glasses and a brown You’ll Shoot Your Eye Out T-shirt, then it’s probably me. So be on the lookout.

For today’s prompt, write a “what’s wrong or right” poem. As with any of these prompts, there are many ways to come at this one. However, since I’m in a hurry to hit the road, my mind is completely blanking on all of them. So, whether it’s right or wrong–wrong or right–I’m just gonna get down to poeming. Have a great unsupervised day!

Here’s my attempt:

“Whether it’s write or wrong”

I have to write, though it may be wrong
to just start typing and drift along.
There are two boys who can’t wait to see
their very silly poet daddy.
My one hope is you’ll play nice today
while daddy poet has gone away.
But I’ll be back for poetic fun
after all my traveling is done.


Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer

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107 thoughts on “2010 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 20

  1. Yoly

    Mindful Collaboration

    Sometimes I feel
    as if my spirit
    stepped into
    the wrong body.
    When the dance
    inside of me
    sustains a beautiful
    move, my legs think
    that they are tree trunks.

  2. Rosemary Nissen-Wade


    ‘I must believe,’ he said.
    I understood. ‘Yes,
    because you have seen.’

    He nodded. He was speaking
    of the witches in his home village
    in Karangasem, past the mountain.
    His uncle was one of them.

    Already I too believed,
    though I didn’t know then
    that I myself was a witch.
    There were just these things I did,
    these things that happened….

    I think of that acceptance
    now, in my own country,
    where so many ignorantly think
    witches are evil, magick is wrong.

    In Bali the villagers knew
    witches are healers, magick
    like all things, is a gift from God.

  3. Susanne Barrett

    I need it–
    I don’t know why.
    But this need to be right-
    is harmful, destructive;
    pride in its most elemental form.
    It’s as if my entire world
    will crumble into dank nothingness
    if I am proven wrong.
    I wrap myself in this rightness,
    a protective sheathing
    that holds me together,
    letting nothing in,
    allowing nothing out.
    It causes me to be alone–
    unhurt, untouched, untouchable.
    It’s pride…and fear:
    a stunning fear that
    buzzes my brain–
    fear of others’ opinions,
    fear of losing the grip on myself,
    fear of not having the answer
    when I don’t know the question.

  4. Lauren Dixon

    Same Time Next Year

    Is it wrong to call him on his birthday
    once a year? or send a birthday e-mail?
    To hear his familiar voice, like
    velvet whiskey, warm in my ear,
    one that both men and women,
    love and have loved, his wife, his children,
    his grandchildren, his lovers.
    He, thirteen years older, our liaison many
    years ago. He calls on my birthday,
    I call him on his only to say how are you?
    are you healthy? How is the family? Not
    wondering any more about what could
    have been, but how has your life played out?
    When he leaves this planet I will know.
    There will be no call on my birthday,
    eyes sparkling, saying “I didn’t forget.”

  5. Taylor Graham


    for Elihu Burritt, traveling South, 1854

    On Main Street, what a crowd gathered!
    Auctioneer’s voice, the familiar “going! going!…”
    He tries to raise the bid. “Only 985 dollars?”

    What could be worth so much?

    A Negro stands in the midst, but elevated
    and apart. Is he the groom of a pair
    of splendid bays matched for carriage,

    that might fetch so high a price?

    Fall of the auctioneer’s hammer, “gone!”–
    it strikes you. The black man leers
    at the master who just bought him.

    The very countenance of slavery.

  6. Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    sodium pentathol tango
    by juanita lewison-snyder

    truth serum
    where inhibitions
    are scooped up like
    manure on pitchforks
    and hauled off to
    storyteller markets,

    and interrogations
    in dim-lit backrooms
    come faster, more diligently
    the answers more easily
    now that she’s freefallin’
    from an barbiturate parachute
    skimming between fact and fantasy,

    ‘cuz when you’re
    dueling with ether,
    right and wrong
    good and bad
    truth and lies
    tend to meld together,

    unable to censor herself
    she empties memories into
    an foreign operative’s pocket
    when she’d rather eat her liver
    than spill her terrorist guts.

    © 2010 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder