April PAD Challenge: Day 13

Wow! Yesterday was quite a workout. Not only did I go for a hard 5-mile run, but I think we did about a million Easter egg hunts (give or take a few hundred thousand). Anyway, I’m not sure if I’m “feeling it” today, in terms of writing a poem. But that’s what makes a challenge a challenge is to get up and write regardless. Doing so puts me in a position to be ready to write when I am “feeling it.”

For today’s prompt, I want you to write a poem that incorporates a hobby (either yours or someone else’s). That’s right: Now is the perfect opportunity to write about your comic collection or your scrapbooking activities. And for the purposes of this challenge, I also think activities such as fishing, running, bowling, photography, birding, and gardening count as hobbies.

Here’s my attempt for the day:

“We wake up in the morning”

while the grass is still wet with dew,
and we all launch our drivers–
some ending up on the fairway,
others in the rough. Then, we pick
up our discs and throw again
and again. We aim for the chains
we want to rattle. We ramble
on about near misses and how we’re
kicking butt or getting our butts kicked.
Eventually, we finish the first course

and drive on to the next. By now,
the morning is warming, and we’re
hitting our targets. Eagle, Stingray,
Beast, Aviar–our brightly colored
discs fly through the air. Some of us
under par; others over. Finally, we stop
for lunch. We talk about the day, how
we need to do this more often. Then,

we drive on to the next course. Repeat
the cycle. And then the next course. And
finally, we get to the fifth and final
challenge of the day. We line up behind
the tee pad as the sun slants westward.
We squint, wind up, and let our discs fly.
Some of us wear out during this last course–
our discs not traveling as far, not hitting
their marks. But there’s always one
who digs deeper, though just as tired,
and drives from basket to basket, trying
hard as possible to beat the evening.


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819 thoughts on “April PAD Challenge: Day 13

  1. LaQuisha Hall


    Others don’t know how I’ve always been,
    They are on the outside looking in
    While the world is attempting to make me bleed,
    I know in my heart I will succeed.
    Deep inside I know,
    Jesus Christ is the One I follow.
    He is the path into my sunlight,
    Who can always make me feel joyful and right.
    You cannot help me get beyond my sorrow,
    But Jesus can lead right into my rainbow.
    Your servant, my King,
    I’ll give you everything
    While you continuously send your love
    From the heavens above.
    I may not be worth as much as a diamond ring,
    But I will give you the glory in the praises I sing.

  2. Gretchen Gersh Whitman

    Sorry for repost, minor correction.

    PAD- April 2009
    Prompt: Hobby


    just allergies
    a bit

    oh mom

    WHERE R U?
    at a sale
    I try
    won’t, they need me


    Mars. I don’t know. First date
    I can handle myself
    LOVE U 🙂
    love u 2 mom 🙂

    © Gretchen Gersh Whitman April 2009

  3. Gretchen Gersh Whitman

    PAD- April 2009
    Prompt: Hobby


    just allergies
    a bit

    oh mom

    WHERE R U?
    at a sale
    I try
    won’t, they need me


    Mars. I don’t know. First date
    I can handle myself
    LOVE U J
    love u 2 mom J

    © Gretchen Gersh Whitman April 2009

  4. Cheryl Pearson


    (I don’t know if studying Jack the Ripper counts as a hobby, but it’s always fascinated me. I have about a million newspaper clippings, several books, and a lively interest. Not in a morbid way…I just think there’s something fascinating about a serial killer who murdered so brutally and often and yet was never identified…and all the reports of a demonic killer who could leap onto roofs, this evading the crime scenes…gives me the chills).

    Perhaps she shivered in the grey chill, stepping out
    of the beery warmth into dull
    barely lamplit London. Perhaps she pulled her coat or cape around her thin shoulders before moving on, the taste
    of her last one like smoke in her mouth, her covered throat planed
    by casual whiskers to pinkness.

    It doesn’t matter how she fought, or if she fought,
    if her white hands flew
    or, trapped beneath her, strained
    at the folds of skirts rubbed thin, thrusting upwards
    blind as any drowner; it doesn’t matter if she shrieked
    or had her mouth clamped shut
    against her cries of bloody murder: the end result
    would be the same.
    the air assumed a stillness.
    The world got suddenly wider.
    His smile: was it white, or yellow?

    Dispersing into shadow, arm, hand, knife,
    a peculiar extra stink
    trailing the tin stink of her death,
    his eyes were two flames. Nothing, not even a moth,
    drew near.

  5. Laura Kayne


    Her hobby is collecting dolls –
    But they aren’t playthings
    And she is not a child.
    Hours spent searching E-bay,
    For the perfect bargin –
    A ‘Re-born’ or ‘Jasmine’,
    Hand-painted, real hair
    And surely that photo
    Is of a real baby?

    The dolls multiple,
    Having a room in the house to themselves,
    Dressed in their best,
    Prams and toys of their own,
    They aren’t her babies,
    She knows they have now flown the nest.
    But these little ones
    Will never, ever leave her,
    Grow up, get into trouble or talk back.
    She knows they are only dolls,
    But she mothers them anyway,
    Joking to herself that
    Somewhere deep inside
    Their still, plastic hearts
    They love her too.

  6. Sheryl Kay Oder

    Increasing Observation

    The river is swollen and its water is swirling around.
    The library windows reflect orange autumn leaves.
    The grey and white steps with an orange stripe
    enhance the colors of the pumpkin, orange flowers,
    and the gold foil around the pot.

    I never noticed that before.
    Click, click, click.

  7. Andrew Schuch

    My Passion is not My Hobby

    “What do you do in your free time?”

    I craft poems
    From the words
    My fire erupts
    As it is constantly waiting
    To explode like a volcano

    Poets are akin to Hephaestus
    Feeling lame or inadequate
    As they take the precious metals
    Of words and mold them
    Into swords and shields
    To let out the passion within
    By making several slices at one’s core
    Or to protect feelings and dreams
    One holds dear from reality or probability

    Or like rings or jewelry
    Made to bestow
    Love, honor, and affection
    To the crafter’s loved ones

    Forged in the flames of Hephaestus
    Our words and our ideas are
    Just as his masterpieces
    Never failed and always endured

    “Don’t you write poetry as a hobby?”
    “No, I write poetry as a passion.”

    A.J. Schuch

  8. Sascha Aurora Akhtar

    LAND’S END, Cornwall

    I am at the end of England
    Where beaches are advertised as “white sands,”
    But are simply, “not black”.

    The water aqua of the Atlantic Ocean
    Against the grey cloudful sky
    Highlights how cold I am.

    The tide is deceiving
    Forcing me back further onto land
    I could not imagine getting wet.

    The cove is demure & remote
    In wetsuits seven surfers like seals
    Catch Cornish waves on this day Spring forgot.

    They bob in immersed triangulations, waiting
    A swell, a furious paddle lifting off
    Onto the filigree lace crest, like marzipan women & men.

    Further & further out they seem to float
    Into the big water at noon-tide
    It’s grand to watch them catch one,
    & shave the water like an expert barber
    Or miss one & get folded under
    Into the batter of the shape-shifting sea-cake.

    I am where England terminates
    My mobile phone is not catching a signal,
    Eaten up by the energy of the sea.

    © Copyright 2009 SAkhtar (A poem about my hobby of watching other people busy with their hobby; surfing & other things, written from notes. This was the perfect opportunity to write it.)

  9. Elise Huneke Stone

    Fostering Kittens from the Shelter

    Every day I sit on the basement floor
    in front of the queening box,
    and cup the tiny silk-milk bodies in my hands,
    needled like an addict by their cries and little claws.

  10. Jennifer Terry

    "Passion at Dawn"

    She wakes up at dawn,
    scurrying out to the barn.
    Manure mixed with the
    scent of grain permeates
    her nostrils as she breathes deep.

    Grooming her faithful steed,
    as if she’s been awake for hours,
    she saddles Sundance up
    and rides to the top of the hill
    just as the sun
    crests over the top.

  11. Wes Ward

    Thievery, a Hobby

    I spend most nights thieving
    ideas from the air about my bedroom.
    As thoughts channel, in and out,
    I seize one, release another,
    and manipulate the thought
    into something it was not.
    By morning, there’s a faint mist
    in the room–remnants of tears
    I suppose– for all of the stolen
    ideas that now reside in my poems.

  12. Sally Deems-Mogyordy

    For the Birds

    I grab my binoculars
    And dash out the door;
    It’s a migration morning,
    Who could want more?

    Warblers are singing,
    The thrushes are near;
    There’s an indigo bunting,
    So glad spring is here!

    Sparrows and shorebirds–
    Some stay, some pass through;
    There’s waterfowl, raptors
    And flycatchers, too!

    Nothing so thrills me
    Like watching them soar;
    It’s a migration morning,
    Who could want more?

    © 2009 Sally Deems-Mogyordy

  13. Ruth Mattern

    The RC Model Airplane

    He spends weeks putting the kit
    together piece by piece, taking care
    with every minute detail. He carefully
    follows the instructions knowing that
    any step missed could cause failure.
    He marvels at how intricate each part
    is, from the propeller to the tail. The
    engine is a work of art. It amazes him.
    He tests the structure making sure all
    is secure. He checks the balance, adding
    or removing weight as needed. When
    he is done, he admires the airplane, the
    sheer beauty of his creation and wonders
    how well it will fly. With the battery
    charged and fuel in the tank, he’s
    ready to put it to the ultimate test.
    He looks it over one last time and is
    sure he has done a good job. It is ready.
    He tests the radio and checks the flaps
    and it’s ready to go. He taxis down the
    runway, gradually increasing the speed.
    As the airplane lifts into the air. His pride
    soars right along with it. Powerful yet
    graceful, it glides through the sky.
    Ahhh, sweet success.

  14. Michael Roy


    Oh the libraries of old with books stacked high
    Such a glorious place to be, with information and stories to be explored
    Books beckon for us to hold, as we open the cover it draws us closer
    Each turning of the pages begs for us to continue

    A book is a marvelous thing
    Inspiring people to imagine what was and could be
    Books have a life of their own that a screen cannot share
    It is flipping through the pages that brings the story to life

  15. Shirley Plummer


    I have as many bookshelves as some have books.
    Shelves against every wall
    Shelves in the middle of a room.
    A double row of books lines each shelf
    Except where oversized volumes fill the depth.
    Books are bookended or stacked flat
    On counters and other flat surfaces.
    About 3,000 books are in storage…
    Last week I brought 113 items home
    From a (mostly) book sale.
    The Turks have a word for bibliophile
    It translates back to English as ‘book maniac’.
    Perhaps I should think seriously about that.

  16. Christopher Granholm Jr

    "My Footprint"

    I collect
    Cards, once
    Beanie Babies, once
    Books, now
    My infatuations
    Last for several years
    And I’ll collect
    Common, rare and personally appealing
    I sometime infect others
    With my mania
    And they’ll collect with me
    When I stop collecting
    I never sell
    Only hold on to
    Never put much thought before
    As to why I collect
    It is so that
    When I pass from
    This world
    There will be a mark
    Of the time I spent here
    On this world

  17. Bernadette McComish

    Nude in a Studio Apartment

    Mostly abstracts that long
    to be landscapes—
    a kind of fuzzy
    moon, a sort of sunset, a mountain/volcano. You
    say my acrylic on canvas is narcissism
    especially paired with a painting of myself
    by a real painter. Perhaps
    my brush is better with letters—

    portraits of you
    on a page, sonnets
    that look like water lilies.

  18. Julie Bloss Kelsey

    (dedicated to 7-Zark-7 because if the tin can wrote poetry, we can be sure it would rhyme)

    Mechanized monsters munch through town,
    thrashing homes and buildings down.
    They wipe their mouths with human skin.
    What a terrible state we’re in!
    Can we escape this horrible dream?
    Look in the sky! The heroic team!
    Our heroes fly into the fray;
    they’re here to save another day.
    They quickly fight their way to glory,
    so I’m off to write another story.

  19. Carol Berger

    “Remembrances of Camping”

    I remember waking up in the tent
    in the early morning chill,
    listening to the sounds of the rest of
    the campground waking up,
    smelling coffee and bacon in the air.

    I remember snuggling in my sleeping bag,
    reading a book by flashlight
    at the end of a long day of hiking,
    feeling cozy and safe in my tent,
    as if I were wrapped in a cocoon.

    I remember falling asleep at night
    to the sound of someone in
    an adjacent campsite playing a flute
    by their campfire, with the occasional
    hooting of an owl as counterpoint.

    I remember the sunset lighting the sky red
    behind the dark trees across the lake,
    moonlight shining on the rippled water,
    the brightness of millions of stars
    in the clear summer night sky.

    And I remember being young and strong,
    fearless and hopeful, and finding God
    in trees and mountains, rivers and lakes,
    waterfalls and sandy beaches
    in a way I never could find him in any church.

    Twenty years ago, I went on my last camping trip,
    not realizing then that it would be my last,
    that my life would change, and I would go
    in a different direction and stop camping
    without ever intending to stop.

    But the times I camped had become a part of me,
    and though I know I will not camp again,
    sometimes these days when summer’s in the air,
    I find a longing fills my heart and gives rise
    to memories of camping trips long past.

    It’s then that I go camping in my mind,
    back to the places that I used to love to go,
    back to the time when camping fed my soul.
    And the past becomes as real as if it were now,
    and I feel as if I’m coming home after a long time away.

  20. Erin Sway

    Hobby – I think not.

    A hobby is what people do
    to escape the aggravations of
    work, family, home, life
    A hobby is what people attempt to do
    believing time will improve their efforts
    but it never does
    A hobby is what people do when
    they have nothing else to do
    A way of killing time before
    time kills them.
    I prefer the term: avocation
    which instills the
    The living soul
    that makes it a way of life
    and not just a hobby.

  21. Cheryl Foreman

    Consummate Gardener

    They enter the garage, silently, bringing none of the normally boisterous energy
    that surrounds them on other days, and they find the spades and gloves on the shelves
    and the shovel by the door. Through grass thick from attention and plants pampered and showered with pride, they begin conversations at different beds; talking about sleep and rest and visits. The two soon to meet manhood kneel and dig, making room under preselected bushes and trees while the last, still firmly in childhood, pours new ashes
    to nourish the life so carefully tended by the one, in the jar, now joining the earth—always to be in her garden.

  22. Laurel Kallen

    The Early Life of a Marathoner

    I run and my running is different from the running I did as
    a six-year-old running the point was never to run
    the point was to burst, grow, find every part of a place, run
    home, run to
    school, run on
    escalators, in
    department stores, supermarkets, beaches, the energy of life so huge you had
    to break into a run to
    escape you had to run
    away you had to.

    Laurel Kallen

  23. gbivings

    Spider Solitaire

    since I was a child, one of
    my favorite pastimes was
    playing computer or video
    games while listening to
    music. playing the games
    allows me to escape
    the realities of my life,
    but at the same time
    think on them and decide
    which course of action
    to take in handling them.
    listening to music is a part
    of the escape, too. hearing
    a song I like always takes me
    back to where I was or what
    I was going through when it
    was originally released. it
    also lets me recreate past
    situations, making their
    outcome what I want them
    to be. right now, Spider
    Solitaire is calling my

  24. CLJohns

    one breath until eternity
    I wait for perfection
    my eye reads numbers –
    I adjust without thought

    muscles quiver for eternity
    I wait for the gods
    the world comes to a halt
    I trigger without thinking

    the shutter opens for eternity
    I wait – pray – and so
    in the lifetime before I can see
    I breathe again without fear

    captured for eternity
    I wait for interpretation
    Light by one machine
    and skill and emotion by another

  25. Dr. Jeanne Hounshell


    It began
    as a hobby
    a way to get out
    of the house
    and learn about writing.

    I loved it
    and wrote poetry
    every day.

    Until one day
    a story pushed
    at my pen
    at my mind
    at my soul.

    Now I
    had to write.

    It was no longer
    a hobby.
    Now it was
    my calling?

    Oh, yes
    all that
    and more.

    My hobby
    became my
    and sometimes
    I think
    my obsession.

    But write
    I will
    as long as I can
    hold pen in hand
    and words flow
    through me to the

    Because writing
    has become
    a part of my soul.

  26. janflora


    This must be
    a hobby
    because I
    don’t get paid.
    Though I am
    an advocate
    of writing
    from the heart,
    I would like
    to turn this
    into a
    so I could
    go on a

  27. Nilo G. Simogan

    Writing Poem

    As the sun rises and
    overcast the earth
    And transform energy
    above and beneath
    My pen begins to paint
    another rebirth
    Of nostalgia, thoughts,
    scenery, and stealth .

  28. Kelli Russell Agodon


    She told me the minor scales
    created melancholy. Listen,
    you can almost hear the apple-faced doll
    growing old. Crying.

    She told me not to grip the bow,
    but hold it loosely like a lover.
    I said this reminded me of crying
    and growing old. She said

    musicians keep melancholy
    in their cases. I said I wanted to sing,
    but didn’t know how. In my heart,
    I knew tragedies happened

    in G Minor. She told me not to think
    about the pain when I was playing,
    but to let ache run through
    my fingers as I pressed on

    each string. The minor scales
    predicted tenderness after grief.
    When my violin quieted, I tightened
    its strings, asked it to sing. My violin,
    too sad to speak to me again.

  29. Beatriz Fernandez


    Golf’s expensive,
    Reading hurts my eyes
    Knitting gets all tangled
    Hunting I just despise

    Jogging makes me sweat
    Puzzles I find perverse
    Writing is too painful
    Skydiving–not in this universe!

    Traveling gives me hives
    Gardening makes me sneeze
    Dancing requires rhythm and grace
    Swimming makes me wheeze

    Lounging’s just the best hobby
    For someone who’s like me:
    Never let it be said
    That I’m too hard to please!

  30. Lisa W.

    Renaissance Woman

    They glide
    one by one,
    in perfect symmetry.
    Glass and stone of
    endless variety, and
    sparkling beauty.
    Zenlike they fall into place
    bringing a vision to life.
    Creating a circular wholeness
    of being until
    the dreaded finish;
    adding the clasp,
    leaves me hanging and
    hopeful that it will not
    fall or fail,
    and make me begin again.

    Creating a mood with wondrous
    textures and tempos
    following a pattern
    lifting from page to sound upon
    welcoming ears.
    Translating the ordinary sounds
    into the translucent.
    Master craftsmen all

    Elegantly laid out;
    paper and picture
    complimenting each other,
    simply or with great bells and whistles.
    Creating a showplace
    Of a memory.

    Lisa A. Wooley

  31. Vanessa O'Dwyer

    Weaving Words

    Working my hobby
    I transport you there
    Places of sunshine
    Without a care

    Words that rhyme
    Patterns of Play
    Working the lyrics
    I’d do this all day

    Imaginations and
    This magic elf
    Composing ditties
    Amusing oneself

    Soaring tall skies
    Floating on wings
    Meter and rhythm
    Symbols of things

    Looking through mist
    My mind’s interlaces
    Coming from nothing
    Making up places

    Savor it slowly
    Colors and drift
    Images borne
    I offer my gift

    Vanessa O’Dwyer

  32. Jodi Adamson

    A Rewarding Hobby

    One year, at the state fair,
    A bright, blue ribbon was found hanging
    on a framed picture I had been stitching
    for the whole summer.
    I have never been prouder
    of my need to embroider.

  33. Sarah


    This kind of law is a handshake with nature –
    the fight and pull as I become the circumference,
    a rope the radius. I push off to form an arc, release
    my grip and get some slack, give over more of me
    to gravity. A carabineer guarantees a connection –
    me and the tree, rope loose around my waist but cinched

    at the link. Hamstrings burn and tighten with each fall.
    Though I dangle in between cliff and canyon floor
    with mossy rocks all around, some species want to live
    in this suspension, ferns content to root in crevices,
    trees wriggle in between cavities. The canyon
    is slick, everything I touch is damp, alive.

    All I have to do is kick off with confidence,
    anticipate the impact of my feet against rock and swing.
    Legs shake, ankles ache; I descend into a dawn
    I missed, the atmosphere disturbed by my sweat
    enough to move its cool, wet air against my skin.
    It is terrifying to intrude on this ever-evolving canvas,

    my rubber soles, nylon harness, aluminum latches.
    Or is this invasion beautiful for more than me,
    gravity reeling all things lower in the canyon to brush
    against rock, creation making room for steady,
    ecstatic reproduction, knowing this energy will grow
    and wane, slowly settle to collapse, decay.

    I plant my feet in the compost bed of dead ferns,
    last season’s leaves, follow the trickle of spring water
    out, moss and mud underneath my fingernails.

  34. H. Marable


    She told him he was doing it again.
    He said, doing what?
    She said, The thing you do, that you do,
    that you know you do to annoy me.
    He thought about what she had said.
    He could be out on the court right now,
    But he gave it up for this new hobby—
    spending time with her. He smiled and
    said, I don’t know what you mean.
    And that was the point, it seems.
    He didn’t know her, she didn’t know him,
    And yet, they were cohabitating.
    Not out of love, or even lust,
    or convenience.
    Just Habit.

  35. Adriana Borzellino

    I wonder if
    The birth of
    Was created
    Many years ago
    Before electronics
    Became toys
    When in order to
    Pass the time
    Little girls had to
    Play games like
    “Dress Up”

  36. Allie B.


    Curling up with a good book on the sun porch,
    I begin to read.
    Suddenly I’m transported to far away lands,
    And there I may see,
    Places I can’t go, people I’ll never meet,
    Come to life in front of me.

  37. Raven Zu

    Young mum a long way from home
    Farmers wife, new house, no fences.
    Small children, miles to wander in
    Family far, all friends new
    Depression, helplessness, suicide beckons.
    Antidepressants freely prescribed
    Take up a hobby, the doctor advised.
    China painting chosen, classes taken
    Every Tuesday night she left,
    To the screams of her baby son – don’t go out, Mum
    Faithfully, persistently, a handhold at a time
    Life re-grasped.
    Hobby pursued, student becomes teacher.
    Long she lived, and saw her children grown.

  38. Sonia L. Russell

    It Adds Up
    By Sonia L. Russell

    I have every new quarter in
    “The United States Mint 50 State Quarters® Program.”
    I know, sounds a little boring.
    I mean, holding up lines in the market
    Checking the quarters given back as change
    eyeballing the quarters in the till
    Causing the cashier to eyeball me back…suspiciously
    But what joy and excitement ensued
    When a fresh new state was minted
    Shiny silver colored copper and nickel
    With pretty state representative embossing
    I was especially pleased with New York
    Statue of Liberty standing so proud like me
    Sure, I save every state quarter that I get
    Have a special container just for them
    Have two special books where I keep two of each
    I even keep the nickels that have several variations
    Of George Washington’s face.
    And the hands shaking, and the buffalo, on the back
    Oh yes and of course the new gold dollars
    They are my latest passion
    No, I don’t spend them, just save them
    Okay laugh at me if you want to
    But guess what?
    Considering this recession I love my coin collection
    Cause it all adds up!

  39. Mistryel (Mar) Walker

    The Palette

    Alizarin Crimson – a blush
    Burnt umber lush garden earth
    ochre fields of wheat
    sienna in her sweet hair,
    grey sky of mourning or
    ultramarine in a starless night
    Phthalo green, earth-marble sheen
    cerulian blue sky-bright, the cadnimum sun,
    the cadnium brothers are clean but loud
    need to be heard, undiluted orange,
    red and yellow burley fellows, raging
    raging against this stretched white expanse..
    Titanium laughs.
    Ivory Black revels in its contradiction….

  40. J. R. Simons

    "Winter Rules"

    In October we began to play by winter rules.
    We were allowed no mulligans
    But could improve our lie
    Without penalty.
    We stretched this rule so that any dimple
    Out of place was cause to improve our lie or changes balls before a putt.

    October aeration made it hard to sink a putt
    Despite our ability to play by winter rules,
    And there were as many holes on greens as balls had dimples.
    These conditions made us long for a mulligan
    Despite the inevitable penalty
    For doing more than just improving our lie.

    Good scores were hard to come by and for strokes we’d often lie,
    Turning a three- or four-putt into a two-putt.
    Our partners would cover for us to save our penalty
    Strokes. Even a six-inch gimme was not allowed under winter rules!
    When our opponents weren’t looking, we were often tempted to take a mulligan,
    But when they looked, we simply smiled, all teeth and dimples.

    So we gazed forlornly upon greens brown and dimpled,
    Hit our drives into rough where improving our lie
    Was no more permitted than any mulligan
    Off the tee, and tried gamely to sink our putts
    On greens so broken as to render winter rules
    Ineffective and make simply playing it’s own penalty.

    One day we played in the rain, visibility already a penalty
    And we could not control the ball for water filled each dimple
    And caused hydroplaning. What good were winter rules
    When no matter where the ball was played, its lie
    Was worse than before and every single putt
    Went straight and spat rain behind it. “I’d sell my soul for a mulligan,”

    I cried in anguish. But no matter how much I protested, no mulligans
    Would be granted lest I chose to accept my penalty
    Strokes with honor. I opted just to chance my putting
    And slap the ball straight at the hole across the dimples
    Of aeration and thank heaven for each improved lie
    As we struggled to play in rain by winter rules.

    It’s a shame that winter rules allow no mulligans,
    Only an improved lie without penalty.
    If I hadn’t landed in that aeration dimple, I would have sunk my putt.

  41. Maria D. Laso

    Family Album

    What are you there,
    in hoop skirt or holster?
    A time scrap snatched to pocket,
    a link to the past. A face
    time place to remember,
    Do you make what we become?
    Are you ashamed?
    Is that disdain?
    Did you hope for more
    or less? This?
    To be remembered
    for your success?
    Who are you there
    in hoop skirt or holster?
    Let me see a piece of me.

  42. Julie Fisher

    I don’t like the word
    It has a condescending
    Ring to it.

    I more prefer passion

    But hobby
    Has a juvenile sound.
    Without the accompanying joy
    And playfulness
    The freedom associated with youth

    I’m not going to tell you
    My hobby/ies
    I don’t have them.

    I might tell
    what keeps me up at night
    keeps my head spinning
    when I’m stuck in
    the cubicles.

  43. Sandy Dickson

    Poetry Challenge #27 April 27, ’09

    She pined for him when he wasn’t there,
    And she sure shined for him when he was.
    When asked why she loved him, she would sigh
    And dreamily asnwer, ‘Just because.’

    Who can put reason to such mysteries,
    Except that we long for what we’ve not;
    Things we once enjoyed and lost through time,
    Experiences we wish for a lot,

    Or never had, yet want to savor,
    Tangible or intangible things:
    More money for acquisitions too,
    Or to enjoy the freedom it brings.

    She wondered, did she only long for
    Things that were somewhat unreachable?
    And would she think about him so much
    Were he available, teachable

    To her wiles and not so elusive,
    Yet she’d like money to travel too.
    But if she did so extensively,
    She may want stability; it’s true.

    Sometimes she longed for tapioca,
    Sometimes an ice cream cone after all,
    There was an array of things longed for;
    But darn it all, why wouldn’t he call?

    The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts,
    Her heart leaped, as did she, to her feet.
    Would it be him longing to see her,
    Or just a disappointing repeat?

    Sandy Dickson

  44. John Davies

    Swords and Staves

    We wait, expectantly,
    to be guided into adventure.
    Swords of foam and latex
    spells memorised,
    chain glinting and clinking,
    multi-coloured robes.

    Someone, or something, comes
    to tell us of evil loose in the woods.
    Or vile necromancers raising the dead.
    Or orcs that must be slain,
    before the world can be safe,
    and we can return to our camps
    to tell tales of the adventuring.

    And when creatures lie dead,
    and plots have been thwarted.
    When gates have been opened, or closed,
    and fair princesses have been rescued,
    we pack up our swords and staves, go home
    where we wait in safety, for our next chance
    to be heroes.

  45. Nikki Griffith

    A jack of all trades, master of none
    Just going with the flow and having peace-filled fun
    From saltwater fish aquariums to travel abroad,
    playing games like dominoes, ping-pong and cards
    To tinkering with computers, never taking them apart
    To shopping for bargains to fill up the cart,
    To following athletics of every type of venue
    On television, at the local schools and where ever else we may go
    To painting, writing and reading of books
    To snorkeling and volunteering and fishing with hooks
    To the Barbie doll collection that was lost in the fire
    To the watching the races run down to the wire
    To collecting of great articles and elephants, too.
    I never run out of things to do,
    Except Focus.

  46. Cathy Sapunor

    Committed (I Ought to Be)

    Are you sure you want me to
    head this committee?
    Be the dance chaperone?
    Raise funds for your dear charitable cause?
    Okay, but know up front that I will do an
    absolutely horrible job
    because I am overwhelmed as it is
    with other people’s projects.
    It’s hard get out of bed each morning knowing
    my day is waiting for everybody
    to fill it up.

    — Cathy Sapunor

  47. Rose Anna Hines

    My path had
    gone over and under
    around, and through looking something
    like multiple knots in a macramé design.

    Too busy for sunrises or sunsets,
    trees, flowers, plants, and dirt.
    After months of neglect,
    no watering
    no shovel or hoe
    few flowers remained in my garden,
    crowded out by voracious weeds.

    Last weekends rain had purified the air.
    The ground and my heart were softened
    like the soil.
    Cotton gloves the slid on
    fingers prepared to work.
    I pushed aside overgrowth,
    found a spot to begin.
    Reached down to the cool damp soil,
    grasped a two foot dandelion
    by its root and pulled it out.
    Then crab and devils grass got up-rooted.
    chickweed, goldenrod, and lamb’s-quarters
    were added to the pile,
    now about a foot deep at my side.
    I held the root of purslane
    as I shook and pulled it,
    I felt it a handshake or embrace
    I was again home among friends I knew.

  48. Lauren Dixon

    How can I not write about
    my writing affliction, er, hobby,
    Is it a hobby when you can’t
    help yourself? When it insinuates
    itself on your psyche?

    How to remedy this addiction
    to the crackle of paper,
    the whirr of the copy machine,
    fingers clacking on
    keyboards, fondling pens?
    There is no remedy.
    I hope I’m never cured.

    It becomes your life
    when nothing interferes
    with its forward motion,
    any motion, stuttered, slow,
    just not stopped,
    When eating, peeing, making
    the bed don’t insist they are first.