April PAD Challenge: Day 14

Even before some of the comments left yesterday, I’ve noticed there is a community forming with this April PAD Challenge. Many of you have thanked me, but you should really be thanking yourselves.

A community is only as strong as those who are a part of it. Many of you have posted every single day and left encouraging words and praise for your fellow poets. I’m not doing that; you are; and I’m very proud of you all.

Personally, I think it would be a wasted opportunity–for all of us–to assign writing poetry regularly to one month out of the year. So I’m going to check into a few different options to keep our group together beyond April. There are already some great ideas in yesterday’s comments–plus, I’ve had a few rolling around in my head. So together, I’m sure we’ll come up with something amazing. More on this soon, but I know you’re all ready to get Monday started off right with today’s prompt.


So, today’s prompt is actually inspired by a song I love by Feist. The song is called “How My Heart Behaves,” and the prompt for today is to write a poem with the title “How (fill in the blank) behaves”–with the poem inspired by whatever you put in that blank. For instance, you could have a poem titled “How Mr. T’s mohawk behaves” or “How the homeless man on 9th Street behaves.” Have fun with this one (I know you will).

Here’s my poem for the day:

“How the playground of my mind behaves”

The girls are full of worry
beside the teeter
afraid that Billy won’t be stopping by.

And the boys are playing football
as the teachers fret and fuss:
Are there going to be any broken bones today?

Behind them, the bully
does his daily milk money shake down
and punches his sidekick in the arm.

There’s a co-ed game of 4-square,
some girls with their jumping rope,
and boys wanting to hang from the monkey bars.

Beneath the hot metal slide
no one rides in summer,
Billy sits kissing his favorite girl
until the bell sounds for them all to go inside.


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180 thoughts on “April PAD Challenge: Day 14

  1. Andrew Schuch

    Thoughts About Love

    Love is like the scorching Sun
    It has the power to yield warmth
    The power to burn with passion or malice
    And the power to disappear

    Love is as mysterious as the Moon
    Illuminating the darkest parts of loneliness
    And shadowing who one truly is
    Always changing yet always constant

    To love and to be loved
    Is to be both the Sun and the Moon

    A.J. Schuch

  2. S.E. Ingraham

    How my Lame Duct Eye Behaves

    One of my eyes is shy a tear-duct
    That’s right, the top lid of my left eye, no duct
    Otherwise? It’s darn near perfect…
    Who knew that eyes even had two ducts
    Certainly not I – no pun intended –
    But after consulting an eye-guy
    I learned the bitter truth
    Bereft am I, of one tear duct
    Sadly, lacking just the one teeny fissure
    Often results in a somewhat humiliating consequence
    The slightest thing, emotion-wise, that is
    And the left side of my face appears as if a skinny old snail
    Slid right on down my cheek, from eye to chin and plopped off
    Apparently both ducts – upper and lower – are necessary
    To drain even the ordinary welling of tears
    The ones that most folks can blink away rapidly before anyone notices something might be amiss
    But my traitorous eye will start spilling from the start of a single tear
    It cannot handle the initial sheen without sluicing the saltwater over the bottom lid
    And once started – well, there’s no stopping them, is there?
    They end up dripping off my chin
    And, as if in some ridiculous competition, my betrayer eye has been known to shed tears for almost five minutes before my right eye even starts
    Sometimes the right eye never even gets in on the action, if I’m lucky and can bring the recalcitrant one under control
    If at all possible, I go to some lengths to keep the left side of my face averted at these times
    In movie houses, or when driving; in church, or at a funeral
    Hoping to maintain a facade of cool, calm, detachedness
    It is frustrating to be seen as the weepy one, the overly sentimental sap
    When really I’m anything but and could maintain my poise except for –
    My lame duct eye
    In the overall scheme of things, a betrayer eye may seem like small potatoes (and let’s face it, potatoes know a thing or two about eyes)
    But – it is what it is
    A betrayal


  3. Laurie Kolp

    How It Behaves

    is not nice,
    is not kind.
    always go first,
    speaks it’s mind.
    talks back,
    swears, too.
    acts as if,
    does not care.
    cuts in line,
    leaves others behind.
    can’t be avoided,
    appears from the blue.
    is a rude person,
    is not you.

  4. Sarah

    How my dog behaves…
    I give him a bath
    he rolls in the dirt
    my grandson comes to visit
    he bares his teeth and acts real gruff
    but he’s silly and sweet
    and loves to play catch
    and walk in the river
    my son named him ‘wardog’
    my husband calls him ‘goober’
    ‘cus that’s what he is
    but we love him anyway.

  5. Bonnie


    At first grief is overpowering
    It hits you with the force of a tidal wave,
    knocking you to your knees,
    taking away your desire to live,
    your desire to eat, to sleep and especially to love.
    As time goes by, grief begins to ease up a bit
    Loosening its grip around your throat
    The tears that were always just below the surface
    become less frequent
    You even find yourself smiling occassionally.
    But just when you think you are doing better
    You hear a song to spark your memory
    Or someone asks you about your loss
    And grief returns with a vengence
    Succeeding to topple your world once more.
    So you put up your guard.
    You try to steel yourself against a new attack.
    Will there come a day
    when you won’t have to feel the pain of grief again?
    Yes, but only when you are gone
    And then grief will begin a new attack
    on those you leave behind.

  6. LindaTK

    How My Mind Behaves

    My mind is ever-present
    Working overtime
    All the time
    It gets me there
    Wherever that might be
    Present, Past, Future
    Decidedly difficult to control
    Can’t put it in chains
    Can’t put it behind bars
    Can’t keep it grounded
    I need to learn how
    to make it work for me
    more of the time
    rather than against me
    It wanders
    without warning
    It understands
    some things
    better than others
    It tries really hard
    most of the time
    It never rests
    It’s the only one
    that I am unable
    to get away from.

  7. Karen Masteller

    How My Students Behave

    Near school year’s end
    My fifth graders still stive so much to please.
    Quieting respectfully
    Putting forth best effort
    Smothering me with offers to help
    Smiling and hugging me at the classroom door.

    Near school year’s end
    My eighth graders tolerate me at my scheduled time.
    Quietly zoning out
    Conserving all energy
    Smothering me with requests to use the restroom
    Sidling and nudging past me as they jostle out the door.

    To the fifth graders, I am invincible.
    To the eighth graders, I am invisible.

  8. priya

    How Laughter Behaves

    Sometimes it bubbles up and
    Bursts out like a water fountain
    Sometimes it’s surprised,
    Short and sharp,
    Or more like a nerdy snort
    Than anything else
    However it behaves,
    It adds warmth to the world.

  9. Kate

    How Curiosity Behaves

    A fawn and a bunny are playing on my neighbor’s lawn,
    the fawn’s neck stretched out as it sniffs the rabbit,
    the rabbit just a hair’s breath away, leading the fawn in a
    circle as it casually munches the new green grass,
    flicks its ears toward the deer, then hops on.

    A Stellar’s Jay and three Douglas squirrels are causing a ruckus in the big Cedars outside my window, a blur of chattering red squirrels race back and forth along the highway of boughs, chased by the jay, who could fly away at any time, yet keeps coming back to jeer and tease, hopping from tree to tree, just out of reach.

  10. Sue Bench

    How Mother Nature Behaves

    Mother Nature is fickle!
    April with 75 degree days!
    In Michigan!
    I love that I can get outside;
    I don’t want to go back indoors,
    to eat, for chores, or even to sleep.

    Everyone’s effected;
    all in cheerful moods.
    Walkers on the bikepath
    smile and comment,
    Great day! Lovely weather!

    I love the sunshine,
    and basking in my courtyard.
    I take each gorgeous day as it comes,
    For who knows how long this will last?

    Next week, they say, it’ll cool down.
    Maybe even snow!
    The flowers will take it in stride, though.
    Those bold yellow daffodils
    And early tulips that are peeping open.
    They’ll just close up again,
    and wait.

    Wait for Mother Nature to get
    this nonsense out of her system.
    Soon, we’ll be on track again.
    Ready for whatever she decides to dish out!

  11. Hope Greene

    How the Painter’s Mind Behaves

    There are two wine bottles on the table between us,
    Leaving a double line of green shadow veined with some white
    Crossed by a crease in the cloth, some grapes in a pile
    But none have been touched, nor has the pewter plate
    Or the cold globe cup next to the glassy eyed fish. The chipped
    Clay dish looks well-used, as does the pointed corkscrew.

  12. samantha altman

    How My Dog Behaves

    He wakes up in the morning, with excitement in his eyes,
    Licking my face to wake me.
    When I get up, it’s no big surprise
    Where his wagging tail will take me.

    “Outside, outside” his endless bark cries,
    He runs to the door very quickly.
    But once outside, I see the lies,
    When he plays in the mud and gets sticky.

    He gets his way most of the time;
    He’s very spoiled rotten.
    It makes me so mad I start to rhyme,
    Especially when he eats our cotton.

    I love him though, yes this I’ll say,
    Until the very end.
    But it’d be swell, if just one day,
    His chewing would not begin.

  13. Lin Neiswender

    How New Kitty Behaves

    Zoom he’s in the bedroom
    Under the mattress slashing the dust cover
    Carving a hidey hole
    Crash in the kitchen,
    Upsetting a bowl of cat kibble like ninja stars
    Splash he discovers the virtue of cleanliness
    In his waterbowl, what next- the toilet?
    Damn! He climbs my back like it’s a cat tree
    Little stinker
    Then saves his neck with a snuggle
    And long purr in my arms

  14. Lynn

    How the Weather behaves

    First it’s hot, then it’s cold…
    Here’s the rain that turns to snow!
    From the EAST??? the winds will blow…
    Confusing all within its fold.

    Spring has sprung, I’m glad to say…
    Things are normal for a change!
    But Wait! Don’t you find it strange?
    Day is Night and Night is Day!

    The oak tree in my backyard
    still holds the leaves from last fall!
    Raking leaves in Spring? That’s hard!
    Should I give Al Gore a call?

  15. Gail Sandonato

    How the Robin Behaves

    Sitting in the dust,
    A robin with broken wing,
    It’s hurt, I say,
    Oh, stop the car.

    My hand upon the doorhandle,
    He struggles in his bed
    To pull in the wing
    and my heart responds.

    He sees me now
    And rises on steady feet
    To stride across the yard
    A pompous popinjay.

    I watch him fly away
    Foolishly conned by his ruse
    I climb back in the car
    My husband smiles.

  16. Crystal Cameron

    "How Your Mouth Behaves"

    The Petals felt the twitch of early bloom
    as they spread themselves like a miss-shaped mouth
    and expelled the faint scent of stale beer
    and cigarette smoke.

    They fell soft and full,
    eating pieces of sun and smiling
    at their own cleverness of living,
    turning up their corners
    in disdain for all other things still sleeping.

    Beneath their round tan head, stems
    and vines writhed and stretched,
    combing the dirt in incomplete patterns,
    pressing themselves into the moist flesh of decay.

    They delighted in the death,
    they ate that too, when the sun became too much,
    and their plant flesh burned.

    The death that was spread out
    for them to look at,
    made them feel cool and made them long
    for night, when they could close themselves and hide
    the sadness that they felt

    when they had withered and died before,
    when they will whither and die again
    in the unforgiving heat of summer.

  17. jane

    How the duct-tape-shoe lady behaves…

    She’s just a tiny thing
    with silver-gray
    shoulder length hair
    that never seems
    to get any longer.

    she wanders all over
    northern delaware
    carrying white trash bags
    that appear to be full
    but not heavy.

    Every day of
    every season
    she wears
    slip-on shoes
    made of duct tape –
    even in the rain
    even in the snow.

    she wore khaki pants
    and a coral colored
    button-down collar shirt
    with the collar buttons

    I tried to give her
    money for lunch.
    Still walking,
    she answered
    "No thank you."

    So I bought
    her a sandwich
    and found her again.
    "Please have some lunch."
    I urged.

    Without hesitation
    still walking,
    she answered
    "No thank you."

    All I could do
    was watch her
    shuffle out of sight
    in white socks
    and her duct-tape shoes.

    * * * * * * * *

  18. Rose Morand

    DAY 14


    My sisters used to speculate that she was an old soul
    Rarely participating in the mindless goofiness of
    Other children
    But more often observing them
    In wonder

    As a three year old, she would take the cordless
    Into her room and shut the door
    Just to talk to Grandmary

    Now she walks among the others
    In one of those teenage herds
    Laughing out loud, receiving a hug from a friend
    But ultimately her arms cross front of her
    I see it plainly
    And wonder if they can

    She often speaks her mind in a way
    I’ve never heard anyone speak before
    Her perspective challenges me to think
    In new ways myself

    She inhabits a body wholly unfamiliar to me
    Those sumptuous, rolling curls
    The hazel eyes, sometimes tea brown, sometimes frog green
    The athletic ease with which she does everything

    I watch her face as she eats cereal
    She glances quickly in my direction
    “What?” she asks
    “Nothing,” I say
    How can I convey the intensity of this ordinary moment?
    To mark it, I speak anyway
    “I love you, baby”

    Sometimes I tiptoe around her
    Afraid I’ll disturb the natural, inevitable beauty
    Of her growing and expanding
    And sometimes I’m afraid she’ll leave me behind
    And, inevitably, she will
    But for this moment I steep myself in her presence
    In the brief resting of those tea-colored eyes on me
    I store the mental snapshot in my mind’s safety deposit box
    Grace in adolescence
    Me in awe

  19. M Schied

    How a Greyhound Behaves

    run, ruN, rUN, RUN, RUNNING
    run, ruN, rUN, RUN, RUNNING
    run, ruN, rUN, RUN, RUNNING
    sniff, snifF, sniFF, snIFF, sNIFF, SNIFFING
    gulp, gulP, guLP, gULP, GULP, GULPING
    long day

  20. Joannie Stangeland

    I seem to be playing catchup–probably not adept enough at typing in the codes–so here is Monday’s poem:

    How the Mother Behaves
    How hard it is to be good
    and not the little girl with her curl,
    not the pot near boiling,
    the volcano simmering under snow
    but a pond of calm, with cattails
    and just a little scum around the edge.
    The moon would teach her patience
    but she is too tired to learn.
    When she is bad, she is more
    like the old gray mare
    in a field of thistle, head lowered
    for what little grass she finds,
    tail switching at summer flies,
    wishing just for this afternoon
    in the sun, a few hours of peace
    and grazing. She hears her children
    whicker, whinny, whine,
    tries to quiet her hooves,
    listen for wind in the poplar leaves,
    reach for a little more clover.

  21. Delaney

    "How Mrs.Crouswell Behaves"

    She teaches in long, boring lectures.
    With her horrible homework and terrible classwork.
    Sometimes I wish she would stop giving us all these projects.

    Right when she gives us the work for home,
    She goes into talking again.
    I think,"When will she ever stop?"
    Maybe it is because she wants her students to learn.

    Even though she might be a little tiresome and dull
    I think,

    "Maybe she is just doing her job."

  22. Barbara Malcolm

    How the Words Behave

    They’re tricky, words.
    They lay there all innocent
    quiet on the page,
    like they went there willingly,
    like I didn’t have to snatch
    them as they whizzed by,
    that I didn’t have to wrestle
    them into submission,
    pin them to the page like
    an old-time wrestler
    pins the night’s designated
    Even when I get them to lie
    still between the lines
    they jeer and wriggle and jab
    their fingers at me,
    taunting me,
    daring me
    to make them

  23. lyn

    How a gray Manx named Misty behaves
    When a squirrel runs across the roof
    Her head cocks to the right and then left
    While she traces the sound of running steps
    Before chasing from one story down
    Over the chairs, riding the recliner backs down
    Creating an avalanche of newspapers, books and pens
    Then landing on my desk – THUMP
    Typing kitty swear words on her way across the keyboard
    Slips through the previously shredded curtain
    And presses her nose against the screen to sniff
    She innocently returns to head-butt my face
    “Mwaaah” Attention please
    And praise and a treat would be great

  24. Amanda Caldwell

    How TurboTax behaves

    The name belies the speed
    of entering a file cabinet drawer’s worth of data,
    some of it stacked in columns,
    some of it entered in software,
    some spread out on tables, in plastic bags, in boxes, or
    — hopefully not — forgotten in some book
    that went back to the library months ago
    to spark someone else’s curious glance
    or thrown in the recycling
    when it was bundled away like so much
    white paper trash.

    Each screen digs into the tedium
    of a receipt for printer toner here,
    a deduction of a parking fee there,
    then manages to make the birth of a baby,
    the move to a new city,
    the start of a new business,
    seem just as mundane as the rest of it.
    *Just the facts, ma’am.
    We’re just the tax man.*

  25. Mike Barzacchini

    How my little dog behaves

    Pulls at her leash
    Barks at the neighbors
    Chases the squirrels

    The colder the
    Morning the
    Slower her walk

    Won’t eat
    Unless fed
    By hand

    Wakes me up
    With wet ear kisses
    At 5 a.m.

    Pretends not
    To hear
    When I call

    How my
    Little dog behaves?
    She doesn’t!

  26. Justin M. Howe

    How My Fingers Behave

    I stare at the blank screen before me
    When all at once
    a twitching
    an itching
    fingers begin to move
    seemingly of their own accord
    if they’re writing well, I cannot guess
    let others decide
    if there’s talent in

    How My Fingers Behave

    -Justin M Howe

  27. Carol A Stephen

    How My Poet Behaves

    (well, I posted this days ago, but it disappeared!)

    He calls himself Poet Emeritus
    Alpha Poet of the Household,

    wears an invisible crown,
    laurel leaves touch lightly on his brow.

    He weaves a web of fine literary lines,
    puts my peoples’ poetry in its place,

    admits, though, that I draw the larger crowd
    of those who seldom read a poet’s thoughts.

    he frowns, petulant.
    I stick my tongue out, insouciant.

    Two poets, one household.
    A consummate battle of words.

  28. AlaskanRC

    How my child behaves

    Always on the go…
    always on the run.
    Into my papers,
    scribbles decorate
    the latest essay,
    books spead about the floor.
    There is juice flowing
    across table top
    and pooling on the carpet.
    Grape juice it would have to be.
    When I’m in the most productive
    frame of mind along she comes
    and sweetly grabs my hand.
    To the couch we go for it’s
    mommy time.
    I get things done in sprints…
    surely once nap times comes
    I can get more done.
    Finally she settled down
    to quitely play.
    I look about and realize
    a tornado has hit the house.
    Cleaning is done once done I
    discover she’s been sleeping like angle
    as silenct as dream.
    Time to get to work I think to myself-
    no just 5 minutes I’m pooped.
    I sit down upon the coutch
    and close my eyes.
    "Momma," I softly hear as a little palm
    graspes my hand.
    This is how my child behaves.

    ~Still working on catching up.~

  29. Diane

    How My Car Behaves

    My car is a changeling.

    It stalls at green lights
    then surges through red.

    I coax it with extra gas as it idles
    and gear down for a stop.

    It still makes me run red lights
    and stalls in rush hour traffic.

    Like a dead mule, it refuses to move again
    until someone else turns the key.

    She coos sweetly for the mechanic
    and goes into seizures when he is gone.

    She has wooed five of them with her coy smile
    giving me a contemptuous sneer when they aren’t looking.

    For the latest she sings a ballad.
    He looks at me sadly, convinced I can’t drive.

    When he has left
    I hear the engine’s evil squall.

    If I junk this car and get another
    will the same imp come to haunt it?

  30. Lydia

    How My Love For You Behaves

    Love can creep up on you,
    make you long in anticipation to see someone again,
    so you run fast to meet the one you’ve been missing,
    with an excited body and happy heart.

    With my habit of being late or lost,
    I always apologize fot the waiting that my faults cause.
    I worried thinking you would be annoyed with my lateness,
    but happily, you welcomed me and brushing sorry away.

    Leaning forward, I talk to you,
    relaxing at ease since this is no longer new.
    My hands wave as I speak,
    stir my drink though it needs no stirring.
    I hang on your every word
    and my pizza becomes your reminder to eat.

    My drink has not spilled
    in spite of my hands’ waving,
    as my animation replaces nervousness,
    with you who I am most honest with.

    Our imminent parting brings sadness to me,
    I pull you close and hug you tight,
    kiss you on each cheek to show you how I feel so much;
    I tell you I’m going to miss you,
    before I slowly pull myself away, still touching you.

    After our take care good-byes,
    the sad missing you feeling returned.
    When we next talked it subsided,
    though it’s back now that I am away from you,
    Until our next meeting,
    I am longing for you once again.

  31. Linda Hofke

    How the Bird Behaves

    I saw a bird go flying,
    Flying through the air,
    Riding on a morning breeze
    Without a single care.
    He glided through the sunlight,
    Landed on a tree,
    Pulled a song out from his heart
    And chirped the melody.
    I stood beneath the branch,
    Admiring him there,
    When the happy singing bird
    Put droppings on my hair!

    Damn, bird!

  32. Tad Richards

    This border
    is often unguarded
    makes me suspicious
    why guard at all
    if you don’t

    have some purpose in mind?
    So I monitor
    the patterns of
    the sentry
    he’ll tip off their approach

    through binoculars
    on the screen of
    his cell phone
    pictures of a girl’s breasts
    always the same girl

    different poses
    dropped to reveal one
    or the other or
    both some kind of

    morse code like the mushrooms
    which I should report
    I tested by
    eating one

  33. Sara Diane Doyle

    I’m a bit late here, but my muse (who I wrote about on day two) has been a bit stingy as of late!

    How My Memory Behaves

    Like aged lovers, too many years together,
    we bicker over the details.
    I learned long ago you have your faults,
    but joined as we are, I can’t grudge them.

    We take walks down that proverbial lane
    and you dawdle, you lollygag,
    you stop to smell a flower that looks familiar
    but you won’t tell me the name.
    And when I call you to my side
    with a question, sometimes
    your eyes glint—impish elf!—
    and you withhold. Other times,
    not so proud, you pull
    the answer from a dusty shelf.
    But my favorite times are the ones
    when you close your eyes, you know
    you knew once upon a yesterday,
    but can’t for the life of you
    recall when. Later, you’ll wake me
    from sleep, eager, smiling, to give
    the answer to a forgotten question.

    We will grow old together—
    sit on the swing swaying forward
    and back, back and forwards again,
    laughing at how much we can’t remember.

  34. Robin Morris

    How the dream behaves

    The dream strops against your legs,
    winding, marking you as its territory,
    claiming possession.

    No feeding on demand, you say,
    and start cleaning frenetically.
    The house, the mess.

    The dream swishes its tail:
    a sharp back and forth,
    no mistaking the impatience

    turning to anger, eyes squinting,
    saliva dripping as it tries not to spit
    because it will still need your food.

    You reach out to soothe it
    but it runs
    faster than necessary, and hides.

  35. Khara House

    (I like poems I write close to the point of utter exhaustion … until the next day when I read them again …)

    :"how my rebellious left pinky toe behaves":

    it all started the day my toes grew tired
    after a long day of walking
    with little attention to their feelings on the matter

    and Pinky toe took it worst of all
    he had possessed a mind of his own from birth
    and now refused to go one step farther
    until I had to drag him along behind the others

    as he screamed and cried and dragged along the pavement
    his tiny nailed face gazing up at me
    stretched beyond the safe borders of my shoe
    I longed to ask him why he would not simply fall in line
    like the others

    and Pinky tried to start a rebellion
    among the others and screeched in vain
    we can be more than slaves to this being’s feet
    we can form a communal development
    for the Advancement of Abused Toes

    but the Big toe has always been boss
    and did not care for controversy
    so the other toes fell in line
    and Pinky toe will not speak to Me

  36. Mike Padg

    How Baseball Teams Behave

    We are family first above all else
    for if one falls he falls unto us,
    Conversations come to mind,
    Ones you’d find far from any church doors
    we speak a language our own and
    to our own understanding.
    There are no weaknesses here
    that aren’t exploited.
    On or off the field,
    boys will be boys
    and if fault falls
    your way,
    trust me,
    we make damn
    sure you
    know it.

  37. Devon Brenner

    How my lusting eyes behave:

    Green like grapes cut in half,
    forty and flashing they haven’t forgotten
    how it felt to gaze
    Into blue, brown, hazel pairs.
    so on introduction
    they move of their own accord
    not to lips or face or brown, red, black hair, no hair at all,
    but that third finger on the left hand
    with its circular symbol of rebuff.

  38. Nathan Everett

    How my back behaves

    In the morning when the alarm rings,
    it acts like it’s never been vertical.
    It complains about every little thing I ask it to do
    — like stand up straight.
    When I finish my shower and start to dress,
    it acts like it’s never bent before
    — like helping me tie my shoes will kill it.
    When I settle into the car and the seat heater comes on,
    it acts like a happy little kitten
    trying to find the warmest spot on a sun-drenched lap.
    It’s a bit sulky all day long,
    but if I don’t ask much of it
    it doesn’t give me much pain.
    Then about 9:00, it starts complaining again,
    just begging to be soaked in a hot tub
    or rubbed with oil and strong fingers.
    When I finally lie down to sleep,
    it fidgets and pokes at me,
    refusing to settle down and get comfortable.
    At last when sleep has overpowered its testy attitude,
    it lies quietly, plotting how it will get back at me
    for picking up a sack of groceries,
    or turning to look behind as I back the car up.
    My back behaves like a spoiled child
    whose parents can’t quite remember
    why they wanted to have kids in the first place.

  39. Ang

    How My Body Behaves

    It likes to give me bags
    Then proceeds to sag
    What little hair it leaves on my head
    Is grayer and grayer – the mirror I dread
    Hot flashes, dry mouth, wrinkly skin
    This is the state it leaves me in
    It pads itself with extra pounds
    Makes me slow, drags me down
    It doesen’t do the things it should
    So, I can’t do the things I could
    Why won’t it cooperate?
    Oh this body – the thing I hate!

  40. tara

    How my Confidence behaves in an Age of Debt

    My confidence
    Has the steely power
    Of Tanks disappearing
    Into a desert mirage

    My confidence
    Covers taxes, house
    Payments and clothes
    Off a credit card.

    My confidence
    Has the glamour of
    A slot machine still
    Blinking after all is lost.

  41. Tria

    How My Drunken Brain Behaves

    reel to real, yes’m, you’re a bit
    off, s’okay, round you reel
    on high heels, face to focus
    queue the focus on
    the face bobbing, lips unlocking
    whassee saying, close in
    on lips no eyes, up
    they tip top tipple grin,
    whassee saying again dunno
    just smile lady yes’m nod
    and reel bob and weave
    snag a kiss fill the mouth
    on that hungry empty glass

  42. Kimberlee Thompson

    How My Fingernails Behave

    My nails don’t follow fashion.
    Girlie nails are arched,
    dainty, painted and shapely.
    Mine are flat spoons
    my father gave me,
    spreading out at the tips
    looking for somewhere
    to snag. They rip, they split,
    the cuticles bleed,
    they are punk rockers
    from suburbia,
    who don’t want to clean up nicely,
    but are really a little too soft.

  43. Rebecca

    How my pen behaves

    Pouring forth indigo goodness
    Script ripples across alabaster
    Pages tied by thought
    And fragile threads
    Winsome words weaving wonders

    Scarlet gel slips and slides
    Consonants and vowels
    Pulled into a black and white
    Gridded marvel
    Vocabulary explosions

    But then puddles of violet
    Soak futile linen
    Doodles replace eloquence
    Scratching, no longer gliding
    Ripping raw syllables

    A tool, a toy, a torture
    This is how my pen behaves

  44. Yoli

    How Sweet Dreams Behave

    Dreaming sweetly silently
    Quietly so as not to
    Disturb these wonderful wishes
    In my mind so devilish
    These things I cannot have.
    If I lived the life I have in my head
    Boy, would I be bad.
    But I guess I’ll be content to
    Sleep here
    Dreaming quietly
    Oh so sweetly–
    Smiling to myself
    For the secrets in my
    These wishes
    From my heart.

    Thank you, Robert, for this challenge. I have been away from my writing lately, keeping up with the daily grind, and this has been so good for me; returning me to something that I have truly enjoyed since I learned putting words together make sentences. All the writing here is so good and I feel out of my league, sometimes days behind, but I have enjoyed every minute! If this is something that continues beyond April, count me in!!

  45. ck

    (Day 14 post)

    How St. Benezet Behaved

    (Based on the legend of St. Benezet, from "The Little Pictorial Lives of the Saints," 1925. April 14 Saints Day)

    Little Bennie Bennet from
    Medieval Avignon
    Shepherded his tiny flock
    Along the River Rhone.

    Day and night he’d tend his sheep
    And friends’d stop in at noon
    To see how Little Bennie fared while
    Sleeping under moon.

    From his post on la rive gauche
    Bennie watched; observed
    That people needed to cross the span,
    Those who had the nerve.

    In the absence of a bridge,
    with holey boats, to boot,
    people swam to get across
    And dragged along their loot.

    The river has a current swift;
    Swimmers couldn’t abide.
    Instead they flailed and cried and cursed.
    Alas, they also died.

    So Bennie thought and thought and thought
    And one day said, “Idea!
    I’ll build a bridge from here to there.
    Yes. Alleluia!”

    For seven years he planned and worked,
    He lead the builders on.
    The bridge was built, the piers were sound
    And no one had to drown.

    But at its end, the work all done,
    Poor Bennie bid, “So long.”
    They buried him upon the bridge —
    Those stories can’t be wrong.

    Miracles happ’d, tho’ none are writ,
    Of cures and more, they say.
    And canonization ended well
    For Little Benezet.

  46. lisbeth west

    How the behaves.

    They seem to be okay
    at least they haven’t hurt me
    and I am not hungry or homeless

    They have a schedule that i dislike
    but have the chance to lay on the couch
    with the dogs, and wait for their

    time to be awake. The turkey on the floor
    is awake and the barnyard is clucking
    and honking and quacking and

    Since I am new, I try to tread carefully
    the little chickens tend to run
    the geese walk away like a crowd of schoolchildren
    unless I approach them slowly

    I like the white female. She doesn’t have
    a face like mine. She isn’t used to me either,
    I have lived in the big house all winter, face to
    the window, watching all of the feathered ones
    interact and peck and chase and flirt and

    No one has a face like mine.
    They don’t have my ornamental
    feathers that appears like
    Hindi writing on the top of my head.
    I have such a long tail
    and my wings take me to the trees at night

    to sleep a peacock’s dreams away.

    I am a 8 month old Peacock
    white Chinese, they call me
    Peabody, Mr. Peabody

    I turn
    my thin shaped, graceful head
    when I hear my name. I look up at
    the human who stays home all the time
    and study how she behaves. He calls her

  47. Terri

    How My Hair Behaves

    Some people have "Bad Hair" days.
    I simply have hair that behaves badly
    most every day;
    It will not succumb to my discipline;
    Like a nun with a ruler
    I slap at it with my comb,
    attempting, to no avail,
    to get it to lie flat;
    I part it in one direction
    and it goes in the other;
    My cowlicky crown defies me
    every chance it gets,
    leaving me with bald spots;
    I hunt down those glaring holes
    with my back to the bathroom mirror and
    aided by my trusty hand mirror
    I VO-5 them into submission;
    My hair, along with its
    ill-mannered adversary, humidity,
    laugh at me as they together work to
    curl and twist my hopeless strands
    into a mangled, tangled, Medusa-like mess!

  48. JL Smither

    How the Blank Page Behaves

    It’s not something I can just glance
    at now and again. Instead,
    it slips through the wrinkles
    in my brain, dripping onto the rest
    of my day. It’s more like a child crying
    in the night until I either smother it
    or fill it up, and I’m not strong
    enough for the easy way out.

  49. JL Smither

    Wow– I found this one really difficult, but you all did such neat things! I’m glad I didn’t read these before writing mine, I would have been too intimidated. :) Iain D. Kemp, I especially liked your pen poem!

  50. Jennifer Fagala

    How a star behaves

    it glitters
    dusts and glows
    watching us
    move to and fro
    like a diamond
    upon a ring of night
    taking account
    of joy and fright
    In sadness, in glee
    reading the stories
    between you and me

    this is how a star behaves
    a silent observer
    of our lives

  51. TaunaLen

    How a Migraine Behaves

    he sneaks up on me
    while I sleep
    clamps his vice
    down on my brain

    he steals my rest
    with pulsing pain
    and wakes me
    to pure agony

    he laughs aloud at
    pills and compresses
    any attempt at remedy
    ignores my cries for silence

    but as time passes
    medication filters into
    my blood stream
    he has to loosen his grip

    he hates to be weakened
    so he complains
    moments of relief
    punctuated with stabs of pain

    he attacks behind my eyes
    interferes with my ability
    to form complete thoughts
    to speak with clarity

    so I must wait
    sit patiently
    sip my hot tea
    until he lets go

    but as he slips away
    he leaves behind a fog
    my tongue still tied
    and my brain still slow

    his fingerprint remains
    on my tortured brow
    and only sleep will erase
    the marks he leaves behind

    TLS, April 2008

  52. Corinne

    How my libido behaves

    Coquettish, she is, drooped eyelid, and draped, snaky arms
    Peeking around the corner at me,
    Sly smile and big attitude
    Feigning availability, as I turn my neck into my lover’s kiss, and
    Beg her to invade me.

    Contrary, and funny
    (neither ha-ha nor peculiar, but annoyingly)
    At the Board of Directors meeting that same afternoon, when
    Uninvited, rushing into my pelvis from a two second lapse in attention
    Flooding me with warm gush, hijacking
    My minute taking with glee.


  53. Dee IKJ

    The Wind 4-14-08

    How the wind behaves
    It drives the rain against the glass.

    How the wind behaves
    It blows everything in it path.

    How the wind behaves
    Today it shows all its wrath.

  54. Sarah

    How Plastic Wrap Behaves

    Like your embarrassing Uncle Mike,
    it clings to everything you don’t want it to,
    especially your fingers.
    And no matter how hard you try,
    it refuses to hold onto the important things,
    lets go, calmly watches them slip
    from its grasp.

  55. A.C. Leming

    How words behave

    Words trip over my tongue,
    embarrassing me with
    Words hide themselves between
    the curves of my cerebellum
    taunting me with aphasia
    Words shy way from playtime,
    wary of commitment,
    of showing up on the page
    Words storm forth and impale me,
    aplogies come later when
    rage has abated, sated
    Words float out of reach beneath the
    surface, my pen stabs vainly
    at the blank paper before me
    Words seduce me with their promise
    to make it all worthwhile,
    this futile search for the right one
    Words baptize me with power,
    shelter my mind from danger,
    sooth me when hurt
    Wash me in a river of words
    and I’ll be happy

  56. Darla Smith

    How My Dog Behaves

    I have this large male Lab,
    he’s black and named Banjo.
    Normally he’s well-behaved,
    sometimes he will act up.
    My dog has a loud bark,
    he scares some people away.
    Whenever he growls at me,
    I wonder what he’s thinking.
    He likes to play with balls,
    he loves to chase his tail.
    My dog’s not a picky eater,
    he sits and chews on wood.
    Sometimes he can act crazy,
    but that just his usual way.
    I love my large black Lab,
    even when he acts brainless.

  57. Shana

    How light behaves

    the greatest magic.
    the sky lightening
    stealing so softly
    can’t see it happen
    only reel at
    noticing —
    black to
    inkiest of indigos,
    droplets of pale light
    to lighten the palette.
    The sun’s sparks
    from far below
    to add
    the barest of pinks
    until, a sky simply light
    no noticeable color.
    hues deepen:
    a blue-sky day
    or bright white overcast
    or a storm’s deep grey somber,
    on the weather gods’ ruling
    that day.

  58. Maureen

    How My Eyes Behave

    My eyes have a mind of their own.
    I try to get them to focus on good things
    but when I walk down the street
    my eyes are definitely thinking about sex.
    When I walk through the shopping centre
    I can only see the bakery, with its cakes and pastries.
    When I near the casino
    my eyes focus on the dollar signs and lure me in.
    When I’m off to buy groceries
    my eyes take me into the liquor store to buy vodka.

    So if eyes are the ‘windows to the soul’
    then I’m in real trouble.


  59. Gene McParland from Long Island

    How My Feet Behave When They Hear the Music

    When life gets to be too much,
    I know what I need to do.
    All I have to do
    is get up out of my chair,
    and get my feet a movin’.
    Kick dem shoes off,
    and move my feet;
    my body will soon follow the swaying beat.

    The song of life
    may be in my head,
    love in my heart,
    but, if I don’t get dem feet a movin’,
    then all is for naught.
    All this life really is anyway,
    is a dance.
    And if I don’t get dem feet a going,
    than I’ll never learn how to move to the swaying beat.

    Just take a look across
    that ballroom of life;
    Jesss, it oh so vast.
    And the music,
    that rhythm of life,
    it just touches me
    and moves my soul.

    Stars twinkling at night,
    shine their brightness down upon the floor,
    that excitement, romance,
    makes me want to ask someone to dance.
    And heck, if they don’t wanna dance,
    then Hell,
    I’ll just thrown my head back,
    and dance out there alone.

    Spinning and turning,
    moving across the floor,
    Head thrown back,
    eyes open wide
    under bright stars and shinning sun,
    I dance with abandonment and glee.
    as long as I get dem feet a moving
    it livens the soul within me.

    Gene Mcparland
    North Babylon, NY

  60. Christa R. Shelton


    Always excited
    to start a new day
    Never shuns exercise
    even when under the weather
    Takes time to smell the flowers
    and feels it’s their duty to water them naturally
    Always elated to see you
    even if only five minutes have passed
    Always greets you at the door
    Senses when you’re down
    and snuggles next to you for comfort
    Always loving
    Always forgiving
    Always teaching lessons on how
    life should be lived and how people should be treated

  61. Jennifer Terry

    How OH BEHAVEs

    Sometimes it’s subtle
    a romantic whisper in an ear

    Sometimes it’s exuberant
    with quite a bit of cheer

    Sometimes it’s thought-provoking
    with an ounce of wonder

    Sometimes it’s long and drawnout
    enough to put you under

    Sometimes it’s fearful
    containing a bit of tension

    Sometimes when words are few
    it’s the only thing to mention

    Sometimes an idea strikes
    a lightbulb flashes in ones head

    Sometimes when bad news comes
    it accompanies tears shed

    Sometines arms are flailing
    when one rants and as one raves

    These are only several attempts
    to define just how "Oh" behaves

    (This poem was inspired by "Austin Powers". I kept thinking of the famous line: "OH BEHAVE")It’s a rough sketch I know. I have decided to make next month my revision month. You wonderful (and mighty talented) people are getting the raw and uncut version… as it comes. Thank you for all of your inspiration, and challenges!

  62. Janice Neaveill

    How my best friend behaves

    Erin flashes
    the camera, a white streak
    of fifty year old breasts
    and tells me not to be a prude
    after all, it’s her very first
    webcam. So it didn’t work
    with that husband, and he put
    your face in a frying pan
    hot and bothered in grease
    scarred and now you’re looking
    mischievous and vibrant. You found
    an Indian telemarketer and he’s better
    than sliced bread, and you wish
    sliced bread had never been invented
    now that you’ve tried dal. Meeting
    every night online, and one day
    you’ll marry, he’ll offer you his mothers
    ring. Oh, sure he’s twenty, but love–
    you sigh–is ageless. I would say something
    about internet men but I don’t
    have a heart.

  63. Essa Bostone


    I have a little muse
    She lives inside my head
    She’s always pulling pranks
    She makes me live in dread

    I think I know the story
    And what it’s all about
    But she gets in there and gums the works
    Till it cannot get out

    Sometimes I sit there blankly
    And wait for her to start
    She throws ideas into the air
    And makes me think I’m smart

    I start to write demonically
    I write and write and write
    But then I read it all next day
    And see there’s nothing right

    I’ve messed up spelling, context
    My metaphors are mixed
    I spend more time erasing them
    In the end nothing gets fixed

    And then there’s muse’s habits
    She’s fussy about her fuel
    You wouldn’t believe what she likes to eat
    She thinks that I’m her mule

    It’s chewy cups of coffee with
    Tons of sugar and cream
    A good ol’ shot of khalua might create
    The poem of a dream

    What about the novel
    I’ve worked on all my life
    What about the witty quotes
    That cut through mire like a knife

    The morning-after hangover with words
    Is worse than booze
    I’ve come up boring and banal
    With everything to lose

    No credence, obscure punch lines, driven mad
    My characters are flat
    My plot is tangled fishing line
    I’m gonna get a gat

    Then there’ll at least be mystery
    Whodunit penned by me
    And muse will be the victim
    A fictional story (or was it?)

  64. Lorraine Hart

    How the Skies in Puget Sound Behave

    The skies in Puget Sound have
    as many personalities as me,
    a post-mental-pausal piece
    of weathered kinetic art,
    they misbehave in tantrums
    between ocean and mountains,
    smack you with sunshine
    in a box of baby blue
    wrapped with rainbow ribbon

  65. Shirley T.

    How Erato Behaves

    Erratic Erato’s more
    fickle than fate. Some day’s
    she’ll stop early, but
    mostly she’s late.
    And you’ll find if ever
    you give her a call,
    she’s nasty enough
    to not show up at all.
    Alluring Erato’s
    a terrible flirt.
    She’ll tease you with promise
    Then treat you like dirt.
    She’s kind for a moment,
    You’re under her spell,
    Then she’ll suddenly drop you
    down deeper than hell.
    Amusing Erato sends
    sparks out for fun,
    That turn into squibs
    before she is done
    And forget that gleam
    you see her eye,
    She still isn’t one on whom
    you can rely.
    Oh Erato, Erato
    your sweet inspiration
    at times has surely
    been a temptation.
    But I think I must stick
    with Tom Edison’s line~
    More perspiration
    Works out just fine.

    How My Psyche Behaves

    Each day it has wished
    It were something it wasn’t,
    And as for behaving,
    HAH! It just doesn’t.
    Shirley T

  66. Rodney C. Walmer

    Cheryl, Monk is one of my favorite tv shows as well, Lost and CSI, being the others. Here is my version of the Monk spin. It does not do yours justice, however, here it is.

    How Mr. Monk Behaves

    How does Mr. Monk behave
    the poor man’s a slave
    to his fears
    never afraid to show tears
    for his lost love
    While it’s Monk
    we are thinking of
    you will have to understand
    when you shake his hand
    he will immediately need a wipe
    He has a phobia about most things
    Causing attention to small detail
    but, there is a benefit each phobia brings
    in that Monk is very effective
    at solving criminal cases
    making him, the worlds greatest detective
    Why just be reading the news
    Monk solved a murder half a world away
    that could not be solved by the Chinese crews
    How did he get this way
    I’m glad you asked
    Phobia runs in his dysfunctional family
    But, his worst started on the day
    Some criminal took Monk to task
    by blowing up the car
    with his beloved wife (Trudy)
    This event just went way to far
    Causing Monk to worry
    about just everything
    But, don’t feel bad for Monk
    While he can never be happy
    he has an amazing ability
    Because, Monk is down with OCD. . .

    ©Rodney C. Walmer Written for Prompt #14 inspired by a fantastic poem written by Cheryl
    Wray. After reading Cheryl’s poem on Monk, I had to put my spin on him.

  67. Barbara Ehrentreu

    How the Wind Behaves

    Coming from nowhere in gusts
    it whips clothing around legs
    a relentless adversary placing
    its shield in the forefront
    causing destruction of my
    straightened and sprayed style
    into a mess each strand standing
    and swaying as if in a tuneless
    concert played by invisible
    instruments above my head
    gaining speed until my body
    is moved by the force
    almost colliding with the wall
    reminding me of Buffalo and the
    winds off Lake Erie where ropes
    provided the only hope for not
    floating off into the clouds above
    the lake.

    Yet in its gentle mode blowing
    wisps of hair across my face and
    ruffling my sleeves the wind
    becomes more like a tender lover
    kissing my cheeks with its ardor
    teasing me with aromas of wild
    roses and new mown grass
    bringing spring to my nose

    Its strength astounds me as
    it plays with plastic bags and
    topples garbage cans setting
    them rolling helter skelter across
    the road or forming a deadly
    whirlpool building strength
    until whole forests surrender
    leaving a mile long footprint
    gathering all in its path
    increasing in size and then
    disappearing without a trace
    only the ruined houses
    and bent trees left behind
    attest to its power.

  68. Christiane

    I have to admit, the poems I have been reading since day one have been getting better and better. It is inspiring to read them.

    How a fourth grader behaves

    In a fourth grade class
    With nineteen boys
    And eight girls
    High energy is not finite
    Patience is a requirement
    P.E. must be done everyday
    So the little ones
    Who are not so little anymore
    Can use up some of their energy
    To focus on Math
    Sciences and everything else
    For that matter
    Humor comes in handy
    To keep attention going
    Interaction has to be quick
    And surviving another day
    Is a motive for celebration

  69. Renee Goularte

    How the Trees Behave

    They are my coccoon, my cave
    in the mountains, my shade,
    my dark and light.
    They swing wildly in windstorms
    drop pine needles on the roof
    remind me with their whistlings
    that they are almost human,
    almost family. Almost.
    In summer they’re the coolness
    in my eyes and on my bare arms;
    in winter their branches
    catch snowflakes one by one,
    until they are draped in white
    like first-communion dresses
    or wedding cake frosting.

  70. Jaywig

    Carol, your poem is perfect for this burgeoning community! Here we are, all honking a little more each day. I get to this site later than most of you as I’m asleep when your day starts, and I love the feast each day of your varied and wonderful inventions.

    Here’s mine:

    It reaches into the centre of the yard
    tendering red bottle-brushes, light green
    shoots, purple native hyacinth on sticky
    branch. It spreads before my feet a carpet
    of weed – kikuyu, couch, marshmallow, dock.
    In the garden’s world, all life is included.
    It doesn’t care what I think.

    It throws up maverick tomato and potato
    plants, undaunted by my new tree-plantings.
    It loves the mulch! I can tell by the hungry
    way it fills out, envelops, pours forth
    new forests of silver beet. It sprouts,
    when I’m not looking, outsiders like
    peppercorn and elm. My landscaper and I
    call them ‘rogues’.

    My garden puts on its favourite shows,
    competing with any other entertainments:
    bearded irises, a wall of rainbow roses,
    marigolds in swathes, bee-song on
    the cartwheels of rosemary. It attracts
    birds now, honeyeaters and wrens, chirpy things.
    I chase cats with my own loud hiss.

    My garden, breaking down the heavy clays
    and building rubble, asks for nothing and
    earns its keep. I feed and water it, adore.
    What grows, grows. What dies is eaten, or
    stands ignored. People who see it for
    the frst time, jump as if shocked. Wow!
    And my garden rustles a little, bows,
    and grows a little taller.

  71. Judy Stewart

    How my feet behave

    My feet have taken me many a place
    to the store or to the show or to watch a race
    My feet have taken me over hills and down
    to beautiful places or those quite brown
    My feet have made me fall to the ground
    they have taken me where I was bound
    My feet have given me some years of fun
    dancing on the dance floor and kept me on the run
    Oh these feet of mine can behave so good
    and then sometimes they just feel like wood!

  72. Laural

    How My Knee Behaves

    Hello, knee. You feel fine.
    I mean I don’t feel a thing
    Not a twinge, not an ache
    You’re good. I’m good.

    Maybe later I’ll ask you to
    Go around the back of that building
    To where my car is parked
    So I can get a little exercise

    Will you still be nice?
    Or will you grab and clutch
    Grind with pain, bone on bone
    Make my teeth clench again?

  73. Don Ford

    How My Poem Behaves

    No matter what I try to do.
    I add a new word to a line
    The words all come out wrong.
    It just won’t do – it doesn’t ryhme

    Who made the rules to work this way
    Why must our words all sound the same
    We all know what we want to say
    I’ll say it and quit playing games

    All the words don’t have to fit
    I can pen what’s on my mind
    So now I’m breaking from the format
    I’ll go my own way now – too bad!

  74. Carol Brian

    How Canadian Geese Behave

    Eight thousand feet up.
    Fifteen hundred miles a day.
    Sixteen hours at a time.

    The lead bird takes the brunt of the wind,
    making the flock 70% more efficient.
    When he tires, another takes his place.

    If two flocks meet, there isn’t a standoff
    or a board meeting or a coup, they merge
    seamlessly and keep on flying.

    When a goose is injured, a few comrades
    stop flying and stay until it gets better.

    They mate for life.

    They honk, my pastor says, not to toot
    their own horn, but to encourage each another.
    He urges us to honk a little more.

    Carol Brian

  75. Mario Jaime

    How I Hope She’ll Behave

    I hope she speaks tenderly
    To strangers, to friends, and to me
    And I hope her hands are soft
    So much, they’d send my heart aloft
    I really hope her heart’s nice
    And never point out any vice
    I hope she thinks I’m handsome
    So then, from her, I’ll never run
    I hope that there’s no upset!
    I hope there’s no disappointment!

    If it turns out this was posted twice, my bad. I like Jeanette’s poem, by the way.

  76. Emmy

    How Rhia, My Best Friend, Behaves

    Friends for 13 years despite imperfections
    Her acceptance is without measure
    Knew my deepest scar
    Continued to stood by me and affirmed me

    She made the investment
    And went the extra mile
    She endured emotional debates, heated arguments
    And personality differences

    Together, in the lane of friendship
    We overcame circumstances
    Endured character re-alingments
    And withstood the pressure

    That’s how my best friend behaves

  77. Cheryl Wray

    (I had my mind on tv when I wrote this one…an ode to my favorite tv character right now. I also wrote one based on "Lost"–how the island behaves–but it’s not very good, so it’s staying in my personal collection.)

    "How Mr. Monk Behaves"

    don’t charge Mr. Monk 99 dollars for anything;
    you better make it one hundred even.
    don’t tell Mr. Monk about the "three second rule";
    he’ll cringe at the thought of food on the floor.
    don’t be offended if Mr. Monk won’t shake your hand,
    or if he uses a disinfectant wipe on his own if he does.

    don’t be offended,
    it’s just Mr. Monk’s odd behavior.

    (yet, although he’d be a pain to live with,
    i wish i could be his wipe-dispensing assistant.
    because I sorta have a crush…
    an obsession, if you will…
    on Mr. Monk)

  78. VS Bryant

    4/14/08 –

    How the Voices of My Mind Behaves

    Three girls playing a game that’s never over
    Three girls fighting to control of one heart

    The child innocent and trusting; kind and naïve
    With a heart big enough to heal the world
    A soul so pure nothing can ever corrupt her

    The teenage with such fire, desire, and no fear
    A wild child living in the moment, a soul that cannot be contained
    To her life is free, fun, and on the edge always ready for an adventure, so brave, some would say she’s insane

    The woman with a powerful voice, strong, and oh so confident
    Knowing her purpose and standing her ground, what a force to be reckoned with
    She is a lady, a mother, a fighter; she is strength and knowledge, a leader and a friend

    Three voices fighting for control
    Behaving innocently
    Behaving freely
    Behaving powerfully

    Behaving as me

  79. Emmy

    I am glad I found this page. I was browsing the writer’s digest for some possible workshops and clicked on a few links and came across this. This is challenging and fun…
    Thanks to you guys…fellow poets…should I say :-)

  80. Callan Bignoli-Zale

    How Spring Behaves

    Like a spoiled, stubborn child,
    so wicked, willful and wild,

    like a bi-polarized brain
    balancing pleasure with pain;

    like an old and dying clock
    that stutters with every tock;

    like a cat toying with prey,
    claw-battering it all day;

    like an indecisive bride
    fearing her first aisle-stride;

    like the fat farmer who locks
    his last calf in a veal box;

    that pride, that insanity;
    spring behaves so much like me.

  81. Emmy

    How My Prince Behaves

    Wakes me up with his daily "good morning princess"
    Makes me go to bed with his nightly good nights
    Asks me how I am during the day
    Reminds me to eat so I dont get hungry

    He sits close to me when we are together
    "Come near me" he would whisper
    "Hold my hand" he would say
    "Hug and kiss me please, I need it for the day"

    He loves me like no other
    This I can confidently say
    Against each other we waged war
    And yet made amends at the end of the day

  82. Matthew

    How the Dog Behaves

    With his fur across
    the blanket but he remains unseen
    I know he’s up to something
    My senses are quite keen.

    There lay a trail of litter
    from the front room to the back
    the kitchen is filthy now
    the trash can has no sack.

    It’s at the feet of Grendel,
    the monster of my house.
    Food left out trembles like
    the settling of a house.

    He’ll sniff it out. He’ll find it.
    With him there is no doubt
    And he’ll nose at your hand after
    with a still greasy smelly snout.

    So help me I will pet him,
    my anger will be gone
    For I know the poor boy
    cannot stand to be gone from food for long.

  83. Jolanta Laurinaitis

    I know i’m being greedy, but I just to write this one too. :)

    How you make me behave

    Eyes lowered
    Peeking out
    ‘Neath the lashes
    Glancing away
    So flirtaciously
    Tummy twisting
    Catapaulting heart
    Body dewy
    Lips wondering
    The scent of you
    Butterflies cascading
    Into my limbs
    Into my mind
    Breathing contrived
    Pupils dialating
    Tongue sliently seeking
    Behind a prison of teeth
    Like a possesed being
    Being with you

  84. Lyn Sedwick

    How a Pressure Washer Behaves

    Which I ought to know, now,
    Having rented my first one, ever,
    Today. I had a demonstration, sort
    Of, by a guy with a cigarette glued
    To his lip, he showed my the “quick
    Release” valves for the hoses, and
    Then pretty much said “adios,” WELL
    I figured it all out, on my own, got the gas
    In and the engine started, and waved
    The water under pressure thru those quick release
    values over all the concrete we own, and
    With the “fan” spray nozzle painted over
    Everything, or at least that’s the motion involved,
    And watched the black-green-mold
    Disappear, slowly, while I was deafened
    By the machine–it ran out of gas twice,
    Just stopped, and waited, like a parking
    Meter, to be refed. Ten hours worth
    Of working for $50, can’t beat it with a stick.

    Lyn Sedwick

  85. M J Dills

    My cat behaves like a human.
    She sleeps with her head on the pillow.
    She sits at the table and listens to conversation,
    Her head swinging back and forth, like she’s watching a tennis match.
    She buries herself in warm clean laundry
    And doesn’t care if she carries burrs in on her fur.
    My cat acts like she is the queen of the jungle;
    Her wish is my command.
    I wake up in the morning with her paw on my cheek.
    Nost to nose.
    She’s ready to start our day.
    I feed her.
    Then I make my coffee.
    Sometimes it occurs to me that she might think she is a person.
    But then I realize, she must think we are all cats.

  86. Rox

    How A Holiday Behaves

    Christmas and Thanksgiving scoff
    At St. Patrick’s Day or Arbor Day or those “other” days –
    Who do not even give time back to gentle folk –
    Refusing to deign
    Recognition of Observances such as
    “Talk Like A Pirate Day”.
    (“Arrgggh”, indeed. Harumph.)
    Proudly they proclaim their dates
    On calendars and greeting cards
    Days, weeks, months in advance;
    A ridiculous amount of preparation for their moment of glory –
    Divas demanding their absolute right to drama.
    (The commercialism has gone to their heads.)
    Eventually their regal curtains draw back;
    They take center stage
    In softened, dream-like splendor
    Graciously accepting accolades
    As humans give homage in a cacophony of excitement and delight.

  87. Jeanette J McAdoo


    My heart behaves in many ways,
    It’s broken when sad.
    Though from love it never strays,
    But very hard when mad.

    Lightened when happy my heart,
    Depressed my heart is numb.
    Emotions are all a part,
    Even when a muc they run.

  88. Judy Roney

    How My Mind Behaves

    I always think things to death
    Fret and fume and consume
    Talk with friends, family, myself, the dog
    Cry and lie awake, get angry or sad
    Let it eat at my gut and run it’s course
    Until I can put it into perspective
    Make it a part of my life
    The end is always the same
    Regardless of time spent and the tax
    On body and soul..I live with it.

  89. SaraV

    How my Vines Behave

    The Wedding Vine has cannibalized
    The Creeper, the Passion and Queens Wreath
    Three equally lovely vines wrestle beneath
    The velvet green gorgeous heart-shaped leaves
    And to further prove its superiority
    It flowers flame and fuscia funnels
    In bunches of fours and threes
    The only way the other vines can compete
    Is with sensuality,
    Fragrances that tempt
    And please,
    My personal perfumery
    So if you approach, breathe in deep
    But don’t tarry and rest a spell
    Or you’ll feel the tickle of a tendril
    As the Wedding Vine sidles up to you
    With maybe another vine, or two

  90. LBC

    How A Classical Pianist Behaves

    Tall and lanky,
    he strides across the stage
    acknowledging the applause
    of the audience
    with a slight smile.
    He flips black tails
    in a grand gesture
    and sits at the piano,
    stretching long legs to reach the pedals.
    Wrists raised, fingers curved above the keys,
    deep breath,
    eyes closed in concentration,
    music explodes with the opening notes.
    Fingers fly,
    a lingering caress,
    becomes a raging pianoforte as
    his body sways,
    face tilted upward,
    lost in the passion of a Prokofiev toccata
    until the final chord resounds.
    And in the instant before the applause
    there is an awesome silence.
    Then the audience is on its feet
    in appreciation.
    The concert pianist
    stands to take a formal bow,
    left hand resting on the piano
    reluctant to let go,
    because the performance has left him weak
    and his strength is in the music.

  91. Omavi

    How the full moon behaves

    Illuminating the menagerie
    Of so many figments of imaginations
    As the mind works so very overtime when night
    Becomes the friends and the lovers
    Of so many traits of sullen tears

    Brightness hurts the eyes and stimulates
    Maybe not
    Just stolen memories
    Wanted and wanting before midnight comes

    Starlight falls like tears and streaks
    The face of the night
    But never the moon, never that, never could
    Would such travesty
    Such a shameful slight on all natures love
    Be allowed
    Why, as every eye and soulful voice

    Basking in the light, serenading the queen
    As she shines
    And brings such a blissful sheen
    To everything witnessing the fullness of elegance
    On a canvas of black silk, shimmeringly enhanced
    This night

  92. Susan M. Bell

    “How Winter in the Mountains Behaves”

    The forecast calls for snow,
    lots and lots of snow.
    “We’re in for a big one folks.”
    That’s what the weatherman says.
    Everyone piles into their cars,
    drives fast to the nearest grocery store,
    buys all the milk and bread.
    Heaven forbid if we get snowed in,
    and run out of milk and bread.

    The snow never comes.

    The forecast calls for flurries,
    just a small dusting.
    “Nothing to write home about.”
    That’s what the weatherman says.
    Everyone piles into their cars,
    takes a trip to the local grocery store,
    again buys all the bread and milk.
    No one really thinks it will amount to much,
    but why take the chance?

    The blizzard lasts two days.

  93. Susan M. Bell

    “How the Woman with the Bible Behaves”

    She walks through town
    Back and forth every day
    In one hand she holds a bible
    Waves the other in the air
    Sometimes thumping it on the book
    Preaching to on one

    She always wears a white T-shirt
    Long dark skirt
    White tennis shoes
    Her dark hair pulled severely back
    She walks
    Up and down the street

  94. Jolanta Laurinaitis

    How the photographs make me behave

    Blink so slowly
    Touch the picture
    Ever so gently
    Roll my eyes up
    Close them down softly
    And remember
    Remember that time
    Remember that place
    Remember that laughter
    Laugh whimsically inside
    Regain focus
    Kiss the image
    One more time
    And flip
    Blink so slowly.

  95. Deb Hill

    April 14, day 14

    “How Clay Behaves”

    a boy attached once
    connected by a sinuous cord.

    The Clay;
    soft play dough body
    slick when wet,artists toy.

    The Clay
    Artist’s dripping hands pressures gently
    While the wheel turns by feet in motion
    Molds the precious mound to perfection
    Now an Urn in the home’s collections.

    Parent’s hands show pressure with anger
    Stealing wheels he speeds in motion
    Mounds of steel become tortured molten
    His ashes placed in the home’s collection

  96. Jay Sizemore

    How my hands behave

    Watching them work
    is like discovering
    a new species
    at the ends
    of my arms,
    strange and curious,
    like some form
    of blind sea anemone
    escaped from the depths
    of the ocean
    and attached itself
    to my wrists
    while I slept.

    They seem restless
    atop these warm keys,
    nervous and twitching
    between typing these words,
    wanting to curl around
    the cold comfort
    of a bottle
    and the familiar
    movement of embracing

    Often it seems
    as though they move
    independent of my mind,
    idly twisting a lock of my hair,
    scratching an itch
    I didn’t realize was there,
    bunching into fists
    or stretching,
    popping knuckles
    to relieve the stress
    of arthritic over-use,
    searching the contents
    of my jacket pockets,
    tracing the contours
    and textures of a Zippo lighter,
    wiping the gunk
    out of my sleepy eyes,
    or digging the extra skin
    out of my inflamed ears.

    They must love my beard,
    for I find them there
    most often
    tangled in the coarse
    black and gray,
    massaging the jaw-line
    of my stoic face,
    probably sick
    to death
    of having nothing better
    to touch.

  97. Emily Blakely

    How the River Behaves

    Born of soft seeping,
    trickle of water first whispers
    then some unseen force
    allows ripples to sing.
    The burble and gurgle grow
    as clashing water is sent
    from boulder to boulder,
    carving out rock crevasses.
    Suddenly river maestro
    waves his eternal baton
    spreading the water wide
    into a quiet, soothing hum
    before a myriad of stars.

  98. Liza

    How My Boyfriend Behaves

    He cuddles up close to me
    and can’t let me go
    keeping me awake for hours
    making me think he really loves me

    When we’re apart
    he’s like a different person
    not calling me
    not wanting to see me for weeks

    Does that sound like love
    Or am I being too clingy
    to want a love like the first
    to be more than just visitations

    What does it all mean
    for my heart surely can’t bear
    these conflicting emotions
    that makes me think it’s not love

  99. Linda

    Oh, how my fingers misbehave

    the instant
    your message
    falls in my private inbox.
    They quiver, clicking
    as they read, devouring
    each illicit sentence,
    sucking them to
    their marrow,
    for more.
    An ocean,
    a language
    separate us,
    the distance
    meaningless here;
    your fingers
    travel the distance,
    reveal the darkest side
    of your soul,
    and the most luminous.
    – my Prince –
    I worship you,
    your mind,
    your poetry,
    your hands –
    also misbehaving –
    but we content ourselves
    with poems
    such as this,
    permit our fingers
    to dream of naughtiness
    rather than our hearts.

  100. Marcus Smith

    “How temptation behaves…(or doesn’t)”

    Some say
    Temptation comes not from below
    But from above,
    That there is a fine line between pleasure and pain
    And a blurring between lust and love.
    Oscar Wilde once said
    The only way to get rid of temptation
    Is to give in,
    That is one way to go I suppose
    But would make for a whole lotta sin.

  101. Sally DiUlus

    PAD #14

    "How The Sun In Ecuador Behaves"
    by Sally DiUlus
    April 14, 2008

    Red like last embers in a dwindling fire
    And FULL, oh so FULL
    And Round

    Like a rosy Pomegranate
    Begging to be plucked
    Seeds ripe and bursting
    Against the peel

    How the Sun in Ecuador Behaves

    Hidden in shifting
    Gray Flat Layered Clouds
    Earth’s canvas is just a wash

    First Bite
    Runs down my lips
    Curling around my chin

    How the Sun in Ecuador Behaves

    It slips silently
    Only to fall out the bottom of winter mist
    Fattening all the way………………..down

    One drop
    Onto my white tennis shoe
    Sally DiUlus sdiulus@cefe.org

  102. Kimberly K

    How my imagination behaves

    At times
    double flips
    swan dives

    At times
    at rest

    At times
    slap stick
    practical joker
    slight of hand

    But mostly
    finger in the outlet

  103. Corinne

    How Karma Behaves

    Sitting there earnestly
    with those librarian’s glasses,
    steno pad and abacus
    My moment by moment chaparone.

    Running up totals
    Exempting me from this,
    Enrolling me in that.

    Attentive to my
    tone of voice,
    every nuance of my heart —
    selfish and kind.

    Neither ruthless nor rewarding, simply
    Unfolding sweet nothings, or
    Unleashing head on collisions,
    It’s up to me.


    Some wonderful stuff here today! Thanks!

  104. Elizabeth Keggi

    How My Reincarnation Behaves

    Okay, so he’s a he, not a she,
    And he’s growing up on
    The wrong side of the tracks.
    He’s a good boy, crazy for his
    Mama, but she drinks too much
    Even though she loves him.

    He struggles in school—
    More Shop and Art than
    English and Geography.
    He’s in the 7th grade now,
    And girls are beginning to
    Distract him, though he’d
    Never show it in public.
    There’s a girl he’s sweet on,
    But she’s smart and straight A’s
    And he’s the class clown.

    Next year, he’ll try pot
    For the first time.
    But he knows about alcohol.
    No, someone has to be sober,
    Has to break up the party
    And get mama to her bed
    To sleep it off before work.

    He’s a sweet boy, the teachers
    Agree in their stale-air lounge;
    He‘s got Potential.

    That’s what they always say
    About the kids they don’t
    Expect to succeed:
    “He’s got such Potential—
    If only he’d behave….”

  105. JD(i wanna lay low for this one)

    How my Boss behaves

    You’d think in the age of Enron
    This crap wouldn’t still go on.
    “I don’t have to answer to anyone”
    must be her self-penned song.

    Brazen and bold,
    A bit much to behold.
    Screw the public trust.
    “I’ll do whatever the hell I want,
    the rest can eat my dust”.

    There’s an end to her means
    So don’t get my wrong
    This gal’s ain’t no slouch.
    cuz making a hundred grand a year
    Was worth the casting couch.

    (my version of slam poetry)

  106. satia

    How Sneezes Work

    tingle sensation
    urge undeniable
    to let loose
    tension builds
    eyes close and
    nasal orgasm
    then this
    of satisfaction
    breathe until
    I remember
    I’m multi-

  107. Carla Cherry

    How My Hips Behave

    As I was growing up
    I put my hands on my hips
    Loved the way the roundness
    Would feel

    And when the children
    were babies
    I’d swing them on my hips
    Just to hear them squeal

    Oh, how my hips

    They swell
    With each sweet I eat

    So I sway them
    to tantalize
    each man I meet

    On future nights
    they will cradle
    my love to sleep

    And during each day
    He’ll think of me
    rave about, and crave
    the way my hips behave.

  108. Anahbird

    How My Cat Behaves

    She naps in the hall
    I peek around the wall
    She sees me
    I duck back and hide
    And she comes prancing
    Around the corner
    To find me;
    The excitement
    Of a three-year-old
    Dancing in her eyes!

  109. joe

    How my gut behaves

    I have no control
    Over my gut.
    It controls me.
    And it contains
    Everything I’ll ever need to know.

    It doesn’t even have a brain
    Yet has a mind of it’s own.
    My advisor, my shrink
    In the dead center of me.

    The most important thing
    I’ve learned in life
    Is to listen to my gut.

    It’s the voice of wisdom.
    the voice of God?
    It has to be.
    All the philosophy
    We’ll ever need is
    “Listen to your gut”.

  110. Sara McNulty

    How My Mouth Behaves

    Sometimes I read at night in bed
    A murder mystery or my all-time
    Favorite—Tom Robbins—any book

    I’m engrossed and the pages fly
    But my mouth working on its own terms
    Chews, gnaws like a rodent without permission

    On the delicate skin around my fingers
    Rendering them ragged and raw
    They bleed like raw meat

    I never realize until the damage is
    Done and the pain of pulled flesh begins
    How can this be the same mouth?

    The mouth I kiss with, eat with and
    Moisten with lip balms, lip plumpers,
    Anti-aging serum and cream to preserve

    The fullness of a youthful mouth—never
    Lined or cracked. Yet I may begin to wear
    Gloves as a fashion statement to hide the bloody deed.

  111. Maria Jacketti

    The Way the Stars Misbehave

    makes the Earth revolt,
    turns women on a ruby axis:
    above me now, the gears churning,
    lights years distant,
    string these words, sweating
    from a ristra of lemon-peppered suns.

    Maria Jacketti

  112. maeve63

    How Waldorf Salad Behaves

    In its creamy bed of mayonnaise and sugar
    and lemon juice

    The crisp apples bite back at stalks of celery
    and walnuts

    Crunching with delight the flavors blend
    to make a most delectable impression

  113. Sheryl Kay Oder

    Dee is a pseudonym for someone our family knows. It has been a challenge for me to write poetry as vignettes or slices of life. Most of the poetry I have written in the past has used similes or metaphors. I also tend to write about ideas rather than people or situations. This seems more like prose with lines than poetry, but I have tried to show not tell.

    One thing I have loved about much of the poetry written here is the detail. Many of you have done well considering this is poetry on the run. It has been fun reading.

    How Dee Behaves

    Dee bangs the door
    or in staccato stabs the bell.
    If someone swiftly answers
    he rushes in
    and grabs the borrowed phone
    attempting two conversations at once.

    Forgetting pen and paper
    he shouts for me to fetch.
    Off the phone he spews
    so many words
    they bounce right off
    my brain.

    He is not satisfied
    with my replies—
    I have ‘an attitude.’
    never mind this world
    of ours is not
    truly Dee-o-centric.

  114. Tonya Root

    Oh, yeah, I meant to also include with my little rant previously posted that I, like many others LOVE this challenge and the little community building thereon! Thanks so much to Robert and to all of you!

    Iain – I LOVE your pen poem. So hilarious and so well crafted!

  115. Michelle H.

    How My Other Eyes Behave

    I tell my children about my other eyes
    You’ve heard of them I’m sure,
    They’re the eyes in the back of my head.
    They watch my children fill with dread
    When reminded of my special set,
    And they wonder if it’s true.

    My children decided to test my eyes
    And every time they worked.
    But please don’t tell my children
    Just exactly how they function,
    I might need that magic again.

    Sometimes my children think to trick me
    But Moms are always on their toes
    And when it’s late and time for bed
    That special set is already closed.

    April 14, 2008
    © Michelle H.

  116. Tonya Root

    Argh! Today was a wretched day. I had to go to this morning to the tire place where they were supposed to be doing a front end alignment. No biggie…I needed to catch up on yesterday’s prompt, do today’s poem and some other work that I had brought. So, I settled in and an hour later was told it would be another hour. Another hour and a half after that, I was told that my rear end alignment kit had been installed….HUH? Why? I didn’t ask for or need that!!! So, two and a half hours later they had finally actually done the FRONT end alignment I came in for and didn’t charge me for that REAR end thingy that I don’t even know what it is! Meanwhile, my parents were sitting at my home thirty minutes away with my two year old waiting for me to come home so they could take off on their road trip to Utah. When I finally got home and got them out the door and my daughter laid down for her nap, I tried to find some info in my office – uh-oh…well, at least it gave me fodder for today’s poem:

    How my desk behaves

    I straighten
    It piles
    I put away
    It stacks up
    I adjust
    It reverts
    I organize
    It junks
    I clean
    It messes
    I try
    It laughs
    I give up…

  117. Rodney C. Walmer

    The way my shower behaves

    I can turn it on when I want to
    and though,
    it runs hot and cold
    I control that also
    it’s not so old
    so, I can move the head
    where I want to water to flow
    you’d think I’d enjoy my shower
    all of that great water, still,
    I can’t use it all the time
    There’s the water bill
    And just like the shower
    the bill is all mine. . .

    ©Rodney C. Walmer Prompt #14. Thought I would write about an inanimate object.

  118. Don Swearingen

    Confession is good for the soul, I’m told.
    But it purges nothing from my guilt
    And I’m left here feeling cold
    And wondering where things will tilt.
    Will they find her body, blue silk dress
    Still clinging, still shimmering smooth,
    Or has she gone forever leaving anguish and distress
    Among those who depend on her to soothe
    Those times when creation won’t rise
    From our hearts and minds?
    Where are you muse? In what guise
    Will you come to us, what kinds
    Of dreams will we have if you’re not there?
    Or did you create my murderous nightmare?

  119. Zebulon Huset

    How I wish people would behave

    I don’t demand too much, in fact only courtesy:
    that indescribable thing that tells you to stop
    when you hit someone’s car, not to speed away

    blocking your face with your hand. Or the way
    to speak that’s not shouting, that shows courtesy
    for others, not the ultimate apathy of selfishness. Stop.

    It’s less your fault than your parents, but stop,
    please. Behave like people should, don’t cool away
    my warmth for humanity. Let me believe in courtesy

    because courtesy alone stops me from blowing you all away.

  120. Janice

    How my hair behaves

    My arrogant hair.
    My frizzy, pigtailed
    once Audrey Hepburn
    now Katherine Hepburn

    Shampoo you,
    you poof. Leave you be
    you’re oiled and limping
    around the house like a
    I abused you, you toupee
    on legs. Crazy and complaining
    My sarcastic, caustic
    Blowdry me but don’t blow
    me out the window

    When I’m old will you be
    Barely there, fading with my youth?
    Will I have to dye you
    one of those flat, Loreal
    colors? My hippy, happy
    to be natural, sometimes crappy

    The men, they like you long
    and braided like a girl. I’m a fan of short
    and shapely, like the elf
    I am on the inside. My chopped-when-he-hit
    the highway,
    bright and dancing,
    added glitter to be alluring,
    trumpet flowers in a crown of
    summer golden glorious

  121. Bill Kirk

    Writers’ Rites
    By Bill Kirk

    they are a funny lot
    seeming never to be satisfied
    with just any old word
    instead they are
    constantly in search of
    just the right one
    to convey
    just the right meaning
    and to nestle in
    just the right spot
    in a well-strung string
    of other such particular words
    which will of course
    if well chosen
    punctuate a thought
    in the most righteous way

    woe is he or she
    whose evasive word
    is indeed lost
    for it is likely
    in the company
    of a muse
    who has excused herself
    for parts unknown
    sadly leaving
    the forlorn word lover
    unamused to
    suffer in silence
    these are the rites
    of the un-righted writer
    seeking just the right word to write

  122. Phyllis Elswick

    How My Mouth Behaves
    My mouth can say some things, it really shouldn’t say
    Especially when I’m angry after a very bad day.
    I’m in a mood, I do not curse, I do not swear,
    But my mouth takes over my feelings it does not care
    It’s really mean, it’s grouchy too,
    When it gets in this bad mood.
    It’s not the words, it’s the tone of voice
    My mouth uses, it’s very own choice.

    My mouth can say some really great things,
    And sometimes the words can really sing
    Especially when I’m in a great mood .
    The words it says is “I love you.”
    I try to make my mouth behave,
    But times are tough on some days
    I take advantage of those good times
    And try extra hard to keep it in line.

  123. Rodney C. Walmer

    Tarisha, while well written, your poem concerns me. Are you having these thoughts on a regular basis. If so, email me, we need to talk.


  124. Rodney C. Walmer

    How a writer behaves Or “How this writer behaves”

    A poem could enter his mind
    at any time
    While driving or even waiting in line
    Things might start
    with just a thought
    soon, an process has begun
    about then, he realizes
    it’s time to write another one

    At any time,
    he may start writing
    and not even be aware
    of what he’s doing
    no use fighting
    once started, he’s there
    for him, the process
    is as natural as chewing

    Sometimes in the middle
    of the night
    he’ll awake
    run to the computer
    and start to write
    just a word or two
    is all it might take
    for what he need’s to do

    After writing his poem
    he’ll feel release,
    better then any he’s ever known
    he starts to think clearly
    about the day ahead,
    he feels as though he’s nearly
    emptied his head
    when instead
    he’s only let out some emotion
    certainly for him
    writing is the magic potion. . .

    ©Rodney C. Walmer Prompt #14 on writing. This one came to me during my nap.

  125. Michelle Cooper

    "How My Thoughts Behaves"

    My Thoughts Run Rapid And Broad

    Through An Openly Sociable Domain.

    My Thoughts Give Off No Hurt Or Pain.

    My Thoughts Are Passionate And Encouraging

    Though Firm Positive-Ness Is What I Proclaim.

    My Thoughts Can Be Conscientious And Graceful.

    My Thoughts Are Distinct But Appropriately Defined.

    My Thoughts Will Help The Confused Legitimately, Unwind.

    My Thoughts Do Not Live In A Box.

    My Thoughts Are Swift With Beauty Of A Fox.

    My Thoughts Are Always Out And About.

    My Thoughts Brings Truth To All Who Live In Doubt.

    My Thoughts Will Emerge Precious Light To Any Room.

    My Thoughts Give No Space To Darkness Or Gloom.

    My Thoughts Are Liberal To Moderate And Fair,

    So I Wouldn’t Advise One To Take Me There.

    My Thoughts Are More Than Enough For Me.

    I’m Here Sharing Them So That Whoever

    Is Bound Can Now Be Free.

    How My Thoughts Behaves Is….……

    How My Thoughts Hope And Paves.

    H. Michelle Cooper

  126. Monica Martin

    How My Mind Behaves

    I think my mind is out to get me.
    Even if I think happy thoughts,
    my mind will take a dark turn,
    and try to pitch me into a well
    of the deepest despair.

    Sarcastic and distrustful of
    anything good that happens my way,
    my mind lives on the defensive,
    ready to tell me I’m undeserving,
    ready to push you away.

  127. Jennifer Fagala

    Preparing for my wedding so I have gotten a few days behind. Well now I am only need to get todays done… Sorry for not keeping up. I really really have enjoyed reading everyone’s work.. it is very inspiring! – Jen

  128. Tarisha English

    I just happened to fall upon this site when looking for places to get involved with other poets. I think the poem a day idea is great, so… here is mine for today, even though I’m starting a lil’ late.

    "How My Suicidal Thoughts Behave"

    I coward like a cat in a corner
    Licking my own wounds.
    The agony of pain
    Makes me feel alive again.
    A feeling that couldn’t have come too soon.

    The immeasurable cruelty of truth
    Supersedes my own ability.
    Rivers of blood are flowing from
    My wrists!
    How could I not understand my actions severity.

    Slumped against the wall
    The darkness sets in.
    Time is not salvable.
    What I have done can never be done again.

  129. John H Maloney

    How Insomnia Behaves

    I lie in bed
    and rest my head,
    but still I can’t unwind.
    Busy chasing
    stray thoughts racing
    all around my mind.
    Should be sleeping.
    What is keeping
    my mind from standing still?
    Being awake
    is starting to break
    what remains of my will.

  130. Lisa McMahan

    Goodness this one was a little difficult for me. The creative juices are just not working today. That’s frustrating! But here is my poor attempt at today’s challenge.

    How the Weather Behaves

    The weather in East Tennessee
    changes with the blink of an eye
    cold and rainy all day on Saturday
    that’s what the forecast predicted
    but lo and behold it was sunny and warm
    a far cry from cold cold cold
    of Sunday
    the furnace goes on
    the furnace goes off
    and then when you need it
    it quits working altogether
    the weather behaves as mysteriously
    as the workings of a magicians mind.
    the sun shines bright
    with a wave his magical wand
    Is that snow I see falling?
    a mystery I tell you
    weather behaving like a mischievous child
    never knowing what it might do next.

  131. IleanaCarmina

    How My Stomach Behaves

    I know you just had a four course dinner
    But it’s not hitting that spot
    Right there, that’s empty
    Burning with want
    I need something
    Just a little something
    That will soothe that spot
    Right there, that’s empty
    Burning with want

    I need chocolate.

  132. Salvatore Buttaci


    We can choose to remain young despite the years
    Or grow grumpier with each passing day.
    At sixty-six I have laid aside my fears
    In favor of welcoming all that comes my way.

    But sometimes the boy in me forgets that choice.
    He stomps his feet, he says it’s time to grow up.
    “There’s a world out there,“ he says in his young voice,
    “A wild stallion I want to ride, and I’m not old enough.”
    I try my best to calm the boy in me:

    “Adulthood isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.
    It’s hard work. You know the song: blood, sweat, and tears.”
    At last the little boy in me sits down and gives an ear

    To the man whom he yearns someday to become.
    I tell him youth lasts so short a time,
    Then, like smoke, is gone. With it all the fun
    Of a young boy’s life, the laughter, games––they climb

    Into the shadows of the past, never to return.
    This sobers the boy in me. Growing up can wait.
    He will not give away these precious days. He will learn
    Unless a man chooses to remain young despite the date
    That says he’s long grown-up, he will become a slave
    To time. The boy in me understands; the boy behaves.


    © 2008 Salvatore Buttaci

  133. Lori

    These poems are great but I just had to say that I LOVE the Monday poem! I channel Garfield every Monday and was laughing outloud and saying, "Yes, Exactly!" as I read about how Monday behaves. Fabulous!

  134. Lori

    I have never heard the song referenced and so I went with the prompt that prompted the prompt. ;-)

    How My Heart Behaves

    "The heart is deceitful above all things, And desperately
    wicked; Who can know it?" ~Jeremiah 17:9

    Follow your heart to find your dreams,
    it was the refrain of my youth.
    I followed my heart but lost my dreams,
    that’s how my heart behaves.
    Don’t wear your heart upon your sleeve
    was oft repeated too.
    But there it is for all to see,
    that’s how my heart behaves.
    My heart, it always will be true,
    I once heard someone say,
    but mine lies to me frequently,
    that’s how my heart behaves.
    And if you set my heart on fire,
    it only leads me to the flame
    of treachery and deep deceit,
    that’s how my heart behaves.
    My heart is just a broken thing,
    sometimes it goes astray,
    it never can be trusted,
    that’s how my heart behaves.

  135. Rodney C. Walmer

    Andrea, your poem about the clouds is wonderful. Just a side note, about 3 or 4 years ago, for a reason I do not know, I spent a whole year, just writing poems about clouds. I have not gotten to reading many more, as I am late for my daily nap, but I will read them all, after I awake.


  136. Rodney C. Walmer

    I feel like I cheated on this one, I did not have to thing about it at all. Being an educator, when I saw behave, the rest came naturally. :-) After my daily nap, I will come back and try to do another one that is more challenging.

    How the ideal student Behaves

    How the ideal student behaves is hard to say
    He/she comes into the classroom on time every day
    Sits at his/her desk
    starts the do now, right away
    While others fool around
    he/she does not care about the rest
    his/her grades are high
    he/she does not want them to go down
    so, he/she does his/her very best
    He/she always finds a way to participate
    his/her homework is never late
    when he/she needs help, he/she raises his/her hand
    never calling out
    always trying even when he/she does not understand
    he/she cares about his/her education
    and it shows in his/her dedication. . .

    ©Rodney C. Walmer 4/13/08 inspired by the 14th prompt.

  137. Nancy

    How I (mis)Behave

    Just because I’m the adult here
    does that mean I can’t go out and play?
    Can’t I have a case of spring fever,
    gazing out the window at least as often
    as my students from their desks?

    Just because I’m the teacher
    does that mean I can’t forego spellcheck,
    daydream about summer,
    put off grading that stack of papers
    for one more day?

    Just because I’m the mother,
    does that really mean I have to clean my plate,
    make my bed, rinse it off and put it in the sink?
    I want to stay up late, surf the channels,
    read a book, leave my shoes on the floor by the couch.

    Just a little nonviolent misbehavior,
    courtesy of Mrs. Behavior.

  138. Jacquie Wareham

    How Grief Behaves

    Now that it’s spring,
    grief hides under a blanket in the back bedroom;
    dances less often its dark wrenching sobs through my body.
    I turn my face to gather warmth from the sun,
    turn my hands to the cool earth.
    Grief still presses from the inside
    on everything I do,
    and I press back with a hard need for normal.

    April 14, 2008
    Jacquie Wareham

  139. Leigh-Evelyn Martin

    How My Genes Behave

    Cancer coarses through my bloodline.
    And where we all once stood tall-
    as anxious and eager as newly
    planted trees, reaching out
    with tiny arms to be cared for
    and lifted up by Mother Nature-
    we are now half of who we were.

    When I was born I remember light
    and life but then the divorce
    epidemic struck. All the men fled
    to drugs and death and the women
    were too young and thin
    and could hardly carry
    milk in their breasts.

    Someone twice-removed died
    in the South, falling off a cliff
    on a lawnmower. My grandfather was shot
    by his ex-wife’s new boyfriend. An uncle
    tried to live by heart surgery
    but then died of disease
    in his blood.

    The addiction to medication, self-help
    and drink caught on early
    for depressed cousins and brothers. Some
    caught up in a cycle of sobriety
    and relapse. Some of them
    will die peacefully
    in their sleep.

    How sickness and the end
    of everything
    finds us while we are trying
    to get through a day
    destroys me with anger. But
    anger is a disease with which
    I refuse to live.

  140. Cara Alson

    How a Grandma in the Playground Behaves

    Step cautiously, not deep,
    crunching on the sand.
    Orthopedic shoes hold their breath,
    grateful not to have the sand assault –
    can you imagine sand on your tongue?

    I watch Kristina – granddaughter supreme
    pump her legs, revel as the sun
    kisses her bare arms and legs,
    her flying hair tickle her face – the air –
    her face again…again…again…

    It’s decades since I sat in a playground swing –
    rigid plastic replaces yesteryear’s soft seats.
    It hugs my hips enthusiastically,
    a welcome sense memory.

    Grandma must swing cautiously
    in short arcs, letting the mind play
    as the body once did – memory blows
    through graying hair like breezes
    did in little-girl curls long ago.

    Time to rise from the seat made
    for little bodies, to explore forts
    ladders and slides – through
    her eyes, while I laugh
    and challenge from the side.

    We enter the pages of imagination,
    create the life of a little-girl dragon
    who lives in the park. What a blessing
    is this child who shares my love
    of the world of “imitend”

    "Imitend" is a word I created as a child, combining imagine and pretend. This prompt was perfect – it led me right to last Friday’s visit with my granddaughter. It’s so freeing to write knowing rewriting will wait. Whil this PAD project is going on, my friend and I are emailing poems back-and-forth, a challenge created at a recent Poetry Conference. My poetry muscles are really getting a workout! (0:

  141. halfmoon_mollie

    how my sleep behaves

    it starts about eight
    wondering if the night will
    be quiet enough or if those
    trucks or whatever is
    making that noise – the one
    that sounds like a heartbeat-
    will chase it away

    I listen to it
    tell me what it needs
    a quiet space
    a quiet place
    with soft sheets
    not too warm
    and not too cold

    my sleep is very demanding
    and must be courted
    carefully or
    she will leave
    and perhaps not
    return until
    I can show her
    a little bit of

  142. Bruce Niedt

    How Monday Behaves

    Like a sidewinder, a varmint behind the rocks,
    ready to spook your horse.

    Like a mad scientist, his piecemeal human
    writhing as he screams, “It’s alive!”

    Like a despotic king in ancient Asia Minor,
    demanding your first-born child.

    Like Billy Rossetti in fifth grade,
    who used to like to trip you with his foot
    every time you walked up the aisle.

    Like the road that you hate with ten traffic lights
    that are always synchronized against you.

    Like it wants to dance to every song
    ever written about it:
    “Monday, Monday”; “Stormy Monday”,
    “Monday Morning”, “I Don’t Like Mondays” –
    and it wants you to be its partner,
    and it has two left feet.

    Like it wants to be Monday with a capital “M” –
    no wait, it always has a capital “M” –
    like it wants to be all in caps: MONDAY!

  143. Cathy Sapunor

    How My Left Ear Behaves

    It doesn’t, never has, there is
    no use in trying a hearing aid
    or cochlear implant or anything
    else exciting science might dream up
    because there is no nerve
    within to transmit sound
    so at concerts and ballgames and
    when my husband revs up the
    lawnmower motor, I have just
    the right one to protect
    and pamper, be extra nice to
    and avoid damage; but
    the "bad ear" gets treated
    like a boring party guest.
    If I ask you to sit on my
    left at dinner one night, it might be
    because I want to tune you out.

  144. Kevin

    How Entropy Behaves

    It tumbles upon itself,
    over and again,
    like a waterfall,
    emotional turmoil
    spinning karmic dreams
    at random.
    It withers to a nothing,
    declares itself devoid.
    sucks the lungs
    free of life,
    entwines the night
    with the light
    of a billion burning stars
    long since dead and dull.
    It snakes inside
    the fractured mind,
    whittles at sanity
    with its nimble hand,
    incites the world to folly.

  145. Karen

    Tim, I love the kitten poem and almost went there myself.

    Andrea, the depth of your cloud poem kept me on my toes between the whimsical and the serious.

    Connie, enjoyed the personification of the Colorado weather!

    Iain, hope it’s ok I laughed out loud at your pen poem. I do get the serious side of it, having often experienced the blocked feeling.

    Teri C, I feel the pain, yet I laugh at how your heel seems to be a real person.

    Patti, I have been there, and it’s no fun!

    Earl, you have so got it right about first drafts. It’s flow.

    I’m involved in a two-week writing challenge with three other people. We post our word count for the day every evening. I am trying to write prose in addition to the PAD, so doing both really stretches me. Thank you, Robert, and thank you for the inspiration, fellow poets.

  146. Marcos Cabrera

    How my Thought behaves

    It’s a two way street running in my head.
    Always ready from my inside to spell
    any feeling whether it’s sharp or blunt
    if I do not I will feel like a drunk
    sipping the flames of an internal hell.
    I have to let it go from its deep cell
    before it breaks apart my inner walls
    quite often I can’t control it at all
    cause like a volcano from the soul it swells.

    My thought brings out the essence from the soul
    and takes in the feats from around the world.

    Always ready to get into its mell
    from the days the meanings from dawn to dusk,
    from the free air the freshness and the dust
    for every morning the sound of a bell.
    I need to live with it as you can tell
    cause its crazy flow I cannot stop
    I’ll let it be like my eternal bud
    in its in and out incisions and quell.
    It’s hard to know how my thought will behave.

  147. Debra Elliott

    I have written several poems about both of my daughter’s which are in my upcoming poetry collection to be published.
    This prompt was not too hard I came uo with a short poem about my daughter’s.

    How My Daughter Behaves

    She is a distant soul,
    to her own device…
    she no longer wants my advice.

    She rants and shouts,
    saying the F word…
    just to be heard.

    She screams and pouts,
    demanding her way…
    wanting her say.

    She is out of control,
    running wild…
    no longer a child.

  148. Kateri Woody

    How My Heart Behaves

    It flutters,
    stutter stops stumbles
    whenever you are near;
    takes tumbling leaps
    of daring feats
    at the mere thought of you.

    The very way you glare at me
    makes my heart want
    to burst into flames –
    to burst out of my chest
    and profusely profess
    my innate and perverse
    desire to always,
    always in all ways
    be your one and your only.

    It screams in duress
    when I see you doting
    on someone else;
    cries and weeps heavy tears
    of bloody agony that fill
    up my chest cavity
    with hot tones of angst.

    My heart beats tirelessly,
    forever and for eternity
    to keep me alive;
    if only to just see
    your wondrously distraught,
    inevitably hidden face
    whenever I try to close
    the distance between us
    with the bodies of those
    you actually love.

  149. patti williams

    Unfortunately – this poem is also a true story!

    How My Laptop Behaves

    The manuscript,
    The novel,
    My life blood creation –
    Was almost complete.

    Of course I saved
    My work each day!
    Of course I backed up
    The words I wept like tears!

    My computer assured me that yes,
    Of course my story was safe and sound.

    But when I sat down
    To write the final pages
    My computer said, “No no,
    Your book is not here.”
    I said to the USB drive,
    “Surely my book is still with you!”
    The stick said, “No, the computer
    Has been lying to both of us. Sorry,
    I just found out myself.”

    So this is how my computer behaves!

    My brand new,
    State of the art,

    Sorry little bastard.

  150. Earl Parsons

    How the mind of a writer behaves

    The words flow freely on Monday late
    When busy shopping with my love
    No pad or pen
    The mind too weak
    To remember the details
    For later

    Then Tuesday morning early
    With cobwebs in the brain
    The ideas flow
    But all for naught
    So I scribble notes
    For later

    Then time allows me to sit
    Screen on and fingers ready
    To pen the words
    That others will read
    Then my minds shuts down
    Until later

    I wake from a sound sleep
    A story sparked by a dream
    I power up the PC
    Ready fingers and brain
    The dream will resurface

    Then while checking my email
    The flood of words overtakes me
    And I tear up the keyboard
    Writing page after page
    In a trance that lasts
    Until later

    No proofing, no spell check, or grammar
    No worries ‘bout how it may sound
    The word flow so free
    No break time for me
    And I can always rewrite it

  151. Karen


    How the Clutter in My House Behaves (and makes me behave)

    It takes on a life, a personality.

    One paper creeps into the narrow spaces on either side of my laptop.
    Magnetically, another joins it, as if stuck to the surface of the first.
    Then another.
    Soon there is no neat stack, some papers sloping off right, some left.
    A few jut out of the back of the pile, crowding the tiny printer.
    One paper curls over a writing pad.
    And I don’t even want to think about the basket on the
    My husband’s mail, spread over a bench in the front hall, is not my problem.
    I keep telling myself.
    At least most of our bills are safely tucked in my
    Show Me the Money notebook.

    At the corner where the kitchen and the front hall intersect
    Goodwill donations make a clumsy pile the kittens keep disturbing.
    I have too many silly bottles and vases collected in the dining room windows,
    Along with two conch shells and an abalone.
    The cats broke a glass vase there last week. Good riddance, I thought.
    I try to ignore the kids’ bathroom.
    They’re young adults now, here but not really here.
    They toss things with abandon, thinking it will magically disappear while they’re gone.
    Imagine my daughter’s surprise when she came home from college again
    And the zebra pajamas draped over the vanity chair where she left them before.
    I hadn’t opened the other bathroom closet in awhile.
    Cringe. Boxes of clippings and pictures I inherited from my grandmother.
    Even my mother admits she may not know the people in some of them.
    And when I clean out the litter boxes in the downstairs bath,
    crumbs of clay bounce under
    the double closet doors. When I open them to sweep
    I flinch at the boxes and boxes of photos of my own
    I haven’t dealt with yet.
    At least my knight in shining armor cleaned out the garage after Christmas.
    And my bedroom closet and drawers have been purged so many times in the last five years,
    I can actually lay my hand on anything I want to wear.

    She’s the lady on the internet who first helped me
    Get some of this house’s serious clutter
    Under control.
    Just fifteen a day, she says.
    If you spend fifteen minutes a day,
    You can soon make the clutter go away.
    I’d forgotten that lesson that worked so well for me at first.
    Time to do a fling-boogie, she would tell me.
    You can do anything for fifteen minutes.
    So I’ll start at my desk.
    Just fifteen minutes.
    As soon as I finish this poem.

  152. k weber

    how my lower back behaves

    just as a bound
    book, my spine
    keeps me up-
    right even as i
    lie down
    with thin, loose

    once there was
    a season
    a fall
    too many
    plastic bags
    full of fruit
    and canned
    corn and i
    couldn’t stand
    up among
    the autumn

    months later
    would find me
    finding my bed
    a home
    inside my home
    where electricity
    moved up
    my back
    as if lightning
    had singed me

    and then the pills
    i refused
    until the party
    and ended
    with tequila
    sunrises, vodka

    the surgery
    was quick; left
    a small scar
    and then
    i rode my bike
    for miles
    and suburbs
    and even
    carried my safety
    into bars

    years later
    i get an ache
    and then
    it goes away
    the pinch
    is brief, but reminds
    me i should
    never attempt cart-
    or juggle
    men again

  153. Vanessa O'Dwyer

    How Air Behaves

    The quiet presence
    We need at all times
    With elements it carries,
    Moving the wind chimes.

    Simple it seems
    Complex it gets.
    Without it there’d be
    No great flying jets.

    Stranded in doldrums
    It left many a ship,
    With forces of gale
    A house it would rip.

    Bits of the thing
    It just passed right over,
    The jasmine, the rose
    Your brother’s foul odor.

    We harness it like
    A great giant beast,
    Thinking we’re clever
    Such power released.

    Simple perfection
    I am thinking here
    Nothing’s more subtle
    Than behavior of air.

  154. Teri Coyne

    How My Heel Behaves

    Don’t take another step
    my left heel screams
    from the pain
    of moving forward

    I hobble off the bed
    stumbling toward the bathroom

    Remember those heels
    and the dancing on the marble floor
    you thought the Jackson Five
    was worth this?
    Ha! My heel laughs.

    The doctor gives my heel
    a name it doesn’t like
    “planter fasciitis”
    plant this
    where the sun don’t shine
    my heel says
    as I hobble home

    My heel is not
    not behaving
    and not healing

    serves you right
    the weight of you
    was killing me

  155. Margaret Fieland

    How My Computer Behaves

    Like a stubborn child,
    my computer won’t respond
    when I click the mouse.
    It’s chomping away at
    those binary bits, strings
    of ones and zeroes
    flickering faster than
    my fingers can type,
    turning on and off
    and on again,
    while I continue to click,
    grind my teeth,
    and swear.

  156. kat magendie

    I’ll be sure to send this link to my poet-writer friends! I’d love to come back and see if they’ve posted their poetry…they are quite gifted in that area if I say so myself and I just did, didn’t I? ha.

  157. Iain D. Kemp

    How my Pen behaves

    About thirty seconds after I’ve finished staring
    at an indistinct spot roughly four feet seven inches from
    the end of my nose and twenty million light years from reality my pen starts to move all by itself it seems, a spider-scrawl runs out of control back and forwards across the page faster than my eye can see much faster than my brain can think so I know it’s not me that’s in control and could write anything it could write prose or verse or worse combine the two
    in something new that isn’t either and can’t be both cos that’s just wrong and sometimes it makes sense but even then I can’t read a damned thing when it’s finished and it’ll take three times as long to type out as it did to write
    sometimes its gets a-musing which is amusing (sometimes) about philosophy and stuff like the meaning of life or Liff (which is a funny little book) like how or why
    clever people would put household pets in metaphysical boxes and ask people whether they are in there or not, they should know, it’s like refrigerators
    that’s the same thing, light on light off. Sometimes it turns out my pen has penned a stream of drivel and I’m glad it’s not my fault but I am scared that when I next open the fridge
    I’ll have just killed somebody’s cat…

  158. ck

    Great idea to keep the community going beyond poetry month, Robert. I’ve really been enjoying this challenge and look foward to continuing with everyone beyond April.

  159. Lorraine Hart

    Okay…I promise, again, I will be back with a poem I will write today on this prompt…but I wanted to post this older one…to speak these words whenever I can…

    When Christ & Mohammed Meet

    When Christ and
    Mohammed meet
    they greet one another
    as loving brothers
    why can’t we do the same
    must it be Crusades
    in their name for
    more accursed gain

    They both speak of Love
    and what we’re made of
    choices and voices
    and reason
    rejoicing and fasting
    in season
    intent and service
    and freedom

    They both shed tears
    over follies and fears
    man’s inhumanity
    to man
    human calamity
    to land
    buried oil in a sea
    of sand

    When Christ and
    Mohammed meet
    they take their seats
    as prophets of peace
    and greet one another
    as loving brothers
    why can’t we do the same
    end the Crusades
    in their name for
    some accursed gain

    Then we will meet
    and greet one another
    as sisters and brothers
    in Christ and
    Mohammed’s name
    and cleanse the
    bloody stain
    from the cross
    from the crescent moon
    dragonflies land on
    the soldiers tomb
    and its shadow lifts
    from a maiden’s womb

  160. M J Dills

    Adding my contribution later but don’t think my comment posted this morning after reading yesterday’s poems, which were all worth the time spent, while my dog patiently tapped her toes waiting for her daily stroll. THANK YOU ROBERT for this wonderful opportunity.

  161. Connie

    How Colorado Spring Weather Behaves

    This April weather behaves
    Like some mysterious stranger
    Not willing to let you know
    Who he is or what he’s up to.

    Or like a naughty kid
    Having a temper tantrum
    With thunder and lightning one minute,
    Sleeping peacefully with sunshine the next,
    Then mischievously tricking you into
    Thinking it will warm up soon, then it snows.

    Or like an over-motherly mother
    Telling you to put your sweater on,
    The next moment telling you to take it off.

    Or like a brooding teenager
    All gray clouds one minute, sunshine the next.

    Or a flirtatious tease
    Urging you to come out and play in the sunshine
    When there’s work to be done indoors.

    Or like an irritating boss or teacher
    Whose mind seems set to spoil your fun when
    You try to have a picnic, but the blustery
    Wind blows your plates and cups away.

    This spring weather behaves like a schizophrenic,
    Many personalities all wrapped up into one.

  162. Iain D. Kemp

    How the children behave

    The children are as good as gold
    Except when Grandpa comes
    They always do what they’re told
    But Grandpa’s lots of fun

    And mother pulls her hair out
    Oh! Where did I go wrong?
    Why do they run and shout
    And scream all day long

    The children are as good as gold
    When they go to school
    Always doing what they’re told
    And never act the fool

    Except when teacher’s not there
    When all but teacher’s pet
    Begin to fight and swear
    And spitting for a bet

    The children are as good as gold
    When its time to play
    They always do as they are told
    And never go astray

    Except when no-one sees
    Then it’s bully time until
    The tears sting like bees
    But the names cut deeper still

    The children are as good as gold
    When its time to sleep
    Always doing as they’re told
    Dreamy, counting sheep

    Except that in their dreams
    Some are still, at peace
    And some awake with screams
    Of monsters and beasts

  163. Andrea Louise Jones

    How the Clouds Behave

    Is it chronic or persistent
    the way they go
    tell me if they are fast or slow
    or if the secret that they hold
    is something we can speak.
    Im not so sure,
    but they tell me something
    about the free.

    Sometime I wonder if they hide
    the secrets of the universe inside
    they are thin a long
    round and old
    with greying sides and a picture show
    faces there of Hercules
    or a fallen child and skidded knees

    but always and forever sure
    they tell me some things
    are real and pure

    But I can’t touch it
    or cage it in
    I can simply walk and feel the wind
    that blows my back and
    sets my sights
    on things out of reach
    and a bit too high

    But I’m sure the clouds
    have hid inside
    a room for all the butterflies
    who worked so hard
    till the day they die
    to simply have two days to fly…

    but two days is all it takes
    to take them to their birthing place

    So, "Its not fair"
    the way things are and arn’t,
    are words for smog filled cars
    Walking beneath these rolling clouds
    It’s clearer now

  164. Chris Granholm Jr.

    How My Mind Behaves

    The child scampers about
    The adult stands watching, guarding
    A smile of joy on his face
    The child questions
    The adult answers
    If he can
    Pondering his own questions
    Always back and forth
    Avoiding the shadow in the corner
    And the pallid man living there
    Forever at the end of his time
    He thinks only in negatives
    Answering the random queries
    With pessimism
    Confusing and saddening
    Both child and adult alike

  165. Candace Armstrong

    How My Dreams Behave

    Twas a very strange dream indeed
    Bursting with clarity I need
    Of a connection I know well
    Who grew jealous of writing skills
    I displayed to the museum
    director who could sure use them
    So I was hired to write for pay
    But felt I lost a friend that day.

  166. Lorraine Hart

    I’ll be back with my poem later…but wanted to add my thanks and joy with others for this daily challenge. I read the poems of the previous day in the early morning, with the dawn and a cuppa…left coast, lazy, lyrical wakening. Ya gotta lurve something that requires a new notebook!

  167. tim

    how the new kitten behaves

    watching him chase boo
    the senior cat of the house
    getting hissed at
    set back but undiscouraged
    it’s hard to remember
    the sickly sack of bones that found
    its way into our garage
    that we almost put him down
    for fear the other animals
    could catch a deadly disease
    from the shy first entrance out of the seclusion
    two weeks boarded in the bathroom
    to the brash taking of the house
    each bed he has slept,
    save one
    batting and darting and meowing and playing
    and watching
    tormenting dogs in their crate
    owning every countertop
    hissing against the other two for more than his share of the home
    how very close to death he seemed
    to be so very much alive