April PAD Challenge: Day 15

After today’s poem, we’ll be half-way there. 50% of the way. It’s all downhill from here. And other half-way stuff. (For some reason, I’ve got Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” song running through my head. “Ooooooo, we’re half-way there; woooooo-oooo, living on a prayer; take my hand, we’ll make it I swear…” Err, or something like that.) 😉

For today’s prompt, I want you to take the title of a poem you especially like (by another poet) and change it. Then, with this new altered title, I want you to write a poem. An example would be to take William Carlos Williams’ “The Red Wheelbarrow” and change it to “The Red Volkswagon.” Or take Frank O’Hara’s “Why I Am Not a Painter” and change it to “Why I Am Not a Penguin.” You get the idea, right? (Note: Your altered poem does NOT have to follow the same style as the original poet, though you can try if you wish.)

Here’s my attempt for the day:

“O Baby! My Baby!”

O Baby! My Baby! You bend me
and shake me like a ragdoll ghost
of a lover you once had. It ain’t
bad, but I’ve noticed a hook or two
stuck in my heart leading to you.

O Baby! My Baby! Our bed must
hate us–the way we get crazy
one minute, then totally lazy. If
we had the time, it’d be working
all day. Even with nothing to say,

O Baby! My Baby! You’re the Coca-
Cola of my mornings, the cheesecake
of my evenings. When I’m dreaming,
you’re always right by my side, smiling
and happy to be along for the ride.

(Original title “O Captain! My Captain!” by Walt Whitman)


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885 thoughts on “April PAD Challenge: Day 15

  1. JL Smither

    (After William Carlos Williams’s Autumn)

    A gaggle of people
    by a crowded

    picnic table under
    a spreading maple

    the bird and bloom

    for the new life
    that arrives

    with heat
    each year

    and fades as
    the leaves float

    from the sky.

  2. yolanda davis-overstreet

    Day 15

    “I do not like green chicken and cheese”

    I do not like green chicken and cheese
    For starts – it always makes me sneeze
    And if you really, just really think on this
    Who would want to eat this meat
    Green chicken? –
    Just the thought gives me -the creeps
    And on that cheese that comes with it
    The chef that spent his time to make this dish
    — should really , just really
    get rid of it.

  3. LeNora

    Dis Regard my last entry…


    The Mowing Foot Rides; and having rid,
    Runs on: No appreciation for What I Did
    Your Lime and Seed With not help the Growth
    So I filled the Mower and Closed the lid.

    So sorry for the other two screw ups

  4. David H. Snell

    I doubt to ever sink my teef
    in morsels tastier than beef.
    When ground up, pressed, and set on bun
    to savor—be it shade or sun—
    or cut and grilled, the flame-kissed steak:
    the thought alone makes taste buds ache
    to be delivered from the snare
    of hunger, as done med’um rare.

    Poems are made by hearts in grief,
    but only God could give us beef.

  5. LeNora


    RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM(The Moving Finger Writes;…)
    STANZA 71


    The Mowing Foot Rides; and having rid,
    Runs on: No appreciation for What I Did
    Spreads strength nor color for it’s growth
    So I filled the Mower and Closed the lid.


  6. LindaTK

    Day 15:
    Rewrite of “Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening,” by Robert Frost

    Stopping By A Lake On A Moonlit Evening

    Whose lake is this I see tonight?
    His house is a decaying sight.
    This spot gives me a cause to sigh
    To watch his lake fill up with light.
    A nearby owl lets out a cry,
    No one will see me stopping by
    Between the woods and moonlit lake.
    The moon hangs low there in the sky.
    It looks as if the world’s awake.
    I wonder if there’s some mistake?
    “Is night now day?” I softly moan.
    Fog’s apparitions crowd the lake.
    I feel like I am not alone.
    But I must now no longer roam.
    I’ve miles to go before I’m home.
    I’ve miles to go before I’m home.

  7. Ruth Mattern

    (original: Trees by Joyce Kilmer)

    I think that I shall never see
    A country that means more to me.
    A country that is proud and strong.
    The place I know that I belong.
    This country that I call my home.
    A place where I don’t feel alone.
    There are the oceans on both sides.
    Where I can sit and watch the tides.
    Majestic mountains tall and steep
    And comfort when I go to sleep.
    The Midwest plains so very grand
    And the desert hot with lots of sand.
    My grandparents and parents too
    Raised families here because they knew
    This country showed them great respect
    Not poverty nor neglect.
    It lets us live how we believe
    Our life should be. No I won’t leave

  8. Ruth Mattern


    I think that I shall never see
    A country that means more to me.
    A country that is proud and strong.
    The place I know that I belong.
    This country that I call my home.
    A place where I don’t feel alone.
    There are the oceans on both sides.
    Where I can sit and watch the tides.
    Majestic mountains tall and steep
    And comfort when I go to sleep.
    The Midwest plains so very grand
    And the desert hot with lots of sand.
    My grandparents and parents too
    Raised families here because they knew
    This country showed them great respect
    Not poverty nor neglect.
    It lets us live how we believe
    Our life should be. No I won’t leave

  9. Patti Williams

    My posting was deleted for this day … resending:

    Since Jimmy Buffet is a poet every time he writes and sings, I’m going with:

    A Pirate Looks at Forty

    “Got to stop wishin’
    Got to go fishin’
    Down to the rock bottom again
    With just a few friends
    With just a few friends”
    Jimmy Buffet

    A Mom Looks At 39

    I’m not a pirate – at least not yet anyway.
    Right now I’m still just a Mom,
    A girl about to turn 39 years old.
    And today I’m looking at my life
    With wiser eyes, ones that have seen
    Quite a bit: the good, the bad and the ugly …
    Sometimes all in the same evening,
    Sometimes all from the same person.

    I’ve danced fast, slow,
    And sometimes when the
    Dance was over – I still gave it my best.
    I’ve cried my tears in storms,
    But not so much anymore.
    I’ve seen big numbers,
    Paid for huge losses,
    Watched the money
    Fly away, and I’m still trying to recover.

    I’ve always loved the ocean
    And still do today.
    I can’t be there often enough
    Listening to the waves,
    Feeling the freedom the horizon offers
    While the water teases me to jump in,
    Telling me everything is fine.

    Looking back though,
    There has always been a constant in my life:
    Aside from my kids, the hearts I cherish
    The most are those of my friends.
    I’ve learned if you have a
    Few good ones, then you have gold
    In your hands – gold to be cherished!
    I can go through the tragedies,
    Play the games, endure the chaos,
    But nothing compares to the love
    Of the honest souls I laugh with,
    Call on, and reach out to.

    When I look back on my life,
    I raise my wine filled glass in
    Reverence, thankfulness and joy
    To the wisdom they have
    Shared with me.
    I am truly blessed
    And when I get this life figured out,
    I will pay back the favor and then some.
    Hopefully that will be sooner rather than later.

    The next rounds on me y’all.
    The next rounds on me, friends.

  10. Lissa

    Autumn Begins in Marshall, Michigan

    The season of blueberry stout,
    a Dark Horse Brewing,
    and scarecrows fronting Victorian homes.
    Skeins of yarn
    and polymer clay pumpkins.
    The windows are grey at the magic museum
    and a woman in an apron
    hawks embroidery wares from a festival cart.
    Owls roost along the farm roads
    and the light is perfect for walking.

    (Original title: Autumn Begins in Martin’s Ferry, Ohio by James Wright)

  11. Merddyn Aladar

    "Gasoline Rain"

    Drip, drop
    Drip, drop
    The rain pours into the can
    Combustion is heard
    And a car drives off.

    Drip, drop
    Drip, drop
    The rain pours into the can
    A generator hums
    And powers the lab

    Drip, drop
    Drip, drop
    The rain pours into the can
    A fire ignites
    And brings light to the room

    Drip, drop
    Drip, drop
    The rain pours into the can
    A man smirks
    And walks to his friend

    Drip, drop
    Drip, drop
    The rain pours onto the man
    A pillar ignites
    And that pillar is a man.

    (To be honest, I don’t know a lot of poems, so I don’t have a favorite to rewrite the name of… So I took a conveniently named poem, "November Rain" by Amy Phillip and used that.")

  12. Amanda Caldwell

    I was having a Gerard Manley Hopkins kind of day.

    Pie Beauty

    Glory be to God for tasty things—
    For chocolate chips that melt down my shirt;
    For popcorn butter salt licked from my hands;
    Fresh-roasted peanuts; marshmallow Peeps;
    Buttercream frosting tracing a tower of cakes,
    Teetering all and filling within.

    All things yummy, delicious, appetizing, juicy;
    Whatever is cooked or processed (who knows how?)
    With oven, stove; sweet, sour; hearty, hot;
    He offers all upon an outstretched plate;
    Praise him.

    Thou art indeed there, Lord

    Thou art indeed there, Lord, if I stop
    squinting so hard. But, near-sighted and obsessed
    with my own mortality, I blur your edges
    and break you down into a smudge of color,
    an inconsequential mirage of fancy.
    Once my friend, with life spent on your cause,
    and now a sot and thrall of lust and leisure
    and my own painless desires, and I thrive.
    Except my soul, I thrive. Build my nest
    again, Lord. Lace it tightly with sticks that bind
    and feed me out of your mouth once more,
    chirping so soft that I strain to hear
    the voice I nearly forgot. Wake this work
    and shake my confidence with fresh wind.
    Mine, o thou Lord of faith, send my roots rain.

  13. Cathy Sapunor


    Had I not been stupid enough
    to break up a fight between cats
    I wouldn’t have gotten blood poisoning
    and had to sit around for a week
    with both arms in slings
    forbidden to pick up even a book
    let alone my coward cat.
    The teakettle whistled on and on
    ’til it ran out of steam
    because I couldn’t turn off the burner
    and the cat shrieked fiercely to be
    let outside, where it was
    quiet, but — had she
    forgotten already? — stalked
    by the enemy.
    We were stuck together
    inside the tiny apartment
    in gorgeous weather
    due to dumb decisions:
    hers to take on the neighborhood bully
    and mine to referee the match.
    One week of suffering together–
    seven days and
    nine lives.

    Cathy Sapunor

    "Otherwise" by Jane Kenyon

  14. Linda H.

    The Winds of Fate by Ella Wheeler Wilcox now changed to: (no rhyme scheme, just scattered)

    The Wind in Winnenden

    No forecast of stormy weather,
    no one really knew,
    but a raging wind blew,
    swirling round the trees,
    ruffling their leaves,
    bending tender branches
    and toppling the saplings
    roots and all.
    Before one could fathom
    what was happening,
    that wild gust had
    run it’s course,
    and left the trees
    for worse–
    if they were really
    just forest trees
    we’d plant anew and
    quickly forgive the breeze
    but when saplings
    are children of
    family trees,
    felled to soon,
    the chilling wind
    make our hearts
    wondering when
    and if they’ll ever

    (About the school shooting last month)

  15. Ivy Merwine

    How do I hate thee. Let me count the ways.

    I hate your beard.
    I hate the way you cut your hair.

    I hate your stupid slogan shirts.
    I especially hate your worn out underwear.

    I hate your jokes
    and your taste in brew.

    I hate your car
    and your stupid cat too.

    Most of all
    I just hate you.

  16. Alyssa Watson

    The Chance Not Taken

    Two choices loomed in my mind that day,
    I gnawed at my lip as I could not decide
    Which one would be best, I could not say
    Face set so grimly, do no less but bide
    My own sweet time ‘til I found my way;

    It was such a hard task as I stood looking back
    With wistful eyes and a longing gaze
    To know that my mind had gone off track
    My fingers in the dust could trace
    The journey taken, initiative lacked

    But both were fair and good in my eyes
    When the choice lay before me, just begun
    I felt like someone when he first tries
    Something so new, I wanted to run
    But couldn’t turn away despite my sighs

    Once more I realize when I think on it
    How much was due to fate, to chance
    I was barely involved in the smallest bit
    No room for regret, heart pierced with a lance
    Nothing I want to remember, released from the darkest pit

  17. Amy Gunn

    “There is Another Pie”

    I came home late from work that night,
    My stomach rumbling loudly.
    I pulled open the fridge and peered,
    I’d hoped they saved some for me.

    That’s when I saw the empty pan
    Just sitting in the sink.
    I closed my eyes to count to ten
    ‘Cuz I was on the brink.

    But that was when my wife walked in,
    Said nothing was awry –
    That I won’t have to kill them,
    Since there is another pie.

  18. Stacey Cornwell

    The Mist-Net

    I threw out a mist net
    To catch a dream

    But all it came back with
    Was a misled wish

    And a nightmare of a time
    I no longer knew

    And a voice that cried
    Don’t leave. Don’t leave.

  19. Lauren Dixon

    “Signal” (Title taken from Eunice de Chazeau’s book of poems Born Permeable)

    A Sign

    The air cracks and pops,
    the heat tattoos your skin,
    in reverse, strap lines,
    warning of future burns
    from hot car seats,
    get ready for the constant
    hum of the compressor
    creating large electric bills,
    your thirst and sweat demand
    expanded water bills,
    the car threatens a dead battery,
    slather on more sunscreen,
    wilted plants you hoped
    would live wave goodbye,
    the only respite,
    July and August,
    monsoon meringue clouds
    rise up and whip
    themselves black,
    they spit jagged
    expletives aimed at
    palo verdes and the
    occasional golfer,
    You don’t have to
    tell me twice,
    my bags are packed,
    It’s time to go.

  20. Kripa Nidhi

    Stopping by a dollar-store on a holiday season evening

    What’s available here I do not yet know
    But some things good I hope to find, though
    And that no one will notice me shopping here –
    buying gifts without spending much dough.

    My folks would find it really queer
    me shopping without a fancy mall near
    between the freeway and up till here
    This darkest evening of my year

    I give my head a good strong shake
    Asking myself if this is some mistake
    But the only voices I hear in reply
    are the sound of wind and downy flake

    The goods here are flimsy, stale and cheap
    But I don’t have a job to keep
    And lotsa gifts to buy before I sleep
    And lotsa gifts to buy before I sleep

    -Kripa Nidhi

  21. C. L. Banahan

    Day 15
    Based on Whenas in Silks My Julia Goes
    By Robert Herrick

    When in Milk My Cheerios Go

    When in milk my Cheerios go
    They float and bobble to and fro
    The sight of them just cheers me so

    They keep my veins cholesterol free
    But I like them ‘cause they’re sweet you see.
    And they go well with my tea

  22. Oscar C. Pena

    Introducing a Love Poem

    I want her to read my poem
    when she starts the first line
    reminds her that she needs
    to buy bread for supper

    The second stanza
    causes her sister to recall
    how her first boyfriend
    used to take her dancing

    Then they start comparing
    memories of long ago times
    when they could hardly wait
    for the weekend.

    And I wonder why I ever
    bothered to ask my mother-in-law
    if she would read a love poem
    written to her daughter.

    (Original title, “Introduction to Poetry” by Billy Collins)

  23. LeNora

    Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
    Stanza 71

    The Moving Finger writes; and having writ.
    Moves on: Nor all your Piety and Wit
    Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
    Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
    The Moving Foot rides; and having rode,
    Runs on: Don’t think your seed and lime
    Shall provide strength or color for it’s growth,
    And none of my Gas shall be spilt on it.

  24. Helen Peterson

    We Were Very Tired

    We were very tired,
    We were very hungry
    We went through the drive thru
    Without a lot of money

    In the car we smelt the smell of the consignment shops
    We’d bought pants for the boys and for Sissy frilly tops

    We were very tired,
    We were very hungry
    We went through the drive thru
    Without a lot of money

    The windows were all rolled up, to keep out rain and wind
    The sound of Ella Elephant singing scat blasting from within

    We were very tired
    We were very hungry
    We went through the drive thru
    Without a lot of money

    The window girl cried Lord Bless You! For the nickels and the dimes
    As we asked for no ketchup, extra napkins half a dozen times.

  25. Lytton Bell

    On Hating Co-Workers

    O you, with your two hour lunches
    your seventh grade reading level, mean gossip
    your tendency to blame all your mistakes on me
    I don’t hold it against you

    After all, here we are
    Both of our lives, and our many disappointments
    have dumped us both on this doorstep
    kittens in a basket, mewling to survive

    Both tardy, unmotivated, both lacking “team spirit”
    squeezing numbers into spreadsheets in fonts too small to read
    faxing, e-mailing, phoning, texting our despair
    manacled to carpeted cubicles – a life sentence

    And always the same bitter coffee of discontent
    brewing in our back rooms

    We should be allies but can’t
    your layoff is my job security
    Your laziness, your poor attitude
    are my promotion and raise –

    perverse joy of finding typos in your memos
    sick intoxication of overhearing your boss tell you again how
    he expected more

  26. Jodi Adamson

    The Hopeful

    Once upon an evening dreary, while I pondered,weak and weary,
    Over many a confusing volume of political lore.
    A candidate came knocking, knocking, knocking on my front door.
    Some vile visitor pounding on my front door
    DOubtless, also, a bore.
    Ah, I remember it well nearing November:
    And the signs and banners draped over the stores.
    Eagerly I wished the end of my sorrow;vainly I has sought to borrow
    From my books a decrease of confusion-confusion about policies of yore.
    Democrat, Republican, Independent policies of yore.
    These and no more.
    And the slicked, slimy, squishing of each step of his body
    Riled me-filled me venom never felt before;
    So that now, to clear the red haze, I screamed
    "There is a vile visitor beating on my door
    SOme vile visitor berating my door;
    Go away and return nevermore.
    Alas, he knocked again; and not wanting to be committed to the looney bin,
    I invited him in and he took the floor.
    Not the least pleasant was he; not a minute stopped and introduced he;
    But with mein of weasel or rat, perched on my chair I don’t use any more
    Perched on the cat’s chair I don’t use anymore
    Perched, and sat and became a bore.
    This pompous hopeful’s beguiling had me inside my head smiling.
    "Vote for me, and I’ll promise world peace, and I’ll feed caviar to all the poor."
    Then upon thinking he said "The economy is sinking
    So cutting out all taxes is at my policy’s core.
    And, don’t worry about money because the Mint can print more.
    All Americans will have free breast and penile augmentations-evermore."
    Thus I sat engaged in fussing, but no syllable cussing
    This is it and nothing more.
    "Be that word our sign of parting, you fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting
    "Get thee back into the night and Mercury’s shore!
    Never return-evermore or I will kick your butt out the door!"

    (Original The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe)

    No politicians were hurt in the making of this poem.

  27. Cheryl Foreman

    Last Goods

    On sale for this century, the last goods of creation:
    Two strong doses of Reverence, now selling
    for one pound of flesh each.
    Obedience will be provided only for those
    with advance-purchased tickets,
    earned after five acts of unquestioning submission,
    witnessed by two pious souls.
    And Humility, previously available only to those
    possessing an unassuming nature yet now sold by the cup;
    one free with every two purchased. Bring your own cups
    and receive and extra cup, free.
    Final day sales mean no cash value will be given for returns.
    Goods that are partially used cannot be exchanged.
    Goods that remain in the state in which you received them
    may be exchanged for equal value of coming sale items—
    Impertinence, Greed, and Lust.

    (original poem: Last Gods by Galway Kinnell)

  28. Richard-Merlin Atwater

    The lighthouse lifts its
    massive masonry
    a pillar of fire by night
    of cloud by day

    H. W. Longfellow
    The "Bed and Breakfast" portrays its
    Victorian style
    a canopy bed to sleep in by evening
    with breakfast by morning

    R. M. Atwater

  29. Raven Zu

    Topside Sucks

    Fresh air, blue skies,
    wide open spaces,
    bright sunny days.
    Why there when you could have

    safe enclosed caves;
    no more air that zings in your nostrils,
    filled with funny smells.
    No more awful glare,
    home to a blissfully endless night.
    And no more eye-hurting blue ceiling!
    As for that soft grass underfoot?
    Ah, to feel only good solid rock underfoot.
    Can’t imagine why anyone would
    choose to live topside.

    The Original is Leaving Topside, a poem by Yr Ham about the sadness of finishing writing a novel about trolls.

  30. Jennifer Terry

    "The Officer"

    Once upon a crowded highway, while I tried to pass cars my way
    Around many a confused and angered drivers galore,
    While I drove, scarf a flapping, suddenly there was a zapping,
    As a radar cop set trapping, trapping my car to score.
    "I’ve been caught," I muttered, as my gas I began to floor
    then I weaved in and out once more.

    Oh, verrily I remember it was in the sweet September’
    as each new marching band member hung their uniform on the door.
    I hurridly changed the lane- though I knew the end had came
    As the lights flashed rather plain- plain for the county’s chore
    "If I get through this without a ticket- it will be a chore,
    I will not speed. No. Nevermore."

    As the siren came a blaring round each car abruptly veering
    Scared me- yet dared me to drive faster than ever before.
    So now this is a chase- that will end in great discrace.
    "I should pull over before my license is no more
    and I will not speed. No. Nevermore."

    Presently the cop had waited. Purposely he hesitated
    "Officer," said I, "It is your forgiveness I implore.
    You see I am late home from work, and I didn’t mean to be a jerk,
    when ’round the bend you did lurk, lurking for a car to score,
    I got so flustered and fled- if I’m home late I’ll be dead.
    That is why, and nothing more."

    Deep into my eyes flashlight jeering, long I sat there praying-fearing,
    pondering, thinking thoughts I’m sure humans thought before
    But the silence then was broken, as the officer started chokin’
    and the only phrase that was croaked out was, "Help please throat’s tore."
    Then he slumped down to the earth’s cold and hardened floor-
    as I threw open my car’s door.

    On the side of the road I knelt there pumping,
    as the cars hit the potholes bumping- keeping pace with the cardiac score.
    "Surely," said I, "Surely this is out of the ordinary.
    Let me call then fore assistance, for this man here,
    come quicly to help and take a medical gander
    before the man will be no more!"

    The ambulance was sent, ablazing, as the rubber-neckers by now were gazing,
    As the officer, was looked on with sadness as if he was poor.
    The paramedics sent me home, and of my ticket it will be never known;
    But, with the arrival of my presence, my children asked how my day was-
    Oh tell us how your long and tiring day was;
    I looked up and said, "It was a bore." I said this and nothing more.
    (But you and I know I will not speed. No. Nevermore.)

    By Jennifer M. Terry
    April 15, 2009

    * Dedicated to Edgar Allen Poe

  31. Odessa Simon

    Paper Plane (from Beverly Matherne’s "Paper Boat")

    It eases
    the boredom of
    Sunday morning service–
    my brothers and I, we
    meticulously fold
    the bulletins,
    and fly them
    in the parking lot
    after church.

  32. Cheryl Pearson

    Consorting with the Sick

    A hook of moon, and the sky is puckered
    like healing skin. You say you are not beautiful,
    but the stars crowd in to disagree,
    filling your eyes and your dry hair.

    This has nothing to do with clemency –
    I am pleased to report that you are quite the pretty thing,
    wearing your white skin with that air of sadness.

    If only you were not so disbelieving.

    * * * *

    Your hands shutter us out like blinds,
    and we call from behind them like puzzled doves.
    Your throat hurts. Your left wrist hurts. Your thumb.
    Love, there is always a reason
    behind every madness, there always is, and
    you must think of yourself only as precious.

    I need to confess a thousand things, love,
    but there is hardly time. And you only confess
    in your safe place, nowadays, your hair in your eyes
    and your knees marble-rolling.

    You are thin as glass.

    I say, ‘Listen, listen. It might be alright.’

    Perversely, you look ugly when you laugh.


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