April PAD Challenge: Day 19

I apologize for the problem some people were having yesterday with posting their poems. I think it is fixed now, because I was just able to successfully leave a comment on Day 18.

Perhaps appropriately, today’s prompt is to write an angry poem. That is, a poem about someone or something that gets angry. Could be a person, animal, or even them there angry clouds. As usual, I’m excited to see which unexpected directions y’all take with this prompt.

Here’s my attempt for the day:


He is always angry when he returns
from his father’s house. But I can’t say why
or if it’s just normal from taking turns.
He is always angry when he returns!
After a day, he loses his concerns
and is once again happy. Little guy,
he’s always so angry when he returns
from his father’s house, though I can’t say why.


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873 thoughts on “April PAD Challenge: Day 19

  1. Dione

    I match your bitterness with my own,
    hurling at you words drawn
    from the pit of the devil’s cauldron as you stand,
    equally armed with bellowing guns.

  2. JL Smither


    Eventually, the screwing has to stop.
    He’s no great Lorax,
    just trying to sell his house
    for as much money
    as possible. So what does he care
    if the estimate I got was that the tree
    had to come down months ago, today,
    that the ivy-covered branches
    could drop on my house any minute?
    So I have to be the tree’s greatest enemy,
    and write letters and consult lawyers
    and sit fuming in my angry little pot of frustration.

  3. Destiny B


    It arose hot and searing
    from a well held deep within
    her small chest.
    There are moments when
    She was content
    and in control
    but then her anger flared.
    Lashing out at those around her:
    family, loved ones and friends.
    Her anger was furious and unrelenting,
    control it she could not.
    It burned along the skin of those
    around her.
    She meant no harm, wished not one ill.
    They cared but couldn’t understand.
    Her anger was to hard to bear,
    the heat to hot to withstand.
    Little did they know, that this child’s anger
    stemmed from isolation, secrets and hidden despair.

  4. yolanda davis-overstreet

    Day 19

    Chaos of thoughts
    When anger enters the mix of emotions
    React, not I
    To the ‘bouts of this life
    And the battle of who will win
    Within my mind begins
    And I tell myself t walk along the sea waters
    Listen to my creator
    Waves, breeze, sun spread across the vast movement of peace
    And anger runs to find its shelter

  5. Kimiko Martinez


    He’s offended by words
    useless, futile, meaningless
    "I’m not hip to that," he says
    As if beat poets, beatniks, rappers’ beatboxing
    hasn’t influenced his own speech, thoughts, world
    The beat of his own heart

    He looks with comtempt
    snearing disdain creeping
    to the corner of his lips, his eyes
    He strokes his beard, restless,
    twitching hands aching to quiet
    this white woman’s words

    He sets his bag of groceries
    on the dirty black floor of the bus
    Complains to the driver,
    as if these poem-slinging visitors
    were invaders in his own home

    "He’s offended by our readings,"
    she says softly.
    I smile.
    "May I read another?"

    It lifts her spirits to express her soul this way,
    standing on a city bus while sneering,
    lip-smacking teenagers whisper loudly near the back

    She brings beauty to the bus
    But they don’t want to hear
    They like their cultureless void, frown at this uppity
    imposter speaking her version of truth
    into their dingy, dishwater reality

    "No, I’m not hip to that," he says

    This is my stop.

  6. Tom Smith


    I don’t know
    If it’s a personal vendetta
    Or not
    But these ants
    Keep marching
    In long angry lines
    Into my kitchen
    And Bathroom

  7. Elise Huneke Stone

    It’s not the subtle insults,
    the misunderstandings,
    the misinterpretations,
    the miscalculations,
    the misogyny,
    the miscellaneous wrongs
    and fights,
    the rewriting of history,
    the subjegation of mystery
    to your god-like logic,
    your stubbornness
    your unwillingness
    your self-righteousness
    or any specifics
    that bum me out.
    I’m angry at myself. I let you
    waste the most precious
    thing I have: my time.

  8. Lissa


    of his own moods
    pupils spiraling
    tail flared

    the sunflare
    of his double-yellow head
    umbrellas his anger
    shafts spread the spines
    of his feathers
    a barbed bumbershoot
    rising with his irritation

  9. Merddyn Aladar

    "The Usurper strikes"

    Worship not The Captain
    He does not deserve it
    He brings us knowledge
    But asks nothing in return

    What god makes that deal?
    He is just a mortal man
    And worse, he will not allow
    For others to worship us.

    But we are truly divine!
    We bring wealth to all!
    For we bring knowledge
    And that brings them all.

    Why should we not benefit?
    We give them so much
    Yet gain less in return.
    Why not the other way?

    So come, fellow Guardians!
    Take what’s rightfully ours.
    Let’s slay our weak Captain
    And be the gods we are!

  10. janflora

    AmAnda- that is heartbreaking…a mother’s worst fear…I will be praying for her…ironically I swear, i almost used the phrase "this god-awful mess" to describe my own home…please hug the mama for me, tell her we are all there w/ her.

  11. janflora

    "Angry Inner Monologue"

    Look what you’ve done
    now… What took you so long
    to start this poem?
    What made you think you could
    even do this? Who
    do you think you are?
    What makes you think
    you can write a novel,
    a story, a weblog…
    you cannot even
    balance a checkbook!
    Why bother, why try?
    Forget it! Give up!
    You have put yourself
    out so many times
    before and you can’t
    do anything right.
    Here you are now
    end of the line—
    end of my rope
    hanging by a thread.
    You can’t do anything—
    write, work, live,
    love, laugh…You
    mess everything up.
    Give up, do nothing—
    you’re good at that.

  12. Amanda Caldwell

    This poem is not about my child, but do pray for the poor mother it is about.

    I’m angry that babies die

    A gray-blue baby is wrong.
    It’s not fair to expect a mother
    to try to breathe life back into her newborn,
    to have found him (she thought, she hoped)
    asleep, but now not asleep,
    or too asleep,
    never waking again.
    And she thinks the older girls have left out
    their blue sparkly makeup,
    and that’s what’s made his face so wrong,
    so wrong.
    And she uses the CPR she learned
    for Girl Scout camp,
    when she half-paid attention,
    dreaming of crazy, lazy summer playtime,
    not pounding four-month-old ribs
    and inflating his lungs
    like a water raft.
    And she wonders if the EMTs will think
    she’s a bad mother
    when they see the mess of her bedroom,
    and the crumbs on the living room carpet,
    and her dead baby.
    But that’s only if they can find the phone,
    in this mess,
    in this mess,
    in this god-awful mess.
    Hurry and find the phone
    before it’s too late.
    It’s too late.

  13. Lynne

    Road Rage

    A nonymity released anger from its cage rolling down the freeway
    N oxious words and gestures gushed from shadowy confines of metal
    G uns jutted from windows cracked open that hot August afternoon
    E normity of what they were about to do took back seat to the
    R age that lunged out and in a brief angry second all was lost.

    Lynne Nelsen

  14. T.B. Bryceson

    Katrina and Joan

    She came in the dawn,
    Angry, pouring into the city
    Like an army
    Assailing its patron saint.

    She struck at the graft,
    The ineptitude,
    And laid bare the callous hearts
    For all to see.

    Her anger flooded neighborhoods,
    Silencing cries of racism
    With horrors floating, bloated, in the streets-
    All human.

    And through it all,
    The patron saint
    Raised her banner to the sky
    In bold defiance.

    Daring the waters
    To rise, to touch her,
    To encroach upon that
    Which she protected.

    And when she had chased
    The storm away,
    They found she had stood fast,
    And given no Quarter to the waters.

    Then the world stood silent and gaped,
    Awed under an incongruous blue sky,
    While Joan of Arc rode tall,
    Victorious beneath the golden sun.

    Copyright 2009 by T.B. Bryceson

  15. Ivy Merwine

    They say us redheads are short-tempered.
    The say that we blow our fuses over nothing.
    They say it’s the color of our hair that makes us hot-under-the-collar.
    They say, when choosing a wife, to avoid us redheads unless you like sleeping next to a pile of lit dynamite.

    Living life next to us redheads is the only way to go for you extremists.
    If you are interested in picking one of us redheads up, don’t go to the bar, go to the local anger management class.
    We pack in a full house every time.
    Nothing gets us angrier than people who stereotype us.

  16. Kripa Nidhi


    Everyone is angry. Palestinians are,
    ‘cos the world has taken away their lands
    and Israeli had fenced them out of the land
    not taken, if they aren’t already razed down.
    Israelis are angry ‘cos every Arab
    is trying to blow his or her life apart taking
    as many Jewish lives with them as they could.
    Taliban is angry the world isn’t Islamic enough
    – not even their own folks. Their folks are angry
    ‘cos Taliban is targeting their already
    battered lives and not the enemies.
    The left is angry that all the changes promised
    aren’t happening. The right is angry that
    the man in charge is shaking the enemy’s
    hands. The world is an angry place –
    split between those who want to kill, those
    being killed on one side and the rest,
    like us, who want to go on living
    despite who kills or is killed.

    -Kripa Nidhi

  17. Kathryn Hessler

    Getting Angry

    It’s a happening sometimes,
    The getting-angry.

    Then, I think, for me, it’s often, perhaps
    After a time, the search for getting-clear.

    To pause and check out what
    Needs, feelings, causes are for me.

    Or if it’s someone else angry and I’m not,
    I may have some fear, but look for calm.

    Then, hopefully, a pause, and we might go for
    The listening, talking, feeling, empathy all ‘round.

    And, if the anger doesn’t melt or wax understanding,
    It may come to the fear, sadness, or frustration.

    It’s a happening sometimes, either, both, or many,
    The getting-angry and the celebration.

  18. Amy Gunn


    After I hear about it, I kick myself inwardly;
    Never again will I bare my soul like I did.
    Grumbling, I try to concentrate on my work, and
    Realize I’m not really that angry after all, though
    Yesterday I thought I could never forgive.

  19. C. L. Banahan

    Still Angry

    If you had told the truth
    I would have sought a second opinion

    The second opinion would have told me
    You were at fault

    And I would have realized
    You were motivated
    By the money you were receiving
    Rather than the care you were providing.

    If you had told the truth
    I might still have my tooth
    But you would have lost a patient
    Either way

  20. Carrie Johns

    He leaps to his feet, nearly spilling his beer
    The wife at this side trying to steer
    Him away from his rant by hauling on his coat
    But he’s already opened his mouth and cleared his throat:


    He shakes his fist to prove his point
    And the wife is saying "Honey, don’t!"
    But the man opens his yap to bellow again
    And smacks his hands against the glass pane:


    His wife wins the war; her husband sits down
    She hits his arm and says, "Take off that frown!
    Do you really think you’ll ref better than he?
    You just yelled at the ref through the HD-TV!"


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