April PAD Challenge: Day 7

Today’s prompt is to write a “ramble poem.” That is, I want you to write a poem where you just start rambling without worrying about where you’re headed. Very interesting things can happen in these poems. And don’t worry about the interesting things, because they tend to just happen if you let yourself ramble.

While these poems can often be wordy on the early drafts, they can produce wonderful final drafts after going through a few rounds of revision (remember May is my unofficial poem revision month). Ramble poems can be made interesting by somehow rambling off and then coming back to where you began AND by rambling from point A to point Z without tying anything up completely. Plus, they’re really fun to write.

In the spirit of the ramble poem and of not worrying about revision until next month, here are my words for today:

“Drinking liquids that are green and blue”

Has always appealed to me since my youth
so much that I’m surprised I never poisoned myself
making odd “scientific” concoctions with my brothers
with the chemicals hiding under our bathroom sink.
We thought we would raise the dead or find a cure
to something. Maybe our boredom. Like how,
as a teen, we’d drive around and loiter at parks
and outside the doughnut shop because we could
find nothing better to do at night. Full of energy
and ambition and the world was never going
to slow us down for nothing. At the all ages shows,
on the trails, in the air descending to the river below,
we knew we didn’t want to be our parents,
but beyond that we couldn’t see. And so there was
blue juice and Hi-C’s Ectoplasm drinks. And so
there was a reason to drink liquids that looked
like they might kill us because we wanted to prove
we were better and that we would live forever.
And so our children will want green and blue, too.

*****

I’m going to try and post up some of the first day’s highlights later today in a separate post. I’m so proud of the work everyone’s done up to this point. And now we’ve made it through our first week together.

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186 thoughts on “April PAD Challenge: Day 7

  1. Ian Phillips

    Valerie’s getting Old by Ian Phillips

    She’s getting old, that Valerie, she said.
    Had all her bits pulled up not long back
    Now bronchitis is eating her up
    It’ll just take one thing, then she’ll be gone.
    This badge of oldness we wear
    so forlornly, as we shuffle
    staring at our mortal coil.
    Why do we stop celebrating?
    Each day a cool breath on our skin
    The glow of sun through closed eyes
    Always returning us to the calm of womb.

  2. S.E. Ingraham

    upon reading over"As Seen Through My Telescope Lightly", realize the third line, rambling or not, should read:
    "And roars at an immense strange moon" – which makes a little more sense…
    Sharon Ingraham

  3. S.E. Ingraham

    For some reason I thought I had posted this ramble elsewhere but I don’t see it – one of the many banes of procrastination, I guess…

    As Seen Through My Telescope Lightly

    Morning cracks the green glass day
    Laced through with slender plum
    And roars in an immense strange mood
    Why are you here you spirit child
    Burning deeply, darkly perfect
    It’s my star’s time to turn a page
    And warm the sky with gold
    Do not whisper or storm in tongues
    And ask earth to relent
    For soft is she
    When after sleep
    Her dreams are full of you
    Sound your song, tell her “let go”
    Blow evening’s cold away
    Leave this planet have the sun
    Pronounce the dance is day

    S.E.Ingraham

  4. mjdills

    It’s such a beautiful day when I see the sun rise out the bathroom window and
    I look in the mirror and decide it’s time to maybe
    Try on a hat that I bought last spring and never wore but then
    No, no, no…I still don’t like it so
    That won’t work and I rummage through the shelves, and say to myself
    Maybe a cap, the same old cap.
    I go downstairs and feed the dog and wish I had time and energy to
    Go for a jog but I spent it all fiddling around so I
    Look for the keys and
    Stop
    Take a deep breath…..
    Stand in one place, straightening the rug with my toe and
    Think until I recall they are just where I dropped them last night and then I go outside and
    Start the car and listen to the hum of the engine and remember I should put water in the radiator today and add to the windshield washer and I
    Open the gates and know there is something missing but what IS it? snd
    Somehow remember it’s THE LIST so I unlock the door and search on my desk
    In the kitchen, back up the stairs to the bedroom and stop to
    Make a phone call, while the car sits outside running (bad for the environment) and
    Ask Auntie for her recipe because I am going to the store, if I can ever make it there and
    Did you know that carrots WILL make you see better?

  5. Laurie Kolp

    On and On

    I listen to her go on and on
    about one thing or another,
    and all I ever really hear
    is the talk about her mother.

    She gripes and begs,
    pulls me in,
    and tells me
    there is no other.

    Then she turns around
    to another face
    ranting and raving
    about her brother.

    Throwing her words around,
    she says nothing.
    But talks a lot,
    rambling to another.

  6. Lin Neiswender

    Never Knowing What to Say

    Never knowing what to say
    In those awkward little pauses
    Between "How’s the weather" and
    "So sorry your fern died"
    Always putting my foot
    Squarely in my mouth
    Socially inept in those situations
    But hey aren’t we all sometimes
    I beat myself up and think
    "What the hell did I just say?"
    "I didn’t mean it to come out that way"
    But like the genie that can’t be
    Stuffed back into the bottle
    The words take on a life of their own
    Escaping my mouth before I have time
    To think them out, frustrating and upsetting
    Me and my poor listeners,
    Words set loose on the universe
    That can’t be taken back
    What a weird power they have
    For something totally invisible and without form
    Capable of great good or great harm
    Or blowing away on the wind,
    Pointless and inane

  7. LindaTK

    Breathing Problems

    I can ramble on about anything
    No pauses except to breathe
    Take this winter for example
    Western Mountains of Maine
    Ski Country
    Snow
    More snow
    Piles and piles of snow
    My God, it never ends
    It’s April and there’s still a ton of snow
    I still need snowshoes
    I am so sick of snow
    Where is spring

  8. Cari

    I’m trying very hard to catch up!!

    I wonder why therapist’s offices play classical music.
    Is it supposed to make you feel calm? Because to me it is distracting. I can’t even read a book with it on.
    I haven’t read a book in a long time. I’ve been on the same page for about four months. I don’t even remember what it’s about.
    I barely can remember anything these days. Seems I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached. People say you forget things after you have a baby. I didn’t believe that until I had one. I HAD A BABY!
    He is the sweetest thing in the world. He is so strong and so happy too.
    My husband makes me pretty happy. We have been married almost two years. He is sweet too.
    Sweet! Yum, chocolate is sweet, although I prefer dark chocolate and that is bitter sweet. Can’t end my day until I’ve had chocolate…

  9. Karen Masteller

    Stacking the dishwasher is such a boring job.
    Just like all the other hamster-wheel jobs of a day…
    Making the bed, doing the laundry, dusting the furniture,
    Scrubbing the bathroom, vacuuming the carpets…
    Sailing on a Caribbean cruise, reading on the verandah, walking
    on the beach,
    Meeting Daniel Craig, shopping for the latest fashions…
    If only those were the hamster-wheel jobs of a day…
    But I guess if I did those every day, they would become routine
    too.
    I mean how many times can you meet Daniel Craig for a drink and
    small talk before you run out of things to say?
    It would be such a boring job.

  10. Vivienne Mackie

    #7 Rambling

    Rambling sounds like roaming
    The countryside
    At will. Not aimless,
    But with no particular destination in mind.
    Walking, just for the pleasure of walking.
    And as we stroll along, our minds
    Can ramble too.
    The more we walk,
    The freer our thoughts become,
    Flitting from one topic to another
    Like a butterfly flitting
    From flower to flower.
    Alight on this one,
    Stay for a while
    Then move on.
    Gathering nourishment from each one
    But needing to move on,
    Needing more.
    But, as the butterfly needs sunlight
    To power its wings,
    So too does our energy wane
    and we head for home.

  11. Lorien Vidal

    20-Year Reunion

    In the caverns of my mind I think of 20 years ago when I was working as a cashier and was stealing dollars from the drawer to pay for sodas and lunch at the counter. Fries with cheese, odds & ends; cheap, granny-bras that I dyed black and sewed with beads from the notions aisle, stretch-pants and press-board foot-lockers bought with my first paycheck, ever. Football games in the cold bleachers, sitting bored but loyal to our star quarterback; homey from the block I grew up on, part of a circle of familiarity linked to the little girl I was making ceramic pinch-pots at my father’s community center art-class. Photo paper swimming in developer, grabbing with plastic tongs and their rubber grips. Hanging with clothes-pins to dry out; as connected to these 20-years-laters as I am to any page in my yellow-edged yearbook. But I take pictures of them anyway.

  12. Tad Richards

    Temperature
    103
    I don’t know where I am
    or how I got here
    starting to

    hallucinate
    a childhood I never
    had a governess
    given to
    nude sunbathing

    on the promontory
    overlooking the
    universe
    she’s getting up
    shaking drops of water

    like a dog from her
    pubic fur
    each drop becomes
    a new version of her
    like the dragon’s teeth

    phalanx of
    naked nannies
    where are they taking me?
    powerless to re
    fever down

  13. Linda Hofke

    Just noticed that my poem above did not show up as typed. It was typed in the form of big fluffy clouds. All that work for nothing. Anyway, you’ll have to visualize.

  14. Linda Hofke

    You did say rambling, right? 🙂
    Since I can’t italicize, I have used dots to separate the 2 speakers. And I warn you, I was a nutty kid.

    A Visit with My Childhood Friend

    We never
    practiced that!
    ‘Now Linda will put a penny
    in her right ear and pull it out her
    left.’ What were you thinking?…Act of desperation. We
    were losing the crowd…It didn’t help…If you would have faked it better…Yes, Miss Cheaterpants. Remember how you cheated off of me. In kindergarten, of all places…You let me!…Okay, but remember dear Valevictorian, I gave you
    your start…But I got us A’s in fourth grade
    science…You’re right. That extra credit
    report was a great idea…How Clouds
    Form…Copied straight from the
    encyclopedia…She must
    have known…

    But it all turned out
    okay. Just like our summer talent
    show…Yeah, after singing The Candyman and throwing
    goodies out to the crowd, they’d forgotten the
    penny problem…You know what they say,
    as long as your singing…

    Oh, we were always good for
    a song. How many did we write?…Gosh, who
    knows, the Elvis song, Tina Lousie, and our personal
    favorite, Evil Knievel…Hey, I wrote that one…
    I took a little ride on my motorcycle,
    vroom, vroom, vroom, vroom, vroom…
    A classic! Sing on! Sing it
    loud!…HE RODE UP THE HILL…
    HE RODE DOWN THE HILL AND
    THEN HE TOOK A SPILL!…

    Were we
    weird or
    what?…Or how
    about the time…

    Our rambling
    words float
    around the room,
    big stratacumulus puffs
    drifting off into our past,
    taking us to
    cloud
    nine.

  15. Monica Martin

    Ramble Poem

    Her royal museness has graciously decided
    to spend some time with me these past couple
    of days as I slip into a new writing groove.
    Oh sure, there are sticky bits and
    stopping points, but so far everything seems
    to be working. Thanks to an author’s
    interview and this poem challenge that
    I started late, I’ve been on a creative wheel.
    I’m writing at work, in between customers
    with Amy Winehouse in the background.
    Maybe I’ll finish a novel. Or create
    enough short stories to have a book.
    Maybe after revision, I’ll have some
    publishable poems. I hope the muse
    sticks around for a while. I think it’s time
    to break for lunch.

  16. Barbara Malcolm

    Ramble

    Write a poem
    or a story
    maybe a novel
    birth it onto the page
    and watch it dry
    then flex its imperfect wings
    Critique groups bring
    perspective and reality
    generate rewrite after
    rewrite. I’m not very
    objective. I love all
    my writing just because
    I can.

  17. Connie Meng

    Nocturne

    The magic of sundown: my window’s
    metamorphosis into a two
    way mirror, the neighbors and I
    both only able to see
    myself. I must remember
    people are not half a world
    away if the difference between
    my time and theirs is less
    than six hours. What a joyful
    discovery: my friends
    are closer than I thought!
    Of all things
    that can be lost, the mind
    is the worst, but even it
    can return, a thin, scraggly
    puppy, burrs in its coat, finding
    a familiar doorstep in the dead
    of night, no neighbors left awake
    to witness the reconciliation, this
    minor miracle. I love the safety
    of shadows, the way they drape
    around me like a cloak
    settling on my shoulders, and the way
    the stars look brighter
    from an unlit country road, the buzz
    of silence. In India, a baby
    has been born with two
    faces, but no one’s answered
    my first question, which is whether
    she has two consciousnesses,
    whether the same brain
    sends words to both mouths.
    Sometimes my cat lays a paw
    on my arm, as if to say,
    /I’m nocturnal too; no need
    to envy the owl,/ and I reply
    "Mrrarrow," which means,
    /No need to be impatient.
    It’s still hours before my sister
    will pack her lunch and sneak you
    a bite of deli turkey./

    —–

    /These slashes/ are for italics, since HTML isn’t allowed in these comments.

  18. Nikki

    Push Me

    My aunt would take me to the park
    Not exactly a park, it was a playground
    at a local school. I loved to go, except
    on Saturdays because that’s when the tornado
    siren would go off and I hated that siren.
    My favorite to play on would be the swings.
    Auntie would pull me back really far and then
    push underneath me coming out the other end
    in front of my feet and I loved that because
    that way I could fly much higher than just
    pushing at a steady pace. Push me really high
    and then push me gradually to keep up the momentum.
    Any other way doesn’t work. My mom would push me
    the same way because she knew that is how I like to
    be pushed. Give me a big push and then push me a little
    bit more. I don’t like my legs to do all that much work.
    What fun is that? My little legs would tire out!

    As I got older, I would instruct my friends
    on the fine art of swing pushing so that they would
    push me correctly. No, don’t give small pushes. One big
    push and then if necessary you can give smaller pushes.
    There is no use of tiring us both out when there is a much
    simpler and faster way of getting me off the ground and
    swinging high into the sky. Now I am an adult and I still
    love to go on swings at the park. My husband doesn’t listen
    to me. He doesn’t understand the logic behind giving a big
    push from the start. He’d rather lazily push me, and push me, and push me until I get impatient and pump my legs to go higher.He tires me out. He exhausts me. Makes me do all the work.Makes me wonder if someone else could push me better.

  19. Nathan Everett

    Wringing out emotion

    When I was fifteen, I wanted to go on a date so bad I could taste it–
    that slightly metalic taste that makes your mouth water
    back by your molars–but no one would go out with me.
    Well, the truth is, I wasn’t even asking her (them) out;
    I was suggesting we meet at the game and go to the dance.
    "Sorry. My dad won’t let me date till I’m sixteen."
    In spite of the expression on her face, she wasn’t exactly rude.
    Sixteen was a magic number.
    I asked sixteen girls.
    I took refuge in writing poetry, and surrealistic short stories.
    Then I left that school and went to a new school where I was popular.
    I had a girlfriend for a while.
    I was class president.
    I went on dates.
    Until that spring of my sophomore year
    when the new-kid popularity had waned
    and everyone wanted things back they way they were
    before the city-kid came to the country.
    I had a big party.
    Invited a dozen guys to bring their dates,
    and then set about to find my own.
    I set a new record.
    And after four hours waiting for people to show up
    my two best friends came (after they’d dropped off their dates)
    and we did our best to go through all the food I’d put in–
    all the sodas, and chips, and hotdogs–
    to to play ping pong until the sun rose
    and Mom came down to make us breakfast
    (and breathe a sigh of relief that someone had shown up).
    I took refuge in writing poetry and longer–much longer–stories.
    Sometimes those girls played a pitiful part in the adventures of my hero.
    But I quit dating (or trying to date) girls from my school–
    just stopped asking them out–
    and started dating girls I knew from church
    who lived in the next town.
    And I set my limits–no more than three tries for Friday night dates,
    four for Saturdays.
    Now I go back for my 40th high school class reunion
    and I think "Who are all these old people?"
    and "Why did I ever want to date her?"
    and "Does she have any of her own teeth?"
    I only drag that fifteen-year-old geek’s wound out
    when I need to wring the heartstrings–
    usually to get a drip of emotion out to put in my poetry
    or an even longer story that I call a novel
    in which the bachelor hero finds love after fifty
    (maybe right before he dies).
    But mostly, the fifteen-year-old sleeps–
    you know teenagers–
    and doesn’t bother the happy, normal, satisfied me
    that I am.

  20. Maureen

    Ramble Poem

    I don’t remember having teddy bears
    when I was a child
    it’s a bit sad really
    I don’t even remember having dolls
    although I’m sure I must have
    but I do remember my fairy garden
    I loved my little friends
    I looked after them well
    giving them water and breadcrumbs
    and silver paper for mirrors
    so they could see how beautiful they are
    but I don’t remember teddy bears
    it’s funny though
    because now I have a collection
    and they look after me
    they fit perfectly into my arm and shoulder
    and give me a big bear hug
    just when I need it the most
    my grown up sons give me bear hugs too
    they had teddies when they were little
    they don’t now
    except for one son
    he has a Winnie the Pooh bear
    I gave it to him
    when his 11 year relationship fell apart
    Winnie the Pooh
    he’s got to be one of my favourits
    “Just be” says Winnie
    and I think of that nearly every day
    but I’m just rambling
    aren’t I?

    Maureen

  21. priya

    i don’t know why i have cold feet
    it’s not as if i’m unfaithful
    to things that i must do
    they get so icy and purple that
    i wonder if i have frostbite
    or some other strange disease only
    recognizable by lab scientists
    as a new type of genetic disorder or
    species of bacteria growing on my foot
    no doctor has said there’s anything wrong
    with me
    but i’ve never been too sure about that.

  22. Raven

    Walk

    Waving tail and bristling fur
    Looking up into the moonlit sky
    Wandering around
    Ranging far and wide
    I always come back
    Come back again
    And once upon a time
    There I was and there I am
    Lost in the thought
    Of the world again
    Sallying forth
    Eddying back
    Softly swimming with the current
    Now moving back
    Pressing against the stream
    Never really one to go with the flow
    Even as I get carried away
    Being sucked towards yet another stagnant pool
    Turning away
    Eyes shut against the savage grace
    In bourn in my nature
    Curling inside the small hole
    That I have carved here for myself
    My own special niche
    Locked inside the dwelling
    Carved by my father’s hands
    Drifting out the window
    Turning into sand

  23. A.C. Leming

    At 14 or 15, I can’t quite remember the age – Junior year,
    15 then – and still not sure how this whole boy-girl thing went. And vastly confused at the menage a quatre – the three
    on one tag team of friend, brother and cousin.

    She – to bring me into their fold, to get me drunk, to get me stoned so the other two (also raping her?) could vie for the honor of taking my alcohol soaked fruit. I chased the brother out of bed, the bed she usually slept in – drunk enough to let
    him take my t-shirt off then fumbled awake and grabbed his stones, telling him to

    get out! Out! OUT! Furious at being woken up, scared only after the fact, hung-over the next morning and wondering about my bad dreams. Only sleeping over again when he was away or when I safely slept on the pull-out couch with her. Then the
    cousin, the cousin, the high school drop-out, the boy who caught me just wrong and I

    froze, not lubricated that time, not loosened up enough to defend myself. Instead, this deer in the those headlights hesitated. Got run over. And still hasn’t recovered from the accident.

  24. Gail Sandonato

    In an early Autumn morning,
    in a room spare as a nun’s cell,
    I awake in an Irish manor
    and wonder at
    fluffy white sheep grazing
    in dew-flecked fields
    that pull my view north towards
    Athlone and my mother’s family home.
    I’ll drive there today and
    walk their streets,
    climb their castle walls,
    and maybe, feed small birds
    in ancient holy ruins.
    I might find something sacred
    or holy or even profane to
    welcome here to this green, lovely land.

  25. Jay Sizemore

    Grounded

    It’s dark. The shrieking voices of elated children
    have disappeared from outside my windows, along
    with the light. I slept the day away, nursing a hangover
    and a reluctance to move that gave me permission
    to be lazy. It is nice to not need anyone’s permission,
    other than a day off from work, and a cancellation of plans,
    to do what I want. I remember the days of being grounded,
    and not with nostalgia, memorizing the contents of my
    bedroom and reading every book I owned, finding shapes
    in the stucco in the ceiling and making up stories to fill
    the time, wondering if I should run away, or if escape
    is even possible from the prison of adolescence. It’s not.

  26. Maria Jacketti

    Ivory Tower Song)
    (To be sung in the key of excrement)

    I have made love to many campuses: yes,
    you could call me academically promiscuous.

    Still it is true that among sheep, those who make and
    take the skin, of o’er lustered accomplishment,
    or mass market knowledge,
    I am more pure cat.

    Some day I will ramble into the alchemist’s university,
    where Harry Potter and I will make some wicked fudge.
    Perhaps we will sell it to Willy Wonka and feed them world,
    something that makes learning beautiful again.
    Then I will hold class.

    Maria Jacketti
    Then I will be home.

    Maria Jacketti

  27. tim

    black beans, rice, lettuce with low fat dressing are a far cry from the hamburgers with bacon and chedder cheese and a messy sauce I no longer eat though i sometimes long for beef the memory of his death and the thought of anyone else going through that with me stops though someday even that may not be enough as i still come to grips with it all though i may never truly understand God’s will in it i at least know and understand where he is and am reminded by our beef-less life daily that he is no longer around to reconcile the years lost or the time unspent yet wasted even since then with petty differences or attempts unmade at fixing those broken holes in the writer’s heart instead forging forward with the reckless abandon that only pushes backward even upon those great moments of revalation where to reconcile within yet never outside as the time beckons for a bite of low fat dressing, lettuce, rice and black beans

  28. JL Smither

    Red Squirrels

    Last night I dreamed that a large red squirrel
    was living in a tree in my house.
    I’m pretty good with all sorts of rodents,
    especially squirrels,
    but this one was scary. More like the beady-eyed possums
    my dog would bark at and chase
    along the back fence all night.
    At the pet store, I got used to handling rodents
    by cleaning their cages everyday—mice,
    rats, hamsters, gerbils, ferrets, rabbits, guinea pigs,
    chinchillas—so years later when a friend called
    crying about a mouse in her apartment,
    I took care of it without a problem.
    Actually, I scooped it into a Tuperware
    and released it outside because I couldn’t bear
    to kill it. Not that there was any shortage of death
    at the pet store; we also sold a lot of snakes,
    which is why we had so many mice and rats.
    We kept newborn mice, ‘pinkies,’
    in the same freezer as our lunches.
    Plus, our manager knew a lot of reptile
    enthusiasts, so if we had a bunny grow into a rabbit
    unable to resist mounting his cage mates,
    he was sent off to the Bunny Farm,
    which is a pretty harsh punishment
    for simply holding up his end of a clichéd metaphor.
    We didn’t sell squirrels there, but I always
    liked them anyway, found them friendly
    and funny and sort of stupid,
    plus they’re everywhere. In London once,
    I paused my walk across Russell Square
    when a small brown squirrel crouched in my path.
    I didn’t have any food, but I bent down
    toward it as it inched closer.
    Of course, I didn’t realize my mistake
    until the thing had latched onto my jeans
    and crawled up to my knee.
    I shook him off and laughed, but my companion
    nearly fainted. Weeks later, she slipped on a waterfall
    in rural Ireland and we had to walk back five miles
    to our bed and breakfast singing The Bare Necessities
    so she wouldn’t realize she needed stitches immediately.
    I didn’t see many rodents in Ireland,
    but they don’t have snakes either.
    (Knowing that thorough Saint Patrick excommunicated
    both the snakes and snake fossils from Ireland
    is comforting when you’re chest-deep
    in brush on a former pete bog
    because you missed a turn somewhere).
    And even through squirrels are everywhere,
    they’re not all the same. In Florida,
    we only had grey squirrels
    so it wasn’t until I moved to DC
    that I found out black squirrels exist.
    In front of the Museum of Natural History once,
    I even saw an albino squirrel with red eyes,
    although it reminded me of the albino rat
    that escaped and scurried through the pet store
    for two weeks until we found it dead and deflated
    from eating so much rat poison.
    The squirrels I’ve seen in waking life
    aren’t too scary, but if they come
    naturally in white, black, brown, and grey,
    maybe big,
    red,
    possum-looking ones
    aren’t just a thing of my dreams.

  29. Lyn

    View From the Pavement

    Adrenalin Rush
    Anticipation makes me wake before the alarm
    For a thirty mile bike ride along Cherry Creek
    With respect to responsibility,
    I prepare the night’s meal in the slow cooker
    Helmet, sunscreen, sunglasses and a huge bottle of water
    Ready to ride,
    Wind from the southeast and a long gradual uphill
    Causes burning muscles and rapid breathing
    Break time at the halfway point
    Sitting on a bench in front of a tiny waterfall
    Figuring out a word puzzle
    Return trip, wind at my back
    Speeding along on the concrete
    My plan to spend the remaining part of the afternoon
    Reading an updated version of the Kama Sutra
    Early bed time, tired muscles
    My honey offers me a massage
    And all I can think of is the lotus position
    To stretch my legs

  30. Lauren Zuniga

    Ramble Poem-

    The verb I’m using the most lately is sing.
    It used to be warm.
    And my favorites continue to be fondle and finger.
    I’m always afraid that if someone were to really
    study my work. Like say 100 years from now,
    when they have run out of contemporary poets to study
    (because everything has become short text-speak)
    they will look and say,
    “Wow, she used the same 50 words over and over in different combinations.”
    But then I notice, as I have been reading a lot of other poet’s poetry for a change,
    that most people use about the same 50 words.
    Some people really only use about 20.
    I guess it’s like my closet. I have a ton of things in there.
    Pleather jackets and chiffon dresses, but I really only wear the same 5 things over and over. Humans don’t do well with too much variety. We need short quick over amplified choices. In our TV, our clothing, our words and I guess in our love as well.

  31. Rose Morand

    A large nest in a small tree
    Maybe a squirrel lives there
    But why so close to the ground?
    Maybe no one bothers to peek

    Living in a corporate area
    No curious kids
    Few random passers-by
    But lots of cars

    What happens when the squirrel dies?
    Does another occupy the nest?
    Or does it remain abandoned
    Keeping us wondering about the inhabitant

    Geese stop by to see what
    Winter has left in the grass
    Before flying off to
    Wherever they really live

  32. Susan M. Bell

    Cats, Cats Everywhere

    My house has turned into the neighborhood cat house.
    OK, that sounds bad. But that’s not what I meant. I
    have four cats living in my house. Four eight-year-old
    holy terrors that run around making my day, well,
    interesting. I love them like they are my children,
    the only ones I will have now. On my front porch
    several times a day is my neighbor’s cat, Tango. He
    sits at my window, tapping the glass, asking for another
    snack, which I gladly go outside and give him. Now,
    another cat has taken up residence with the neighbor’s
    boy on my porch. A cute little girl I call MuffinHead.
    She’s not very smart. Then again, I feed her every
    day, step outside to spend time watching her play.
    Who’s the smart one here?

  33. Sara Diane Doyle

    Rambling Weather

    I left the house without a jacket
    because the sun was strong and secure
    in the sky, but by the time I arrived
    at the store five minutes later, dark clouds
    shrouded the sun’s rays.

    While in line, the guy behind me mentioned rain
    and when I walked outside, graupel—
    flying sideways no less—
    pelted me as I rushed to my car.

    Another five minute ride to the restaurant
    and the tiny, soft pellets had given way
    to flakes of snow, rushing around,
    sticking here and there.

    By the time I finish my potato soup
    blue sky beckons me to come outside—
    but I will not be seduced—
    this is, after all, Colorado—
    where if you don’t like the weather,
    just wait five minutes!

  34. Lynn

    Mom and Dad

    Brought me home to the apartment
    on Myrtle Street in Erie, Pennsylvania
    on that June day when I was born.
    They were so happy back then.

    Nana and Kay were two elderly women
    who lived upstairs and would sit for me.
    I grew to love them like grandmothers.
    Then Mary died, my great-grandmother.
    Mom inherited her home on the other side of town.

    We moved and Nana and Kay were lost to me.
    I got a colicky baby brother instead.
    It took me a long time to get used to sharing…
    The same bedroom, the attention, and especially my parents.

    My Gram was great! She loved me very much.
    She called me ‘Precious.’ I was.
    I would stay with her on weekends.
    Those times were very special.
    She would make me home-made waffles and rootbeer floats.
    She made me feel like an important guest.

    It’s like Mister Rogers would tell me,
    ‘You are special, just because you’re you.’
    I always wanted to grow up and marry him.
    He lived in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
    We moved there at the end of second grade.
    I never did meet him before he died.

    I grew up and forgot that I was special.
    I married two men who were nothing like him.
    I have two daughters to my first husband.
    They are very precious to me.
    They didn’t care for Mister Rogers.
    They liked Barney instead.
    Somehow, I hope they got the message.
    They are SPECIAL!

  35. Jennifer Terry

    "GREEN"

    I am writing with a green pen.
    Green pens make me think of summer days
    with the soft grass between
    my stubby toes.
    Being Irish is a cause
    for loving green….
    but it’s not easy
    being green,
    or making any green for that matter-
    depressing thought-
    I think I’ll go find a blue pen.

  36. Jennifer Terry

    "GREEN"

    I am writing with a green pen.
    Green pens make me think of summer days
    with the soft grass between
    my stubby toes.
    Being Irish is a cause
    for loving green….
    but it’s not easy
    being green,
    or making any green for that matter-
    depressing thought-
    I think I’ll go find a blue pen.

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