April PAD Challenge: Day 9

Sorry for the late post today. I’ve had family visiting from Ohio the last few days, and they were all leaving this morning. So, you know, us Brewers can take our time saying our good-byes and getting things together and everything. 😉


For today’s prompt, I want you write a poem about a memory. The memory can be good or bad. The memory can be a blend of several memories. I suppose it could even be a memory that you’re not sure you remember correctly. Take your time finding a good one (or good ones).

Here’s my attempt for the day:

“Climbing Stone Mountain”

First, we found the park;
then, we found the parking lot.

Next, we caught the trail;
then, we caught our breath.

She was afraid to look in;
I was afraid to look out.

The wind was cold on top;
the sun was warm at the bottom.


You might also like:

  • No Related Posts

989 thoughts on “April PAD Challenge: Day 9

  1. Tori Grant Welhouse


    there’s a chime inside
    a fortune cookie tells the story
    a blessing is the necklace
    a gemstone is the navel
    the truth is: always a girl

    the music is pocket-sized
    her nose is a distraction
    gulping is a talent
    scratch the bruise
    he can’t believe: no

    the notes melt
    longing is marigolds
    quiver is his desire
    diverse is her fever
    the scent is: prodigal

    melody is under the skin
    the dance is tripping
    pulse is the oar
    she dreams of his neck
    he sneezes: her hair

    rhythm is two feet
    damp the crash cymbals
    he cups her round ass
    the circle completes
    she can see: the future

  2. JL Smither

    In Scotland

    There was a time I stood, arms
    extended, in the misting rain
    on a miniature cliff over the Valley
    of the Faeries, everything tiny
    below me, even the mini-bus,
    matchbox-sized to American eyes,
    looked appropriately giant
    next to these tiny hills and mountains
    and caves. People before me had arranged
    the nearby stones in a spiral and a star,
    each with some sort of mystical meaning
    I forget now. But at the time, I knew
    and believed and wanted to be a part
    of the mysticism of faeries and I stood,
    eyes closed and fleece soaking through,
    offering myself to the goddess or whoever
    was watching, and a sheep walked up
    and licked my friend’s hand.

  3. yolanda davis-overstreet

    Day 9

    Lost of Memories

    Stored in a biological mind chip
    Or maybe a neurological slip in the head
    I feel Brain dead
    Seconds, minutes, years lost
    Selfless, family less
    Laughter and sadness – strangely there is a numbness
    Of no memories

  4. K.E. Ogden

    K.E. Ogden
    April 9, 2009
    Prompt: A memory


    The white bowl is a painting set as my supper; cluster of softened,/
    pink and threaded ginger, clump of green noodle,/

    orange sesame sauce. I crave a beer. Across the table,/
    sitting all smiles, unaware of the halo above her head,/

    is my friend Sherilyn. I could rationalize her halo is sun coming through/
    the restaurant window behind her; I did put on sunglasses, but just /

    for a moment. This is her poem: the ripping apart of cheap, wooden /
    chopsticks; the pulling of each slippery, cold, spinach noodle up to the mouth./

    How she laughs, and me, too; each in our own turn, we laugh– forgetting lay-offs/
    and hospital stays; sitting here, on these wooden chairs, /

    eating cold noodle.

  5. LindaTK

    Day 9:
    A Memory (Free Verse)

    Labor Day, 1967
    School would start the next morning
    My lesson plans were ready
    I was excited
    New students
    New beginning
    The phone rang at noon
    It was my cousin – 200 miles away
    She had never called before
    “Your brother was killed this morning – motorcycle accident”
    Time stopped
    I couldn’t breathe
    Did I thank her for the call?
    I headed home

  6. Leonard Ng


    Decades now he’s looked
    into each aspect of futurity —
    sanity almost gone,
    a man falling, tumbling head-over-heels,
    battered almost beyond endurance,
    but still searching —
    groping through the years to find
    a memory of the future,
    the white thread drawn tightly through
    every ounce of time

  7. Lissa

    The pivot of their talks, a kaleidoscope
    subtle slide.
    She wants to pluck the jewels
    refracting from his words.
    Wishing she had met him sooner
    when the little boy
    with market ducklings
    shows through
    the strapping.
    The reverie
    drawn up
    surprises him, too,
    and he ducks his head
    at her delight.

  8. Linda H.


    She told us she suspected
    the neighbors downstairs
    were raiding the refrigerator
    while they she was out
    leaving in return a pile
    of chocolate treats.
    Se suspected he was
    seeing someone when
    she was playing cards,
    envisioned him with her
    walking the streets.
    But no one live beneath them,
    they had a rancher house,
    and no one had stolen any food
    except perhaps a little mouse.
    Soon we checked her into a home
    where she’d receive proper care,
    and when I think back on those
    last days when she was living there
    I need to laugh at the things she did,
    though at the time they were not funny,
    like walking around in her fur coat
    like a big, lost Easter bunny
    delivering a great surprise to
    the nurses she’d meet in the night
    for she had nothing on underneath,
    and the look in her eyes was not right.
    Where exactly she thought she was
    remains to us unknown,
    each day new faces and long-ago places,
    but yet in a world of her own.
    Alzheimer’s plays with one’s memory,
    reality becomes distorted,
    and one is helpless, trapped inside
    a mind that cannot be sorted.
    She lived a long life
    with many tales to tell,
    but of all the memories,
    I remember these last ones too well.

  9. Amanda Caldwell

    Your First Kiss

    I remember your letter,
    halting and unsure,
    worried you’d offended me by not taking advantage
    when you’d had the chance.
    A letter that said you needed to wait,
    to feel comfortable as a friend
    before you could feel comfortable as more.
    And I said all right, of course, that was fine.
    And that night,
    I found your tongue in my mouth
    and your arms squeezing me tight,
    and your body pressed to mine.
    You knew you didn’t have to.

  10. Kathryn Hessler

    Memories often don’t stay with me in the detail others have,
    But I do have them, memories.

    I would like to use this last poem I am writing for poetry month,
    In gratitude for the memories.

    The memories that are hard and the memories that are fun,
    Including these poem-memories.

    So, I soon may not remember details—each poem I wrote,
    But celebration-memories, I’ll hold.

  11. Ivy Merwine

    I stare at her gnarled hands and wrinkled face.
    Her eyes stare off into the distance at something only she can see.
    Her jaw works her mouth up and down as she babbles her new language.
    The language no one can speak; the only language left to her after the stroke.
    I’m sure she is talking to us of some memory she’s reliving.
    I stare at the woman who used to be my mother and wonder what memories remain inside her head.
    How many remain I wonder?
    Does she even remember me?
    The MRI only shows a picture of the damaged brain. It is unable to tell us what memories are intact.
    No answers to be had; if only I could speak her new language.

  12. Alyssa Watson

    Fair Time

    I swing my legs, too short to reach the ground
    Or maybe the bench is too high.
    Absorbed with eating the fluffy pink stuff
    My bright eyes search the crowd
    But I’m more interested in the sweetness
    Sweetness on my tongue.

  13. Claudia Marie Clemente

    **********************************************(correct version)****

    *amsterdam map (resistance museum)*

    in the bull’s eye of the old center,
    at the foot of the south church tower,
    my first real home –
    the kind with one’s own front door,
    and steep stairs leading – story to story –
    ending with rafters and a red-tiled roof –

    on the narrow zandstraat – not twenty meters long,
    punctuated by an elderly tree –
    its roots buckling street-tiles –
    periodically spared the axe
    by a damp petition tacked to bark-skin
    bleeding with the ink of neighbors’ names;

    i think of the day i first saw this street –
    the centerpiece of a nazi map
    plainly framed, fading pink,
    so thickly filled with red dots –
    each colored circle a multiple
    of jewish souls – no street was left;

    but the broker had told me – i was assured:
    the city had taken my building down,
    gutted and rebuilt it brick by brick,
    the house contains no memory

    of hyperventilation under black
    boots and floor boards;

    and now, today, turning toward my next house –
    the one i will also soon leave behind –
    i pass a gate, behind which throngs
    mill about tables festooned with streamers,
    and notice a recessed facade capped by a David star,
    so far from the street i’d never noticed

    a post-passover sabbath
    on this sunny morning – one of the first
    of its season, after the long dismal rains –
    and my heart wrenches (thinking only
    of my own desire to make fresh memories),
    for that vacant seat beside you at your seder table,

    the one that i, uninvited, so dearly wished to fill
    but is always meant for Elijah


  14. Tracy Chiles McGhee

    I Remember

    I remember us alone as you grew with
    such grace and purpose from moment to moment.

    I remember us alone as you began to explore
    your world with determination and wonder.

    I remember us alone as you added rhythm
    to movement and poetry to words.

    But most of all, I remember us playing together
    and oh what a beautiful memory that is.

  15. Joan Huffman

    Gaucho del Oro

    A Texan sculpture slouches
    lean-back casual on a rock,
    still as a snake.
    A curious guest reaches to touch…
    The rustler uncoils,
    revolver ready;
    relaxes into a wicked grin.
    The conventioneer shrieks.

    The maverick saunters away,
    spurs scraping on concrete,
    in sprayed-on snug Levis.
    His belt-hooked thumb swagger,
    a portrait of cowboy bravado
    in gold leaf and lame.

    The cowpoke surveys the landscape;
    ropes a couple of fine fillies,
    reels them in for a camera capture,
    air-brushed brow,
    rugged handsome,
    golden on the digital screen.

    The ladies whinny in delight
    and tuck folding money
    into his vest pocket.
    The mime tips his gilded hat,
    and disappears down the path,
    sun glinting off his spray-painted patina.

    Joan Huffman © 04/09/2009

  16. Stacey Cornwell


    Someone takes my hand
    And I hold tight
    I know who this is
    This familiar touch

    This is a dream I know
    For he’s been gone awhile
    But this feeling feel nice
    So I’ll play at guile

    A memory I think
    I vaguely remember
    They’re all so hazy now
    Even your face sometimes

    Memories are so important
    When they happen
    But so brief in our minds
    When we try to recall them

  17. scott Owens


    How is it possible I still remember
    the green shirt Frank Ellis wore
    the day he pushed me down on the playground
    in first grade and then, with Everett Jackson
    in his orange tee with a brown collar
    sitting on my back, proceeded to scoop
    handfuls of dirt in my mouth without
    remembering why Frank disliked me so?

    Was it that I was poor, and he
    was frightened by the mere proximity
    of such poverty, that Mrs. Olson
    liked me better than him, that I knew
    my alphabet, my left from right,
    could count to a hundred, and read
    stories he could only stare at?

    Did he really care that the shirt
    I wore, simple, pale blue oxford
    with a stiff collar, still too big
    for me, had once been his,
    taken from the poor box
    in Ms. McCabe’s office?

    I still remember Blake Elementary School,
    the color of bricks, playground,
    chain-link fence, children desperate
    for hope, a place given to easy wounds,
    this one the one thing I never remember.

  18. Lytton Bell

    Blue Camaro

    I spent the majority of English class wondering if
    you, with your soulful dark eyes, were ever going to talk to me, let alone kiss
    me; I tried everything I could think of: mini skirts, a green apple, eager
    for you to give me a ride home in your new car:
    the blue Camaro with a dent from the previous owner’s crash
    into a dumpster in a ShopRite parking lot, but first

    I had to make you notice me. And you did. You were the first
    and last boy who ever made me wonder if
    love was like that: a kind of high-speed skid and crash
    with destiny, a first sight, first kiss
    forever bond out by the creek in your blue car
    I was nervous, but more than that, I was eager

    And your attentions consumed me, with Jethro Tull in the tape player, your eager
    mouth, eager hands; we wanted forever, but first
    we had to survive high school – our days car-
    eening recklessly along the cliff’s edge, as if
    we were immortal, immune to death’s soft kiss
    an endless sugar high without the crash

    Four years later I was twenty when I heard about your crash
    I scoured the newspapers, eager
    for any description of how your Camaro had come to kiss
    a telephone pole at such high speed, you were the first
    loved one I had ever lost; my brain reeled with “what if’s”
    when the medics pulled a torn picture of me from the ruins of your blue car

    At your funeral in late winter, six pall bearers car-
    ried your glossy, black coffin to a hole in the ground, where it would crash
    with a dull thud into the dirt, and it didn’t matter if
    I still loved you or not, if I was sad or restless or eager
    to hear your voice, even a ghostly one, because first
    and foremost, you were gone. And I never got one last kiss

    I try to make sense of it all, to kiss
    the past on its way and move on, to soar into an open future instead of crash
    back down into memory and loss. But you never forget your first
    love, first death, first flight of identity as it car-
    twheels into oneness with a vaster universe, eager
    to be joined to something greater than the eternal “if”

    Meanwhile somewhere in the cosmos between eager first kisses
    and deadly car crashes is the life together we never had
    playing itself over and over like a favorite song

  19. R. SANTER

    On Riverside Drive

    no rivers but many sides, sad ravines
    in concrete cracks where ant carcasses
    pile up under our hot, magnifying glasses.
    Like globs of grape jelly, suburban

    cruelty is slippery and staining.
    Debbie the Tattler wears a welted shin
    delivered by my brother’s plastic bat
    and the toe of my oxford. He and I wear

    terrorism like pee in our pants grown cold.
    Retard Sally and her dachshund trot down
    our sidewalks, trailing a damp rope leash.
    Sally mutters to herself; our name grenades

    rebound off the dog ears of her movie star
    mag that she reads inches from those fat glasses.
    Other neighborhood Rejects lust after the valor
    stashed in our smartass clubhouse:

    cigarette butts, sticky cough syrup bottles,
    a dozen stripped and beheaded Barbies.
    They yearn to be at the feet of our TV,
    the first color console on the block.

    We pull drapes tight and dissolve measured
    bites of Lorna Doones in milk mugs; crumbs
    litter our Ouija board. Then it’s 3 am; we’re torn
    by the howling from the gut of Gay Tony

    home from his backstage job at the Burlieque.
    His wire terrier strangled right in the middle
    of Riverside Drive. Next weekend a headstone
    serves up tulips at the deepest end

    of his swimming pool. We jump
    his fence, scamper over mosaic tile
    and stare into the eyeballs of a marble
    angel who will lift her robe to chase us.

  20. Ellen McGrath Smith

    Memory: She Put Me in School

    itself —
    — she
    undid my
    shiny yellow
    the hooks
    on the walls
    were like
    the heads
    of snails.
    on the
    in the rain
    to this
    she took
    five steps.
    she was
    until lunch
    and the floors
    smelled of
    in the
    endgame —
    to tend
    the others
    while I
    sat at a
    like jambs,
    as the
    of the
    bell cast
    streams of
    our cheating
    racing little

  21. Tony Walker

    April 9th prompt: A memory
    “The hungry years”
    A face appears in the doorway and smiles
    It’s been a long night and his eyes hurt
    But the sleeping face pleases him
    The white pillow
    The brown hair
    The half exposed breast
    He walks to the window and looks out
    The sky is red
    Dawn has just come again
    In another apartment a toilet flushes
    In the next room his son turns with the sound
    He walks over and touches him on the head
    Watches him breathe
    He returns to the living room – only a few hours left
    He opens the sliding glass door
    Smells the sweet morning air
    Glances at the rose bush about to bear children
    Sits at his desk
    Murmurs softly to himself “life”

  22. lynn paden

    "you don’t know what you got"

    in the summer
    when it was the hottest
    i would go
    and climb
    my favourite tree

    it had two branches
    like arms
    that would reach out
    and support me

    then, there were three
    other branches
    i could just barely fit
    on top of

    i’d sit there
    all day long
    in the hot houston sun
    reading a judy bolton book
    drinking iced water
    from a jelly glass

    swinging one foot
    into oblivion
    praying for a breeze
    or a fire
    or rain
    or anything
    to stop the
    incredible boredom
    that came
    with the wonder years

    not knowing
    that there was freedom
    in just sitting
    and thinking
    and imagining
    in the stillness of day

    it all seems so far away

  23. Julie Peters


    There are some things i’d rather not remember.

    My mind plays this useful trick on me,
    it has a user-friendly function built into the wires
    it loses chunks of life that i’d be better off without,
    completely blanking whole days and leaving intact
    what’s more portable, easier to carry.
    I wonder why it leaves me with some days and not others.

    In Grade 2, a girl in my class invited everyone to her birthday party
    except for me.
    I cried for hours at home, devastated.
    I do not remember this.

    But I remember the girl, Eugenia, and the friend we fought over.
    Sweet Diana, strawberry blonde, pudgy and portuguese,
    she was our favourite and we did not want to share her.
    I would eat Count Chocula at her house away from
    my mother’s kitchen rules, and I wanted her all to myself.

    When I was 11, my best friend Janelle would send hate letters to me through her other friends
    would not let me play with other girls,
    sent me home crying every day for months.
    I do not remember this.

    I remember eating candy with her and watching 18A movies on her
    sweaty black leather couch
    her beautiful filipina mother with straight black hair
    and how different it was from Janelle’s coarse afro in its tight woven braids.

    When I was 21, I was forced against a locked bathroom door by a boyfriend I remember well,
    who still writes me letters, wishes those fractured days back together.
    I do not remember this.

    I remember the boyfriend, other times,
    crying after the first time, in his bedroom, i didn’t really want to,
    I told him it was emotion but I knew it was more like fear, more like loss.
    I remember him telling me to stay still on his back patio,
    in the steam of a hot summer night in Scarborough
    and brushing a spider away from my hair before I knew it was there
    he knew i was afraid of spiders.

    I remember another boyfriend, everything about him
    every moment of love and anxious intimacy
    hours on the phone drawing hearts into my palms
    and kissing almost too hard against each other
    on a blanket on the beach under a tree in sprinkling rain in August,
    the only place we had to go

    I remember, well, too, the bone-crushing pain of his humiliations
    the precise moment when his cruelty broke my heart
    like a crushed plum in my chest, in bed with him
    his abandonment leaving me with years of suppressed keening,
    these memories make me choke when i think about intimacy again,
    that crushed plum got juice in the wires
    and I am afraid now, to ever let it grow a fragile skin like that again.
    And i can remember all this,
    but other days are lost to oblivion,
    I would have liked to have been protected from these memories.

    I do leave clues, though, a paper trail, word of mouth, a whisper here and there
    these things happened.
    The valiant efforts of my selective memory cannot protect me from everything.
    My mother tells me stories of these childhood girlfriends
    their terrorist tactics and how I held on, only wanting a best friend.
    She was there, too, trying to comfort me, trying to make me eat,
    but eating was disgusting, it hurt me, I refused to do it.
    I wrote letters to myself, found evidence of the abuses I don’t remember
    in a file I had kept, as if knowing in advance
    my memory would betray me
    and wanting to be sure, somehow,
    I would have this on the record.

    I wonder why I am left with some days and not others.
    How does the blindness work, how can I trip the wires myself?
    More terrifying than all of these is the memories that were never recovered.

    I wonder sometimes about my dreams at night
    that they are trying to tell me something
    making up for the elephant memories of my mother
    or old files of letters and poetry
    i forgot i’d had.

    I am afraid to look too close.

    I only wonder why I am left with some days and not others.

  24. ann Privateer

    The Ninth Degree Memory

    At my cousin’s house, hanging out
    with children under ten, my mother’s
    vase triggers childhood when I would
    open our front door wide to place
    an elephant doorstop along its side
    and capture breeze. It was made
    of heavy copper colored metal
    with white tusks and made me think
    we were Republicans but I was told,
    not so. Where are those rounded
    haunches, hefty ears, thin tail, and
    turned up trunk today, gone
    to Dante’s Ninth Circle, hell’s
    melting pot where all things recyclable
    converge? I want my elephant back.

    sorry if this is a duplicate but was told I entered this one incorrectly, AP

  25. Michael Roy

    “The Pond”

    Parking the car in front of a pond
    My wife and I reminisce of places we have been
    and talk about dreams yet to come
    Pond so serene with a fountain humming a song
    Ducks swimming, playing or just laying around
    Leaving the driveway hoping for the best
    For Sale sign lets us know our dreams may be real

    Looking at the pond we reflect on those days
    Where we dreamt what we hope would happen
    The pond greets us each day
    With birds dancing throughout the day
    humming fountain chases our stress away.
    For now we are home and here to stay

  26. Carrie Johns

    A pig at a farm chased my sister
    When she was about four years old
    And as she grew, so did the pig
    And the way that this story is told.
    Older grew my sister; meaner grew the pig;
    It squealed louder and started baring teeth.
    The mud grew thicker, then sis got stuck
    And was trampled beneath piggy feet.
    In reality the pig barely moved
    And didn’t even brush her at all
    And I think that despite the description she gives
    It wasn’t even that tall.
    I remember the day that my sister
    Was chased by a pig, but you see
    If her memory of this event was altered
    By time, then it could happen to me!

  27. N.K. Pranger


    a capacity to
    hold on and
    obscure television theme songs
    every wrong thing you ever said
    or did
    numbers, birthdays, high school class schedules
    visions, experiences, smells
    details in a story, but not the plot
    some I hold close
    others, unwelcome, I cannot forget
    a well-spring of intelligence
    drowned by the obscure
    but what remains
    is a collection
    that makes me

  28. Carol Berger


    He was the only one who ever wrote a poem for me.
    I have it still, framed and hanging on my wall,
    a reminder of my college days, when my whole life
    was still ahead of me, and I was mad about
    the part-Cherokee young man with chocolate brown hair
    and chocolate brown eyes, who was my friend and lover.

    We met in creative writing class. He was a freshman,
    and I was a junior, but that didn’t matter.
    There was chemistry there, and even now,
    thinking of him, the longing is still there,
    the wish that things had turned out differently.
    It doesn’t matter why or how it ended, just that it did.

    He wrote brilliant science fiction and amazing poetry.
    He was something of a romantic,
    making candles to decorate his frat room
    and covering the walls with his poems,
    written on different colored pieces of construction paper,
    each piece torn around the edges, rather than cut.

    I remember making love in his frat room
    in a single bed. Of all the men I’ve known,
    he is the one who made me feel the most loved,
    even though I knew he didn’t love me.
    He was open and honest in his loving,
    giving and affectionate, wanting to please.

    He was in my life off and on for two years
    until circumstances took us different directions.
    I have never forgotten him saying to me,
    “Your problem is that you don’t know how
    to enjoy the journey. You just want to get there.”
    I think he knew me better than myself.

    Since then, I’d wondered many times
    if he became the writer that I thought he’d be.
    Occasionally I tried to find where he was at,
    but met with no success, until one day
    a couple years ago, I googled his name
    one more time and found a fresh obituary.

    It took my breath away to realize
    that he was truly gone at only 53,
    that my memories, which seemed so fresh,
    had been aging for more than thirty years .
    I knew nothing of the time that intervened
    between our parting and his death.

    His obituary was a mere outline of his life
    that raised more questions than it answered.
    But what would I write to a grieving wife
    that I had never known?
    Your husband was my lover in college,
    and I never forgotten him?

    No, it was not my place to ask,
    to tell her things she might not want to know.
    My place in his life was long ago.
    I wonder if he ever thought of me
    with sorrow and regret and wondered
    where I’d gone and what I’d done.

    Sometimes now he haunts me in my dreams,
    and then is now, and we are both still young,
    Awakening from my dream alone, I realize
    it’s just a memory. Much as I wish I could,
    I cannot change the past, and the only man
    who ever wrote me a poem is gone.

  29. Erin Sway

    A dark memory

    I open the door
    There is a yawning, dark cavern in front of me
    This is my first time, my first voyage into this unknown place
    I’m a big girl, and I’m on a quest
    Maybe there are monsters waiting to eat me
    Maybe the stairs have disappeared and I will plunge into the void
    where maybe a dragon lays curled up
    Waiting to burn me and roast me for its Draconian dinner
    My foot hovers at the opening
    and I gingerly put it down:
    Solid contact is made
    Ok, the stairs are there, but maybe there is a troll hiding underneath,
    Like those grumpy goats in my bedtime stories
    I cautiously sniff the musty air
    It doesn’t smell trollish
    No grunting or scratching eminates from the darkness
    One more step, then two…
    Is it haunted down here?
    Are there translucent phantoms waiting to frighten me,
    to set me quaking in my Velcro sneakers?
    I swat the air involuntarily
    Removing the shadowy cobwebs from my vivid imagination
    It must be safe
    Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t have let me venture down if it wasn’t
    Unless the wicked witch cast a spell on them
    and she’s waiting to turn me into a frog.
    My hand brushes a bump on the wall
    Quickly I flip it upwards and see
    the basement.
    I told Mom and Dad big girls aren’t afraid of the dark.

  30. Cheryl Foreman

    Swaddled in love,
    hands and feet tucked
    close to my body
    which touches her breast:
    ear pressed close,
    listening to the heartbeat
    that helped to create mine.
    heart, lungs, pulse,
    Life quietly vibrant,
    this is the way
    it will always be.

  31. Dr. Jeanne Hounshell


    My Ken
    So long as I live
    That moment
    six years ago today
    when you said,
    “Do you remember Ken”
    Will sing in my heart.

    That moment
    My life soared
    Into a new orbit
    My heart belonged to you
    And I knew
    I’d just become
    The luckiest person alive.

    That moment
    Is precious to me
    Beyond words.

    For somehow
    Deep in my heart
    I knew

    You, My Ken
    Were back in my life
    And our lives
    Were about to become whole.

    These six years have brought
    More love than I’d thought possible
    More laughter than I’d ever known
    More joy than I’d ever lived.

    You are the man
    Who holds my heart

    The man
    I admire more than
    You’ll ever know

    The man
    I am proud to call
    My husband

    My dearly beloved husband,

    Ken, I love you
    Forever and ever.

  32. Kelli Russell Agodon

    Finding a Dead Rabbit on Good Friday

    Because we believed
    the Lord had created
    the Easter Bunny, now dead,
    in the street, we found a box
    to place it in, white
    fur, hard from the blood, face
    peaceful, a sleeping
    rabbit we’d said, if it wasn’t
    for the gash in its side,
    the broken legs.
    We buried it
    next to the freeway,
    made a cross of rocks in the earth
    above it, to mark
    its place, one spotted
    shell we had found
    set in the center.
    Later, when we returned
    to bring flowers to the grave,
    the shell was moved
    from center to side. Not me,
    we said as we accused the other,
    then decided to believe, like Jesus,
    the Easter Bunny had risen,
    the stone pushed from the tomb,
    now a shell, another God
    had died and kept the tradition.

  33. Jodi Adamson

    Happy Memory

    A happy childhood memory
    Of a family during a summer’s eve
    Delighting in chocolate ice cream on their faces,
    Turns out to be,
    A distorted construct of a rose colored mind,
    Blocking out the arguing and the yelling.

  34. Raven Zu

    Memory poem

    The importance of friends

    Despair had set in.
    The chaos was complete.
    Any hope of order long gone.
    Enter Thea.
    Quiet persistence prevails.
    Deciding, culling, disposing.
    Two large boxes later
    Spaces on shelves
    Hope rises new

  35. Cami

    Southwest Journey to Elko and Back

    Winter’s landscape freckled with snow
    I watch the dream world of grey colors scheming
    Painting me Salt Lake City tabernacles
    I photograph a statue and light posts
    Black and white landscape view
    Breathing the desolation of isolation
    Closed city Sunday
    We drive for miles across salmon colored lands
    See the Great Salt Lake coughing up salinity to its rough shores

    I close my eyes knowing that the yellow paint on asphalt
    Will remain weaving between the potholes and carcasses of sorrow
    Highway to Elko
    I fall my body into the palm of snow
    Dance my form into a haloeless angel
    Smile at 17 inches of white water frozen into unique designs
    Intricacy decorating my hair as I walk through the cold in smiles

    On the radio flooding guitar waves filter
    Through fm stations
    The skanky lights of Vegas nauseate me
    I turn the volume higher
    As neon signs blink the bad breathe of consumption
    Muscles in my face tense at the bleeding abuses
    Of fake cities birthed in disharmony with the land
    Billboards flash broad, sub-par-celebrity smiles

    We stand at Hoover dam in awe of heights
    And the stiff sturdiness of concrete stretched between the brown soil
    Shows the strength of human hands
    The red white and blue colors wave across the crowded lands
    Human joy and suffering drenched into the earth with time
    Fading with the setting suns
    Settling into the Western plains, the quiet, the stretching expanse of land
    Sewn with the rugged stitches of endless roads.

  36. Nilo G. Simogan

    Go and Bear Fruits That Will Remain

    A gathering of faithful from all walks of life,
    up in the stage standing still…
    a heavenly voice fills the air,
    a sweet lullaby…
    She’s blind, yet her voice seems so powerful,
    that makes everyone see…
    Teardrops fell from one’s eyes,
    a God’s sent sigh…

    The message of God is clear:
    When HE closes the door,
    HE opens the window.
    When HE breaks you,
    HE will remake you.

    She’s a captive, yet her testimonies can break
    every lock..every door..
    She went astray but now she’s back
    carrying the victor’s cup…

    The message of God is awesome:
    every single sheep who losts from the line is far more important…
    every prodigal son who have gone afar is far more valuable…
    HE loves no matter what.

    He’s a rebel, yet he rose from the rank
    with his gun lying on the ground…
    a wounded heart.
    a hungry soul.
    a fist, a bended knee before God
    begging for mercy…

    The message of God is loud:
    HE humbles the proud.
    HE gives mercy to those who profess forgiveness.
    HE heals the sick.
    HE comforts the weary.

    Above all, God scattered them in every part of the world…
    …to become witnessess
    …to bear fruits
    …to remain until the end

  37. Sonia L. Russell

    Your Touch

    I was lonely, yet not at all alone
    There were people there though I knew them not
    One was the man who I married, called my husband
    But he was thin air, a mere wisp of a thought, has been
    Such a shame, I thought till death us do part, it had been a while
    I’d forgotten how it felt to be held
    Till death us do part, well, he’s not dead, nor am I
    Yet we were apart and I was lonely in the same space
    And then something remarkable happened, just in time
    I was drowning in silence and thickness and total utter despair
    And then I was saved; the memory of it so clear like it was yesterday
    You floated by like the wind, all scented and colorful, and you touched me

  38. Maureen Hurley

    Family Reunion

    I awoke in chambered cairns of memory.
    Perhaps I was dreaming in French
    or my dead mother coming to visit,
    as if fresh from the bath
    all turban-toweled, with a Matisse
    glide, dancers against a blue wall,
    she opened a door down a long hall,
    and disappeared from view.
    I willed her back to finish the sequence
    but the dream didn’t cooperate.
    It was done with me.
    Was she come to claim me,
    her firstborn, to join her second son,
    or was she just passing through?

  39. Maureen Hurley

    Darrell DeVore, the Music Man

    Darrell DeVore, the Music Man,
    dressed in homespun vest and knitted cap
    of greys and blues verging on turquoise,
    shot through with violet and hunter’s green,
    was like a tall heron or an exotic species of crane,
    with his tribal sack covered in strange signs
    filled with bamboo flutes slung on his back,
    said he was hunting the elusive rare notes
    and wave forms on country backroads,
    and so he walked everywhere, listening.
    The wind was his aeolean harp,
    his orchestral score, his latest critic.