Before we get into the highlights: I’m going to be posting the Wednesday prompts here on the blog starting tomorrow. Let the good times roll!
Also, the community is buzzing along in the Poetic Asides forum at http://forum.writersdigest.com. It’s free and easy to sign up and start talking with your fellow poets.
As far as the highlights, we’re up to Day 17 now, which was to write a poem in the third person–with the subject open to whatever. The poems you wrote were great, great, GREAT!!!
They’re provided below.
She leans forward half off the couch
twisting the Wii remote,
using different muscles than when
she makes her bed or plays her flute.
AiAi or MeeMee or YanYan
roll across the screen
in plastic protective bubbles
racing across the dessert
or the jungle or a volcano
always to the rainbow-circled goal.
Yesterday she realized she was
steering the half-eaten pizza slice
in her hands while watching
someone else play the game.
“I should be able to beat this world
this afternoon,” she declares
as she powers down
and heads off to seventh grade.
Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net
Her pink platform sandles click
on the stone path as she rubs
legs shaved smooth for her lover’s
delight. She smiles to herself,
drives home through the summer
night while the man in the moon
hangs by a silver thread halfway
down the sky, Her lover
washes the sheets, then drifts down
to the bar for a last draft ale with
the guys who hang out on the corner.
The next day he buys a jeep,
dark green, detachable roof,
packs it full of bits of
a soon to be former life, then
leaves without saying goodbye.
Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com
They call him the ‘lurker’
He slinks door to door
His feet are so greasy
They slide ‘cross the floor
She tries to ignore him
To hint that she’s working
But he hangs like a vine
He keeps right on lurking
He looks out her window
He mindlessly yaks
He sneaks peaks at her chest
He touches her slacks
He’s hard to get rid of
He won’t go away
‘ oh please, let the phone ring,”
she silently prays.
There’s no easy way
To get rid of this jerk
Cuz it seems he gets paid
By the hour to ‘lurk.’
Carol -Amherst, Mass |cboudreauAT NOSPAMhampshire dot edu
In the Dairy Aisle
Some people long for what they can’t have,
but she feels a little guilty
because she doesn’t much want
what she can’t abide.
Tempting–so many delectable flavors.
She has tried them all, but not even
strawberry cheesecake or coconut cream pie
could entice her now.
It’s supposed to be good for digestion,
but something always holds her back–
that bite, the tang
of live and active cultures.
She admits it. She hates yogurt.
Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
Pride Don’t Pay the Rent
He leans to the left as he walks to the desk –
scoliosis, he tells the worker –
it bent his spine like a green twig.
Back in the day, he was a drummer,
did a lot of gigs in the Sixties, even
sat in with Miles once in the Village.
Played Newport in ’68, Montreux in ’72.
“You must be proud of all that,” the worker says.
“Pride don’t pay the rent,” he replies.
He still wears a beret, his striped shirt
is neat but faded. White stubble
dusts his dark chin. The worker
peppers him with questions,
then pushes some papers across the desk.
The jazzman signs them
with an arthritis-gnarled hand.
“It must be hard to ask for help,”
the worker says, trying to be sympathetic,
“after all you’ve done in your life.”
The jazzman stands, pushing himself
up on his cane, and says, “Yeah,
but the worst part is, I’ve lost the rhythm.”
Bruce Niedt |jackbugsAT NOSPAMcomcast dot net
Up Up and Away
He thought he was pushing her
The way she wanted to be pushed,
Sometimes going under the swing to give it
That extra umpphh–
So it was a complete surprise when she
Fell off, out, crying–Daddy why
Do you want to hurt me?
Lyn Sedwick |LASMD925AT NOSPAMaol dot com
She was surprised
When Orlando showed her his cast.
He told her that Monday
He’d been in a coma.
His father and he rode on motorbike,
Over the hood of a car.
Orlando swore he’d never ride again.
His father is still in the hospital.
After school, Rakeem tried to juggle apples,
He’d bite them and expel the juice.
Kaihla flipped them like flags,
Manipulating hands unbalanced.
The teacher allowed the two
A contest of push ups.
Each boosted arms,
Jutting up with breaths.
Something told her to speak in the third person
When describing Ulea,
The little girl who clamored protests
Constantly for little reason,
No girl could pierce her more.
She thought of them on the subway
When the old, blue-eye African man
Asked her if her school had tennis courts.
She wondered how her kids would thrive.
Bonnie MacAllister |bmacallisterAT NOSPAMearthlink dot net
The Reluctant Politician
He didn’t want to run for office
But he wanted to be elected
So he campaigned and he
Lost but he filed a protest
And paid for a re-count and
This time he won by eight votes
And he was sworn in
And the next week he resigned
From office because he said
He just wanted to prove
That he could win.
Alfred J Bruey |ajbrueyAT NOSPAMaol dot com
Unshod hooves thud and tamp
against the metal chute.
as the weight of the parasite
settles on his back. A violent
shift left, the weight lifts
then settles. Ears flap and
horns strike the bars of the
chute encasing him as he
shakes his head, angry now.
“Bzzzzzz,” and the barrier
disappears. Two tons of
Brahma bull shoots forward.
Tail swivels as he jackknifes.
His attempt to throw the felon
successful a mere five seconds
into the Angola Prison Rodeo.
A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com
The Wife or Sooner or Later
He couldn’t wrap his mind around
the idea that she was gone. The door
wasn’t opening, no matter how long
he stared at it. She wasn’t coming
home. He kept thinking that sooner
or later she would realize her mistake.
Sooner or later she would return, tell
him how sorry she was, then cook
his dinner. She would have to go to
the grocery store first. The cupboards
were nearly bare. And he’d sat in front
of the TV every night, listening to his
stomach growl. Sooner or later, she would
have to come back to take care of him.
Someone had to.
Sooner or later.
Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
The doorbell rings
just as the phone
starts to buzz
and the kids run
through the room,
voices shrieking on high.
The dog joins the chorus
and she shakes her head
as she watches the words
that were almost a poem
sail quietly out the window.
Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
THIRD PERSON POEM
She picked up her camera
walked out to the garden
photographed every flower
she could see.
Hours went by
light and shadows
she didn’t know the names of.
She felt the warmth
of the sun
through her shirt
and noticed pictures
in the clouds.
Then she returned
to the house
what she’d almost forgotten –
the opened bottles of pills
by her bed.
Maureen |sajwriter06AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com dot au
At the Boat Show
Fuzzy newspaper photograph
taped to her refrigerator.
They might be her nieces
or just two random girls
with their dad,
at a boat show.
From the blur, only the redhead
whose hair color caused so much
family confusion is visible.
The only recognizable feature.
Not the brother or sister,
uncle or niece for sure.
Tiffany B |tbullenAT NOSPAMgmail dot com
They were sitting on the shore
making castles in the sand
never seeing the two sharks
that had stopped by to play
a game of ‘chase the people from the water’
there was sadness in their eyes
as the people trampled by
crushing their dreamhouse
in their wake of fright
And the sharks swam away
with joy and glee
another beach day
Sarah |safbail_2writeAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com
Sitting in the parked car in the dark after turning off the engine, the rain hammering on the roof, she rolls down the window and smells cedar, woodsmoke, wet earth. She leans her head back and closes her eyes, seeing the six-point buck by the side of the road, his eyes just beginning to film over, the possum dragging it’s crushed back legs into the bushes, baring needle-sharp teeth in a grimace, a dead garter snake slowly turning itself inside out, the ladder of its spine laid bare by the steady work of slugs.
She wasn’t there when they put her father on life support, didn’t see him blackened and bloated, lungs breathing, heart beating but no longer there. She wasn’t present when they finally turned off the machines and stood around his bed in the silence, released. She doesn’t have the image all the rest of her family carries, staining their memories forever. She can see him now, on the deck of the Alaskan ferry, eyes squinting into the sun, binoculars around his neck, hat brim turned up, laughing.
Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com