• 101
    Best Websites
    for Writers

    Subscribe to our FREE email newsletter and get the 101 Best Websites for Writers download.

  • Poetic Asides

November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 17

Categories: November PAD Chapbook Challenge, Personal Updates, Poetry Prompts.

Wow! Are we really 17 days into this challenge? It just doesn’t seem possible that time would be moving so fast, but I guess it’s been so much fun that the time has been flying. Again, wow.


Today’s prompt is to write a love poem. This may or may not gel with some poets’ themes, though I’m sure if you bend the rules enough, anything is possible. Your poem can be pro-love, anti-love, confused-love, love-it-or-leave-it, etc. Your poem, your rules.


(Btw, I think it’s so appropriate that today just happens to be the love poem prompt, because I totally love my awesome wife, who posted my prompts for me the past two days while I was without Internet access, not to mention setting my fantasy football lineup as well. So, Tammy, you da bomb!)


Here’s my monster-themed attempt for the day:


“M.M. loves L.S.”


She stops by my house,
so I follow her to school,
watch her walk around town,
but when we’re alone,
I freeze up,
can’t talk,
only stare,
which usually freaks her out,
of course,
and then,
at night,
I get so confused,
so,
of course,
I kill her friends,
to help set the mood,
but she’s not into that,
apparently,
and she stabs me in the face,
so I play dead,
then,
I come back,
get shot out of a window,
and disappear,
hope for a sequel.


 

You might also like:

  • No Related Posts
  • Print Circulation Form

    Did you love this article? Subscribe Today & Save 58%

About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

81 Responses to November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 17

  1. Lynne says:

    Radiant, love-fresh,
    her wedding morning.
    Bees hum nearby as
    she gathers flowers to
    grace her shimmering hair.

    She well-nigh floats in
    verdant meadow dotted with
    wildflowers, the essence
    of nature in exquisite
    sunshine yellow gown,
    garland of dandelions
    woven sweetly through
    her tresses.

    She crosses a bubbly brook
    feels unity in nature
    puts her hand in the hand of
    her love, life is magnificent.

  2. Kate Berne Miller says:

    After Desire

    Sometimes music feels just like lust-
    a new song, a certain arrangement of chords,
    the right tempo. I get chills, the notes fizz in my chest,
    pop like rising champagne bubbles, I’m dizzy
    with pleasure the way I felt the last time I
    was in love, I play the riff over and over,
    my ears burning, my
    body dancing.

    Kate Berne Miller

  3. Kathy Kehrli says:

    XVII. I Corinthians 13:4–8 Through the Light of a Living Will

    If the situation should arise in which there is no reasonable expectation of my recovery … I request that I be allowed to die …. I hope you, who care for me, will feel morally … bound to follow this mandate.

    Love is mortal; love is brief.
    It does not waver; it ignores grief.
    It is not selfish; it’s not self-seeking.
    It allows the dying to do the speaking.
    Love does not follow its own desires,
    But assumes another’s when chances grow dire.
    It always obeys, always lets go.
    When asked the insufferable, love never says no.

  4. Penny Henderson says:

    day #17 love poem

    Out of nowhere,
    like a skid of rocks
    dropped by a crane,
    or sneaking in
    around your fences
    like an invasive weed,
    love won’t play
    by the rules–
    jumps and kings itself

  5. Tyger says:

    Women

    They fainted when Elvis sang
    silly young girls with
    unrequited sexual hunger
    And with the Beatles
    same thing
    But then it happened at Obama Rallies
    solid, hard working
    grown women
    with both feet planted
    on level ground
    Nothing creepy, just
    Minds overwhelmed
    by too much heart
    And then it even got to
    silly old me
    And when I see his solemn
    handsome face
    on all the networks
    I feel as though I know him
    and my heart goes
    pitty-pat

  6. Peggy Goetz says:

    Hard for me to come up with a new angle on love, but here is what I came up with, the incidents taken from news stories of the past.

    Love is Strange

    I loved him so much
    said the father of the boy
    with melted face,
    I couldn’t let her
    have him, his mother
    So I planned we’d
    Die together in a blaze
    of father’s love. But
    when I’d set him aflame
    I couldn’t do it so
    I put it out. He lived
    ninety-five percent
    third degree burns.
    Prison life is hell
    but still I love him.
    Love is strange

    He was going to take
    them back to his mother
    said the woman sobbing
    cold soaked from the sea
    I carried them in, my babies
    I couldn’t swim we sank
    Just past the waves. In terror
    They held me, soon
    They were still, but I kept
    Popping to the surface. I
    Couldn’t swim but I can
    But now I know I can float,
    so cold I couldn’t think
    so I saved myself.
    I have failed.
    Love is strange.

  7. Iris Deurmyer says:

    Enticing

    Mesmerized by your beauty
    Tantalized with your fragrance
    You cast your spell upon me
    while I listen to your melody

    I feel your gentle caresses
    As you embrace me in your waves
    No body is as breathtaking
    As a body of water in repose.

  8. Jolanta Laurinaitis says:

    Unconditional love

    She sighs
    Blooming white petals
    Shiver and float
    To her body broken
    Her eye tears
    As she imagines
    Her unconditional love
    For her murderers

  9. Mary K says:

    This poem is written to my almost-year-old granddaughter who I am not caretaking during the day….one of the reasons I am late with this poem!

    Love To Mya

    I love you, Mya, in all of your innocence,
    unexpected child, but welcomed into the world.
    You smile and laugh, delight in your surroundings.
    Your eyes eagerly explore, and your legs are
    almost ready to propel you across the room.
    But this moment you sleep soundly, warm in your blankets,
    no fears of tomorrow, no memory of the past,
    alive in the present, relaxed, trusting your world.
    Happy birthday, Mya. May your world always be
    as warm and nurturing for you as it is today.

    (In honor of Mya’s first birthday, November 26!)

  10. Stunning poetry this month, everyone. Rachel, I love your love poem.

    Auguste Renoir, French (1841-1919)
    The Vineyards at Cagnes, 1906

    In Love

    Wavy trees frame the garden
    and the house whispers security
    from a distance.
    Bright reds, greens, and blues
    contrast merrily.

    The woman reminds me of myself.
    She sits and leans against the right-hand tree,
    faces the left.
    She wears a blue, wide-brimmed hat,
    white flowers at the front.
    Bold apparel for her,
    a tomato-red blouse
    and royal-blue skirt
    splashed with red.

    Reading, writing, or sketching
    absorbs her.
    All around her swirls life
    and movement,
    as if a cool breeze ruffles
    the scene.

    Like me, she must be in love.
    With life,
    with the created world,
    with her Creator,
    with passion of her gifts,
    with how she is blessed by the day,
    with all she’s been given–
    dear ones,
    enough food, shelter, and beauty
    to keep her content
    and have a little left to share
    with anyone
    who can’t think on these things
    in a quiet vineyard
    and know peace.

  11. Monica Martin says:

    I’m afraid I love my new
    home a little too much.
    I have names for everything
    and I can’t stop smiling.
    I feel like a fool
    until I see you one morning
    enjoying a cup of coffee
    leaning against the wall,
    almost embracing it
    as you admire the tuckpointing,
    and compliment the wall paint.

  12. Shann Palmer says:

    whatthehell rewrite already

    Change

    My daughter, visiting, looks so young
    on the couch beside me here- as if
    this place is only familiar, not home.

    Filled with adventure and all the time
    she needs to let her talents thrive,
    I must have been like her, so long ago.

    She seems so strong and smart, I want
    to say Watch Out! Be Wise! Don’t’ Cry!
    or you’ll end up like me, which she thinks
    would be just fine, that would be just fine.

    I know better- but must let her choose
    what suits, heed the voice that beckons,
    try not to pry or interfere, buy her gas,
    a pair of shoes, leave all the rest to her.

  13. Shann Palmer says:

    Change

    My daughter, visiting, looks so young
    on the couch beside me here- as if
    this place is only familiar, not home.

    Filled with adventure and all the time
    she needs to let her talents thrive,
    this could be me, I think, so long ago.

    She seems so strong and smart, I want
    to say Watch Out! Be Wise! Don’t’ Cry!
    or you’ll end up like me, which she thinks
    would be just fine, that would be just fine.

    I know better- but must let her choose
    what suits, heed the voice that beckons,
    try not to pry or interfere, buy her gas,
    a pair of shoes, leave all the rest to her.

  14. Judy Roney says:

    My brother Bob
    my hero when I was young
    I always looked up to him. He,
    a man self possessed with an ability
    to meet life head on was my hero
    because of the kind of man he was
    his character was strong and honest
    the fact that he walked this earth

    was comfort enough for me. Ten
    months older than I, my only older brother
    the buffer between me and the world
    of knocks ,bumps and downright dirty

    and evil stuff. I see us in our infancy
    all white headed and precious twin
    like apparitions exploring the world
    in shorts and summer dresses. Nothing
    could touch us there, nothing could keep us from
    looking out for each other. Grandpa would
    tell the story about how he spanked Bob
    for getting in the way of his lawn mower
    how I cried when Bob was spanked and said
    “I’ll tell he Mommy on you” through tears . We

    cried for each other’s pain. He had his faults
    he’ll be the first to say, we all do, he wasn’t
    the best of a lot of things, but he was the best
    he could be at the time I believe that with all my

    heart. Life is not the same without my older brother
    and even the illusion of protection against the bumps
    and dumps in life. Before he died he told me he’d let
    me know how he was doing and he’d hug my son for
    me. He said he was tired and ready for the rest of the

    story. All I ever wanted for Bob was for him to be here
    to be happy and at peace – now I believe he is. I love you
    Robert Frank. You were my teacher, my confidant, my
    protector, my hero. You still are.

  15. PSC in CT says:

    So MANY good ones today! Really enjoyed reading, and want to add a few more kudos to my earlier list:

    Victoria – Beautiful! (Congrats to you and I bet she did too.)
    Satia – very well done!
    Judy R – Another real & poignant poem from you.

    Lori – I can tell from the thoughts & feelings you express in your poetry that you are very good at your job.

    Sara M – What a beautiful tribute to your father.
    K Weber – Love it!
    Sara V – How lovely!
    Kate – How beautiful! Well done.

    Linda – Love in a junk drawer — what a creative & perceptive idea! Can’t wait to see the polished piece!

  16. PSC in CT says:

    OK, I too, am not finished editing this one, but am submitting it now, so I may keep up (more or less) and not get ambushed by too many days all at once (again)!

    Man of My Dreams

    Man of my dreams
    You are not

    Can’t carry me up the stairs – or over the threshold,
    Won’t buy me flowers or write me poetry
    Never compliment my hair or clothes
    Fashion non-sense – suspenders and argyle socks
    Can’t compose music – or play an instrument
    Can’t even carry a tune – in a bucket!

    You’ve got
    Bad eating habits, no exercise routine,
    Excess pounds and dearth of hair,
    High blood pressure, low blood sugar,
    Leaky valves, stiff joints
    Frayed hems and clashing colors

    And yet . . .
    You are
    Capable of crying at sad movies,
    Unafraid to laugh at yourself,
    Filler of gas tanks and bird feeders,
    Master of Ceremonies,
    Music and lyrics of my life,
    My goodnight kiss,
    Warmer of my bed,
    Vanquisher of my nightmares,
    Actor, juggler, teacher,
    My other half

    You
    Lighten my load,
    Brighten my days,
    Comfort my nights,
    Complement my life,
    Make me smile and
    Keep me laughing
    Every day

    Love of my life

  17. Hala Nour El-din says:

    A real life fairytale, Knocked on my door
    A real life fairy love, winged my sore
    Oh my love if you only knew,
    How hard it is away from you!

    Said you love me before you go
    Wonder now if things will change
    My drifted soul requests your turn
    Safe & sheltered, among the glob!

    I’ll pray for you each time you go
    And bow to God along your flow
    And this is when
    I’ll tell you so….
    Achieve your goals, allow your hits
    Each hit that you make shall pace us in
    Tho’ the sorrow right now, surrounds my life
    Yet someday tomorrow the sun shall rise

    Just! Give me word, of you coming back
    Warm my heart, it thirsts your word
    Kill that time just for the night
    Don’t’ give up a real true life
    Beat this fear within my core
    Stand with strength against that door
    Scream out loud, tell the world…
    What we feel inside shan’t get coat

  18. Ronda Eller says:

    glimpses

    love,
    green tea,
    daffodils,
    sunlight casting
    through tall tamaracks,
    redpolls at the feeder,
    la vita nuova,
    rainbows after rain,
    a gentle hand,
    caressing,
    soothing
    dreams.

    ~ Ronda Eller 2008

  19. k weber says:

    jane – thank you for your kind response to my poem. i really enjoyed your poem for today… i love the weaving of rhyme and off-rhyme. your words put me right there among the busy streets and quieter moments.

    connie – simply fantastic.

    it is great to see so many poets poet-ing here! keep up the good words!

  20. Linda says:

    In the famous words of Britney (big laugh) oops! I did it again! Typo alert……..beginning of Love and Paperclips should sAY Looking for love is like searching for a paperclip.

    sorry

    Linda

  21. Linda says:

    Okay, since I am way behind I’ve quickly scribbled a rough draft to post here. I’ll polish it the end of the challenge.

    Love and Paperclips

    Lookinf doe love is like
    searching for a paperclip
    in the abyss of one’s junk drawer.
    Weeding through the hodge podge of
    the undesired, the unsuitables
    pushed to one corner while you
    examine the leftovers in the pile.
    Just when you’re patience fails,
    when you contemplate admitting defeat,
    it appears out of nowhere,
    the light from the window shining on
    it, crystal clear, brilliant,
    and you grab hold of it knowing
    it is the one thing that will hold
    the pieces together,
    perfectly.

    Here is my Day 16 poem for prompt If…. (though I stretched it a bit by not including the it…..went better with theme)

    The Poor Man’s Triolet

    If I won a piece of the jackpot,
    I could pay off all those bills
    and purchase a few items I have not.
    If I won a piece of the jackpot;
    I could remember those dreams I forgot
    and begin to climb up those hills.
    If I won a piece of the jackpot,
    I could pay off all those bills.

    If I won a piece of the jackpot,
    Icould pay off all those bills
    and would refuse to play Mr. Big Shot.
    If I won a piece of the jackpot,
    I wouldn’t squander what I got
    on unneeded belongings and regretful thrills.
    If I won a piece of the jackpot;
    I could pay off all those bills.

    If I won a piece of the jackpot,
    I could pay off all those bills
    and a piggy bank would be my mascott.
    If I won a piece of the jackpot,
    my debts would be naught,
    my credit card totals nil.
    If I won a piece of the jackpot;
    I could pay off all those bills.

    Poor Man’s Triolet #2

    If I won the super-dooper jackpot,
    I would never be lonely.
    I would have friends I now have not.
    Every distant relative, long-lost pal and crackpot
    would come running, hands out, to share a piece of the pie with me,
    if I won the super-dooper jackpot.
    I would never be lonely.

    Linda

  22. linda says:

    I haven’t had a chance to read more than the first few posts here but let me say:

    Paul, that was beautiful.

    Linda

  23. Kate Berne Miller says:

    Balancing Act

    Half our hearts belong to blood,
    half our hearts to love.
    We inhabit this duality, driven by our two-timing, double-chambered hearts.
    Unsettled and restless, we feign stability, calling one foot home
    while the other is already traveling. Lying in the dark with our partners,
    we dream of other lovers.
    Half our hearts belong to blood.

    I am the oldest daughter, consumed by obsessive love;
    first love, hidden love, forbidden love — my birth mother.
    All through childhood I fantasized, inventing and reinventing her face,
    her voice, her touch. In my dreams I am always arriving somewhere
    she has just left, meeting a woman she once knew, chasing her faint scent
    through the halls of night, never coming face to face.
    Half my heart belongs to love.

    You have a secret love; a hidden love, a denied love, a grieved love –
    your firstborn child.
    You think of her often, feeling her tug on that invisible cord
    all the world tells you was severed at birth. You imagine a knock at your door,
    dressing with extra care each year on her birthday — just in case.
    She is three, you are twenty-two. She is thirty, you are forty-nine.
    Half your heart belongs to blood.

    I used to pretend indifference, refused to look over my shoulder.
    Did not want to search, to quest and risk not finding,
    to risk not knowing what I would find, to find not knowing what I risked.
    At mid-life, childless and barren, sometimes I wake in the dark morning
    with no name on my lips, exhausted from hunting for origins still obscured,
    aching to be embraced.
    Half my heart belongs to blood.

    When you began to search, tentative and fearful, compelled by longing,
    I was so proud — for every step you took was a step for my birth mother.
    As doors open for you where they have remained shut for me;
    and your child, a mother now — steps through to meet you face to face,
    a part of me will also be redeemed.
    I watch you reach out to your daughter, hand stretched across the rift
    as I have reached out to my mother
    and for a moment, you and I, we are perfectly balanced –
    mother and child,
    love and blood.

    Kate Berne Miller

  24. SaraV says:

    Love Goose Style

    It’s not Gabriel’s trumpets
    That herald my arrival
    But an ebony beak open in praise
    And joy
    Blasting out her raucous tune
    Honk, honk, honk
    And who sits with me
    In the sun, pulling weeds,
    While sweat stings my eyes?
    My ebony-beaked, orange-footed love
    Roosts at my side
    She seeks me out from her stump perch
    Tilting her topaz eyes this way and that
    For a glimpse, a chance to see
    The object of her affection, me
    If I were to sit and watch the
    Sun sink into its orange glory
    She waddles to sit with me
    And when she made her nest
    And laid her eggs
    It was in my garden
    By my door
    What greater gift?
    Who could ask for more?
    Than a gander with a
    Heart of gold

  25. Bruce Niedt says:

    Once again, the poetry on this blog has knocked my socks off! I think there will be some killer chapbooks coming out of this challenge. Hey Robert, what are the chances that WD might put up a prize of some kind, like a discounted publishing contract from one of their advertisers?

  26. Jane penland hoover says:

    k weber – really like this poem – very powerful and ripe with emotion between the lines – the crispness.

  27. Earl Parsons says:

    Day 17 SS:

    The Love Migraine

    So, you think that I might be
    The emotional center of your life
    You might be right
    But don’t look to me for answers
    To your love questions
    Or your emotional dysfunctions
    Or whatever
    Because I just might give you
    A love migraine

    Don’t come to me with questions like:
    “How do I show love?”
    You must be specific
    What kind of love
    Who will receive the love
    Is the love physical
    Emotional
    Spiritual
    Or puppy

    Here comes that migraine again

    You see
    Your spouse gets a special love
    Your children get something different
    But it’s still a kind of love
    Your interests
    Your friends
    Your favorite team
    Your cat
    Or
    If you’re not into cats
    Your dog
    And your material possessions
    Get other forms of love

    Where’s the Excedrin?

    But not to worry
    I’ll give you hints
    You just have to listen
    And figure it out for yourself
    And you will
    Eventually
    When the pain goes away

    You’d better take another pill
    And sleep on it

    Don’t call me in the morning

  28. Earl Parsons says:

    LL&L for Day 17:

    Yes, Jesus Loves You

    Drowning in convictions, he waits patiently
    For his time in the spotlight; his Bible at his side
    The music is erupting; thousands on their feet
    Lifting praises to Jesus, their souls open wide

    All but preparation for the Word yet to come
    The music, the lights; they soften every heart
    Soon, they all are willing to hear the Lord speak
    Through His servant’s lips will come spiritual sparks

    The words of the music sooth his nervousness
    The love of the Father sewn throughout each line
    In silent prayer he waits, his moment at hand
    The music fades, he prays, “Your will, not mine.”

    He comes into the spotlight; all eyes are now on him
    All ears are awaiting his message of truth
    Then God takes control; the message is clear
    He wants them to know simply, Jesus loves you

    “Yes, Jesus loves you!” he boldly confesses
    “He loves you, and you, and He even loves me.
    His love goes beyond anything you can imagine.
    His love didn’t end on the cross at Calvary.”

    “Yes, Jesus loves you!” again he repeats
    “I know this to be true, yes, indeed I do.
    And His love will go on forever and forever
    He’s got more than enough love for all of you.”

    “Yes, Jesus loves you! Will you love Him back?
    Will you give your life to Him without reservation?
    He’s waiting for your answer, don’t waver too long.
    He’s coming back soon; no time for hesitation.”

    Then His servant grows silent, a hush fills the church
    Then His Spirit takes hold and hearts start to break
    As prayers rise, the tears fall, and Jesus is praised
    As more realize that it’s their eternity at stake

    Revival takes place through one broken soul at a time
    As the cries for salvation come from pew after pew
    And the angels in Heaven rejoice with each tear
    For ‘tis here they now know, “Yes, Jesus loves you!”

  29. k weber says:

    it comes back to this

    smooth, egg-
    shell skin:
    your face
    cracked
    into grinning

    you danced
    an earth-
    quake, making
    up for months
    of so much
    stillness

    little deer
    run circles
    in both
    irises

    then laze
    in the head-
    lights
    of another joy-
    ride week

    motherhood,
    it stuck
    to you
    like gum
    trapped
    in eyelashes

    your soft
    nest of hair,
    the curve
    and breath
    you shared

    too much

  30. Oops. I thought I’d posted this, but now I don’t see it. Sorry if I posted twice.

    Something Ordinary

    He sits in the driveway, waiting, smoking while
    thinking of two correct words which will dribble
    down his lips into her heart. Neal’s been gone
    for too long, for even ten minutes would be
    an eternity if this was true. He’s questioned
    his sense of self, his motives, his mind
    and come up with two arms raised. It looks
    like they’re separated, his shoulders askew
    and deviated from his spine. But they are
    there. And so is he now. Maybe the duality
    of it rights itself like a car shifting gears,
    the hum and rev of the transmission signaling
    a return to normal, a return to a white picket
    and sticks needing to be pulled from the backyard
    the wet leaves reminding him that in a few weeks
    it will be spring. The further he travels the less
    he sees of it, the deeper he is within it.
    Maybe he’s lied this whole time about her name.
    Maybe it’s not even Isabella he’s been loving.
    Maybe her name is Christine, or Laura, or Amy.
    Something ordinary. But isn’t that something?
    Isn’t something ordinary sometimes
    the most extraordinary thing you’ve ever known?

  31. Meesh says:

    On Love

    When you consider love,
    Consider the maiden, the mother, the crone –
    or Neapolitan ice cream, if that rather suits:

    O the maiden’s chocolate love! Everyone’s favorite.
    Quick to disappear, silvery
    scoop harrowing a narrow cave of empty
    Athwart the carton, dark gelatinous streaks remain,
    Unsavory reminders.

    Pink pink mother-love, pinkened
    with cream, delightful, a love lively
    on the tongue, small tight fruits tightly studded
    with seed! This is summer, this is summer, o –
    so much memory
    of what grows, what grows, what grows.

    Risk the irresistible pun of “vanilla crone”?
    Not here, not here, where the pale creased woman
    resides, on cushions of not-quite-white. Subtle,
    quiet, her love, which is melting, content
    to spread across the plate, to island
    the brash taste of everything
    in a sea of itself.

  32. Rachel says:

    Another great one Laurie K! I like!

  33. I guess I will post another love poem, since that’s my theme.

    A Swirling Eddy

    Love
    swallowed her up,
    like a swirling eddy,
    and she could not get enough.

    So she twisted and turned
    through her crazy life,
    like a junkie
    with lots of stuff.

    Always dreaming and hoping
    for another life,
    where living
    was not
    so tough.

    Laurie K.

  34. Sara McNulty says:

    Lavender and Dad

    I placed fresh lavender at
    your grave and a scented
    candle, hoping that
    between the two
    their perfume
    would spin with
    speed and reach you.

    I remember the
    day you tried to
    convince Mom–
    an earth color
    woman–to buy
    a lavender couch.
    We know how well
    that worked, but
    shirts, ties, and
    even socks were
    accepted without
    turning a choice
    into a bout.

    We had much in
    common, Dad, and
    love for each other
    topped the list.
    Sifting sand with
    my toes as I stroll
    the beach like we used
    to do, I see your face
    in waves of mist.

  35. S Scott Whitaker says:

    IT IS LOVE

    It is such and such love
    When love is all you make,
    Even when
    There’s more give than take
    Like when
    A rake in black
    Tongues bite back
    And peace & quiet break.

    It is such and such love
    When make is all you do:
    Share rides,
    Correct homework,
    Compromise
    The watery lake
    Children make of house and ware.

    It is such and such love
    In a dress, what a mess,
    Where’s my shoe?
    Who has time
    For you?
    Tending the flu,
    Mowing the lawn,
    Baking a cake
    For the old woman
    Brittle as a bran flake.

    And such and such love
    Is all love I need to find,
    For me there is no other,
    Intertwined, consumed,
    Our sound minds
    Bright as lemon rinds,
    Our souls mixing sex
    Behind the venetian blinds.

  36. Heather says:

    Forbidden Love

    He has forbidden her
    To see her love
    No more laughing,
    Afternoon frolicking,
    Five o’clock cocktails,
    The threat is too high,
    He’s losing her
    To me

    She’s distraught,
    They’ve had another fight
    He demands she discontinue
    Our friendship,
    It will cease to be,
    Immediately

    Not willing to concede,
    She sneaks away
    For a lunch,
    A chat,
    A cocktail,
    With me

    He has forbidden her
    To see her love,
    So we text,
    Meet when she’s free,
    Laugh,
    Have afternoon cocktails
    And cheer to him for making
    Me
    The other man

  37. satia says:

    Paul, Thank you for the too flattering words. I am just in awe of the scope of your poems and have enjoyed them more than I can say.

  38. Lori says:

    Unsuspecting

    They don’t even know me
    even though I told them my name and
    how long I would be watching out for them
    they know I often interrupt their sleep,
    poke and prod them,
    make them take pills,
    that taste like sandy tar,
    and ask them embarrassing questions.

    They don’t know how I worry at numbers
    that are too high
    or worse—too low.
    They don’t see my heart skip a beat
    when theirs skips two on the monitor.
    They don’t hear me brave an angry sleeping
    doctor because I can’t stand to let
    their pain and nausea continue all night

    They probably don’t even notice when I leave
    but the impression they leave on me
    when thy finally can
    well…let’s just say…
    love has many definitions.

  39. Rachel- It might sound similar, perhaps, because my theme is "Finding Love" and yes, I’ve talked about that empty hole before- only because it’s a significant aspect of how she feels while she is looking for love and having so many fail.
    Thanks for noticing- I REALLY appreciate it!

    Laurie K.

  40. Vanessa O'Dwyer says:

    What would you love?

    If you could think, of a good thought,
    To think for all mankind,
    What would you think?
    What would you think?

    If you could play, a certain play,
    To play for all mankind,
    What would you play?
    What would you play?

    If you could know, that what you knew
    Was known by all mankind,
    What would you know?
    What would you know?

    If you could have, something to have,
    And have for all mankind,
    What would you have?
    What would you have?

    If you could do, a thoughtful deed,
    To do for all mankind,
    What would you do?
    What would you do?

    If you could be, he who has been,
    Being for all mankind,
    What would you be?
    What would you be?

    If you could love, with passionate love,
    A love for all mankind,
    What would you love?
    What would you love?

    ~ Vanessa O’Dwyer

    © 2008 Vanessa O’Dwyer

  41. Judy Roney says:

    Love Stories

    I loved my Dad,
    He said he loved me
    that I was special
    and the abuse got worse.
    Misplaced love. Loss of childhood.

    My first husband said
    he loved me and would
    even spout scripture as
    he beat my head against the wall.
    Mistaken love. Loss of dreams.

    I love you like my own mother
    said Gracie before she pulled off
    the burglary of our business and
    took everything meaningful to me
    from our safe, not to mention the money.
    Con love. Loss of safety.

    The Bible says Jesus loves me
    I believed, I knew he’d take care
    of my children, that was my only prayer.
    Enchanted love. Loss of faith.

    I love you, Mom, I love you so much
    were the last words
    I ever heard from my son
    before he died by his own hand.
    Sometimes love just isn’t enough.
    Loss of heart.

  42. Paul W.Hankins says:

    Satia:

    Here are two lines that could serve as workshop examples:

    "You sleep to deep to be reached. . ."

    and

    "I have to climb across the light to escape. . ."

    Very nicely done, poet. . .

    H.

  43. Steve LaVoie says:

    I hate having to work overnight shift sometimes, hard to keep up with prompts on the weekend.

    Never

    You and me
    Would be so happy.
    Oh how copasetic it would
    Be! So uplifting and bright,
    And, well you get the idea.

    There is just one problem.
    Admit it, you know what it is
    Yeah that’s right
    You don’t know me.
    Oh sure you see me,
    You see me like you see
    Roadkill in the middle
    Of the street, that is how
    You see me.

    What is a piece of roadkill to do?
    Present you with pretty flowers
    While my one of my ribs stick out?
    No, I got it, maybe I will literally
    Show you my heart, then you
    Would understand.
    Or just turn away in disgust.
    Either way is fine I guess.

  44. satia says:

    Not sure that this has anything to do with my theme beyond the fact that my fiance Rob has been very supportive throughout the past nearly two years of my having vertigo so maybe it fits. I’ll simmer over the prompt some more to see if I can’t get closer to the theme in another piece.

    love is just another four letter word
    you roll away from me on the bed
    I kiss the tattoo on your back while
    you sleep too deep to be reached

    in the morning you curl into me
    I have to pull myself away
    crawl across the light to escape
    dreams left like roses on my pillow

    the morning afterglow knows
    there are never enough nights
    to belie the truth of four letters
    that fill the days we spend apart

    words with you grow like hope
    faith belief promise strength
    tomorrow and tomorrow and
    it all comes back to I do and yes

  45. Nancy says:

    Hey-Day

    . . . have you eyes?
    You cannot call it love; for at your age
    the hey-day in the blood is tame. . .
    Hamlet, 3.4.68-70

    O Hamlet! What do you know of love,
    you who toy with that flower child one moment,
    then ship her off to a nunnery the next?
    You dare judge me, charge frailty to my sex,
    just because I’d rather choose incestuous
    sheets than sleep alone. Thanks, by the way,
    for noticing my dexterity. You’ve read too
    many books, seen too many plays if you

    believe Gonzago’s wife was less than true,
    swearing an oath to live alone in widow’s
    weeds. Is it so strange that I should turn
    from grief to love, no sin involved? Why,
    you yourself have turned to madness,
    straight from melancholy in half the time.
    For now, I’ll seize the day; Hyperion’s dead,
    why can’t I love a satyr if I choose?

    Nancy Posey
    I’m teaching Hamlet this week. What can I say?

  46. Margaret says:

    Alas, My Love

    I pick up my old guitar
    and try to strum a song.
    My calluses have softened,
    it’s been so very long.

    I used to hit the notes right on,
    the sounds were clear and true,
    but I haven’t played at all
    since I broke up with you.

    All the cords are out of tune.
    They assault my ear.
    The sounds, they meet and fight each other.
    I hate what I hear.

    You broke the music in me.
    I need to get it back,
    but my music’s lost somewhere
    since I heard my heart crack.

  47. Heather says:

    For my adoring husband . . . I feel like the luckiest person in the world . . .

    Married

    I’m married to
    Hurt,
    Pain,
    Sorrow,
    Closeness,
    When I least expect it

    I’m married to
    Expectations,
    Rejection,
    Denial,
    Acceptance,
    When I don’t deserve it

    I’m married to
    Differences,
    Misunderstandings,
    Changes,
    Stability,
    When I need it

    I’m married to
    The moment,
    Present,
    Future,
    But mostly,
    To you
    I’m glad to be in it

  48. Rodney C. Walmer says:

    Fifteen and Counting

    Funny how time flies
    when your with that certain someone
    after 15 years,
    I can still look into your eyes
    and see how our love
    had begun

    It seems just yesterday
    I was on my way
    in that old beat up Chevrolet
    Trying desperately
    to win your heart
    hoping that you would see
    we were never meant to be apart

    Just fifteen short years ago
    funny, how we’ve come so far
    I don’t think either of us really knew
    how our love would grow
    we never had that lucky song, or star
    as others do

    Then, again, we stayed together
    while others fell apart
    so many storms we learned to weather
    where others, just did not know where to start
    in the end,
    we were strong enough to bend
    While others who were rigid
    sit alone in the cold
    all by themselves growing old

    Funny, how after 15 years
    our love still grows stronger
    we beat the odds, overcame our fears
    fears we have no longer

    Now as we start to grow older
    the winters grow colder
    we have each other
    as was meant to be
    just you and me
    with one another
    eternally. . .

    ©Rodney C. Walmer Love Poem for my wife 11/17/08 way too easy Robert, I need more of a
    challenge my brother. :-)

  49. patti williams says:

    Heather – your poetry always touches deep … and today is no exception. Hats off to your words.

    Iain – be careful on those slippery slopes baby, but it’s inspiring to see good writing while still having fun! Wear safety gear to protect that brain of yours please! We want you to keep posting.

    Pamela – Thank you!

    Paul – outstanding poem.

    All – she really was the ring leader of organizing charities, always being there for her kids, but she still had her own fun too – triathlete, we had our wine talks (i.e. talking about our husbands at my bar top), rotary … she served, she gave and now she’s gone … and I miss her a thousand times, especially when i look into the eyes of her children. So, in honor of Meredith Hatch … go do something nice for someone else … she would really, really love that.

  50. AC Leming says:

    A shadorma, before he assigns one. :P

    Lost

    We lost our
    selves in the space
    of one look.
    Stars spun round
    us. Worlds faded. Gravity
    lost hold. We floated free.

  51. Rachel Green says:

    Together Forever

    It was love that made him do it
    that made him shove a dagger through it
    and leave what used to be his Mistress on the floor.

    And it was love that brought her back here
    in a stinking canvas sack, dear
    with every yellow bone shoved through the door.

    He didn’t know exactly why
    he had the feeling he should fly
    when he heard the jingle jangle to beware.

    And though his life was far from dull
    when he looked upon her skull
    he took a flying leap down every stair.

    At the bottom he looked past
    his broken body, firmly cast
    upon the cellar steps upon his head

    She came at him with a knife
    and calmly stopped his life,
    and now they are together in your bed.

  52. Heather says:

    Patti- Meredith is our angel now. Well done and love.

  53. Heather says:

    I’m going to write several today. This is my favorite topic. Thanks for indulging me :) Cheers and love to all!

    About Love

    They talked about love
    Over their breakfast
    Of salad and wine

    She said it had been forever
    Since she felt
    Anything,
    Much less love

    They talked about the future
    Where she’d be if she gave up,
    Threw in the towel,
    With no place to go,
    No arms to hold,
    She’d be on her own,
    Raising them

    They talked about love
    Over their breakfast
    Of salad and wine

    She said she didn’t want to know
    What the future holds,
    Love had already slipped
    Through
    Her fingers,
    She wasn’t eager
    To start again

  54. Victoria Hendricks says:

    Loved Open

    I never learned her name nor she mine,
    but her husband died four hours before you.
    Almost widows, we traded shampoo for lotion
    and walked hospitsl hall at 2 AM seeking sugar.
    I only saw her husband unconscious, moaning.
    She never saw you at all. But she knew I loved you
    like she loved him, wide open and from college on.
    We talked about funerals, grieving kids, insurance.
    Talked about cancer, fear, your clothes. Did not cry.
    The last night at vending machine, cold Coke in hand,
    she caught a deep breath, met my eyes, declared truth.
    "The real question is. In time, will we do this again?"
    We both answered with laughter, loudly "Yes, yes we will
    if we have the chance. Because love is worth losing.
    It’s worth it all, even worth this part." Then we cried.
    I married happily three years later. I bet she did too.

  55. Rachel says:

    Laurie K, Is this similar to another of yours?? Its very good. :)

  56. Bruce Niedt says:

    A Sonnet, Because I Couldn’t Write a Love Song

    I want to write a love song just for you,
    but fear that all the metaphors are taken.
    I can’t say love’s a rose, or strange, or blue,
    a many-splendored thing, or blind. I’m making
    a list, crossed off a heat wave, stoned and free,
    an itching in the heart, and all you need.
    The subject strains my creativity –
    What can I say that hasn’t been decreed?
    They say that love’s a roller-coaster, eh?
    There’s nothing on that ride I wouldn’t miss.
    No words or music properly convey
    the spark that jumps between us when we kiss.
    The bottom line, where all our language gathers,
    is love is love – that’s all that really matters.

  57. To Find True Love

    She had
    an image in her mind,
    of what a perfect love should be.
    Yet no amount of kisses or hugs
    could fulfill her empty spot completely.

    She thought
    a man, a drink, or a taste,
    could fill the emptiness spewing inside.
    But nothing was ever good enough
    to make the pain subside.

    She learned
    that a genuine love
    must first come from within,
    and not until she loved herself
    could she ever find true love again.

    Laurie K.

  58. PSC in CT says:

    Am I the only one who, upon reading this prompt, immediately started singing — "I’m not gonna write you a love song Cause you ask for it Cause you need one"? (Apologies to Sara Bareilles.)

    Sorry! But I really did. And Michelle H, you’re braver than I am. I’m still struggling with yesterday’s poem, so I’m not ready to throw something out here today yet.

    Still, wanted to check in and see how others are getting it done, and comment on a few.

    Juanita – BOTH poems are beautiful!
    Rachel – Lovely, but so sad.
    Terri V – Nice job tying it into your theme.
    Nancy P – Wonderful depiction of how love lasts over time!
    Patti – You made me cry. Really.
    Don – Cute & playful as this love should be.

    Keep up the good work! I’m going back to struggle with yesterday. (Today is scary!) ;-)

  59. Kateri Woody says:

    General Mocking of Shakespeare… (I am so going to writer’s purgatory for this)

    If laughter be the fuel of anger,
    laugh on – and I will not give you any
    excess of it, that surfeiting appetite
    may never sicken and thusly never die.
    That bat-punch again! it had knocked a tooth
    from my mouth, and it fell to the ground at
    my feet, oh it tumbled o’er my gums with
    such a wet bloody sound that could appease
    the sickest of minds, stealing and using
    my gruesome ideas. Enough, no more! I
    am the only one who was here before.
    The one who deserves thy attention oh
    spirit of vengeance; how cruel and quite
    offensive you are that notwithstanding
    thy capacity of thy dangerous
    abilities wherein I cannot help
    but goad you anyway for my sea of
    masochistic desire cries out for
    validity by thy own fist. Even
    in a second my guffaw is so full
    of fancy of your punch, the sensation
    that it alone leaves is quite fantastic…

  60. Patti- your poem really touched me. I am sorry for your loss. I’m going through the same thing and its really hard, but it gets better (my friend died in March). Writing helps, and prayer, and faith. I know our friends wouldn’t want us to get depressed- they are in a much better place.

    Laurie K.

  61. Jane penland hoover says:

    Home Place

    This city, it is mine,
    has been as long as time.

    I ride six lanes with verve,
    round the juncture of the curve,

    looking down the stretch, widening
    into my heart’s remembering.

    This is my home alone,
    these buildings rising ever higher, the drone

    of cars and more — masterful these people milling
    through green parks, noisy walks, side stepping,

    rushing ever in or out or back. Today
    they so busy working, unlike me here at play,

    dreaming of my life then, my well-steered view,
    clearing trouble, passing, pointing out what’s true –

    this place, the whole of it, Atlanta and its dogwoods, clean-up crews,
    its stretch in all directions, bluesy darkened clubs, it’s church day pews,

    sunsets showing off above, skyline shadows falling, slowing drivers –
    all mine as much as wrinkled skin wrapping round my fingers.

    This city, it is mine,
    will be as long as time.

  62. Michelle H. says:

    Nature…and You

    I love the turquoise of the calming sea,
    for I see my lovers eyes looking back
    To me, and then the soft wind feels so free,
    like my lovers caress upon my knee.

    I love the deep green of the forest pine,
    the fresh, clean air and your hand in mine, is
    all I need to have with me amongst the
    trees and birds, become we, a love so fine.

    I love the golden wheat swaying upon
    the hill, as it dons the soft rays of sun
    going low, and like the pond below, a swan
    slowly swaggers toward it’s mate like don juan.

    By land, by sea, by air, by mind, my love
    For you knows no time and this ends my rhyme.

    {Okay, I’m still struggling with this one, it started out as a sonnet and then not, but I have too much to do today so it is what it is…} Back later to read…

  63. Don Swearingen says:

    My great-grandson is on his way.
    We’ll try to make Pfeffernusse,
    Even though he’d rather play
    With his transformers and drink apple juice,
    Until he learns he can pour
    Milk and flour and spices
    In the bowl, it’s not a chore
    Though he never dices
    Fruit, I won’t let him use a knife,
    Or put things in, or take things out
    Of the oven. It would be worth my life
    If he got burned. I’d rather have the gout!
    But still he likes to cook, like me.
    It’s a way to keep me busy, don’t you see?

  64. Iain D. Kemp says:

    Dear Moosehead,

    How do I love thee? Let me count
    the ways… You are beyond doubt the best
    friend a person could have. Last night you
    were amazing! Putting that dumb-ass Greek
    Jimmy in his place. Perfect! Whilst I am in
    a bountiful mood I will confess to actually
    loving your sister (after all I did marry the
    crazy bitch!) I suppose deep down I am also
    quite fond of your mother, or at least, even I
    don’t have the heart to toss the old bag into
    the street, which amounts to the same thing. I
    do not harbour any deep animosity towards
    Jimmy the Greek but that’s as far as I can go
    (at least ‘til the stench of fried chicken has left
    my home). No doubt by tomorrow I will be back
    to cursing all of your worthless asses so make
    the most of it.
    Pick ya up at seven as usual.

    Yours uncharacteristically full of love,

    Ringo the Howler

  65. Iain D. Kemp says:

    Struggled again a bit today as Love isn’t really within my themes; anyway, here we are…

    Cats, Poetry & Death #20

    The Love of Fur & a Purr

    The love of the Poet for his Cat
    cannot be measured in silver
    nor gold. ‘Tis an ancient love
    as old as the art itself.

    The love of the Poet for his Cat
    is expressed every time he writes
    a verse or lines of prose for ‘tis
    the feline muse that drives his soul.

    The love of the Cat the Poets shows
    is garnished with stroking and coaxing
    and treats. The fresh tuna and mouse toys
    are kisses and hugs to the felines mind

    The love of the Cat the Poet holds is
    unending, unconditional. A perpetual
    love. His heart always lifted by the
    flick of a tail or head against his leg

    The Love of the Cat for his Poet
    is shown with purring, contented
    and cuddly. Sweet meowing and
    Gentle scratches that mean no harm

    So Poet and Cat deeply in love,
    sharing their lives, sharing the muse.
    Together in perfect harmony at least
    ‘Til the spectre of death they must part.

    I am writing these in an après-ski bar having a nice cold beer after my first days skiing of the season. Snow’s excellent & the weather too! Just wanted to share and make you all jealous. How lucky am I???

    Good stuuf toady (hic!)

    Iain

  66. Rachel says:

    Taylor, what a great poem. I especially liked,
    "each flicker-ember
    amber as I drift to dream"
    Love the ambience of the whole thing!

  67. Rachel says:

    Thanks so much Earl, I needed to hear that! I look for your poems too, and enjoyed visiting your blog. Are you going to make two chapbooks? They are great.

  68. Earl Parsons says:

    Connie – You give dominos a new life.

    Paul – Now, that’s love.

  69. patti williams says:

    I’m writing again about my friend that was killed in June. The prompt "love" for me could not have been about anything else. If you would like more information about her, google "Meredith Hatch bike donation." Her oldest son has started a bike donation charity in her name … she raised some good babies that are trying to follow in the footsteps she left behind for them.

    And it’s really hard to post when you’ve got tears dripping all over the keyboard.

    She turned to say
    She loved him
    And looking up
    Form the computer screen
    He said he loved her too.

    He didn’t know those words
    Would be the last
    They were to say to each other
    Before the speeding car
    Took her away from them,
    Silencing her
    Soothing mommy voice,
    Her friend talks,
    Her “I love you” to him.

    Surviving her loss
    Was bigger than anything
    He had ever done.
    And the only way he could do it
    Was to get up every morning.
    Help with breakfast, clothes,
    Carpool
    Then go to work. Bravely
    Return in the evening
    To those lonely eyes,
    The little boys who needed help
    With homework, bath, falling asleep
    Without her goodnight kisses.

    To this day he could still see her
    Turn at the door to say
    “I love you” and to no one at all
    except for the empty room
    that still held her memory,
    he whispered back to her,
    “I love you too.”

  70. Nancy Posey says:

    Some days we live not in a torrent of passion,
    but in a truce; after all the years, we accept
    the flaws with the virtues. If I tell the same
    story again, if you must assign blame for the
    smallest infractions, if I lose patience or fail
    to pay attention, to read between the lines
    when my “How was your day?” elicits a “Just
    fine,” we still prefer the cozy place that love
    has built. When I leave the light on, reading
    “just one more chapter,” or you make plans
    for golf when I had told you we’d be busy, we
    don’t carry grudges; we don’t keep score. How,
    after all, could we account for all the times
    love held court—the tender touch, the gentle
    words, the wordless glance we’ve learned to
    read like Braille against our skin?

    Nancy Posey

  71. Earl Parsons says:

    Rachel – I truly look forward to reading your offerings each day. You have an amazing gift, and the Lord is using you to express His love and forgiveness. Keep up the great work and don’t get disappointed if many fail to comment. You are touching hearts that have been hardened and your words are softening them, I’m sure.

    To all – I am enjoying this challenge more than any other. Although it’s not always easy to meet the daily prompt criteria, it sure is a lot of fun. It’s encouraging to see the many who have made it over the hump. Let’s finish out with a bang, everyone. Robert, bring the challenges on, bro.

  72. Heather says:

    Paul, that was amazing

  73. Paul W.Hankins says:

    Reader: if the poems seem disjointed, it is because they are coming from different angles as the story is told. I am waiting until the end of the month to put the poems into a more sensible (but what is more sensible than the muse?) order. Thank you to Robert for providing the prompts and the direction for the pieces. I will credit you for the healing that has come of telling this story. I hope that you the reader will find healing and that the writing will be good for you today.

    You are looking at what I hope to be the dedication page for Six Years Deeper Still; as always, thank you for reading. . .

    H.

    "Dedication for Kristie"

    To your daughter, my wife and my love: your loss is my loss for though I were not born of your womb, I was born of your warmth and I miss you everyday.

    We are travelers,

    the left behind ,

    you and I,

    above the ground

    beneath the sky.

    We are alive:

    between baited breaths

    of cool, fall air

    we choose to live

    in a world laid bare.

    We are orphans

    looking for the love

    that sadness stole,

    its heart, its gifts,

    placed in a hole.

    We are gardeners

    who tend the lot,

    silken flowers

    trembling hands

    brought.

    We are warriors,

    the battle- worn,

    we are flesh

    and

    we are bone.

    We ticket-holders,

    awaiting the glory,

    what are we

    if we are not

    our story?

    We are children,

    sent from above,

    and we are nothing

    if we are not

    love?

  74. Terri Vega says:

    K…let’s try this again (my first attempt didn’t post) Here’s my Herb Themed love poem:

    My preference for you bequeathed
    with Rose Scented Geraniums

    and Lavender my love, an
    oath of my loyalty forever.

    In spring the Crocus fills my heart with the
    cheerful mirth of your youthful gladness

    and Daffodils hide my deceitful hope
    that someday you’ll be mine.

    Though Daisies profess you are so
    innocent, the

    Lemon Verbena tells all, that you
    have bewitched me.

    My wish, that with the whitest of Roses
    you will find me worthy and

    accept the Rose of true love red, as
    my blood I would gladly give up

    for you my only soul.

  75. Taylor Graham says:

    SUN,

    star of morning burning light,
    you touch each oak-leaf till it bursts
    again to life. Each single grass
    newborn in November rain you glaze
    with gold. Cold. It makes me
    crave the woodstove’s
    waver-flame, the comfort-corners
    of a room, each flicker-ember
    amber as I drift to dream
    away from you. And then abrupt-
    aslant through window-glass
    again you spark
    my morning. You ignite. Catch
    fire of the eye, my life-
    desire. Sun, how I love
    you in November.

  76. Rachel says:

    Robert, Your poems are very entertaining. I look forward to the day’s monsters installment when I turn on my computer. :) Thanks for the smiles.

    Anyway, here is my love poem for the day:

    Turn Back, Precious

    My daughter, love, what have you done?
    I told you back when we’d begun,
    To hide in Me. I’ll never leave,
    My precious Jewel, yet still, I grieve.

    I see you shaking, curled up tight,
    bruised and broken, lost the fight.
    I move to comfort and you run.
    My daughter, why? We’ve just begun.

    When you’re hungry, first you seek
    the empty poisons… you’re so weak
    and run to lovers poised with knife
    to kill, destroy your precious life.

    And glancing back, you shed a tear
    because you see I am still near,
    because you know I love you SO.
    You need me precious. Please don’t go.

    I spoke to you the other night,
    when day was done, by firelight
    when you were just about to fall
    I held your hand. You felt so small.

    I know you heard your whispered name.
    I weep for you, you feel such shame.
    That shame, it angered Me to death!
    I bought your freedom, gave you breath.

    So breathe my precious, breathe in Me,
    together we’ll forever be,
    souls entwined and love so sweet.
    You, My child, My heart complete.

  77. linda says:

    Juantita,your poem for mont is so sweet.

  78. Heather says:

    Lesson #17: Selfishness

    She had a best friend
    Someone to count on
    Through thick and thin

    She had a best friend
    To pick up the slack,
    To have her back

    She had a best friend
    That loved her
    Even though she only loved herself

    She had a best friend that put up with way more than she should
    Because she thought the shallowness
    Would leave

    She had a best friend that tried to support her through
    A relationship gone bad and toxic
    Because she knew her friend didn’t want it to end

    She had a best friend
    That listened to every detail and could not believe
    That in the end, she called HIM best friend

    She had a best friend
    That when the police were called,
    She was the one to answer the door

    She had a best friend
    That had to walk away
    Because everything can’t always be about her

    Lesson #17: It’s Not Always About You

  79. Connie says:

    Domino Romance

    Click, click, click
    She was looking at him again.
    She was from Switzerland.
    He was from The Netherlands.
    When they spoke together
    it was in English.
    Is this your first time as a builder?
    Have you met Mr. Domino?
    Isn’t that design fantastic?
    I’m getting tired of blue.
    My back’s aching.
    I hope this topples when the time comes.
    Wouldn’t it be awful to know
    your work ruined the world record?
    He knew she loved him the way she
    cheered when his dominoes toppled.
    She knew when he said only three
    million, nine hundred ninety nine
    thousand, nine hundred nine to go.

  80. Juanita Snyder says:

    The Widower
    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    After his wife died,
    he set out to teach his dog to talk,
    so that his loneliness might ease…
    He had lost the protection of his beloved’s hand,
    that reassuring touch
    replaced by a cold wet nose
    in the middle of his palm instead.
    His loneliness was like a peacock,
    marching slowly & methodically in the shadows,
    trapped between pride and sorrow,
    regret and promise of things yet to come…
    The silhouette of his beloved,
    now just a postage stamp
    memory between the eyes,
    his heart now on autopilot,
    he had simply forgotten
    how to breathe.

    © 2008 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  81. Juanita Snyder says:

    for mont–
    by juanita lewison-snyder

    beloved husband,
    close your eyes a moment
    so that you may truly hear
    these words forming in my heart…

    if ever a person were truly blessed
    it most certainly is me.
    you are, simply
    my own personal proof that God exists.
    spurned at the altar of love once too many,
    I asked for someone special
    to love me back twice as hard for a change
    than what I could muster up myself.
    courage waning,
    hope waning.
    then suddenly you appeared in the margins.

    I didn’t understand the true extent of Love
    until you came along and pulled the sheet away
    exposing the marble floor I had always
    been standing atop, but never noticed.
    Thank you for that,
    and for all the years afterwards that you spent
    sanding and waxing,
    sanding and waxing
    so that in our final years together we could
    dance across it to the other side.

    you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

    © 2008 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

Leave a Reply