November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 17

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,
of course,
I kill her friends,
to help set the mood,
but she’s not into that,
and she stabs me in the face,
so I play dead,
I come back,
get shot out of a window,
and disappear,
hope for a sequel.


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80 thoughts on “November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 17

  1. Lynne

    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

    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

    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

    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


    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

  6. Peggy Goetz

    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


    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

    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

    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. Karen H. Phillips

    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

    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

    whatthehell rewrite already


    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


    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

    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

    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

    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

    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

    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


    green tea,
    sunlight casting
    through tall tamaracks,
    redpolls at the feeder,
    la vita nuova,
    rainbows after rain,
    a gentle hand,

    ~ Ronda Eller 2008

  19. k weber

    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

    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.



  21. Linda

    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,

    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.


  22. Kate Berne Miller

    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

  23. SaraV

    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

  24. Bruce Niedt

    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?

  25. Earl Parsons

    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
    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
    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
    When the pain goes away

    You’d better take another pill
    And sleep on it

    Don’t call me in the morning

  26. Earl Parsons

    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!”

  27. k weber

    it comes back to this

    smooth, egg-
    shell skin:
    your face
    into grinning

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

    little deer
    run circles
    in both

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

    it stuck
    to you
    like gum
    in eyelashes

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

    too much

  28. Cheryl Chambers

    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?