Share Your Favorite Poem!

Jennifer VanBuren, the editor of Mannequin Envy, recently suggested that I allow poets to pick their favorite poem from the first 15 days of the challenge. Since more than 10,000 poems have been posted to the blog so far this month, I think this sounds like a good way to let poets read some of the highlights of the month so far.

The idea is to pick your favorite poem of the ones you’ve written through the first 15 days of the challenge. I’ll probably provide a similar post at the end of the month for your favorite of the last 15 days of the challenge.

Here’s my favorite so far (of what I’ve written):


Would you know my name
if found out of water? I hold
my breath for hours and sing
across the spaces where I dream.
Would you believe I was ever
vulnerable? I find the part
you love most is the monster
lurking in me, that unknown
quantity hiding beneath
the surface. If I could swallow
you whole and hold you within,
would you call out my name?


Looking for more poetry information?

  • Check out our poetry titles (on sale in the month of April) HERE.
  • Read the most recent poetry-related articles HERE.
  • View several poetic forms HERE.
  • See where poetry is happening HERE.


You might also like:

  • No Related Posts

389 thoughts on “Share Your Favorite Poem!

  1. Vince Gotera

    Hope it’s okay to post this now. I wrote this for the April 4 prompt, but I didn’t write until near the end of the month.


    My friend Janine has a tiny terra cotta
    serpent made of arches, loops of red
    fire-hardened clay. When you set up

    the curves in a row, a line on an obsid-
    ian table-top, let’s say, or any other
    shiny surface, water-like, what you get

    is an illusion, mirage, fantasy — a dotted
    stitch sewn by your eyes: four small arcs,
    at one end (rising) the head of a velociraptor,

    at the other (diving) the tail of a rattlesnake.
    On this coffee table of dark stone, a mirror
    clouded by years of creosote mist, Loch

    Ness breached by mesozoic shimmer,
    coils of a beast that should have been long dead.
    St. George, England’s patron . . . it was him or

    this monster, devil-vermilion-scaled ophid-
    ian champion. Chalk one up for good Sir George.
    Or is this Quetzalcoatl? Feathered god

    dipping in and out of clouds, a large
    pterodactyl-winged, emerald-eyed
    messiah. Or Poseidon’s messenger, the huge

    sea-snake sent to devour Andromeda,
    killed by Perseus, conquistador of the Gorgon.
    Whose hair was made of small snakes, dread-

    locks each exactly like these curls of auburn.
    The sea-dwelling Orc the hippogriff-riding
    Ruggiero bested to save Angelica. The Kraken.

    The Basilisk. The Wyrm. Treasure-heaping
    Wyvern: Grendel’s cousin, Beowulf’s fate.
    Geryon, snake with scorpion tail, winging

    Dante downward into abyss. Bahamut.
    The Giant Anaconda. Ouroboros.
    Dragon, dragon, dragon. But no, it’s not

    like that. It’s just a little hocus-pocus,
    a parlor trick. Just a sea serpent
    of brick-red, kiln-fired curlicues.

    And yet, she must also be a Titan
    somehow. Somewhere inside the terra cotta
    smoulders a small flame of a Leviathan.


  2. Melanie Sievers

    The Lesson

    We were each given the outline
    of a pair of scissors
    with the instructions:
    “Make this into something.”
    At once, I drew the faces
    of a madonna and child,
    and their arms lovingly entwined.
    Others made storks, balloons, bouquets,
    eyeballs over long noses, mouse ears.
    The teacher never explained
    and we never asked.
    We were twenty or so teachers
    being taught
    the care and feeding
    of the gifted child.
    It was the subject I had been studying
    ever since my daughter came,
    and I, not being gifted, had tried
    to make her
    into something.

  3. Lauren Dixon

    My favorite is Day 14- Love Poem

    My Mother’s Hands
    By Lauren Dixon

    They say so much about her,
    Patrician fingers they weren’t,
    Aquiline and well mannered, no,
    They knew how to get dirty
    How to get the job done.

    They both worked hard for her,
    First, in the packing house in the hot Reedley summers,
    Orange by orange, peach by peach,
    Working side by side the brown skinned people,
    She could keep up with their life’s work,
    They admired her white hands speed.

    Then, they were her defense,
    Fending off a bad marriage,
    Her optimism, driving the steering wheel to a new city,
    Her bread and butter, typing at night,
    Each letter typed-a soldier of fortune.

    When the world was too much with her,
    Art was the ticket to someplace else.
    Painting her native language,
    Her left hand the interpreter,
    She breathed tint and turpentine,
    It bled from her brushes.

    Her gnarled joints, she felt betrayed,
    Her vanity seeped out,
    And then she’d look at what she’d made,
    Forgave them without doubt.

    Those hands played piano,
    Spanked her kids, dyed her hair,
    And turned thousands of pages,
    In the books she read.

    They graded hundreds of papers, played violin,
    And held the reins of horses in Golden Gate Park.
    They held her nebulizer, her shots of adrenalin,
    The myriad of pills she took, and the oxygen mask
    To her beautiful face.

    For meals they cradled Chinese blue and white bowls,
    I have the bowls now and when holding them,
    Remember her hands holding me,
    They hold me still.

  4. Serena (Savvy Verse & Wit)

    My favorite is from Day #15 where we took our favorite poem and altered the title; I chose The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost and changed it to this:

    The Onion Not Eaten

    I strolled by the farm stand,
    picking through the bins,
    tossed aside unripened bananas,
    tomatoes, and mangoes.

    The wind was missing,
    but the sun beat down heavily
    my shoulders sweat and slump
    beneath the weight of my basket.

    It’s filled to the brim with great finds
    from strawberries to spinach leaves.
    The onions are missing,
    The bin is empty.

    The recipe calls for onion,
    I cry, but only silence replies.
    The sun has fallen behind,
    and I’ve run out of patience.

    I walk back to my car with full
    basket, tossing it in the trunk.
    At home, the recipe suffers

  5. Fenella Berry

    This is my favourite from the first half, I made a friend because of it.

    The problem with Anonymity.

    Just when you thought there was no answer,
    when you were quite sure there was no one there.
    The flashing, incisive reply leaves a cutting
    pang, chance encounter.
    Spellbound in solitary sojourns
    through the melancholic evening,
    resolutely avoiding the web of intrigue.
    Giggling and glancing at answers,
    eyes twinkling with giddy response.
    Not knowing from where or when through
    the ether the chosen few will be
    enlightened with sparkling wit and merriment.
    Awe and wonder at you on your pedestal,
    gracious manners and warm heart
    shine through.
    Longing for crumbs of recognition.
    Oh to have a friend like you.

  6. Tom Stevens

    now eternal

    it is vast
    yet fits between two
    it changes with each breath
    yet is eternal
    it is made of us
    so it will resemble
    what we were
    what we are
    and what we will

    it reflects many faces
    never looks the same
    yet always feels familiar
    multitudes of miles to travel
    but not on the old road
    not on the safest path
    but on the one most

    never stands still long enough
    to truly define
    to understand
    it must be

  7. Carole Egler

    I don’t remember posting a favorite for the 1st half, but thought I would offer this as my second half favorite, not because I believe it of greatness, but just a subject that it was theraputic to write. Again, I am so impresed with all the poets I have ‘met” here! Carole

    The Farewell

    In the beginning time was all ours.
    We would talk and plan ‘til all hours.
    We were eager and ready to do it all;
    We were ‘immortal’ and ready for life’s call.

    We didn’t know what we didn’t know.
    But we had forever to learn; just eager to show
    We were gladly sharing all the events of life
    We were so happy – husband and wife.

    Gloriously happy we greeted our three.
    Beauty created by God, you and me..
    And we proudly celebrated their births.
    Our life was perfect and full of mirth.

    As time marched on and we got older;
    There were cares and worries to shoulder.
    We never believed that there was not time
    To go on and on living in our prime.

    Along came the reality,
    life doesn’t promise immortality.
    It doesn’t even give a fair shake . . .
    It gave us belated heartbreak.

    Now our precious time is slipping away;
    as we try to get the best out of each day.
    We can only hope to hold and whatever
    Happens, our love story’s the best one ever.

    We will meet in the afterlife
    Heaven celebrates the devoted husband and wife.


    Oh Heck! I’ll include my 1st half favorite here too!
    this was just fun! C.

  8. riddlewoman


    Missing moments,
    Melancholy mind,
    Making molehills, mountains.
    Mud mulch misery murmurs, moans.

    Muscular movements,
    Meticulously memorised,
    Masterfully monopolised.
    "Maybe" muttered mischievously.

    Mere mental machinations,
    Muddled mourning.

    Missing moments,


  9. T.B. Bryceson


    Lost again
    Wandering through each day, each day the same,
    Same times, same shows, same walls, same food,
    Same, same, same

    Trying again
    Trying to heal a bruised heart, soul, mind, everything,
    Everything bruised, battered, beaten, broken,
    Broken; just broken

    Hope again
    Hope for a new day, a new chance, new life, new love
    Fresh emotions, fresh outlook, fresh energy, fresh start
    Hope; fresh hope

    ‘Round again
    ‘Round the same issues, same arguments, same accusations, same pain
    No clemency, no quarter, no hope, no chance
    ‘Round and ‘round

    Same, same, same, same,

    Copyright 2009 by T.B. Bryceson

  10. Melissa Johnson

    From Day 15

    Myrtle Beach

    Flashlights spot the shore like a pox,
    illuminate raw chicken on a string,
    the sideways scuttle of a baffled crab,
    a father’s plastic sandals and black sox.
    In the dunes, the sea grasses wave
    as those without a room find a place to misbehave.

    The bottle rockets scream all night long,
    drowning out the sea.
    The strand is littered with bottles,
    burnt paper, and the tang of bong.
    The grey sand, the brownish sea—
    tones of imminent hangover, inhibitions freed.

    Come love, let us party naked together.
    Step out on the balcony with me.
    The wind has changed and the air is sewage-free.

  11. Sheryl Kay Oder

    The Only Cleaner

    Clean my dusty, dirty self,
    Lord. I need your daily washing of
    Everything displeasing to you.
    All my life I owe to you.
    No one else can keep me clean.

  12. Kripa Nidhi


    At this station no one
    arrives by train
    The rail-tracks disappear
    in to the quiet woods
    where birds of a new generation
    above a pile of rocks
    carved with ‘Never again.’
    Not a leaf stirs in the silence –
    a silence that doesn’t
    want to wake up
    and remember.

    This was where they all
    disembarked –
    the ones who would never
    board another train.
    This was where
    the fathers and mothers
    who ran
    scared and unashamed
    before their children
    to board a train
    in stations far away
    This was where the children
    too afraid to travel alone
    before their mother tearlessly
    consoled them,
    ‘You’ll be safe’
    And this was the path
    they all walked –
    this dirt trail
    once devoid of hope.

    This was where they
    shed their last
    strand of dignity
    and stood naked,
    packed like sardines
    hoping waiting praying
    for the trickle from the showerhead.
    Before their doors were sealed
    and the guard yelled
    “Ivan, Wasser!”
    and the terrible engines
    roared to life.

    Standing on this
    quiet cold earth
    generations later –
    a tourist with a camera
    from a land that almost slept
    peacefully though it all –
    instead of singing like the birds
    I think
    I get it.

  13. Jukota

    April 5, 2009 Prompt To see a picture of this landmark go to

    April 5, 2009 prompt: landmark

    Ship Rock

    They decided to meet at Ship Rock
    where people come and go
    some to climb, some to look.
    They came to see each other,
    he wanted to kiss her
    and she wanted him to,
    and he did when she took off
    her wedding ring
    and laid it there
    on the flat part.

    She was dizzy when she left,
    headed home, and halfway there
    she realized her ring
    wasn’t on her finger
    and she turned the car around
    to go back and fetch it
    if she could
    and there it was
    glistening in the sun.

    She left it there, got in her car
    and drove the other way
    away from home,
    thinking maybe they should
    rename this place
    Ship Wreck
    because now there was
    no going back.

    ~Julie Eger

  14. Claudia Marie Clemente

    ********************************(new favorite)************

    *Platonic Love*

    the gentlemen´s pastime
    drinking party full swing,
    their discussion turns to Love;

    love of equals, of truth
    of boys (by men), of
    the other half (by everyone),

    but, finally Socrates
    waves a hand drawing
    the dabbling debate to a close,

    and his voice cracking
    with warmth begins to tell
    of his teacher, Diotima,

    whom he asked:
    What then is Love?
    Is he mortal?

    to which she responded:
    He is a great spirit, intermediate
    between divine and mortal.

    Stopping now,
    the student

    creases the Symposium.
    Her own love classic,
    she searches here for clues.

    She thinks: my spirit
    rebels, too mischievous,
    I need to gather applications,

    I need to find a better mediator,
    one with inside access; the spirit
    working for me now is only half-time

    and needs
    to stick
    to its day job.

    She props her Plato,
    leans on one elbow
    and, turning the page

    pictures Diotima whispering sultry
    logic into wizened ears,
    hands down robes, toying with a beard:

    Diotima teaching Socrates
    – full time philosophy –
    a thing or two about Love.


  15. Kimberly Brock

    Heart! I will remember him!

    Heart! I will remember him!
    You and I tonight!
    Though today he left us
    And took away the light.

    Heart, it was today he left us
    Three short years ago,
    Eternity has passed us by
    Though none could tell or know.

    Our tears have dried a million times
    As the sun has tried to shine
    His breath, my breath were taken
    Only now I must catch mine.

    But Heart! I do remember him!
    A life so full and sure.
    Heart we can now leap for joy
    To know he lived life to the core.

    Of this, my Heart, I’m reassured
    At Heaven’s gates we’ll meet,
    And talk of all that we have done
    Both journeys now complete.

    Dedicated to the memory of my baby brother Kenny. We miss you everyday!

  16. A M Forret

    day 14, I believe, write about love

    A Love Not Earned

    Love is you
    and me entwined til
    fear and lies
    pull us far
    apart beyond the stretch of
    love’s gossamer wings.

    To love me
    means saying goodbye
    to that crutch
    keeping you
    upright upon that stage of
    those professing truth.

    A heart full
    of a sacred love
    white and pure,
    free of taint,
    is a love I admire,
    but will never have.

    Love is You
    and me someday One,
    dancing close
    upon skies
    lit with love’s redeeming grace-
    It may still happen.

  17. Linda H.

    Funny thing–I don’t normally write list poems, not a huge fan of them, but the ONE list poem I wrote ended up being my favorite. So here it is.


    Her bags are packed–
    wee socks and undies in rainbow colors,
    her flannel Teddy pajamas,
    the plush terry cloth robe
    Grammy bought her for Christmas,
    the silly pink piggy slippers that oink
    with each step,
    pants, sweater, thermal boots,
    the hairbrush,
    toothbrush, toothpaste,
    a drawing pad, pencil,
    jumbo pack of crayons,
    two travel games,
    her three favorite plush animals
    (Candy the calico kitty, Hot Dog the
    St. Bernard and Cheddar the mouse),
    her winter jacket with the eskimo hood
    and matching mittens–
    all ready to go.

    As I lift the suitcases
    I think what a heavy load
    for a young child–
    the weeks of chemo,
    the days spent vomitting,
    hours missing her friends,
    gradually losing her sparkle
    and her smile,
    her strength,
    the fight.
    She’s gone Home now
    and I must leave this hospital,
    her suitcases in hand.
    It’s a very heavy load
    for me to carry

  18. John Davies

    She Dances

    Compare her passing
    to those around.
    Their steps dull,
    while hers’ abound
    with grace and lightness,
    as though she dances
    to a sound, that only she can hear.

    Each step a light tread
    upon the Earth,
    a gentle touch,
    caressing. Where others
    clomp, and move as though through mud.

    She dances, and with her dance
    the world transformed,
    with light that touches
    those who wander near,
    drawn like moths,
    hoping to hear, the sound
    to which she dances.

    Oh that my ears might open
    so I could hear,
    and dance with her.

  19. Jean Tschohl Quinn

    I liked this poem for its symmetry and truth. My husband take his meds twice a day, some to keep his immune system from attacking his sister’s kidney, some to counteract the side effects of the immuno-suppressants, to stay alive as long as God needs him to be here.

    Twice A Day For Nearly Ten Years

    He stares at the piles of pills in his hand
    The colors and shapes, the varied hues
    Looking strangely cheerful

    The skunky whiff, he can hardly stand
    But they keep him alive, so he knows that he’ll choose
    To swallow the whole handful

    Some days they go down like good ol’ soldiers
    Down to his gullet to dissolve and disperse
    It sure beats dialysis

    Sometimes they stick, he gags, shakes his shoulders
    He reminds himself that it could be worse
    “Thanks for the kidney, sis”

  20. amanda

    After Litany

    Kendrick, will you let me kiss you by the jukebox, and wind
    my fingers through your long, black hair?
    i will take you in my arms and kiss you
    back. we will get drunk on Irish stout and flashing neon lights.
    i’ll give you a quarter and you can pick our song.

    Kendrick, will you come back home with me
    to my tiny, cluttered apartment and make it quake
    with fierce new love?
    yes, and i will hold you through the darkness
    as we douse each other til we’re drenched.
    i’ll tell you you’re too good for me and you
    will not believe me.

    Kendrick, I want to learn about your culture.
    Will you let me meet your family and fold me
    into your new world?
    yes, and we will dine on strange new dishes. i will traffic
    in the exotic and the animal to woo you further in.

    Kendrick, the city lights downtown are twinkling
    through the haze of L.A. sky. Will you take me
    to Catalina Island?
    yes, and we can rent a small, steel boat and i will take you
    out to sea and lay you down against the rock hard grit
    and have my way with you

    Kendrick, can we get married? I want to
    be your woman and take care of you and fill
    our lives with laughter.
    no, but you can take my cock into your mouth and i will
    call you my sweet-pea.

    Kendrick, when our love grows thin and we spend
    fewer days together if I never throw a fuss, and cry
    only on the inside will you come back to me?
    no, but i will come to see you every now and then
    and sate my need through your pale skin and you will wish
    for more

    Kendrick, the way you used to look at me, like i was made
    just for your heart. I want to have it. Will you plunge your fist
    right through your chest and hand it over, please?
    no, I want to save it for the future
    there’s a big world out there i want to see it.
    you are not invited

    Kendrick, it’s L.A. but I get cold even in June.
    I miss your arms, I miss your lips. Will you come
    kiss me, warm my bones?
    i will come back to you. i will cup your small face in my long hands,
    tell you i am sorry, that i missed you, let you love me
    and then say good-bye again

    Kendrick, you’re so far away, did you ever
    really love me?
    i think i maybe did

    inspired by Carolyn Creedon’s “Litany”

  21. A.M. Sebo


    A love poem?
    How do I not tell you
    I love you
    with my kisses to your
    soft skin in the morning
    after a night of wet heat
    I perspire my love into your pores
    our chemistry gliding
    through molecular winds
    my scent mingling with the perfume of your breath
    night unfinished

  22. Nikki Griffith

    Final Edit of Prompt 5 Landmark (Free Verse)

    The Might Task of Persevering Across John C. Fremont’s "Chrysopylae"

    some Nebraska history
    in old Yerba Buena
    to share with my son.
    History which is also shared
    Three presidents span across this history,
    Franklin D. Roosevelt,
    Charles de Gaulle of France, and
    Barack Obama, included.

    My son and I wanted to meet a photogenic movie star,
    who’s father just happened to be a poet.
    We wanted to visit the Depression Era
    Beacon of Hope still blazing in American resilience.
    After 70 years, still standing as a symbol representing
    of the
    of the
    American Dream
    the Great Depression.
    Displaying strength and beauty,
    portraying life, death and
    perseverance through foggy vision.
    Origin of one-way toll collection,
    fog manipulation and the
    "deflection theory" to reduce stress.

    My son and I talked
    about the pedestrian pathway into wine country.
    Discussing the historic, impossible tasks completed.
    Imagining great and small tasks
    which were and yet still will be accomplished
    through “dedication and strength of one man’s mind”
    and the stewardship of many others
    (lest not forget 11 ultimate stewards).
    Count among the many
    known and lesser known stewards
    a depressed bank founder.
    Bankers giving birth to her
    historic beauty were heroic
    Yet world wonders now indebted.

    This an unlucky seven for some, and
    If I’d known that my own personal journey
    was going to end in public defeat,
    I might have tried harder and planned better.
    My son and I
    and got out of the car,
    as the sun shine fell over the hillside.
    The smell of the saltwater
    caressed our hair and skin
    We walked hand in hand
    I told him to "be brave"
    We looked out over the water,
    People were everywhere in our
    There was a chill in the
    blowing wind
    as sunbeams and the orange beams swayed softly.
    I’m sure it was a picturesque view as
    Cars ran parallel to our walking path

    My son met American history,
    then fear met me.
    I froze in my tracks.
    “We have to turn around”
    I heard the words, yet couldn’t speak
    No, Mommy, let’s keep going!
    While viewing
    Golden Gate Strait
    Suspended on
    Golden Gate Bridge
    I was
    “Half Way to Hell”

    Inspiration from “The Bridge That Couldn’t Be Built, by David Adams found at

  23. Deb Brunell


    I smell spring / I smell rotting things
    I feel fresh / I feel polluted
    I bask in the sun’s rays / I panic in the darkness
    I love the start of a new day / I fear what will come tomorrow

    I tie my hair up / My hair hides my face
    I smile at strangers / I don’t want to be seen
    I help when I can / Please don’t ask me
    I’m eager to please / I just want to leave

    I take care of my outer / I camouflage without
    Meditate for my inner / I barricade the within
    Yoga for both / When necessary I’ve a mask
    Beauty inside and out / To keep them out, or me in

    Life is alluring / Life is full of ugliness
    I like things sanitary / My world is a mess
    Pure as water / I trudge through mud
    I am a winner / I’m about to drown

  24. Terri Quick

    Day 14

    First prompt: Write a love poem.
    Second prompt: Write an anti-love poem.
    Simple as that.

    I sit and wonder why,
    I wonder all the time.
    Why life has to be this way…
    It’s a game and we all have to play.
    If we want to go to heaven when we die,
    We all have to try to unify.
    People make mistakes, Lord knows I’ve made a few,
    One of the biggest was when I thought I fell out of love with you.
    Since I let you go,
    I’ve come to realize,
    That you really did love me all those years ago.
    If I would’ve been more of what I was suppose to be,
    You would’ve probably stayed faithful to me.
    If I wouldn’t have turned you down,
    Maybe my life wouldn’t have turned around.
    The direction in which it turned,
    I feel as though I’ve been burned.
    You were my first true love indeed,
    But after a few years we felt a need to be freed.
    Now, I realize after all these years,
    That I was actually running away from my fears.
    The years were slipping a way so fast,
    I just wanted life to pause and let the present last.

  25. N.E. Taylor

    Through Two Sets of Windows

    I ride the bus
    through Beverly Hills
    every day
    and never stay

    Seasons change
    in the windows
    of the grand
    department stores

    In the autumn
    is that russet silk
    among the paper leaves
    and imaginary trees

    Winter and faux snow
    crusts in casements
    red velvet and white fur
    even the elves are elegant

    All delicate is spring
    pastel tulles and
    jewels pretending
    to be Easter eggs

    Summer in sea spray aqua
    gauzy linens sport
    sequin scales
    and mermaid tails

    And summer rides
    inside the bus
    the air conditioner
    has failed again
    we move along
    in forty-three
    different scents
    of sweat

    Wilted steaming
    damp dreaming
    I ride the bus
    through Beverly Hills
    every day
    and never stay

  26. Cindy Schiller

    Divorce Boat

    All I said was
    “Kayaking looks like fun”
    And off we went
    On a run

    First the kayak,
    A sit-a-top
    For two that self bales
    Drop by drop

    Then the paddles
    With straight edge or slant
    That make you a racer
    Or paddler if you can’t

    Then the gloves of rawhide
    Giving you strength
    Rowing gainst currents
    Length after length

    Hats and jackets
    To protect from the sun
    Watching for speed boats
    Out for a run

    The kayak club laughed
    When they saw what we had
    That’s a divorce boat
    And they’re very bad

    Kayaks should be manned
    By one person, you’ll see
    It’s hard to make decisions
    And always agree

    But I have my captain
    He steers from the back
    I power the kayak
    Strokes nothing that lack

    He loves the adventure
    And I love it too
    Divorce boat? I doubt it
    It always takes two

  27. Bozena Intrator

    from the first half of PAD I like this poem the most:

    poets and wizards

    a little yellow thing
    that seemed to be a paint spot
    suddenly started to fly
    like a butterfly
    but it wasn’t a butterfly
    after a closer look
    it came to be
    a little electronic toy with wings
    on every wing was a lilac dot
    when it flew
    it made a strange sound
    it had a head
    that was small and round
    build out of something
    that might have been a crystal
    I wanted to catch it
    and examine closer the little toy
    but suddenly it landed
    and to my surprise
    I came to realize
    that the yellow thing was not a toy
    but a costume
    of a miniature boy
    who then took down the costume
    and with a smile
    told me
    that it has been a while
    since he didn’t have those electronic wings on
    I looked at him
    and didn’t know what to say
    I wanted to ask
    if he was a wizard
    but he spoke first
    he said
    that it was nice to meet a bard
    I answered that I was a poet
    he told me that
    it is all the same
    bards and poets are a little insane
    I said that I was not
    but he said
    that I was
    because in a little yellow paint spot
    I saw first
    a butterfly with yellow wings
    and on every wing a lilac dot
    and then I saw a flying toy
    and then a miniature boy
    who happened to be
    a wizard
    and to anyone
    who is not
    a child
    an artist
    or a poet
    someone who can see wizards
    is insane
    or on drugs
    or had to much champaign

    Bozena Intrator

    from the entire PAD – i think I would choose this one:

    a water story
    for children of all ages

    a lake was afraid that
    on some very hot day
    it will dry out
    it will die
    the lake didn’t know
    that death is only a beginning
    of something new
    a very long hot summer came
    and the lake disappeared
    changed into a damp
    and was able
    to fly around on the wings of a wind
    to look down on earth
    and wanted to be the damp for ever
    was afraid of dying
    didn’t know that death is only a beginning
    of something new
    the wind pulled the damp up
    and formed a cloud out of it
    the cloud flew around the earth
    was happy to be a cloud
    to be alive
    and started to be afraid of dying
    wanted to live as a cloud for ever
    at that moment
    it flew into a very cold air
    and it changed into millions of snow stars
    the snow stars were flying down on Earth
    felling so happy to be able to fly
    make pirouettes in the air
    and wishing
    that this fall never ends
    they started to be afraid to die
    at that moment they reached a glass roof
    it was warmer than the air
    and they melted
    became a water layer on the glass
    slowly dripping down
    being happy to drip down the glass roof
    and wishing that it never changes
    but it was an evening
    and it started to get cold again
    so the water turned into icicles
    they were hanging from the roof
    and were feeling great about themselves
    and about life
    they didn’t want to change a bit
    they started to be afraid of dying
    in this moment the sun came out again
    and melted the icicles
    the water drops
    fell down into a small lake

    Bozena Intrator

  28. Erin Wilcox

    So We Decided to Take Over the Block,
    dangled earrings from rafters
    and art from our ears
    our people poured from cracks
    in the sidewalk, stormdrains,
    we derailed the train, set up
    a groove line,
    and danced
    on narrow streetcar tracks
    that led to institutions.

    It was a Tucson hootenany,
    we called down the rain
    danced in monsoon puddles
    cracked the held breath
    and let fly,
    you held me at the waist,
    twirled, caught me,
    pulled me near,
    rain dripped from your nose,
    and your lips were warm
    like tea

  29. Maryann Younger

    Just really like the way this one sounds out loud.


    Bear! I’m a bear, a big burly bear
    I wonder through woods with nary a care.
    I eat when I want, in your cooler I’ll snack
    Please read the signs—I’m prone to attack!
    Bear! I’m a bear, and a good mother too
    I protect and defend my cubs against you
    And look at the reputation I’m given
    Blamed when the market is downward driven.
    He’s in a bear mood; she’s loaded for bear
    When all that I want is to sit here and stare
    At the lovely north woods, outside of my den,
    To teach my young cubs the ways of the wren
    And the deer and the fox, the fish and the hawk
    Come with me now, we’ll take a long walk
    I’ll tell you ‘bout my kin, a line long and steady,
    Polar and brown, black, panda and teddy.
    Bear! I’m a bear, barrel-chested and proud
    Raising my babies and singing aloud
    To the new rising moon, a chill in the air
    A perfect spring evening for a sleepy-eyed bear.

  30. Tony Walker

    My favorite is from the April 6th prompt:
    April 6th prompt: Something missing
    On Lincoln’s catafalque he lay in repose
    As had the unknown soldier
    On Roosevelt’s caisson his casket rode
    As had the unknown soldiers
    And Black Jack’s stirrups upheld the boots
    As he would for MacArthur and Hoover
    And one million stood still in the November chill
    And mourned the loss of their leader

  31. gbivings

    The Problem with Ice Cream

    the problem with ice cream?
    it’s too damn good!!!

    it’s like a comforting, reassuring friend that’s always there for you;
    and it has the nerve to come in so many flavors?!

    the solution:
    stay away from the frozen food aisle altogether.

  32. Olive L. Sullivan

    Things I Didn’t Say

    If your question is how far you can push me
    before I explode like a glass shattering on the floor,
    I gotta tell you, you’re getting pretty close.
    I suggest you avoid walking
    in front of my car when I am behind the wheel.

    It’s not like I sold your piano for rent money,
    then bought crack instead.
    It’s not like I borrowed your car to drive to work
    and went on a five-day binge,
    you and your small son left on your own
    to hike through the desert summer to work and school.

    If all I am is an object you plug into the socket marked "wife,"
    then I don’t need to be here.
    If you can’t look at me and see salvation,
    who needs to hang around for the crucifixion?

  33. Nori Odoi

    4/27/2009 9:03:12 PM (Eastern Daylight Time, UTC-04:00)

    Fish Story

    a man
    squats on his
    bamboo fish trap
    his white hair drawn back
    into a bun
    a straw paddy hat resting
    on his shoulders
    his weathered face
    is strong and focused
    his flashing eyes stare
    with amazement
    at the plump green fish
    thrashing in his hand

    he is porcelain
    the trap, his clothes
    the fish struggling to escape
    shine with a sensuous glaze
    that plays with light
    attracts the eye
    but his unpolished skin
    brown as river clay
    matte textured as flesh
    draws the heart
    feels alive
    almost warm

    Dad, you once told me
    your favorite dreams
    were of fish
    capturing slippery bodies
    in your hands
    but I remember you
    fishing for ideas
    casting your fish trap into
    seas roiling with facts
    then holding up
    your captured prize
    with amazement
    for me to see

    when I told you
    this porcelain image
    reminded me of you
    you winced
    was it because he
    had a Japanese face
    like you
    my proud American father
    who was born on the Puget Sound
    who fought for his country
    who had a doctorate in Psychology
    but who shopkeepers spoke to
    in pigeon English

    it was not his race
    that reminded me
    of you
    but his fierce joy
    the vitality that
    threatened to make
    baked clay come to life
    and laugh
    as restless as you
    who were never content
    always questing for new thoughts
    new worlds

    they buried you years ago
    but you still live
    atop my mantle
    eyes joyful
    one hand holding
    your fish prize high
    I hold you
    in my hand
    amazed at this small
    part of you captured
    I touch your leg
    it feels warm
    almost alive

  34. Therese Haberman

    In Season

    By Therese M. Haberman

    Flung me into fall
    With colorful
    Antics and frosty moods.
    Carved cruel pumpkins in
    Scary words and ways.
    You weren’t always so strange…

    Remember tucking me into homemade quilts?
    Windy days passed us by.
    Blooming buds of new ideas
    Kept your head in purple-centered pansies
    For a while.

    Hoisted proud flags in steamy earth.
    Fields of wildflowers
    Carelessly blended shining dreams.
    Bright buds faded to a bed of weeds
    Pointy thistle pricked our hearts.

    Now the ice won’t melt.
    Frozen stare greets with no recognition
    Sing songs to kindle your memory,
    ‘Try to remember a time in September’,
    But you don’t follow.

    Drift like powdery snow
    As last flurries of reality dwindle.
    Please come back.
    I can’t bear to
    Count the years
    Without you.


  35. Judy Roney

    What Love Is

    This is what love is:
    A girl born in December
    sharing DNA and stealing our hearts
    with a burp, a smile, a kiss, and finally
    the words we waited to hear, I love you.

    This is what love is:
    Watching her bloom and grow;
    her quiet, shy ways; her beauty that began
    inside and shone like a beacon wherever
    she went, a heart bigger than her body,
    caring for every person she met, making
    friends that would last a lifetime, and making
    us more proud each day.

    This is what love is:
    The fear of the teen years and letting her go
    one small step at a time, even though
    we wanted to hold on so tight. Driving,
    dating, school dances, events and clubs,
    slumber parties, pool parties, friends,
    graduation, a job at Progressive, then she
    was out on her own.

    This is what love is:
    Meeting the man of her dreams and watching
    them together. Watching him love her in ways
    we recognize; the way he looks at her, the way
    he holds her hand, the way he thinks of her first.
    A tall, handsome, hard-working man who also
    honors us as her parents, allows us to get to know
    and care about his family as they become
    a cherished part of ours.

    This is what love is:
    Jeni and Tom going to an island, getting married
    on a beach of white sand, promising to love
    each other forever, and knowing what that means.
    They know that there’s sunshine, but also rain;
    that things won’t always be as perfect as they are today
    but they know they can weather any storm and that
    heaven can be – right here on earth.

    Judy Roney
    April 15, 2009

  36. Karin L.

    In the first fifteen days, I had the most fun writing this one.
    So here it is again.


    He’s annoying.
    His chalk scratches
    on the blackboard.
    He’s got an accent
    no one can place
    anywhere on this planet
    and we’ve got students
    from thirty-eight countries
    in this classroom.
    Perhaps it’s what people speak
    in his personal universe
    which isn’t in our dimension..
    He isn’t even a real math teacher.
    He ‘s a history teacher
    the administration conned
    into teaching freshman Math.
    We’ve decided to make his death
    an exercise in Chemistry or Physics.
    That decision depends
    on where we need credit for extra projects.
    Right now we’re in the Logic phase
    spending our truant hours
    in the instrument room behind the stage
    of the auditorium
    studying under the tutelage
    of the math nerd
    who at least knows
    what he’s talking about
    and hangs with our crowd.

  37. SB Williamson

    Something’s Missing

    Most times, I sleep all night.
    Most times, I wake up aware
    I am alone
    and, thank God,
    it is ok.

    Sometimes, I’m woken up.
    Those times, it’s pitch black
    inside myself
    and, dear God,
    it is not ok.

    All times, the something missing
    is the sharing of the ok,
    and, oh God,
    the scaring away
    of what is not.