2011 April PAD Challenge: Day 9

For today’s prompt, write a time of day poem.  In fact, make the title of your poem the time of day.  For instance, “5:54 a.m.,” 2:23 p.m.,” “Midnight,” etc.  Then, write your poem.  Of course, different things happen at different times of day.  So have fun with it. 

*****

Here is my attempt:

“6:35 a.m.”

Or is it 7:35? 
I mean, I know what it is in Austin,
but I’m from Georgia before that
Ohio.  Can’t just erase
32 years of Eastern Standard
in one road trip.  Or maybe you can,
but I know I can’t.  After all this time,
I suppose I’d need an entire
sabbatical or retreat to truly
feel Centralized, though it’s too late now —
now that it’s 7:36.

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0 thoughts on “2011 April PAD Challenge: Day 9

  1. Brittany Alyse

    3:49 am

    There’s a space around my mind
    and memories mill in this vacuum,
    just far enough away to be blurry,
    close enough to be uncomfortable.

    I wrap worry around my shoulders
    and pick at my skin in a heady rush
    before looking back at my phone. You
    didn’t check to see if I made it home.

  2. Daniel Ari

    Karen, Catherine, Marie, de, Daniel, Walt and all.
    Belated but no less sincere thanks for the kind feedback 🙂

    "11:56"

    Now after the day’s view of the whole landscape,
    four counties bathing in the lap of the Pacific
    under new sunshine, and after the art opening,
    and the barbecue, and the unwinding episode of watching
    someone else’s problems, and all the time today
    for talking and growing and endless bright details,
    I come here to note the time

    to note how all day I noticed hour:minute,
    even with no timepiece, knowing I wished to write a poem
    suggested by some combination of the clock;
    and how many discreet times volunteered,
    suggesting themselves without guile:
    10:08 when the most LEDs are lit
    on any working digital clock, or
    11:15 when we took our Saturday outside,
    or 2:30ish when the heat of the day
    met us on the shale of Mt. Tamalpais.
    4:49 we arrived at the exhibit
    by physically challenged artists.
    6:13 I popped open the beer,
    barbecuer’s prerogative, 8ish when
    my beautiful, amazing, expansive, growing, glowing,
    indescribable offspring slept at last—

    all these left to pass until now—
    until 12:02 the next day and the verge
    of sleep, of lax deadline nearly missed.
    Count me in, clock and poem.
    I show up again to keep my word,
    and bless this all: the hike, the arrival,
    and the departure; the grace of how
    all falls just so into its timeless place,
    and good night.

    DA

  3. Yoly

    6:03 am

    Membranes ruptured; I
    awoke. The tide rolled.
    You would have washed ashore
    sooner than expected if your father
    and I had not rushed through the haze
    of the city’s nautical dawn. It’s as if
    the c-section, scheduled for 10am,
    hindered some plan- as if you could
    not wait to arrive at the port of life
    to do the wail baby, suckle baby,
    love baby thing. Birth gave me
    my impatient boy at 8am. I had not
    any references to rear your blue
    print. Once the morphine’s charisma
    faded, I noted the folds of your bunny
    blanket did not hold instructions
    for you on how to grasp the helm
    of son-ship. The miraculous sense
    of you began like a spot, adrift
    in the horizon. The timeless sense
    of us relies amazingly,
    on winging it.

  4. Mariel Dumas

    6:01 AM

    A loathsome time of day
    I don’t blame you for crying
    For pouting
    As you crawl out of bed
    The storms have not passed yet and
    It’s chilly out; you’ll need a coat yet
    To wait for the bus that’s perpetually late
    If you blindfold yourself you won’t see the light
    As it creeps into your eyes
    Forces your vision to strain
    Or better yet, sunglasses on the rail
    Huddled up with your coat
    Even though it’s Spring
    A mug of home-made coffee in your hand
    That trembles
    Dreaming of future what-ifs
    Of past monsters that crept into your dreams
    Still lingering on your skin
    That crawls when moving through traffic
    Weaves in and out until you focus on strangers’ faces
    Decide to make the call to friend or lover
    Who will guide you through the night
    Until the PM strolls in.

  5. jone

    Late to the party as I was on vacation but writing everyday in my journal (w/o Internet)
    Here’s mine:
    6:21 AM

    Back from vacation
    I must gather my wits
    and return to real life

    Real life in which I
    teach, commute, and
    do the mundane chores
    around me

    Instead, I wish for
    just one more day
    of vacation
    a day to write and read

    But that will have to wait
    until June

  6. Pam

    Ironic that I shuld be so late on a time-of-day poem.

    Five O’Clock

    Thirty-odd years I’ve heard the chime
    at five p.m.: an internal reminder. Time
    to open the pink compact, press out
    a pink pill. Terrified of pregnancy,
    like clockwork, as they say,
    I kept the schedule until surgery
    rendered it moot. Now, in menopause,
    it’s a faint echo, quaint as macrame,
    my only known biological clock.

  7. Nancy J

    Hmmm, I forgot the title is supposed to be a time. Here is the revised version.

    6:34 am

    Streaks of gold appear just above the horizon,
    brightening with promise and possibility, a celestial
    challenge, as if God held out sharpened pencils, pens,
    ink and three kinds of paper and said, “Here, show
    me what you can do with a new day."

  8. Nancy J

    Approaching Dawn

    Streaks of gold appear just above the horizon,
    brightening with promise and possibility, a celestial
    challenge, as if God held out sharpened pencils, pens,
    ink and three kinds of paper and said, “Here, show
    me what you can do with a new day."

  9. Susan M. Bell

    4 a.m.

    Storms raged all night I’m told
    And I slept right through
    Until 4 a.m.
    The crash of thunder rocked the house
    Windows rattled in their frames
    I awoke nearly screaming
    Fear held me in its cold grip
    My dream floated away
    My head filled with thunder
    Lightning flashed
    4 a.m.
    I didn’t think I’d ever sleep again

  10. Barbara Ehrentreu

    2:46 AM

    Up again and the hour creeps ever later
    as I play catch up with my fingers
    Writing poems as if in a race
    Hurrying to write for all the days
    Hoping to pull ahead and at last be
    side by side with each prompt
    Poetry sliding out of me
    My muse had flown away on
    vacation for a few days
    Maybe lying in that hospital bed
    with Hal as he waits
    Not sure if what he needs will mend
    Hhm back to the young man with
    strong legs standing for hours.
    My muse wraps its arms around me
    aware I need the TLC and sheds its
    aura upon the scene allowing a
    chance to write while hope slips under
    the covers.

  11. G. Smith

    8:46 A.M.
    (A Kautata)
    (c) 2011 – G. Smith
    —————————-
    Who knew where two stood
    Two hours later there’d be none
    And ten years later still tears.

  12. RJ Clarken

    Wow! I’m really behind. I’ve hardly been home all weekend, so I just scribbled out a poem:

    6:04 PM

    At rush hour…roadwork. The time? 6:04.
    We ended up having to take a detour.
    The alternate route that we took just meandered
    and signage was not what one thinks of as standard.
    Through back roads of five towns, we wended our way
    and lost all our bearings. We cried out, “May Day!”
    Now it’s three hours later. My friends and I cuss.
    Next time we’ll be smarter and just ride the bus.

  13. Sally Jadlow

    1:35 p.m.-cst

    The minute first daughter, Jennifer
    entered the world,
    three days late.
    A habit she polished
    for the next 46 years.

    Now she has it honed
    to perfection.
    Wonder if she’ll be late
    on the other end.

  14. JSP

    8:00 AM

    Rise and shine it’s 5:00 AM
    Time to face the day
    Rise and shine it’s 6:00 AM
    Time to face the day

    Shave and shower – breakfast done
    It’s now 6:00 AM
    Shave and shower – breakfast done
    It’s now 7:00 AM

    Time for another cup of coffee
    Work starts at 8:00 AM
    Time to drive to work
    Work starts at 8:00 AM

    Cross the Chattahoochee River
    Time changes in the middle
    Both meet in the parking lot
    It’s now 8:00 AM

  15. Sara V

    6:52 A.M.

    My eyelids are still weighted
    By dreams that need
    Time to tumble back
    Into my subconscious
    Vision refocusing
    From fantasy to reality
    The pillow case is smooth
    And cool—if I ignore the breeze
    Whispering frond windsongs
    Perhaps I can drift and find
    My dreamship again
    “It’s pink,” he calls from the deck
    The weights drop from my eyelids
    Stretching, I cross the tile
    Chilled like morning sea sand
    And tiptoe outside
    The eastern sky gives me a rosy
    Air brushed greeting
    While the coconut palm fronds
    Wave, then catch
    The glowing orb
    Like a high fly ball

  16. Kim King

    4:50 a.m.

    Click, click.
    She turns off the alarm
    before it rings,
    swimming through sleep,
    first the crawl,
    then the breast stroke,
    surfacing, gasping for air
    before pushing
    aside cotton waves,
    dripping awake.

  17. Mike Bayles

    2:30 P.M

    Afternoon’s passing without notice,
    and morning, once clear, is already gone
    while I sit in the midst of those
    checking messages and facebook,
    as if the internet is the only thing
    on a Sunday afternoon
    for our rest.

    Skies outside the window
    dim and darken
    while a cover of clouds
    foretells a change of weather
    while inside we type and text
    and create our own realities.

  18. J.lynn

    Thank you all for feeding my spirit each day. The gifts of your talents overwhelm me. Just a few favorites among many:

    Brian Slusher: Each arrow has its wound to fill. (Love it.)
    Joseph Harker: 88:88 (Great!)
    Goforia Caledesia: helping feed (and kill) my very being. (beautiful)
    Wendy: for all the reasons in your poem, I would never have the nerve to write a poem about going to the dentist.
    Nikki Markle: Beer Thirty. (Haha)
    Sheri Kuehnle: The sheets pulled off my sin. (vivid and apt)

    Mine:

    4:46 a.m.

    I wake with a rumble in my ear.
    I don’t know if the rumble is your
    thundering snore or if it’s the
    snoring thunder of a storm.

    Through the parted blinds
    the street lamp winks at me
    then points to the half-dead
    hickory in the park giving the
    finger to the broken sky.

    The crows are already up
    barking orders to the squirrels
    poking their noses out our
    soffit to check the weather
    for the day.

    I shove you over to your other
    side for the third time and this
    time you echo the thunder and say,
    for gods sakes what’s your problem.

    Only a bunch of bullies, I say
    padding my ears with punky
    pink stuffing.

  19. stephanie barbe hammer

    11:46

    sunday, although this is
    a saturday poem. but on saturdays
    i do not make work, i do shop, but
    i try to take a day off from making
    as the big guy or gal did. what was
    s/he doing at 11:46 on the sabbath?
    eating bacon? lighting candles? bowing
    in the mosque? meditating? it doesn’t
    matter. at 11:46 i think of brunching,
    sex, and shopping, of walking through
    this neighborhood filled with trees
    and big houses. is this the only
    incarnation? no. yes. perhaps. i
    hope not as i think on saturday
    how i’d like to make a poem
    about what i’m experiencing
    on the day i do not write.

  20. Doug

    3.45am

    there are creaks,
    the house shrinking in the night

    timbers adjusting to the cold
    of rest

    and the ticking clock is larger,
    far larger
    in it’s fill of time
    thudding moment after moment,
    nailing the passage of hands
    through the night

    this is the molass, the treacled breath
    where you cannot sigh
    because you may drown
    in the thickness
    of discontent

    so instead,
    you’ll pound and mash pillows
    shut out the noises, burrow
    into warmth, the deceit of oblivion

    try to forget
    what you were trying to forget
    try to ignore
    your own ignorance

    sometimes there are no answers,
    sometimes even
    there are no questions
    nor sense
    nor sleep

    there is only the thudding sweep
    of a clock

    and maybe that
    is what you’re afraid of

    ©D Pugh April MMXI

  21. Erinne Magee

    3:39 a.m.

    and i want to go back,
    back to the dream
    that gave me answers,
    answers to the questions,
    questions the conscious
    mind cant quite
    comprehend.
    and i want to go back
    just to make sure …
    just to make sure
    i know how to proceed
    in this new life ahead.
    and i want to go back
    one last time
    so ill remember,
    remember that nothing
    changes when we go back …
    when we go back …

  22. Katrin Talbot

    At 2 PM,
    I will tune to A415
    and fall into a
    Brandenburg Concerto
    The storms and
    downbeat come
    at three o’clock, so
    perhaps a percussion
    section of hail
    will accompany us

    At 7 PM,
    I will tune to A 442,
    and fall into the protective arms
    of Schumann and Tchaikovsky as
    the storms rage
    above us,
    as we play out, deep
    within ourselves,
    the matters of
    their hearts

  23. chimnese

    4:20PM

    Its 4:20PM I am sitting here alone,
    Memories is whirling inside my mind,
    I have tried to bury them deep down
    Under the covers yet it shoot like bullets back into gear.

    Its 4:20PM on another Sunday afternoon hoping for once not to have you back.
    Do I ever cross your mind,
    Do you ever think of me,
    The days we would talk endlessly.

    Its 4:20PM another day almost gone
    Storms has settled yet I’ve never heard back from you.
    Its been almost nearly a year last.
    I thought this time you would miss me,
    I guess its time to stop the clock from getting to another 4:20PM.

  24. PKP aka Pearl Ketover Prilik

    De…did not get much of a chance for reading writing or commenting….but please know that sending only positive sweet thoughts your way….. All the beautiful words in all of us cannot really soften the blow of incomprehension that comes with death…. Take good care of yourself….

  25. AC Leming

    2129 hours

     After we watch the movie "brothers",
    he says, "if anyone ever put a gun
    to my head and told me the only way
    i could see you again was to kill someone,
    I’d tell them to pull the trigger.  
    If they can get to you once, they’ll continue
    to fuck with you forever. I’d never give
    anyone that much power over me."

    Not even me.

  26. Kate Fern

    4pm

    At this time of day
    I am usually watching the clock
    tick round to 5 and freedom.
    Or sneaking off for a lie down
    after too many hours of housework and kids.
    Today the kids are packed off to the movies
    and I am printmaking
    a tiny lino-cut
    woman and bird.

  27. Bruce Niedt

    This is all I’ve got for today (now yesterday):

    11:59 pm

    It appears that I have just one minute
    to write, but my heart isn’t in it.
    For procrastination
    of the day’s obligation,
    if there were a prize, I would win it.

  28. Penny Henderson

    AT FIRST LIGHT
    Mark 1:35

    In the greyness that comes between dark and daylight
    prayer seems always to rise more buoyantly.
    Best of all is to be far from houses,
    in a meadow or under the pines
    with no darkness calling to your soft bed,
    business and bustle begun by birds alone.
    In that grey space your heart expands,
    to hold creation and worship Creator.

  29. Robin Morris

    April 9 time of day

    6 a.m.

    With a gasp that soon
    subsides to wheeze,
    the coffee maker awakens,
    sending delicious steam
    into the kitchen.
    In the bedroom, the cat
    smells it first and starts
    kneading the blankets,
    preparing for the dollop
    of catfood soon to appear.
    The old man reaches for the remote
    and wide-awake people briskly proclaim
    what could be seen by opening curtains
    if they were remote controlled
    instead of poor handmade relics
    of hippy past. So the weather report
    must provide the clues
    about the chasm of day about to open.

  30. Corinne

    3:00 this afternoon

    Your face is so much like your dad’s
    and I find solace in your steadiness.
    You’ve come, another in the line of visitors
    seeking to savour what might be left of my father.

    We have buried many beloveds between us all, we three,
    and, speaking of them around coffee,
    it occurs to me that grief is always there,
    lurking or parading. Occasional parentheses grant
    us furloughs, where I can lose myself
    in the crinkles of your smile.

  31. shann palmer

    The Five O’Clock Girl

    Just as the elevator begins to close,
    you stick your arm in, slip and twist
    so the door misses your nose
    and dings you elbow.

    She’s there,
    looking at the back of your neck.
    behind the tall man with the alligator boots.

    By the time you can turn,
    you’re both one of dozens spilling out
    into the lobby, eager for the weekend hunt.

    Gone. The air changes and she’s gone.

    Sometimes when the building slowly dances
    to an incoming storm, a quick streak of red
    slips down the hall, your breath stops.

    She knows your thoughts.
    Startled, you drop your keys.
    The elevator dings & takes her.

    There’s an apartment where she waits,
    if you could only remember the borough,
    the floor, the names of your children.

    You want her,
    far away from the thrust of this crowd,
    sounding their barbaric yawp.

    The night careens around you,
    you drink until you can sleep again,
    her shadow on the wall.

  32. Femia Cools

    at five o’ clock
    you dream
    the morning brings
    earth, sunny sands
    and a stream
    of undercurrents
    still hesitant
    from a dark country

    at five thirty
    you sense
    that through twilight
    and thick skins
    a song emerges
    soft and soggy
    that leaves behind
    the dark humor
    of the underworld

    at six o’clock
    you know
    in open canvas
    it is obvious
    the morning has come
    and will be there
    tomorrow

  33. de jackson

    Feasting on a little Spam before bed…

    9:24:52am:

    The precise time on Thursday, April 7th
    when I began to ponder
    the essential question
    of whether or not I need a
    chi straightener.

    I mean, I knew my chi
    should be
    centered…
    but straightened?

    And as someone who certainly
    wants her chi to be
    “secure”
    and
    “functioning superior”
    I had to read more.

    Wait,
    lemme get this straight.
    Despite all the yoga
    and green tea
    I may have been walking around
    all this time
    with crooked
    off kilter
    cattywumpus
    chi?
    Gee.

    So indeed
    I need
    this product
    my upright chi to keep?

    Huh. Well, at least it’s cheap.

  34. Buddah Moskowitz

    8:57 (Prompt: Time is Title)

    Tonight at 8:57
    on the stage at
    the Pechanga Casino
    in Temecula, California

    Tony Bennett
    launched into
    “The Way You Look Tonight”

    and immediately
    we were taken back
    to that first moment
    when our friendship
    shifted into
    something eternal.

    Heavenly Father,
    thank you for the wondrous
    gift of music,
    for the sweetness
    of shared memories

    and, of course,
    for Tony Bennett.

  35. Tanja Cilia

    10.30p.m., Malta Time

    The Moon frowns and hides behind the clouds;
    She knows an Empty Nest is a sad place to be.
    A collection of forlorn thoughts darts across her mind.
    Dark shadows she casts on the earth below;
    The new adult packs her bags and tries to look mature.
    Inside, she’s still a little girl who needs her mom.
    But life has to go on; and opportunities must be grasped
    Before they flit away, never to return.
    Weird shapes ooze across the meadows;
    Reflections of clouds scudding across the night sky.
    The streetlight catches the windscreen of her car, and glistens doubly,
    As the branches of the olive dance to the chilly breeze.
    The lonely widow cries, and hugs her only daughter, remembering.
    She sees her husband in the face she strokes –
    Aquamarine eyes, flecked with gold…
    Feather reminiscences float surreptitiously
    Down Memory Lane and she, too, weeps.
    Go with God! she sobs, and wipes her eyes in her apron,
    Both knowing she did her best to nurture her in faith and love.
    She leaves, swallowed into the night.
    Despondent, like the Moon, the bereft mother weeps,
    And stands behind the window.
    The red tail-lights fade.
    She misses her grown-up-but-not-quite kid, already.

  36. John Pupo

    Quarter to 2 in the Morning

    Light pollution crawls out
    from the cityscape, wrapping
    its tendrils along the suburbs,
    gently grazing the countryside
    with a new definition of
    purple haze.

    It’s that time of the morning
    where vision gets locked;
    lines in the center of the road
    mesmerize, causing reflection
    both physically and mentally.

  37. Gretchen Gersh Whitman

    PAD 2011- April 9
    Prompt: Time of day

    11:31 PM The writer

    starts with the crescent moon & clear stars
    overhead. The day is folded & carefully
    tucked under pillows. Now is the time to
    unlock drawers with putrid moldy secrets. Where

    nothing is sacred except this time. Where hunter &
    hunted give no mercy. Where sins
    & shame are splayed like sugared fruit in
    a silver bowl on a gold brocade banquet table.
    A feast for the three tongued serpent.

    She is voracious, never satisfied. She
    could be a serial killer slithering along
    a beach. Or a mild mannered detective in
    hot pursuit of clues, who stops to
    pick up a lipstick coated cigarette butt,
    track dogs barking. She keeps

    tapping away. All she ever wants
    is for you to turn the page. She is after
    something you dream but when awake
    forget. Something that slips away in
    the fog that you always remember.

    But can’t quite put your finger on it.

    Gretchen Gersh Whitman

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