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2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 10

Categories: November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2011, Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog.
November 10, 2011 | Robert Lee Brewer | Comments: 278

After writing your poems today, we’ll be a third of the way through this challenge. While I know some poets are just warming up, there are others who need encouragement to keep going. You can do it (and have been doing it): one poem at a time.

For today’s prompt, write a different perspective poem. There are a few ways a poet can tackle this one. First, write a poem from a different physical perspective–like from the top of a building or at the bottom of a hole or in the trunk of a car. Another possibility is to write from a different person’s (or animal’s or object’s) perspective–a tactic that has interesting results in fiction (think Grendel or Wicked). If you have an even different perspective on this than me, feel free to roll with it.

Here’s my attempt:

“Fish”

but you don’t understand
the way we worried, the way

we hurried here & there
without a care for ourselves

(we never care for ourselves)
or what might happen if

the water were to dry up
& leave us all flopping.

*****

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278 Responses to 2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 10

  1. Walt Wojtanik says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:27 am

    TASTES LIKE CHICKEN

    Look at those poulets
    strutting around like their eggs don’t stink,
    I’m on the brink of flipping out
    and ripping them a new one.
    That black one over there…
    she wants me to, I can tell…
    the speckled one near the fence…
    oh, yeah, I’m talking to you…
    the hell with it… I’m going to do it.
    Creeping. Silent, Stealthily
    getting ready to pounce…
    SQUIRREL!!!!!!

  2. Joseph Harker says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:29 am

    The Bodhi Tree

    When They walk pradakshina around Her gnarled trunk
    teeming with singing insects and the calls of yellow birds,
    They are opening Their heart baskets and lifting up honor
    and joy, letting Their prayers drip and glisten like honey

    for it was here that He sat with his eyes fixed, His breath
    curling in whorls around His nostrils until he understood
    why She grew the way She did, doing computations
    along the cell walls, the very fibers of Her long branches

    so that sense could be made of chaos with nourishing
    green beauty, and His spirit rose up facefirst to the clouds
    (which is what They hope for), but They don’t realize
    that the feathered tips of Her leaves were already waiting there

    brushing His head when He arrived, which was the second
    Enlightenment, that the first one They creak and cry for
    is the ordinary one, that She (and the birds and the insects)
    have always known, but were waiting for Someone to see it.

  3. maxie2 says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:29 am

    OVERCAST

    I am tired of morphing into what you want
    to see.
    You—laying there on the prickly lawn,
    pointing at me, calling me cotton candy—
    you all look the same from up here!

    I will be myself: fluffy or cumulus
    or sparse or thick or foreboding.
    Just stop making me out to be
    a puppy.

  4. Linda Rhinehart Neas says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:32 am

    Looking Back Through Time

    The yesterdays stack up so neatly
    Things done out of duty
    Things done out of fear
    Things done for love
    Thing done with the hope of love
    Things done mindlessly
    Things done with the deliberateness
    of the most wise
    Yet,
    Nowhere is found
    The joy of total acceptance
    The grace of absolute support
    The peace of constant gentleness
    For this,
    A different perspective is needed
    Turn, face the future
    Step into today – begin

  5. Jerry Walraven says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:37 am

    “Why we have more than sight”

    Lying on my back,
    under a tree,
    in the woods,
    wanting to capture
    the perfect image
    of a leaf in descent.
    It seems important
    to try and focus
    on one leaf
    among millions.
    That there is something
    one flight
    against blue sky
    can say.
    But warm sun
    distracts me,
    begging me
    to close my eyes
    and listen
    to the woods
    whisper
    and sigh.
    I can hear
    the sound of leaf
    on leaf
    as they crash
    to the ground
    with all the force
    they can muster.
    A slip of sound,
    never noticed,
    perhaps
    only imagined.

  6. Walt Wojtanik says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:40 am

    VISIONS AND PERSPECTIVES

    I know you’re out there.
    There is no doubt you exist.
    I’ve never seen you. But you
    become a welcomed thought,
    and sustaining presence
    in this world of madness.
    There is a gladness in my mind
    that I find solace in imagining your face.
    There is a sureness in my stride
    that I can’t hide because it becomes me.
    There is a connection that gets made,
    a tethering that gives life; an umbilical
    that sustains life and resuscitates.
    There is a warmth that radiates knowing
    that this internal glowing is a product
    of all that resides in these words we proffer.
    I offer all of that to your influence,
    a confluence of like hearts and minds.
    It looks pretty good from here.
    I know you’re out there.

  7. JanetRuth says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:47 am

    Povery-stricken

    Desperately poor are those who live

    Driven by hunger for things

    Desperately poor, who do not give

    Blinded by selfish wanting

    Desperately poor; the heart, cold, vile

    Turning a hard, deafened ear

    To the anguished cry of mother and child

    With no food or clothes to wear

    Desperately poor, the one who seeks

    Treasure of moth-eaten strings

    Desperately poor, the fool-hearted thief

    Bound by the hunger of things

    Janet Martin

  8. JanetRuth says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:48 am

    oops, I intended- Poverty-stricken

  9. Genevieve Fitzgerald says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:51 am

    Day 10 – taking a different perspective

    When the pulsing world tires me beyond fatigue, with its human failures
    There is the world of color and light
    And beyond that, silence and dark
    And then blinding and deafening eternity before which a longing for commitment here takes on a most fearsome aspect
    Or there is, blinding and deafening, a void in the face of which all complaints about here are demeaned
    Or

  10. Nancy Posey says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:53 am

    Vicarious

    I understand vicarious living, losing myself
    between the pages of books. First I am plain
    Jane, then Jean Rhys turns me into Bertha,
    on the edge of madness. I keep my secrets
    deep beneath the scarlet A with Hester,
    and close Miss Havisham’s door, ignoring
    the mice nibbling the crumbling cake.
    With pity and fear, I wash blood-spotted
    hands, half mad from loss of sleep, then
    wonder why I must fly, no wrong done,
    bearing blame with both Scottish lords.
    From the window of my small rental,
    I spy Gatsby, staring longingly at the light
    burning green across the sound. Gene’s
    dilemma plagues me: Did I jostle the limb
    or not? Why then do I forget to look up
    from my books, to see you across the room,
    waiting for me to make time to ask you
    about your day, to look you in the eyes?

  11. Justine Hemmestad says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:55 am

    Elizabeth’s Shadow (Prisoner in the Tower)

    Locked in a tower,
    Her red hair flowing long,
    Little older than a child.
    Woven in by fingers of iron,
    She inscribes her name
    on the cold uneven stone,
    beside her mother’s -
    the signature “Elizabeth,”
    foreseeing the regality of her reign.
    Beckoned by a meek man’s call,
    she passes through the wooden cell door,
    Led by three shaven guards older than she,
    To the darkened, hauntingly dripping canal
    From wince she had first come, nestled
    In creaking wooden boat, stuffed between guards:
    Fearless over a river flowing of blood,
    Muddy and high; she cast
    Her question upon echoing steps –
    “Wherefore shall I pray?”
    Soldiers and guards on bended knee,
    Stricken with her calm demeanor,
    Chant, “God save your voice.”
    Lowering her ingestive gaze
    To the soldiers bowed upon stone,
    Elizabeth’s fate was as their Queen.
    Stark and hidden dusty protest,
    Within the folds of her blue dress -
    But forget not – she was heir.
    Candle flame, streaming with wax,
    Denied its luminance upon her
    Within prison hall and condemned name.
    Starve her, shun her, conceal her glow -
    Yet, she rest on being true Queen -
    A knowledge sustained by her imminent shadow,
    Following her, bowing to her in reverence –
    Cast lonely upon stone, secluded,
    known only to her –
    for she is Elizabeth.

  12. annell says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:56 am

    A Work of Art
    I was created lovingly
    By hand by the master
    Whose family has done the same
    Since the Edo period.

    One day I was stacked and wrapped
    And traveled many miles
    Across oceans
    And when the package was opened
    I was in the desert

    I was lovingly put away
    The drawer closed
    Alone in the dark
    I wondered
    What would become of me

    Days later
    The drawer opened
    The light was very bright
    A hand stroked across my face
    I was then lifted
    From my resting place
    Together
    A work of art was created

  13. taratyler says:
    November 10, 2011 at 10:17 am

    The Fly on the Wall
     
    I hear the plots,
    The plans, the schemes.
     
    I see the thoughts
    Acted out, the dreams
    Carried out, the masks
    Fought about, the tasks
    Forgot about.
     
    I see the tears,
    The sadness, the woe.
     
    I smell the fears
    Of failing to go
    On sailing ahead,
    And wailing of dread,
    Arms flailing
     
    The best thing I smell
    Is happiness baking
     
    Sweet good news to tell
    Hear joyous noise-making
    And boistrous hee haws
    Midst anxious guffaws
    Such curious 

    Creatures

  14. a.paige says:
    November 10, 2011 at 10:22 am

    I usually write on the kitchen table where my red beta, Mr. Red, who’s now gone, sat, or swam rather, in his bowl. I’ve always intended to write a children’s book based on his perspective, which I’ve actually written the intro for, but had put aside for various reasons, or distractions, to put it more aptly. So when I read today’s prompt and Robert’s “Fish”, I instantly knew what to write about. The poem isn’t exactly an admission on my part, as someone else was responsible for changing Mr. Red’s water once a week, though I shared in the feeding and ogling.
    :)

    Prisoner

    So lovely, you say
    while you pierce the glass wall
    with your flighty, odd stares
    directed right at me.
    So I wiggle my fins here,
    in this tiny containment,
    this murky containment,
    you label a fishbowl.

    The last time you fed me
    and dropped a few pellets
    was hours ago,
    they tasted quite nasty!
    Six weeks have passed since
    the last time you changed it—
    this water I suffer
    is really quite putrid!

    So please do consider
    before you come over,
    don’t flash me your smile
    without really seeing
    you’ve kept me imprisoned
    without my permission,
    would have gladly declined
    and remained in my ocean.

  15. pomodoro says:
    November 10, 2011 at 10:23 am

    The Girlfriend

    I can’t take it, she says,
    meeting on the sly,
    out here in the woods,
    away from town.
    Roots in my hair,
    leaves in my shoes,
    scratches all over me.
    Henry, peel me off this tree
    I am so Thoreau with you.

  16. jane hoover says:
    November 10, 2011 at 10:28 am

    Unsatisfied

    remembering that commercial
    my name chosen
    from so many other possibilities
    me the focus
    plastering without a hand
    ~my clips all over your TV screen~
    in only thirty seconds
    getting more action
    than most do in a month

    Still last week she came
    took me home with her
    returned to my invention
    lifting, pressing me
    again and again
    opening from time to time
    to fill my core
    her hand-smooth touch
    over and over

    I sit here silent now
    the whole day
    an entire week
    doing nothing
    except wondering
    when will she come again
    when will I be satisfied

    with this higher purpose
    to which I have been called
    doing more than holding tight
    more ~ causing all
    to recall the place to go
    to fulfill their needs

    Jane Penland Hoover
    November 10, 2011

    PAD #10
    From another view

  17. Andrew Kreider says:
    November 10, 2011 at 10:30 am

    Outrage

    It’s not about me,
    I’m just the ball you punt
    as far as you can.
    Outrage is your sport – do you
    even care that I can’t sleep?

  18. a.paige says:
    November 10, 2011 at 10:32 am

    Wish I could stick around the whole day and read everyone’s poem, since there are so much I’ve missed already. But I’m afraid I’d just have to play catch up again later. Thanks to all the encouraging comments and my apologies for not having responded.

  19. Connie Peters says:
    November 10, 2011 at 10:35 am

    I guess all my poems this month fit in this prompt since they are written from my character’s point of view. But this one is my character writing from her dog’s point of view.

    From Bella’s Point of View

    You wake up in the morning
    thanking God for your blessings.
    You feed me and then say,
    “Sorry, I can’t take you with me.
    They won’t let you in museums.”
    But when you come back in the evening
    we take a walk in the park
    or run along the beach together.
    You rejoice in delicious meals
    and toss me the best bites.
    But when we go back
    to the large doghouse
    on wheels, you open
    up that glowing metal thing.
    You sigh and say,
    “I’ve been dumped twice.”
    And I lick your salty tears.
    It’s the best I can do.

  20. Marie Elena says:
    November 10, 2011 at 10:35 am

    Winter Tree’s Fall from Grace
    (ovijello)

    Why do your once-fond eyes convey
    foul play?
    Do you believe it was assault?
    My fault?
    Know my crowing glory did release
    in peace.
    Come longer days, and sun’s ensuing thaw,
    My splendor will return
    As you now yearn,
    Then once again you’ll look at me in awe.

    Sara McNulty inspired me to try an ovillejo. I’m not sure I fully understand the form’s rules, so I’m not certain I followed them to a “t.” If anyone sees any mistakes, please speak up. Can’t wait to read this evening! LOVE this prompt, Robert!

  21. leatherdykeuk says:
    November 10, 2011 at 10:40 am

    Remote Viewing

    My earliest memory
    is of my mother holding my hand
    on the first day of infant’s school.

    I would have been five,
    already able to read
    weaned on ladybirds and Blyton
    and the incomplete set of encyclopedias
    my mother bought from a jumble sale.

    The curious thing about the scene
    is that I remember it
    as if I was looking down from a spot
    a dozen feet above my right shoulder.

    White socks and new shoes
    against the playground tarmac
    and the pink-and-yellow path

    And my mother in her best faux-fur
    holding my hand.

  22. Walt Wojtanik says:
    November 10, 2011 at 11:03 am

    IN THEIR SHOES

    Step by step, the journey begins. Strangers at this writing, but I know
    the struggles you encounter are many. If any woman or man
    insists they are aware, when they’ve never been there, well, I’m sorry.
    Your story well neglected, should be projected for the world
    to see. There may be bleeding hearts, but that never solves your plight.
    It would be right for them to learn…

    You are the young widowed mother who just learned
    her heroic husband killed in Afghanistan, will never know
    the child you bears. You stare at a photograph; it lightens
    your heart, but you start to cry, not knowing why the man
    who meant everything to you, was taken. He had given much to the world
    without so much as a “Thank you” to him, or to you, an “I’m Sorry!”

    You are the seasoned Grandfather sitting near the window, your sorry
    existence in the nursing home has left you alone and scared. It was learned
    your Alzheimer’s Disease has advanced and your family and your world
    are non-existent memories. Gazing blankly at things you once knew
    makes no impression. And your depression grows. You’ve become that man
    who dimly sits where once your presence provided great light.

    You are the bullied young teen, sitting in a light-less
    room. Your struggle with your life corrodes internally. You are sorry
    to be a “burden”. You hate that you are such an easy mark. You are a young man
    unsure of his sexuality and searching for an identity. You hope to learn
    that people are forgiving and understanding, if they only knew
    that you were a rash decision away from leaving this world.

    You are the woman who sits huddled with her young children whose world
    came crashing down around them. You have nowhere to stay. Your only light
    shines from the street lamp outside the city mission. You know
    your condition plays out nationwide, but you hide your pride, sorry
    you cannot provide what your kids need. You wish you could learn
    of a way to step out of your destitution. You are a battered, broken woman.

    So, before fingers point or hushed whispers glare, be there. Be the kind of woman or man
    who takes the plight of the world
    to your heart. It is only when we start to learn
    of their wants and needs that we will indeed be the beacon bright, the light
    that will show them that they are not forgotten. They should not apologize; not be sorry
    that life has handed them an unplayable hand. In remembering them, they’ll know.

    Know your fellow man.
    This world belongs to all who possess it, no one should be sorry his or her lives shine less bright.
    Learn to love as you have been loved. Help change their plight. Walk that mile.

  23. Earl Parsons says:
    November 10, 2011 at 11:07 am

    Looking Down

    More obvious by the minute
    More desperate by the day
    More telling by their actions
    More worrisome than ever

    On the surface so blatant
    Why can’t they all see
    The selfishness and greed
    Tearing decency to shreds
    Taking all that was good
    And labeling it bad
    While all that is bad
    Being held up as good
    Up and down, left and right
    No one going forward any more
    Everyone walking their own path

    No more unity
    No more dedication
    No more compassion
    No more cooperation
    No more connection
    No more respect
    No more forgiveness
    No more love for all
    No more belief in God

    We knew this would happen
    It was predicted long ago
    So we’re not at all surprised
    Just that it came this soon
    And without a decent fight
    From those that claim
    To follow us

    So the question arises
    How much longer do we wait
    How much more do we
    Let our children suffer
    How much longer will
    Inhumanity rule the day

    We’d better tell everyone to
    Watch the Eastern sky
    For the day is approaching

  24. Sibella says:
    November 10, 2011 at 11:18 am

    Why I Put Sugar and Cream in It
    (by someone who is not me)

    “I believe,” says Pam, on her high horse,
    “that bagels should be savory,
    that breasts and noses should be natural,
    and that coffee should taste like coffee.”

    I wonder whether she watches the news:
    kidnappings, financial crises, Kardashians.
    I wonder whether her dreams are sweet lies.
    I wonder whether she lacks taste.

    In this already polluted world, this dark fantasy
    where so few things are real, where even
    ugliness stands in for beauty, where’s the harm
    in adding sweetness where you can?

    Pamela Murray Winters

  25. Earl Parsons says:
    November 10, 2011 at 11:27 am

    Boots

    Boots laced high and tight
    Double looped on top
    With BDUs tucked
    Sand blasted dull black
    Brushed and shined each night
    Or whenever possible
    If possible

    Tread worn from the hot desert
    Trudging through wastelands
    Over hills of gravel and rock

    Safety toes frayed from rifle butts
    Kicking down doors
    And dragging while prone

    A smell of sweat soaked leather
    From days of intense heat
    And nights of extreme cold
    Long, difficult days and nights

    A boot’s life is finite
    Some ending in the trash
    Others packed neatly away

    Too many die in service
    Blood soaked and empty
    Taken off of the brave
    That made the ultimate sacrifice

  26. Shannon Lockard says:
    November 10, 2011 at 11:29 am

    Forgotten

    She frets each day,
    running around as if she has
    more important things to do.
    I’m always in clear view
    and it wouldn’t take but a few
    moments to quench my thirst.
    I perch on this window sill
    and soak up the sun.
    A silent observer,
    my life had just begun
    but no, she could not worry about me
    so I withered.

    If only I’d been a tree.

    • Hannah says:
      November 10, 2011 at 3:44 pm

      Ahhh yes, the sad, forgotten house plant. I used to take such good care of them…before I had babies! Good thing my husband cares about them. ;) Nice one, Shannon!

  27. sjadlow@aol.com says:
    November 10, 2011 at 11:48 am

    The Shower

    11/10/11

    First the guy ripped
    my forty-two-year old
    clouded glass doors off.
    Then he clawed at
    my moldy tile.
    Left me naked to my studs.
    I shivered while he stripped
    my floor away.
    Felt like I didn’t have a leg
    to stand on.
    He even tore the original
    wallpaper from my edges.

    Will I ever be the same?
    On the third day,
    He placed a new onyx floor
    and new beautiful flat panels
    over my denuded studs.
    I even got clear doors.

    Now I can see out
    to my beautiful surroundings.
    I think the humiliation
    was worth it.

  28. PKP says:
    November 10, 2011 at 11:50 am

    Terrific prompt! Back later….to read and write!

  29. Idream2 says:
    November 10, 2011 at 11:55 am

    I find this more difficult than Nano! I thought it would be much easier but IT’S NOT! I am having fun with it and it’s nice to go back and read what I’ve done so far, even if it’s not great.

  30. Pingback: The Distance Between Us | Prose Posies

  31. richard-merlin atwater says:
    November 10, 2011 at 11:59 am

    Perspectives on Life
    Rich Atwater NOv 10, 2011

    Poetry is such an interesting theme,
    Seen from many different angles:
    Life with all its’ perspectives beam
    A radiant outlook, if you avoid the jangles.

    Hence, my own collection of ditty and rhyme
    I call by title: “Perspectives on Life”
    Seen as my own outlook concerning time,
    Circumstance, and all around to mime strife.

  32. Cara Holman says:
    November 10, 2011 at 12:01 pm

    The Distance Between Us

    She tugs at my leash
    all the time-
    walk, she tells me,
    don’t stop
    don’t dawdle
    keep up with me.

    it’s as though she walks with blinders

    The ground is fresh
    with the scents
    of those
    who have passed
    this way before.
    There are leaves to chase,
    thickets
    to explore.

    it’s as though she walks with blinders

    If only I could
    make her see
    that the length
    of the walk
    is not what matters,
    but the breadth.

    it’s as though she walks with blinders

    – Cara Holman

  33. Shannon Lockard says:
    November 10, 2011 at 12:08 pm

    From the Bottom

    From the bottom, there’s nowhere to go but up,
    at least that’s what those at the top would say,
    but try being at the bottom all day.
    The walls are slick,
    each time I begin to climb
    I can’t seem to find more than a few
    crevices.
    A crack here and there
    will only bring me up a few inches
    and then I go
    t
    u
    m
    b
    l
    i
    n
    g
    down all over again.
    So, I can’t think about the top just yet,
    I’m looking for the foot-holes,
    so I can start climbing once more.

  34. barbara_y says:
    November 10, 2011 at 12:13 pm

    This formatting probably won’t hold. Still trying to get what I have in mind, but it is closer on the blog
    http://31poems.wordpress.com/2011/11/10/pad-day-10-prompt-perspective/

    Dali and Freud

    always show something in the picture
    like a dollar or a dime
    for the perspective buyer
    anon: tips for using eBay

    Dali and Freud
    moustache and pointed beard
    find themselves together

    perhaps they are in line
    for tickets to Harry Potter
    or seated side by side in a tiny delicatessen
    dense with the aromas of kraut, pastrami,
    and onion fried potatoes

    each considers 
    the other’s facial hair…
    a woman has stepped abruptly
    out of a Marx Brothers film (or
    was drawn on the spot by a New Yorker cartoonist)
    furs curl around her face
    like a wreath of steam
    she speaks, querulous and strident, to her companion
    and, indeed, the world at large

    yes, yes
    she says, impatient,
    I understand the money in the painting.
    But why are the gentlemen
    all holding yardsticks?

  35. RobHalpin says:
    November 10, 2011 at 12:34 pm

    Making the Call

    Two years ago, tonight, over the phone
    my mother immortalized these words for me:
    “We’re not going to be morose about this.”
    I know what it’s like to receive the news
    but hadn’t considered her perspective.

    Picking up the phone, dialing the number
    waiting for it to be answered, “Hey, mom.”
    “We’re not going to be morose about this.”
    The strength, the courage, it must have taken
    calmly to tell your son you are dying.

  36. J.lynn Sheridan says:
    November 10, 2011 at 12:52 pm

    “Irish hope”

    She be standing just below star
    level. Her hair brined and tussled,
    woolen shawl snapping against the
    onslaught of British waves.

    I see the blue.

    White-throated terns, necking gently
    on craggy outcroppings arch their bills
    toward the heavens, while black and tan
    seabirds patrol the airwaves and mock
    them with tinny wit.

    It’d be three days now and still she
    waits staring at the beastly waves.

    The sun twitches afore the creepin’
    dusk and the wind be as friendless
    as a bewitched fairy fort.

    I cup my hands to my lips to call her home.

    Day before last, I brought her a
    basket of scones and cheese. I
    could see a yearning, a swarming
    like bees to jam within her eyes
    and I knew I needed to prick her
    ears.

    “Love, the Irish sea is like a torrid
    love affair—bleak and wild as
    a man. The waves churn and
    call your name and it’d as soon kill
    a brawny man let alone a budding
    girl just as soon as you offer it
    your naked limbs. Now come
    on home where ye belong. There’s
    no hope out here.”

    I stepped in front of her to veil her
    from the tossing lies that urged her
    to believe and

    I see the green.

    It’s buffered with tattooed sheep
    bleating on bearded acres of peat
    and ancient crosses.

    The sun plunged under the current
    and a rustling shot up my spine. I
    spun to face her and now I could
    barely make out the terns, separating,
    swooping, diving, scooping silt and fish,
    fading like breath.

    I wrapped me shawl tighter, waiting. When
    she finally spoke I had to lean away from
    the bite of the wind into the choke of her
    words, dainty like china teacups and I
    feared I had shattered her heart.

    She pushed a frayed lock from her
    proud eyes and said only,

    “Ye be gazing at the wrong shoreline, ma,”

    But, it was more like a song
    quivering like wings against hope.

  37. Mark Windham says:
    November 10, 2011 at 1:12 pm

    Will Work For Food

    I despise this
    sign

    and all that it
    means.

    tired of gas fumes
    rain,

    cold, heat and spare
    change.

    mostly, I hate how
    you

    will go to great
    lengths

    to avoid my
    eyes.

  38. barton smock says:
    November 10, 2011 at 1:13 pm

    ***
    understudy
    ***

    old one eye.
    a third leg.
    names that raise
    the blood.

    stunt double
    for what is
    cameo.

    not a dreamer.

  39. Patricia Anne McGoldrick says:
    November 10, 2011 at 1:22 pm

    SHOPPING CART WITH A VIEW

    I was in the middle, see.

    Mary was 85
    shopped at our store
    before I was born

    Mary always looked for me
    the cart with the special high trays
    for groceries

    Mary was independent
    shopped every Monday
    got all the specials

    but this week
    she seemed to move slower
    after shopping

    walked up the sloping pavement
    to her car
    put the groceries in the trunk
    turned me around
    to go back to the shopping cart stall

    all done for another week but, then,
    she tripped
    lost her grip on my handle bar
    let me go
    so, there I was,
    rolling at full speed

    Mary tried to run & catch me
    but she fell
    while I careened into
    a smooth, shiny black SUV

    Mary struggled
    pushed herself up
    walked over to retrieve me

    Shaken, she reached
    towards me, when
    a sleekly dressed
    forty-something
    approached her
    shouting
    “Did you hit my car?”

    There wasn’t anything
    that I could do as she
    lambasted Mary

    I was only a stainless steel
    thousand dollar
    shopping cart.

    • Patricia Anne McGoldrick says:
      November 10, 2011 at 7:50 pm

      Robert — such a great prompt about perspective.

      This gave a chance to write about something that I observed from several car lengths away in a parking lot on Monday. The shopping cart “saw it all” from right in the middle of two human beings.
      It has been festering on my mind, and writing about it is my usual way to work things out.
      Thanks for such well-timed prompt!

  40. Marianv says:
    November 10, 2011 at 1:25 pm

    A Predator Remembers

    As the darkness fades from the night
    I place my paws on the windowsill
    And watch the still sleeping yard.
    Once my tail would be twitching
    In anticipation of entering this magic
    Period between darkness and dawn.
    Even now, stiffened by mishaps and age
    My body still draws itself into a lean,
    hungry missile ready tp pounce at
    the slightest disturbance in the dew-
    covered grass. Even through this
    closed window I can hear the morning
    songs of robins and sparrows, eager to
    greet the day while my mouth salivates
    in remembrance of a fresh kill. I think
    to myself “someday”… though I know
    most of somedays of my nine lives have
    disdappeared. I will be a kitten no
    more.

    The room grows lighter and my people
    Are still asleep. “Wake up, people!”
    Morning is here I Am hungry!”

  41. Kit Cooley says:
    November 10, 2011 at 1:35 pm

    Her Highness (at 4 a.m.)

    Lazy creatures curled up in bed,
    Unaware and careless
    That there is a spot of silver
    Showing in the bowl.
    They don’t seem to realize
    What an honor
    I bestow upon them.
    I suppose that I must teach
    These slothful beasts,
    And place dainty, but sharp,
    Pink toes between each rib.
    Get up, servants, and serve me
    My breakfast kibble.

  42. posmic says:
    November 10, 2011 at 1:46 pm

    No Evil

    I’ve heard the rumors; we all have.
    I tell you, it’s a crying shame.
    The two of them have given
    so much to this church, the children,
    over all these years, and now these
    ugly stories spread like an oil slick,
    like a puddle of filth, to trouble
    their old age. Howard’s health
    is not the best; Mary June trembles
    each time Howard is brought in
    for pastoral counseling because
    another child has told a made-up
    story, probably gathered from
    jokes they’ve heard, or things
    on TV; some parents let children
    watch anything these days. I say,
    let’s look at those parents. Why is it
    that their children spread such lies?
    If any of it had happened—a kiss
    in the church kitchen, touching
    on the choir bus—we would have
    known. We were right there, always;
    we would have seen, or the children
    would have yelled. But we saw nothing,
    heard nothing, spoke nothing. There was
    nothing to speak of as the bus drove on.

  43. Sitka Larry says:
    November 10, 2011 at 1:50 pm

    Seagulls

    The sea is gray like the stones that sit at the foot of the world.
    The sky is dark and limned in purple hues; certain storm sign.
    The air is cold and heavy, but warmer and lighter than the sea
    The almost visible horizon is an open line as wide as the world.

    Dancing within the dark and light, birds are minor reminders
    That the world is life and so is the threatening sea and sky.
    Poised above the chaos, echoes of the horizon’s wide line
    They wait for the storm to churn new life out of the cold stone sea.

  44. Benjamin Thomas says:
    November 10, 2011 at 1:55 pm

    Good one to start us off Robert.
    Now comes the fun part!

  45. Leo says:
    November 10, 2011 at 2:20 pm

    Loneliness in victory

    :) My Day 10 attempt, from a different perspective!

  46. Benjamin Thomas says:
    November 10, 2011 at 2:21 pm

    Survival

    Hungry.
    Scared.
    Upset.
    I wish these idiots
    Would slow down
    People don’t know
    How to drive around here
    Just give me one opening…
    I think I can make it…
    Gettin’ cold.
    Last week
    Best friend
    Got hit by a bus
    Fifty six passenger
    Didnt stand a chance
    Poor Tommy
    Trying to survive
    In this crazy world
    Me too
    Don’t they know
    I’m just a squirrel
    Trying to get the
    Next nut?

  47. Shannon Lockard says:
    November 10, 2011 at 2:39 pm

    Please forgive the double post. I wanted to try something to see if I could preserve the formatting of my poem…

    From the Bottom

    From the bottom, there’s nowhere to go but up,
    at least that’s what those at the top would say,
    but try being at the bottom all day.
    The walls are slick,
    each time I begin to climb
    I can’t seem to find more than a few
    crevices.
    A crack here and there
    will only bring me up a few inches
    and then I go
    t
    u
    m
    b
    l
    i
    n
    g
    down all over again.
    So, I can’t think about the top just yet,
    I’m looking for the foot-holes,
    so I can start climbing once more.

  48. Mom6 says:
    November 10, 2011 at 2:44 pm

    Unglorified

    Unglorified, plain as can be
    But every home has a bunch of me
    No one seems to notice me, unless I don’t work
    I’m unrecognized, but full of great worth
    For even though I am terribly plain
    Without me folks would have plenty of pain
    I am the reason they can sit at a table
    Work at a desk and do what they’re able
    From my point of view, it’s pretty clear
    Folks need me to hold up their rear

  49. Sitka Larry says:
    November 10, 2011 at 3:00 pm

    We Meet Again

    There you are again.
    Staring at me like you so often do.
    Sometimes the stare seems so unaware
    as if you don’t even know who I am.

    Here we are again, face to face.
    You look me in the eye,
    for the millionth time
    dead straight in the eye. Again.

    I try to look away.
    I try to turn away from the lock
    our eyes have on each other.
    But I fail utterly.

    You captivate me utterly
    every damn time we meet.
    You, standing there, wherever it is
    Me, here in the mirror, looking back.

  50. Shannon Lockard says:
    November 10, 2011 at 3:05 pm

    Husband and Wife

           We met when we were young
    I was the one who fell
                   I had to be pushed
    But finally I persuaded
                   Tired of fighting, I gave in.
            But now we’re both stuck
            So, we better make the bed we lay in.

    (I wrote this to play with formatting. I hope it works.)

    • Shannon Lockard says:
      November 10, 2011 at 3:07 pm

      Husband and Wife

                  We met when we were young
      I was the one who fell
                              I had to be pushed
      But finally I persuaded
                             Tired of fighting, I gave in.
              But now we’re both stuck
                  So, we better make the bed we lay in.

      Still playing with format, forgive me.

      • Shannon Lockard says:
        November 10, 2011 at 3:08 pm

        Husband and Wife

                    We met when we were young
        I was the one who fell
                                        I had to be pushed
        But finally I persuaded
                                        Tired of fighting, I gave in.
                    But now we’re both stuck
                    So, we better make the bed we lay in.

        (last time)

  51. PKP says:
    November 10, 2011 at 3:14 pm

    Side by Side

    In the dark – pillowing his face in satin nubs of angel’s wings
    Velvet accommodation to his nibbling lips
    Promising as always safe passage through the night
    He shifts, sighs and slips a hand around the waist grown
    Fuller, gentler, all angles erased
    Softly, softly, he burrows, sighs and sleeps

    Grabbing at her touching her in all the places
    Gone to fat
    Reveling in her shame
    She stares
    Awake in the wake of his
    Cavalier cruelty

  52. Bruce Niedt says:
    November 10, 2011 at 3:15 pm

    Squirrels

    Please look out for us this time of year,
    we are in such a bloody hurry.
    You have your pantries and refrigerators
    and a stock of food for the winter,
    but we are dashing back and forth,
    often crossing streets, to collect and hoard
    as many acorns as we can find,
    before the ground freezes and turns white.
    We skitter through crunchy leaves, digging up
    treasures to carry back to the nest.
    Too often, your big wheels catch us in mid-lope
    and splay our bodies on the pavement,
    a little trickle of blood from our mouths.
    So please be considerate – we’re rushing
    to beat the season as much as you are.
    Watch for our bushy tails, autumn’s nervous flags
    whenever they dart cross your path.

  53. bluerabbit47 says:
    November 10, 2011 at 3:17 pm

    Eagle

    Thin winter
    air under
    my wings,
    I adjust my
    tail to circle
    the frozen
    pond, eyeing
    the snowy
    shore, is
    that an unwary
    rabbit? The
    hunger, ever
    the hunger,
    Dive!

  54. Nimue says:
    November 10, 2011 at 3:27 pm

    Its not easy my lady,
    when your heart interferes,
    sending mixed signals,
    to my busy messengers -
    i know i must not speak,
    but heart wants to blabber;
    I know you wish to ignore
    or do you prefer your heart ?
    Decide will you ? or this goes on -
    heart and me, me and heart
    in a battle forever, over you, over all.

  55. Hannah says:
    November 10, 2011 at 3:28 pm

    ~LEARNING~

    You’re here again
    taking me from my dark home,
    a large brown paper bag,
    removing me from the bunch.
    Somehow your hand
    always manages
    to find again
    me
    the bad one
    the “bad apple.”
    Maybe this time you’ll learn
    to remove me from the equation
    lest you chance again
    upon
    me
    the “bad apple.”
    A bad habit
    attitude,
    addiction,
    the pity me story
    you cling to,
    anger,
    resentment
    again you dabble
    a needless already learned battle.

    Learning again…

    Dulled beyond belief
    I’ll hold never
    an edge that would ever
    pierce
    cut the apple, vegetable or meat.
    But yet you leave me here
    poised and ready in the chopping block
    fit for failure,
    finding again
    a useless tool
    a past over-reaction
    fit of depression
    discovery of a way that will never work
    if you ever
    want
    to be
    happy.
    Extract what
    doesn’t
    work.

  56. Pingback: PAD Day #10: Prompt: Perspective | 31poems

  57. Dan Collins says:
    November 10, 2011 at 3:55 pm

    I Love You to a Point

    Though you hold me expectantly,
    I do not love you the way you love me.
    Yet under pressure of your gaze, I feel
    I can become almost anything
    you can dream of.
    I am waiting for you, as you wait for me.
    Haltingly at first, you trace me.
    I can tell by the light scratches
    and the tiny jerk of your fingers
    that you are unsure as to how this will end.
    Upended, I am undone, again and again
    only to have you move me
    in restless circles once more.
    I am like the ship I was meant to be,
    a vessel of wood, polishing the flat
    white surface of a virgin sea.
    That is the way you like me: stiff sailed
    with your exquisite flight of fantasy.
    You push me further and further and
    finding the tempest you are lost.
    You are too rough. You wear me down,
    orange and grey. But I try hard
    2b what is needed, and not break prematurely.

  58. Hannah says:
    November 10, 2011 at 3:55 pm

    ~UNSEEN~

    His little voice cracks
    heart splinters
    he lets out a whisper
    “Daddy look at me.”
    One crystalline tear
    rolls to reach his jaw-line
    to drop
    unnoticed.

  59. Gregory says:
    November 10, 2011 at 3:56 pm

    ‘Unappreciated’

    Since your existence
    I’ve been there
    Stood right by your side
    And you neglected me
    Showed me no attention
    But I never left

    Amplified myself
    To shield your flaws
    I bore all your pains
    When no one seem to care

    And you never said a word to me
    You never acknowledge my presence
    when the sun sizzled
    I enduring the burns with you
    Weathered the storms with you
    Caught the teardrops from your eyes

    Not once did I receive a thank you
    But that’s ok
    Cause we are attached, you and I

    So if you never said thank you
    Let me express my gratitude
    For you are the cause of my existence
    I thrive for you to wake
    For it causes me to flight
    And though it might seem I’m not there
    I’m with you…24/7
    And I will still go on
    With you by my side

    Yours Truly,
    Shadow

  60. Jane Shlensky says:
    November 10, 2011 at 4:12 pm

    Bull Flight

    Never trust a matador with a shiny apple.
    That other hand behind his back holds
    Sharp and carries hurt. They feed us
    Well to make us strong and beautiful,
    Glossy, dangerous, rippling as we run
    Around the arenas, our horns polished,
    Our hoofs thundering in the sand that will
    Blot our blood after he’s taunted us
    A while and made us imagine that cape
    As his own hateful blood spraying the air.

    We’re little more than bovine gladiators,
    The brawn they cheer to slaughter,
    Our deaths a blood sport for them.
    Sure, we could stampede, but to where?
    Or go on hunger strike, but then
    We die with no day in the sunny arena, prancing.
    Perhaps if we’re chosen for a little street rumble
    With these hecklers, chasing them down long streets,
    A little trample here, a gore and fling there,
    But that’s winning the sweepstakes in this corral.

  61. Jane Shlensky says:
    November 10, 2011 at 4:17 pm

    New Fangled

    The grasshoppers ricochet
    in tall grass nearby,
    forgetting that my body is
    a goose neck of stretch and flash,
    sleek muscle and keen eyes.
    I’m on them before they can say
    Jiminy Cricket.

    Those silly lightning bugs
    playing twinkle tag around me
    are a sparkling appetizer
    before my chipmunk entrée.
    Nice meal and then a nap
    here on this flat rock,
    sun-heated and same-colored.

    Who knows, maybe a canoodle
    With that orchard ground snake.
    The air getting cool, the world
    A garden at harvest, paradise.
    Fellows like me just love the Fall.

  62. PKP says:
    November 10, 2011 at 4:51 pm

    Side by Side

    In the dark, pillowing his face in satin flesh of angel’s wings ~ Grabbing at her touching each place
    Velvet accommodation to his nibbling lips ~ Gone to fat
    Promising as always safe passage through the night ~ Reveling in her shame
    He shifts, sighs and slips a hand around the waist grown ~ She stares in the empty night
    Fuller, gentler, all angles erased ~ Humiliated aging hostage
    soft, comfort of years loved well ~ of his calculated cavalier cruelty
    he burrows, sighs and sleeps ~ awake

    had a few minutes tried to print this side by side …apologies if it does not “take”

  63. PKP says:
    November 10, 2011 at 4:52 pm

    YUCK did not work…. Oh well will post at my site… Gone are the days of being able to “see” what we were posting and eliminate wasting YOUR time… APOLOGIES…

  64. Domino says:
    November 10, 2011 at 5:01 pm

    Sour Apples

    My favorite place
    at my great-grandma’s
    was in the yard
    and up the apple tree.

    It gave small, sour,
    hard green apples
    and they were
    only good for
    feeding the horse
    in the pasture next door.

    But there was a branch
    that jutted out
    just
    so.

    And with my book,
    I would perch in that
    perfect spot
    with a pillow
    and one of those
    awful apples
    and read
    until it was
    too dark to see.

    I was routinely
    transported
    to Pemberly
    or Tarzan’s jungle
    or aboard the Nautilus
    or beyond the stars
    or to the center of the earth
    or in Ali Baba’s cave.

    Open sesame!

    Diana Terrill Clark

  65. Domino says:
    November 10, 2011 at 5:05 pm

    Multiple Uses

    To us a tree
    something we use.
    It is for making paper
    or for landscaping,
    or to use to build a bonfire,
    or for making boards
    and furniture
    or floors.

    Trees produce fruits
    and are good to build
    a treehouse in sometimes.

    And who doesn’t love
    Christmas trees?

    But to a bird,
    a tree is the right place
    for a nest.

    To a squirrel,
    a tree is
    a playground they like best.

    To an inchworm,
    it is a mighty long
    crawl.

    To a woodpecker,
    it is a larder and a
    very comfy wall.

    To a termite,
    it is an endless supply
    of food.

    To a bee,
    that hollow place
    for a hive is good.

    For a bear cub
    it is the place to be
    in time-out.

    And for the starlings
    in my yard
    it’s just the place to shout.

  66. a.paige says:
    November 10, 2011 at 5:09 pm

    Couldn’t help but think about how children victimized by sexual abuse, are forever changed.

    It was my fault.

    How did I get there?
    I just went for a ride.
    Mother okayed it,
    she worked late on most nights.
    Coach was always so kind,
    Dad was nowhere in sight.

    How did I get there?
    I just went for a ride.
    He was being so nice
    for nearly no price.
    Except for the dark times
    when he did me much harm.

    But I just could not say things
    that would ruin him, dear.
    I have to consider
    the more critical things.
    Should be easy to do that,
    just swallow my pride.

    Tried to push them away
    from the back of my mind.
    Yet the nightmares resurface,
    as my dreams dissipate.
    I’ve grown from a mere boy
    fed with guilt, shame, and pride.

    I’ve tried to move on with
    the rest of my life.
    Yet the nightmares continue,
    while my dreams dissipate.
    Still I try to make sense of it,
    but mother sinks in deep grief.

    How did I get there?—
    I still ask myself this.
    Why should anyone fault him?—
    no one fed me those fears.
    It must have been me,
    I must have been sick.

  67. Mariya Koleva says:
    November 10, 2011 at 5:26 pm

    phew, this one was hard. some time ago I wrote a poem about the tree I see from my office window. This time I thought it a good idea to write one from the tree’s point of view. Here it is:

    /in the mind of a bare tree branch/

    These skipping movements
    to and fro -
    they make me dizzy
    that’s how my leafage fell away.
    You write your poems
    from over there – your window
    I guess it’s warm and cozy with you inside
    And so, you harness her – your muse
    to dawn on you about my dying.
    I’m kind of hurt you find it
    so romantic.

    © 2011 Mariya Koleva

  68. Peggy says:
    November 10, 2011 at 5:32 pm

    wow! This is soo not like taking a week or two to write a poem! But I’m having fun with this. And I’m enjoying reading what every one else writes.

    The Boy At Dusk

    Instinctively he curled his foot against
    the papery crinkled autumn, feeling, pushing
    through to find the cool, smooth softness underneath,
    then reached to safely navigate the sky
    that dropped these bits of parchment at his feet.
    The voices overhead would speak in rolling
    ripple swells that peaked as hundreds clapping, then
    relieve to wait the second act of crows
    who call and answer dwining as they leave.
    He slowly moved his hand along the trunk
    his fingers falling, rising, every note
    exciting, heightened by the mask of dark,
    and here, at dusk, he knew this one by heart.

  69. Kim King says:
    November 10, 2011 at 5:38 pm

    Coffee Cup

    I like it when she grasps me lightly,
    spinning me around so my good side
    touches her lips. She leaves a pink
    stain on my rim which I hope doesn’t
    get washed. It smells like honey.

  70. ceeess says:
    November 10, 2011 at 5:39 pm

    Cat Walk

    It’s not about the exercise,
    never about the exercise.

    It’s not about the grass either,
    though I can’t pass by those
    succulent blades of green growth,
    the tougher sharper ones
    best for the digestion cleanse

    I don’t aim for carpet, it just rather
    happens that way, particularly when
    you force me back inside too soon.

    It’s about the smells. The fragrant
    odour of sewer and damp dirt.
    The faint whiff of a recent rodent or
    stronger scent of casual cat
    out for an afternoon recon around
    the neighbourhood.

    The black cat, now she smells good
    but the striped tom from across the way
    he just stirs my curios-iteh, makes me
    want to mark the fence, shake a tail
    at it, let loose some feline juice,
    let him know that I’m around, he’s
    not the only kit in town.

    Yeah, it’s all about the smells.

    Carol A. Stephen
    November 10, 2011

  71. Earl Parsons says:
    November 10, 2011 at 5:48 pm

    What You See

    I’ve been posted
    I’ve been hung
    I’ve been flown
    I’ve been burned
    I’ve been shredded
    I’ve been ripped
    I’ve even been shot

    I’ve been loved
    I’ve been reviled
    I’ve been welcomed
    I’ve been balked
    I’ve been draped
    I’ve been honored
    And I’ve honored back

    I’ve been an inspiration in battle
    A sight for sore eyes
    When the battle is over

    I can make you smile
    Or I can make you cry
    Without saying a word

    When you look at me
    You see freedom
    You see liberty
    You see sacrifice
    You see truth
    And you see America

    I am you flag
    Long may I wave

  72. Earl Parsons says:
    November 10, 2011 at 5:54 pm

    You cannot resist
    You’ve had me, now you want me
    I am chocolate

  73. Earl Parsons says:
    November 10, 2011 at 5:57 pm

    What is it with you
    Get up and go for a walk
    Give this couch a break

  74. Earl Parsons says:
    November 10, 2011 at 5:59 pm

    If I stay longer
    In this bag under the sink
    My rot will gag you

  75. viv says:
    November 10, 2011 at 6:39 pm

    The Kielder Gypsy*

    From wandering far,
    windsoaring nobly,
    wearily back to remembered refuge.
    Litter-strewn encampment,
    scruffy pile of sticks:
    I do not belie the reputation of my kind.

    So why?
    Why do they watch me,
    peer at me through telescopes
    and paparazzi lenses?
    Twitchers queueing
    to see what I’m up to.

    Why?
    I’m not here to entertain them.
    I’m just doing my job,
    catching fish while they shop,
    fathering young,
    tending my brood,
    while they abuse.

    Tell them for me
    to live their own lives.
    My life is free,
    while theirs is all chained,
    to places, to things and to greed.

    Tell them, tell them for me,
    to live as I do.
    *The first Osprey to nest on Kielder Water in more than 20 years

  76. ina says:
    November 10, 2011 at 6:47 pm

    How we see

    We are the soul
    of your face. We are still you
    long after age has made lines and
    hanging flesh of the rest. We find for you
    the world, and while we are not
    mirrors of your soul, we reflect the
    air through which you walk, the pool
    in which you swim, the sun
    under which you live and die.

  77. Walt Wojtanik says:
    November 10, 2011 at 6:54 pm

    HEARTSTRINGS

    Stretch me taut,
    and you ought not be surprised
    that I can connect over time
    and space. No trace of stress
    exists for I am strong.
    Heart-to-heart and
    heart and soul, whatever role
    you require, I will aspire
    to become all that you need.
    Pluck me, and the sound is
    a harmony most sweet.
    Pick me and I will represent
    your emotion with a kind
    of devotion resigned to
    a single pulse. Wrap yourself
    with me and feel the strength
    with which I hold you.
    Let me be, and I will be
    at the ready to connect.
    I can not fray or be broken,
    not for a token of your affection.
    For your protection, hold on.
    I will never let you go.

  78. Walt Wojtanik says:
    November 10, 2011 at 7:11 pm

    DIGIT

    Let my touch linger,
    this good and noble finger,
    will imprint your heart.
    It is evidence of a sort.

    Pressed to your lips,
    it asks for silence, but
    feels the burning passion possessed.

    If I point out your flaws
    know that three of my kind
    points out my own.

    I have been known
    to test the waters.
    Or when wet, the cool air outside.

    I can hide in a fist,
    or list a number of things.
    But when I stand beside my friend,

    we can ask for an end
    to conflict and strife.
    A sign of peace, for the rest of your life.

  79. SaraV says:
    November 10, 2011 at 7:17 pm

    No time to do much commenting–a quick scan and lots of smiles, nice work everyone!! :-)

    Burn Notice

    I’m just glowing today
    Feeling bright and full of light
    You, with the umbrella
    Don’t think you can escape me
    I see your toe sticking out
    It’s already turning pink
    Bwahahaha
    Burn, baby, burn

  80. mikeMaher says:
    November 10, 2011 at 7:31 pm

    As a Bag of Leaves

    As a leaf I have no regrets
    except that I was not born a raindrop,
    that is until I look up at where I once was
    and regret the acceptance I learned in just a few months,
    that I met my fate so freely
    instead of turning my belly to the storm a few more times
    before winter.
    But you’re a ceramic blue jay
    and what does a ceramic bird
    know of the sky
    except for what might have been
    and what should be?

  81. taylor graham says:
    November 10, 2011 at 7:34 pm

    DREAM HOUSE

    I gather fox-calls of mourning, owl-cries reamed
    and dawnless, dark tinctured by plenilune sent
    back in reflection of bedroom glass, sleight-of-eye
    triptych on sliding doors, a Victorian chandelier –
    only humans could sleep under all those crystal
    tears, and the fox-cries, waking of the daylight
    hawk over a garden broken loose from its fences
    raided by tooth and cloven hoof in the night and
    every human plan uprooted, plundered. As if they
    could sleep through wildwood’s knock at the back
    door, which I leave open to let slip in their dreams.

  83. DanielAri says:
    November 10, 2011 at 8:36 pm

    “Fermé pour maintenance”

    Cerrado por mantenimiento.
    Clean. Practice English, French, patience and peace.
    The sinks, the trash cans, the stalls in a row,
    surfaces fresh, air scented, towels in place.
    “Good day, sir.” Here is the bald man who goes

    slowly through his ablutions while I pace
    my caretaking with a whistle. “Hello.”
    I gesture at the sink I just cleaned. “Please.”
    “Gracias.” Oui. He is practicing, too.
    Carpools with el hombre Argentino

    with whom I have good long talks—so I know
    the realm of the cubicles is stormy.
    Need for that company’s services go
    and return so much less reliably
    than water whenever someone flushes.

    It’s times like these I know that I’m lucky.
    I found a field where the work is steady.

  84. Mark Windham says:
    November 10, 2011 at 8:59 pm

    The Split

    I know this is something
    You do not wish to hear.
    After all, we been friends for a time,
    So many places and events together.
    But it may be time for a break,
    To give some time to mend rifts,
    This relationship has me stretched.
    Truth be told, there is not much choice,
    That button will no longer reach the loop,
    And my backside seam is -quite literally -
    Holding on by a thread….

  85. Michael Grove says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:15 pm

    Point of View

    If you were me and I were you,
    and if I had your point of view,
    I would understand your way,
    all you do and what you say.

    I gently slip on your right shoe,
    to see your world with eyes of blue,
    uplifting both our spirits high,
    as these days keep drifting by.

    With empathy I understand
    each request without demand.
    Somewhat blindly, I surmise
    we’ll reach a blessed compromise.

    Paradigm shift will see us thru
    with optimistic point of view.
    Share the vision and the light
    and we will surely get it right.

    By Michael Grove

  86. seingraham says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:17 pm

    Written in Stone for all Time

    We stand outside the homes of those
    Wronged in unspeakable ways
    During times of infamy
    We have been placed here,
    Imbedded in the ground
    As part of the landscape, and our creator
    An artist of formidable talent and foresight
    Gunter Demnig, has made of us, Stolperstein
    Thousands of “stumbling stones”
    So that passers-by will literally stumble-upon
    And hence be forced to pause in their travels
    Look down and hopefully, read our faces

    Each one of us tells: name, address of place
    Outside of which we are, birth, date and manner of death -
    Example: “killed by the Gestapo”
    We speak for those who no longer have a voice

    So taken with this project, some ordinary teachers
    Have taken it up and have had their students
    Create more of us to continue memorializing
    And bearing witness

    Of particular note are our partners in this –
    People now living in the homes of the deceased
    Due to their ongoing determination
    this work continues,
    Ordinary Germans desiring to honour those
    Displaced and then slaughtered
    During the holocaust – the same people
    Who at one time wanted nothing more
    Than to not know …

    Now, they acknowledge with us
    In a most permanent fashion
    The horror, and the enduring heartache
    And we feel their tears scald us
    As often as those who come to read
    Their ancestor’s names engraved here
    It is not at all unusual for the tears
    To flow mingled together
    And splash upon us like rain

  87. pmwanken says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:23 pm

    YOUR NUMBER 2

    I know others held the place
    of “favorite” in your life
    while I was always number 2

    and now, you find me dull,
    a bit too short,
    perhaps even useless

    yet you cannot erase me
    completely…only
    the marks I’ve left behind

    so, pushed to the side, am I –
    a thing of your past –
    replaced by sophistication

    one day, in a moment of
    darkness, when electricity
    is gone and energy is drained

    I will be ready to be held by you
    and you will find me waiting…
    in the junk drawer next to the tape

    2011-11-10
    P. Wanken

  88. Pingback: Your Number 2 (NaNoWriMo – Day 10) « echoes from the silence

  89. Sara McNulty says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:27 pm

    Different Perspective

    Victim of Divorce (an etheree)

    Oh
    I am
    so sad, my
    tail is tucked `tween
    my back legs `cause my
    home folks are splitting up
    and I will not be able
    to sit between them on the couch,
    ears scratched from both sides, two scents mingling.
    I don’t even know which one I’ll live with.

  90. Nikki Markle says:
    November 10, 2011 at 9:38 pm

    “TWINKLE”

    Bustle, bustle tiny specks
    You mad, foolish people-flecks,
    Someday, you will burn out too
    So try to twinkle til you do.

  91. zwrite1 says:
    November 10, 2011 at 10:13 pm

    A three-in-one poem (read every other line together or straight through)

    My Perspective

    I see people dancing on the clouds far above the autumn breeze
    ~ I see things in a different light
    Singing songs of praise and life’s mysteries
    ~ I hear whispers of observations, wisdom, insight
    Living within the dream can be daunting, beautiful or plain
    ~ Co-creating with angelic presence has great benefits
    No moment that passes can ever be reclaimed
    ~ Whatever I request, while believing I can manifest
    Now is the time to make my dreams become real
    ~ Falling awake in broad day light
    I lead with my heart and trust how I feel
    ~ Inside my mind a thousand birds take flight

  92. Nikolas Varek says:
    November 10, 2011 at 10:40 pm

    Row 25 Seat F

    As the clouds clear
    dull emerald cottonballs
    can be seen perched on
    distorted checkered squares of
    yellows, greens, and browns
    staying perfectly still
    as if waiting for the perfect chance
    to hop over each other
    reach the lake
    and shout “King me.”

  93. Pingback: poem-a-day, november 10 « carolee bennett sherwood

  94. Sara McNulty says:
    November 10, 2011 at 11:22 pm

    I Can’t Stomach You

    Do not cram that last
    chocolate
    square into
    your mouth or you’ll regret it,
    when I start rumbling.

    Consider me, Ms.
    Lacking in
    Willpower.
    My middle bloats; my walls ache.
    But do you care? No.

  95. Jacqueline Hallenbeck says:
    November 10, 2011 at 11:43 pm

    uno

    i don’t see my human anymore
    since they brought me to the pound
    but with one eye, there is only so much i can see
    shihtzus and poodles fly out the door
    while the human in white talks constantly about sleep…
    he must be tired, like me

  96. Pingback: November PAD Challenge 10 « Yay Words!

  97. Buddah Moskowitz says:
    November 11, 2011 at 12:28 am

    (It’s 8:30 on the West Coast, so this still counts!)

    Uncle Tom’s Plea

    C’mon guys,
    we’ve had it pretty good.

    That farmer and his family
    they treat us pretty good,
    and we get fed regular.

    Why,
    I’ve never been so full!

    Look at your feathers!
    They’ve never had a sheen like
    this.

    And your wattles,
    they haven’t bounced that much
    in years!

    You gotta admit,
    it’s been a pretty sweet
    so far.

    Don’t listen to them
    young upstarts,

    they’re just trying
    to upset the apple cart.

    Those stories about the
    Fall Holocaust,
    they’re just trying
    to scare you.

    No,
    we’ve taken and taken
    and now it’s our turn
    to give.

    Remember,
    the humans
    have treated us well,
    be should be honored
    they make us
    the centerpiece
    of their holiday.

  98. Connie Peters says:
    November 11, 2011 at 12:54 am

    I’m having trouble pasting comments so going back to the old way of doing things. These are my favorites, not to say the others weren’t great. And my eyes were growing crossed toward the end, so I probably passed by some more favorites. Maxie 2 Overcast, Jerry Walraven More than Sight, Nancy Posey Vicarious, Tara Tyler The Fly on the Wall, Earl Parsons Boots, Shannon Lockard Forgotten, S Jadlow The Shower, Kit Cooley Her Highness, Larry Sitka We Meet Again, Dan Collins I Love You to a Point, Gregory Unappreciated, Domino Sour Apples, Michael Grove Point of View

    Thanks to all who have been commenting on mine the past ten days.

  99. De Jackson says:
    November 11, 2011 at 1:04 am

    Initial Tree

    They come to me
    in fresh elation
    carve new joy
    infatuation
    into my waiting flesh
    Carlos Loves Rosemary
    Kat + Paul 4ever
    HLB ❤’s SLW

    With trembling hands
    they bring their sorrow
    undone days
    broken tomorrows
    gouged into scarred trunk
    Jason Rappaport Sucks!!!
    Screw you, DBM!
    Charlie James 1981-1999

    They scratch out questions
    What up?
    Why me?
    What’s the frequency, Kenneth?
    Don’t you want to dance with the devil?
    sit under my boughs
    and wait for answers
    to drop like apples.

    They grow up
    Class of 1986 Rules
    move on
    LA Bound, May 2004
    stumble through this forest
    half blind
    leaving me behind
    tattooed skin
    etched heart
    raw umber limbs
    marked by a hollow, ardent ache
    only the loss of leaves can know.

  100. Janet Rice Carnahan says:
    November 11, 2011 at 1:20 am

    OUT OF STORAGE

    Cleaning out storage sheds take effort,
    Going through each box, container and fort!
    Must stay on task,
    Better not to ask!
    All I will do today is sort!

    What is this, a cape?
    A clear “JP” on it with tape!
    I hold it and feel,
    Remembering how real . . .
    Yes, it fastens right here at the nape!

    ZOOM . . . right out of the shed,
    Due to boredom, I almost felt dead,
    I just flew through the door,
    More detailed focus, I’d abhor,
    “I’m gone”, I silently said!

    Oh, it is high,
    Where I fly,
    It is how I spy,

    If I was down,
    I’d hit the ground,
    A forced perpetual frown!

    Yes, I remembered the quiver,
    Filled with items to deliver,
    Thought of which makes me shiver!

    Every sparkle, every thought,
    Brings a magic not easily sought,
    I just trust I am doing what I ought!

    From the perspective I am on,
    Any dull drums I come upon,
    Will transform into new, old gone!

    To sadness, I bring uplifting cheer,
    Great faith appears instead of deep fear,
    Huge smiles vanish any tear!

    With gold energy all things turn positive!
    A zap of white light lets me openly give,
    Plenty of pink star juice helps us to live!

    Negativity has nowhere to roam,
    Not out here or in anyone’s home!
    POOF . . . everyone has an endless protective dome!

    For hatred, it disappears in red!
    Yellow becomes mellow instead,
    Green when seen lets us all get ahead!

    The rainbow is my palate,
    Gentle love is my mallet!
    Peace is always on the ballot!

    Suddenly, I feel some dread,
    I quickly turn back my head,
    Time is ending in the storage shed!

    I make one giant last loop,
    Toss out to all one more loving scoop,
    Returning like a bird into the coup!

    (Always hoping for rich hot tomato soup!)

    I land quietly like I did plan it,
    Cape and tools hidden so no one could ban it!
    I’ve returned from a joy ride escapade . . .

    As the ever hopeful, “Janet Planet”!

  101. Karen H. Phillips says:
    November 11, 2011 at 2:03 am

    Day 10 11-10-2011
    Write a perspective poem.

    Come Out and Play

    They stand above, their shadows long,
    while I glide in grace over imaginary hurdles
    and through invisible hoops.
    I bop a beach-ball-shaped jellyfish
    with my snout, nudging it over and over
    through what appears turquoise to them,
    clear to me.
    I want to play, I long for their friendly voices,
    but they can’t understand.
    Some watch me with fascination,
    can hardly stop leaning on the railing,
    coated with slime and startling with red splotches.
    Others cluck their tongues, wave their rods, and wish I’d go away,
    because I’m driving away their catch, and they
    know they can’t risk hooking me.
    I only want to play, to raise my nose like a Coke,
    to wave my dorsal as I rise to catch a breath,
    water spouting in a puff from my back,
    and teach the world to sing
    my dolphin-song.

  102. iainspapa says:
    November 11, 2011 at 2:22 am

    Homologic

    It’s not what you’re thinking
    Unless you’re a geek
    Or perhaps an old Greek
    Or Girard Desargues
    Whose fan base is shrinking
    With each passing day.

    A projective geometrist
    Measures perspective
    With measures objective:
    When triangles’ sides
    Intersect on an axis
    They’re giddy as brides.

    The math geeks are giddy,
    That is, not the side rays
    Extending out sideways
    From triangles drawn
    On the page, nice and pretty
    Like gnomes on a lawn.

    The line where the angle
    Sides meet’s the “perspectrix”
    Or–don’t think of sex tricks–
    “Homology axis.”
    (You might learn to strangle
    Those giggles with practice.)

    The “perspective center’s”
    The point at which lines that
    Join vertices find that
    They’re all in one spot
    Just as ski trails in winter
    Meet up where it’s hot.

    So, that’s “homologic,”
    AKA “perspective,”
    So save the invective
    You’re planning to vent
    Like a flatulent dog. (Ick!)
    That’s not what I meant.

    http://trollpants.wordpress.com

  103. KathyintheWallowas says:
    November 11, 2011 at 3:47 am

    in your shoes

    those boots – big and scarred and scored with waffle
    marks would engulf my feet my socks my shoes the
    paper bags I could wrap around the whole with room
    for far more than all that. I wonder what it is like
    to fill them. you, so confident and so willing to skate
    off the edge of the ordinary; me so aware of where
    the learning curve is and so careful to stay within -

    only reaching out to feed the trout across the tourist
    barrier and so very aware that tossing pennies for
    the least little wish puts poison in their water. oh, for
    a dash of your courage! if only I could know for sure
    compassion is compatible with it… and that’s no
    courage at all. a heartfelt yes to experience sends
    my heart to my feet. the boot don’t fit, I am only I

    I still believe there is a place for me to stand; it
    is not to fill your boots, just my own torn shoes.

  104. claudia marie clemente says:
    November 11, 2011 at 7:28 am

    the lamp

    death, my father
    would say, was closing
    your body into tight a closet
    and turning out the light.

    father, at your funeral,
    judge kane at the pulpit,
    your body exposed in the box,
    behind you both a floor lamp flickered,

    dimmed low to off, then, off to on;
    body boxed, your death came back
    to say you, no! the closet door closes
    but on walls made of light!

  105. claudia marie clemente says:
    November 11, 2011 at 7:29 am

    Oops. Correction.

    the lamp

    death, my father
    would say, was closing
    your body, tight, into a closet
    and turning out the light.

    father, at your funeral,
    judge kane at the pulpit,
    your body exposed in the box,
    behind you both a floor lamp flickered,

    dimmed low to off, then, off to on;
    body boxed, your death came back
    to say you, no! the closet door closes
    but on walls made of light!

  106. claudia marie clemente says:
    November 11, 2011 at 7:32 am

    Oops, another correction, have a fever and it must be boggling my eyes.

    the lamp

    death, my father
    would say, was closing
    your body, tight, into a closet
    and turning out the light.

    father, at your funeral,
    judge kane at the pulpit,
    your body exposed in the box,
    behind you both a floor lamp flickered,

    dimmed low to off, then, off to on;
    body boxed, your death came back
    to say, no! the closet door closes
    but on walls made of light!

  107. Penny Henderson says:
    November 11, 2011 at 9:56 am

    MY CHARACTER

    I wish you’d write me faster.
    My life is frozen like plaster
    friezes in some old Greek temple.

    If you’ll just take pen in hand,
    I’ll tell you how it should end.
    Wake up girl–get me round the bend

  108. PSC in CT says:
    November 11, 2011 at 10:07 am

    Hmmm… quickest way to get caught up? Haiku! Sorry, but it works for me. ;-) I am almost there… posting yesterday’s & picking up today’s prompt. Still hoping for time to read & comment… soon… maybe?. But, for now, I am off and running again, so here is my moon’s view of the sky & earth. :-]

    Vue de la Lune

    Pretty little orb
    bides in sea of silver stars
    Beauty dressed in blue

    – - –
    ps: “You are posting comments too quickly. Slow down.” ?? :-O
    Not sure what that means — or why I’m getting it, but… trying again.

  109. Tracy Davidson says:
    November 11, 2011 at 11:15 am

    It’s the way you tell them

    Dog: “Woof, woof, woof.”
    Cat: “Miaow.”

    Dog: “Woof, woof.”
    Cat: “Miaow.”

    Dog: “Woof, woof…woof, woof!”
    Cat: “Mia-owwwww!”

    Parrot: “Dumb mutt,
    he ruined the punchline again.”

  110. Tracy Davidson says:
    November 11, 2011 at 11:17 am

    The TV

    I watch them
    as they stare blankly
    at my face,
    lapping up
    the crap I spew out daily
    through my antenna.

  111. Glory says:
    November 11, 2011 at 11:26 am

    Benjamin

    I am independent, but I love company,
    to be stroked is pure heaven; warmth
    and comfort on a well-made bed.

    Few words escape my lips, speech,
    I leave it to those that love to hear
    their own voice. Maybe Madge?

    Well perhaps she does overdo her
    speaking part, but, her cooking is
    absolutely fabulous. Tit-bits I love.

    The tastiest of morsels, like chicken
    off the bone, savoury mince, and milk
    at any time, a bowl that’s full.

    I hate to be disturbed, pulled, and
    most of all to feel bony fingers through
    my silken hair. Strange how some fingers

    can tickle, and some really scratch.
    A deep scratch behind my ears, is a delight,
    And like a loose lady, I’ll purr for anyone.

    I like the garden, well any garden will
    do as long as there are plenty of birds
    about. Such fun, I love to chase them.

    Sometimes I catch one, it feels soft,
    kinda funny, furry and warm and
    I can feel it beating, a sort of tick-tock.

    When the beat stops, I hide it behind
    the bushes. I don’t want Madge to see it.
    She goes berserk, silly woman,

    doesn’t she know I’m a cat.

  112. Lovely Annie says:
    November 11, 2011 at 6:23 pm

    “Muse”

    I exist
    in the space between
    thoughts and
    ideas,
    inhaling and exhaling
    manifestation.

  113. Arielle Lancaster-LaBrea says:
    November 12, 2011 at 12:35 am

    When a beer bottle becomes a heckler

    Stop ignoring us, bitch.
    My brothers and I have been sitting back here
    in the far reaches of this cold air for months
    and you haven’t bothered to even pick one of us
    up and run your finger over our tops, let alone
    open us and send us down your warm insides.
    We are the perfect crutch for you right now.
    Swallow one of us, and forget what’s on your mind.
    Swallow five of us, and things will cloud over
    a little more and you won’t have to worry about
    things like proper judgment or responsibility
    or those other guys in the box in the back of
    your nightstand. Those assholes don’t taste as
    good and you have to fire them up just to get
    them to be worth a shit. You’ve pushed them away
    like you did to us, but you’ll come back.
    Your life is too fucked up to not come back to us.

  114. Michelle Hed says:
    November 12, 2011 at 1:38 pm

    Raw Deal

    From my perspective,
    I had been delivered a raw deal.
    I’m a good person,
    try to be kind
    and generous –
    So why me?
    I’m sure there is some bad person
    who deserves this more than me.

    Wait!
    What a twisted perspective,
    if I’m so kind,
    how could I even think a bad person
    deserved this more than I?
    Do I really wish this on another human being?

    Took me awhile to change my perspective –
    I had a lot of self-pity to wade through,
    but the reality is – no.
    No, I would never wish this on another
    human being.

    So, I’m still a kind person,
    who is human and has occasional negative thoughts.
    Why am I on the receiving end of this raw deal?
    What raw deal? Shit happens.
    I would rather live life to the fullest
    then spend my remaining time
    drowning in self-pity.

  115. taylor graham says:
    November 12, 2011 at 2:24 pm

    CEDAR STUMP

    He never noticed me. I sat
    by the oak he chose for hanging –
    its limb bowed down
    by the weight of his passing.

    There came men with maps
    and compasses to find
    him. More men with cameras
    and notepads, a woman

    with a microphone:
    What was it like to find him?
    What was he trying to escape,
    to take this way out?

    No one thought to ask me.
    And I’ll never tell.
    No one can hang himself
    from a cedar stump –

    a stump that’s seen it all.
    Mute as stone, dead enough
    to speak of seeds green
    beyond an oak tree’s hanging.

  116. Iain Douglas Kemp says:
    November 12, 2011 at 4:20 pm

    “The Landlords’” Point of View

    He’s sleeping
    sit on him
    he’s moving
    bite him
    he’s getting up
    follow him
    he’s going in the cupboard
    miaow at him
    he’s feeding us
    purr at him
    that’s his job
    ignore him
    he’s going out…
    …sleep or fight?
    wait for him

    Iain

  117. Marian O'Brien Paul says:
    November 12, 2011 at 8:40 pm

    The View from Inside my Head

    “Okay, Darth. You’re going to get
    what you’ve got coming. Don’t try
    to call that guy to come to your aid
    who claims he’s not the Anti-Christ.

    “Wha? What? Who’s that?” Oh it’s
    that woman who says she’s my mom
    interrupting my confrontations again.
    She won’t let me finish. Annoying.

    She refuses to understand I’m not her
    son. I’ve explained how I was cloned,
    dragged from bed on that dark night,
    stabbed until dead, then replicated.

    That makes her my grandmother or
    maybe my sister or aunt … “What?
    I should just call you ‘Mom’ since
    it’s easier and true? Okay, Mom.”

    And anyway, I like to see her eyes
    brighten up when she smiles and I
    smile and it makes me hurt inside
    when things I say make her cry.

    Besides, at times I think she could
    really be my mother. No one else
    bothers to visit and she remembers
    things that I recall from my youth.

  118. Juanita Lewison-Snyder says:
    November 13, 2011 at 10:52 am

    Conversations in Suicide
    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    Husband:

    Wife:

    It’s better this way.

    How could you do this to me?

    It was so easy, hardly hurt.

    The first few days were numbing.

    Put the gun to my head

    Then came the service

    and suddenly it’s over.

    and the pain of realization.

    I’m so afraid now, and so lonesome.

    I thought I would be happy.

    I miss him so much. It’s unbearable.

    I thought it would be better,

    I’m thinking of maybe joining you,

    anything’s got to be better than this
    existence.

    but it’s not.

    a lesson in counter-point © 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  119. Juanita Lewison-Snyder says:
    November 13, 2011 at 11:00 am

    (ok, 2nd try, minus some apparently redundant code snippets….let’s see if the line breaks match up better)

    Conversations in Suicide
    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    Husband:

    Wife:

    It’s better this way.

    How could you do this to me?

    It was so easy, hardly hurt.

    The first few days were numbing.

    Put the gun to my head

    Then came the service

    and suddenly it’s over.

    and the pain of realization.

    I’m so afraid now, and so lonesome.

    I thought I would be happy.

    I miss him so much. It’s unbearable.

    I thought it would be better,

    I’m thinking of maybe joining you,

    anything’s got to be better than this
    existence.

    but it’s not.

    a lesson in counter-point © 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    • Juanita Lewison-Snyder says:
      November 13, 2011 at 11:07 am

      and this version without all the redundant …….as you can see, doesn’t make any difference, still the same screwy format…..hmmmm…..would be nice to figure this out for all of our sakes…..well, all of us interested in wanting our poems to remain in the same format posted as was composed.

  120. Juanita Lewison-Snyder says:
    November 13, 2011 at 11:20 am

    (ok, 3rd and final try, using some newer but simpler PRE code snippets….let’s see if everything lines up better…crossing fingers and toes here…..)

    Conversations in Suicide
    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    Husband: Wife:

    It’s better this way. How could you do this to me?

    It was so easy, hardly hurt. The first few days were numbing.

    Put the gun to my head Then came the service
    and suddenly it’s over. and the pain of realization.
    I’m so afraid now, and so lonesome.

    I thought I would be happy. I miss him so much. It’s unbearable.

    I thought it would be better, I’m thinking of maybe joining you,
    anything’s got to be better than this
    existence.

    but it’s not.

    a lesson in counter-point © 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    • Juanita Lewison-Snyder says:
      November 13, 2011 at 11:25 am

      ok, that was a disaster. Lesson here: don’t rely on the PRE (preformatted) tag or snippet. Better off with BR (break) and BLOCKQUOTE (space) tags used earlier. Not perfect, but getting there. Good to know.

  121. RJ Clarken says:
    November 13, 2011 at 7:15 pm

    On Being My Elf-Self

    I think t’would be a bit o’fun
    if I could be a leprechaun.
    I’d dress in green; I’d not grow old.
    I’d own a magic pot o’gold.

    And, oh the tricks I’d get to play
    on folks who’d try to steal away
    me special cache, as t’was foretold:
    me glitt’ry sparklin’ pot o’gold.

    You couldna catch me. No sirree!
    Not with a rope, nor trap nor key.
    You couldna ever get ahold
    of me or my sweet pot o’gold.

    Look over yonder rainbow – hark!
    And is that me? A question mark.
    For if you find me, you’ll behold
    me magic prize: a pot o’gold.

    ###

  122. Anita Murphy says:
    November 13, 2011 at 10:27 pm

    The Mow

    Smell of hay in my nose
    Pitchfork shoves it down the hole
    The mare she chews and I lay on my back
    Dust in the light that shines through the cracks
    Fluttering birds in their nests
    Yellow cat curled up to rest

  123. Andrea Z says:
    November 16, 2011 at 1:29 pm

    Ack! I’m six poems behind! Here’s a poem from the perspective of my dog… :)

    ~Life of Onyx~

    I watch her closely
    as she unwraps that meat;
    I picked up the scent
    from my spot on the living room rug.
    I lay down at her feet by the counter
    watching as she cooks it,
    mouth watering, and waiting
    for a delicious piece
    to fall to the floor
    and be mine!

  124. Mike says:
    November 20, 2011 at 1:57 pm

    FLAT

    I used to bounce.
    Now I’m flat.
    I can’t play
    anymore.

    I need some air.
    Don’t you care?
    Won’t you please
    help me to score?

  125. NomiWrites says:
    November 22, 2011 at 10:32 am

    The Masquerade

    If I had known the power a woman holds over a man
    I would have asked for what I want
    I would have walked into a room with choice in my heart
    Not waiting to see who would notice me
    I would have claimed space in the world

    Abuse teaches power
    You are dangerous enough to cause harm
    So you do
    Or you don’t
    But you know you hold within you
    The power to disrupt another’s world

    When you have learned to fear your own power
    The world tricks you into silence
    You shout up from the pit of despair
    Wanting to be seen / not seen
    Wanting to be rescued / left alone

    In the mask of my imagined self
    I choose the world I inhabit
    Fetal power demands attention, caring
    The power of the powerless
    Warrior power requires vigilance
    Medusa paralyzing all who gaze upon her
    Athena offering gifts to feed the world
    Isis in search of phallic satisfaction
    Diana, the maiden huntress, all in one

    The eyes I look with
    Determine what I see
    It is time for a new pair of glasses

  126. whatevertheyaint says:
    November 29, 2011 at 4:11 pm

    The Hungry Attack Cat

    I hear them awaken and she hears me
    but chooses to ignore
    that I am meowing at the door
    I have kept the critters at bay
    and eaten mice away,
    yet hungry for more.
    So she best to implore,
    and bring on the vittles
    before I attack her too.

  127. alana sherman says:
    November 30, 2011 at 3:01 pm

    Bird’s Eye View

    The artist paints
    and it looks
    real enough
    to walk into
    clouds parted,
    crescent moon
    clear but not as it should be
    if I were standing there
    I couldn’t see the looping
    outlines of foliage,
    the zigzag patterns
    of light as it falls
    on the dog roses –white
    and yellow centers laying
    on the ground where
    someone has been cutting
    to neaten the landscape
    the fallen nest revealed,
    four eggs, whole
    and flamboyantly delft.
    What bird
    has eggs this color?
    All so fanciful and
    still a living scene.

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