2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 17

Good morning, all! Before I get to the prompt today, I just wanted to send a note about my recent limited edition chapbook ESCAPE (click here for more details). I’m down to the final five copies, so if you’d like one for yourself (or a friend), then now is the time to order. To claim your copy, send an e-mail to robertleebrewer@gmail.com with the subject line: I Need an Escape. Once I confirm that I have a copy to send you, I’ll send along payment information–the collection is $10 (and includes shipping to anywhere in the world–so you international types really get a bargain).


For today’s prompt, write a poem that reveals something. Maybe it’s something physical (like light revealing an intruder or pulling back a sheet to reveal a new car). Or maybe it’s something psychological, emotional, or spiritual. Today’s the day to reveal.

Here’s my attempt:

“By the time you read this, I’ll have written another poem”

Sometimes, I just can’t control myself: line
begets line, and I find my wheels spinning
through the same exhausted vocabulary
searching for a better combination, or,
at the very least, something slightly new.
I do it without thinking most times,
because it’s better that way: no sense
in forcing a square peg where the triangle
belongs. These songs, these blasted songs, make
me long for the good old days when rhymes
were the structure and the meaning and the way.


Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer

And read my other My Name Is Not Bob blog to learn more about writing, publishing, and living in general.


Have a question?

You’re not alone. In fact, Al Katkowsky’s Question of the Day: Where the Truth Is the Dare is filled with questions. With questions ranging for light to heavy, this book is filled with great queries that could prompt a poem or start a meaningful conversation among friends.

Click to continue.


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344 thoughts on “2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 17

  1. vsbryant1

    Revelations of Self

    She kissed my neck and my heart skipped a beat, I knew at that moment I could love her forever
    I ran from the thought, but couldn’t hide from the feeling, I saw her face every where I turned, her eyes like tear drops in the storm
    She made love to me in a dream and the heat made me screamed
    She kissed my lips and I fell all over again
    I just want to be with her; day and night; night and day, I want to bath in her love and swim in her sin
    I guess this in my revelation for all to here; she is in love with me and I and in love with her.
    Funny, this really wasn’t as hard as it seemed

  2. Lovely Annie

    “The Mime”

    The mime in her invisible box
    pressing smushed faces
    to false walls.
    Loose limbs lean

    against the phantom fireplace.

    Pretending to be trapped
    with her own emotional whips
    Her silent mouth
    promises that this IS funny.

    Her white grease paint
    melts in the make believe
    air conditioned box
    showing torn skin
    beneath her left eye.

    That red moment
    that drops from her cheek
    to reach him
    in a crazy rendition of the truth
    is where the mime ends
    and she begins.

  3. alana sherman


    When I went
    to get my forgotten
    sweater, I took
    quarters from the teacher’s desk
    I wanted them, needed them
    to buy ice cream for some girls
    I had to have
    be my friends
    The coins’ silvery jingle
    felt right in my pocket. And oh,
    how those five quarters
    were more than enough
    for about an hour. Then, feeling
    sick and remorseful, I wanted
    to be rid of them,
    couldn’t wait
    for them to be gone.
    I made a neat row on the ground
    where we lined up after lunch
    and made a big show
    of finding them.
    Here’s a confession—
    that urge to pilfer steals over me
    even today—yearning, hunger,
    wish and want never cease.

  4. Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    Galahad, revealed
    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    Shades of ivory and oyster,
    yellow ochre, burnt sienna and payne’s gray
    adornments to shade his thinning canvas,
    this once fine chestnut turning mulberry hues.

    In the capable hands of this gypsy artisan
    from fan to flat brush to round double ott,
    muscles quiver and tangled manes take flight
    as art becomes life on the hoof.

    Though he still bears the mold mark of Breyer
    there on the tender side of his hind leg,
    he continues to garner strength from the many
    layers of gesso and sealer and paint.

    I still have say so which shelf he winds up on,
    Breyers or Hartlands, Stone Horse or Shleichs.
    An Andalusian, Lusitano, or Carthusian bloodline,
    another collector will determine his fate.

    © 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  5. KathyintheWallowas

    your chance at the truth

    in this conversation, here’s a word that shines
    light on what is really felt meant heard – the
    inside made outside. how will you hear it? each
    thunderous as-if gasp tells me something – it
    may not be what you mean; I may not be heard
    the light shines then on what to do next – to
    stay, to go, to try again, to experience despair
    the light does not yet show which, or whether
    yet here’s another trembling word anyway. it’s
    your play, how will you judge it, what will you say?

  6. Marian O'Brien Paul

    Life in One Nursing Home

    Apple red
    the cardigan he wore
    buttoned up to its V-shaped neck
    The skin bare above the V said no shirt hid beneath
    The buttons said this was not a sweater for man.

    Whose sweater is that? Why aren’t you wearing yours?
    I asked, disturbed. It was my money that
    bought his clothes. It was I who shopped.
    My eyes traveled downward
    analyzing the rest of what he wore.
    Whose slacks are those and where are your socks?

    Oh, I don’t know,
    came his unperturbed reply.
    Nothing’s in my closet or my drawers.
    A nursing assistant told me everything
    is in the basement, stored. She’s no
    time to look so she gave me
    these things to wear.

    So it was each time I came. One cold day
    his ample bottom was squashed like a sausage
    into a pair of Bermuda shorts, his legs
    and feet wearing no more than
    goose bumps.

    Lost in the laundry, was all
    the staff would say
    until over-angry at last I demanded
    they find his clothes.

    Next time I came, I was told,
    We’ve found the suitcases, but
    there was nothing inside.

    This revelation jerked my eyebrows
    high above my staring eyes and nearly
    stopped my heart. Where could I find
    enough money to buy him more? I
    didn’t know.

    Were they stolen? I gasped.
    No, we think they were lost. Did you
    mark them with his name? they asked,
    and with the number of this floor?
    Of course, they had his name, I cried,
    but he’d not yet moved to this place, so
    how would I have known the floor?

    At last they agreed they must
    replace the clothes they’d lost.
    I decided he must not
    live there anymore.

  7. cstewart


    When a painting grows
    Out of the surface by
    Layers of paint and thought,
    It reveals more than
    Its physicality and
    Stands between the
    Artist and the viewer,
    As a statement of belief
    In the fact of beauty.

  8. Michele Brenton


    I have always known who I was
    the problem being
    I had to hide in plain sight
    behind the masks
    constructed for me
    by those who held the strings
    that bound me fast.

    How I envied Pinocchio his
    in captivity he was freed
    in music, song, dance.
    My strings kept me still,
    quiet, tied, invisible.
    Even though they long fell away
    I am twisted into shapes
    and lie deformed.
    It hurts to stretch beyond.
    I am not sure it can be done.

    I know who I am
    who I always was.
    But will I ever be
    seen as me?

    Michele Brenton

  9. Judy Roney


    The nurses wheeled him out of my reach, my sight
    and then out of my hearing. Wrenching. He’s alone
    on this journey, I can’t even share a whisper.
    Can’t touch his hand as they cut and laser, decide
    his future, mine.

    I meant it when I told him, “I’ll never leave you”.
    I face the facts I will, or you will leave me when
    we are most frightened, most alone. I walk by his
    side in joy, in love, but what has been revealed
    is he’s alone and so am I.

  10. maxie2


    The morning fog hides nothing,
    yet we search through it

    to find our way.

    It clouds everything
    and we wait for it to lift,

    but yet it is there for us to see.
    The thick gray tones of a morning,

    reveals the silence,
    the eerie, the same world

    in its subdued, cottony way.

  11. MiskMask


    He’s my bundle of joy
    a smile that stretches
    from the edge of one
    eye to the other.
    He speaks in sharp
    sounds of consonants
    and round bubbly vowels,
    a few words in a mutually
    shared language, but most
    are in his own special tongue.
    Very soon I suspect he’ll reveal
    all he wishes us to know.

    This is dedicated to my 2-year-old grandson.

  12. Benjamin Thomas


    The language of ten thousand words

    of the eyes, countenance, gesture

    demeanor, intonation, furrowed brow

    are all too revealing

    manifesting the unspoken realm of one’s

    own body language that say it all

    silence still speaks

    yet spoken words are but the tip of the iceberg

    a fragment of the whole

    of what really lies beneath the surface

    of a dense decorated mask

    a genuine feeling

    for the mouth speaks out of

    the abundance of the heart

  13. Sara McNulty

    three more from me:

    all there is
    about ourselves, then
    what is left for future fodder?



    I cannot re-veal
    because I do not eat veal.
    You can’t redo none.


    The Revealing Twenties

    In the years of pro-
    women wore
    swimsuits no more than seven
    inches above knee.

    As the twenties roared,
    flowed, flappers
    danced, crime rose, and it was clear
    that repeal was near.


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