OMG! We’re already 60% of the way through November? C’est impossible! Even if you’re just now learning about this challenge, it’s not too late to jump in, but time is definitely running out. That said…
For today’s prompt, write an “it’s too late” poem. Nobody likes a quitter, but sometimes you have to “know when to hold them, know when to fold them…” There are times when it’s just too late, and today is the day to write that poem–before it’s too late, of course.
Here’s my attempt:
“Editor”
My mouth is sometimes a cloth
that wipes clean smudges and similes
like metaphors found on glass.
The past is the past, but my eyes
trigger the memories she nearly
forgot, and her smile runs across
my heart beats like line breaks
in poems I should’ve written
before she left, though maybe
I did, and they still didn’t work,
and my mouth is sometimes a cloth
that wipes clean the jagged edges
cutting black holes in my past.
Or maybe my mouth is a mouth,
and my mind just catches fire.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
And check out my other blog: My Name Is Not Bob
*****
…with Writing the Life Poetic, by Sage Cohen. This essential resource, which is always within my reach, contains equal parts inspiration and information.
“Lost”
Memory
occupies a space
not far from imagination,
causing
(sometimes)
leaks
where imagination
fills in the gaps
but
sometimes
gaps widen
and cracks become chasms
and time
is
simply
lost.
Best foot forward Jerry. Your remain one of my favorite voices. Great start.
Agreed.
This one grabs you…Great poem, Jerry!
Thanks Walt and Linda.
this is so thoughtful and evocative
Just as all said above…part of the “grab” for me is in the power of those single words that string together as a message of their own lovely
Very intriguing, Jerry, enjoyed much!
Jerry, your first 3 lines are so true with that link between memory & imagination!
Perfect. Again, my congratulations and gratitude – Mosk
Well done Jerry!
NO TURNING BACK
Best foot forward as you back up
against the precipice.
The world crashing around you
doesn’t phase you.
It’s too late to do anything about it.
And you doubt that it would
make a difference anyway.
So stand your ground and
don’t look down.
There’s no turning back.
Great advice, Walt! I always enjoy your poems.
really holds us in the imagery here
I truly believe there is no poet in existence today who is more prolific while retaining the quality. Still can’t believe we are partners. I often need to pinch myself.
Strong poem although sometimes a glance over the shoulder can offer an unfelt foothold…:)
Good advice, one and all. -Mosk
Good start, Jerry and Walt!
Robert…really enjoyed your poem…very visual.
I’m going to hop on the “Robert’s poem praise train!” I’ve really enjoyed your poems this month and especially yesterday and today! Smiles to you and thanks for all the great prompts!
Robert. I look forward to reading your poems every morning, but yesterday and today you have written a few of my favorites.
Robert – a question – if a comment is posted below your poem in the skinny little “comment” strip – does it show up anywhere? Or is it just gone into the ether? I attempted to tell you how much I loved today’s poem: I think I said something like, it is so beautiful and poignant and actually one of my favourites of everything you’ve written … and then I pressed post and poof – it was gone! So, there you go. Thanks, by the way, for doing this again – the challenges are a highlight of my poetic year.
IT’S (NEVER) TOO LATE
Restless sleep pervades my night,
it shines like a bright light
blinding my sight and leaving me
bleary eyed. I’ve tried to clear my mind
but I find that thoughts of you
have replaced my nightmares.
In the silent night, I can “hear”
your thoughts and feel the warmth
of a good and comforting smile.
And all the while I know,
you will eventually lure me
to a place of rest. It doesn’t matter
when the feelings come, I succumb.
It’s never too late for you to sedate.
Case in point…as I said above, I enjoy your poems! This is great…love the last line.
Ditto that.
Loving this one, Walt.
It’s too late
to undo yesterday
but Today
gleams like a beacon
of opportunity
across life’s sands
Today IS opportunity and tomorrow the promise of the same. Thought provoking Janet.
Absolutely, Janet! Great reminder!
gleam a steady glow – nice image for the calling of this day
JanetRuth, I might have already said this to you, but yours has become one of the voices I search out when time is limited.
Succintl wise and lovely
Whoops obviously meant succinct but perhaps “succintl” too if I knew what that meant….
I loved this. – Thanks
Last Illusion
It’s too late to swim in the lake
the last leaf has fallen
and winter is creeping toward my door …
even though I’m in the prime of my life
my body feels old and withered
and each tendril of winter
contracts my veins
making me long for the warmth
of lazy summer days
freshly mown grass perfumes the air
as I lounged on a deck chair reading
as the songs of summer play behind my ear
but as the illusion fades
so do I fade into death’s final chill.
Oh Michele, those last lines grab you unaware!
Really nice, Michelle but I have to admit, I look forward to winter.
Me too.
Me three. (But great poem!)
Fourth…. Terrific merge of winter and it’s likely symbol death …beautiful imagery and a powerhouse last line
Thanks everyone! I also am looking forward to winter! It’s my second favorite season right after Autumn and it looks like I might finally see some snow on Saturday! The snow is late!
Beautiful, just beautiful.
I actually got a chill reading this. Wonderful, Michelle.
The Elderly
I had in mind
to get their stories down—
tales of seemingly foreign times—
but their memories passed on
like fish in a stream.
I have in mind
to get my stories down
but will I wait
till they can’t be caught?
Oh, Connie, don’t wait…get them down! I just wrote about this a bit back on my blog. Love the imagery of this poem. Great job!
this image of catching passing moments really works well for this
I agree! Nice Connie!
Ouch. This one hits too close to home, as I have had in mind to interview my dad for several years now. Time is passing too quickly.
Lovely poem…as all have alluded authentic thought…
Great – and you should google National Day of Listening – then do it.
When the soft mulched ground
Closes over – then too late
Until then not so
I second that.
Tapestry
Our first argument had a soundtrack -
we both loved Carole King, but that afternoon
she cried and I was sullen while
“It’s Too Late” turned on my record player:
And it’s too late, baby, now it’s too late
Though we really did try to make it
Something inside has died
And I can’t hide and I just can’t fake it….
I can’t remember what we disagreed about,
but Carole, who had just sung about
how she felt the earth moved under her feet
whenever he was around, was now lamenting
a dead relationship. Ours was just beginning.
We still love Carole, that album and each other,
and thank God that song was never prophetic
for us, despite all the bumps in our road.
We still listen to that album, forty years later.
She sang that life is just a tapestry.
Yes, it is.
Congrats, Bruce! What a wonderful testament to your Love.
I love this…feel the earth move.
thanks for the memories of that voice this morning and the insight into the contrast between prophetic and opportunity
This song came to mind when I read Robert’s prompt. You have painted such a great slice of life in your poem, Bruce!
Tears – music- love all there …wonderful !
Thanks everyone – I’ve been searching for a theme all month – for a few days I was writing about animals, but ever since the love/anti-love theme on Tuesday, I seem to be stuck in a love-poem mode.
Hmmm, a theme…I’m all over the place, hope one will show up on my doorstep. THX for the comment, you raised my awareness.
Excellent, felt like I was watching a movie! – Thanks
At the opening of the gate
As hoofs thunder past
A shoe to fix – too late
Poifect.
Oooh many thanks
Yep.
In a new lovers bedroom
After the clothes have dropped
To a pile around your feet
Too late for that diet to greet
This was my favorite of your for today…
It’s Showtime, folks! Great!
Chuckle, chuckle!
To Take It Back
Once the slip has slid
Too late to say you did not mean
What you said you did
PKP…all your poems made me grin today…especially liked the second one on being to late to worry about a diet!
Thanks Linda
Amen!
Thanks Mosk!
Well, here is my first attempt at an Ovillejo (introduced to me for the first time by De Jackson yesterday) and it wasn’t until after I wrote it that I realized I forgot the rhyme scheme.
Oh well, I like it as it is, even though it’s not a true Ovillejo.
Last Fight
The battle is intense
But I,
Surrounded by my loves,
Can feel
The strength of their embrace,
Deaths grip
Is strong and he gives chase,
Their love keeps me in place,
During this final race.
But I can feel deaths grip.
and this poem imparts the feel to us – very effective
Agree with Jane -powerful
I third the sentiments!
To Plant Tulips
As your sorrowful eyes linger
On others joyful upright blossoms blazing
Too late for procrastinated moldered bulbs at which you’ve long continued gazing
Looks like everyone’s off to a good start today, and Robert, I particularly liked this poem too. Off to try to write my own… before it’s too late! Happy poeming, all!
Got No Time
They have excuses that become a litany –
the car needs new tires,
the kids are sick,
the kids are too small for a long trip,
the dust needs to be cleaned,
the silver needs polishing,
the birds need to be fed.
The litany is ridiculous,
You know it, they know it,
Yet, laying no guilt, you accept
the reasons, hoping against hope
that someday, they will find the time
to share space with you, again -
Before its too late.
Longing, patient, achingly authentically beautiful
“the dust needs to be cleaned”
Inspired. – Thanks
Too Late
beneath ancient oak
~carved symbols fading~
leaf-fall spreads orange hues
bright in the light of
one more autumn gone to rest
barren emptiness
soundless in the air
undone by fruitless calling
to that left undone
Jane penland Hoover
November 18, 2011
Prompt: It’s Too Late
PAD 18
Ooooh finished tumbling and find this soft lush place to land. Gorgeous
For Jerry
The cat who came each late fall day -Ragged ear, baleful eyes mucous dripped
Now strength-drained-weak lying on his side staring with contemptuous accusatory eyes
At the pitiful saucer of guilt-warmed-milk under his slack jawed chin
You’ve rushed out in slippered feet on frigid winter snowy morn and slipped
To Water
The scattered fallen leaves
From the prettily potted untended trees
To Hold Your Baby
When days have melted one by well intentioned one
And infant sits and crawls and begins and continues to run
Headlong into fields of adulthood from you far flung
Too late to rock for hours as you’d planned
Very nice, Pearl. This was one of my first “too late,” thoughts, too.
Thanks Hannah….back later for more…. ( As you I have never regretted the rocking days)
Beautifully expressed, Pearl. Love the image of running headlong into fields of adulthood.
Time does fly! Great metaphor of fields!
Thanks
Some cuts do not heal.
We need to lasso our tongues
Before it’s too late.
Amen.
What Jerry said.
One of the sharpest swords. I’ll second that Amen.
Healing even from the deepest cut is possible but a lasso far preferable
Yes! Lots said in just a few words.
Yes!
Amen, well-said.
You ever try to lasso a tongue, they’re damned slippery. – Mosk
Reminds me of the Rod Stewart song, The First Cut Is The Deepest.
Last Man Standing
Will the last man standing
please turn out the lights?
Will the courageous standard bearer
perform the final rights?
Will there be a drummer drumming
when it’s not about the drum?
Will peace on earth prevail
when the final day has come?
Will the last man standing
sing a song of grace?
Will the bright sun above
beam light upon his face?
Will the fig leaf be returned
by a gently soaring dove?
Will it ever simply be
for unconditional love?
By Michael Grove
Oooh almost missed you…. Hurrah for the last man standing… So poignant
Thanks Pearl. You have certainly been on a roll lately. Enjoying all of yours, especially the humorous ones.
Thanks Mike ….I have a serious case of RTD ( Thought Rhyming Disorder) it seems triggered by November’s PAD…
Back to NaNo ….
Too late to reasonably
Catch up thirty five thousand more
But a self flung gauntlet bangs on my door….
Bye
Well done. Thanks- mosk
“Anti-Editor”
A penny for your thoughts, he says with a
raised Andy Rooney eyebrow. I set down
my Travel magazine and say I hear Hawaii
calling—coral reefs, a bikini on the beach,
hibiscus in my hair, What do you think?
Most people can’t hear islands talk, he says
flicking that caterpillar on his brow. (I swear
it just grew another inch) There’s a twinkle in
his eye, though and I think he has just tossed
me a flirty wink. Instead, he plucks two stray
eyebrow hairs from his teary laughing
eyes and says: you on a beach in a bikini?
Babe, I think you’re about thirty years too late.
oops, seems I left out a stop sign for the italics.
Loving lyrical lovely and….ps…. Bikinis are forever.
But sounds like his eyebrows could use a bikini wax. Great
LOL
To Recap the Genie
Once out and spiraled upwards out
Coalesced from smoke assuming form and clout
Leaving the confined bottled-bind
Too late to whisper Gilda Rose’s “Never Mind”
like a prayer – love the rhyming included and sturcture of this a lot too
HOPE
It is not too late
To pick up the phone.
a good contrast against the darker sounds
Great lines
Thoughtful!
Jane and PKP Part 2 reply: thanks for the “thoughtful” comments!
Perfect.
… and speaking of too late, I hear little Sophie sounds coming from the crib. I was hoping for a long nap so I could grab more time to catch up on the reading and writing I missed out on yesterday. But for now, I need to cuddle that little chubbawubba, as the months are flying and cannot be contained. Enjoy writing and reading, wonderful poets! Hope to catch up with you this evening.
Sophie!!! I can almost hear her! Blessings to you both. Enjoy!
Marie Elena, seize the days! So happy to hear about your little grand-one!
Belated
They always said
he’d be late
for his own funeral
come creeping down
the aisle during Amazing Grace
mumbling
pardon me,
but I’m supposed to be
the guy in the pine box.</i?
She always thought
she’d have time
(plenty; after all,
the man was never
early for anything in his life)
to say
pardon me,
but I’m supposed to be
the girl in your heart.
Pardon me, De, but did you just hear the PING in my heart? Loved it.
my WOW. of the morning…great unique image mumbling down the aisle ….wonderful!
So true to life, and death!!!
Thanks, guys. So much.
Grrrr. Formatting issue. Please excuse repost.
Belated
They always said
he’d be late
for his own funeral
come creeping down
the aisle during Amazing Grace
mumbling
pardon me,
sorry, I’m supposed to be
the guy in the pine box.
She always thought
she’d have time
(plenty; after all,
the man was never
early for anything in his life)
to say
pardon me,
sorry, but I’m supposed to be
the girl in your heart.
Reposting my comment:
This is my WOW. of the morning…great unique image mumbling down the aisle ….wonderful!
De, please see my comment above, still.
Mine, too. Above.
This poem just reached right off the screen into my chest and grabbed me by the heart. Great job!
Poignant and pointed. Part of your “Make ART Out of HeARTache” series?
When’s your book coming out? I heard you were putting one together.
thanks – moskowitz
The Pig and the Snake
Do you remember when we were kids,
how you tortured me on the tire swing?
You twisted me so tight and then let go
and while I was spinning like a top,
you wrapped me ‘round the tree
until I was dizzy.
I fell in a pile
of dog shit,
you handed
me the hose
laughing
and snorting
like a pig.
I pressed my thumb on the nozzle
made the water stream prickly hard
stood as close to you as I could
and drenched you to tears.
Soon we were rolling in the slimy mud
clawing at each other with no remorse.
You dug your fingernails into my arms
made train tracks from elbow to wrist
while I slithered
and crooked my way
out of your sight,
but you were always
on my mind. In the dirt.
You’re the pig, but I’m the snake.
It’s much too late to clean the slate.
Laurie – this is so vivid! The poem just slithers to its conclusion, just like we’re sliding though all that mud. Great closing line – you’re the pig, but I’m the snake.
Childhood bliss?!!!!
Wheee! The “purity” of the mess of childhood
I agree – very vivid, and fun to read – even though I wasn’t clear how to interpret.
Care to share?
Mosk-confused
Too Late…
Children fling their wishes like grains of sand reflecting,
Their childish play their ways perfecting,
Fathers with sons love and romp,
Along broad beaches trample stomp,
Among life’s gray happiness throw,
Tenderness care and loving sow,
My boy to me my giggling friend,
He smiled until the very end…
And now the memories tug at me,
I reflect on life together and how that would be,
Instead I write in my empty room,
In the silence of a childless tomb…
STUNNED SPEECHLESS …IN THE VIVID EMPTINESS EXQUISITELY POEMED ….BRAVO
you guys are way too nice
thank you so much <3
Perfect from beginning to end!
you are TOO kind
Trying one last time…
Belated
They always said
he’d be late
for his own funeral
come creeping down
the aisle during Amazing Grace
mumbling
pardon me,
but I’m supposed to be
the guy in the pine box.
She always thought
she’d have time
(plenty; after all,
the man was never
early for anything in his life)
to say
pardon me,
but I’m supposed to be
the girl in your heart.
Hello neighbor!!
Your style and voice are so distinctly yours, I’ve enjoyed each one. 
Thanks so much, Hannah. Ha, I really wish we could remove bum posts. I had “technical difficulties” this morning. It’s EARLY on the west end of the world.
Love it, De!
~PALETTE’S POTENTIAL~
Its not too late to pull with palette knife
Titanium white into the picture,
To hue the sky with cobalt blue.
Never too late to tint the sea viridian,
Deep speaking unto deep, cerulean blue.
Seemingly a timely spreading of
Ultramarine across cliff and cave,
A violet mountain range.
Its not to late for thick gray clouds
carrying rain, hungry to taste the
Distant, silent sap, green forest;
Seeping away into depths of ivory black
And raw umber, thick of wood.
Then just when I think it’ll end
Lemon yellow highlights,
Sun peaking from beneath.
Oooh Hannah …. I fell I to your colors….my favorites from childhood as I fingered the tubes of pils and memorized their names… Thank you… Gorgeous pulling that palette knife ….
I’m so glad that it conjured up memories for you, Pearl! Thank you for your comment!
Heavenly Hannah, reading your poems always makes me feel as if I finally, finally understand color.
What a generous comment, De!! Warms my heart to crimson! Thank you so much!!!
Hannah, left a comment on your new website! Poem is a picture!
Thank you for visiting and commenting, Patricia, and thank you for sharing your story with me!
could feel the pull of the knife, the texture of the medium – see more than color emerging beneath the stroke – really fine one
I’m so glad you enjoyed this one, Jane!! It felt good to write it! Warm smiles to you!
This was a cornucopia of colors! Gorgeous!
Thanks a bunch Buddah!
Ha! I got it! Here is a true Ovillejo.
Goodbye
I fought a good long fight
Tonight,
My family they will grieve,
I leave
For the journey was long-
Be strong.
I go where I belong,
A world with no more pain
I leave behind this chain.
Tonight I leave be strong.
Yay, you! Wonderful!
(The non-rhyming was great, too.)
Beautiful! Wonderful use of the form, Michelle!
Wow. Almost speechless.
You certainly do have it!
WAIT
Am I too late?
Or can I skate?
Oh, I’d hate,
To have missed,
On being kissed,
Not make the list!
Am I behind,
Will I ever find?
My own kind!
Have I gone too far?
Or are,
We in the car!
I have to run,
Before the sun,
Runs out of fun!
I must go,
Have been too slow,
Don’t you know?
Please open the gate,
Truly I just ate,
I won’t take more bait,
Please just . . .
Wait!
Okay now you have me giggling…
Great romp! I love “I won’t take more bait/please just….wait!”
Fun One!!!
delightful! thanks
Thank you to Pearl, Andrew, Michael and Buddah . . . glad to see the fun play bounced all around and came tumbled, stumbling back down to where it came from! The muse can just run with it’s own amusement! Happy to see she brought you all along too! I appreciate your joyful words!
He has Plummeted to Earth
Today I have noticed a few, thin blades
Of grass pushing through the chopped
Up sod that covers you.
This gash in the earth will not last long.
September rains are gentle and more
Grass will be coaxed up and spread
Into the green carpet that covers all.
Too late for words and yet I talk to you
Even as the syllables are whisked away
With the leaves that have dried and curled
And are beginning to fall. I know how
You loved the wind – how you wanted
To be a part of it and its mysterious
Beginnings and unknown ends. You
Sailed, a home grown Icarus who ventured
Into the places voyagers are warned
Against and like him you found yourself
Too close to the sun and all its dangers
And I hope that you saw what you have
Come to see.
Too late, too late, words are always too
Late, appearing as they do after everything
Has already happened. Now we ponder
What to say as though you could hear and
Even follow our suggestions as you never
Did in life. I know, too, that this is the end
You seeked – though perhaps not quite so soon.
What is t here left to do or say? Bid the wind
Be gentle and the seasons soft. Too late,
Too late for words, for feeling. Rest.
I was leaving and youroem caught me …held me.. and still embraces as I cry… Bravo
Obviously that was your poem that caught me Marian….
too late to reconsider
falling;
last wish
wasted
on venus
neither goddess
nor star,
falling
ooh, i like the idea here….
Chicken
Once a month, we meet up for grilled chicken
sandwiches at a local dive. We shake
hands and talk about cars and work until
our number is called. One of us heads off
to get the extra napkins we will need
and soon the grease and mayonnaise slide us
to talking about our boys – their battles,
their loves, how we watch, how we bite our tongues.
I eat hungrily, my eyes bright, heart wide,
and we laugh at ourselves – how we have failed
to make these boys into anything but
what they were always going to become.
I look down, and my basket is empty.
Too soon. But what a rush to have tasted
such fatness for even one brief moment.
This is wonderful. We should all be so lucky to have one of those friendships.
Agree with De…. ( oh gee…golly…can’t stop rhyming!)
I envy this friendship – great job, Mosk
Echoes
It echoes inside as well as out,
The loathing the regret the doubt,
For all I’ve done and from now can do,
Too little too late too few,
It’s writ on my stone,
Worn to the bone,
Didn’t live but shouldered life,
Focused on the strife,
Sings the moonwind,
Never sinned,
Always duty utmost haste,
Verdict…waste…
Now…I take my lover’s hand,
We walk and talk and understand,
I bring her flowers and never miss,
The chance to steal a perfect kiss,
And as she sleeps I shed a tear,
For the end draws ever near,
Fool never yolk an imagined plough,
Be one with your love… and do it now…
Beautiful
You’re right – do it now. Thanks
Thanks so much, Hannah. Ha, I really wish we could remove bum posts. I had “technical difficulties” this morning. It’s EARLY on the west end of the world.
You’re very welcome and thank you dearly!! I hear you, technical difficulties are my specialty some days too! He he! Clinking a coffee cup cheers with you from the East-side, De!! Happy day to you!
Incandescence
“When Thomas Edison worked late into the night on the electric light, he had to do it by gas lamp or candle. I’m sure it made the work seem that much more urgent.” ~George Carlin
Skiddeldee Riddledee
Thomas A. Edison
was under deadline to
make a bulb light.
Characteristically
Edison felt that he
must not be late to claim
his patent right.
###
It’s Never Too Late for a Clever Comeback
“Repartee is something we think of twenty-four hours too late.” ~Mark Twain
Higgledy piggledy
Humorist Mark Twain said,
“Repartee’s something we
think of too late…”
Coincidentally,
Twain, like most clever folk,
suffered not from this: the
talent’s innate.
###
Much like your talent, lady.
Unlike the rest of us, who only come up with the right words in the car on the way home… Well said!
;D
stillborn
paper balls are filling up my basket
poems conceived but now stillborn
crumpled ideas buried in a casket
paper balls are filling up my basket
kidnapped words resembling a team’s mascot
miscarried babies we grieve for and mourn
paper balls are filling up my basket
poems conceived but now stillborn
stillborn
paper balls are filling up my basket
poems conceived but now stillborn
crumpled ideas buried in a casket
paper balls are filling up my basket
kidnapped words resembling a team’s mascot
dead babies we grieve for and mourn
paper balls are filling up my basket
poems conceived but now stillborn
” poems conceived but now stillborn “. Yep… A WOW
Another Wow!
Great, J.
Too Late Now
I remember a time
When the furniture was ours;
We could spread out with room to spare.
Couch, chair, bed – now all cramped.
Spaces in between all filled
With lovable four legged kids
That we forgot to train
To sleep in their special beds
Designed for them, and on the floor.
Haha. My four-legged children owned the furniture.
Before speaking once,
pause for a moment in time
and always think twice.
by Michael Grove
The power of the pause . . . . . .
Thank you, Michael! That reminder was well waiting for!
They’ve passed…no sense to stay there.
There are those days when it’s just too late,
and nothing seems to
null it,
like when ice cream has melted
or been dropped on the floor.
When milk has been spilled and hearts have grown
sour…
It’s been so long since the last time you stuck
your face
around.
No years left for my hands
to count.
The plants have all wilted and the flower has dried
beside…
Outside they have fallen—the leaves, they have left their
homes, again.
Whose fault was it, or is it?—their loves, away do trees chase?—or their leaves
just
won’t stay?
The sun has set, it’s face hides…
the moon seems far…it’s low tide.
The dreams…dissipated,
as candy smiles faded.
The heart has dulled—no meaning,
winter has frozen its beatings…
Bad wine—she, embittered, no chocolate
could sweeten.
But, again, the sun, its moon in tow, shall rise
These things too late—they, too, as night have passed
The tides have specks of sand to move still
and time has lives to claim, hence…keep going.
Market Research Information for Poets
Egotists!
Narcissists!
Poets!
(Forgive the redundancy.)
After a thorough analysis
of the activity
of this website,
I offer the following
analysis to aid you
in your writing endeavors:
First,
if you want
to maximize
the comment count
for your postings,
make sure that your poems
are no longer
than 22 lines,
which seems to be
the tipping point
for inattention.
Second,
and more important,
please ensure
your submissions
occur before 3pm EST.
This will allow
ample opportunity
for the majority
of site traffic
to view / comment
on your work.
Further analysis exists
to support the hypothesis
that contributors/readers
who visit earlier
in the day
typically do not
revisit the site
later in the day
to read /comment.
Third,
if you are only posting
so that someone
will stroke your ego
and validate your worth
as a writer,
then the previous comment
about time of submission
is irrelevant:
it is already too late.
How brilliant is this?!
Pretty brilliant, I would say.
the immediacy of day, the urgency of this moment and the next and yet- Your poem here is worth coming back for – early or late is the irrelevant sometimes.
This is so dead on, crafty, truthful, and analytic. +50 ego strokes from me to you, lol.
Three Cheers for Buddah!
You read it write, Buddah, and, with anything . . . first could be worst and late, great . . . and for hours, we could all debate!
LOL!! <3 it!
De…buddah…light…full
Well over the 22 line limit for attention, yet we all read it because it was quite simply–marvelous.
Heehee, and hear hear!
LOL, you crack me up, Buddah!
Nice! And yes, I will admit … when my kid woke me up early this morning, I thought, “Well, at least maybe this way I write my poem and be at the top.”
(Which didn’t happen — my morning got going before the prompt was posted … and you know, I couldn’t possibly write anything other than my PAD poem.)
ouch! That doesn’t give us poor Brits much of a chance.
Seriously brilliant. Sharp, funny, and spot-on.
Love it.
“‘Editor’
My mouth is sometimes a cloth
that wipes clean smudges and similes
like metaphors found on glass.
The past is the past, but my eyes
trigger the memories she nearly
forgot, and her smile runs across
my heart beats like line breaks
in poems I should’ve written
before she left, though maybe
I did, and they still didn’t work,
and my mouth is sometimes a cloth
that wipes clean the jagged edges
cutting black holes in my past.
Or maybe my mouth is a mouth,
and my mind just catches fire.”
it’s over
fibroids
uterine growths
squatters taking up space
where babies should be
a hysterectomy
will take care
of both
<3
Quietly powerful.
The Line
The line stretched out of sight in both directions
I could see neither the beginning nor could I see the end
On top of that, I had no clue how I ended up in it
By the looks of those I could see around me
I got the feeling that I wasn’t alone in my confusion
Bewilderment was written all over their faces
I attempted to talk to the man in line to the front of me
No sounds of any kind would come out of my mouth
But for the sound of shuffling feet, it was silent
There was occasional movement, although very slow
One small step forward every few minutes or so
Still no view of the front or the back of the line
And still no sounds but for the occasional shuffling of feet
No answers to the questions loudly screaming in my head
Just a never-ending line of confused, slow moving humanity
Time passed slowly; hours seemed to drag into days
Shuffling feet and rustling robes the only break in the silence
Just enough to drive a sane person over the edge of madness
Yet my mind remained in a state of hyper activity
Trying to figure out the perplexing puzzle that lay before me
Where was the final destination of this human caterpillar
Then the time came when I could not believe my weary eyes
The front end of the line was slowly coming into view
I could make out what looked like an ornate set of pure gold doors
Could it be I was in a place that I thought I’d never see
Could it be that what I’d always believed was actually true
Could it be that Heaven was everyone’s eternal home
In my anticipation, the line seemed to nearly stop
Suddenly it was clear that I had passed through death
I wanted so much to enter through those ornate gold doors
Closer and closer the line moved toward the prize
The excitement in my head drowned out the shuffling of feet
Then, in what seemed like an eternity, I was next in line
I waited with an involuntary smile plastered ear to ear
As these ornate gold doors opened ever so slowly
And I entered the most beautiful hall I’d ever seen
Then I heard the first voice I’d heard since arriving in line
The voice told me where to stand and to remain silent
I followed the commands and awaited my reward
I stood before a throne of gold with a man dressed all in white
Angelic figures stood statuesque on his left and on his right
The awesomeness of his presence caused my knees to buckle
And I sank to the floor overcome by the moment
Emotion flooded my brain as I realized the awful truth
The overwhelming realization that I was here for judgment
“Do you know me?” Questioned the man on the throne
“Yes, I do, Lord. Everyone knows You where I come from.”
Then he followed up with, “Tell me how you now me.”
“I know you from the TV, and some of my friends and family.
I know you from the movies and from strangers at my door.
And I know you from the stories my grandparents told me.”
The he countered, “You know of me, but do you know me?
Have you believed in me and called upon me for forgiveness?
I ask because I have no recollection of a relationship with you.”
I stood dumbfounded with nothing to say but, “Please.
Have mercy on me. I’ve been a good person. I gave to the poor.
I was honest and moral in my dealings with others. I loved everyone.”
“But, when your Grandmother told you about me, you rejected me.
And when your friend told you about me on his death bed, you rejected me.
All your life you’ve rejected me. I’m sorry. It’s too late. Depart from me.”
Looking at my Judge through tear filled eyes, too late I realized
I was to blame for the judgment He made for rejecting Him all my life
He had no choice but to condemn me to pay with my eternal soul
I would apologize for being so serious
But serious deserves no apology
When it comes to eternal life
Can’t Be Late
I got the alarm clock set
For 4am sharp
The GPS is loaded
With all the destinations
The route practiced
All times down to the minute
My coupons are organized
In the order of the route
Credit cards and cash at the ready
With the prices listed in order
And backup plans three deep
Just in case things don’t go as planned
One way or the other
I’ll make this Black Friday
A success
Tee hee. I like this guide on how to organize chaos.
LOL!
Perfect!
LEGACY*
Like crumbs from breakfast,
it falls where I do not intend.
By sheer happenstance
it stains, or etches, or maims,
causes events to remain
present, as if time could suspend.
I pretend to be the master
of its fate, but only when it’s too late.
In a moment when regret
will soon have its hold,
it is often forgot, bartered,
and sold for an angry phrase,
or worse for uncensored truth,
which cannot be swallowed or erased.
I pretend to be the master
of its fate, but only when it’s too late.
Like footprints in sand
a gentle chase runs behind me
to remind me that my selfish path
is not forged for me alone.
My legacy is constantly building
but disappointment
stirs mortar between my life’s
bricks, through my legacy’s drafty home.
I pretend to be the master
of its fate, but only now when it’s far too late.
* I actually wrote this yesterday for my local writing group’s monthly assignment (your greatest disappointment) but Robert read my mind and so, it fits today’s prompt.
Wormholes.
It’s too late to rewrite time
say “Yes,” to Rocket Records
and follow where that might have led
to stars or a dust-crashed landing.
The many leading moments
I sabotaged are gone
leaving spindrift traces
to mark futility’s force.
Mistakes swallow grief;
a black hole of universal emotion
spun on itself
by the worm of self-pity.
What has been, Hasbeen?
But what will be
will be…
spectacular.
Michele Brenton
Its too late
4 AM call, I made
an overseas one,
I missed him that night,
Too late he muttered,
and dead goes the line..
Was it the time of call
or the realization ?
I never asked,
he nver dared to say,
except one passing remark,
Love stays, whether late …
Poignant, thought-provoking. Good work!
Home run – excellent!
Growing old has compensations:
contentment,
the passing of vanity,
time to spare for poetry
and people,
and yet
there are still a few regrets.
Too late to learn to fly
too late to see the world
too late to run a marathon
too late to have more babies
I can’t turn back my clock.
There’s never enough time for everything, but always enough for some poetry! I like.
true !!
I liked this.
It’s Too Late.
My poem for the day.
Beautiful, Leo. Love that last line.
Pingback: Too Late? | Soul's Music
Today’s and yesterday’s response may be found here:
http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/2011/11/18/too-late/
Thanks
Sorry for the double post again. Still at conference with Nancy. Fun.
Perhaps
I grieved me for so long
after you died—our inside jokes,
well-meaning arguments, and
talks into late nights—
thinking that now it is too late
for an us as we once were.
This is the essence of grief,
perhaps,
thinking a lovely thing is gone
for good, no negotiations,
no resurrections.
But now I’ve warmed
to our new and
continuing relationship,
your having taken to air,
I still housed in soil,
and our new conversation
has just begun, proving
that possibly,
love is never too late.
Writing too Late
After decades of putting
my own writing on hold,
all while convincing
my students to write,
years of weary midnight comments,
years of saying not yet to my stories,
just you wait, stick around, by and by,
I feared that skills and words,
Like old neglected friends,
would leave me,
perhaps remembering
our early love but disgruntled
at how I had so abandoned them,
my own writing just too late,
regret rising in me for what never was.
Sometimes life is kinder than we fear.
My new attention to old love
has nurtured starving words
to come gentled to me,
only now and then spiteful
or all the years I made them wait;
maybe still it’s not too late.
These are both very nice! I like both your takes on the prompt. ^_^
Never too late.
Not Too Late
When the call came to her, not me,
touching but not ending our lives,
I knew I had to take the time
to rebuild, to learn to love anew.
Mindful that life has no use-by date,
I think that all we have is now.
But I also have our past,
lived together, interwoven,
shaped by daily choices.
Witnessing her grief, raw
but unmarred by regret,
I know it’s not too late for me
to love you again in pure,
unselfish ways, more than a hedge
against sudden loss or unforeseen
separation, a second chance,
a gift that enriches the giver.
<3 Thank goodness for second chances.
To My Grandmother, at the Wake
There were so many times I could feel all of it
welling up in me: confessions and apologies,
a great brackish plume of them spreading
underneath my long-held tongue.
Most of all, kneeling now before you,
what tangles me is that I wasn’t here for the end,
that I never sat by your bedside so you could
unknot these parts of me like before.
Four thousand miles away and still at the hour of,
something magnetic and knowing tumbled in me:
I spoke your name without meaning to,
and the rooks took flight in your final salute.
Here now, with this shade of you nested in
satin and silk, brushed and polished (like you
never were), now I want to come clean about
boyfriends and secrets and a hundred sorrows.
But what is worse is that you gave, and gave, and
I think I never gave enough: with a kiss and
a cross now, will our hands lift up these hearts,
salt-sodden, to let the hollow paper dry in the sun.
Oh, so sad, so loving. I’m sure she knows, Joseph. XOXOX
***see my comment for yesterday’s poem*** – ibid
Plus also: “what tangles me,” salt-sodden hearts and hollow paper drying in the sun. Ahhhhhh…
I agree with Domino. I’m sure she knows how you felt, and most likely knew more in life than she was ever told. Beautifully, beautifully penned, Joseph.
Absolutely stunning!
“will our hands lift up these hearts/salt-sodden, to let the hollow paper dry in the sun.” this is…something special. so much love.
It’s Never Too Late
Lateness is clearly defined as
Missing an appointment or
Not being prompt,
When it comes to lateness, that’s me to a “T”
I’m always late for everything,
But …it’s never too late for me to start over
To get back on the proverbial “horse,”
If I gave up that would be ten times worse,
So I brush myself off,
I stand up to try again
Coffee and laptop in hand
I will meet the deadline!
Yes you will – or not!
A fun read.
This is long, isn’t it. Bear with me, I was in a ballady mood today. LOL
Reincarnation
A young Egyptian maid in love
with one of Pharaoh’s men.
They meet in secret every night,
they feel the strangest yen.
She says she will marry him,
But she can’t tell him when.
Then her love is called to war.
“I love you little wren!”
And he is gone and she is left
She ne’er sees him again.
Another life, another maid,
this time she’s from Bahrain
and her dear love’s a carpenter
who builds ships for his gain.
They meet in secret every night
His love for her is plain.
But an accident one day
takes him away in pain.
And he is gone and she is left.
She is alone again.
This life she is a Chinese lass
She is a peasant’s child.
They meet in secret every night
He tells her she’s beguiled
him from his lawful wife,
They’ll run into the wild.
They find it to their liking
but the tigers also smiled.
This time they both are moving on
but their love is gone once more.
Another life, another maid
Who lives in Istanbul.
Her love this time’s a teacher
who teaches at the school.
They meet in secret every night
He swears he is love’s fool
But then he lost his head one day,
her Sultan-father’s cruel.
And he is gone and she is left
without her love once more.
She is born a citizen
of privilege in Rome.
He is but a serving-man
who works within her home.
They meet in secret every night,
her father’s not a fan.
He ends up a gladiator
without any battle plan.
And he is gone and she is left,
she ne’er sees him again.
Her next life as a viking girl
is short and not so sweet.
He dies before he sees her,
before they even meet.
And she is always mournful;
she never feels complete.
She dies of plague so weary
and filled with sad defeat.
And they are gone and never met
and must go on again.
And now she is a Scottish lass
and he’s a buccaneer
sailing up and down the coast.
She is his darlin’ dear.
They meet in secret when they can
until he disappears.
Her life is long and empty, then,
through all the lonely years.
She finally moves on again,
and try again once more.
Eventually born in modern times;
they don’t believe in love.
They meet one day and time stands still
not knowing what they speak of,
they never meet in secret once,
they’re always hand-in-glove,
and eventually they just give in
and thank their stars above.
And this time when they both move on
they’ve lived long lives together
Their love was worth the fighting for,
worth waiting for, forever.
Wow, love conquers all through time eh? Interesting
Very lovely ballad this. I just had one doubt through the read, how’d the maid have a Sultan for her father?
Maid=maiden. ^_^ Thanks for the patience and investment of time! LOL Couldn’t seem to stop myself today.
Hopping on one foot clapping in the air…singing your ballad of love reincarnated until it reached it’s Nirvanic destination! YAY. …. ( have to get to NaNo but your ballad…forgive the pun….sang out to me!
Pearl, you are a gem to say so. I know how rough it is. ^_^ But thank you just the same!
The Avenue, Twilight
The street is full of kids, standing in gangs by age and sex
though a boy stands with his two sisters and their friend
with them but apart, as if told by his mother to keep an eye on them
as if the older boys would dare shout insults
in the deepening gloom.
At five-o’clock its too early for tea, too late for play
as the streetlights bat their yellow eyes
offering false promise to the last, pink tinged clouds
still visible against the Prussian blue sky.
I walk past, sans dogs, shopping bags bulging
as a girl of seven or eight shakes her head
like a you tube wannabe, The scent of coal fires
drifts through stark November air.
At number ninety-three a woman lights candles
in two freshly carved pumpkins. It’s too late
for Halloween but the school was closed today
and it kept her daughters occupied.
She looks up as I pass, watching my smile
and I whisper ‘Too late.
Too late.’
I really enjoyed picturing this walk.
WHO WAS SHE?
(a rondel)
Unanswered questions that we never ask –
a whole life’s landscapes slipping out of sight.
Child too busy to wonder what delight
my mother found in that filigreed cask
she kept, empty, on her dresser; the flask
of perfume from her first marriage; these slight
unanswered questions that we never ask.
A whole life’s landscapes slipping out of sight
through a train window. Some trivial task
occupied my thought; a poem to write –
too late now that she’s gone, to strike a light
and seek that stranger in familiar mask.
Unanswered questions that we never ask.
Too Late
My mother lies with unblinking eyes,
her backed-up plumbing a harsh betrayal,
mouth open as if to speak,
a knot of air tense between us.
With eyes pearled cold, she stares at the open closet.
Satin, taffeta, and flounces of organdy
roost above the fabric of hospice care,
like flamboyant birds on a wire.
A thin white sheet covers the unnatural splay of bare feet
that danced out the disappointment to exhaustion.
The room is empty tonight. I read
poems, poems, poems
as if one poem makes a difference over the other
and the reading itself is important to the cause.
Oh, this is so sad. I’m so sorry.
I am going to let this poem speak for itself
‘Too Late’
Ashes
Soot
Gallons of water
Uncontrollable
Weep
Pain
Lost
Destruction
Extreme heat
Memories
Stories
Agony
Sorrow
Argue
Doors slam
Adultery
Emotions flaring
Child crying
Voice raising
Destruction lurking
Relationship ending
I caught you
Cigarette lite
Sirens
Suicide
Broken trust
Burning flesh
Child crying
Gasoline
Investigators
Abandon
Mother leaving
Husband betrayed
Turmoil
Pressure
Crack
Child wailing
Soaked cushions
Stove on
Insanity loosed
Doors locked
Cigarette flicked
Explosion
‘NOOOOO, my baby’
Conscious crumble
Sorry is
Too late
Silence
From a baby
No more
So much insanity can pour from one selfish act. Horrible images, but well done.
It was hard for me to write this. I wanted to tell a message. A simple sorry can go a long way, even to save a husband and child.
This made my heart pound, and I have no adjectives to describe.
Images and tension crackle and explode and oh those last lines….great poem!
Wow!
Dance
Do we dance now while desire is great,
Or only in our regrets once it is too late?
With spouses on the rare, treasured date,
Do we dance now while desire is great?
With daughters, or sons, while we still rate,
And mothers, or fathers, before they pass the gate.
Do we dance now while desire is great,
Or only in our regrets once it is too late?
NOT A MOMENT TOO LATE
Can I walk the dog?
No, you have an escaped frog!
Can I answer the phone?
No, give the dog a bone!
Can I take my sister to the park?
Not when I see it is getting dark!
With my brother, can I swim?
No, it is just time for him!
Can I tell Daddy about my day?
Not when I have bills to pay!
Can I just toss the salad?
No, I’ll have to get that lid!
Can I put the whipped cream on the pie?
No, you might spray it in your eye!
Can I read the baby a story?
No, you’ll choose something gory!
Is there something I can do?
No, and your bedtime is overdue!
I guess there was nothing useful to do today,
I can’t seem to help in any way!
I’ll go to bed,
Instead!
What is that yelp?
My dog needs help!
I’ll go hold her,
Snuggle her fur!
Everyone is asleep,
We won’t make a peep!
She needs me to lovingly give,
I will tell her that forever,
I want her to live!
I’ll thank her for being my pet!
I’ll do something good today yet!
Ok, back in bed,
Now I am sleepy, nothing to dread!
How I loved holding, loving and soothing her head!
Five days later, she was dead.
Still glad,
I had,
That special time,
Now today it is this rhyme!
“I love you”!
We can always state . . .
Never ever is it too late!
jrc Simply GREAT RMA
Beautiful – thanks – moskowitz
Many thanks to RMA and Moskowitz! Appreciate the kind comments! It is never too late to receive such warm words from you both! In fact, it’s right on time!
There She Is
It’s too late now; I’ll never be
Miss America. In our paneled
living room when I was 14,
we were a panel of judges,
my parents and I, with paper
and pens to keep track. It was,
after all, a game of points, not
mystery: so many for swimwear,
evening gown, interview, talent.
The ventriloquists, jazz dancers,
jugglers of flaming torches,
yodelers of rodeo songs—
how they all sparkled, with all
those gleaming white teeth!
I didn’t know a thing then
about facts we never saw:
the whitening treatments,
swimsuit glue, extreme diets
to keep everything in place.
Later, as I surveyed myself
in the bathroom mirror,
I secretly practiced saying
my name and “I’m from
the great state of Ohioooo!”
with studied enthusiasm,
an approximation of hope.
I liked this very much – and it’s real a scholarship contest, right? – mosk
Thanks! And yes, you’re right — that’s what they call it, over and over and over.
“Soaring and Landing”
There were times beyond time
when all possibilities
felt within the reach of my life’s embrace.
It was exhilarating and bittersweet,
like skydiving, I imagine,
when you’re so high
you can stretch your arms out
and feel like you are hugging
the whole earth below you.
Your heart might burst
with the joy of its belonging,
the way you grasp and grok
and fall into and are lifted by
the everything you are part of.
And then, inevitably,
you begin to focus.
Maybe it’s your gaze
or your interested mind,
or maybe your heart
can’t stay so close to popping
for so long—and so
you spot your house, your life,
the one you know
and built and made yours,
and you fall right there,
right into that point in time and place;
and for all the other possibilities,
if it’s not exactly
too late, then it is, at least,
not now. And this, too,
is exhilarating and
bittersweet.
“The Nittany Lion Den”
It wasn’t hard to hide his mind
inside all that false glory and pride.
Preening his mighty mane, raising
his bronzed lion heart bowing for
hallelujahs to the applause of
thousands—a stadium of roars
not enough
inside his mind,
behind his padding,
inside his den,
he baits his prey with
elegance and praise,
his perfect worshipper.
~ ~ ~
Stare into those hollowed eyes
of the stunted boys, undefended
by the Lion’s kings.
It’s too late for purity,
it’s too late for joy.
too late for defense.
It’s just too damn late.
It’s all so heartbreaking. But I have to believe we don’t know Coach Paterno’s full story. I pray we don’t, because I can’t bear the thought that he knew and looked the other way. I can’t.
Perfect topic for prompt…. KUDOS ….
IT’S TOO LATE
It’s too late.
The street lamps are lit
and it seems a bit chilly
on nights when you’re only
a thought and not a reality.
In silence I sit, and with it
I feel the need to feel you,
to hold you; love you.
It’s too late.
It’s too late.
The house is empty
and the only sound is the clock
that ticks each lonely second from
this lifetime. I’m sitting here,
my computer screen’s luminance
flickers in static resonance.
Searching for a sign of you, but
it’s too late.
It’s too late.
The barrage of infomercials
has begun, and I wonder where you are,
how far would my fervent cries need to rise
to reach your ears? I fear that
the distance will render me obsolete,
my feet desire the warmth of yours.
My heart; your love. Yet,
it’s too late.
It’s too late
for the past to cloud
all the thoughts your soul
has burned into my own.
You’ve shown that love is
all that we need to feel and heal;
the best deal you can find.
I don’t mind that you fill my thoughts.
It’s too late.
It’s too late
to swallow my pride
and hide behind my bravado
just so you’d know that you fill me
full and completely, and you see
all your heart desires through me.
I need to hear your voice;
I need to pick up the phone and call you.
It’s too late.
It’s too late.
I’ve pressed each number
with these lumbering fingers
and I hear the ringer intone.
I hold the phone to my ear
and hear in your sleepy tone,
“Hello?”. A paused apology,
I know the hour and I’m afraid
it’s too late.
It’s too late.
I hear her breathing,
sighs and buterfly eyes;
contentment in the silence
that surrounds you.
“It’s so good to hear you”
my lament fills your ears.
I’ve missed my chance…”Shhhhh”
you whisper. “It’s never too late!”
Overflowing with love, heartache, and hope. Wow.
***
the director
***
leaving the theatre, he tapped, twice, the hood of a parked police car, lifted lipstick from a drunken woman’s purse and squared himself in a store window before shooting himself with his hand.
his first film, completed, by the time he was eighteen. roundly praised. from there, a many colored thing. russian women, guns under suits, and cameos of indians with indian names. at twenty three, nostalgic for twenty one, his seminal ‘my white father’ wherein a mute albino would be upstaged by mimes. further brilliance followed. mostly in quotes, such as “babies are full of grief”. women ate from his hand and their eating progressed. one woman in particular became trapped in a man’s body and he married her. a child they tried not to have soon arrived and brought with it a list of demands from the others. the woman divorced him and took with her the man. in the midst of attending to the list came the advent of black and white which added a much needed plot to his smoking. his peers double crossed each other in small houses. he himself was able to get away with punching a young girl for the right to drag a sled. his child began to accept talking toys in exchange for keeping quiet. in 1973, his doctors, grey from vietnam, convinced him to go under. his last film was silent, and many complained about the lighting. he cried, in his mansion, for the windows he did not put in. he would not often entertain tourists but when he did they asked about his mother, her ghost, and if the east wing was really haunted. he would on those late nights produce a letter his mother had sent him only yesterday.
he was in love with his sister, always had been. after she was mauled by the dogs he had set out for his father, he made walking his home. every now and then a hotel of running. last year, he caught a movie one had made of his life and though he missed the dedication he did not
the death row scene, the little saw his mother used for the cake, the mysterious basket moved from bike to bike.
Beating the Light
A second too late
for yellow;
T-boned by a rig
Yeouch! Good!
Flight Cancelled
The time has gone
When we could have sold
The Idaho property and moved
Back to Maui. The snowplow
Broken this first snowy day.
Six months of shoveling and cold
Begins.
It’s Too Late; or Is It
by Richard-Merlin Atwater Nov. 18, 2011
“I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date!”
So said the rabbit to Alice looking at his watch.
Down the hatch, past the keyhole door, Fate
Took them to the Mad Hatter’s tea table patch.
For a very happy Un-Birthday party for Baby-Boomers,
Who arrived in time for Medicare to save the ill day–
In case it comes with bones arie in hospital bloomers,
For those at sixty-five who must pay the piper today.
Did you often drink booze, and forget to snooze
Those required eight hours each of the sedate night?
Smoke like a chimney stack, never take a cruise
To relieve your stress, and lost your temper in fight?
Ate horrible packaged food, rot your teeth with candy,
And never believed in God up above, in a solitary life?
Brandished ill-will inside towards EVERYONE, dandy!
Became a couch potato with popcorn and chips, no wife.
And if a girl: no husband too, no kids to fuss, just grumpy
All the day long; with hate in your heart for every President,
You never sang a song, don’t dance to a tune that’s bumpy,
And remained in the lowest level of poverty as resident.
If you did all that and became enormously fat with rimples,
And slep half your life away, wasting each and every day,
And looked like that famous character called Rip Van Winkles
After a hundred year nap, and looked like that chap, old and gray.
And you did it all by the age of twenty-five; then it’s too late
To blame it on your mother, your father, sister or brother,
You did it to yourself; so look at your watch and take fate
By the throat and give him a choke and shake him another
Moment or two; until you bring him to his senses and
Realize it is never too late to change your habits.
All you need to do is kick off that hospital skirt grand
Slam a horriffic homerun by acting like rabbits
With watches who keep running around the town
Saying: “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date,
Get up there and just start DOING, the things renown
That need to be done, like getting rid of belly fat weight.
Throw away all cigars and cookie jars and whiskey in a bottle.
Become conductor of your own freight train to Maine too,
As “King of the Road”, you ugly toad, get up, think at the throttle
You’re a handsome Prince, or a lovely Princess in fairy tale come true.
Be thou Gentile or Jew, become head of the crew, and toot your whistle,
Tip your hat to the ladies in Wonderland, including the Queen of hearts!
Have a grin on your face, and don’t disgrace the name you were given, Mistle-
Toe your best friend an marry in the end, even if you are NOW 92 farts
Into life, past your prime; Who gives a hoot about old-aging to petrified forest.
Shake a hickory stick at old Father Time, and swing sweet Mother Nature around,
And after “second wind” my friend, I’ll say in the end, the angels will sing a chorus
To you as you slip off your shoe and refuse to attend your own funeral pier bound
Casket, but make it into a seachest, to carry your lore to the seven seas or more
For a whirlwind tour of Tahiti and the South Pacific, all the way to New Zealand,
At age sixty-five is the BEGINNING of life for a true blue admirer of Queen Noor,
Who seeks the Nobel Prize in Literature to stand on the stage or the ceiling!
Don’t matter to me, I’m totally free to imagine whatever I wish to imagine in time,
As I marry a wife at nineteen years of age and plan to have seven more children,
In my grand old age of Medicare qualifying Supplement D status, I intend to chime
Like the soft sweet musical notes in the air, as they swing in the breeze, kildren
Of that pot of gold at the end of MY rainbow with Irish leprachauns will be filled to the brim,
With Florida orange juice, and instead of Irish whiskey that rots in the gut of the drunkard,
I intend to drink of LIFE–it’s NOT just a BoardGAME, or a Box of Cereal anymore at whim ,
But rather something to enjoy every single moment of time given as I drive my clunkard
Down the raodway of LIFE with my beautiful young wife with blue eyes, long flowing blonde hair
In the nbreeze as we pass by, every guy and gal who wishes they were me in the drivers seat
Will whistle as we race by to the finish line way past age one hundred and twenty-two “over there,
Over there, send the word, send the word Over There”, That the Yank Rich Atwater’s NOT coming, neat
The angels will have to wait at the Pearly Gates until I choose my arrival way past my prime of old age time,
I refuse to die, will never take a pill, avoid all doctors who don’t have PATIENCE (not patients) to put up with me.
To hell with Medicare, and a rocking chair, and all those bottles of pills for every foolish thing that annoys,
Give me pure black licorice sticks, and organic Aloe Vera juice, and call me a moose from Maine under a pine tree!
Sing my favorite college fraternity rock n roll tune of “Ichabod Crane”, tall New England Yankee from Maine,
And never say I didn’t ever try to convince people it is never too late to take control of fate and turn it
Into opportunity of YOUR chosen consequences: thus i say: “Don’t ever tell me “it’s too late”, or by shame-
I’ll boot YOU in the pants and cause YOU to dance like ants in your pants, wishing you were me, at least a bit!
You’ll stand up and say with bragaddaccio style, waving the American flag as you jump and shout:
“Lives there a man with soul so dead, who never to himself has said: ‘Give me an isle in the southern seas,
With twenty-one blondes, and just little old me.” Then go out and do it, and at Christmas time don’t pout!
Just become Santa Claus with a smile on your face and as happy as a pod that carries two mated peas!
WOW! Where did that come from? My thoughts and sentiments all along, every day of my life–the eternal optimist!–even at sixty-five–as life has just begun! Don’t ever tell me “it’s too late”–my response is: “For what>”===Richard “Obi-wan” Merlin Atwater, sorry, time to go–my 19 year old blue eyed blonde wife is calling for me–it’s bedtime!
Perlease! It’s too late to read all that – my eyes have glazed over. Could we have a synopsis?
too late, babe
it’s far too late
for most things–being seven with grace, for instance,
or twenty-three with sanity
erasing those incompletes, learning
who it was who gave me my first kiss
(it is a long story) (and uninteresting) (except to me)
becoming a success by thirty-five
or even reaching middle age
and knowing I could start again
and still have time to fail
and start again, but I am sure
it’s not too late
to make this thing a poem.
I’d say it’s right on.
Can anyone read your work without smiling either at the humor, or the style, or the excellence, or all 3? Not me!
too, too late
when I am dead,
don’t euphamise me
“late”. I have a grave distaste
for lateness, finding it insulting,
and will, myself,so far avoid
that state that I willbeat
my casket to the crematory.
Especially don’t euphemise me as “late” for all eternity!
Well done.
“Grave distaste” HA!!
This is amazingly clever.
I salute you – for a perfect late poem.
It’s Too Late
He said
before he walked out the door.
I watched from the window
as he threw his bag
in the trunk
and roared away.
Years later,
he phoned,
asked forgiveness,
and begged to come back.
I smiled slightly and whispered,
“To quote a man I once knew,
‘It’s too late,’”
and gently put the receiver
back on the cradle.
The Music Of Falling Water
No matter how the new
Day is cut to ribbons
There are vibrations
Trembling in the eyes, in
Fingers, in the brain.
Anticipation rattles the
Old photographs in the hall.
It is always too late
To say I love you.
-Cory Funk
“It’s Too Late”, So Said Cindrella at the Midnight Hour at the Ball
Rich Atwater
the Prince’s reply:
It’s too late to tell me “it’s too late”
Because i won’t believe you at all,
Even if it’s true, I’ll just tempt fate,
And attend Consequences Ball!
In pursuiit of your glass slipper,
I’ll chase you down everywhere,
Follow the North Star, Big Dipper,
And place you in your royal chair!
It’s too late to tempt fate once you arrive at the Pearly Gate, so don’t hate anybody now, but love dear Kate, and erase the slate, take some tackle and bait aND go fishing with your mate, on a selected date in time, and don’t be late so you can equate to the rate of the Stock Market crash as Wlliam Tate says wait a moment for me to measure the weight of gold. $1,000 per ounce–I’d rather have bread and water–to ate!
such a variety! great prompt today! here’s my bit while i’m on vacation =)
Poolside lunch stalkers await
Turn your head and it’s too late
The sea gulls swoop in
And steal from your din
French fries right off of your plate!
~HOPE FOR TOMORROW~
Its not too late
To tread toes to tide
Shoreline paved,
Purple and iridescent
Shell of muscle concrete.
Never will it be too late
To dive in and dance
With the salted ocean
Olive fronded arms cradling
Generously, my buoyant body.
I wont find that I’ve missed
The chance to flip silent stones
Ponder an ancient unspoken
Language, held within granite.
Clearly, its not too late
To search the seaweed for
Crab, periwinkle and starfish,
To realize the joyful twinkle,
Tale of love in your eyes.
Surely days as this,
Life bringing moments
Will a lifetime suffice.
Just in case its too late.
So very Hannah! Love it!
I appreciate it, Marie!!
Hannah, Your poems color my reading.
It pleases me to be a color in this big poetic picture! Thank you, Sara!
for decades, words I might have spoken
remained choked in my throat
his, if he had them,
were a well guarded secret
a father invents many reasons
to ignore his son, there are endless
varieties of black sheep
thrice in the last decade
he returned from his deathbed
I was never summoned
“before it’s too late”
never bothered his waking hours
and had he requested my visit
I would have greeted him
as a dull mirror of his own silence
he is dead now
I do not know from where
he views eternity
but I have never been
a stopping place to rest his soul’s erring
he does not haunt my dreams
much as I would have welcomed
his otherworldly apparition
I still choke on the unshared words
“I only wanted him as a father…”
he is dead now
[2011.18.11...a]
With misty eyes, I admire your words and grieve for your story.
Here’s to tomorrow!
Cherish These Things
Listen to your father’s stories
Pay attention and write them down.
You will want to share them with your children
And he may not be around.
Help your mother in the kitchen
Learn to make her special dishe
One day you will want to taste those flavors
But the recipe will be lost as an unfulfilled wish.
Share some kindness now and then
And not just with family and friends
But with strangers and those you barely know
You‘ll be paid with satisfaction in the end.
Take the time to play with children
Help them learn, watch them grow
You will be rewarded with laughter, wisdom,
amazement in the wonders that they show.
Look at the clouds by day and the stars at night
Lean to see and appreciate beauty every day
Store all you see inside yourself
Keep it safe as your truth and it will never fade away.
If only we all looked at life through your eyes. Beautiful.
Too Late
Some people tell you it is too late
For something.
Well, just don’t listen.
It’s never too late.
It might not have been
For you.
If some arbitrary deadline has passed
Just try something new,
Forget what has passed,
You will probably come up
With something better for yourself.
Too Late 2
Once I woke up my brother
And told him -
I would see him on Sunday.
But he never came home.
And it was too late,
Because he was forced to
Leave the earth,.
And couldn’t say goodbye.
#1 is well done, and I like the view. #2 is so sad … so, so sorry.
Thank you for your kind heart.
Oh Robert, This poem is filled with wonderful imagery – “My heart beats like line breaks/in poems I should’ve written” Wow!
Here is a form I have never written in, a senryu:
Shriveled and dried out,
it is beyond salvation
Burnt turkey
Dee-lish!
Thanks, B.
Wow, Robert. “my mind just catches fire” = potent!
Rounded Timeline>/b>
It is too late for the mosh pit
to change anything which didn’t already want to change,
the greyness in Autumn’s hair,
the traffic around the newest sinkhole,
the address of the makeshift rebellion,
but that does not mean one should not mosh.
Too late it is also
for me to spend more time raising the wolf puppy
in my chest
yelping for attention from the other organs
because he has grown older and everyone knows
that the canidae do not take well to change
once they outgrow puppyhood.
There are times after work
when things get fuzzier
and I think I might be The Conqueror Worm,
which would mean I would have five
very large wolf puppies in whichever part
of the worm is considered the chest,
and although it is not exactly a dream
I usually wake up
and my chest is warm as I realize
that it is not too late for any of us
because change is a process
and has no beginning or end.
Rounded Timeline
It is too late for the mosh pit
to change anything which didn’t already want to change,
the greyness in Autumn’s hair,
the traffic around the newest sinkhole,
the address of the makeshift rebellion,
but that does not mean one should not mosh.
Too late it is also
for me to spend more time raising the wolf puppy
in my chest
yelping for attention from the other organs
because he has grown older and everyone knows
that the canidae do not take well to change
once they outgrow puppyhood.
There are times after work
when things get fuzzier
and I think I might be The Conqueror Worm,
which would mean I would have five
very large wolf puppies in whichever part
of the worm is considered the chest,
and although it is not exactly a dream
I usually wake up
and my chest is warm as I realize
that it is not too late for any of us
because change is a process
and has no beginning or end.
(sorry about that. Made a typo with the bold tag)
Another new form for me:
I’m Too Late (a dodoitsu)
Curse this old, wretched watch fob!
Now I’m certainly tardy,
and the tea will be tepid,
the dormouse asleep.
Sara, I love this form, thanks for sharing….isn’t it always teatime?
Thanks. I think this form is a keeper!
Too Late? (a Nove Otto)
I’ll never make that bus, I’m late,
and never one to trust in fate,
I fretted over job concerns.
What warning will await me now,
when my boss lifts his left eyebrow?
Sometimes events take different turns,
the way they did this blue-skied day
when our bus braked–one more delay.
I turned and saw my building burn.
Wow. Well done, Sara. I wonder if the words flow easier this long after the fact … if you can separate yourself from the emotions a bit more easily?
Hard to describe the feeling, except to say the length at which you hold the memories grows.
Too Late? Is it too Late?
Mornings shuffle in on grey dawn light
Hovering weakly around the edge
Of the blinds
Her eyelids too heavy to open
Shield her eyes from the day
Fuzzing real from unreal making
Everything appear foggy, bearable
Unconsciousness claims her again
More easily every day – taking her
Down deeper
For longer, pushing daylight away
Pulling sleep’s blessed blanket
Back over everything
The next time her eyes try to open
There’s a welcome dimness
And she knows she’s missed
Another one, a whole day gone
It’s too late to do anything about
It now, she thinks
It’s too late.
Too Late # 2
Too late to re-speak
A word, once spoken
Too late to un-break
A promise, when broken
Too late to reclaim
From infinite cyber-land
A message of shame
If you have hit ‘send’
Too late to undo
A deed that is done
Or to say ‘I love you’
Or ‘I need you’
Or ‘I’m sorry’
Or ‘thank-you’
After they are gone…
Poignant and true.
More excellence from JanetRuth.
Lynda’s House
Regret is one thing, but
when the lock turned
behind me, and the
line of the door jam
crack disappeared
as you were swallowed
by a cartoon, the lights
went black and nothing
moved on the other side
of the papered over
windows. Board by board,
tile by tile, your little house
was dismantled.
If I had known we would
be sorting your things,
nothing could stop
this poem burning down.
I liked this, esp the ending.
I love “swallowed by a cartoon.”
Revisions – I’ve been chastised for being too dark and inscrutable. so here is a slight revision.
Regret is one thing, but
when the lock turned
behind me and the
line of the door jam
crack disappeared
as you were swallowed
by death’s cartoon, the lights
went black and nothing
moved on the other side
of the lace curtained
windows. Board by board,
tile by tile, your little house
was dismantled.
If I had known we would
be sorting your things,
nothing could stop
this poem burning down.
… Final revision/ sorry I couln’t stop tinkering with this one
Regret is one thing, but
when the lock turned
behind me and the
line of the door jam
crack disappeared,
the lights went black
and nothing moved
on the other side
of the laced up
windows. Board
by board, tile by tile,
your little house
is dismantled.
If I had known we would
be sorting your things,
nothing could stop
this poem burning down.
If
Only
We
Lived
Lives
Without
If
Only
If only, indeed. Well done.
Thanks, Mosk!
Split Second
It was something about the way the
moon gloomed down at them and the
sway of the breeze and the mournful
trees and the slant of his half eaten
smile; some nuance in his fingers as
they forgot to reach for hers, the lost
and terrible silence in her soul and
the burning in her heart to tumble
words into his lap like tears, the
fears that incarcerated her tongue
and one cold and cracked fact:
that some thing slight at center
had clicked and time had ticked
(and written)
them off.
EXCELLENT.
Indeed!
Thanks, ladies!
Still Getting It Done
It’s too late for perfection
but not for forgiveness.
It’s too late for Broadway
but not for aliveness.
Too old to climb mountains?
Scale the kingdom inside you.
Can’t see distant vistas?
Check the beauty beside you.
There’s a thousand good reasons,
really easy to find,
why it’s too late for better.
Of course, it’s all in the mind.
With no time for withholds,
one must rise above them,
find people who need you,
find time to love them.
It’s too late for childhood,
of that there’s no doubt,
so listen to children,
learn what life’s all about.
If one’s done their best,
they should be pleased,
let their goodness spread outward,
their magic released.
One’s time is limited.
Heed your inner voice.
Continue getting it done.
It’s always your choice.
Great way of looking at life, Ely! Love it …. every thought, every stanza.
TOO LATE
insecurities, rampant
doubts abound;
I know
it shouldn’t be so ~
but it’s too late,
my mind has a mind of its own
Noooooooo!! Don’t listen to that voice, Paula. Listen to the other one. It’s tellin’ the truth.
<3
Public Display
Suddenly she got that sinking feeling
as soon as she hit the key “send”,
realized too late what she had done -
surely her career would now end.
It was meant as a personal e-mail,
but it went out company-wide,
and now no hole was deep enough
for her to crawl in and hide.
But the story has a happy ending,
she wasn’t headed for a fall:
Everyone’s nickname really was “Baby”,
and she really did love them all.
Oh baby, baby….
Oh, this is BRILLIANT!!!
Pingback: too late now « lost in translation
Fall Leaves
When the last leaf falls
it’s too late
to call back summer
or bemoan your fate.
When the last leaf falls
the fun’s all done
and the rest of the year
is on the run.
When the last leaf falls
you’d better move on
and accept that summer
is dead and gone.
– Cara Holman
Pingback: Fall Leaves | Prose Posies
I have no idea how to insert comments beneath the poetry where I wish I could so i will simply thank everyone for the smiles, out-right laughter, sighs, the oh my’s, the wow’s, the ‘wish I’d written this’ all equaling very entertaining and thought-provoking poetry! thank-you!
JanetRuth hit the greed out reply button directly under the poem….if you wish to comment on someone’s comment hit the grey reply button under the comment….
Obviously that was not the greed button but the greyed out button ….hope this helps
.
On Aging
Silver hair,
Crow’s feet, sagging breasts,
Time’s brutal
March goes on
Carving away my youth, too
Late to reverse course.
Echoes of Regret
Looking back,
The unfought battle
For his heart
Haunts my thoughts.
Worlds have turned, yet I still cling
To yesterday’s ghost.
Love’s Lost Cause
Another
Attempt to keep me,
To prevent
Departure,
Without realizing that
I left years ago.
Timing Is Everyth– ‘kay, bye.
I prob’ly shouldn’a hadda oughta
Waited quite so long
But you looked pretty busy with your friend
I bought the band a round of brews
To play your favorite song
But couldn’t catch your eye until the end
I tried to ask you anyway,
“Um, would you like to dance?”
You started to get up, then heard your phone.
You smiled and said, “One second?”
I said, “Babe, you missed your chance!
This train done left the– why am I alone?”
http://trollpants.wordpress.com
It’s official; I’m burnt out.
Too Late
Because I could find nothing
to say, I have written this – this
poem and posted it, Too Late.
Day 18 11-18-2011
Write an “It’s too late” poem.
The Early Late Show, Served with No Regrets
Most would say it’s too late to be up,
but I’m not most.
I’m sitting in a theater filled with giddy girls
and wondering women,
sipping a peppermint mocha,
letting the smiling beauty next to me
snap a phone photo of the two of us.
We’ve just come from Chili’s, party of nine,
filling a row of Theater Six in a sixteen-plex.
Driving an hour and a half to Marietta is pittance
for the pleasure of my twenty-something daughter’s company,
seeing how she is among her friends,
remembering how we’ve read the books together
and shared the movies,
as we while away the minutes till the previews
splash the screen and then grown women scream,
(not me, I’m no “Twi-Hard,” just a mom looking
for those mom-daughter bonding moments)
partly shrieking for Team Jacob, partly for Team Edward, partly about the blood,
as Part 1 Breaking Dawn begins.
Tomorrow I’ll feel a little midnight-premiere lag,
and I’ll carry home and always the preciousness
of sharing time you can’t get back,
because it’s then too late.
Delusion
Marshmallow Santas are my heart’s desire.
Christmas music makes a lie out of disappointments.
We cheat cancer like a con man, shaking hands
with the enemy when he’s cut down with lasers.
It’s too late to get a foothold on slippery
slopes too steep, too deep, and complicated,
like health, mortality or faith, and who
He is. Delusion is a grifter taking up room
and board in this slop house of a greasy spoon.
This health guru cooks fried chicken and bakes
cheesecake, promises to get a grip before he kills
us all. He’s unaware of deceptive practices.
He only wants us to be happy and we love him for it.
THEN AND NOW*
I watch the clock. I know
you’re coming and time’s running out. If only
I knew a way to break
the bottle’s neck, to hold back the sand from
flowing, yet
it’s clear as the grains fall
when you enter the door. All the reasons
are gone, yet
the bittersweet days in the sun
watching the shadows cross the line, we
crossed the line between what
we wanted, and what
we can never have. It’s over
our footsteps carried us on the beach
to a place that neither the sand nor the sun
could rest easily. The day is gone,
the night closes out, and nothing is left of
what might have been forever.
Zev Davis
“If Not Now, When?”
Once, this seemed so right,
charmed, fairy tale enchanted; but,
what was once magic, now muddled
by misgivings; promissory rings
(one on her finger, two biding
with the ring bearer) proclaim
only past perfect intentions;
we dissemblers conceal uncertainty
beneath shrouds of counterfeit joy,
while this precept (so flawlessly final)
ransacks our fretful ruminations:
“…let them speak now
or forever hold their peace…”
Thoughts Occasioned by Attending a Funeral
I went to a funeral for someone I didn’t know,
the mother of someone I scarcely knew better,
yet as the coffin was closed, I almost cried.
When two of the woman’s children spread the pall
across the casket top, my fingers could feel
my granddaughter’s flower-embroidered death cloth.
She lay in one of two coffins sitting
side-by-side in the aisle, my daughter and I
smoothing the palls above her and her brother.
Now, we’re nearing Advent, but I recall
a crown-of-thorns shadow three decades old
cast upon my mother’s coffin shroud.
Memory-swept, I found myself watching
the priest blessing the white baptismal garb
placed atop my baby daughter’s casket.
Caught in that tide of thought, I was a child
kneeling beside a rose-smothered coffin
that held my freckle-faced little brother.
What I recall when my father died is his head
lying straight upon the silken pillow –
his head that listed in life from a crooked spine.
Today’s funeral done, my almost-tears dried
I, being old, began to wonder about
what memories my own funeral will generate.
Never say Never
It’s never
Too late
To catch a morning breeze
Whisper loving words
Or hold the warmth of you
In my heart
Pingback: Challenge 18 « Yay Words!
A Funny Thing Happened
On the Way to the Party…
by juanita lewison-snyder
over the sound of
the shower full bore,
she called out to
her tardy husband.
“There’s casserole
on the stove, and
beer in the ice box,
but for heaven’s sake
stay out of the pie!”
“ummm….too late,”
he replied, wiping
his mouth clean, then
flattening pie surface
with the back of his spoon.
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Pingback: November PAD Challenge 18 & 19 | Break faith « You have my word.
Enduring Autumn’s Decline: The last leaf
Knavish and brash
resisting this change of hue
contemplating, oppugn
from ascended view
enduring Autumns decline
perpending this relentless cascade
defiantly withstanding
was it for this I was made?
reflecting on the tree
that conceived me
of the branches that bore me
of the limbs that nurtured me
and bestowed life
of the roots that upheld me
and constantly sustained me
to bring me to this
horrid moment of truth
severed from the tide of life
broken from our organic bond
released and cast to the earth
a dried, crumbled misery
a senseless withering away
On Rosebud Gathering, Hot Iron Striking, Haymaking, and Dessert
It’s always too late
for cherries
unless
it’s too early.
Pingback: It’s Too Late in the Day (NovPAD #18) | Never Say Never to Your Traveling Self
Pingback: A “It’s too late” Poem: #Novpad Day 18 « LOVELY: Life on the Inside
“No Place”
No Place
There is no place
for this-
soft release of my
own self into arms
that hold
and just hold,
small curl into his space
to be seen
to be free,
yielding of skin
with fear that
has finally softened,
as my focus melts
his eyes and
now I can only
see my own.
No, there is no place
for this-
lock up
and
retreat,
cracked and shadowed
sanctuary of
memory
within me
between us
And I wonder
in sadness
in fear, in anger
If this time
Is the time
to go.
Alone.
too late
having stomped on that opportunity
til the glass shards shattered in full
community with the sand and gum
wrappers on the ground, I hereby
declare it officially entirely too late
for the illusions to run full tilt into
my arms or yours or anyone’s. and
yet, years later, there’s a chance
to walk into life just as if nothing
every happened, to live in this
moment like nothing could be
too late, and to remember that
chance over and over and then again.
It’s Too Late
It’s too late to say you love, that bridge has burned
It’s too late to say you care, you’ve destroyed all that was earned
It’s too late to say you need me, no that I’m battered and lying on the floor
It’s too late to say you want me, when you’re already walking out the door
It’s too late to ask for forgiveness, I have nothing left to give
It’s too late to ask for my heart, it no longer beats, it only gasp
It’s too late to ask for second chances, I’m still fighting through the pain of number five
It’s too late
And it’s over
It’s too late
And I’m done
It’s too late
I am stronger
It’s too late
I’m not a quitter, but I know when to run
Pingback: Rushing after the plane is gone « Upward Facing Frog