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2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 2

Categories: November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2011, Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog.
November 2, 2011 | Robert Lee Brewer | Comments: 418

All right! From just scanning, it appears the first day went very well. But now things get tricky, because it is the second day. (Cue: Evil Laugh)

For today’s prompt, use an epigraph to kickstart your poem. That is, use a quotation. You can use a favorite of your own, or if you’re having trouble thinking of one, I’ve provided a few below. To format an epigraph poem, a poet places the quotation between the title and the body of the poem, while also giving credit to the source of the quotation.

Example quotations:

“Our homes are on our backs and don’t forget it,” -Molly Peacock

“Always forgive your enemies–nothing annoys them so much.” -Oscar Wilde

“Every noble work is at first impossible.” -Thomas Carlyle

“Behind every great man is a woman rolling her eyes.” -Jim Carrey

“A friend doesn’t go on a diet because you are fat.” -Erma Bombeck

Here’s my attempt:

“Here I Come”

    “This time, you can trust me.”
                   -Lucy Van Pelt (via Charles M. Schultz)

Signed document or not,
you know my foot cannot
resist a challenge, not
that I expect this knot
inside me to unknot
itself. Your trust is not
what I crave. Like dry snot
on my sleeve, I do not
want this thing I cannot
kick, so ready or not…

*****

Connect with me on Twitter @robertleebrewer

And report your progress and share funny quotes using the #novpad hashtag.

*****

Get poetic every day!

With the book, Writing the Life Poetic, by Sage Cohen, you will find ways to incorporate more poetry into your life on a daily basis. It’s filled with prompts, revision techniques, poetic forms, and more.

Click to continue.

 

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About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

418 Responses to 2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 2

  1. Walt Wojtanik says:
    November 2, 2011 at 8:12 am

    “A man doesn’t have time enough to have a time for everything. He doesn’t have seasons enough to have a season for every purpose.” ~ Yehuda Amachai

    NEVER ENOUGH

    Tempest Fuget.
    And it does fly.
    In the whirlwind of life
    we are bound by the dictates
    of the time we are allotted.
    And it runs out in the most
    inopportune times.
    Make the best of it.
    Gather ye rosebuds.
    Get your ass in gear.
    Before your mainspring ceases.

  2. Joseph Hesch says:
    November 2, 2011 at 8:39 am

    “To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub.” Hamlet (III, i, 65-68)

    Perchance to Dream

    It’s so dark here each night, waiting for
    the memorable flight to fantasy,
    the fears or thrills that you may have,
    but I almost never do. I lay in this bed
    with my itinerary made of today’s regrets
    and tomorrow’s dread,
    dreaming of being able to dream.
    It’s like groping in the dark for a shadow,
    something I can’t see or feel,
    but I know is there, if only I …

    I will slip into the black depths of sleep,
    a struggling shipwrecked sailor going under,
    only to open my eyes to another awakened darkness
    hours later, taunted by a clock that shows
    I missed rescue once again.
    But last night, before I sank back
    to the nothing that is my slumber,
    this vacuum of fancy, I once more pleaded
    with the universe for colorful release.

    As I was about to surrender once again
    to the vacant sleeping dark, an angel appeared
    and beckoned me to join her,
    tucking beneath her wing of white .
    “Here,” she whispered in my ear,
    “hold me and be mindful of now,
    not yesterday, not tomorrow. Feel my warmth,
    and drop your baggage. You won’t need it
    where we’re going.”

    I never knew my gloom could transform
    into a world of such light and color,
    such sound and feeling, such heart-lifting joy.
    But it did.
    When I awoke, I saw dawn in a light so new,
    it might as well be approaching from the west.
    Tonight, I will leave the dreary day at the door,
    I will root fearsome tomorrow from under my bed,
    and I will prepare for my angel to join me
    in our dream.

    Hope this posting is OK. Seems the title of a poem I wrote Monday is based on a line from Hamlet. Good morning, Robert. Thought I’d try my hand at November PAD this year. And, true to form and my silly writing “process,” I put off working on yesterday’s Procrastination theme until this morning. – JH

  3. Gregory says:
    November 2, 2011 at 8:41 am

    Is it bad that at 7:30 I am checking to see what is the new prompt. Either its newbie excitement or a love for writing. Maybe both. Working on my poem now

  4. Zebbalina says:
    November 2, 2011 at 8:52 am

    Confusion will be my epigraph….
    ‘When every man is torn apart with nightmares and with dreams’

    King Crimson – The Court of the Crimson King

    ‘Confusion will be my epigraph’
    Coupled with an astounding ability
    Unmuted by the passing years
    To mishear and joyfully misquote
    Lyrics from all those songs I listened to
    on John Peel late night on the radio

    Whilst attempting to unravel
    the moral code of Jane Austen’s Emma
    and the role of the Napoleonic Wars

    My first inspired misrendering
    Away in a Christmas Carol
    Gentle Jesus, weak and wild!’ I sang
    puzzling my mother no end when I came home
    from nursery school.

    I fear going to operas for that reason
    What did the fat lady just sing? What?

    …Surely not.

  5. Jerry Walraven says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:02 am

    “Another Ordinary”

    “I know it sounds a bit cliché
    There’s no such thing
    As just an ordinary day ” – Phineas and Ferb

    She shuffles through
    the piles of leaves
    at the edge of the trail,
    then clambers up onto a stump,
    posing for a photograph.
    As I snap the sun washed scene
    it occurs to me that this is, perhaps,
    the thirteenth
    or fourteenth photograph
    from this same spot.
    The first, of a small girl,
    barely walking, who needed to be picked up
    and placed on the stump
    while her mother worried she might fall.
    This last, for now, of a girl
    tall enough to ride
    a roller-coaster.
    I discretely wipe my eyes
    as I tuck away
    another ordinary day.

  6. Walt Wojtanik says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:15 am

    MASTER AND SAGE

    “Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try!” ~ Jedi Master Yoda

    Futile attempts are
    when success comes not!
    Become we do, what want we wish,
    but loss, arise it does, when
    achievement flat on its face falls!
    Satisfied be not, when accomplished
    nothing is. Try not! Do
    or do not. There is no try!
    Winning? Duh! Truth it is, yes?

  7. leatherdykeuk says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:19 am

    Looking after Luna

    Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are.
    Anthelme Brillat-Savarin (1755 – 1826), The Physiology of Taste, 1825

    Bread will be Thursday
    and butter if we’re lucky
    or frozen pizza if I can spare the change.
    The dogs will need feeding too. It’s funny
    how I can skimp on food for people but not for the animals.
    There’s always cereal (did I remember milk?).

    When her mother is away
    I make the brat a special treat.
    Fresh bread stuffed with sausage and bacon
    and topped with cheese and tomatoes.
    She doesn’t like tomatoes but likes red sauce.

    The dogs beg for human food but don’t get it
    except for last week’s mashed potatoes
    mixed in with their biscuits. We never ask
    for a tin of puppy meat on toast
    but then we don’t eat the cat’s vomit either.

    I bought her a multipack of crisps and a pound of cheese.
    She ate both in a day
    along with two pizzas and a block of ham.
    She’s a growing girl
    but she picks the onions and the mushrooms off
    before she cooks her food
    and makes bœuf bourguignon in catering class
    but won’t taste it because of the vegetables.

  8. a.paige says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:24 am

    Of Fear, Said Pearce

    “To live a creative life, we must lose our fear
    of being wrong,” said Joseph Chilton Pearce.

    Well, cheers!—to that I say
    A life like that does thrust
    the sharpest spear in hearts
    of those who live in fear.

    Again this toast, I say
    A creative life must trust
    And make her heart a spear
    to pierce the face of fear.

    Rejection, depression
    Vice versa, reflection—
    All’s been done before
    Could you lose anything more?

    For the third time, I say
    A creative life must trust
    Her heart must thrust, like spear
    and pierce the face of fear.

  9. Michelle Hed says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:28 am

    Forgiveness

    “Always forgive your enemies–nothing annoys them so much.” -Oscar Wilde

    How can I forgive my enemy?
    When the enemy
    is me.

  10. Mariya Koleva says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:46 am

    Well, I came up with this one

    DUALITY
    “We all might get killed, or even worse – expelled.” (Hermione Granger)
    Danger
    is facing Miss Granger.
    Believe it or not,
    She’s the constant victim of a vicious plot.
    To ensnare her into breaking the rules
    And thus, get her kicked out of the school.
    While the target of the plotter
    Is really Mr. Potter.

    © 2011 Mariya Koleva

  11. Jane Shlensky says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:46 am

    On the Road

    “Trouble rides a fast horse.” TV Western

    My goat is tethered to a low limb of that maple tree
    nibbling feather grass and snorting at the dust raised
    by your flight down the road, big trouble on the way
    to someone somewhere, too important yourself to take
    notice of a small woman on foot leading an old goat
    toward water and a cool patch of grass. Your stallion
    throws rocks that make me bleed and I fall hard on my
    hip and make a gash, but you can’t be troubled with
    such small damage done, for you’re on your way to
    grand things—wars, fires, murders and mayhem, big doings.

    • Joseph Harker says:
      November 2, 2011 at 9:58 am

      I always wonder about the ancillary stories in movies, books, etc. A random gunshot hits a passerby – how does that change/destroy their life/the lives of others connected to them? On rare occasions it comes back into the narrative, but so often a story flies through ten thousand other stories without touching them – you brought this skillfully to the fore.

    • Sibella says:
      November 2, 2011 at 1:17 pm

      I agree with Joseph. And what a great quote!

      (NB: When I tried to post this a minute ago, I got an error from WordPress: “You are posting too fast. Slow down!” I guess WordPress rides a slow nag.)

  12. ceeess says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:50 am

    How Do You Do That

    “Poetry demands a man with a special gift for it,
    or else one with a touch of madness in him” — Aristotle

    someone asks again, as if
    a poem’s a mysterious thing
    made of spells and incantations
    a pinch of newt and eye of frog
    perhaps a melting pot of neurons
    and transmitters, the gift of
    a poet’s synapse,

    words transmitted
    into its cleft to mature
    like fine wine

    then impulse excites the brain
    re-orders syllables in stanzas
    an electric shock of language

    flows down the arm, through fingers
    that twitch, involuntary stimulation
    of the writing receptors, and

    pen in hand the poet’s finger writes
    and having writ, moves on to

    the next mad conjugation of words

    Carol A. Stephen
    November 2, 2011

  13. Joseph Harker says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:51 am

    Asphyxia

    “We must act out passion before we can feel it.”
    - Jean-Paul Sartre

    I never liked “hold your breath”
    because holding always, for me,
    meant hands, fingers,
    best employed elsewhere.
    Not for something so transient
    as breath.

    It made me feel like
    my lungs had palms and long,
    thin bones, sealed and clasped
    (here is the church of oxygen–
    here is the steeple)
    and locking, unlocking,
    with the rhythm of inhalation.

    Now, you tell me,
    hold your breath at that moment
    of precipice, vinegar-faced,
    throat closed up tight.
    (But mouth, wide open.)

    Something about the pressure
    changing–
    makes everything burst
    with white light. Why do I do
    these things
    for you?

    But I say I learned this
    back-and-forth from nature: so,
    I suppose I also learned
    the following of the heart, the stark
    obedience of moments,
    granting the prayers of lovers.

    (Not because it is wise or pleasant.
    But because my pleasure
    is wrapped up in yours.)

  14. Justine Hemmestad says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:56 am

    “Always forgive your enemies–nothing annoys them so much.” -Oscar Wilde

    On a cold, windswept night,
    As my memories swirl by your mind,
    The ghost of my soul haunts the fields –
    Darkness mirrors your mind, and my rest
    has become your torment.
    I lay here, sway here, grateful for my time,
    Yet you will not forget the injustice
    Of your crime – because I have -
    Amongst the trees, beneath laced stars,
    You are unsettled, turning in your slumber,
    And I, dream peacefully forever.
    Your plague, your harmful device
    Has come back to you – not in anger,
    For my forgiveness fans your flames,
    Flames which for you could burn no brighter.

  15. annell says:
    November 2, 2011 at 10:04 am

    “We work in the dark, we do what we can, we give what we have. Our passion is our doubt, and our passion is our task. All of the rest is the madness of art.” –Henry James

    The Work is our Life
    Mr. James has it right
    As an artist
    First is to begin
    We have no idea really

    We work in the dark
    We pick up the pencil
    We draw
    The brush
    We paint
    We chip the stone
    There is no promise
    Of the outcome

    We do what we can
    That is all we can do
    The line goes this way
    We follow

    We give what we have
    We work to the best of our ability
    It is a piece we will sign
    We will put our names on it
    For all times
    Today
    And long after we cease to be

    It is our doubt
    That is our passion
    We begin and end
    With it

    And all else is the madness of art
    This is all consuming
    There is no need of more

  16. Chamie says:
    November 2, 2011 at 10:05 am

    Sunday Morning Breakfast at the Shelter

    We cannot cure the world of sorrows, but we can choose to live in joy.
    Joseph Campbell

    It is what it is, he told me over breakfast.
    There are millions of hungry children
    in India and China. I can’t feed them all –
    hell, I can hardly feed myself –
    but a bag of flour and a dozen eggs
    makes Sunday morning pancakes for twenty kids
    who won’t have any dinner this afternoon.
    It may not make much difference to the universe,
    but the smiles on their faces light my world
    for at least another week.

  17. MiskMask says:
    November 2, 2011 at 10:08 am

    I’m moving this from Day 1 to Day 2 where it should have been posted

    The Lunchtime News: Trick or Treat

    ‘The liberty of an individual must be far limited; he must not make himself a nuisance to other people’ – John Mill

    His lawyer inhales,
    counts to ten and then
    ten again as they wait.
    A starchy man who wears
    his red tie all askew,
    he holds Mr. Assange’s
    defense and a dusty
    white wig in the palm
    of his liver-spotted hand.
    He’s glad today’s not
    Halloween. Headlines
    reading Trick or Treat
    aren’t apt to be seen.

  18. lindaR says:
    November 2, 2011 at 10:08 am

    Raindrops

    “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass..it’s learning to dance in the rain” “Anonymous

    Raindrops splash on my face
    run down my collar
    makes a trail on my spine
    causes shivers to follow

    Gray day, gray clouds
    tromping through puddles
    wet shoes, wet socks
    hair plastered to my head

    silver stream runs quick
    I jump, skip to avoid
    wait! that was fun!
    as I dance the way home

  19. Pingback: Learning Curve | Soul's Music

  21. RJ Clarken says:
    November 2, 2011 at 10:17 am

    Pulley Get Me Outta Here!

    “If you die in an elevator, be sure to press the Up button.” ~Sam Levenson

    I hate that crowded, closed-in space
    containing members of ‘Rat Race’.
    That demon lift: elevator.
    And if I die before my floor
    I only pray I’ll have strength for
    pressing ‘UP’ initiator.
    But here’s the thing: I don’t know if
    I’ll do it ‘ere I am a stiff.
    Kind of like a late dumb waiter.

    ###

  22. Kit Cooley says:
    November 2, 2011 at 10:19 am

    Pre-Occupied

    “The philosophers have only interpreted the world, in various ways; the point, however, is to change it.” Karl Marx

    What use the finer points of Payne
    When people wait for jobs and bread
    In long lines in the sun and wind and rain?
    Our money thrown as bombs, and others dead,
    While politicians moan their sad refrain,
    Pointing bloody fingers at the other head,
    Just talking, while the people feel the pain
    Of sickness, want, and lack of dignity. Instead,
    Let’s act to change, and we don’t need to train
    In glib semantics; we heard what was said
    To placate, and to put to sleep the brain,
    And try to make us all forget the dread
    Of war and poverty, of loved ones starved and slain,
    In the name of the almighty dollar, pocketed
    Before meeting just our basic needs. Our loss, their gain,
    Although through our own labor they are fed,
    We plummet down; follow leaders, all insane,
    Other’s thoughts and hatreds fill our heads,
    Wake up, wake up! Arise, shake off the chains!
    A better world awaits us; forge ahead.

    [This one needs work, I think, but no time today. Ninth wedding anniversary festivities await! (And so does my very patient dear husband ; )]

  23. Pingback: November PAD Challenge 2 | Sacrifice the actor « You have my word.

  24. MiskMask says:
    November 2, 2011 at 10:57 am

    Lessons My Dad Taught Me

    ‘By the high star our course is set; Our end is life put out to sea’ – Louis MacNeice

    It was late summer of my 7th year.
    A month away from my 8th,
    and I remember it as clearly
    as the chilled mountain stream that shocked
    my bare feet into shrill agony.

    I was not about to move them though,
    sat there next to my dad on a fallen log
    that was softened from rot and billowed moss,
    an ancient sleeping hulk with its head
    supported by the opposite shore.

    He fished – I froze.
    He talked – I listened.
    He smiled and I melted
    despite the icy water
    racing against my legs.

    He and I were buddies.
    Fishing buddies he said,
    even though I didn’t have a pole
    and hated worms and screamed
    when I touched a cold writhing fish.

    He looked down at me,
    his pole and line jumping
    against the river’s current,
    and said “Don’t forget how
    things feel today. Tomorrow
    they’ll not feel the same.”

  25. Nancy J says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:01 am

    JUST A LITTLE OL’ GARDEN

    “People think we set in the house drinkin’ RC Cola
    and eatin’ Moon Pies. But we don’t.”
    Steve Mullens, tending his family’s apple orchard

    Some vegetables, a few fruit trees.
    How much work can it be?
    They should sell their produce for half the price.
    Smiles, nods, and knowing glances.
    That’s right, folks. You could grow it yourself.
    Scatter a few seeds and watch them grow.
    Forget testing and turning, tilling and amending.
    Don’t worry about worms or slugs,
    wind and weeds, scale and wilt.
    Don’t bother with stakes or hoops or fencing.
    So what if marauding raccoons break
    your corn stalks and strip the young ears.
    So what if the rabbits munch on your lettuce.
    Who are you? Mr. McGregor? You’re willing to share.
    And say, aren’t those Japanese beetles pretty?
    Ah, gardening, that’s the life!

  26. RJ Clarken says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:05 am

    Candidates Debate

    “Be obscure clearly.” E.B. White

    Be difficult to understand.
    Speak plainly, on the other hand.
    You’ll confuse your opposition.
    Ambiguous…the way to go,
    but say it straight so folks won’t know
    where you stand on each position.
    as a front-running candidate.
    Take this advice: when in debate,
    ‘stump.’ You’ll be a politician.

    ###

  27. Idream2 says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:16 am

    “Mama exhorted her children at every opportunity to ‘jump at de sun.’ We might not land on the sun, but at least we would get off the ground.”
    -Zora Neale Hurston, Dust Tracks on a Road, 1942

    Exultation

    They said come to America.
    Take opportunity and grow.
    Take opportunity to prosper.
    Mummy said I’ll go,
    and like lava soaked diamond
    the world will crack me
    open. I’ll be worth something
    more than I could be
    in oil stained soils
    dripping red from greed.
    Flee from this achromatic calling
    a woman must heed
    and give birth to in the dust.
    No, “Go! Go! Go”,
    she cries. “You must!”
    I pack her unborn dreams,
    the seeds she never planted
    and crossed an ocean
    to have my wishes granted.
    Mummy, I have arrived.
    This place is not easy.
    Much work to do
    Before I can shine.
    Mummy, “Ese gan.”
    Mummy, Thank you.
    This is no easy sacrifice.
    “Mon ‘ife e”- I love you.
    ©2011 Leenadria

  28. Billie says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:21 am

    Guitar

    “My guitar is not a thing. It is an extension of myself. It is who I am. “- Joan Jett

    I wish I could play the guitar
    Feel the music in my hands, through my arms and into my head
    Beats, rhythms more than metaphors and repititition’ s of the poems I have written
    And I feel time stand still
    and when time is poisoned by memories of happier times
    I want to play this feeling, this music in my head.
    I want to feel rhythm in my hands
    I want to feel the connection to something greater than I am.
    I wish I could play the guitar.

  29. taratyler says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:24 am

    Wednesdays are haiku day =)

    Excel in Spite

    “Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other.”
    Abraham Lincoln

    How do we succeed?
    Listen to the nay sayers
    And feed them their words.

  30. Mark Windham says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:26 am

    POLITICAL POETRY AND CRAZY POLITICS
    or
    STIRRIN’ THE PUDDIN’

    “Pound’s Crazy. All poets are. They have to be”
    -Ernest Hemingway
    “Addressing crowds through their arse-holes”
    - Ezra Pound

    Who should we arrest,
    If we were still to imprison
    Those that spoke their mind
    Against Country – calling it treason?
    Right wing radicals,
    Intent on protecting the “evil rich”?
    Left wing loonies,
    Sure that Socialism is the solution?

    “I did not have sexual relations…”
    Wait – wrong guy.
    That was the rich white Democrat from
    Decadent decades past;
    Not the rich black Republican
    With an equally faulty memory.
    Will he too get a media pass?

    Occupy schmockupy.
    What are you protesting again?
    Oh…No, still don’t get it;
    Explain it to me again.
    How is your fornicating in the park
    And defecating in the street
    Morally superior to proverbial pillaging
    By ‘rich’ of both left and right?

    Maybe bigger prisons are the answer;
    Politicians, lawyers, media, protestors too.
    Reboot this circus-government-machine,
    Restore the original settings.

    (Maybe I should take a break from the news for a little while – now, where did I put my blood pressure meds?)

  31. Marie Elena says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:51 am

    “I never said most of the things I said.” ~ Yogi Berra

    So, Yogi Berra
    never said most of the things
    he said? Me neither.

  32. gilgallagher says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:51 am

    Accretion

    “Where the woman in love is dew,
    we are a plummeting stone.”

    –Rainer Maria Rilke

    Having never been a woman. Having never been
    in love with the dew. Having been neither
    stone nor its plummeting. Having been loved,
    in love. Having been awake in the presence

    of stone, of dew. Having been awakened by
    love’s plummetless stones, kisses planted
    on eyelids like grapes. Having been alive, awake
    when love awoke, I can say I have fallen.

  34. Penny Henderson says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:56 am

    GRACEFULLY

    “I suppose no one now believes that jealousy is especially connected with erotic love. If he does, the behavior of children, employees, and domestic animals ought soon to undeceive him” C.S, Lewis

    She’d not see the down side
    of sixty again now.
    A young girl of forty
    complaining of wrinkles
    raised the hair on her neck.
    She wanted to slap her.
    “Enjoy what you’ve got now,”
    she longed to yell at her.
    But the spirit within
    whispered in her good ear,
    “My dear–you should too.”

  35. Nimue says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:59 am

    I never knew

    “This is what I learned: that everybody is talented, original and has something important to say.”
    - Brenda Ueland

    Never knew when I put to use,
    this thought i read
    and its a wonder
    I remembered too.
    Asked him to write
    and care not for reaction
    had a faint feeling,
    his words must be freed
    and let take flight,
    that ideas he never had
    must some day see light,
    and I see him today
    miles ahead
    spinning magic
    and reality alike
    with the same pen,
    he never knew he had.

    • Marie Elena says:
      November 2, 2011 at 1:13 pm

      I must admit to returning to this poem several times. Each time, finding more with which to relate. I love your choice of quote, and your inspired take on it. Looking forward to more from you, Nimue.

      • Nimue says:
        November 2, 2011 at 6:45 pm

        that is so kind of you Marie ! I wrote this for a friend of mine whom I sort of introduced to poetry and who is an inspiration to me with his words !! And yes , i loved the quote too ..

  36. Sibella says:
    November 2, 2011 at 12:00 pm

    “What kind of God would He be, if He did not hear the bangles ring on an ant’s wrist, as they move the earth in their sweet dance?” –Kabir

    The Mystery of They

    One ant mirrors a million ants. No ant walks alone.
    Even a translation of Saint Kabir muddles the grammar:
    “What kind of God would He be, if He did not hear
    the bangles ring on an ant’s wrist,
    as they move the earth in their sweet dance?”
    What moves the earth? They move the earth. But bangles
    are not beings; they don’t dance on their own.
    Do ants? Do we? Does God? Or do all of these
    mirror a million of their kin? Hearing that jangle,
    one (if there is “one”) has to listen keenly
    for the song: some hear melody,
    but we–whoever we are–
    hear harmony.

    Pamela Murray Winters

  37. Earl Parsons says:
    November 2, 2011 at 12:00 pm

    An America

    “I was born an American; I live an American; I shall die an American.”
    Daniel Webster

    Thank You, Lord, for allowing me
    To be born an American
    Born into freedom
    Born into liberty
    “I was born an American”

    Thank You, Lord, for allowing me
    To live as an American
    With freedom of choice
    And freedom of thought
    “I live an American”

    And with Your blessing, Lord
    I will die a free American
    A nation I’ve loved
    A nation I’ve served
    “I shall die an American”

    **************************

    “God bless America,
    Land that I love,
    Stand beside her and guide her
    Thru the night with a light from above;

    From the mountains, to the prairies,
    To the oceans white with foam,
    God bless America,
    My home, sweet home.
    God bless America,
    My home, sweet home.”
    Irving Berlin

  38. Simon C. says:
    November 2, 2011 at 12:06 pm

    123rd Street Alchemy

    Enemies long for each other.
    The only other ones who know the whole story,
    or even care.
    — The World/Inferno Friendship Society

    The blue-glass gin bottle you filled
    with oil and herbs—not a love potion,
    you said, more like a prayer for her

    and her hair in the dark, the knock
    of her ankle on yours in the night,
    the paramedic you were for her in a dream,

    and the muscles in your throat, her name
    and fingers on your lips, the hitch
    in her breath in the thin morning light,

    and the long dark stain reaching blindly
    down the stucco wall of the garage,
    and the blue glass glittering in the dirt.

  39. Karen H. Phillips says:
    November 2, 2011 at 12:21 pm

    Robert, you score points for the Lucy Van Pelt quote, and somehow your poem reminded me of lawyers, probably because I’m in the midst of a courtroom/crime novel.

    Walt, my husband, who’s not a poetry aficionado, always enjoys when I read your poems to him, and today was no exception! Thanks for an offering of depth and humor. After that milestone birthday, I’m reminded of the guy who guesstimated his life span and filled a huge glass jar with marbles to approximate how many days he might have remaining.

  40. Glory says:
    November 2, 2011 at 12:22 pm

    Your Kiss

    A compliment is like a kiss through a veil.”
    Victor Hugo

    A kiss pressed soft against my cheek,
    a fleeting whisper, here, now gone,
    as if it never happened. Yet still
    I feel the magic of your touch,
    it’s fragrance lingers on.

    So long I waited, and you came,
    gently as within a dream. Quietly
    did you breath my name, bend low,
    to press one kiss, soft, soft against my
    cheek, ere you were gone.

  41. ina says:
    November 2, 2011 at 12:23 pm

    Dunbar’s poem was the poem that got me to try writing poetry, back when I was nine. Thanks for giving me an excuse to give it homage, Robert…

    How we learn

    “We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
    To thee from tortured souls arise.” – Paul Dunbar “We wear the mask”

    See his stick limbs; see
    her swollen belly. Pray not
    for our relief but
    for theirs.

  42. Nancy Posey says:
    November 2, 2011 at 12:27 pm

    Just Drive

    “You show me a woman who hasn’t fantasized getting in a car and leaving home and I’ll show you a woman who doesn’t drive.”

    I might have been scarred by seeing Mama
    jump in the blue ’64 Impala and drive away,
    down Alabama Street, leaving me and Amy,
    just five and seven, to look after the baby
    who always cried.

    As much as we wanted to run after her,
    to stop her, hanging onto the car door
    to prevent her escape, we knew better.
    We had been left in charge, while she drove
    and cried.

    By the time Daddy came home from work,
    we formed a solid front, not a word to him
    about her abandonment, her absence no more
    than the time it took to drive around the block
    for a good cry.

    Amy learned from her the simplest plan
    for running away from home, wagging
    her small suitcase out the front door, down
    the sidewalk, around the corner and back
    inside.

    I sometimes feel Mama with me now, those
    dark days when I feel so alone, even
    with those I love most inside the house;
    I grab my keys, head off without goodbyes
    to take a ride.

  43. Marie Elena says:
    November 2, 2011 at 12:46 pm

    FIXTURES

    “Books are not made for furniture, but there is nothing else that so beautifully furnishes a house.” ~ Henry Ward Beecher

    Oh, to rest in the comfort of softly billowing prose
    Adorn with captured utterance
    Feast at the table of God’s Word

  44. Shannon Lockard says:
    November 2, 2011 at 12:46 pm

    Stuck in the Middle

    “The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.”—Oscar Wilde

    The eldest child shines so bright
    praise is naturally sent her way.
    For everything she said and did
    she was noticed every day.

    The youngest with her cute pigtails
    was always noticed or she wailed.
    She wasn’t waiting for attention
    She would grab it, or there’d be dissension.

    But being stuck right in between
    the beauty and the drama queen
    made the middle one unseen.
    She knew what number two did mean.

  45. a.paige says:
    November 2, 2011 at 1:15 pm

    Tempest In A Cup

    “I can resist anything but temptation,” said Wilde—
    that was Oscar.

    I start again today, I say,
    tight grip on my resolve.
    But what’s another cup—it hisses
    Just another sip—it whispers.

    Too much caffeine
    is bad for me;
    it lulls me like a harp,
    you see.

    It taints my teeth,
    and my insides burn
    from excessive
    stomach acid.

    But water just won’t do it.
    And tea just doesn’t cut it.
    You know your thirst could only be quenched
    by nothing but dear, old me.

    Alright! Okay! I’m in for now.
    Just this, just once. A grande cup.
    Make it iced, with Splenda and cream on the side.
    And then I’m sure, I’d be done with him.

    Whatever. If you say so. Absolutely!—my dear,
    I’ll always be here for you, you know.
    You will realize soon enough, I’m sure,
    you can’t possibly live without me.

  46. viv says:
    November 2, 2011 at 1:15 pm

    True worth – Shadorma

    “Poor and content is rich, and rich enough” W Shakespeare, Othello

    Contentment
    is a state of mind
    fervently
    to be wished.
    Worth far more than ecstasy
    or first bloom of love.

    To be content
    was my ambition
    throughout
    my working life
    now that I’ve found poetry,
    gladness will persist.

  47. Karen H. Phillips says:
    November 2, 2011 at 1:22 pm

    Day 2 11-2-2011
    Write an epigraph poem.

    The essence of optimism is that it takes no account of the present, but it is a
    source of inspiration, of vitality and hope where others have resigned; it
    enables a man to hold his head high, to claim the future for himself and not to
    abandon it to his enemy.
    — Dietrich Bonhoeffer

    The Others and Me

    I have reason to be an optimist,
    to look upon the Gulf’s sparkle and soak in the joy
    of being alive, cherished, secure,
    though I know all could collapse for me
    and on me in one disastrous moment.

    One sat in an oncologist’s office this morning,
    taking the poison that might save her life.
    Another has already endured all the treatments
    and in the midst, survived her husband’s death.
    A third nursed a sick and godly man through months
    of heart problems and lymphoma, only to lose him.

    Yet they’re more cheerful than I,
    shaming my complaints before I can voice them.
    No senseless optimism theirs–
    they know, as I know, the Giver Who may choose
    to allow all to be taken away,
    yet leave us with the greatest gift–
    His presence that soothes,
    the lasting balm of Gilead.

  48. Marianv says:
    November 2, 2011 at 1:37 pm

    “The Rich get Richer”

    Visions of a “City on a Hill” inspired the founders
    Of the cities in our land. Lofty ideals circled their
    Deliberations while those seeking personal wealth
    Invited graft and other chicanery into the mix.
    Dreams of money. Silver and gold, all for them-
    Selves, and not a trace of guilt to trouble their minds.

    A cold day in Hell is briefly warmed by laughter
    Though the top brass lacks any sense of humor
    While slyness lurks in their eyes. A mobile group
    That is ready to move in any direction – flash the
    Big bills and they are off to tempt another would-be
    Empire builder who has yet to learn to be indiscreet.
    What comes as a disaster for the common man can
    Be a bonanza to those who hold the power.

  49. Sibella says:
    November 2, 2011 at 1:48 pm

    I’m working (really I am), and a phrase in the paper I’m editing just prompted me to write. It’s not exactly an epigraph, but it’s kind of the same idea.

    Fifty to One Hundred Million Human Infections

    so perilous, this life thing, and so much of your armor
    given to you at birth. So many sides on this die we call earth
    and so few ways to influence the gamer’s roll.

    It washes over me, this phrase, as I edit a paper
    on dengue fever: “…fifty to one hundred million
    human infections…” It catches in my eye. I twitch.

    So much of everything, really, when you think about it.
    People in the billions; imagine their eyelashes, imagine
    the worlds of microbes on each lash. It’s enough

    to make you drink, or weep, or surrender to some monochrome
    ledger of limited information. It’s enough to make you
    lay down and play dead. Imagine, instead,

    the number of feathers on each of your wings. You can’t
    count them, you can’t even see them, but you can
    fan yourself, maybe enough for liftoff.

    Pamela Murray Winters

    • ina says:
      November 2, 2011 at 1:55 pm

      Pamela, what an interesting topic and such an interesting way of approaching it – I love “Imagine , instead, / the number of feathers on each of your wings.” it’s a beautiful and yet tangible way of approaching our humanity.

  50. De Jackson says:
    November 2, 2011 at 1:58 pm

    Notes to Self

    There is nothing you must be. There is nothing you must do. However, it helps to know that fire burns, and the earth gets wet when it rains. – Japanese Zen Scroll
    Just breathe. – Faith Hill

    In…Out…
    Stop worrying. So much doesn’t matter.
    Laugh much.
    Forgiveness is free. Trust must be earned.
    Hold loosely.
    Be kind, always. Period.
    Love fully.
    Mercy is new every morning.
    (Lather. Rinse. Repeat.)
    Today is everything.
    Seize it with both hands, whole heart.
    Don’t play with matches.
    Buy umbrella.

  51. richard-merlin atwater says:
    November 2, 2011 at 1:58 pm

    The Weightiness of Life
    by Richard-Merlin Atwater Nov. 2, 2011

    “The first requisite of a good citizen in this Republic of ours is that he shall be able and willing to pull his weight.” President Theodore Roosevelt, New York–11 Nov. 1902

    Life’s obligations hang upon us as a heavy weight,
    Sometimes we must go out of our way to seek our fate.
    A forward movement in ‘the uphill battle of life’
    Oft times requires coordination of a man and wife
    To raise their children in the proper sense and mode,
    And teach them how to carry a heavy burden or load.

    But in modern times the problem seems to hang around the waist,
    With reckless, wanton care, the belly fat becomes OBESE, ex post haste!
    And the weightier matters of life fall into disrepair as we begin to sink
    Into oblivion on the couch with ‘a fat ass attitude’–so dull to think
    Beyond the pundits TV commentary concerning problems of the day:
    Thus the Presidential philosophers words are quoted thus in disarray!

  52. barton smock says:
    November 2, 2011 at 2:00 pm

    ***
    isacoustic
    ***

    When we walk in the sun
    Our shadows are like barges of silence. – Mark Strand (from Seven Poems- for Antonia)

    I see a fat man
    with a balloon
    and think
    dreamer.

    when he purchases
    three more
    I think
    stubborn.

    when he floats
    down the street
    my pregnant girlfriend
    pinches me.

    I make the sign for food
    my shadow
    for the cotton guts
    of a doll.

  53. Walt Wojtanik says:
    November 2, 2011 at 2:12 pm

    NATIVITY

    “Man’s main task in life is to give birth to himself.” ~ Erich Fromm

    A heartbeat strong and sure,
    pure and unadulterated; slated for great things
    if only he’d assume his gift and lift it heavenward.
    Words become him, but he struggles,
    his message is saturated; inundated with self-doubt.
    Tucked away like a cocoon, a swoon
    of outrageous proportions. He succumbs
    to the demons in residence, brought about
    by said doubt and deprivation; a degradation.
    But, still within, a heart beats strong and sure.
    Confidence in short supply, he relies on
    what his soul regurgitates and spews onto paper and page.
    Sage advice he had once read. Man’s purpose –
    his only purpose is to re-invent who he was meant to be.
    The darkness lurches as sporadic contractions push him,
    his tunnel vision shrouded in a murky mire,
    and as synapses start to fire he sees the light,
    at the end of the tunnel he is blinded by brilliance.
    A gentle slap to a lifeless muse brings a gasp,
    and he grasps for pencil and pad; a poet reborn.

  54. De Jackson says:
    November 2, 2011 at 2:21 pm

    space
    (a shadorma)

    I don’t want to be the filler, if the void is solely yours. – Alanis Morissette

    I don’t want
    any more empty
    -ness; hearts pressed
    to hollow
    chest, breathing in silent will,
    cold helium hope.

  56. J.lynn Sheridan says:
    November 2, 2011 at 2:37 pm

    “Fear not”

    “In the confrontation between the stream
    and the rock, the stream always wins
    – not by strength but by perseverance.”
    – H. Jackson Brown

    in her golden cage
    she exhales the
    medieval moths—

    (a lady must daily
    varnish her cross)

    unbraiding her dreams
    one wing at a time,
    one timid
    aria upon aria
    she sings of her sacrifice

    then rises in
    minuet and voice
    vibrato and choice

    enchanting,
    uncoiling
    revamping
    gilded wires

    into
    melodious
    harp strings
    of valor and joy.

  57. Andrew Kreider says:
    November 2, 2011 at 2:43 pm

    Ingrates

    “Sometimes you notice people not paying attention to what they’re good at.” – Brian Eno

    Old Salieri knew this all too well,
    fell patron saint of all who recognize
    the mountaintops, but cannot climb so high.

    It’s not the beauty that distresses. No,
    indeed, for even in our rage we thrill
    to witness such perfection in the flesh.

    What fool could hate this thing we all profess
    to love above all good? This siren art
    on which our meager gifts have dashed their craft?

    Our anger is reserved for God, who put
    such dazzling treasure in ungrateful hands,
    while envy blinds us to our proper worth.

  58. Buddah Moskowitz says:
    November 2, 2011 at 2:52 pm

    Two Lessons, Too Late

    “The way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.” – Oscar Wilde

    I knew it was wrong
    when I did it
    but I did it anyway
    because she promised me
    “no one will ever know.”

    Being an ethical contortionist
    I trusted my logic
    and believed my rationale,

    but when he called me
    at my office
    screaming
    that he knew what I did,
    where I lived
    and that he was going
    to shoot off my testicles
    with his shotgun,

    I learned two lessons:

    first,
    it is impossible
    to talk your way out of
    a problem with a party
    unwilling to listen,

    and
    second,
    never sleep with
    another man’s wife,
    schmuck.

  59. Hannah says:
    November 2, 2011 at 2:54 pm

    INTENTIONAL

    “You’ve got to be very careful if you don’t know where you are going, because you might not get there.”
    ~ Yogi Berra

    Flowers release seeds,
    Promise for new life awaits;
    Nature’s intention.

  60. Walt Wojtanik says:
    November 2, 2011 at 2:54 pm

    OPPOSING SUPPOSES

    “Great minds have purpose; little minds have wishes”. ~ Washington Irving

    Necessity and desire,
    opposing fires in a thoughtful expression.
    There is no obsession as large
    as to work to vacate this world having given
    all one could for the good of all humanity.
    On a broader plane, great things can be accomplished.
    Narrowness of mind, we find to be
    full of “what’s in it for me” thinking.
    A stinking selfishness; born of uselessness.
    Wishing never makes it so. Wanting it satisfies no one.
    But the need for a solution: a cure, an answer, a process
    that professes a global fulfillment that could prevent
    conflict as we know it, can be achieved if we don’t blow it.
    Actions speak a language words cannot convey.
    Everyone wishes for a better world,
    but a great mind is the machine of intention.

  61. Katie Dixon says:
    November 2, 2011 at 2:55 pm

    I think that yesterday’s prompt is still inspiring me, as well!

    “Quiet Gatherings” or “Hush, Jiminy’s sleeping”

    “Good friends, good books, and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life.” – Mark Twain

    “Hush, Jiminy Cricket, and sleep.
    Haunting Lists and tolling electronic
    Chimes will not wake you tonight
    in your dreams of Order and
    Efficiency and Punctuality.”

    “You heard a creak? A spine
    gently creasing? no matter.
    There’s time for a read tonight,
    I promise. Just one. That’s not
    stack you see; your eyes tire.”

    “Come out old friends!” I
    whisper to the pages, “and huddle
    under the blankets here. Keep
    the flashlight near and we’ll talk,
    but quiet, for Conscience is sleeping.”

  62. Marie Elena says:
    November 2, 2011 at 3:00 pm

    “Poetry and Hums aren’t things which you get, they’re things which get you. And all you can do is go where they can find you.” ~ Winnie the Pooh

    Poetry and hums
    Content to find and be found
    Rich or penniless

  63. Mom6 says:
    November 2, 2011 at 3:04 pm

    “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times….” Charles Dickens

    catch the bus, late again,
    this is the live i wanted to live
    got the degree to be a scholar
    moved to the city to go farther
    now I really miss the past
    a tiny town lost on the map
    got lots of money, stuff to do
    miss the corn field and meadow, too
    life is good, but not content
    best of this, but not of that

  64. laurie kolp says:
    November 2, 2011 at 3:10 pm

    My Ears Are Killing Me
    “Listening looks easy, but it’s not simple. Every head is a world.”
    — Cuban Proverb

    cymbals echo in my ringing ears
    a cacophony, a cry for clarity
    !crash! permanent hearing loss
    !ping! it might be a tumor, a tumor, a tumor
    colliding my world suddenly
    all thoughts and words go back to that
    !crash! permanent hearing loss
    !ping! it might be a tumor, a tumor, a tumor
    November’s debut symphony
    instead of music from my muse
    my ears are killing me

  65. Walt Wojtanik says:
    November 2, 2011 at 3:20 pm

    COMPOSED

    “Life is like music; it must be composed by ear, feeling and instinct, not by rule”. ~ Samuel Butler

    Throw the handbook out the window,
    it doesn’t even exist. No rule can dictate
    what lies buries deeply within. The symphony
    of existence becomes a cacophony
    of a metered and melodic meander
    through the movements we affect;
    a direct and didactic work of art.
    No instinct can be denied, for inside
    lies the masterwork of The Master,
    every note ingrained and paced only
    by a loving heart and a feeling soul.
    The music of life plays sweetly
    toughing the strings that bind us together.
    There is no mistaking its melody.

  66. cara.holman says:
    November 2, 2011 at 3:33 pm

    Love this prompt, Robert! :)

    “I hope for nothing. I fear nothing.
    I am free.”—Nikos Kazantzakis

    wings outstretched
    a hawk descends
    into evening

    *******************
    “He who laughs last, laughs best.”
    —American proverb

    he doesn’t move…
    I don’t move…
    old crow

    *******************

    “All women become like their mothers.
    That is their tragedy.
    No man does. That’s his.”—Oscar Wilde

    looking more like mother
    every day…
    baby spiders

  67. Connie Peters says:
    November 2, 2011 at 3:35 pm

    Southern Louisiana Fishing Lesson

    “I know it’s hard when you’re up to your armpits in alligators to remember you came here to drain the swamp.”—Ronald Reagan

    As long and short calls of quails
    turned into piping of crickets and frogs,
    the stifling air cooled and wind whispered
    through tall sugar cane grasses,
    and the setting sun painted the pond pink,
    featuring silhouettes of pecan trees,
    Uncle Billy and I sat at the end of the pier
    with an open tackle box at our feet.

    From his wheelchair, his helpless arms in his lap,
    his gravelly voice instructed me
    on how to pierce the eye socket
    of the bait fish with the barb of the hook,
    while I squealed in disgust and protest.

    While we waited with line in water,
    he told me the story of Evangeline,
    a fictional woman Longfellow immortalized
    in an epic poem and became an icon
    of Cajun culture. She lost her lover
    during the Expulsion of the Acadians
    in Canada. A gnarled oak in St. Martinville
    bears a sign, “Evangeline Oak,”
    the meeting place of the rumored
    real couple, Emmeline and Luis.

    And he told of the old alligator
    that washed up into his pond
    after Katrina. It took three of his friends,
    a wire box trap and a raw chicken
    to get him out and transfer him
    to a home better suited in the swamp.

    Which reminded him of his favorite quote,
    “When you’re up to your armpits in alligators,
    you forget about draining the swamp.”

    Which led me to a quote of my own,
    “When you’re up to your elbows in fish guts,
    you forget about eating dinner.”

    But I had to admit,
    the trout, brim, and sackalay were quite tasty.

  68. stu pidasso says:
    November 2, 2011 at 3:41 pm

    That Which We Love
    by stu pidasso
    2Nov2011

    “May we be saved from evil thoughts and the deed of enemies of world peace who find pleasure in creating havoc and perpetrating all forms of carnage.” – Yahya Jammeh, “the pot” of Gambia

    I saw the towers belching smoke
    and the angels plummeting to their fate
    victims of madmen’s vitriol and hate
    who wish the world’s peoples to yoke

    Daily, I read Mudville’s local rag
    all the stories of extreme behavior
    animals seeking innocents to savor
    deviod of acknowledgment of white flag

    Lusty beats and fast flowing works
    describing the vocalists’ carnal desires
    rhythmically, our children, it entwines and mires,
    swayed to immoral actions by jerks

    Even corporate America envisions
    ever new ways to feed like vultures
    using sex to destroy our cultures
    in order to sell us their provisions

    Gone are the tight knit local communities
    where children can play without fear
    of control freaks drawing near
    constantly in search of opportunities

    My bubble burst long ‘fore hence
    punctured by onset of grim reality
    of the American Dreams frailty
    allowed by mean sitting on the fence

    Live how you love and love how you live
    and be willing to fight for what is right
    for thieves slither hither every night
    willing to take every inch we give

  69. Dan Collins says:
    November 2, 2011 at 3:42 pm

    Plains Death Song

    “Hoka Hey” ~ Crazy Horse

    No one wants a frozen pig
    or a charcoaled cow.
    But in these moments
    when the halo of the moon
    smothers the plain
    like crow’s breath,

    - Who does not love
    the crow’s snickering shadow? -

    think of a man whose words collapse
    like the encroaching winter
    chill around the ashes of his farm.

    Think of the running ponies.

    Think of the snow owl
    and the popping mouse
    beneath the hammer of his eye.

  70. ShreyIyengar says:
    November 2, 2011 at 3:48 pm

    I relished this prompt, Robert. :)

    Singularity

    “Journeys end in lovers’ meeting,
    every wise man’s son doth know.”
    - William Shakespeare

    They started to arrive years two or three ago,postbox-ed,
    and inbox-ed, first in a trickle, and then in showers steady,
    some in casings of embellished hard paper, some in Google bits;
    bearers of news, that the next one, had taken the plunge.

    Marital communiques signaled progression and joyous union, once,
    of kith and kin, a day of forgotten vices, and innocent fun.
    Oft now, these days of late, what but a stark reminder,
    of moments too fleeting to hold, and a tyrannical ticking clock.

    Endless nights unspent in an un-embrace with oneself,
    Uncertainty festers best on a cold, rainy monsoon night,
    in a room with no soul but one,and a singular wish to have someone;
    a fervent prayer, to walk past quo of status, to that one.

    However, the gregarious solar being, marches back to the horizon,
    promiscuities of the night before with his dark, buxom damsels, leading to
    endless ejaculations that caused the said festering, and the resultant
    emotion, or lack thereof; he brings along his friend, hope.

  71. richard-merlin atwater says:
    November 2, 2011 at 3:51 pm

    The Seven Crowning Sonnets of Love
    by Richard-Merlin Atwater posted Nov. 2, 2011

    “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” Elizabeth Barrett Browning
    “I am he that aspired to KNOW: and thou? I would love infinitely, and be loved! God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.” Robert Browning

    It happened once upon a time, love befell my soul,
    It snatched my spirit from within, took me by surprise,
    Surrounded all my feelings and emotions, like a surreal bowl,
    Rounded all about, but without any ‘set in place’ sides.
    ‘Twas quick to come and settle down upon my frame,
    To envelope my inner being by disguise of romance designed,
    To conjure up the thoughts of love by thought controlled,
    All happened in this emotional stance began within my mind,
    And thus I swooned, and sighed a breath that rolled
    From out my chest and lungs of sweetness like perfume.
    How could such feelings overcome, put me in a trance,
    My mind, my spirit and my body, all within consumed,
    By such and such an envelope of rapture to dance,
    My only thought for action, seems my soul was doomed.

    My ONLY thought of action, seems my soul was doomed
    To repeat this “wonder of delight” that held me hostage,
    It gripped my entire being with excitement of eternity groomed
    To be an everlasting realization that love lasts as nostalgage,
    A seeming homesickness for that of long ago, far away,
    Yes, it took control of every measure of my being,
    Thus I say: “How wonderful is love, Oh how wonderful!”
    For that which is felt is far above just seeing.
    For to see can be deceived, but to know—thunderful!
    Like lightning in a storm that flashes ‘cross the sky,
    Love comes so quick and sudden that I would surmise
    It is the essence of faith, and hope, with rapture,
    Faith of it to be reality, and hope as surprise!
    Surprise of that which is to come and stay, capture.

    Surprise of that which is to come and stay, capture
    My heart, my thoughts, my soul in wonderment of forever,
    For LOVE is a forever thing to know about, enrapture,
    To feel eternity has meaning now beyond mere thought, endeavor
    That when it comes you seek to bid it stay,
    Sing, dance with laureled wreath of flowers ‘cross the brow,
    In meadowed fields of pastoral glance that carry you away
    To a dream-like vision of peace, and joy, and how
    One might enjoy and feel and see heaven each day.
    And this because of LOVE of God, and all mankind,
    But more than this, exotic truth of sweet romance aright,
    Of man for woman, and woman for man in love.
    A conjugal embrace of mating, two as one entwined delight,
    And all of this sent to you from heaven above.

    And all of this sent to you from heaven above,
    As angels seek to do the bidding of the Father,
    To spread, as dew drops, all along the way, LOVE,
    Which distilled upon the soul of those who seek, gather
    In by self-control “the positive of life” and ban the negative,
    Thus shall we not embrace the moment to give love,
    Receive love, be in love, promote love, and live
    In joy and happiness among relations and all friends, above
    The fray of “ills of life”, tear the soul, give
    Way towards doom of circumstance with hate, heaven yet forbid,
    No war, no quarrel, no backbiting retribution from the soul
    Of he, or she, who would be agents of peace,
    And goodwill for all within our everyday circumference of goal
    That leads to harmony of life as meant to be.

    That leads to harmony of life as meant to be,
    For those who LOVE in earnest truth of God’s desire,
    HE hath said: “LOVE, as I have loved you.”–See
    By this shall all men know that ye do conspire
    As disciples indeed, if ye have LOVE one for another.
    Therefore my good friend of life in time among us
    Go forth with love within your heart, make it true
    That what was said of old become reality of fuss
    About the things of life for truth and righteousness, You
    Can make a difference within the fold, change the world.
    It all begins at home among the ones we love,
    A father, mother, children, betwixt emotion of a FAMILY, Yes,
    I do confess: love begins at home, hand-in-glove.
    Why not start anew, give affection to your kin, Bless

    Why not start anew, give affection to your kin, Bless
    Their lives with love from the heart, show it forth
    All you do and say by action, by words, dress
    Your emotions with “the spirit of love”, all in worth
    Of the individual you see, first your self, then me.
    And others whom you chance to have within your life,
    Husband, wife, kids around your hearth that seek to play,
    Each day, show forth LOVE as divine, and banish strife,
    If you do, love will come back to you, stay!
    Stay within your home, and in your heart, forevermore,
    And when you go out the door among your friends,
    Keep a loving heart as if in brotherhood of truth,
    Within the booth of time and circumstance, and make amends
    Of rifts that might keep you aloof, be like Ruth.

    Of rifts that might keep you aloof, be like Ruth
    Be like Ruth of Bible days of yore who loved
    Who set example, how it was meant to be, truth
    Prevail and conquer unjust acts of wrong in thought, doved
    By the Holy Ghost who distills upon thy soul– peace,
    Love of life, and all within thy sphere of influence,
    To be loved by you and me, meant to be,
    That love should prevail, even as “the Master” did, confluence
    Of one another into the river of life, to be,
    Or not to be, one in thought, in harmony, Yes,
    Go forth as one who knows the feeling of love,
    “He who loves, it will be well with him.” You’ll
    Learn to love by doing what love doth require above:
    It happened once upon a time, love befell my soul.

  72. Nikki Markle says:
    November 2, 2011 at 3:57 pm

    “A.Y.C.E.”

    “He fed his spirit with the bread of books.” ~Edwin Markham

    Winding through the
    Maze of aisles,
    Books stream
    Along the towering
    Shelves. Running her

    Fingers down the spines,
    Stopping now and then to
    Crack the cover for a
    Taste, she piles her tray

    High with Joyce to feed her
    Mind, Dickens to keep her full, and
    Austen to sweeten the meal. Her
    Spirit sated on the bread of books.

  73. Domino says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:06 pm

    Be Not Dismayed

    You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.
    —Jack London

    Overheard at a writer’s group
    a few years ago:
    “Oh, I can’t write
    without
    everything being
    just so.
    My desk must be clear
    and my pencils all sharp
    and the house must be
    perfectly quiet.
    No odd smells.
    And the paper aligned
    in precision with
    all of Jupiter’s moons.”

    (Okay, maybe not the moons
    but the rest was pretty much
    just as she said it.)

    And then they looked at me
    and asked:
    “What do you need
    before you can write?”

    And I looked a bit blank,
    I guess,
    because they went on:
    “You know, what needs to be
    done first?
    What rituals do you have?

    And I answered, “Well,
    I guess I need a computer
    in front of me.
    Or a pen and paper.”

    “And that’s it?”

    “Yes.”

    And they were a little
    bewildered
    by my lack of
    fragile
    artistic
    sensibility
    and also
    a little mad.

  74. Lovely Annie says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:07 pm

    a hay(na)ku:

    ” Dream On”

    “The dream is a little hidden door in the innermost and most secret recess of the soul.” – C.G. Jung

    Slipping
    silently into
    the space between.

  75. Nambe-Pambe says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:16 pm

    “Sincere forgiveness isn’t colored with expectations that the other person apologize or change. Don’t worry whether or not they finally understand you. Love them and release them. Life feeds back truth to people it its own way and time.” Sara Paddison

    Angler

    I don’t know what it was that made me let it go.

    Maybe it was the serene look you had on your face
    as you held out each fly to me like a sacred offering,
    extolling the virtues of catch and release.

    I sat across from you at my childhood’s kitchen table,
    you, as yet, in your father’s chair,

    And there you were,
    telling me all about the thrill
    of seeing another’s face light up at his very first catch,
    ever.

    And that it was your fly that did it.
    Not the guide’s.
    Your fly, that you tied downstairs, hunched over the magnifying glass,
    emulating nature with a trick from your box.
    No small task.

    And I listened with no expectation.
    And realized for the first time that it was I
    that bent the wire and knotted skeins
    trying to net love like some kind of fish.

    by Pam B.

  76. pmwanken says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:19 pm

    BE STILL

    “He says, ‘Be still, and know that I am God…’”
    Psalm 46:10

    a little rock
    dropped in water
    breaks the surface,
    creating ripples
    obscuring my vision

    the tiniest pebble
    in my shoe
    breaks my gait,
    and I limp along
    complaining

    slow down

    be still

    wait upon the Lord

    and now…
    His spirit has calmed
    my heart;
    time has calmed
    the waters

    the rock
    can now be removed
    from my shoe;
    I can move forward
    once again

    2011-11-02
    P. Wanken

  77. Nambe-Pambe says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:20 pm

    “Sincere forgiveness isn’t colored with expectations that the other person apologize or change. Don’t worry whether or not they finally understand you. Love them and release them. Life feeds back truth to people in its own way and time.” Sara Paddison

    Angler

    I don’t know what it was that made me let it go.

    Maybe it was the serene look you had on your face
    as you held out each fly to me like a sacred offering,
    extolling the virtues of catch and release.

    I sat across from you at my childhood’s kitchen table,
    you, as yet, in your father’s chair,

    And there you were,
    telling me all about the thrill
    of seeing another’s face light up at his very first catch,
    ever.

    And that it was your fly that did it.
    Not the guide’s.
    Your fly, that you tied downstairs, hunched over the magnifying glass,
    emulating nature with a trick from your box.
    No small task.

    And I listened with no expectation.
    And realized for the first time that it was I
    that bent the wire and knotted skeins
    trying to net love like some kind of fish.

    by Pam B.

  79. Jane Shlensky says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:25 pm

    Born Old

    “I want to know if I can live with what I know, and only that.” Albert Camus

    That girl was old at fourteen,
    her hair all split ends and fury,
    her eyes outlined with kohl
    that exaggerated her world weariness,
    her eyes receding into the palest pained painted face.

    At the group home where she lived, she parented the small
    children, befriended the older girls, mature for her age.
    In my class, she penned pleading letters to her relatives
    during writing time, then tore them slowly into strips.

    She told a boy complaining of his mother that
    he was too stupid to live, but before I could call her to account,
    she began to cry and said if she could live with her mother,
    she’d kiss the woman’s feet every day.

    A huge shy boy reached out his hand
    and touched her shoulder and said he knew how that was.
    No one spoke much after that. Instead, we wrote
    about what was in our broken hearts, about how life

    can come knotted and torn to us, how our own people can betray
    the very love we bear them, and strangers can lift us up,
    about good dogs and bad men and how it might be possible to live
    on our own terms. We wrote and learned our own lessons that day.

    I’d have sworn we all gained some hope that day, because I did,
    But on her way out, she stopped to talk and told me,
    “I don’t need to learn another thing in my life. I need to survive what I know.”
    And she’d never heard of Albert Camus.

  80. Domino says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:26 pm

    Going After It

    You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.
    —Mae West

    Life is short, it’s very brief
    I know this to my sorrow
    I’ve known joy and I’ve known grief
    and trouble enough to borrow.

    Reach right out and grab your life
    and seize the day with fervor.
    Ignore the worries and the strife,
    Don’t be an observer.

    Live your life, is my advice,
    and live it to the fullest.
    Procrastination has a price
    even for the dullest.

    Time is short and valuable
    so treasure every moment
    Yes, we all are fallible
    but that just makes time potent.

  81. viv says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:32 pm

    Dear Robert, I keep trying to comment on these lovely poems, but Word Press tells me I’m going too fast, to slow down, and then promptly deletes my carefully worded comment. Also, how do I get the prompts into my email as with all the other blogs I follow? It takes an age to get in, go into the search box, only to find it hasn’t been posted yet (late afternoon French time before it’s there).

    I give up on the commenting – but I love you all!
    ViV

    • pmwanken says:
      November 2, 2011 at 4:38 pm

      ViV – I had that happen once, too…the “slow down” thingy. I realized that the whole page hadn’t loaded before I tried posting. So…the next time, I just waited for all the little ads and everything to completely load and had no problem. As for getting the prompt by email — I’d like to know that, too…so I’ll be back to see if there’s an answer. If I get to an answer before it’s posted here, I’ll email ya! ~ Paula

    • Domino says:
      November 2, 2011 at 6:21 pm

      Viv – I think that when someone else is posting at the same time, the software can’t handle it either. Also, if the page hasn’t reloaded in a while, like when I’m reading a bunch of poems and decide to comment on one, there are more additions the page hasn’t caught up with yet. Sometimes I will reload the page before I click to comment, wait for it to load, then try the comment. If I do get the “you’re commenting too fast!” message, I press the back button, wait for it to load, press “Reply” again, and most of the time, the comment I was leaving is still there.

      It is difficult getting used to this new format, though, isn’t it?

  82. Ann M says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:38 pm

    POSTCARD FROM THE BRIDGE OVER THE HUDSON

    “I come more and more to the conclusion that wilderness, in America or anywhere else, is the only thing left that is worth saving.” – Edward Abbey

    Cold as a nickel, the river flows silent,
    carrying no cargo, scarce of fish.
    There are no heavy barges with vital freight.
    No Dutch explorer on deck marking a new map
    or Mohican canoe bearing beads and fur.
    It is left to its own—eagles circling,
    shad gone, the salty brine thickening,
    PCBs cling to shell and stone.
    On the far side, the wharfs at Poughkeepsie are rotted
    and when we walk down
    the bridge steps to the convenience store
    by the gas station, a teenager gets out of a car,
    his eyes wild and flat as the river.

  83. pblacksaw says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:43 pm

    so many wonderful words.. I must confess I had all but forgotten..

    Remember- (a shadorma)

    ” Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was love. ”
    ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson

    cabbage plants
    half grown still bundled
    forgotten
    my great fear
    a heaviness on my soul
    pray remember me

    Can I still post one for yesterday?
    Patsy

  84. Marie Elena says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:48 pm

    “As a #2 Myself, I’m Right There.” ~ Buddah Moskowitz

    For making the grade,
    A Number 2 is needed.
    (A fine point to make).

  85. richard-merlin atwater says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:48 pm

    Ode: Allusions of Eternity
    By Richard-Merlin Atwater posted Nov. 2, 2011
    “Intimations of Immortality From Recollections of Early Childhood: Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home.” William Wordsworth (1807)

    Holy Whisperings of the Everlasting from Recollections of the Spirit Within:
    I
    Sometime in the past when pasture, forest, and brooklet,
    Terra firma, and all there is to see,
    To me was apparent set,
    Clothed in heavenly aura lea,
    The wonder and the wholesomeness of a visionary couplet.
    ‘Tis not so as time hath passed on by;—
    Regardless where I look,
    Above, below, time took:
    The apparitions of my mind
    Have vanished as a sullen cry.

    II
    Kaleidoscopic view departs,
    Rose-colored glasses imparts,
    As Lunar light enraptures all
    A silver ball floating in the air,
    Reflecting lake: the stars above call
    For pulchritudinous affair;
    The rising sun gives birth;
    Yet I surmise, to my surprise,
    That something from the past of resplendency evades the earth.

    III
    Presently, as the warbler serenade a sweet melody,
    And while the cosset ewe leaps
    As to the drummer roll and fife peeps,
    To my solitary mind thus came a contemplation of anguish:
    An auspicious word brought a pensive towards liberation swish,
    Thus I resume my fortitude, to be:
    The waterfalls crash as cymbals from the drop;
    Depart the heartache of my soul which time denies;
    I perceive the iteration permeate the promontory rise,
    The zephyr breeze approaches my meadows of dreams to prop,
    And all the land is happy;
    Shore and coast
    Present themselves to boast,
    And with the bosom of ‘yappy’
    Dote every creature sappy;–
    Thou Youth of Delight,
    Gleeful about me, let me hear thy glee, thou joyous
    Herdsman child!

    IV

    I have perceived the sound
    I see Ye ‘all and sundry’ originate; I behold
    Celestial seraph delight with you in exultations fold;
    My bosom is gladsome at your round,
    My brow’s investiture is bound,
    The completeness of your happiness, I resound.
    Oh wicked dawn! If I were beetle-browed
    Whence Terrene herself charming,
    This serene Spring flowering,
    And the Young Ones mulling
    All about, ubiquitously,
    In a millennium of dells and vales, glens surreptitiously,
    Nature’s sweet bouquets; whence Hyperion luminates tepid,
    And the Infant wiggles upon his Maternal intrepid:–
    I cognize, I cognize, with rapture I cognize!
    But there’s a coniferous and evergreen Lineage, of many, one,
    A lone Meadow which I have gazed upon,
    Each of them bespeaks of something that is forlorn:
    The Violet below my shoe
    Doth the same story embue:
    Wheresoever has gone the quixotic flash?
    Where is yet, the splendor and the spirited dash?

    V

    Our appearance is but a dream and an amnesic stance:
    Body. mind, and spirit rising up, our living Self,
    Had its beginning elsewhere as a trance
    Originates upon the supernal Elysian shelf:
    Not completely in obliviousness,
    And not in divulgate naked barreness,
    But Swirling nebulous vapors of magnificence do we originate
    From Heavenly Father, who is our God and fate:
    Celestial throne was placed nearby to us in nascence genesis!
    Clouds of ‘the house of tribulation’ begin to enshroud
    Upon the full grown Man,
    Yet he can see the light, and where it comes from, bowed
    He beholds it in his pan;
    The Adolescent, who daily distant farther from the Levantine
    Must sojourn, yet remains the Authentic Augustine,
    And through this medium of glorious wonder
    Goes straight forward by himself asunder;
    And soon the Grownup views to see it vanish from sight,
    And subside into the luminescence shining bright.

    VI

    This Globe overflows her territory with gratifications;
    Rewards she hath in her own authentic stance,
    And, additionally included that of Maternal chance,
    And no worthless qualifications,
    The homespun Nanny doth everything possible, consult
    To provide her Nourished-one, her Incarcerated Adult,
    Draw blank remembrance of the wonders once known,
    And that castle in the sky from whence we originate.

    VII
    Notice the Infant among his cradle and crib happiness,
    Intuition’s numbered year as Sweetheart of miniature proportion
    Look, whence amongst labor of his own pursuit he reclines in station,
    Rant and rave over the foray of his maternal smoochiness,
    With glance upon him from paternal look approbation!
    Behold, at his dual base podium, some minor course of action
    Some particle of his visionary mortal existence,
    Formed by himself with futuristically-designed faction;
    A betrothal or a jubilee,
    A sadness or a burial fee;
    And therefore now his contrition,
    And entwined to what he formulates as tune:
    Then shall he propose his language boon
    To interlocution of management, endearment, or worried insistence,
    But within a short time, so soon
    Before this be cast away
    And with fresh excitement and stay
    The miniature Stageman strategize another act;
    Overflowing occasionally his “amuzing platform” chime
    With all the People, down through Father Time,
    That Existence brings with her in her sublime;
    As if his entire days employ
    Was everlasting make believe joy.

    VIII
    You, whom outside appearance doth present
    Thy Essence’s boundlessness;
    You greatest Sage and Seeker, who still retains
    Your lineage, your Sight among the sightless,
    That, noiseless and quiet, ponder the infinite profound refrains,
    Troubled eternally by the timeless thoughtfulness,–
    Great Predictor! Diviner venerated!
    In whom resides the truthful answers generated,
    Which others seek to know to be blest,
    At midnight evade, the midnightness of the tomb;
    You, whereby your Eternalness
    Ponders as the Age, a Flowered stem in Bloom,
    An Existence that can not be misplaced;
    Oh YOU little ONE, still marvelous in the sight
    Of celestial beginnings agency on thy statured might,
    Why with your fervent efforts do you agitate
    Long time to place the absolute straights,
    Therefore visionless with your hallowedness attrouble Within time your Reality shall claim her mortal weightness,
    And tradition set upon you with a heaviness
    Substantial as ice, and profound somewhat like a bubble!

    IX
    Oh sweetness, where in your fire
    Resides the essence of life, fond,
    Recalled by the natural lyre
    Which was vagabond!
    The feeling of our former time within doth bring forth
    Continual prayerfullness: not certainly north
    In behalf of the most likely to be praised–
    Gladness and freedom, the basic catechism of worth
    For Adolescence, either active or in repose,
    With new beginnings expectation yet moving from within, close,
    Not for all reviewed I propose
    A ballad of gratefulness imposed;
    But for the immovable ponderings
    Of reason and exoteric matters rings,
    The droppings of our things, departure brings;
    Empty hesitations of the Person
    Roving around in places unrecognized,
    Nature Great presumptions before that our temporal Existence
    Did shake like a culpable One surprised:
    Except for those initial devotions,
    Those nebulous reminiscings,
    Which, were as they are to be,
    Remain the watershed glow of what we see,
    And the cardinal brilliance of everything known;
    Sustain us, love, and has strength to create
    Our boisterous time seem short in materialization
    Of the long Quietude: realities that consumate,
    To expire under no circumstance;
    Which without nonchalant, nor wild struggle, chance,
    Nor Adult, nor Child,
    Nor all that remains against the mild,
    Can completely remove and be defiled!
    Therefore in a moment of quietude of feeling
    When alone we solemnly stand
    Our Beings retain remembrance of that far away eternal sand
    That cast us forth reeling,
    Is it possible time can move appealing,
    And know the Created Ones play along the beach,
    And surmise the ocean’s breakers crashing as we beseech.

    X
    Thus warble, ye feathered fowl, chirp, trill a happy melody!

    And allow the youthful Ewes to leap
    Like unto the drum and fife’s noise, peep!
    Those of us who ponder will add to your sound,
    Them which flute and those which romp
    You who by your bosoms feeling now stomp
    Palpate the joyfulness of pomp!
    What as the brilliance was before effulgent light
    Is now removed from my height,
    Though naught whatsoever may return again
    Of glory of the blade, of splendor of theflower’s den;
    We shall not mourn, but gain
    Power in experience of pain;
    In the pre-mortal compassion
    Which was forevermore fashioned;
    In the mellow imaginations that rise
    Out of mortal surprise;
    In the belief that transcends demise,
    In time that shows forth the pondering cries.

    XI
    And Oh, you Waterfalls, Pastures,Mountains, and Forests,
    Presignify no departure of our loved ones, poorest!
    For in my bosoms feelings I recognize your greatness;
    I singly have given up a solitary fateness
    To reside subjacent to your established control.
    I adore the Streams which flow within their course as set,
    Yet greater than the time I played gently as they;
    The flawless luminescence of a beginning Way
    Remains virtuous yet;
    The Veil that assembles o’er the closing of the day
    Causes a dim reflection for our view
    That keeps a sentinel stance on life of man;
    A new marathon to see, and more laurels to achieve as pay.
    Gratefulness to the mortal feelings that moves us so,
    Requite to its delicate finesse, its delights, its dreads,
    To myself even the weed with seed that thrives below
    Gives thoughts without tears in deep repose of our heads.

  86. boltoncarley says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:49 pm

    The Rant

    “Remember, if I’m harsh,
    it’s only because you’re doing it wrong!”
    – Monica (Courtney Cox Arquette) on Friends

    You’re as worthless
    As a fake pocket on a pair of pants…
    Except the pants at least cover my ass!
    You no good piece of… filthy-haired boss’ daughter!

    Are you freaking clueless,
    You dim-witted,
    gum-smacking,
    Eye-rolling, slouching,
    Marathon-texting, jeggings-wearing,
    Pierced-nose, Marlbaro-Lite-smelling,
    Snottier-than-thou, skinny-ass teenager?

    This place smells like a Sunday morning
    At the frat house!
    I said ‘load all the copiers in the copy room’
    Not ‘get loaded in the copy room!’

    Craptastic, little girl!
    What the Hell
    am I going to tell your mother?

  87. jane hoover says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:55 pm

    AWE

    “Prose is about something, but
    poetry is about what can’t be said.”
    W.S. Merwin

    dragonfly
    green-winged body
    slender enough
    to perch
    on a single
    fescue blade

    invisible there
    but for black-wrap
    tail-tip and stripes
    revealing
    presence beyond

    jane penland hoover

  88. MiskMask says:
    November 2, 2011 at 4:56 pm

    I Am 2,588,935,576

    ‘Those who dwell among the beauties and mysteries of the earth are never alone or weary of life’ – Rachel Carson

    I am that single shadow standing
    amongst shadows, owing my place
    to this shimmer of light.
    I am marked by it, gilded by it
    with a number, and it holds me
    like a bookmark in a lineage
    of human population,
    my numerical name,
    my place in an ancient timeline,
    and in the end I am as brief
    as a breath amongst the other 7-billion.

    PS: You can find your number in the timeline at http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-15391515

  89. Pingback: PAD Day #2: Prompt: Epigraph « 31poems

  90. Sara McNulty says:
    November 2, 2011 at 5:03 pm

    I Pick Me

    “Be yourself! Everyone else is taken!” – Charles Schultz

    Some Saras may enlighten
    the world with brightness,
    some may dance
    on pointed toes;
    others might change
    our universe by channeling
    their energies into our own.

    This Sara is the only
    one I know intimately,
    and I value that comfort.

  91. Raina Masters says:
    November 2, 2011 at 5:21 pm

    There is a price to pay for generosity
    -for Carol and Reggie Sumner

    “I can promise you, you’ll stay as beautiful, with dark hair and soft skin, forever.” – Todd Lewis

    The soft earth covers us with
    our eyes open and each throw
    of dirt slowly silences our
    voices, our hearing until the
    the night sky disappears and
    the only thing we can do is
    curl closer to each other and
    keep our hands clasped, as we
    await the inevitable, try to
    reconcile that this was all done
    for the money in our savings. Soil
    fills our lungs, makes breathing
    unbearable, makes death seem
    like a comfort. Everything now
    slowly compresses, last racing
    thoughts are of being shot by
    my ex-husband, and how that death
    would have been much easier for
    me to bear than this.

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  93. Walt Wojtanik says:
    November 2, 2011 at 5:51 pm

    RECOLLECTIONS

    “You never know when you’re making a memory”. ~ Rickie Lee Jones

    A moment fleeting,
    a glimpse at life one frame at a time.
    The sublime and mundane
    reunite to share that instance,
    and then they move on.
    Once upon a time, a wonderful story began,
    an adventure that is embellished in every re-telling.
    The locales change, the situations never stay the same.
    But the main characters perform familiar feats.
    Dreams never come scripted, and the subconscious mind
    will find fodder for a fine fling. Everything changes;
    but one thing is constant.Be vigilant;
    for awareness breeds recognition.
    The moment that stays with you becomes a part of your fabric.
    It is the memory you have made one thread at a time.
    In that one thought you become a part of your own history.

  94. carolynmallory says:
    November 2, 2011 at 5:55 pm

    Autumn

    “Blessed are those who see through the eyes of a child” – Flavia

    A carpet of coloured leaves
    floats for a moment
    as I kick my way down
    the street, inhaling the
    damp, fresh aroma.

    The boisterous geese
    dart across the sky
    filling my ears with
    staccato music that
    echoes my footsteps.

    Vibrant, rotund pumpkins
    are scattered across the
    landscape, waiting for
    the night when their faces
    emerge, brightly.

  95. Nikolas Varek says:
    November 2, 2011 at 6:05 pm

    My username was backwards yesterday. I fixed it.

    Anyway…on to some poeming.

    Alchemical Desire

    “Imagination is as vital to any advance in science as learning and precision are essential for starting points.”
    -Percival Lowell

    A pale glowing stone
    hovering just out of reach
    of the birds,
    playing with the seven seas,
    pulsing in slow motion
    as the days pass
    perfect in its asymmetry.
    Someone thought the impossible:
    “I want to touch it.”

    Travelers in the sky
    wandering in precision
    amidst their twinkling brethren
    rainbow banded jewels
    who once seemed to us
    like gods, governing
    our nighttime musings.
    Someone thought the impossible:
    “I want to reach them.”

    Visitors from afar
    fire-tailed phoenixes
    bringing gifts of panic, fear,
    wonder, and awe,
    diving towards the eternal flame
    never failing to burn
    and never failing to return.
    Someone thought the impossible:
    “I want a ride.”

    Now,
    we have touched
    we have reached
    we have ridden.
    We have longed
    deeply enough to imbue ourselves
    with the power to transmute
    dream into deed.
    There is no turning back.

  96. seingraham says:
    November 2, 2011 at 6:13 pm

    Staying Silent No Longer

    “Much unhappiness has come into the world because of things left unsaid.”
    Fyodor Dostoevsky

    Do you find yourself cringing
    As TV news flashes on the crowds
    Occupying everywhere
    So many people thronging
    Together to protest
    So many things – you can almost
    Smell the sweat of the unwashed
    And hear the rumblings
    Of the discontented

    Do you find yourself wishing
    They would just disperse
    Go back to their homes –
    If they still have homes –
    Just quiet down now,
    Stop going on and on about
    Whatever it is that’s got
    Them all worked up …

    Or do you find yourself
    Stopping now and again
    To listen, really listen
    To try and figure out
    What all the hoopla’s about
    Why so many folks feel
    The need to band together
    In so many places
    And speak up about
    Their collective misery?

    Either way, it makes
    For, as Confucius would
    Say, “interesting times”.

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  98. Arielle Lancaster-LaBrea says:
    November 2, 2011 at 6:45 pm

    Snowtober? Not quite.

    “Human beings will line up for miles to buy a bucket of catastrophes, but don’t try selling sunshine and light – you’ll go broke.” – Chuck Jones

    Board up your windows and fire up
    your pancake grill to use all of
    the eggs and bread you’ve purchased
    for the long stretch of 24 hours that
    you’ll be confined to your house.
    Get ready for the flickering of lights.
    They probably won’t go out entirely
    but with your flashlights and your
    arsenal of batteries, you’ll be prepared
    for the onslaught of weather that the
    television says is coming.
    The rain is mixing with snow as you look
    out your living room window and the
    prediction of up to a five inch cover
    has the entire area in a panic, but not you.
    You have french toast and milk.
    You have board games and a generator.
    Once this all clears out, don’t forget to
    start mapping out plans for the fallout shelter
    in your basement. You never know when the
    next faux-catastrophe is going to hit.

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  100. DanielAri says:
    November 2, 2011 at 7:17 pm

    “There’s the good dance, the bad dance and the next dance.” —Scott Wells

    Nextness

    Who will judge my wonderful dance,
    my roster of publications,
    my solid mastery of grace
    putting my sugared-up scion
    to bed with gentle insistence?

    Yesterday, nightly hurricanes
    found a stranger and I bending
    each other’s ears for a legend
    behind a cement wall, cupping
    the last match without insurance.

    Today we seem to be looking
    for something pat as a doll house,
    even one with Sharpie writing
    on the walls; but what awaits us
    time tells without an opinion.

    Tomorrow’s just continuous,
    so sleep, little family. Hush.

  101. zwrite1 says:
    November 2, 2011 at 7:18 pm

    Delusions
    We are all just prisoners here of our own device.
    – lyrics to “Hotel California” by Eagles

    Locked inside my mind are the poems and novels I will not write.
    Locked inside my body is the playful child, agile and light.
    Locked inside a dogma which has permeated me insidiously.
    Locked into relationships, though they are lovely, they are not free.
    Locked inside a lineage of no-good rascals, moonshiners, buccaneers.
    Lost on my journey I am trapped, paralyzed within my fears.

    Somewhere I am me, but I don’t know the way back home.
    Within my lonely desperate heart, I roam.
    I am lonely but not alone.
    If this be my prison, may I have my crayons
    so I can draw a special doorway to escape to faraway lands?
    If this be my prison, can’t it have a patch of sand
    and an ocean to whisper to me and remind me of my dreams?
    I seem to remember things are seldom as they seem.

  102. NomiWrites says:
    November 2, 2011 at 7:21 pm

    UP OR DOWN

    “Are you really sure that a floor can’t also be a ceiling?” M.C. Escher

    Today’s ground was yesterday’s goal
    The center of the labyrinth starts the next journey
    Someone is always ahead of me, behind me
    In the conga line do I lead or follow?
    The teacher learns, the student teaches
    Reality is what we call it
    Not where we are

  103. Michael Grove says:
    November 2, 2011 at 7:46 pm

    Visionaries

    We need men who can dream of things that never were.
    John F. Kennedy (1917 – 1963)
    Speech in Dublin, Ireland, June 28, 1963

    What we need are people who will dream big.
    Visionaries, men and women too,
    working for the good of our society,
    who live to make their lofty goals come true.

    What we need to do is have great vision.
    Dream it and then do it. Yes we can.
    Imagine something brilliant. Make it happen,
    for the good of every child, woman and man.

    Close your eyes and feel your inner power.
    Let the visions freely roam your mind.
    Gather them within and do not loose touch.
    New realities to search out, seek and find.

    One day you’ll awake with newfound glory.
    One day all your great dreams will come true.
    Everyone has visionary powers.
    Know that it is always up to you.

    By Michael Grove

  104. taylor graham says:
    November 2, 2011 at 7:50 pm

    EARTHSHINE

    I saw the new moon late yestereen
    wi’ the auld moon in her arm.
    - “Sir Patrick Spens”

    Between this Old World with its broken treaties,
    and men’s limbs shot off in war, and that New

    World of greenstick promise not yet fractured,
    rolls the sea away in moonlight. Each ship

    a child’s toy tossed on phosphor waves. So many
    moons since he sailed off for a new life.

    She dreams spirit-lights, drowned sailors
    breathing under the tide. Between two worlds,

    the postage is too dear; a letter with its news
    she can’t afford. Is he still alive? Tonight,

    the new moon rocks the old moon in her arm.
    A mother walks the shingle, up and down

    the shoreline, watching for ship-lights
    past the breakers – proof perhaps of life

    on the other side. The new moon
    cradles her son in the sickle of its arm.

  105. whatevertheyaint says:
    November 2, 2011 at 7:58 pm

    “Feels Like…”
    “We’re all in this together–by ourselves {Lily Tomlin}
    when the room is quiet and the moon says goodnight
    there is no one else, just us alone

    We’re all in this together–by ourselves
    when there are no more pages for life to write
    no one else, just us alone
    and who will hold our hand

    When there are no more pages for life to write
    and it’s our own whisper that we hear
    who will hold our hand,
    and console our loved one’s hearts

    It’s our own whisper that we hear
    when the room is quiet and the moon says goodnight
    console our loved one’s heart
    feels like…good-bye.

  106. pomodoro says:
    November 2, 2011 at 8:00 pm

    “Chemically speaking, chocolate really is the world’s perfect food.” -Michael Levine, nutrition researcher

    My Bacteria Is Dying for a Hershey Bar : A Villanelle

    Craving for chocolate scientists explain
    lurks from deep in the gut
    where bacteria reign.

    Chocolate lovers, in the main,
    seemingly, no matter what,
    have an acid, glycine is its name.

    But abstainers who refrain
    have more taurine to strut
    where bacteria colonies reign.

    For chocolate lovers it is plain,
    your HDL will take a cut
    and a healthy number you’ll sustain.

    Where the research leads is germane
    to the intestines in your gut
    where bacteria colonies reign.

    Skip the chocolate, white and plain;
    Come o’er to the dark side lickety-cut.
    Craving for chocolate, scientists explain,
    lurks deep in the gut where bacteria reign.

  107. Deb Fennell says:
    November 2, 2011 at 8:02 pm

    This is my first time participating. I think trying to read all the other great poems is much harder than writing a poem a day! Yikes.

  108. Mary Mansfield says:
    November 2, 2011 at 8:09 pm

    The Perfect Cup

    “If this is coffee, please bring me some tea; but if this is tea, please bring me some coffee.”
    ~Abraham Lincoln

    I start my day with coffee,
    Without it I don’t budge,
    But when my husband makes it,
    It tastes like bitter sludge.

    I try the local café,
    Still craving my first sip.
    I spit it out without delay
    With grounds upon my lip.

    I contemplate the drive-thru
    And my hands shake with dread.
    I think I’ll hit the mini-mart
    And buy a Coke instead.

  109. Gregory says:
    November 2, 2011 at 8:10 pm

    This is actually my very first epigraph. I found out I love telling stories in my poetry. Need to work a little on my imagery

    Eternal Love

    “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return”- Moulin Rouge

    Life is sustained
    Each beep, there’s a gasp
    IV fills her veins
    This moment may be her last

    Eerie sounds of despair
    Doubtful chatter from a nurse
    Sorrow floods the air
    As doctors converse

    “It’s almost that time”

    Her scaly hand quivers
    Attempting to object
    But her request runs down the river
    Of her emotional neglect

    Her fight has failed
    Put down the rusty shield
    Life is being derailed
    And drowned in her internal tears

    Beep….beep…beep
    She close her eyes and sigh

    This is the final leap
    One last look at life

    Her eyes open wide
    Rush of peace fills her limbs
    Her love came inside
    With his cane and a grin

    ‘Get out’ he yells
    All leaves in reply
    A secret he must tell
    As he lay by her side

    “We’ll leave here together
    Stay heart to heart
    Our love is forever
    Till death do us part”

  110. mikeMaher says:
    November 2, 2011 at 8:26 pm

    It is on Random

    “I am troubled as I salute the crocus.” – Frank O’hara.

    nights walking my dog
    that I sometimes see Deano’s Great Loneliness
    following me again
    or some of the sadness Tony once threw in the lake
    waiting for me as I am careful not to let the steel door
    to my apartment slam closed.
    My neighbor’s heat kicks on
    and I remember what it took to get to Philadelphia.
    It was shortly after I tried to convince
    Mary that the Spanish don’t believe in the Z sound
    that she got more bad news from the doctor
    and gave up on everything
    and started taking the pills again.

    Mary would call and fall asleep on the phone
    and insist that, no, she hadn’t taken any pills today,
    wasn’t even taking the pain pills anymore,
    and I would tell her that she should come visit me in the Poconos
    because I know of a place in the woods where people
    go and stack their sadness on the sadness left there by others
    and that my dog loves sadness, licks it right off
    if he sees any of it on your face,
    but she kept holding onto to her sadness and
    and kept falling asleep on the phone
    and pretty soon it started coming through the phone
    and I thought more and more about drinking and calling her back,
    and so I opened up Beloved and put some of my sadness in there
    because I knew I would never go looking for it.

    Mary still sometimes calls in the middle of the night
    and I tell her I found a park in Philly with plenty of room for sadness
    but when I stop talking no one is there.

  111. bluerabbit47 says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:04 pm

    I

    “I am soft sift
    in an hourglass–”
    Gerard Manley Hopkins
    from “The Wreck of the Deutschland”

    This single-lettered self
    has been busy
    coning on a contained
    glass plane past sunsets
    that once seemed much
    farther apart, It is the
    widening future
    at the top,
    funneling
    into
    narrowing
    presents, shining
    moments facet
    as they fall, each
    catching the light
    and slowing into the years
    of insects who cram lifetimes
    between a single dawn and dusk.

  112. Judy Roney says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:07 pm

    Wedding Rehearsal

    “It is what it is – if you cry, you cry.”
    Jeni Roney

    The rehearsal walk down the aisle didn’t go well.
    Each time her father began the walk, he’d break down.
    His son died six months before, the pain still so raw.
    He felt the absence with each step he took. He prayed
    for strength. His daughter had lost her brother,
    she deserved a perfect day. He confided

    “Jeni, I don’t think I can do this, I loose it every time.”
    She held his hand, looked into his eyes, “Dad,
    it is what it is. If you cry, you cry”. He felt
    the freedom of those words. He walked down the aisle
    with such pride in his daughter, wise and grown.
    He began to live his life with these words in mind,
    “it is what it” with the silent rejoinder, “if you cry, you cry.”

  113. Genevieve Fitzgerald says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:18 pm

    I should probably call this ‘day late, dollar short’ since it’s yesterday’s poem

    Not ready
    Not packed yet
    No map
    No directions

    No guidebook
    With phrases
    For bathroom
    Or railway

    No menu
    With pictures
    So I am served
    Bull’s balls

    That float in
    A sauce that says
    Not ready?
    You’re here.

  114. alotus_poetry says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:28 pm

    Peace

    Lord, make me an instrument…
    -St. Francis of Assisi

    of the world so that I can teach
    and fold compassion through
    my hands:
    wipe a tear, caress a cheek, ease
    suffering and pain, and look
    into my patient’s eyes and tell
    him and her that there is hope
    underneath the shriveled leaves
    and petals on their windowsill.

    Let me sow
    paths that have not been sown
    through raindrops on a young sapling
    or rosary beads that have been worn
    for years. Should I dare be God
    and take every measure to save you
    or would you want me to let you go
    while I breathe in deep
    and try to remember every crease
    of your hands, face,
    and memories of your children
    and grandchildren?

    It is not that you have received
    so much care from me; it is that I have
    received so much from you
    in the many little ways you remind
    me that forgiveness is a friend
    and humility strengthens the core
    of a person’s dignity. Because
    with old age, money means little;
    it is the pilgrimage for peace
    that holds everything out of nothing.

  115. Myrrh95 says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:33 pm

    Everything in the world conspired against me writing today. Work, toothache, kids, teachers the universe!!!! OK, that’s a little dramatic, but I finished today’s poem at my daughter’s martial arts class.

    Odds Are

    “Never tell me the odds!” – Hans Solo

    Odds are, it won’t snow sugar this winter; but, what if it did?

    Odds are, trees won’t rake up their dead leaves; but, what if they could?

    Odds are Angels won’t sing Christmas carols this year;
    but, you never know; it’s happened before.

    Odds are, I will never do anything extraordinary with my life; but, I never listen to odds makers.

  116. Celestialdrmr says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:38 pm

    Downward Rough

    “All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.”-Henry Ellis

    Day by day we watched, your body, silent sorrow,
    all the years of precious memories, subdued by silent sorrow;

    Cell by cell deteriorating, gleaming eyes now glazed
    Handyman of Music now playing silent sorrow,

    Love, respect, songs by Ray Lynch surround your bedside,
    uneaten snacks, vials and scotch, silent sorrow;

    Revolving, never ending rack of medicines
    we’ll help it down Dear Dad, silent sorrow;

    Your golf course is waiting at Heaven’s Field
    save a round for Teri, silent sorrow.

  117. Genevieve Fitzgerald says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:39 pm

    Grown

    “I love you. You’re beautiful. I want you to walk.” - David Bowie

    there was a time I
    waited anxiously for you
    to stand on your own

  118. Michael Grove says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:49 pm

    At Your Service

    “My heart is ever at your service.” William Shakespeare

    Catch a shooting star.
    Net the Pisces fish.
    My heart is at your service…
    forever, if you wish.

    Pure love is the answer.
    True love is the way.
    My heart is at your service…
    forever and a day.

    Freely giving everything.
    Live to share and care.
    My heart is at your service…
    Forever, if you dare.

    This one has no locks.
    Only working keys.
    My heart is at your service…
    forever, if you please.

    By Michael Grove

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  121. SaraV says:
    November 2, 2011 at 9:58 pm

    “The cure for anything is salt water – sweat, tears, or the sea.”
    –Isak Dinesen

    Waves of Love

    The boat slides
    Through the waves
    The sun lights a path
    Before it sinks
    Turning salt water
    Into silver
    My heart sings
    Of joy, delight
    And dolphins
    Hum harmony
    I love the sea
    And the sea
    Loves me

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  123. vperson says:
    November 2, 2011 at 10:07 pm

    November 2, 2011

    Dreams for First Bell in C07

    “If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way?”
    —Emily Dickinson

    The Smartboard projects
    a Billy Collins poem.
    My request for a female volunteer
    to read the poem is
    met with groans
    and “Why? Connor just read it!”
    “It’s so nice to hear
    a poem from both the male
    and female voice,” I explain.
    “Besides, poems need to be
    heard more than once.”
    Their looks say
    it all: Yeah, right, Miss Person! But
    they play along
    nicely, and I sigh
    internally, wishing I
    could ignite their
    passion for words.

    As Chelsea reads the title
    and then the first line,
    I feel a slight chill
    and look over at one of the guys
    who shivers on what is
    otherwise a warm day,
    noting to myself, that’s odd.

    By this point, she’s on the
    second stanza, and the
    goose bumps on another girl’s
    arms command my attention.
    Everywhere, students are
    starting to put hoodies on
    while discreetly trying
    to stop their chattering teeth.
    What is going on, I wonder
    as the reader hits the third stanza
    and the beauty of the lines rings out.

    And then, I shudder in shock
    as I look over
    at Jimmie, self-proclaimed poetry hater,
    and watch the top of his head
    completely come off
    just as Chelsea
    finishes the poem,
    tiny puffs of air
    blowing out of her mouth
    as she articulates
    the last word.

    Icicles drip from the ceiling,
    and students
    huddle to
    warm themselves.

    The APEs have
    just met poetry in person.

    My thanks to Mr. Collins.

    by Valerie A. Person

  124. Funkomatic says:
    November 2, 2011 at 10:30 pm

    Before any revisions, of course, but here is my run at Prompt 2.

    The Digital Forever

    “We ought never do wrong when people are looking” – Mark Twain

    Oh my darling, oh my dear,
    Don’t post pictures of your swilling beer.
    Knowing that youth makes mistakes
    And Gentleman were once rakes
    Will not wipe clean the slate
    Or banish away the crow on your plate.
    Go set to private your profile
    But it isn’t safe, not by a mile.
    Cry, pout, or try to explain away
    The foolishness of last night today
    For each pixel posted, foppish or clever
    Remains. The internet is the digital forever.

    -Cory Funk

  125. Jacqueline Hallenbeck says:
    November 2, 2011 at 10:39 pm

    Poet

    “Be like a postage stamp. Stick to one thing until you get there” – Josh Billings

    got no kids, no DNA to leave behind, just words
    starving, struggling to be heard
    reading, submitting within means
    squeezing 9-to-5 in between
    or is it the other way around?
    hush! don’t make a sound
    I’m about to blow your mind

  126. Jacqueline Hallenbeck says:
    November 2, 2011 at 10:46 pm

    POET

    “Be like a postage stamp. Stick to one thing until you get there” – Josh Billings

    got no kids, no bits of me to leave behind, just words
    starving, struggling to be heard
    reading, submitting within means
    squeezing 9-to-5 in between
    or is it the other way around?
    hush! don’t make a sound
    I’m about to blow your mind

  127. A-MinorPoet says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:05 pm

    Hi All!

    I’m a newbie participating in the PAD Challenge. I’ve been working on today’s prompt all day. I never wrote an epigraph so it was hard to choose one quote and concentrate on it. (I love quotes!) Not sure if I’ll post anything… to shy. However, I will check in to show my solidarity if that’s okay. :D

  128. RobHalpin says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:07 pm

    Laying It Out

    “The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of because words diminish your feelings – words shrink things that seem timeless when they are in your head to no more than living size when they are brought out.” – Stephen King

    I
    guess
    it’s time
    to lay out
    my feelings without
    regard for what others may feel.
    In my head, my thoughts are justified and rational,
    but said aloud, they sound petty,
    like those of a child
    who’s whining
    “Life is
    not
    fair.”

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  130. Benjamin Thomas says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:33 pm

    Fourth Quarter (a nonet)

    ” I began to think my time had come, as the saying is”
    -Buffalo Bill

    Fourth quarter, put me in the game, Coach
    The whole season is on the line
    Down by two, one minute left
    Sprinting, juke, stop, sidestep
    Split the double team
    Give me the rock!
    Angled shot
    Fearless…
    Win!

    Sometimes I can’t poem until late at night around ten or eleven pm. So I feel like it’s crunch time “fourth quarter”, to get a poem in before midnight.

    Have fun!
    Happy poeming!

  131. onemanbandwidth says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:52 pm

    Peaceful Liberation

    “Without the CCP there is no new China”

    –Chinese Patriotic Song

    They found the Lama Phutsong

    On fire today

    And they beat him

    How dare he be ungrateful

    How dare he challenge harmony

    How dare he think there’s something better

    They beat him, beat him until he cried out

    Until they knew they had freed,

    And reclaimed for the people his very last breath

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  133. Pingback: THERE’S A SAINT FOR THAT « Words We Women Write

  134. iainspapa says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:58 pm

    The Fifth Dentist

    “Eighty percent of success in life is just showing up.” –Woody Allen

    Four out of five dentists once recommended
    That patients who chew gum should purchase [Brand Name].
    I can’t help but wonder if six out of ten did
    The opposite, five ditched, and one took the blame.

  135. Benjamin Thomas says:
    November 2, 2011 at 11:59 pm

    At The Lovely Feast

    Are you havin’ fun yet?
    -Unknown

    Are you having fun yet?
    At this lovely feast?

    Sit back relax, release muse
    Release that lovely beast

    Rampant ramblings of mind, spirit, and heart
    unshackled discharges perfected to an art

    Kick back, relax, enjoy the feast
    Try tasting a dish or two
    But release that beastly beast
    For in twenty eight days were through

  136. Catherine Lee says:
    November 3, 2011 at 12:11 am

    “As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.” –Virginia Woolf

    That you read my flesh all wrong
    Does not make me a body of lies

    You ignore my soft shape where blood and water
    Make paint for rubs of primitive war upon cave walls

    A generation drinks of me from leaves tender torn
    Steeped in visceral heat that clouds what was clear

    I leave a taste upon the tongue

  137. posmic says:
    November 3, 2011 at 12:39 am

    Over Our Heads

    “Three feet above our heads, the air is thick with spirits.”
    —Chinese proverb, cited in a catalog from novelty company Archie McPhee

    I believe this, but my question is,
    do we get to choose which ones?
    If I have your grandpa, say,
    and you have my mom, can we
    (please) arrange a trade, perhaps
    by waving our arms at each other,
    in hopes our swapped spirits
    will grab onto our created breezes
    and catch a ride back home?
    Or maybe home becomes
    the strange person they now
    float above; having done their best
    with us in life, maybe now they
    watch someone else for a change,
    someone who is more apt to listen,
    less apt to resist their guidance
    than we were, that being the way
    of life, to resist guiding forces.
    Whoever is three feet above us,
    if we inhale deeply enough
    will they enter and live within us,
    resting at the base of our spine?
    Maybe another way to call them
    is to raise our arms again
    but hold them still so the spirits
    can cling to us like dye on an egg,
    rainbows in a puddle of oil.

  138. PKP says:
    November 3, 2011 at 12:41 am

    The Four-Year-Old-Face-Of-Kaitlin Jones

    “All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.” – Henry Ellis

    To remember the flush of a cheek
    laughter rippling as chimes
    the air ruffled sundress

    To hold on to mouldered flesh
    the caw of a crow in the bare tree
    cruel air that froze her

    Between joyous sunlit memory
    And heinous chill grief stunned
    Lives life
    Still….

  139. KathyintheWallowas says:
    November 3, 2011 at 2:14 am

    “killing two wolves won’t have an effect on the population as a whole”

    the only thing between us and tyranny is bureaucracy.
    you don’t want those official wheels to grind too fast

    especially on illogical days when furlough cuts
    the state paycheck a bit too tight at holiday time. thus:

    “it’s only two wolves – it won’t affect the population
    as a whole.” but what I want to know is “since when

    is dead not dead?” and if it’s all true, then “why bother
    with killing at all?” make up your mind! or wait, perhaps

    it is. gather your troika and guns, boys, and be sure to
    hang the wolf-loving B&B’s out for breakfast. thus -

    if you have twenty fingers and toes, what happens
    if you cut off two? will that hobbling gait be nothing

    to you? or will you hang around for the lopping
    of another two, another two, till you run out?

  140. Janet Carnahan says:
    November 3, 2011 at 2:40 am

    QUEST

    “To be or not to be that is the question”. William Shakespeare

    When should I ponder?
    Or seek the truth?
    Perhaps I should wander,
    As I did in my youth!
    And who makes this determination?
    When do I answer this call?
    Do I arrive at the station?
    Or do I just stall?
    To be . . . am I bold?
    Or can I be still?
    Will I not be when I’m old?
    Would I cease if I’m ill?
    Does this quest come and go?
    Is it ever just clear?
    Will I ever just know?
    Can I land it right here?
    Did Shakespeare ever question?
    Where he stood on this stage?
    Did his muse make the suggestion?
    At an earlier age!
    Did he know the answer?
    So he wrote it in plays?
    Which, made him a “Sir,”
    Until his final days!
    He seemed to laugh, cry,
    And enjoy having fun!
    A creative uniqueness I can’t deny . . .

    Bard none!!

  141. Pingback: True Worth | Vivinfrance's Blog

  142. Walt Wojtanik says:
    November 3, 2011 at 6:23 am

    PHOENIX: THE FALLEN RESURRECTED

    “Vitality shows not only in the ability to persist, but in the ability to start over”. ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald

    Down seemed so far from up,
    and each disruption was a slippery rock.
    Clocked in weeks of calendar pages
    an outrageous trek for one so feted.

    Hated and vilified, I still tried to rise above it,
    but my mind kept shouting “Shove it!”
    and I fell further into the hole of my own making,
    taking longer than I wanted to extricate and save

    myself from the ash heap of the forgotten.
    A rotten way to spend my days battling reality
    and the maladies of an over-active mind.
    I find that the heart remained willing

    but the mind kept filling pages with discord.
    A poet, bored and disinterested, tried and tested,
    but developmentally arrested and tired.
    Oh so tired, he required more sleep than night could give

    and staying alive to rise above it. A slow climb
    where I’m putting one foot in front at a time,
    continuing the rhyme which is my gift
    and lifting me off the floor of despair.

    It is there that I find direction,
    a detection of what had taken me to the top.
    Now, I feel a non-stop desire with no lapses.
    These fired synapses working overtime

    to right my mind and bring me back
    on track to where I need to be.
    I see that up isn’t a direction, but a feeling.
    And I’m dealing with my beast.

    The least of my worries as I hurry to right
    a once bright and shining future,
    suturing the tears and rising from the rubble.
    Trouble has a way of kick starting your heart.

  143. Erin McKernan says:
    November 3, 2011 at 6:49 am

    “You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings”
    - Elizabeth Gilbert

    Your glass always sits
    Half empty
    And you stare at mine,
    Half full,
    With eyes of contempt
    Your silence breathes the words
    ‘Why you?’
    Why not?
    Attitude sits quietly between us,
    Separating us
    Life is what you make it
    How simple a concept
    You fail to grasp

  144. Erin McKernan says:
    November 3, 2011 at 6:50 am

    Broken

    “Go to him, stay with him if you can, oh but be prepared to bleed” – Joni Mitchell

    fragments of glass
    scattered
    across the floor
    my reflection cast
    a thousand times
    why do we always do this
    to each other?

  145. Bruce Niedt says:
    November 3, 2011 at 7:21 am

    Nine Innings

    Baseball is continuous, like nothing else among American things…
    – Donald Hall

    1.
    I will pick up the gauntlet, Donald,
    and speak in nines, and talk of baseball,
    and a life intertwined with that sport
    so much so that to separate them
    would be like ripping the red stitching
    and letting the cowhide fall off.
    You’d see a tightly wrapped core, a mile
    of string, a cork center. I don’t want
    to be peeled away so nakedly.

    2.
    Like you with your Red Sox, I’ve suffered
    almost fifty years a Phillies fan,
    the losses and the cellar-dwelling,
    the occasional winning season.
    Never a good player, not even
    for Little League, I still loved to watch
    my home team in gorgeous black-and-white,
    as Jim Bunning blew the Mets away,
    perfect game, Father’s Day ’64.

    3.
    But the other side of ‘64
    is the Big Collapse. Six-and-a-half
    games up with a week to play, and they
    lose the pennant to the Cardinals.
    My thirteen-year-old heart breaks, but not
    for the last time. There will be girlfriends,
    high school and college, which I survive
    with some fair success, while my Phillies
    flirt with mediocrity and worse.

    4.
    Seventy-three: at a stopgap job
    in a men’s store, I wait on the Phils’
    third baseman Cesar Tovar, on the
    DL with a sprained thumb. Soon they will
    replace him with some kid named Mike Schmidt.
    The team begins to build itself up
    to a contender, while my life builds
    up with marriage, a child, a career.
    But they lose three times in the playoffs.

    5.
    Vindication in 1980!
    Their first-ever World Series title!
    Schmidty, Lefty, Bull, Charlie Hustle,
    Tug, Bowa, Maddox – all my heroes.
    We celebrate in a bigger home,
    two more boys on the way. I take my
    oldest to his first game, but at five
    the only thing that impresses him is
    the Phillie Phanatic’s zany shtick.

    6.
    Another Series in ’83,
    but this time we lose. Years of doldrums
    follow, when we think that fashion is
    big hair, big glasses, big shoulder pads.
    I struggle to fight midlife crisis,
    easy to catch as a common cold.
    Ninety-three: rough bunch in the Series –
    Schilling and Kruk, Dykstra and Daulton –
    then Joe Carter homers off Williams.

    7.
    Donald, you still mourn your dear wife Jane,
    she who would fall asleep by the fifth.
    When my future wife took me to meet
    my future father-in-law, she said,
    Talk baseball – it will make you fast friends.
    Summer evenings, we’d sit on the screened
    back porch, Rolling Rock bottles in hand,
    swatting intruder mosquitoes, as
    gray TV light danced on our faces.

    8.
    When I was a kid, my grandmother
    took me to Connie Mack Stadium.
    She worked for Campbell Soup, who would have
    company nights at the park. We watched
    from the nosebleed seats – Richie Allen,
    Johnny Callison, Tony Taylor –
    or back at her house, the radio
    issued the mellow voice of By Saam.
    She was a Phillies fan to the end.

    9.
    They both would have loved the ’08 team,
    the second championship. Howard,
    Utley, Rollins , Hamels beat the Rays
    after two days of rain. Donald, now
    it’s the top of your ninth, and it’s my
    seventh-inning stretch – kids grown, good wife
    by my side. And I got to see this:
    the final out, wild celebration,
    Lidge on his knees, bear-hugged by Ruiz.

    [This poem is in the style of a form used by Donald Hall, which I believe he invented: nine stanzas of nine lines each, and each line with nine syllables. I also used some of his conceits that appear in his poetry, like addressing a friend directly, and his frequent references to baseball.]

  146. JMireilleM says:
    November 3, 2011 at 7:46 am

    Inspirare

    “Dum Spiro Spero” – Cicero

    While I breathe, I hope.
    And when in hoping, breathing
    An inspiration.

  147. Walt Wojtanik says:
    November 3, 2011 at 7:55 am

    THE JOKE’S ON YOU

    “You want to make God laugh? Tell him your future plans.” ~ Woody Allen

    God’s sense of humor?
    If you doubt that He has one,
    look in the mirror.

  148. Slusher Brian says:
    November 3, 2011 at 8:09 am

    HUSH

    “With infinite Affection — / And infiniter Care — / Her Golden finger on Her lip — / Wills Silence — Everywhere”—from “Nature — the Gentlest Mother is” by Emily Dickinson

    Just before six, slip out of bed, dress
    in the dark, and feel your way out the
    front door. This is peace, cool air and
    and the pinhole panorama of glittering
    stars, the universe just a mass of
    waiting clay in the quiet, whispering
    like your mother did on those crisp
    mornings “Rise and shine, my love,
    it’s time to make the world again.”
    And later, when the deadline screams
    its soulless demand, you’ll have this
    moment in your pocket, this perfect
    hush to kiss away the ache and get
    you through, or better, shape your
    lips into a silent smile that baffles
    every late-sleeper who rushes past
    your desk.

  149. Pingback: My Garden - Uma Gowrishankar :: Story Of Rivers :: November :: 2011

  150. Uma says:
    November 3, 2011 at 9:41 am

    STORY OF RIVERS

    When they set in motion the first beginning of speech, giving names,
    their most pure and perfectly guarded secret was revealed through love
    The Rig Veda , 10.71
    (translated by Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty)
    Vastness of the sky
    expands his heart and

    clears the fear
    pooled in silence there;

    cradled alongside
    are doubts,

    hundred muted questions -

    is fire born in water
    as lightning in a cloud ?

    is earth born in water
    as a golden embryo in deep ocean?

    is speech born out of thought
    as an action out of desire?

    between fire and water,
    between earth and ocean

    flows a river of stories,
    like love that marries word to thought.

  151. Tracy Davidson says:
    November 3, 2011 at 10:09 am

    The Terminator (a haiku)

    “Come with me if you want to live.” – Kyle Reese

    machines take over
    Arnie is unstoppable –
    the waitress stops him

  152. Tracy Davidson says:
    November 3, 2011 at 10:12 am

    The Magic Has Gone

    “Put the bunny back in the box.” – Cameron Poe (Nicolas Cage in ‘Con Air’)

    The illusion is over.
    You fooled me
    time and time again
    with your clever tricks,
    your sleight of hand,
    your disappearing acts.

    But now I’ve discovered
    the secrets you held
    close to your chest.

    I’ve marked your cards,
    broken free from your spell.

    Never again
    will you cut me in half.

  153. sueatkins says:
    November 3, 2011 at 11:21 am

    And for What?

    by Sue Atkins

    “It is like paying out your whole fortune for a cow that has gone dry.” Mark Twain

    Take advantage of every opportunity
    Gather the tools, build a future
    Night school, correspondence school,
    Milkman, steel man, designer, chief
    Provide for family
    Insure, save, invest in life
    Mortgage, piano and lessons,
    Tuitions, cars, then grief as
    Ruptured appendix screams tumors to a world
    Waiting to take all
    The time, the savings, the healthy
    Life whose legacy of building
    Lives in cold steel and warm loving hearts.

  154. alana sherman says:
    November 3, 2011 at 12:39 pm

    Pancakes

    The smell of a pancake is a more powerful reason
    for staying in this world than all the…supposedly lofty
    conclusions for quitting it.
    Lichtenberg (with my apologies)

    There are days when
    I’m so depressed and angry
    that I want to drink
    and smoke and take enough pills
    to just get out of here.
    My husband—
    called Mr. Nego by his friends—
    is snarky, prefacing everything I try with,
    “You can’t do that.” I don’t
    bring the keys fast enough,
    he re-does all the knots I tie.
    Yesterday I heard him mutter,
    “I don’t need you.”
    And, I hate this sad, edgy feeling
    I have all the time, a sense
    of uselessness and of always
    being in the wrong place, that somehow
    what I want—a private spot
    to write or to have
    a dog— is selfish.
    But then on Sundays I wake up
    to the smell of pancakes, coffee and
    “I love to make you breakfast.”

  155. Kimiko Martinez says:
    November 3, 2011 at 1:50 pm

    GUTS

    “Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.” – Rumi

    It’s not as if there was some gaping hole,
    like an intestine spilling through a flesh wound,
    before you walked into my life.

    But when you appeared

    it’s as if you’d always been in my innards,
    the guts stuffed inside me that I never thought twice about,
    without me knowing it.

  156. pami says:
    November 3, 2011 at 7:09 pm

    I saw Viv use this form yesterday. I love the shadorma.

    Pamela

    The Old Lady on the Corner

  157. vsbryant1 says:
    November 3, 2011 at 10:34 pm

    I am What I am
    “This is only the beginning!”-V.S. Bryant
    I am what I am
    I am Virginia, I am Jenny, I am something, sometimes nothing
    I am what many want to be
    I am what everyone wants to hate
    I am a force, I am a coward
    I am a mother and sometimes a lover
    I am dreamer, I am a conquers
    I am a student, I am a struggler
    I am envy, love, hate, passion, devotion, and pain
    I am an icon and not a single person knows my name
    I am muse and lately a writer that couldn’t write
    I am greatful and selfish
    I am blessed and lately a big mess
    I am what I am
    Virginia, Jenny, V.S. Bryant; these are my names
    A mother, a daughter, a writer; some of my titles
    The things that keeps my sane, on this crazy writers lane.

  158. Mike says:
    November 4, 2011 at 5:00 am

    “If you don’t know where you are going, any road will get you there.” — Lewis Carroll

    SIDE ROADS

    Diners I’d never find
    on the beaten path

    Lost cities
    of sausage gravy

    Stopping by a farm
    to ask directions

    Discovering a colony
    of six-toed cats

    Cornfield dead end
    that forces me out of the car

    In time to be swallowed
    by the August sunset

  159. foodpoet says:
    November 4, 2011 at 12:32 pm

    Sunset Escape

    “I don’t know what you could say about a day in which you have seen four beautiful sunsets”

    John Glen

    Sun
    settles
    Sinks into another average night of not
    Seeing the
    Simple beauty of a
    Sunset and you
    Saw the earth rotate and savored the ride

  160. Pingback: Cold Night (NovPAD #2) | Never Say Never to Your Traveling Self

  161. Patricia Anne McGoldrick says:
    November 4, 2011 at 1:01 pm

    AMBITION

    “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow….” SHAKESPEARE

    I will write that yesterday poem

    I will and I will and I will.

  162. Marian O'Brien Paul says:
    November 4, 2011 at 5:51 pm

    Occupy Wall Street

    “A Banker is a fellow who lends you his umbrella when the sun is shining,
    but wants it back the minute it begins to rain.” Mark Twain

    It began with mutterings, discontents,
    voices inspired by Arab Spring, calls
    heard round the world thanks to the press:
    Tunisia, Egypt, Algeria, Yemen, Syria,
    Jordan, Kuwait, Bahrain, Morocco, Libya.
    As if it were de rigueur that we also rise –
    we who pioneered successful uprising.

    Wall Street. What better focus for dissents?
    Recall the clichéd gist of “the bigger one falls
    harder.” Thus was Wall Street chosen, I guess,
    and as in the Middle East and in North Africa
    the protests spread to cities across America –
    Chicago, Omaha, San Francisco and, no surprise,
    little ones like Ashland, Oregon or McAllen, Texas.

    The diving line on graphs turned dollars to cents.
    Savings, homes, middle class dissolved. It galls
    me to think how fast most of us were in distress.
    Banks called in loans, foreclosed. Bank of America,
    Citibank, the other megabanks – each a gorilla,
    fled via private plane to the White House. Cries
    for money heard, they turned a profit. Not us.

    Once those banks competed for us, spread tents,
    big tops to tempt us with interest rates. Their halls
    offered prizes to snag us. Current monetary mess –
    means low interest, raised fees for us – a flotilla
    of excuses gutting us, stuffing money in manila
    folders for them. It seems Mark Twain was wise:
    bankers take back their umbrellas when it rains.

    Marian O’Brien Paul

  163. cstewart says:
    November 4, 2011 at 6:49 pm

    Social Contract

    “All Art Comes From a Sense of Outrage”

    A thief has abducted America
    And she has been taken apart and is locked
    In the now – abandoned houses of Main Street.
    Like on CSI, or America’s Most Wanted.
    She is bruised and battered, close to death.
    Some suspects are viciously obvious,
    Others more hidden and even more innocuous.

    The Bill of Rights has been reversed,
    So the corporation has become the public,
    And the public of America has been disappeared,
    In basic rights, benefits, and in humane affairs,
    While representatives stand with hands in pockets,
    And I-phones to their ears to hear the latest instructions,
    From the lobbyists, and the new Rockefellers and Vanderbilt’s.

    Liberty’s true representation stands in the harbor,
    Arm held high to welcome the broken nations,
    Her arms now held high in a hold up -
    In the senate, by pharmaceuticals, by the greed
    Of those who can’t get enough at others expense,
    While time is running out on America.

    Glenn Close, actress

  164. Dyson McIllwain says:
    November 4, 2011 at 10:55 pm

    From Here to There

    “I learn by going where I have to go.” ~ Theodore Roethke

    Life is an adventure
    and our travails are our tales to tell.
    Places and faces we see become
    a part of the story, and all the works
    we do for the Greater Glory, shows
    predominantly in what we take away
    from our lives well lived. Each day away
    is a lesson placed upon our plates.
    It sates and elates us as we grow
    in intellect and experience.
    Getting there is only half the fun!

  165. Juanita Lewison-Snyder says:
    November 5, 2011 at 5:36 am

    Turnin’ Loose All These Horses
    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    (“Some of us think it’s the holding on that makes us strong, but sometimes it’s the letting go that does.” — Herman Hesse)

    I’m turnin’ loose all these horses
    let ‘em drag away these prison blues
    ‘cuz I’m tired of holding onto sorrow
    and I’m tired of holding onto you.

    There are battles not worth the paper
    that it takes to sign the pain away
    what was once love pure and simple
    are now salt blocks of regret we lick all day.

    There was once a time when we’d have
    lain down our lives for one another
    but now all these ponies know how to do
    is crush and push and shove and smother.

    I’m finally clear on all these feelings
    we were never really meant to be
    so I’m turnin’ loose all these horses
    cuz I’m finally ready to set us free.

    So now I’m turnin’ loose all these horses
    let ‘em drag away these prison blues
    cuz I’m tired of holding onto sorrow
    and I’m tired of holding onto you.

    © 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  166. Pags says:
    November 5, 2011 at 6:20 pm

    “We do not remember days, we remember moments.
    The richness of life lies in memories we have forgotten.”
    Cesare Pavese The Burning Brand 1952

    fifty eight years back
    there was

    a particular flower
    of a particular blue
    pinned to a particular jacket
    on a particular day

    joys all forgotten
    and yet

    when his forgotten she
    calls with delphiniums and lupins
    on this particular day
    he sees echoes of blueness

    he welcomes her gladly
    and laughs

    (Paganini Jones)

  167. mondaymornings says:
    November 5, 2011 at 6:29 pm

    Plagues and Platitudes…
    by JPS

    “Money Isn’t Everything” -Unknown

    We are always told, so young and bold
    What we can imagine we can be
    And are given a million platitudes
    Like “the best things are for free”

    But I must confess, I do contest
    This so cruel a lie
    Please ask Sophal of Siem Reap
    How it feels to slowly die.

    He believes in love, and what’s up above
    All the things money cannot buy
    He has a steady faith of where
    We will end up when we die

    The bottom line, not yet defined
    Is his fiscal situation
    Truth is, money is always the catch
    In our living limitation

    A bowl of rice, and never twice
    Is all his “daily bread”
    If only a child’s dreams and ambitions
    Could keep more than our souls so fed

    But we give instead of “green” and bread
    A “wealth” of lengthy words
    In our take-for-granted fashion
    “Oh, money’s for the birds…”

    We most insist on saying this:
    “Everything I have I’ve earned,
    I’m sorry for their troubles,
    Its just lessons hard but learned”

    The ignorance from your high horse comes
    As little consolation
    To a small, but world worn child
    In need of such salvation

    How can you decline to lend that dime
    To one in need of so much more
    I hope your naïve, pompous words and notions
    Will feed you when YOU’RE poor

  168. Kim King says:
    November 5, 2011 at 9:38 pm

    “Help me. Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.” Princess Leia in Star Wars

    The time change didn’t help the depression that crushed
    her skull. It became light at 6:15 AM, but darkness choked
    her on the commute home at 5:15 PM. The headlights
    blinded when she was most tired, the accounts from the day
    still reeling in her head. When she left in the morning
    the deer had not even stirred to cross her path. Such a pity
    she spent decades crossing a sea of dawns that never woke
    her before arriving at work. If only he had stayed to fuel her lust
    with hard beacons of light. That would warm her, plus gloves.

  169. Slusher Brian says:
    November 6, 2011 at 12:40 am

    URBAN COYOTES

    “We couldn’t find an area in Chicago where there weren’t coyotes. They’ve learned to exploit all parts of their landscape.”—Ohio State University study, 2006.

    Forty feet ahead, four low shadows slip
    across the street in spaced intervals, proving
    the mown lawns and the flickering screens
    are permanent as jet contrails to these
    quiet wild ones, who know the holes in
    the fences, the thickets sprung among the
    foreclosures and abandoned homes of the
    warehoused elderly, who feed on the
    excess piled at the curbs and endure without
    monuments, mate without vows, sing
    without words. I aim my $40 flashlight
    into their wake but manage to catch
    only pure darkness peering back, and I’m
    too late to be sure or to follow.

  170. hohlwein2 says:
    November 6, 2011 at 12:57 pm

    Wedded

    My reality needs imagination like a bulb needs a socket. My imagination needs reality like a blind man needs a cane. ― Tom Waits

    My reality needs imagination like a bulb needs a socket
    like lips need other lips like
    the creek needs its burbling and how that sound has nothing
    and everything to do with the moon and the cold, first cold

    My reality needs imagination
    like a pan needs hunger
    a lookout, heartache
    a table, the soft rain of convesation
    a wall, its own impermanence
    demolition or slow folding, impending

    My reality needs imagination
    like a body needs a context to float in
    - sweet, clear –
    suspended between what worlds
    in whatever time is

    My imagination needs reality like a blind man needs a cane
    like the ranting desperate needs the morning songbird
    and the sound of cars going by
    and how that sound has nothing to do with liquored insight (connections and symbols too big yet wound too tight – constricting as the thought of a black hole, hungering) but exists because under it is a road that joins
    another, always.
    There are stop signs and that is good.

    The sun shines on these roads, not as a simile, but as a golden ribbon
    of how we get from here to there.

    There is a here.
    And a there.
    My imagination needs that.

    Without it it is a blotch and a smear
    a frantic or quiet shimmering that needs
    the crystal corner of a cup to land on and shine out
    in a diamond shaped thrill of light so I can say,

    “I see,” and know that I mean much more
    by that

    than that.

  171. Linda Neas says:
    November 6, 2011 at 9:04 pm

    Unconditional

    “I wish they would only take me as I am.” Van Gogh

    The photo sits,
    testament to something.

    Her smile belies the pain -
    The eyes show it, though.

    Look!
    Behind the deep green hue -

    A sadness, a call to be seen
    How could it be missed?

  172. Iain Douglas Kemp says:
    November 7, 2011 at 8:32 am

    Fulfilment

    “May you live all the days of your life” Jonathan Swift

    Living life one day at a time is not enough
    never give in to being neither a realist nor a fatalist
    make your plans big
    make your dreams bigger
    live like you want a million tomorrows
    strive to do everything you want to do
    live to love yourself and your life
    deny the moment and enjoy each second
    while you spread your mind, heart and soul’s wings
    far into the future

    Iain

  173. Jay Sizemore says:
    November 7, 2011 at 9:02 pm

    Precursors

    “Behind every beautiful thing, there’s been some kind of pain.”
    from “Not Dark Yet,” by Bob Dylan

    Before there was love, there was guilt,
    there was alcoholism littered about
    an empty house in the form of beer cans
    left like breadcrumbs to find his way
    back to the futon. There was the frustration
    only known by those who speak
    the magic words stolen from sunset clouds,
    having their chests cleaved open
    with the unrequited silence.
    There was the betrayal of a bottle of wine
    smothered into the kisses of broken fists,
    pounding against something immovable,
    a freight train stopped by a butterfly.
    Before there was love, there was anger,
    there was rage, there was desperation,
    a man clinging to the anchor
    dropped from the Titanic, waiting
    for either his breath to run out
    or the sea to turn to vapor
    if she would reveal the star inside her.
    The next thing he knew,
    it was raining, and he was weightless,
    putting a ring on her finger.

  174. tlums112 says:
    November 8, 2011 at 12:10 am

    Persevere!

    “Just keep swimming”
    ~Dori, Finding Nemo

    BEEP, BEEP, BEEP
    Six thirty in the morning
    Another day at school
    Rushing to prepare for the day
    Advanced Placement…

    Bringggggg…
    First bell starts
    Students open books
    Scratching furiously on their pads
    Homework

    Bang, shuffle, shuffle
    Class is over
    We scuffle through the halls
    Drowning in the sea of immaturity
    Sports

    “Goaalllllllll!”
    Game tied, crowds scream
    My unsuccessful dive pains
    Leaving bruised hip and twisted ankle
    Perseverance

    Thumpp
    Two a.m.
    I’m finally home
    Bags drop at the door, waiting to begin again
    Must we persevere?

    Why do we keep on swimming?

  175. JujYFru1T says:
    November 8, 2011 at 3:46 pm

    Quiet Mouth, Loud Mind

    “My mind to me a kingdom is,
    Such present joys therein I find,
    That it excels all other bliss.”
    —Sir Edward Dyer

    Shut-in
    Antisocial
    Doormat
    No
    You couldn’t be more wrong
    Though I’ll admit myself makes good company
    I’m just stuck with an excess
    of imagination
    When did introvert become a dirty word?
    I wear my badge with pride
    but go ahead
    Take it away
    Make me half of what I am
    and see if you like me better

  176. PSC in CT says:
    November 8, 2011 at 7:55 pm

    All That Matters

    “Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted.”
    – Albert Einstein

    I count the stars in the early evening
    (as they appear, one at a time, in the night sky)
    or early in the morning, (as they surrender
    one by one to the rising sun),
    never attempting to tabulate the billions –
    galaxies and nebula beyond my reckoning

    I tally my years by the highs
    and the lows: smiles, laughter and tears –
    (everyone knows there’s no keeping score
    of the millions – or more – of minutes between)

    I number you among my boons;
    of all of my blessings — you matter most

  177. Debra Elliott says:
    November 11, 2011 at 9:50 am

    Playing Catchup with my postings.

    My Mind Has a Mind of Its Own

    “Don’t believe everything you think.” Maxine

    My thoughts are jumbled
    in a vat of confusion

    I think therefore, I am…

    My thoughts are misquoted
    in a world of delusion

    I think therefore, I am…

    My thoughts are imaginary
    in a world of illusion

    I think therefore, I am…

    A writer.

  178. JoBella says:
    November 13, 2011 at 11:43 am

    No Denying

    “You are born into your family and your family is born into you. No returns, no exchanges” – Hannah from The Art of Mending by Elizabeth Berg

    You can’t deny the physical
    Dad’s nose, my big head
    the freckles, large feet, that look

    You can’t deny your childhood
    the good, the bad, the ugly
    The love that covered it all

    You can’t deny the present
    We are always here
    Praying and waiting

  179. Pingback: Her name means ‘light’ « Upward Facing Frog

  180. sidewalkdiva says:
    November 28, 2011 at 3:39 pm

    Look Away from the Light

    “We are always getting ready to live but never living.” –Ralph Waldo Emerson
    “Why wait even one more minute?” — Julie Greene

    Dips flutters and twists
    Attention! Don’t look at her!
    Practice distraction

    I’ll wait til she’s gone
    Then i’ll find ‘right here, right now’
    Irony twisting

  181. Pingback: Sort of Watery « Upward Facing Frog

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