2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 28

Whew! I can’t believe we’re only three days (well, two after today) from finishing another poem-a-day challenge. I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving week (who celebrates Thanksgiving anyway). Click here to see how unaccording to plan mine went.

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “(blank) Story,” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new word or phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. Example titles include: “West Side Story,” “Toy Story,” “Neverending Story”–oh wait! Those are all already taken. However, you could go with “East Side Story,” “Toy Store Story,” and “Eventually Has an End Story.” Or something else. Have fun poeming your story.

Here’s my attempt:

“Back Story”

They’re in love now, but he used to attend
college in Michigan, and she stumbled
through dancing school. His band, Tripping Penguins,
won the citywide Battle of the Bands
competition. She used to consume meat.
They both had other lovers who told them
secrets. They both fell for other people.
But then, a quick word and unexpected
clasping of hands pushed the past all away,
making them books to reveal whenever
there’s a quiet lull in their own story.


Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer

And check out my other blog: My Name Is Not Bob


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231 thoughts on “2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 28

  1. Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    by juanita lewison-snyder

    100 years ago today
    an uncle three generations back
    helped perpetuate a revolution
    on the back of pancho villa’s horse.
    times were hard, injustices many
    but a man’s only as good as
    the challenge before him.
    ride, zapanista, ride!

    fast forward a couple generations
    later to a sister, dark-complected
    and just as onery, hardly a friend
    to social injustice, she likes
    her horses small and fast
    with lots of free rein and
    powerful friends.
    ride, adelita, ride!

    © 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  2. vsbryant1

    Our Story

    Our story started so long ago
    I never imaged you would ultimately end up right back at my door
    If fate was kinder, these years could have been epic
    The lost days, the lonely night, forbidden dreams, and lonely cries

    Now here you are again at a time when all is lost
    The fairytale has been shattered to me and here you are faithfully trying to heal my heart
    I have always loved you and yet now I question how
    How can I love you when I forgot that love was every around
    I have already given myself to you completely, yet haven’t given you me at all

    I remember days lost and smile for times had
    I see days to have a future that was in the making from so many years pass
    Happily ever after, that’s what you promised me
    You once said I would be yours
    A thought slowly becoming reality

    Our story is a forbidden, passionate love affair

    A fairytale for all ages, one I fear reality will never tell

  3. Marian O'Brien Paul

    The Christmas Story

    So begins the ancient story
    once again re-told
    link divinely made between
    God and humankind

    Not infatuated Zeus forcing
    self on lovely maiden
    neither Mars, who ravished
    Vestal Virgin Ilia

    Pantheon of gods designed by man
    prey to human weakness
    self-indulgent, power hungry
    not beneficial

    Triune God, remaining One,
    sent his Holy Spirit
    Spirit of Love to Virgin Mary
    who bore God’s Son

    Jesus Son of God accepting
    human debt of sin
    gave his life doing good
    gave his death to save us.

    Not a version of pagan stories
    ending in half divinity
    but synchronization: God and man
    sacrificial story

  4. Michelle Hed

    The End of My Story

    I didn’t win.
    Those mutant cells, aka cancer cells,
    scored another victory.

    I died.
    I’m hurting from the knowledge
    of the pain and suffering
    of those I left behind.

    I’m okay.
    If I could only tell them –
    I’m now cancer free,
    I have no pain.

    I’m watching.
    They need to go on living,
    because I have a front row seat
    and I’m just another voice
    in the angelic cheerleading squad
    that has always been here for them.

  5. Judy Roney

    Ghost Story

    She feels a being, stealthy and languid.
    Someone in the room, but not, someone watched her.
    She slid the safire sweater over her head. Her eyes
    were drawn to the blood red splatters across the cowl.
    She needs a bath, the laundry can wait. She turned
    the hot water on and let it run over her, clear her head.
    She couldn’t loose her nerve now. She was home free.
    Her body felt like fire but she scrubbed the blood
    from her hair, let it run down the drain. She was cleansed.
    She steps into the bedroom wrapped in a towel.
    There on the bed lie her clothes and across the sheet,
    written in scarlet letters was the epitaph,
    Bloodshed in red,
    you’ll wish you were dead.

  6. Sally Jadlow

    Old Story

    There is an old story,
    ever new,
    that sets people free
    from punishment due.

    It’s about God
    who came to earth,
    to give people
    a new birth.

    To those who receive Him
    He throws in a new heart.
    Forgives their sin,
    gives them a fresh start.

    He’s coming again,
    don’t let Him pass you by.
    Say, “Jesus, make Your death be for me,
    to save one such as I.

    You’ll not be sorry,
    my friend.
    For you’ll live forever with Him,
    without end.

  7. KathyintheWallowas

    lost-and-found story

    finding the story in the ordinary –
    that’s called history, or could be
    finding the story that could be
    true, that’s called poetry, or
    could be. finding the story in the
    clerestory, that’s called going
    to church, and meaning it. finding
    the story between the lines you
    do and do not say, that’s called
    fine translations. what do you say?

  8. MiskMask

    Windy Story

    There’s a heady wind blowing
    through the garden, leaves
    stripped to bare branches on trees,
    and whistling chirps as another gust finds
    its way through loose windowpanes.
    It howls in from the southwest,
    chilled and strident and smelling
    just slightly of fish and chips with vinegar.

  9. Shannon Lockard

    House Story

    A two story house
    with too few rooms
    squeezing us in
    bursting at the seams.
    It seems
    at times we can’t escape
    the noise
    the clamor
    the commotion.
    And at other times
    it’s lonely.
    A three bedroom,
    two bath,
    family room,
    living room,
    dining room,
    yard galore.
    space than necessary.
    You might be just
    a yell
    a holler
    a door away
    but that’s sometimes
    too far
    for me to say
    I love you.

  10. iainspapa

    True Hollywound Story

    The holly bush, that festive shrub,
    Has leaves on which you shouldn’t rub–
    Or even graze–your leg or arm:
    This plant exists to do you harm.
    The male has berries, small and red;
    The female’s green unless you’ve bled
    In great wet splotches on the leaves
    That slash your calves and rip your sleeves…
    Or have I got that wrong way round?
    Are berries on the females found,
    In which case it’s on males they ain’t?
    I can’t recall. I’m feeling faint,
    Lightheaded ’cause I’m bloosing glud
    And tripping driply in the mud
    Beneath the bush of laceration.
    Grass looks soft. I’ll push my face in.
    Siren sounds are bright and jolly,
    Heard from underneath the holly.
    Decking halls with holly boughs? You’re
    Best off wearing leather trousers
    Lest you end up next to me,
    Exsanguinating ‘neath the tree.


  11. Benjamin Thomas

    Story of the Ages

    Twas the story of the ages
    of the ages untold
    of ancient times, present seasons
    from the scrolls unrolled
    of many names, persons, places
    of many kingdoms, peoples, faces
    of many jots, scribbles and tittles
    of many parables, rhymes and riddles
    from those ancient scrolls
    a story to be told
    to the faint and to the bold
    to the young and to the old
    of archaic words sealed
    of certain mysteries concealed
    the truth that is to be unfolded
    and the secret
    to be revealed

  12. Brian Slusher


    As a child he chatted with
    dead relatives, claimed angels
    hung from the boughs as
    common as fruit in an orchard,
    and they punished William
    for it, tried to whip him into
    recanting God had stuck His
    head through the boy’s window,
    but good as his name
    Will never relented, went on
    to tell of his heart-to-heart with
    Archangel Gabriel, wherein
    the Messenger confided
    Michelangelo painted better
    portraits of the Host than
    Raphael. So we can laugh
    at such hubris, at tales
    told by hallucinating fools,
    though Blake himself
    proclaimed “That which can
    be made Explicit to the idiot
    is not worth my care” and
    there’s the real story, my
    blind brothers, how we
    miss the seraphim
    ripening within our reach

  13. Dan Collins

    Greed Story (On this day in history Nov. 28th)

    Yes, he wanted to go,
    circumnavigate the globe,
    but he did it for the money,
    and someone else’s islands.
    And when Magellan slipped
    his parade of ships
    into the “peaceful sea”.
    He named it that because still
    water was a welcome relief
    from the williwaw winds
    that tormented the cape. Ironic,
    that it took guns, knives
    and an angry Christ
    to pacify some natives.
    But around there, everyone
    had an angle. Everyone
    had a point. One of them
    caught him in the neck
    and he bled from every hole
    old and new. Ironic
    that the sole surviving crew
    had eaten their own boots
    by the time they hit Spain;
    everything had fallen
    flat as a penny.

  14. Karen H. Phillips

    Day 28 11-28-2011

    Write a poem entitled “Blank Story.”

    Unlife Story

    He never wrote his symphonies.

    She didn’t live to speak for women’s suffrage.

    He wasn’t allowed to wake from the womb
    to walk miles to borrow books to study law
    and then run for office, losing multiple times,
    and finally becoming the president who led
    a broken country through a civil war
    and who emancipated slaves.

    She couldn’t become a First Lady who would care
    about children’s nutrition and military families, the first black
    woman to reside in presidential quarters–because she was never born.

    He would never come into the world to speak eloquence
    and be arrested, so that after his assassination, equality
    would come to be taken for granted, the circumstances
    of “The Help” simply astounding to this generation,
    and his unforgotten words would ring like the freedom he sought
    for all people.

    History changed, because someone decided it was inconvenient,
    painful, costly, sacrificial,
    to bring a child, already conceived, into the world.

    The End.

  15. Bruce Niedt

    That’s My Story (and I’m Sticking to It)

    I never took any steroids,
    and I am not a crook.
    I never had sex with that woman;
    I didn’t plagiarize that book.

    I was abducted by aliens;
    the world will end in three days.
    I am the new Messiah,
    and God hates you and the gays.

    I don’t mess around with children;
    that tabloid’s a piece of shit.
    I proved that I didn’t kill her,
    because the glove doesn’t fit.

    I’ll never raise your taxes;
    this used car is really a deal.
    I never stole from my company;
    the Easter Bunny and Santa are real.

  16. zwrite1

    Bedtime Story

    Once upon a yesterday
    Only loving words were said
    In a land not far away

    All the children laughed and played
    Everyone was warm and fed
    Once upon a yesterday

    The Age of Aquarius dawned that day
    Princess dreamers and prince poets wed
    In a land not too far away

    The doubters had nothing left to say
    Uncertainty expected fear but greeted joy instead
    Once upon a yesterday

    The dragon was slain by a single ray
    As we snuggled safely in our bed
    Once upon a yesterday
    In a land not far away

  17. seingraham

    That’s My Story (and I’m Sticking to It)

    No matter the occasion, nor the situation
    Most things that happen to me, or that I’m
    Privy to in life, loom large
    Larger than life, I guess you could say
    And while I gave up lying as the bad business
    It is, a long time ago—
    Except for when I’m writing fiction and that
    Doesn’t count exactly, does it?
    No, I thought not …
    I haven’t given up embellishing—
    A fine distinction
    I think of as the art of embroidering
    When giving explanations, or telling the facts of experiences
    Just to keep things interesting – creative non-fiction
    They call it these days; it’s enhancing the truth
    Without deliberately misleading the listener
    At least to my way of thinking – merely elaborating
    It’s a way to keep your audience interested
    Not bored and yawning – and I usually do end by
    Saying, “well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

  18. mikeMaher

    Sidecar Story

    Was that you who cartwheeled by
    yelling at the ground and then the sky and then the ground
    about the difference between uh-uh and uh huh?
    We picked up a secondhand Fitzgerald at the Italian Market
    but it was just forty pages before the night mist fell
    and you could only hear Amory
    and he sometimes sounded like Gatsby.
    Buy two bobbleheads and get half off a bottle of Grey Goose.
    Three blackberries for a dollar but none get reception.
    I have finally found the blank from the other day
    but lost the spot I was keeping for it.
    Remember when planes were convertibles?
    Remember when they’re going to be again?
    Gregg calls again
    and we talk about how much we both hate the Jets,
    his new house in or near Atlanta,
    the ones he won’t invite to his wedding.
    Keep looking.
    The internet has turned some of my mistakes into permanence
    and so I should have been clearer about what I asked for.
    You never answered. Was that you?

  19. RASlater

    No story

    I sit with the paper
    Snow white on the tqable before me
    The pen I hold in my hand
    Poised and ready
    But nothing comes
    There is only silence
    Where words once flowed
    Like water from the sky
    But now there is not even a mist
    The characters that once crowded my head
    Are now frozen mid frame
    Awaiting their next action, next sentence, next heartbeat
    And I cannot give it to them
    Their stories halted until a time I cannot see
    How I long to tell stories again

  20. Mark Windham

    A WallyWorld Story

    Demolition derby disguised as a parking lot,
    Handicapped spaces full of those that are
    Decidedly not – looking to be door rushing fine.
    Holiday cheer begins and ends with the 
    Salvation army bell ringer.
    The counting game of the day is 
    Piercings and butt cracks.
    Obese children abound, along with an
    Overabundance of camouflage on
    Hats, pants, coats and boots.
    Skin tight clothes covering well rounded
    Bellies and over-inflated butts,
    Pajama bottoms and hoodies also prevalent – 
    Oh! Butt crack number four, on a roll!
    And …. THAT is just beyond description.
    Babies with babies, parents loaded with piercings,
    Hair of all colors and skin loaded with ink.
    Checking out a communications adventure
    With cashiers of questionable language skills.
    Characters worthy of Carroll or Seuss,
    An adventure in fantasy, horror and reality.

  21. Jane Shlensky

    Russian Stories

    Every language has its own flavor, my husband says,
    And I believe him, speaker of fourteen tongues,
    But still he tries to translate spices and scents
    To approximations I might have tasted in my life:

    Paranoia, the dark shadow on the wall; fear, the clutch
    Of breath held in my lungs; joy, an exhalation and a song;
    Endings never happy, a concept I cannot appreciate, being
    American. I remember when we preached darkly of what

    The Russians might do, should they take over the world,
    KGBs growing like mushrooms in every town, tanks rolling
    In the streets of our imaginations, carving out equal squares
    for us to stand in, dissatisfied, longing for the more we well

    Deserved in our American dreams—more opportunity, more
    Money, more land and water and food, more of the world to see,
    More freedom than we could squander in a year, more books
    And films with happy endings, up to and including resurrection

    From any death our heroes might be likely to die. I did not
    Understand the blood iron taste of story until I met my husband
    And heard the tortured poetry of his forefathers, stories in which
    Everyone suffers life-long, everyone dies in regret—Russian stories.

  22. Michael Grove

    Read Me A Story

    Sometimes I will drift back in time
    to far off distant places.
    With fond memories of kids growing up.
    I still see their childhood faces.

    They would go and search the shelf together
    and come back with a giant picture book.
    They’d climb up on my lap and snuggle in,
    and give me that sweet puppy dog eye look.

    Read me a story, will you daddy?
    Read me a story, pretty please.
    I can still here them asking
    while I kicked back relaxing.
    This would always set my mind at ease.

    We would always love to sit and cuddle.
    There’s something that we never did miss,
    some time together each and every evening,
    and end it with a tender goodnight kiss.

    Read me a story, will you daddy?
    Read me a story, pretty please.
    I can still here them asking
    while I kicked back relaxing.
    This would always set my mind at ease.

    By Michael Grove

  23. posmic

    Hat Story

    This is the story of an animal hat,
    or rather, many of them, knit,
    arrayed in such great number that
    they couldn’t help but draw attention.

    In San Francisco in August,
    you almost need such a hat
    to steel you against the fog,
    as present as you were led
    to believe, but less pretty,
    more pervasive. And so
    you begin to imagine

    whether the owl is for you
    or the frog or the pig or the
    (how many others?
    too numerous to count).

    Then you see that this lady,
    in what you imagine is
    Sherpa dress, is not the only
    apparently Nepalese person
    selling animal hats from
    a kiosk at Fisherman’s Wharf.
    You feel like a rube,
    a tourist (which you are,
    and yet are not—having broken
    away from a business trip
    long enough to write
    your mother’s name in the sand).

    So much has been shorn from you—
    your mother, your husband’s job—
    that it seems foolish to want a hat,
    to think it will solve everything,
    the way a surprise gift to yourself
    sometimes can. You should not
    spend money on something like this.

    Two years later, those hats
    have become fashionable,
    are, in fact, everywhere,
    the cheerful faces cutting
    through another city’s gloom.
    Your husband is still jobless.
    Your mother is still gone.
    Online, you order a hat—
    a bunny, made in Nepal.

    1. Jane Shlensky

      There is nothing strange about buying a hat as a gift for yourself. And they do solve some problems. In my comic strip life, I am Blondie. A wonderful poem. (ps. I just bought myself a moose hat in Chicago. Hello, sister)

  24. Peggy

    The Moral of the Story

    There was a man, a peddler of wood,
    who daily sought the finest trees to cut
    and sell within the town. A kindly man,
    an honest one, but poor, and often made
    the fool by laughing brutes who thought it sport
    to ridicule and bring another down.
    One day the man, while in the forest, found
    a tree like none he’d seen before. So straight
    and tall and twenty feet around, it’s
    golden fruit lay thick and sweet upon the floor.
    The man pulled out his ax and quickly
    sharpened it upon a stone, then took his
    aim and laid a whack that shook him to his core.
    The grand old tree just shuddered once, and rained
    upon his head some leaves and twigs and bits
    of fruit long shriveled up and barren, dead.
    And then he heard a little voice, up way
    above the leaves. “Please sir have pity on
    this home, and spare this ancient tree. I beg
    you, all my little ones are in this nest
    with me.” The woodman searched the aging limbs
    for pranksters on a lark, but only saw
    a little squirrel clinging to the bark.
    “Oh please kind sir,” the squirrel said, “there’s other
    trees as tall. Pick one of them but spare this
    oak, If cut my home and children fall.”
    What magic is this? thought the man, what blessings
    come to me! To be the one to hear this
    tale, to hear this poor and wretched plea.
    Of all the jackals in the town who could
    have heard this gest, this little magic squirrel
    picked me, a humble woodsman, as the best.
    The trust the creature gave to him, this blessing
    only given to the few, resolved his
    mind to do what’s only just and right to do.
    And ages past this strange event, the woodman
    prospered well. He wished for wealth and wealth
    arrived, and all good things to him befell.
    But morals of the story are that stories
    seldom end the way you know. He cut the
    tree and sold the talking squirrel for lots of dough.

  25. DanielAri

    “Freshman Story”

    Professor Orangutan
    had us over,
    gave us beer
    (to my mother’s horror),
    showed us he’d shaved
    a bald swath across his belly,
    took Christine and I
    for a ride in his new Camaro,
    cleaned up after Jodi
    when she threw up,
    cleaned up after Jodi and John
    when they used his bed,
    had us back over
    twice more before
    the end of the semester.

    Today I could wonder
    what he was doing
    with his freshman class,
    with his divorce,
    with his middle-aged
    peaks and summits,
    with his explication of Whitman:
    “Eat! Fuck! Blow farts!”

    Still, I trust Professor Orangutan
    because he gave me
    the seminal
    book by Gorilla Chimpskaya,
    which turned me onto poetry
    for a lifetime of notebooks,
    ink stains on my fingers,
    and utter transport,
    while sitting on the floor
    eyes rolled up in my head,
    (though I never did myself)
    why you might
    shave a bald swath
    across your belly.

  26. Genevieve Fitzgerald

    Belfast Story

    What if it was my father
    Running through the streets
    Business suit jacket flapping
    Ash in the air and debris
    Hard soled shoes pinching
    He’s not a runner
    Not a young man out for endorphins
    Neither is anyone
    Not on this day

    What if it was my father
    Running down Short Strand,
    Ballymacarrett, Wee Belfast,
    Stopped for an Orangeman
    Blocks from the peaceline
    Asked if he’s Catholic
    Said ‘of course’
    and kept going
    Though of course he is not.
    But there’s been a bomb
    And he wants just to get home
    See that his family’s

  27. Kit Cooley

    Same Old Story

    Smug, sitting in judgment,
    So sure in self-righteousness
    That no shade of any color,
    Even grey, could creep in.
    Damning all to hell
    Who do not worship
    At your altar, speak
    In your tongue, love
    In the same way, wear
    The same skin, a sin.
    Freedom, just a carrot,
    Dangled out of reach
    Of the disenfranchised,
    And the stick is called
    A prayer to beat
    In the so-called truth,
    Beat out perceived wickedness,
    And beat the drums of war.

    Don’t dare to question
    Seeming solid sanctimony,
    For then you scuttle
    Beneath one good book,
    Or another, shrieking
    Against discourse, claiming
    You are shackled and silenced,
    When your voice is the only
    One we hear, your hand the one
    In every pie. The lie, the blame,
    Forced down our throats,
    Until we choke. What good
    To shine a light on bold
    Hypocrisy when its purveyor
    Is blinded by arrogance,
    Deafened by his own tongue
    Talking, the old story, it’s a shame,
    It’s all the same.

  28. Sara McNulty

    Unwritten Story

    Once there was a story
    just waiting to be told.
    It lingered in his head,
    floated on the ceiling,
    when he lay down in bed.

    Once there was a story
    he knew children would love.
    Perhaps a purple pen
    would rev his engine up
    like Tootle’s way back when.

    Once there was a story
    he simply could not grasp
    as it flew out the door,
    not coming back `til early
    morn, creeping `cross the floor.

    Once there was a story,
    not wanting discipline
    so he started writing
    a nonstop flow of words.
    His tale proved exciting.

  29. JanetRuth

    Bed-time Story

    We travel the world

    She and I

    Her bed is a vessel

    That can sail or fly

    We swim with mermaids

    And walk on the moon

    We are the sailors

    Of a magic pontoon

    We march out of Egypt

    ‘neath Moses command

    We race on the beaches

    Of tropical sand

    We eat at the King’s table

    Or sleep in a box

    With the three little bears

    We meet Goldilocks

    We are the cowboys

    The ruffians, the queen

    We pick grapes in Sicily

    Rove Ireland’s greens

    We shiver with pioneers

    And suffer their woes

    We live in a palace

    And wear the queen’s clothes

    We brave the storms

    And the pirates at sea

    We swing from the stars

    And land in Chile

    We cry with the orphans

    Sing with the Von Trapps

    We explore with Tom Sawyer

    In an acorn, take naps

    And we simply can’t wait

    For our next thrilling trip

    To the past or the future

    On our white, linen ship

    As we travel the world

    From our cozy, warm nook

    A mother, a girl

    And a story-book

  30. leatherdykeuk

    Eddie’s Story

    He wasn’t much of an employee – he couldn’t do sums
    without a piece of paper and a pencil – the kind with a rubber
    on the top. He couldn’t spell ‘eraser’ and he couldn’t write
    anything longer than a handful of syllables
    he could count out on his fingers like ‘up-hol-ster-ree’
    but he was dependable and Steve could rely on him
    to come in from early morning to late at night
    and sometimes he even stayed over, kipping on a camp bed
    in the storeroom or one of the sofas on the sales floor
    if Steve was away but he had to be careful.
    Steve stayed awake most of the night,
    hunched over his desk with a single lamp
    he never turned off, like a moth attracted to a flame
    that never went out; a single eye keeping watch on the books and ledgers.
    One night he caught Eddie sleeping on a Queen Ann
    they’d had delivered from Europe and fired him on the spot.
    Eddie shrugged and went back to sleeping in the store room
    and got his job back the next day for a little less salary.
    A little less salary and a few more hours.

    1. Jane Shlensky

      I suspect you could transplant Eddie’s story just about anywhere in the world. This is wonderfully told–you had me at the first line, wanting to know Eddie.

  31. Sibella

    Sixteenth Story (a music review)

    While playing the latest concept LP by
    East San Diego’s preeminent slowdive-nerdcore-

    fartrock-hup-hop quintet, I removed my office screens
    for cleaning. I took extra care, but had I

    dropped one, crushing some innocent with a briefcase,
    I knew any court in the land would release me

    owing to temporary slowdive-nerdcore-


    Pamela Murray Winters

      1. Sibella

        Hah! It’s actually based loosely on a true story involving my having to listen to “Gingerbread Man” by the Residents. And in the true story, I feared that I’d fall out of the window and the investigators would come upstairs, hear the LP, and be sure I’d jumped. :^)


  32. Walt Wojtanik


    Patiently she waits.
    She knows I planned on going out;
    I do every year. And it is here
    that she waits. Her eyes still
    twinkle after all this time
    and I’m sure her smile will await me,
    when I’m done globe trotting.
    It’s not suspicion that keeps her
    planted by the hearth; where else on earth
    would she rather be? It keeps her as warm
    as a big cozy hug, toasting her frigid toes
    and melting her heart for my return.
    The logs burn, and I yearn for my travelling
    to cease and desist this all night party.
    This North Pole girl is hearty; she loves the cold
    and this Jolly Old Man, doing all she can
    to keep me in this Christmas game.
    She’s my missus; she call me Mr. “C”.
    But to me, she gives my heart pause.
    And it’s all because…I am Santa Clause

  33. Andrew Kreider

    Our things tell our story

    The homebirth slogan was half ripped off by
    an unknown assailant in Chicago,
    but the “God is not a Republican
    or a Democrat” sticker still remains.
    It seems that some imbiciles are still more
    afraid of midwives than of religion.

    The inside is a Pirate Queen’s abode,
    every last piece of booty within reach
    of a captain swaying home at midnight,
    blood-stained, head crammed with other people’s pain.
    The seats sigh gently for the former days
    and the old radio talks to itself.

    They say that a car tells its own story.
    Also, that owners resemble their pets.
    Our dearest things speak loudly of our lives.
    If so, please allow this poor med student
    to sleep, hands cradling the steering wheel.
    Tonight she’s told us all we need to know.

    1. Jane Shlensky

      My brother-in-law would so agree with you. He even pets his cars and talks with them as he shines them up. I don’t know what they say back, but it must be GOOD. I enjoyed reading this.

  34. JanetRuth

    A Private Story

    On the week-end when no one was looking
    You were so nice to me
    But back to school Monday, held things more important
    Like popularity

    We lived on the north side
    And I assumed that was why
    You gave yourself a license
    To laugh; I tried not to cry

    Age and time bestow maturity
    We move past the resentment and pain
    I saw you yesterday; and instantly
    I knew that scars remain…

    1. Domino

      This happened to me too…New neighbor over the fence, and we played all summer, just to realize when fall came, that I was not a popular girl, so she went on to other friends… it’s so hard to forget those painful moments, isn’t it.

      You put it all so clearly with no words wasted… lovely and sad. <3

  35. Domino

    Another “Dominotion.” ^_^

    Season Story

    Spring story; leafy and green
    unfolding the blossoms mien,
    opening furls and sprays focus
    dogwood, forsythia, crocus,
    flowers and bees seem to preen

    Summer story; eyes bent away
    from the bright glare of the day,
    from the brilliant beams on the lake
    to fireworks and independence day cake
    rest on our backs in fields of hay

    Autumn story; harvest time
    leaves are falling, scents sublime.
    Rain-washed trees turning to bare
    skeletons. Jeweled leaves so rare
    discarded on the earthy grime

    Winter story; slumbering now
    the plants, so time to plow
    and break the pristine purity
    of the snow, for it’s a surety,
    there’s no neat way to clear the snow

    Seasons story; through the years
    the seasons change with joy and tears.
    It is so sweet to dream along
    with mother nature’s subtle song.
    The seasons melt and disappear

  36. Buddah Moskowitz

    Playwright Story

    I wanted to be a playwright,
    as I fancied myself a modest god
    who would make these players
    do my bidding,
    live out my revenge fantasies.
    I aimed for
    the illusion that it was

    just like real life.

    I wrote scenes of dialogue
    and action
    and characters
    who all sounded like me,
    but as a sheltered 16 year old,
    I didn’t have enough material
    to work with.

    I’d create scenes,
    snappy patter,

    but I could never write
    a proper end of a play,
    and they would each limp
    to their eventual final curtain.

    Three years and
    five plays later
    I gave it up,

    and went back to writing

    temporary literary ephemera,

    and I still watch
    with palpable envy
    and awe
    when a writer pulls it all together
    and finishes the story.

    when I write “poetry”
    when I am done with an idea
    it just ends,
    and I go on
    to the next thing

    just like real life.

    1. Jane Shlensky

      A young playwright myself, I dig this poem and your lack of material. When I became a theater director, I understood that real life, no matter what the situation, is never over in two hours–and I’m still waiting for my intermission. Good one, Mosk.


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