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2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 1

Categories: Poetry Challenge 2012, Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog.

And so it begins! Today is the first day of the 5th annual April PAD (Poem-A-Day) Challenge on Poetic Asides. I can’t believe we’re turning five!

For today’s prompt, write a communication poem. The communication could be dialogue between two (or more people); a postcard correspondence; a letter; a voicemail; a text message; a series of tweets; or whatever. Heck, I guess a poem is a form of communication–so there’s really no way to screw up today’s prompt (outside of writing nothing at all). Let’s get this party started!

Here’s my attempt:

“An Urgent Message”

Respond now or we’ll send murderous
marauders to your house at midnight
who will kill you–leaving your children
and parents with nothing. All will be
lost. Cunning cats will prowl alleyways
as your grieving (and groveling) leftovers
wander the earth wondering why you could
do so little to protect them. You, who
received urgent messages and important
notices and special offers, threw
every correspondence into the garbage
can as if all we tried to offer were junk.

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About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

654 Responses to 2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 1

  1. In2theArtz says:

    Hello?
    Hey…
    This may be awkward but I must oblige.
    Well I bid you farwell for you mustn’t I.
    What are you saying??? That it isn’t so???
    No, I am saying that there’s isn’t hope….
    For I no longer know you or want to…
    Well this has sadden me…
    Well I shall not forgive you and this gladdens me…
    Fine I shall go
    Adieu and quickly haste for love isn’t fate
    No love isn’t fate……

  2. Huntress520 says:

    “Who are you to say who I am and what I can be?”
    “I know who I am and the same can’t be said for you. Now you see?”
    “I am proud to not know who I am it means I can be who I want to when I decide.”
    “Who ever said that lied.”
    “It was you, before you choose to be so bitter.”
    “No. it was before I saw the world as it is. A disgusting place filled with trash by those who don’t care and freely litter.”
    “That’s the way you choose to see it, where I can see the good you only see the bad”
    “I opened my eyes and what I saw made me sad.”
    “where there is bad there is good, instead of being mad about it, stand up and make a difference.

  3. creilley says:

    THE JESTER’S MASK

    Silk and brocade wrap a bursting heart.
    The language of truth both a weapon
    and a curse. The one soul at court
    allowed to speak his mind,
    he lives on the knife edge of
    regard and the head-man’s axe.

    Immune to courtly games or manner
    his voice cut through threads of feint,
    a plunging eagle through cobwebs.
    Yet malice shines in every eye
    and honeyed poison is on every tongue,
    each step more treacherous than the last.

    Wisdom and folly walk hand in hand
    through the gardens of policy.
    More genius is to be found
    in a cracked vessel, rather than whole,
    so capering and glib façade
    are the masks of foresight and honesty.

  4. dianemdavis says:

    GOODBYE (from Leaving for Lowell: a mill girl story)

    “Don’t cry,”
    I whisper in Alicia’s ear,
    hugging her so close
    she groans
    before I set her free.

    She chews her bottom lip,
    then reaches into
    her apron pocket
    and tucks a hard, smooth object
    into my hand–

    a horse chestnut
    shaped like a heart
    and polished so fine
    I can see my reflection.
    Tiny lines, scratched
    through the surface
    spell Alicia
    on one side, and Manny
    on the other.

    I press that nut
    close to my heart–
    more precious than
    all the coins
    I’ll make in Lowell,
    and smile through tears
    I’d vowed
    to leave behind.

  5. Ivan_Alcibar says:

    A Glass Full of Empty

    Hold me now
    Please don’t leave the room
    Another step and I might just break
    The panic consumes me
    Don’t turn off the lights
    Leave them on just for tonight

    I lack the reason to move on
    I’m terrified of what I’m not
    A life of regrets
    Is all I’ve ever known
    I’m so ashamed of who I am
    Up until now it’s all been a lie

    Tell me once
    It’s gonna be okay
    Wipe the doubt off my mind
    Promise me and I won’t ask
    Show me the good I’ve done
    Because I can’t find it alone

    I lack the reason to move on
    I’m terrified of what I’m not
    A life of regrets
    Is all I’ve ever known
    I’m so ashamed of who I am
    Up until now it’s all been a lie

    Hold me now
    Please don’t leave me
    I can’t face myself anymore
    No matter the reason
    I am drowning
    I’ll suffocate in the world
    Just once more
    If it gets rid of my despair
    I beg you
    Get rid of my despair

  6. Pat Carroll Marcantel says:

    TELEGRAM

    The message came on a yellow piece of paper,

    letters bold and black, piercing like a Samurai sword.

    He carried it in his hand, his face a mountain crag,

    Eyes gone blank, he looked at us but didn’t see

    our fear, for yellow was the color of death, we knew.

    We knew but didn’t want to know. We took the missive

    from his hand and learned an acronym–M I A .

    Pat Carroll Marcantel

  7. We English don’t need
    to learn foreign languages:
    Let them learn ours!

  8. MsGenuineLady says:

    Hello, Randy is that you?
    Randy who?
    Randy, stop playing games!
    Excuse me Miss, Randy is not my name.
    So this is how it is?
    You forgot about me, now that you are married with kids
    Lady listen, there is no Randy that lives in this home
    So I suggest you hang up and leave me alone
    Now you listen to me, I dialed your number 780 745 7753
    So you see Randy, I know this is you!
    Please lady that just isn’t true, you see because you dialed 780 745 7733 actually
    And my name is TIM not Randy

  9. Communicate!

    Communicate, he says
    and I want to scream
    but I just did! Didn’t
    he notice all those
    tweets
    blogs
    facebook and linkedin
    comments
    (not to mention
    my monitoring of
    and responses to
    all my email notes)?
    Enough said!

  10. cstewart says:

    Freedom’s Mark

    Her body spoke to her.
    It had been communicating specifically,
    With her lately, it’s noise and it’s unwieldy girth -
    In locations where it had been flat before -
    The sadness, anger, permutations of disbelief,
    Came along in ways she was not expecting.
    The hours, days of waiting to hear the next condition,
    Trepidations in her liver, pancreas, colon;
    Their lives having been taken up by a new visitor,
    Unintentionally invited by her life’s trials and denials,
    Intending to stay with her on her path towards freedom.

  11. Paoos69 says:

    A Communication Twonnet (A Sonnet has 14 lines – so this Twin Sonnet – 28 lines – so called Twonnet)

    The swoosh of the toilet flush
    In the early morning hour
    Breaks the eerie night silence
    Who’s there? I ask
    Only to hear footsteps
    And creaking floorboards

    The house is not haunted
    I am assured
    Then maybe just my mind
    Playing nasty tricks
    But the toilet flushing
    Isn’t that too loud a noise?

    Or maybe just my imagination
    Going wild!

    There is a lingering lethargy
    A constant sapping of energy
    The Feng-shui has gone all wrong
    Perhaps, or just the mind-set
    Stuck in an arroyo
    Not able to let go

    They say there has to be a bond
    To be able to communicate
    But some are just sagas
    Endured, burnt and endured again
    Who am I? Who is she?
    None other than crafted souls

    Some questions are mere ponderings
    To dwell on and liberate

  12. tunesmiff says:

    WHAT ELSE CAN I SAY

    Did something happen in Houston,
    I need to know about?
    I’ve not heard a word from you since you came home;
    I know we’ve had our differences,
    And it’s not like you to pout,
    So for goodness sake, Girl,
    Just pick up the phone…

    And…
    (CH)
    Take a minute or two,
    To tell me what to do…
    Gimme a clue if you want me to stay…
    Is it still just me and you?
    Or is there somebody new?
    Should I pack up my heart and go away?
    Tell me… What else can I say?

    I didn’t see this comin’,
    If in fact it’s here at all;
    You know I tried to pay attention all along;
    But I won’t ever know for sure,
    Unless you just give me a call;
    You’ve got to let me know where things went wrong…

    So…
    (CH)
    Take a minute or two,
    To tell me what to do…
    Gimme a clue if you want me to stay…
    Is it still just me and you?
    Or is there somebody new?
    Should I pack up my heart and go away?
    Tell me… What else can I say?

    BR:
    If all we have are memories,
    Of what it was we used to be,
    Just say so…
    And I’ll go…
    But you’ll always go with me…

    First just…
    (CH)
    Take a minute or two,
    To tell me what to do…
    Gimme a clue if you want me to stay…
    Is it still just me and you?
    Or is there somebody new?
    Should I pack up my heart and go away?
    Tell me… What else can I say?

  13. Lauraajk says:

    140

    A whole message in one line,
    140 characters to say it all -
    Communication for the modern age,
    Poetry for the twenty-first century.

    Words pared down to the bones,
    So make them all count,
    Share your poems with the world -
    Post on-line and watch them fly.

  14. JRSimmang says:

    Our last communique
    tempestuous and writhing with the agony
    of a too short message.
    For within that spanse
    expectations hang nigh,
    floating and weaving,
    sputtering and spoiling;
    Words losing sight of themselves,
    drifting further and further into static.
    Dialogue, dear precious conversation,
    confined within that delicate prison.
    Pick up.
    My words would truer find your ears were
    your ears listening.
    Pick up.
    This unholy ringing in my ears leaves my breath
    baited.
    Pick up and speak to me.

  15. HannaAnna says:

    Walking up to the checkout counter
    I see the man of my dreams
    My heart flutters and I have to catch my breath
    as I watch that perfect smile turn to face me
    My mouth opens to speak
    but nothing comes out
    My eyes dart all over him
    taking him in
    trying to find something to say
    But the rest of him is just as perfect as that smile
    Words continue to fail me

    Fear and attraction

    I pull my hair behind my ears
    I adjust my purse on my shoulder
    and scratch the back of one leg with the foot of the other
    I open my mouth to speak to him again
    but still nothing comes

    You know what I’m saying?

  16. eyeisawrightr says:

    Oh, Talking Stick! Sacred to
    my Native American friend

    Why? Have you withheld your
    power

    To teach respect and be
    tolerant of my point of view

    The Eagle Feather
    blinds

    The Owl Feather
    deceives

    The Deer Skin
    chafes

    Rabbit has
    tiny ears

    The Spirits of the Wind
    flee

    Please
    tell me.

  17. Miss R. says:

    Clearly I’m off to a late start, but I’ll give it a whirl anyway :) Here goes nothing:

    Prayer

    I speak out hollowly
    Not considering that You hear.
    My mind fails to conceive the distance,
    Yet You birthed this infinite intimacy.
    You speak from eons past
    In this moment
    Of days to come
    Where Your presence already hovers.
    The communication lapses,
    My self-righteous words foolishly satisfied
    To echo in their own stony corridors.
    They die away, exhausted,
    And still Your words remain.

  18. po says:

    To Argue

    with a cat is pointless.
    They thump their tail

    with passion over stale
    politics. And have

    a religion all their own.
    They chirp and purrow

    and talk until you stalk
    off, give up, run out the door.

    To argue with a cat
    is pointless because they

    have a language all their own.
    Don’t tolerate the chirps

    and burps from their
    human subordinates.

  19. cajun75 says:

    The Final Journey

    I’ve followed you around the world
    More times than I can count
    We’ve searched through ancient ruins
    And lazed on modern beaches
    We’ve scaled the highest mountains
    And dived to the ocean floor
    We’ve crossed burning desert sands together
    And even swum the English Channel

    Together we’ve experienced the world
    Never leaving the other behind
    But now you’ve taken your final journey
    You went ahead without me
    For an experience I cannot share
    You’ve left me here, alone
    So while I wait, prepare a place
    I’ll join you in a little while

  20. Suba says:

    04/01 – communication poem

    Hi Hello!

    Hi Hello!
    Who’s the fellow?
    It’s me, you know!

    Didn’t really know how
    To say it here and now
    Bent like a violin bow
    Flinch through my brow
    Holding on the bough
    Think I am gonna go
    Crazy to allow
    I’m the one that follow
    Him through, although
    I never know him, no!

    How did I happen to stow
    This silly phone though
    How would I know?
    When all look alike, for all I know
    It was just mine, you know

    Anyhow here we go
    Quid pro quo
    I’ve got to undergo
    This dumb show

    So, hi hello
    Its me, you don’t know!

  21. Jannelee says:

    THE LETTER

    I knew at once, the delicate pink space
    the thin spidery lines, like living black lace
    spreading across the thin parchment
    Even though it had been years
    I still knew the slant of her hand
    I could see the touch of her fingers
    I swear I could even smell her perfume
    Her throaty laughter rose from the paper
    And pierced my heart, like an arrow from hell
    I could see the sweep of her long black hair
    as it fell over her pale shoulder
    the look in her dark eyes, the amusement
    that fell from her full lips as she told me
    she didn’t love me, had never loved me
    I felt the pain anew as my trembling hands
    tore open the seal on the thin envelope
    she and my only brother whispered in my ear
    fool, such a fool, how could you not see
    what all others knew, what you knew
    but would not see, could not see
    Now the thin black letters rose up
    and choked my throat with unshed tears
    my heart shattered into a million pieces
    my brother, my betrayer was dead

    JANICE KUYKENDALL
    APRIL 1, 2012

  22. Arike says:

    Beep

    Please leave a message after the tone
    A message is rarely left
    I, as owner of this number
    Promise not to disregard it
    I will listen carefully
    To what you tell me in a stutter
    A long monologue
    I can’t call you back
    You’ll forget to leave a number
    Makes you nervous, a recording
    Or I’ll listen to your phone
    Going click-beep-beep-beep
    And delete the message, irritated
    Why did you bother to call, then?

  23. Tanjamaltija says:

    I tried to talk
    The words just would not come.
    I sent an e-mail
    But it bounced.
    I tried to call you
    But you had changed your number.
    I tried to write
    But the letter came back undelivered.
    So why did you turn up on my doorstep
    Five days before my wedding?

  24. Marjory MT says:

    COUMMICATION
    MY Dear Friend, you are…

    So many many miles away….
    Was it yesterday or a hundred days ago
    when I last felt your hand in mine,
    gazed into your eyes and heard
    whispered endearments?

    So many many miles away….
    While saturating my thoughts,
    would that you inundated my space,
    then the sun would shine brighter,
    the birds sing sweeter and the
    day be overall delicious.

    So many many miles away…
    Across deserts, mountains
    and deep chasms.
    Across missunderstandings,
    regrets and tears.
    Across oceans, across glacers.
    Across what might have been.

    So many many miles away…
    If I close my eyes
    and make believe,
    would the miles,
    could the miles,
    melt away?

    4/1/2012 MMT

  25. Thanks Melissa, Misk, Sharon, and Michael for your kindness.

  26. Caren says:

    Silence

    Silence is not golden, but black
    Black as a moonless night
    A cold and empty room
    Echoing a lonely heartbeat
    In the absence of comfort
    Understanding, compassion
    A disease that infects those
    Once open and alive
    Who broke the silence
    Once too many times
    And like a mirror, given
    Many years bad luck
    A self imposed affliction
    That guards the heart and soul
    When words do more to harm
    Than heal

    Caren E. Salas

  27. gtabasso says:

    Near Your Birthday, Grandpa, 36 Years After Your Death

    To you who are an angel if angels exist.
    To you whose colored pencils filled my coloring books,
    whose painting of cossacks remains unfinished,
    who taught me to read, who decorated my first cake
    and a cake in the shape of a lamb every Easter.
    You, the coconut and jelly bean eyes that weep
    every color, one for each thing I learned,
    one of each feeling I’ve known,
    one for the shield from straps, hands, board and words
    that would have undone if it weren’t for your watercolors,
    brushes, crayons and feathers, your letters
    and love poems, hard shells from a Philippine beach
    that protected you from the Japanese,
    brought you home for too short a time.

  28. Yolee says:

    Maria

    My curb, where the dirt-road ends and a smooth
    avenue begins, nature walk, where leaves hang by green
    and violet threads: your branches bloom with usefulness.
    You are the crackle of early life ignited by memory,

    the indoor voice of childhood, the scurry of time
    wiggling in the gym-shoe of adolescence, my
    scholarship to the school of dreams. We grew
    up, and for a while, out, like silk split from its web.

    But we moved back to each other’s in, and a feathery
    wind enabled a mission. The tapestry holds
    its darn. Sun-kiss on my window, steady rainfall,
    bonfire drawing those close at hand to listen and be

    heard, today the tree of life observes the birth
    of our calling as sisters, and your earthly debut.
    I hope you have more love than you can carry
    within the skirt of your heart.

  29. Christod says:

    Haiku: Being Back.

    Kick off your shoes; flick
    off your hat; tell the dead rose
    you meant to come back.

  30. just Lynne says:

    I just found out about this challenge tonight, so I’m catching up. Lately my poems are sparse and simple, trying to capture a moment.

    April 2, 2012.

    she said she couldn’t understand me
    “an accent?”
    “no
    “I just talk too fast”

    “but your friends can understand you, right?”

    I smiled

  31. kingac says:

    Wow… time has flown by, and I almost missed out on another PAD sorry this one is late..

    Pretentious Slumber

    radiating heat
    skin barely touching
    the brush of a knee
    calves whispering
    neither of us moving

    trite affectations plus
    caustic libations
    equal pretentious slumber

    minutes multiply
    entropic silence
    becoming deafening
    defining the status
    of what wouldn’t be us

    - John Pupo

  32. Dear Dean says:

    There once was a lady from Milay,
    Who texted all night and all day.
    Her cell bill so intense, she couldn’t recompense.
    Now she cries all night and all day.

    (Just could not be serious today)
    Iris

  33. Marcia Gaye says:

    Thx Rosemary. Glad to give you a chuckle. I’m not recognizing your name, but then I have a terrible memory for names. This is my fourth year in the PAD neighborhood, and I’m never prepared! Happy to know you.

  34. Ann M says:

    I Mailed it in Mexico

    I mailed it in Mexico,
    a postcard about
    the dust dry valleys, winding
    mountain roads,
    and a sea too rough to swim.
    At sunset, we walked
    in the shallows while
    the surfers tossed and
    twisted on the breaking waves–
    you were almost sucked under
    while on the sand,
    women sold strings of beads
    and a horse galloped by.
    That wasn’t in the postcard,
    which I dropped in a red mailbox
    with little hope that
    it would find its way home.

  35. Arrvada says:

    End of Discussion
    By
    Arrvada
    Do it
    No
    Yes
    No
    A single syllable argument
    Me myself and I make
    Again and again
    I argue with myself
    Do I or don’t i
    Does it really matter
    How much is at stake?
    Perhaps nothing
    Perhaps everything
    At least my insanity
    If I don’t shut up!

  36. ratgirl says:

    And I wake myself, screaming.

    The night terrors are bulls running beneath a sagging balcony
    held together by paint chips and dead termites.
    I huddle, balled up against the chipping brick, squealing
    with the strained hinges at the throttle of hooves. But then you,
    delicious as summer raspberries, indolent as a sun drunk tiger,
    lean against the crumbling railing, all your bones
    adjusting effortlessly to the sway like a fox trot. Deadly nimble, you smoke cigarettes
    with strange and stale grandfather names like Winston, Chesterfield,
    and the confidence of a film star before cancer came along.
    Through the slats, cattle run in a braided rope of bodies,
    A tight and desperate line of muscle and sweat, hooves compacting the sand,
    grinding scattered syringes and bloodied cotton balls into shards
    and a frothy tan soup of scat. I’m too scared to grab onto your
    calm extended hand or your belief that my bulls are imaginary
    as candy petaled roses, and nothing I can say
    will draw you away from that edge, toward safety. So we stand
    unmoving, trapped frozen in the glass bubble of a protracted minute
    despite stampeding time. We share
    a cooperative paralysis, each wishing we could hold the other
    down, to protect them from their vaporous delusions

  37. Karen31 says:

    “I Offer my Broken Heart to a New Love”

    Here, hold this –
    do you like it? I made it
    for you. I hope you like it.
    Does it fit in your hand?
    Funny, isn’t it, it fits
    in mine, too. Roll it around in your fingers.
    See the scars, the nicks? From testing, is all, no one else
    but you and I
    have ever even held it.
    For you, it will be smooth as a promise.
    I made it orange, like the sun;
    I made it flash to help you
    smile. Did it stop? Drop it, go ahead,
    and the stars will shine inside
    again. I hope you like it.
    The equator is just a starting point
    but if you lay your hand across that seam
    you can control the world.
    My heart is like a ball. Let me roll it to you.

  38. RIVER GUITAR

    Stones we had leftover
    from the hike, boulder-hopping
    as far as we could upstream.
    Weary as a mummy –

    suddenly
    wide awake in the dark.
    Scraps of song from somewhere
    years and trails away,

    wind howling things gone-by.
    How many miles
    from roadhead, take me back
    country, forgotten fingers

    on the strings of a guitar. Fingertip
    voices of wind.
    The voice whispering
    almost human words was river,

    or wind, a friend dead
    in the moonlight. Midnight
    making sense of darkness
    translating a star.

  39. Golden Rule says:

    As I sit and reflect
    I decided to write this letter to you
    who I use to reject.
    I can admit
    Its not that I doubted you
    but to be honest
    I didnt know much about you.
    The more I searched for your meaning
    The more I realized
    I may be searching in vain.
    Now I realize that the very window to my heart was stained
    But now I have a different view
    because what I have experienced the past 5 years
    feels so brand new
    So its to you, love, that I write this letter
    and my hope is this
    that I continue to experience you forever.

  40. Catslen1 says:

    You look at me sadly from across the table
    And tell me that you love me
    Yet you ask me to change as if I were easily able
    Why is it so hard to love me, for just me.

    You are saying our communication needs to be better
    yet here we are, talking, why can’t you see?
    I listen as you share on how I could be stellar
    Why is it so hard to love me, for just me.

    You continue to talk and express all your concerns
    Sharing the changes you need so you can be happy with me.
    I nod and agree to try as my nervous stomach churns,
    And sadly give up hope of ever being loved just for me.

  41. lionmother says:

    If it’s April, it must be April PAD Challenge. Of course, I’m here late as always, but I have been looking at the array of poetry here and so happy to see so many familiar names. I’ve been devoting a lot of my time to prose this year, but I couldn’t resist doing this too.:) Here is my attempt:

    Bills

    They lay in their glassine envelopes
    taunting me with their placid outsides
    When I gather them from the tiny metal
    box where they are placed I have hope
    that some of those envelopes will be
    a chance for happiness and not the
    numbing sameness of monotonous
    figures depleting my small store of
    cash for the glory of corporations

  42. hohlwein says:

    Cryptic

    You talk to me by throwing a bicycle down in my path
    Or showing me that what I think is a shooting star
    is a plane falling out of the sky.
    And so I know my fear.
    Past and Future.

    You tell me something
    by placing a harlequin jester
    there in my living room.
    He takes me by his velvet-gloved hand
    And pulls me, gently.

    I don’t know what you mean
    by that
    but I think
    it has to do
    with now.

  43. Sheryl says:

    At first I was disappointed at the format, but then I realized it is easier to read with double spacing. Maybe I can read poems without as much white space, since it is provided. Hooray! I will do what I can, but must not be careless with my “tempus”, or it will “fugit” for sure. I especially enjoyed Chorespeak. I think that was its name. Acts of service must be your love language.

  44. Dare says:

    Correction:

    Unspoken

    Dark lashes beckon
    Moist lips silent – An arched brow!
    Ravished heart thunders

  45. black_mamba says:

    When you do without, you look within

    What is this life I’m picturing?

    What is this life I’m living?

    As I continue to fight in this losing battle

    I remain faceless

    I used to lose myself in your eyes

    Now more and more I start to lose my soul

    We used to be in love

    I remember when we were happy

    When you and me equaled us

    Now all of a sudden you’ve changed into a man I hardly recognize

    I used to adore you

    Now I’ve come to fear you

    My heart no longer beats

    And I just happen to be eight months pregnant

    As I stand in the mirror

    Covering up another bruise

    I wonder if Cover girl can conceal my frayed pride

    Or my emotional scars

    I wonder how many blows to the head will it take for you to kill me

    I’m not afraid of dying

    If anything, I’m afraid of living

    Afraid of existing

    Afraid of leaving

    Afraid of starting over

    Afraid for my son

    Maybe I can be reincarnated

    Maybe I can come back as a bird

    And learn how to fly

  46. dextrousdigits says:

    Mirror Mirror

    The mirror grabs my eyes
    I see a flaw on my face,
    acne at my age, “oh noooooo”.

    As I look in the mirror,
    I see my 14 year-old face staring back at me
    acne in the same spot and a couple others.
    As I stare at the mirror,
    my mother’s face can be seen as she
    looks into the room as she is going down the hall.
    She puts down the items in her arms
    and looks at me, What wrong she says?
    “Mom how can I go to school looking like this?”
    “We can fix this up so it is hardly noticeable”
    She came back with her hands full of makeup
    and brushed a little of one then another on my
    face and sure enough it was hard to see.

    The whole time she was fixing up my face
    she talked to me. “This is exactly what models,
    singers and actors do to make them look like stars.
    See you are like them, they have skin problems too,
    almost all teenagers do, but you will out grow this soon.
    There you look fine. You have no idea how beautiful you are.
    Someday soon, the guys are going to be wanting touch
    and caress this face of yours.”

    She gives me a hug and light kiss on my forehead.
    She starts to take her make up and leave
    I see her back in the mirror.
    “Mom, don’t go yet, I miss you so much.
    So often I wish you were here to see the kids,
    share in our lives and to just talk to when I
    feel overwhelmed.”

    She turns and looks right at me
    “When you need me just look in the mirror
    and if there is no mirror handy,
    look inside there are many nooks and crannies
    where I reside.

  47. Beth Rodgers says:

    Hi all! Good to be back this year! Sorry I’m a day late with this one, but I thought about it yesterday and then got busy with spring cleaning and such. Looking forward to this month! Here’s my poem for April 1st:

    PERSISTENCE

    Rather than struggle
    Have faith
    As there is always a way to push past
    The obstacles
    And weather the distance that you
    Feel lies between you and
    Finality.

  48. DandPInc says:

    You do your poem?
    No, not yet–what about you?
    I am still thinking…

  49. READING POETRY IN IOWA

    Iowa is green with summer.
    There was a thunderstorm yesterday.
    When dusk comes, the fireflies will all come out.

    Now it is supper-time.
    The farm-wife stands on the back-porch.
    She rings a little, silver bell.

    In a far-off field, her young son lies on his back.
    He is drowsy and half-dreaming.
    An open book has fallen from his hands to the earth.

    II.

    The poet said she was young and beautiful,
    in a green field, when she wandered far away from her mother
    to pick purple flowers, fragrant with springtime.

    She pulled a beautiful one up by its roots
    and a horse’s head emerged after it, then a chariot,
    as she stumbled back from the pit opening before her feet.

    A dark king stood in the chariot—
    he seized her by the hair and dragged her away,
    underground, where she could barely breathe.

    The flower-girl wandered aimlessly for years, listening
    to her mother weeping in her dreams,
    sitting by dark rivers, always thirsty.

    If ever she escaped the darkness, it seemed
    she was always dragged back again in winter,
    and she forgot again the sunlit upper-world.

    One day, a white woman crossed the Acheron—
    she’d been bitten by a snake on the heel,
    and she’d died on her wedding day.

    Her memories of light were faint,
    but in her dreams she heard the singing
    and the harp of her distant husband.

    The flower-girl and the white woman held hands in the dark
    and told one another not to be afraid. They fed one another
    the pomegranate seeds of forgotten joy.

    III.

    The poet rests his face in his hands.
    (This was a long time ago.)
    The book is finished, but who will read it?

    He is tired and does not think
    he can pray. If he prays, his prayer
    has no words.

    His heart beats in rhythm to the memory
    of a psalm he read in translation:
    all my fountains are in you.

    Jane Beal

  50. Katrin says:

    Sorry I’m late.
    I hit all the red lights.
    There was construction on every other thought.
    And I got a flat idea.
    However, I’ve now abandoned my vehicle
    and am ready to catch up to
    the rest of the party, as I flop along
    in my sparkly diphthongs

  51. Dare says:

    Unspoken

    Dark lashes beckon
    Moist lips silent – An arched brow!
    My ravished heart thunders

  52. rachelhyde says:

    Dear Muse,

    I write to nothing and on nothing:
    a memory of unattainable smile,
    of the bulls I bled at the feet
    of your novel conversation.

    Muse, I miss your introductions.
    There is nothing new, now,
    everyone here reads the same words,
    thinks the same thoughts.

    Muse, I miss your confusion.
    I am left to confuse myself,
    blindly follow my own line
    in and out of labyrinthine wants.

    Once I thought to thank you,
    send you my opus, scrawled
    in your name and full
    of allusions meant for us alone,

    but then I realized how odd
    that would seem,
    out of context, perhaps
    even inappropriate.

    Besides, there is no opus—
    but if, Muse, you write
    just a shadow in return, I will
    follow into the open.

  53. ceeess says:

    Well, I was thinking about doing this challenge and the NaPoWriMo challenge this month, but found I was stuck with “write a triolet” there, so I combined that idea with the prompt here and came up with this, but obviously my trioleting skills are rusty. I will also perhaps post some of my stuff on my blog this month at quillfyre.wordpress.com.

    End Notes

    These words must say what there is left to say
    to end this thing that changes love to hate.
    At start who’d know that we would see this day
    these words must say what there is left to say?
    Such trite regrets and sorrow and dismay
    we’ve left so little now it is too late.
    These words must say what there is left to say
    to end this thing that changes love to hate.

    Carol A. Stephen

  54. ellanytdavve says:

    Here’s my Day 1 poem…pardon the late entry…I’m a weekend worker.

    Memo to Myself

    Did you think it would be delivered
    by a person in brown clothes?
    Effortless Attainment,
    no heavy lifting for you.
    Brown is not my best color
    and beside, I’m tired.
    More likely a grey-haired crone
    will grace your door with
    that very special package,
    long overdue, forgotten
    in the junk mail.

  55. AC Leming says:

    Cookies

    I bake you chocolate chip cookies
    despite your anti-sweet tooth.  So I
    lower the glycemic index with almond
    flour, halve the sugar, use 72% cocoa
    chips instead of semi-sweet.  I remake
    my favorite recipe into a bittersweet
    desert to lure you in, to acknowledge
    we’ve passed beyond the honeymoon
    and into the hard work of marriage.

  56. Earl Parsons says:

    The Call

    Email
    Facebook
    Myspace
    Twitter
    Cell phone
    Home phone
    Fax
    Letter
    Telegraph
    Interstate
    Train
    Car
    Just walk over
    It’s way too far
    I’ve called
    I’ve written
    Sent emails and more
    I even sent the sheriff
    To knock on your door
    It’s been so long
    What’s wrong with your head
    Why won’t you call me
    It could be you’re dead
    Hope not
    In fact
    I hope you’re okay
    But, you’ve got me worried
    So call me today

    PS:
    If it’s so
    You no longer breathe air
    Disregard my ranting
    Just know
    That I care

  57. JoBella says:

    Wait for the Beep

    Every time I hear that beep
    I’m wishing it was you

    “Hey, please pray for me”
    That wasn’t you, but I pray for her
    I pray for you

    “Okie Dokie”
    Reminds me of you
    But it’s not you

    “I’ll be ready”
    I wish you were ready
    To talk to see me, to make plans together

    “Sweet buy!”
    It’s the everyday conversation I miss
    It’s knowing a little of your life
    That I miss so

    “Yes, have a blessed day”
    Oh, to just hear from you
    Would bless my day

    “Okay, sounds like a go”
    Nothing seems like a go for us

    “Yes, I can’t wait to see you”
    I think this always
    I can’t wait to see you
    Or hear from you
    But I wait
    I wait

  58. PKP says:

    Miss Communication

    Thought he knew the answer
    Left with a skinned knee
    And a diamond in his pocket

  59. foodpoet says:

    Unopened

    Communication breakdown
    Occurs when
    Messages, phone and email remain unopened.
    Messages remain unopened because your messages buried
    Under the pretense of work can go unnoticed. But
    Never opened messages only multiply.
    I cannot put off the inevitable. I pick up the phone to
    Call, put the phone down and bury myself under bed spread and doubts.
    Again and again I put off calling you, knowing the rip
    tide of family will pull me out to sea and rocks that smash.
    I cannot call and I cannot not call.
    Only time will tell which
    Notice I will answer or not.

  60. SharieO says:

    Late with chiming in here. New to WD, but looking forward to participating. :)

    “I know, right?!”
    “Yep, for sure.”
    “Me too.”
    “Oh, okay, dear.”
    “You think so?”
    “Absolutely!”
    “I love you too, bunches!”

    We sit staring at one another,
    others stunned by our pleasurable silence.
    Who needs words?

  61. DO NOT SPEAK ILL OF THE DEAD

    Hauntingly flaunting there verity,
    searching for clarity or at the least
    finished business. A chance
    to cross over unimpeded. They’ve
    begged and pleaded for some relief
    but your belief in the paranormal
    has you talking. You are walking
    through dark and abandoned places
    seeing faces in the woodwork,
    being a jerk to ambivalent apparitions
    under the strangest conditions.
    There are footsteps down the hall,
    a distant call from beyond
    the next room. There is no doom
    in death that the living can’t provide.
    There is a little voice inside your head.
    Is it the voice of the dead?
    Just don’t talk back, or they’ll be back.

  62. Lady W says:

    The ball of fur hit me hard
    It was full of memories
    Left in a shed of the past
    Where all we had was smiles
    Snuggled in embraces we loved
    And the body fragrances we lost
    The coffee ring mingles in mind
    Questions left unanswered hurt
    Like the reasons in fake gel
    Even if you moved on, I stand
    Seeking the person I was
    When you were my only reality
    Today I send you these words
    Wanting you to drain me away
    In troubles or smiles I gather
    With memories you left in basket
    Filled with emotions only mine.

  63. Dear Moosehead,
    Who the hell are you to
    talk to me about communication?
    Like you ever write back! Numbskull!
    Do me a favour communicate with your
    Harpies – they are giving me a rash!
    Talking of communication – somebody
    speak to that bullpen, will they? This win one –
    lose one season start is giving another rash!
    Games on at the sports bar – see you at seven.
    Bring money for wings.

    Scratchily yours
    Ringo the Howler

  64. drwasy says:

    THE MINISTER’S WIFE WRITES A SERMON

    You call this timbered space
    a church, yourselves
    congregants communing
    as one to find a One

    but behind your crooked
    smiles, your hoary handshakes
    stand adultered hearts
    and gluttonous envies

    and this—
    this I would utter to you,
    Judas friends: before
    you throw words my way

    peer into your chalice,
    find what reflects
    what shines brightest
    and name it: opposite.

    But here I am impotent,
    here I stay, stultified,
    made small
    under the bell jar.

    ***
    Happy PAD everyone! Looking forward to poeming with all, and happy to see so many familiar folks. Thank you Robert, and congratulations on 5 years! Peace, Linda S-W

  65. Nothing Left to Say

    The muse was caught
    The muse was boxed
    The muse was buried
    deep in the Earth
    and forgotten…

    …it struggled for a while
    but finally lay still
    and quiet…

    …mulling
    pondering,
    contemplating.

    It had come as a complete surprise
    that it was no longer required
    almost as much of a surprise
    as the fact that it had nothing left to say.

    So it lay there still
    dormant
    waiting
    to wake in spring
    and burst forth
    like a fresh new bloom
    stretch to the sky
    and try
    try
    try
    once more.

    Iain

    What is this “posting too quickly” nonsense? HMMM already feeling put off…

  66. Leo says:

    My Day 1, though I’m delayed a tad. I hope to be on time from Day 2.

    Born in me, by Leo.

  67. Aylat says:

    I’m new here and marvelling at the beauty of everyone’s poems!

    Posting again because yesterday it said awaiting moderation, and today it’s disappeared.

    Untitled

    I used to be articulate, lucid, precise.
    I conjured burning metaphors, my mouth bursting spice.
    I split your hairs so carefully, rebraiding very fine.
    My castles towered in the air, straight in every line.

    Now words falter from my teeth
    Paler than my thought
    Like the dress delivered from the online catalogue
    They fall short

    My treadmilled brain can’t lift its head
    I’ve covered many miles but my soul is bled.

    The rust I’ll scrape off from my tools
    Polish to a shine
    And the first words that I need to speak
    Are mine to me.

    • dextrousdigits says:

      I loved, “my mouth bursting spice”, “castles towered in the air” “words falter” “the dress delivered from online..” “my treadmilled brain” Good job

    • Sheryl says:

      I love the line “Like the dress delivered from the online catalogue
      They fall short.” How often my words fall short recently.

  68. Jaywig says:

    Day 1 – a communication poem

    He drops in unexpectedly.
    To cheer me up? Keep me posted?
    To tell me he and the missus
    are doing just fine?
    My heart skips as

    in his jewelled blue suit
    he bounces on the cream brick
    paving, tail like a wagging finger.
    I can’t help myself:
    Hullo Mr Wren! I call through
    the window.

    At which he hop-steps-and jumps
    off human territory
    onto the low branches of a gum tree.

  69. KarenWalcott says:

    I know that you dream of travel
    Of seeing the ocean, of feeling hot
    Sand between your toes, of camping in the forest
    Underneath 100 year old redwoods, their lush
    Green canopies yearning to the sky, of seeing Paris
    From the top of the Eiffel Tower, of walking across
    The golden gate bridge, watching sea lions sunbathing
    Of walking down the streets in Barbados
    Eating roasted corn and drinking Guiness
    But there are Zombies out there and
    you are as safe as you can be within the Enclave

  70. Akua says:

    By his fetid breath
    heavy with petulance
    and the unfulfilled hunt
    i know my cat sits next to me

  71. pearl says:

    http://lanijo.com/poetry/leave-message

    Hello, you’ve reached me
    Well, not me, just a part of me
    My voice on the phone
    Your heart on the line and
    I’m sorry I can’t take your call.
    I’m not in, or I’m in and not
    answering because, well
    the reasons are too
    numerous to mention
    but I’m glad you called
    I’m glad we’ve connected
    If only for a moment
    If only in my dreams
    so please leave a message
    after the beep.

  72. Sheryl says:

    Unformed

    Heavenly Father,

    In this new month
    habits could trump thinking,
    and days whiz past
    without conscious thought.

    Former of the once-
    formless earth, help me
    form this month’s actions
    with your priorities mind.

    Sheryl Kay Oder

  73. deedeekm says:

    we sing and yell
    say never tell but always
    do we can’t compel
    ourselves to hush
    to not say much is
    out of touch with
    who we are
    we facebook, tweet
    and update all
    for all must know
    our daily doings
    a fascination
    with our lives
    ourselves we delve
    into the details
    like staring at entrails
    as though they hold
    the secrets coldly
    we are just immune to
    world around
    outside means nothing
    when you’re social
    bound to laptop, cellphone
    tablet, players
    take your pick of any flavor
    you be the star
    of your own little drama
    just have a look
    it’s a me-orama

  74. Mr. Walker says:

    Communication

    I could whisper from far, far away
    but you might think I’m trying to trick you

    What trick is this, you’d ask,
    but couched as a whisper I can’t hear

    I could shine a light on my point
    or I could just point at the string

    of conversations we’ve had and trust you
    to find the light’s shine all on your own

    Or I could string you along
    so that you’d wish for a truth

    that you could smell or taste,
    or pet or paw as if it were a shape

    to be held, when you know the smell
    of subterfuge and the taste of bitterness,

    angry that I’ve treated you as a pet,
    smacked your paw with a rolled newspaper

    And then I light a cigarette from my pack,
    blowing smoke signals at you,

    trying to pack as much information
    in every motion that I make,

    the shape of every syllable and sound,
    the wish I breathe as I shape this poem

  75. vincegotera says:

    Dear Mr. Frost, or may I call you Jack . . .

    Where’ve you been hanging these past few months?
    I only had to fire up the snow blower once. It coughed
    miserably, neglected and forlorn, before turning over
    and throwing some slush onto the brown lawn.

    Where was your wind, keen as new razor blades?
    Where were your white-out blizzards? Black ice?
    Your snow banks shouldering up to the eaves?
    Your crystal clear sleeves on twigs and branches?

    Were you maybe tending glaciers, making sure
    they didn’t calve icebergs into the shipping lanes.
    Or traffic-cop shepherding migratory birds, addled
    by strangely warm winds, the slipping magnetic field.

    That weird cold snap in the Azores in February,
    temps dropping down into the 60s, was that you?
    Catching rays on a sandy beach, trading white sand
    for white snow, your magenta Aloha shirt freezing

    to your frigid back and sternum. Listen up, Jack.
    Come your 4 billionth birthday, 23 December 2012,
    you better be back on the job. Ringing the moon with ice.
    Scissoring each and every snowflake into glittery lace.

  76. vincegotera says:

    Robert, sorry. Posted an old version. Will do again. –V.

  77. Lynn Burton says:

    A Voicemail to My Muse

    I’ve been trying to reach you all day,
    and you haven’t returned my calls.
    You’d think it’d be easier for us to connect
    but sometimes you’re so far out of reach
    you might as well be on another planet.
    Call me back. I really need to speak with you.

  78. vincegotera says:

    Dear Mr. Frost, or may I call you Jack . . .

    Where’ve you been hanging these past few months?
    I only had to fire up the snow blower once. It coughed
    miserably, neglected and forlorn, before turning over
    and throwing some slush onto the brown lawn.

    Where was your wind, keen as new razor blades?
    Where were your white-out blizzards? Black ice?
    Your snow banks shouldering up to the eaves?
    Your crystal clear sleeves on twigs and branches?

    Were you maybe tending glaciers, making sure
    they didn’t calve icebergs into the shipping lanes.
    Or traffic-cop shepherding migratory birds, addled
    by strangely warm winds, the slipping magnetic field.

    That weird cold snap in the Azores in February,
    temps dropping down into the 60s, was that you?
    Catching rays on a sandy beach, trading white sand
    for white snow, your magenta Aloha shirt freezing

    to your frigid back and sternum. Listen up, Jack.
    Come your 4 billionth birthday, 23 December 2012,
    you better be back on the job. Circling the moon with ice.
    Scissoring each and every snowflake into shimmery lace.

    by Vince Gotera

  79. bclay says:

    Hello everyone, I know it’s been a couple years now that I have participated here, but recently the muse has began calling again and I never refuse her to write, so I’m hoping to get these gears turning once more to enjoy another awesome April of poeming, great to hear so many familiar voices here, Thanks for the opportunity and all the effort that makes this possible Rob!

    Epidermal Truths

    Anguish is an easy word
    to utter through the mouth,
    but becomes more difficult
    to pronounce in mechanical
    tongues of tightening knuckles
    and spasming muscles beneath,
    and resonates longer with closed
    eye lids and the contracting brows
    that devastate diaphrams in breadth.

  80. donnellyk says:

    ON THE WINDOW

    Bleary eyed and straining to see
    through
    rivulets of rainwater around fingerprints
    left
    The five fingertip window press steamy
    lingering
    a love farewell imprinted slowly washing
    away
    when exactly did your kiss become perfunctory
    leaving
    me yearning for the deeper connect of old song filled
    times
    I waited by the window in the dusky evenings watching for your headlights
    curving
    into the gravel drive, light skimming over my fresh scrubbed face you
    striding
    up the walk not down and away, knuckles rapped playfully in
    those
    times of old when I had my nose pressed against the pane
    breathing
    heavily when verbal communication failed
    touch
    no longer ignited passion you became aloof
    unreachable
    your notes, further and fewer between void of passion
    you have no key now and I stopped lighting candles
    a smudged fingerprint taped
    rumpled
    piece of scrap paper, ink running in the
    rain
    “sorry I missed you”
    Gathered in my tiny fist
    balled tightly I lay on my pillow
    waiting
    for sounds of the crunching gravel
    lights
    to shine over my bedroom wall
    pinging
    pebbles to bounce off my window beckoning
    me
    to come and play and dance and sing with you
    again
    in the rain what are you trying to say to
    me
    I’ve become lost in the translation.

  81. I gave up posting comments because of them landing in the wrong place and getting the message about posting too quickly. So I was going to write a list of my favorites but that proved useless too since everyone is writing my favorites today. So great job, everyone!

  82. kwolf says:

    Today’s News about Tori Stafford

    You read too far
    you knew
    you should have looked away
    and now it plays
    over and over
    in your head

    so loud
    you cannot hear
    to think

    buzzing, ringing, crashing
    over and over
    a loop

    innocence
    violence
    described in detail
    combine
    to create a
    sick
    pit
    in your gut

    turn the page
    quickly now

    now

  83. AintNoNinny says:

    THE DAY SHE LEFT

    the day she left

    she woke to his lips on her neck
    his love tracing
    wordless shivers
    that she recognized even through the
    mask of sleep

    he danced his love in slow motion
    leaving all words
    for another to sing
    as his body guided hers through
    their closing time

    she lay across from his eyes
    saw the beginning
    and the end there
    and all the in-betweens that had
    brought them to now

    fear built a dam behind her heart
    but his encircling arms
    communicated
    a universe of possibilities
    that spoke loudly of hope

    even then,
    the day she left

  84. Sharon says:

    Crazy Love

    You said you didn’t
    Want to talk about it dear
    And yet if we didn’t
    How would you ever hear
    The very thing I need
    So awfully much to say.
    If you think to hide from me
    On this our wedding day.

    This dialogue from 30 years ago
    Still rings the empty knell
    Of words left unspoken
    A dully thumping bell.
    And yet our lives have been
    Full and joyous too,
    Your silences never kept me
    From crazily loving you.

  85. shann says:

    hey dave

    It’s been too many dead ringers since
    serious words puddled in my throat
    seeking your ear way north of Richmond
    while I fretted about whether spilling
    selected personal details down your shirt
    makes sense.

    Everything important starts
    in common circumstance, then slips slopes
    to land seat-first in a steady boat-
    the point being thinking about
    just talking with you
    grounds me most days

  86. Christod says:

    If you take a tick away
    from the clock, then you’re
    left with a tock with no
    rhyme nor reason to go
    on with a time

    who turned its hands
    from healing to reminding
    that there is no one to
    click to anymore.

  87. emagee says:

    the sinking sun
    signals
    suppertime
    for a chattery
    chipmunk.
    slowly but soulfully
    he seeks
    a fallen acorn
    or better–
    a slight spill
    from the feeder
    of a sweet songbird,
    who notices
    a striped stranger
    surveying
    the scene.
    she shimmies and
    at once, a shower
    of seed decorates the
    soil below.
    one savory surprise,
    after all,
    could be the beginning
    of a spicy,
    spring
    fling.

  88. singingpoet says:

    Your last message
    revised and sent @ 10pm April 1
    was garbled.

    Something about
    lost keys; misplaced sermon notes

    Your tone
    tired, clear
    found me,
    wanting to retrieve them
    and you.

    But where
    to begin…

  89. Charles Cote says:

    Meaning

    If I say spring think of falling
    twigs, the winter kill we’ll rake in April.

    If you say April think of pulling
    off your shirt and making love all night.

    If I say night think of seeing
    stars and moonlight in the harbor.

    If you say harbor think of holding
    back a river from the ocean.

    If you say ocean think of waiting
    for an answer to a question.

    If you say question think of telling
    me how hard and that it’s final.

    If I say final think of nothing
    and that silence says it all.

  90. Nimue says:

    Each week, you return to me
    with no new words or messages,
    each week I welcome still
    with open arms,smiling
    at the god’s gift
    even for time being.
    I tell my fears and secrets
    in details,shamelessly
    to you alone and spaces
    that your kisses leave
    between my curses
    to you,myself and living,
    struggling to be free
    of either you or the habit
    to need, regularly.

  91. maggzee says:

    The News
    (for Carlo)

    If we read the news as Dr. Seuss
    Some awful whimsy might break loose
    Hard to talk of war and crime
    In splat foot rhythm and free form rhyme

    China, Iraq and then Iran
    What rhymes with Afghanistan?
    Empty words and fake decorum
    Gingrich, Romney and Santorum

    Let’s have a night where nightly news is
    Read by budding Dr. Seusses
    The weather map and traffic jam
    Brought to you by Green Eggs and Ham

  92. Nikki Markle says:

    “Venus & Mars”

    She was from Venus;
    He was from some other place.
    She asked questions and prompted responses.
    He stuck to the basics and issued orders.

    “It’s getting cool outside, right? Should you maybe take a coat, you think?”
    “It’s cold. Take a coat.”

  93. I wonder why my posts are going straight to “awaiting moderation.” I posted at 7pm.

  94. Marie Elena says:

    In order to only post once (since my computer is soooo not communicating quickly enough with the site), I’m going back to the old way of commenting.

    It’s great to be together again for another April! Unfortunately, I’m afraid my time will be quite limited for reading/commenting as I love doing. Bummer. But I’m going to try to keep up as best I can.

    Today’s favorites are:

    Hannah’s “Close Talking”
    Immaginealchemy’s “Confession” (I don’t believe I’ve seen your work before. Hoping to see much more!)
    Sara McNulty’s “I know just how you feel.”
    Kendall A. Bell’s “Dissection.”
    JanetRuth’s untitled piece. (Live for the love of it makes another appearance!)
    Sharon Ingraham’s untitled piece (how adorable is that!)
    Marian V’s “Hands”
    Buddah’s “Tips”
    Euphrates’ “Things we take for granted”
    Walt Wojtanik’s “Whisper Something”
    Clauds’s “Five Star” (Wow … so different from you, my friend!)
    Everything Jackson!

  95. singingpoet says:

    Your last message
    sent @ 10pm April 1
    was garbled.

    Something about
    lost keys; misplaced sermon notes

    Your tone
    tired, clear
    found me,
    wanting to retrieve them
    and you.

    But, alas
    where do I
    begin.

    Frank Faine

  96. UNTOUCHABLE

    Dear Dad,

    I regret the fact that I missed your passing…
    March 20, 2012– 5:20 am
    Even though I endured a long and hardy 31 hour trek,
    1800 miles non-stop across 8 states without sleep–
    I still missed you by three hours.
    You were so close, yet so far away,
    so untouchable, unreachable.
    and now this moment would be unforgettable,
    indelibly etched, engraved on my heart
    cracked and riven.

    You had already made your departure from
    “Heaven on earth” as you called it, Arizona.
    the moment I received that text and
    those words flashed across my cell:
    “Dad passed this morning,” was nothing less than Hell on Earth.
    Down the 17, through the San Francisco peaks,
    across Happy Valley road without a smile,
    it seemed like it would never end–
    skirting mountain after mountain, I envied their stability,
    jealous over their steadfastness,
    while I toppled over in anguished tearful tyranny
    hemmed in by desert lands parched and deprived
    while I lie soused in a sea of hapless emotion…

    But I knew it was your time to go.
    my only regret is that I wish we could’ve connected more.

    Anyways, I love you, Dad.

  97. seingraham says:

    Truly Yours

    Sincerely meant
    Each time we leave
    and always exchange
    Just a few words:

    “We’ll be in touch”
    “Oh – for sure”
    “Don’t forget – you too”
    “Don’t be a stranger”

    The best of intentions
    fall into disarray
    as time slips by
    The interconnected
    web becomes less so
    every day.

    S.E.Ingraham

  98. sarite says:

    So exciting to be n our 5th year! Who woulda thunk it?

    Was drawing a blank and then had a coversation with myself…

    Compost comfort
    The recipe called for a cup of basil
    I cut the whole plant
    Washing dark green stems
    Still fragrant from being
    Sliced from their life source
    A pang in my chest
    Who am I, what gives me the right
    To end it’s solar stretch, and
    Budding future?
    Life is not infinite
    I consoled myself
    Some day I’ll be great
    Compost
    Feeding future sprouts
    Of green

  99. Dan Collins says:

    Primary Lateral Discussion

    How do you talk
    about something
    that moves at the speed
    of decay? What about
    all those missing

    neurons? I’ve caught
    a touch of death –
    but not to worry, it will
    probably be a slow one – I just try

    to remember that emptiness
    always keeps a few
    secrets.

    Here is one: I am
    losing the use of my legs.
    But I’m not complaining;
    everyone
    is losing something …
    What I hate

    is that our conversation
    revolves around what
    is disappearing into dust
    as much as what is coming
    into being: All

    those wobbly things
    rolling out
    like new horses, eager,
    unsteady -
    yet ready to outrun
    us, like little Secretariats.

  100. Marie Elena says:

    The Kool-aid House On the Block (A doditsu)

    If the garage door is down,
    My kids cannot play right now.
    If the garage door is up,
    Bring your smile on in!

  101. Kelly Eastlund says:

    Pointed Questions

    I’d known her for five minutes
    and had already seen her breasts—
    bare nipples pointed at a sunlit window
    as she sat on the floor
    mending her shirt.

    In that communal house
    where every nook bleeds art and the
    bookshelves are arranged by color,
    I should have known the usual
    rules would not apply.

    “So what do you do?” I ask.
    “Can you ask a more pointed question?” she requests.
    And so the game begins.
    “Do you work, or…?”
    “Can you ask an even more pointed question?”
    Her blue eyes appraise me.

    “Um, do you have a job?” I flounder.
    “More pointed still?”
    When I don’t respond, she finally relents:
    “Are you asking what I do to make money?”
    “Yes,” I say, but what I should have said was

    Never mind.
    I’ll roll my rounded question away,
    bounce it down the pretty steps,
    go where people are kind enough
    to gently toss it back
    instead of puncturing it.

  102. “The Answer to the Question:
    Why would you stay up all night to read that book?”

    These words on paper
    open holes
    in the universe.
    Allowing me to see
    what I never have a hope
    of seeing.
    Allowing me to believe
    that
    we are well
    and good
    and smart enough
    to not cause
    our own end.

  103. thebearpaw says:

    I’m reposting again because I don’t know what it means with the message on the previous post: message is awaiting mediaton. ???

    IMPORTANT NOTICE

    This may not come as a
    surprise to you and by all
    appearances it doesn’t but
    a burner has been left unattended
    one in which if not used may leave one
    trying to cook longer than usual and
    be left dismayed at the results of
    such effort. It is imperative that you
    utilize the fourth burner as the results
    of not doing so will end all further
    processes and will leave us no
    other option than to outsource whereby
    you will not be involved in the
    consumption thereof.

    (c) Carolyn Red Bear 2012 all rights reserved

  104. LCaramanna says:

    Communicate

    Communicate,
    Don’t hesitate,
    There’s no debate,
    The consequence is too great.
    Communicate,
    Don’t make me wait,
    Set me straight,
    Not much longer will I wait.
    Communicate,
    Opinionate,
    Motivate,
    Your words alone can penetrate.
    Communicate,
    Don’t exaggerate,
    Just illuminate
    The path I should take.
    Communicate,
    Now –
    I’m listening.

  105. hurtin-heart says:

    You lie
    You lie,you lie
    the truth about you,you hide
    your guilt,your guilt
    eats you up inside
    you hurt,you hurt
    everyone around you
    you lie,you lie
    till the truth is no longer real to you.
    Your such a fool,have no clue
    of what you’ve done
    or maybe you just don’t care
    cause that’s how you’ve won
    The games you play,the hearts you break
    from your lustful ways.
    You just a boy,wantin’ to be a man
    but you can’t, cause you lie.

  106. CMcGowan says:

    Don’t you hate that teacher
    That’s like, “I still have 24 seconds”
    Don’t put your stuff away.
    My English teacher does that…
    #bitchbetrippin
    Like I care about Atticus Finch,
    Boo Radley, or some other shit.
    “Do I have to read this for homework?”
    Damn…I got other things to do.
    Like spend time on Twitter
    Actin’ like I’m bigger, older than I am…
    #imgrown
    #dontneedtoread
    #smokedenoughweed
    #bechillin
    “What?” “I failed the test?”
    Damn…my mom’s gonna kick my ass
    #screwed

    • Brian Slusher says:

      I like how you incorporate Twitter into the poem, and I think you (unfortunately) capture the way many kids think about their teachers.

      • CMcGowan says:

        Thanks Brian. I actually wrote that poem because of what a student said about me (I am the English teacher) – he actually tweeted the line “Don’t you hate that teacher that’s like we have 24 seconds” #bitchesbetrippin. (Other students told me about it – they tell on each other like crazy!) Rather than get upset, I decided to use it to my advantage :-). Glad you enjoyed the poem!

        -Cresta

  107. Nickie says:

    Miscommunication on the Subway

    Running late, A jumped onto the train,
    the sliding doors closing shut a moment later.
    Reading quietly, B stood with his newspaper,
    bracing himself against a pole as the train lurched ahead.

    A’s arm brushed against B’s newspaper
    as he wedged himself into what space there was.
    B stretched his foot to the side just enough
    so that A stumbled over it.

    A muttered %@*^! under his breath.
    B shot right back with *#!@&.
    A scowled and shoved B backwards.
    B snarled and kicked A’s shin.

    A spit at B’s face.
    B took a bite out of A’s arm.
    A pulled out a knife
    and plunged it into B’s heart.

    And all along, C said nothing.

  108. KJourneay says:

    Hollow

    I didn’t understand the meaning
    of the sound at first,
    the ratta-tat-twack
    of beak against wood,
    until suddenly I did.
    A pileated woodpecker
    assaulting a dying branch,
    announcing his intention to the bugs inside:
    “I’m gonna get you!
    I’m gonna get you!”

    Uneasily I remember
    my father in law’s last email,
    announcing to the family
    a similar intent.

    My hand reaches for the camera,
    but the red headed joker eludes my lens,
    darting between branch and bud
    back to his mate, leaving behind
    only his wild laughter.

    Closing my eyes
    I imagine them, bird and bride,
    twining necks over this year’s nest,
    crests ruffling one more time.

    I wonder,
    will there be time for the doctors
    to dig out the cancer lingering
    in the hollow places of his bones?

  109. Marie Elena says:

    Prayer (A dodoitsu)

    Communicating through prayer
    Is as music to my ears,
    Only when I am in tune
    With the Still Small Voice.

  110. “Scenes in Super 8″

    Mind if I call you later?
    You see, I don’t always know
    what to say when you’re here.
    But later, when my mind replays
    this moment, this dialogue,
    casting famous actors in our roles
    and shooting scenes in Super 8,
    I will know my lines.
    Let me practice in front of my
    large vanity mirror, timing myself,
    perfecting my inflection.

    But I can’t call you later, can I?
    Now is the only now we have.
    Later, we’ll no longer be the two
    we are sitting here, captured only
    in the constant thread of time.
    My makeup will never be perfect,
    just as the light will always miss
    your face. We’ll never be a movie.
    I will never be Clark Gable.

  111. JillToria says:

    Your thumb stroked the back of my hand
    your brown eyes met mine without flinching
    and years went by
    until
    one day I noticed that your hand no longer
    reached for mine;
    and when did it happen that those brown eyes
    began to look quickly away, around, or over my head?
    I reach my hand
    I look to your eyes
    and too late, realize what I have lost.

  112. Incommunicado

    Say it, I plead.
    Your eyes mist as you stare wordlessly at me then
    desperately search the floor for a diversion.
    No luck there.

    Resigned and with one quick tug,
    the band of gold vacates your finger.

    Like a silent tear splashes
    wastefully on a pair of jeans,
    the ring quietly drops to the carpet and
    rolls under the couch.

    A marriage ends in a whisper of spun gold.

  113. (I’m posting this again, sorry if it creates multiples. My original post is “awaiting moderation,” yet all these other posts are showing up after I posted mine. I’m still new at this, so let me know if I did something wrong or if that is normal).

    This is my first poem ever (at least since writing in grade school when all the lines had to rhyme). But I’m hoping that writing will help me deal with the death of my mentor and best friend. He was the man I used to call every day, share my triumphs and sorrows with. I watched him die slowly as his health faded away. I wrote this just moments ago befor reading what the poem was supposed to be about (I’m new to this, so I wasn’t aware there was a theme when a friend challenged me to write a poem a day), but I think it fits the theme nicely.

    It’s about time, something I took for granted before his death and something I feel like stole those daily phone calls from me… The words that often kept me going.

    So…. Here goes. My first poem. Please be gentle.

    Time.
    It’s always fleeting
    Yet always increasing.

    It takes its toll on our bodies
    While it adds and subtracts,
    Making us older as the clock runs out.

    Time.
    It makes a problem worse
    But can heal all wounds.

    It divides generations,
    Brings new ideas to light,
    All while repeating the lessons of our past.

    Time.
    It ticks away in truth and contradiction,
    Each passing moment a friend and enemy.

    It is both a gift and a curse,
    Something we treasure and waste,
    A right that is not guaranteed.

    Time.
    It can change everything or nothing at all,
    But only we can decide its fate.

  114. RobHalpin says:

    Forms of Communication: Challenge/Response

    “You got a problem?”
    …dead silence…
    BANG. “Not anymore.”

    Forms of Communication: PC…sort of
    Beep beep squeek blip beep
    Squeak beep skreeeeech.
    R2 says “hello”

  115. lisahelene says:

    Missing the Note

    listening but not hearing
    as the the cantor sings, our choir swings
    I am striving to make the perfect sound
    my ears flll, my nose twitches,
    and right before we start the descant
    I sneeze

  116. whoophead says:

    It was the day I moved you noticed me
    The day , that day such miles away
    I knew then that our love would be
    But only if, that I could stay

    I write you now as I’ve wrote you then
    Near we were , yet far apart it seems
    Of hearts that held our love to mend
    Now we will only have the others dreams

    When you see my note, my last hurrah
    Don’t think of tears just remain strong
    Though even as the line was drawn
    My heart held out for just so long

  117. cam45237 says:

    Pleasantries

    Hi how are you?
    (please make this brief, I am very busy and I don’t have time for you)
    Fine, How are you?
    (Really? We’re going to have a conversation about this? How fine we both are?)
    Fine
    (Happy now? I politely answered your question. Can I get on with my day?)
    Goodbye
    (Alone. I hear the echo of the ocean)

  118. Bruce Niedt says:

    Wow! 254 entries already! Well, welcome everyone! Once again, I doing something demented and combining two prompts for one poem. I will also be following this site: http://www.napowrimo.net/, whose first prompt of the month is to write a triolet. So here’s my triolet on communication:

    Incommunicado

    I do not have a Facebook page.
    My friends think I live in a cave.
    I know we’re in the Info Age
    but I don’t have a Facebook page.
    Why do I spurn this social gauge?
    Well, I think that I’m rather brave.
    I do not have a Facebook page.
    My friends think I live in a cave.

  119. Sara McNulty says:

    April 1, 2012 – Write a communication poem

    I Know Just How You Feel

    In our twilight
    years of marriage
    we are comfortable
    with silence, needing
    slightest movements
    of the body– a turn
    of head, a rapid
    blinking of the eyes,
    wriggling toes,
    repositioning
    of seated legs,
    or sighs softly
    escaping in tone
    of sounds, known
    only to each other–
    to determine
    the other’s mood
    or thought, and when
    words are needed
    with careful choosing,
    or better left unsaid.

  120. lady maggie says:

    Casual Convo

          “Et cetera.”   “Et cetera? The end
          is rarely that expected.”   “Which is why
          one says so after.”   “‘Too late,’ you imply?”
          “‘Assume’ is what, but since I’m still your friend
          in Facebook terms, we play nice, right?”   “Depend
          on it.”   “I used to. I might even try
          to once again.”   “Oh?”   “Yeah, or not.”   “No lie,
          that’s what makes it so easy to pretend.”
          
          “‘Whatever,’ right?”   “‘Whatever.’ Choose your word.
          I’m not responsible.”   “By that you mean
          you hold against me what you think gets heard
          or doesn’t get that close.”   “Don’t make a scene.”
          “A scene? A life was more what I’d preferred,
          as if one word made sense beyond this screen.”
       
       
       

  121. Marcia Gaye says:

    April 1, 2012

    A “Communication” poem
    Happy April Everybody! It’s day one and I’m already behind and swamped under. So here’s a dash-off that needs a lot of work, but oh well. When I’m stressed I go for silliness. It’s gotta get better as the month goes along. Right? I’m excited to “see” you all here again. How am I ever going to read all these marvelous poems?

    Jargon

    It wasn’t my usual station, the step-down from ICU,
    Unfamiliar with their protocols, I did the best that I could do.
    A nurse monitored the monitors, and I answered the phone;
    Suddenly she jumped up and ran to room 301.
    And then to my amazement a doctor ran up too,
    Something I had never seen – a doctor on the move.
    And as he trotted by me he said over his shoulder
    “Call a code”, that’s what I heard, and I obeyed his order.
    Response was swift and there was quite a large convergence
    Of respiratory, cardiac, and pharmacy – in urgence.
    The doctor was just sitting there, calm until perturbed
    By the sudden conglomeration – “Who called a code?” he yelled.
    He’d said “Be Prepared to call” sighed my supervisor;
    And you’d think that over time I grew somewhat wiser,
    But mistakes, not quite so serious, and at which now I can laugh
    Were not so funny to some people, my silly little gaffes.

    “This computer keeps asking for the patient’s ID number,
    I’ve given it the info but I’m getting nowhere except swamped under.”
    “Just because you’re in a hospital don’t forget computer lingo:
    It’s saying the numbers are inVAlid, not INvalid!” Bingo.

    Then there was the day with an irritated youth,
    “I am NOT an SOB!” he wheezed, but I insisted it was truth,
    He was SOB, ‘Short Of Breath,’ I clarified,
    Then I wrote that he clearly also denied
    Using drugs or ETOH. He thought I thought he was lying.
    But ‘deny” just means answering ‘no.’ And still I kept on trying.

    Then there was the time a patient returned from a test,
    I told the nurse “Your patient’s on the floor” and nearly gave her an arrest.

    A doctor once asked me who had done something I didn’t do.
    “Not I,” I blithely answered, not noticing his face turn blue.
    The stricken looks on all the nurses made me pause and ask
    “What? What did I say?” “He wondered who WOULD assist him, not who DID,” they gasped.

    I left the medical environment eventually,
    For something more dramatic, with acceptable hyperbole.
    For now I am a writer, and I write anything I choose,
    And when I get it all screwed up I blame it on my muse.

    Marcia Gaye

  122. This is my first poem ever (at least since writing in grade school when all the lines had to rhyme). But I’m hoping that writing will help me deal with the death of my mentor and best friend. He was the man I used to call every day, share my triumphs and sorrows with. I watched him die slowly as his health faded away. I wrote this just moments ago befor reading what the poem was supposed to be about (I’m new to this, so I wasn’t aware there was a theme when a friend challenged me to write a poem a day), but I think it fits the theme nicely.

    It’s about time, something I took for granted before his death and something I feel like stole those daily phone calls from me… The words that often kept me going.

    So…. Here goes. My first poem. Please be gentle.

    Time.
    It’s always fleeting
    Yet always increasing.

    It takes its toll on our bodies
    While it adds and subtracts,
    Making us older as the clock runs out.

    Time.
    It makes a problem worse
    But can heal all wounds.

    It divides generations,
    Brings new ideas to light,
    All while repeating the lessons of our past.

    Time.
    It ticks away in truth and contradiction,
    Each passing moment a friend and enemy.

    It is both a gift and a curse,
    Something we treasure and waste,
    A right that is not guaranteed.

    Time.
    It can change everything or nothing at all,
    But only we can decide its fate.

  123. Kit Cooley says:

    I will be popping in for prompts, and posting at my blog here: http://henwithpen.com/blog/?m=201204

    Happy April!

  124. I am posting this again, as I have no idea why my first post of it in “awaiting moderation”. Maybe this one will be again, as well.

    A dissection
    (after Adrienne Rich)

    I know you are reading this poem
    in the late hours of a gray morning,
    your legs twisted around an uncomfortable
    chair, a mug of something hot trailing
    small streams of steam off towards the ceiling.

    I know you are reading this poem and thinking
    it is about you, as you pick apart the nouns,
    look for the slightest hint of your habits in
    the verbs, and tap your pen feverishly on the
    varnished wood of your dining room table.

    I know you are reading this poem, eager to
    draw lines through stanzas, call something
    cliche and tell me that the title is crap.

    I know you are reading this poem in bitter
    disappointment, knowing that I am being evasive
    on purpose, just to throw you off the scent,
    to keep you from all that my fingers have held
    back while writing it.

    I know you are reading this poem and have already
    buried its words into brain storage, to use against
    me at a later date, when you are standing in the doorway,
    screaming frustrations and pointed accusations.

    I know you are reading this poem, as it is the only
    thing I’ve left behind after the crisp, early April
    air has taken my breathing.

  125. elsiecat says:

    The cats blink. They arch their backs.
    contentment curls their tails around themselves,
    and lashing tails say ‘ I am danger’.
    A throaty purr, with half-closed eyes,
    or feral growl with flattened ears,
    it’s all the same to me, my dears,
    I watch you speak your attitudes
    of moves and sounds of ancient years.

  126. Michelle Hed says:

    S.O.S.

    She is in deep and dire distress,
    She sends out a frantic S.O.S.
    Doesn’t know what to do,
    Frankly she has no clue –
    She just ruined her best party dress!

  127. Michelle Hed says:

    Three Dots, Three Dashes, Three Dots

    With every breath
    longing for your touch,
    your caress –
    Dreaming
    you were here
    next to me –
    Waking
    confused until
    reality squeezes –
    Never
    coming back…
    alone.

  128. Wendy Stevens says:

    Open

    An open book
    has nothing to hide,
    and neither does
    an open heart.

  129. Domino says:

    Finally got home today from a road trip. Got the prompt! Ready for the month! Hi Y’all!!
    Here is my attempt.

    Communication

    Having spent the weekend
    with my sister
    and my niece
    I learned that
    I needed an
    interpreter.

    I haven’t decided yet
    if I am just that
    much
    removed
    from teenagerhood
    or if moms
    are the only ones
    who really understand
    their children’s
    utterances.

    And I wondered if
    I had trouble
    maybe
    because
    my children were all
    boys
    and they
    seemed to have
    no trouble being
    understood.

    (Except that one time
    when Jon was getting
    ice at a drive thru
    liquor store
    in North Carolina
    and they didn’t know what
    on
    earth
    he meant
    until he said,
    “Dja got aaihss?”
    at which point they said,
    “Oh, ICE! Shore!”)

    So maybe it’s just
    teenage-girl-speak
    I am too far removed from.

    At least she knows
    I love her.

    Diana Terrill Clark

  130. lady maggie says:

    Casual Convo

          “Et cetera.”   “Et cetera? The end
          is rarely that expected.”   “Which is why
          one says so after.”   “‘Too late,’ you imply?”
          “‘Assume’ is what, but since I’m still your friend
          in Facebook terms, we play nice, right?”   “Depend
          on it.”   “I used to. I might even try
          to once again.”   “Oh?”   “Yeah, or not.”   “No lie,
          that’s what makes it so easy to pretend.”

          “‘Whatever,’ right?”   “‘Whatever.’ Choose your word.
          I’m not responsible.”   “By that you mean
          you’ll hold against me what you think gets heard
          or doesn’t get that close.”   “Don’t make a scene.”
          “A scene? A life was more what I’d preferred,
          as if one word made sense beyond this screen.”
       
       
       

  131. carolecole66 says:

    The Letter

    I received your letter today and found
    myself utterly at sea. My first thought
    was to run directly to you, but flights
    are erratic and I get nosebleeds so easily.

    What exactly is it you want from me? Perhaps
    if you had phoned I could have read your tone
    but a letter, handwritten, with a postage stamp—
    the quaintness of it all enchanted me.

    I held the letter in my hand for minutes, reflecting
    on the days you met me at the door
    and danced me off to bed before the evening meal
    you had prepared so carefully.

    I read the letter once again and realized
    you hadn’t said a word about wanting me
    or missing me and that reminded me
    of all the empty words you scattered

    through the house believing words
    were everything And I would
    (blind, deceived) pretend to be
    the woman in the letter, the one who loved
    obliviously.

  132. JanetRuth says:

    Hey you
    Yes, you
    there in the mirror
    STOP, taking yourself
    so seriously
    and just
    live for the love of it.
    Does the sun grumble
    because it is too hot
    or the sky long for substance
    that it is not
    Or does the dandelion covet
    a shade other than gold
    Or, does the oak tree sigh
    because it is gnarled and old
    I think not!
    But they live fully
    in their own skin
    and never beyond
    the moment they’re in

  133. kelly the dilettante says:

    In other words
    It was just a metaphor darling
    Too subtle to see with the naked eye
    How could you know
    My affection was burned
    On every line
    So use it up
    Spread it out as far
    As it will take you
    I don’t mind not getting
    my way
    More vital that you
    Know
    What you know now
    Should you tire of
    The beautiful people
    When the joke turns stale
    I’ll remind you
    Of who you are.

  134. JanetRuth says:

    Communicating Perfectly

    I don’t care what you say, my dear
    But just stay
    Here,
    With your breath on my hair
    and your lips ‘gainst my ear
    It’s not so much the words you speak
    as the rush of your scent and such
    While wild crazy nothings brush my cheek
    I melt beneath their touch

  135. suelick says:

    Did I?

    As I walk the dog beneath the pines,
    I engage in fierce conversation
    with my boss, my friend, my father,
    my dead husband, all the people
    to whom I want to explain.

    Music plays in the background,
    something from the radio, a song
    I just performed at church,
    a phrase that keeps repeating,
    as if I’m trying to get it right.

    The words keep coming until,
    behind me, a car approaches.
    Hushing, I raise a hand to wave,
    wondering: Did I say all that out loud?
    The dog, pausing to sniff a leaf,
    looks up, does not reply.

  136. carolynmallory says:

    Speaking to a Dead Poet

    for Robert Kroetsch, 1927-2011

    If I were to talk to you
    about how I feel
    and what I write,
    as if we were peers
    and had some deep connection
    to the written word
    and the world around us,
    and we saw things
    in the same light
    and could laugh as
    well as cry because
    we understood exactly
    what the other was thinking,
    I would say to you,
    Robert,
    your insightful poetry
    has lingered in my heart
    and crept into my soul through the
    texture of lemons, complex
    mathematics, seed catalogue
    lists, and other innumerable
    happenings that you have
    embraced and re-worded
    so that I could
    re-think my own
    re-lationship with the
    word and continue
    to dream about writing
    something as significant
    as your body.

  137. twistedechoes says:

    The Difference Between East and West

    The host told the Dalai Lama a joke
    Which he didn’t get,
    But he laughed anyway,
    So it wasn’t awkward.

  138. PARDON MY BROGUE

    My English has a certain flair
    a sound that’s not gentile.
    A Scot is not the kind of sot
    you want singing for his meal.

    A piper man would sound quite grand,
    without his dialect,
    but a burly Scot could beat the band
    if he didn’t sound like Shrek

  139. PassionateQuill says:

    Girlfriends

    late nights
    and coffee conversations
    fears and dreams
    that are not our own
    believing, crying, laughing, praying
    stocks not measured on the S&P 500

  140. thebearpaw says:

    IMPORTANT NOTICE

    This may not come as a
    surprise to you and by all
    appearances it doesn’t but
    a burner has been left unattended
    one in which if not used may leave one
    trying to cook longer than usual and
    be left dismayed at the results of
    such effort. It is imperative that you
    utilize the fourth burner as the results
    of not doing so will end all further
    processes and will leave us no
    other option than to outsource whereby
    you will not be involved in the
    consumption thereof.

    (c) Carolyn Red Bear 2012 all rights reserved

  141. PassionateQuill says:

    Silent Words

    He watched the back of her head, her side profile, and occasionally even a glimpse of her face, quiet and framed by long mahogany tresses. Almost daily, she read, wrote, or just daydreamed over a steaming cup of tea on the worn beach nestled beneath the street front windows of his bookstore.
    Each day he saw her he transposed exactly what he would say to her. Sometimes he rolled them over and over in his head. Sometimes the words came swiftly as he scratched them on loose parchment in rows of Indian ink. But she never heard these words. She never read them either.
    For she never crossed his threshold, and he never ventured beyond the shop’s battered door. And so day after day, with all the words in the world hanging between them, the only thing they shared, was silence.

  142. PassionateQuill says:

    Silent Words

    He watched the back of her head, her side profile, and occasionally even a glimpse of her face, quiet and framed by long mahogany tresses. Almost daily, she read, wrote, or just daydreamed over a steaming cup of tea on the worn beach nestled beneath the streetfront windows of his bookstore.
    Each day he saw her he transposed exactly what he would say to her. Sometimes he rolled them over and over in his head. Sometimes the words came swiftly as he scratched them on loose parchment in rows of Indian ink. But she never heard these words. She never read them either.
    For she never crossed his threshold, and he never ventured beyond the shop’s battered door. And so day after day, with all the words in the world hanging between them, the only thing they shared, was silence.

  143. Dashes and Dots

    Mr. Morse lived by the code,
    speaking in this archaic mode.
    Tapping out a sad distress
    Save Our Souls; or SOS
    (· · · — — — · · ·)

  144. Maria Phoenix says:

    DINNER WITH PAUL
    Itadakimasu!
    What does that mean?
    Thank you for the food.
    You’re welcome, but what does that mean?
    Itadakimasu?
    Yes.
    Thanks for the food.
    I thought we went over this; it’s fine. What does that word mean?
    That’s what it means.
    What?
    Thanks for the food!
    Oh!

  145. Rosangela says:

    Gerald the Herald

    “Gents ‘n Ladies,

    I commute from Comunion
    to communicate to this community
    the coming-up of the eleventh commandment.

    As per the Commander’s command,
    I shall commence the communication
    with common sense and camaraderie.

    Communes and commoners,
    comrades and comedians,
    compadres and con men,
    collect your chimeras and commodities
    combine them all, also the commodes
    and all the countless conflicts.
    Compromise and commit to common sense
    come out of your coma!
    What else do you need? A coach or a combustion?
    Creatures of consumerism,
    Stay conscious, c’mon!
    Stop and think, consume less, conceive better.
    Common sense is the commandment!

    Comments or commendations,
    convey to commander@communication.com

    ___________
    Note: Comunion is a small town in Álava, Northern Spain.

  146. SPEAKING TO THE PAST

    We’ve come from somewhere,
    we belong to someone.
    Where we stand today
    is a representation of
    those who have gone before us.
    Reacquainting ourselves
    with those places, and faces
    that bear your smile
    or have given you a penchant
    for your artistic abilities. You
    are a student of your ancestry,
    an unheralded heraldry.
    Every seventy-two years
    new relatives emerge; a surge
    of excitement abounds and
    surrounds your heart as family should.
    Communicating through the years,
    a genealogical find binds
    one discovery at a time.

    Tomorrow is the day the 1940 census is released. Bringing us closer to our origins and telling us a little bit about where we’ve been. And giving us a road map to where we are.

  147. WordWeaver12 says:

    Communication

    Talk to me.
    I need to know what you are thinking.
    I need to know how you feel.
    I need you in my life.

    You say life’s been hard on you
    But I got news, its hard on me too
    We seem to face the same old issues
    Some at the surface but others are buried in the tissue.
    And I know they don’t like to see us together
    But it’s not going to stop me from loving you.

    They say that our love goes against anything God could imagine.
    But God brought you to me and me to you.
    God doesn’t make mistakes.
    I love you.

    Talk to me.
    I could care less what anyone else has to say
    Let your words express your love
    Tell me how you really feel.

    I promise I will always love you.
    Will you love me?
    Lets make a deal.

  148. Aylat says:

    I used to be articulate, lucid, precise.
    I conjured burning metaphors, my mouth bursting spice.
    I split your hairs so carefully, rebraiding very fine.
    My castles towered in the air, straight in every line.

    Now words falter from my teeth
    Paler than my thought
    Like the dress delivered from the online catalogue
    They fall short

    My treadmilled brain can’t lift its head
    I’ve covered many miles but my soul is bled.

    The rust I’ll scrape off from my tools
    Polish to a shine
    And the first words that I need to speak
    Are to mine.

  149. Communication IS the key

    Spouses are NOT paper cups
    You can’t just toss one and grab another
    Talk it out, IF you give a crap
    Spouses are NOT paper cups
    Respect your vows, liven things up
    Remember how much you once loved each other…
    Spouses are NOT paper cups
    You can’t just toss one and grab another

  150. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    April PAD it is! Onward and Up Word to us all, precious poets! Ok, muse . . . time to fly! :)

    UNBROKEN BOND

    Yes, I get it,
    At 23, you are a collage grad,
    With a steady girlfriend,
    And a career just beginning,
    To go and grow and so,
    You don’t need Mom,
    And her old ways,
    Of seeing you!
    Tying you to the past!

    I get it!
    You barely let us celebrate,
    Your birthday!
    Yet, as you opened your gift,
    I saw that sincere, red cheeked smile,
    You never could hide from me,
    Glancing through my words,
    In the fresh new picture book of just us!

    A collection of favorite photos and poem,
    Crafting our moments,
    From your birth,
    To Disneyland and all things grand,
    Missing teeth, birthday parties, graduations,
    Proms and family celebrations,
    Collecting bugs to offering hugs!
    Twenty three years together,
    Ages and stages of intimate connection,
    To expanded growth for us both!
    A mother and son relationship,
    Spoken today,
    Partly in memory to a present now,
    Reflecting the passion and beauty,
    Framing our cherished time together!
    Snapshots and words weaving a poetic portrait,
    Of an evolving and enduring love!

    I left it open ended at the end, saying,
    “Through time, do remember each other!
    A continual story unfolding,
    For this son and his mother!”

    I could feel,
    What I had wanted to express . . .
    Touched your heart,
    Tenderly uniting us again,
    As if it had never disappeared!
    A mutual beam of joy,
    Spoke again of a never ending love,
    Throughout a lifetime,
    A bond unbroken!

    Point made . . .
    Let’s have dessert!
    Enjoy all that you are,
    And truly isn’t life grand?

    Oh and . . . Happy Birthday!

  151. seingraham says:

    dere mama
    I am leven heer cuz u hert mi feleins
    luv yor sun
    bs – don b sad i tuk sum oreeos 4 super

  152. Amy Pimentel says:

    Drunk Dial

    Delivered 2:12 AM

    You should know
    I went on a date tonight
    I kissed him against
    my car and let his
    hand go
    up my shirt in the
    parking lot while
    people yelled to get
    a room. The closest
    you came
    to saying you love
    me was when you
    said, I love your tits
    I felt him harden.
    I considered
    the back seat
    because I love you
    and that’s the only
    reason I went
    on a date tonight.

    Delivered 10:10 AM

    Sorry about the text. I
    was drunk.

    Delivered at 10:12 AM

    Ok

  153. Marianv says:

    Hands…

    Her Words

    When I rested my hand
    On top of the table
    And you covered it with your own,
    I marveled at your broad and sturdy fingers
    How they spread outward like a tree .
    I thought I will be safe
    From all kinds of danger
    As long as you stay close to me.

    His Words

    When I saw your hand resting
    Quietly on the table top
    I thought “Such a soft and fragile hand
    Must be protected.”
    I knew you could stand up for yourself
    But I wanted to be sure that each one of your
    Delicate fingers would never come to harm
    As long as I could be there to protect you.

    And so great-grandfather and great grandmother
    Set off into the wilderness where they raised
    A family and farmed good land.

  154. OK, that was weird. Between “posting to fast” or mysterious “duplicate postings” we’re surely off and running. Just separating the pieces:

    I LOVE YOUS

    Tenderness expressed
    in the passion of a
    closerthanthisclose embrace,
    face-to-face the give and take
    of used to bes, becomes
    the give and give of here and now.
    Boomerang kisses never touching ground
    go around and around and find
    their soulful connection. A life of
    love’s true affection is offered
    filling our coffers with golden memories.
    I love you with heart full thoughts.
    I love you with precious dreams.
    I love you without words being said.
    A tenderness expressed in three words

  155. ALL THUMBS

    Thumbs talking;
    finger walking across
    a keyboard. Lost
    in brevity; devoid of levity
    short and to the point
    Good grammar through
    opposable thumbs!

  156. Communication

    Snuggling up.
    Laughing together.
    Exchanging a look.
    Needing only half-sentences.
    We still have days like that.

    I settle into this fond old age,
    treasuring the sweetness
    of time with you. Your hands
    are eloquent —
    holding my shoulder,
    stroking my hair.

    At other times
    you disappear.
    A hostile stranger
    swears at me, yells orders,
    asks the same question
    over and over,
    regardless of answer.

    I am learning that this too
    is communication —
    an indirect message
    of pain and fear.
    Nevertheless,
    at the end of the day I snap
    and communicate wordlessly
    in tears.

  157. I’m delighted to rendezvous here with all of you this April. Feels like a welcome home.

    The wonderful dilemma? Too many poems to comment on. So for today, I love Buddah’s offering,
    “Tips for New Writers.” Yes, Buddah, I can relate.

  158. I LOVE YOUS

    Tenderness expressed
    in the passion of a
    closerthanthisclose embrace,
    face-to-face the give and take
    of used to bes, becomes
    the give and give of here and now.
    Boomerang kisses never touching ground
    go around and around and find
    their soulful connection. A life of
    love’s true affection is offered
    filling our coffers with golden memories.
    I love you with heart full thoughts.
    I love you with precious dreams.
    I love you without words being said.
    A tenderness expressed in three wordsWHISPER SOMETHING

    Mystic memories; haunting and still,
    willing my heart to beat when life
    does not wish to be interrupted to hear.

    Here am I in your shadow wondering
    how my blundering ways stay
    one step ahead of your wanting.

    Wanting nothing more than to hear you
    reverberate in my head as a shout,
    or a trill or a whisper. Telling me your feelings

    feeling full of you love. Shouting upon the rooftops
    that your love never stops it goes on
    to whisper something only I would hear

    here in my heart is where it starts.
    Whisper to me. Whisper sweet nothings.
    Whisper something..

  159. MiskMask says:

    Finger Tips

    Speak to me through the tips
    of my fingers in words that chase
    through spiral mazes of coiled fingerprints.
    Sounds lost in the topiary, irrigated
    words diverted through deep channels,
    words falling on my deafness like dust
    on fragile gold-gilt bound books.
    Save your breath.
    Speak to me through my fingertips.

  160. Day 1
    4-1-2012

    Write a communication poem.

    Talk with a Vine

    You appeal to me,
    your star-shaped throat open crimson,
    your lips a yellow starburst,
    inner edges stained.
    You play for my attention,
    at the roadside,
    insist I admire your handsome red and yellow trumpet.
    Why have I not noticed you before,
    clinging wild to the trees?
    Tell me, bright star that bugles blood,
    are you called the Cross Vine
    and bloom at Eastertime
    for a reason?

  161. Andrea Boltwood says:

    Hinting Glimpses

    Slow exhale
    Dry swallow
    Crackling toes

    Swift or slow
    Slamming a book
    or ruffling pages

    Lingering finger
    or rushed shoulder
    brush behind the
    slam of a door

    My insight into
    what you think, feel
    How you sense me:
    sensational
    or prosaic

    Your opacity
    softens you

  162. Tips for New Writers

    Be honest
    and be clear,

    there’s no point in doing this
    if you’re just going to lie
    or write so you
    won’t be understood.

    If you’re looking for
    giant ego strokes
    then you
    probably want to invest
    in liposuction,
    breast augmentation,
    or hair plugs.

    No,
    if you’re in this
    then you either communicate
    something of value
    or nothing at all.

    If you don’t illuminate,
    then why are you
    trying to shine?

    If you don’t know nature
    don’t write about it,
    and if you don’t know about love
    don’t write about it.

    Write about what you know
    and if you think
    you don’t know anything,

    then start writing about anything
    and fling it onstage
    before the masses,

    and then you’ll learn
    failure and rejection,
    and then write about those;

    they are subjects
    to which we all
    can relate.

  163. De Jackson says:

    Jac! Love this! What fun! Are you triolet-ing all month long? Can’t wait! :)

  164. Cynthia Steers says:

    I am swimming
    in the crystal clear waters of the Georgian Bay.
    I am happy
    listening to the shouts and splashes and laughter
    of my family on the deck behind me.]
    I swim slowly past the point
    The ancient rock determining my path
    I look up at the wind-gnarled trees
    finding precarious toehold in every crack of rock.
    The water holds me.
    The sounds behind me dim.
    I am alone with the water, rocks, trees, sun and sky.
    The me of myself vanishes.
    I am disolved.
    l am as all around me is,
    One.
    We are all one, created of the same matter,
    by the same life force.
    I give thanks for this gift of this knowing.
    and swim back to my family
    A new light in my eye.

  165. dextrousdigits says:

    Ultimatum

    I stand before you all today
    friend and foe
    to remind you of the agreement made
    long ago with your forefathers forefathers,
    the earliest ones
    and the giants who walk on two legs
    to maintain peace and harmony.

    Ancients, adults, parents, teens and wee ones
    be here reminded
    and remind each other.
    If any creature is caught
    crawling on, nibbling, chewing on
    any sprout, herb, or vegetable.
    there will be no mercy on that one found
    harming my little children.

    You may live here and eat
    weeds, grass, even flowers
    or feel free to cross the border
    into any neighboring village to eat as you wish.
    All spiders, lady flies, lace wings, bees, dragon flies,
    and praying mantis’s are welcomed and will be cared for.

    This is a binding contract
    to be enforce hence forth
    each day during growing season.
    This public statement will be proclaimed daily
    prior to nurturing the seeds, sprouts and plants.
    If any insect is caught munching on a child,
    there will be no trials
    not questions, no mercy
    sentencing and execution will be on the spot.

  166. StephanieRosieG says:

    Communication Poem

    Poppy insists on hearing my voice
    But I do not speak unless I must and I never sing
    And so, in the quiet spaces of this old apartment,
    I begin to read old fairy tales out loud.

    “In the olden times, when wishing was having ” and
    “Once upon a time there lived” (of course)
    and “they lived contentedly and happily” and
    “beg as he might they had no mercy, but cut off his head.”

    My words must be formed for me,
    gathered from the scraps of mythical delusions
    because even the most violent of these tales
    is safer than my real story bouncing off these white walls

    One day, I’ll tell Poppy a mostly true story,
    cloaked in the language of folkloric fantasy, and
    it will start “Once upon a time a woman lived alone in the desert,”
    and when I get to the end, I will say that she lived happily ever after.

  167. incommunicado

    thirty triolets plus one
    are keeping me incommunicado
    do not call me on the phone
    thirty triolets plus one
    are keeping me from the sun
    i’m just a poetry aficionado
    thirty triolets plus one
    are keeping me incommunicado

  168. I wrote this for Poetic Bloomings. It kind of fits the prompt so I’ll post it here, too.

    If I Had a Super Cape

    Hey! If I had a super cape
    Like a bird, I’d be free
    I’d sale away to Mozambique
    And I’d be home by tea

    I’d stomp grand grapes in Sicily
    I’d see the Louvre in France
    I’d twirl with whirling dervishes
    And with “where’s Matt” I’d dance

    But with a cape I couldn’t go
    One moment back in time
    To dine with lords and ladies fair
    In castles on the Rhine

    Neither could I see future worlds
    Or meet strange aliens
    Or skip along with Dorothy
    And greet her three odd friends

    I couldn’t eat cheese with Heidi
    Meet Fagin and his crooks
    And so forget the super cape
    I’d rather have my books

  169. Jane Shlensky says:

    Transmissions

    “Prayer is talking; meditation is listening.” Golas

    We sit together across a room and read,
    our brains mouthing words before our eyes
    reacting with smile and sigh, puff and laugh,

    together across a room, we sit and need
    knowledge of the other’s presence that belies
    our breaths’ communication, our loving half

    reaches across to pet a naked toe
    or squeeze fingers as they turn a page,
    the thought of this contentment still and sweet.

    We sit together across a room and know
    that thoughts are heard in silence, a message
    to each other, loved, sent, received, complete.

  170. Euphrates says:

    The Things We Take For Granted
    PAD 4/1/2012

    I got a phone call from my niece today.
    We talked about riding her bike
    And about her new friends.
    She asked about why I left my job
    and I explained that I want to be a nurse.
    And then she was off to play and the phone call ended.
    Five minutes of miracle, if that.
    But still a miracle.
    Because phone calls are miracles when you’re deaf like my niece.
    Phone calls, and closed captioning and interpreted performances…
    So many miracles
    So many bits of daily life that we take for granted.
    Never thinking of the people who can’t hear what we hear
    Or see what we see
    What miracles have you missed today?

  171. Khara H. says:

    Lullaby

    Each word you speak falls
    like a pebble at my feet,
    where I gather them in cairns—
    whisper prayers for understanding.
    Eventually the silence between us
    becomes just as palpable,
    heavy anchored breaths
    bleating out a code of brokenness
    denying every fiber
    of what we truly feel.
    Won’t you remember

    the dulcet tones of lullabies
    before I was old enough to know them?
    Singing back began this crevice—
    knowing, then, my voice
    could be as strong as yours.
    Remembering, too, my first word
    was “no” and not “momma.” Rebellion

    began at birth—the first cries of life
    filtering out your breath, your silent tears,
    each one falling with the definitive
    ring of love, love, love.

  172. posmic says:

    Finger and Thumb

    Neighbors. Shouting
    across a void that seems
    impossible to bridge.

    Thumb, so different
    from the others — it is
    opposable, contrary.

    Finger and thumb
    together; now we have
    the pincer grasp, a feat

    so important, it is in all the
    baby guidebooks. Now baby
    can feed herself Cheerios;

    soon she will use a pencil or
    a hammer to build herself a story,
    a house outside your heart.

    Finger curling down; thumb
    reaching up. The circle they make
    tells us everything is OK.

  173. When the Words Won’t Come

    Words are my passion.
    They float on silvery wisps
    Through my subconscious,
    Swirling whispers waiting
    To be plucked from the air,
    Shaped and molded
    Into snippets of emotion
    Released into the wilds.

    Even after years
    Of practicing my craft,
    I still find at moments like this,
    When loss reaches
    Into my world yet again
    The words just disappear,
    No consoling phrase to tender
    A soothing balm for a mournful soul.
    All I can do is offer a hug
    And a prayer directed heavenward,
    Asking for some sense
    Of comfort for the bereaved.

  174. pmg399@att.net says:

    Social Anxiety

    Should I email – Is there a weigh in today
    There is but you haven’t participated in weeks, so you are not welcome

    Should I text – Is there a weigh in today
    Wow you woke me up. Why are you texting so early? Come if you want.

    Should I just show up – Isn’t there a weigh in today?
    No we are on our way out. I’m sorry you drove all this way.

    I’ll pretend I didn’t know about the weigh in today.
    What I missed it! Did you send out an invitation? I didn’t receive it.

    I’ll wait till later and check for a message. Then I’ll call and say I can’t make it.

  175. Mark Windham says:

    Speaking Softly

    Lean in closer,
    let your hair fall
    around me
    as I whisper,
    for you alone to hear,
    words of affection
    like butterfly breath
    upon your ear.

    Listen closer
    to the meaning
    I intend,
    for mere words
    will fail again to
    impart the depths
    of the love
    I feel.

  176. Jane Shlensky says:

    Messages

    When did we grow to doubt our dreams’
    veracity, suspicious that sleeping visions
    are brought on by too much spice or wine,
    dream warp and weft mirrored in
    whatever we ignore in us,
    whatever our waking worries,
    woven of fear and longing?

    The ancients’ gods reached out in dreams
    of heroes, kings, and godly folk,
    creating a market for interpreters,
    wise men, advisors, and consultants
    to decipher images and step down
    divine wisdom to very human intellects,
    uneasy with contact from above.

    When humans believed in gods that spoke
    in dreams, we still did not credit truth
    from one another, as Cassandra,
    poor troubled girl, spoke loud and plain
    of what the surly gods communicated,
    of futures scorched with fire and stained
    with blood and trickery, of chances to turn

    back and redeem ourselves, her words
    as clear as writing on walls to the illiterate,
    while all around her, people hearing
    their own divine messages, developed
    a habit of forgetfulness or misapprehension,
    gods’ missives misdirected, lost in grace,
    and determined that she was mad.

  177. cindishipley says:

    CAPE COD

    The rain beat against the window,
    a stone flew up and hit the windshield.
    The sky was emerald with a
    narrow strip of white showing
    through in the distance.
    The string that held us together snapped.
    I rushed to grab your end
    but my hands were shaking
    and I missed.

  178. RETURN CALL FORGOTTEN

    The message had been left -
    as messages are -
    in haste and with just enough
    displeasure for the person to whom
    the call was made
    to realize that not being at the
    beck and call of the caller
    was more than likely a mistake

    Yet, it had been ignored
    passed over, like an old piece
    of cheese laying forsaken on the
    hors d’oeuvres plate, until
    hard and dry, it no long makes sense
    to keep it.

  179. Read My Lips

    I join the huddled masses
    At the Macy’s makeup counter,
    That Ellis Island of womanhood
    Where it is still legal
    To sort flesh by shades of skin

    I am warm, I am cool,
    But never neutral, never safe
    From the sterile homogeny
    Of Plum Perfect , Mauve-ulous
    Coral Crush, and Peach Fuzz

    The sweetness is a luscious lie
    As if I my lips could ever taste
    Like Butterscotch and Rum Spice
    Instead of salty sweat

    The only things remaining
    At the bottom of my drain
    Are all the stains that I have scrubbed
    Raw and red and nude

  180. Genevieve Fitzgerald says:

    Walking in Winter

    Mounded snow
    Rounds the edges
    Of stones sleeping in the field,

    Softens the prickled carpet
    Of fall grasses
    With its crust;

    The underfoot steady crunch
    Absorbs all other sounds
    In a hush I can hear

    If I’m willing to notice
    The cold season’s
    Song

  181. Lili_dc says:

    REACHING

    I stood on a stool on my back porch
    Trying to hang a wind chime.
    I leaned across the fence to reach the rusted nail above the window
    And for a moment
    My wind chime sounded like random cries of broken glass.

    Lively woods behind the house went suddenly silent,
    Disturbed by my clumsy attempt to invite the wind to play.
    My balance became iffy,
    And the stool I was standing on did a quick
    Tic, tic, tic.

    Somewhere from the woods, a woodpecker answered,
    With the same beat,
    Effortlessly.

  182. Little victories.

    There was a time I wondered
    if we would ever communicate?

    So much stood in our way:
    the absence of a palate
    to move your tongue against
    was the least of it
    though I didn’t realise that
    at first which was just as well.
    Each new problem had its own timetable
    of shock, grief, acceptance and after a long time
    and many struggles,
    eventual circumvention.

    Now when we talk together
    I know exactly who you are
    and you know exactly who I am.
    It is as if there had never been
    any problems at all.
    “How lucky you are to have such
    an easy relationship together!”
    exclaims a new acquaintance and
    your eyes meet mine and we smile
    and I just say, “Yes.”

  183. LoriP says:

    DFTBA

    When two brothers got tired
    Of their only communication being
    Quick texts shot through busy days
    They decided to start a year-long conversation
    Of daily videos posted to YouTube
    At first they were awkward,
    Unsure of themselves
    But as they began to find their voice
    People began to listen.

    They listened to them develop inside jokes;
    Listened to them ponder questions of life, nerdiness and stuff on heads;
    And listened to them challenge each other to live better lives.
    As the year came to an end their audience had not only grown
    They had become a community of self proclaimed nerds
    With constant communication going on
    In forums, YouTube comments and video responses
    Reminding each other “Don’t Forget To Be Awesome”

    Together they staged a Project to promote charities
    For one day the entire front page of YouTube was flooded with videos
    Made by nerds who decided to stand for something
    Because two brothers wanted to get to know each other a little better.

    (Note: This is a true story. And five years later this community is still going strong- promoting activism, raising money and generally making the world a better place.)

  184. ShreyIyengar says:

    Here’s my communication.

    The background: When the clock struck 12 midnight on March 31, 2012, I updated my relationship status to “engaged” on Facebook. Throughout the day April 1, “likes”, comments and congratulatory messages poured in. Finally, at night, this was my “communication” to those that I pulled a prank on. Please do visit my blog – http://rhythmicredemption.blogspot.in/2012/04/fyi.html

    - FYI -

    I don’t regret to bring to your kind attention,
    that you, gullible lady and sir, worthy of mention,
    are the fortuitous victims of a guile April day prank.
    No. I haven’t yet walked the proverbial marital plank.

    It is my pleasure to inform that, of you, I made a fool,
    and all through the day, as you fell, I kept my cool.
    As I revel in the fruition of my false marital communique,
    I regret to inform, I will be apathetic to any adverse critique.

    Yes, it is another case of the unwed boy who cried out “wolf”,
    with lies, treachery and masquerade, did he, you, engulf.
    But, let it be known, that I seek not the fruit of marital bliss,
    Singledom suits me just fine, nothing at all, seems amiss.

    It is only for the blissful purpose of comedic poetry, did I mock,
    on my binary mending wall, this business of pretend wedlock.
    I shall kiss and make up, and seek atonement in poetic verse,
    with that in mind, you have my kind permission now, to disperse.

    Here’s wishing a wonderful PAD to everyone who is taking part! See you on the other side!

  185. TALKY-TALK

    You ramble with your high-falutin’ words
    psychological bullshit meant for ones
    in search of a way out of their own dilemmas.
    Self-inflicted clap-trap used as excuses
    for the abuses to which you subject yourself.
    Bootstraps are meant to be pulled up with
    force and conviction. Your dereliction your duty
    is a beauty your can’t see. were it up to me
    your advice would go nice for a sob sister or two.
    But between me and you? It’s all just talk.
    Talky-talk. Blah, blah, blah, blah. Blah!

  186. Uma says:

    “When there is a prophet among you, I, the LORD, reveal myself to them in visions, I speak to them in dreams. But this is not true of my servant Moses; he is faithful in all my house. With him I speak face to face, clearly and not in riddles; he sees the form of the LORD.” Numbers 20: 6-8

    He mothers so many, carries them on the back,
    feeds them and trains them in patience
    to follow the path to the land where grapes
    in vines are abundant, meat fills their stomachs.

    The Lord leads him at every step, offers a hand
    when he stumbles in the heat of the desert.
    How is Lord’s touch, is it a balm that cools the skin?
    How is Lord’s voice? Does it sound like a rumble?

    They see the Lord as a column of smoke, not unlike
    smoke from chimneys in their homes in Egypt;
    but when they prayed, placed trust Lord appeared in dreams,
    left traces on sand, sprayed stars in the night sky

    But to him Lord sat across the table, spoke
    in a mesmerizing voice, cupped his hands in warmth,
    held his gaze in love. And always Lord gave him post-it notes
    where instructions were written in a clear legible hand.

  187. bclay says:

    Hello everyone, I know it’s been a couple years now that I have participated here, but recently the muse has began calling again and I never refuse her to write, so I’m hoping to get these gears turning once more to enjoy another awesome April of poeming, great to hear so many familiar voices here, Thanks for the opportunity and all the effort that makes this possible Rob!

    Epidermal Truths

    Anguish is an easy word
    to utter through the mouth,
    but becomes more difficult
    to pronounce in mechanical
    tongues of tightening knuckles
    and spasming muscles beneath,
    and resonates longer with closed
    eye lids and the contracting brows
    that devastate diaphrams in breadth.

  188. WHISPER SOMETHING

    Mystic memories; haunting and still,
    willing my heart to beat when life
    does not wish to be interrupted to hear.

    Here am I in your shadow wondering
    how my blundering ways stay
    one step ahead of your wanting.

    Wanting nothing more than to hear you
    reverberate in my head as a shout,
    or a trill or a whisper. Telling me your feelings

    feeling full of you love. Shouting upon the rooftops
    that your love never stops it goes on
    to whisper something only I would hear

    here in my heart is where it starts.
    Whisper to me. Whisper sweet nothings.
    Whisper something.

  189. MeenaRose says:

    Stunning
    By: Meena Rose

    I look up and there you are
    Smiling at me, your eyes
    Inviting me to the dance floor.

    Between one heartbeat
    And the next, I am
    In your embrace.

    I gaze up as you whisper
    Sweet nothings in my ear,
    I melt into you.

    Two hearts beating
    As one, joyous
    Resonance throughout.

    I close my eyes as a
    Tear threatens to fall,
    Savoring the moment.

  190. loustone says:

    “RE: Happy Birthday”

    “Dear Mom, Thanks. I had the perfect Alex day…….”

    …long run in the morning” down palm-lined San Diego streets, out to Shelter Island where the early morning marine layer blankets the slumbering homeless men, past the marina where fishing boat captains sip their morning lattes. Adjust the sunnies, retie the shoes, two forward lunges to stretch the calf muscles. Ready. Start off slow, get into rhythm, and hit the Shoreline Park trail.

    “…Extraordinary Desserts lunch” at the restaurant where showcases of napoleons, soufflés, tarts, cheesecakes, and éclairs beckon seductively as diners find a table, admire the modern wall sculptures, and sip lemoned water. Order the Mediterranean Peasant Plate of bread, olives, and cheese, then cruise over to do some dessert research. “A truly amazing Passion Fruit Napolean – wow.”

    …special sports treatment” at the massage spa where expert hands knead quads, hamstrings, calves, and Achilles tendons to the faint sound of Tibetan flute music. Plan nothing, just drift.

    “… late afternoon bike ride” around San Diego Bay where tropical flowers etch green park landscaping, picnicking tourists grab for shady tables, bikinied 30-Somethings play at sand volley ball, coffee-colored Arizonians orient themselves to catch the last strong rays, skate boarders weave in and out among children dripping ice cream. Take the ferry ride back, lean on the rail, watch the wind ruffle the hitchhiking gulls’ feathers.

    “….watch basketball game” on the couch where Sophie the cat takes a luxurious stretch, daintily washes a speck of lint off a front paw, circles three times around, then plunks down on the pillow. Arrange feet, get remote, close eyes.

    “Talk soon, Love, Alex”

    2800 miles away, he becomes the little blond boy, arms wrapped around my waist, riding behind me in his bicycle seat smiling as he waves at birds.

  191. SylviaE says:

    Part of the Family

    It has changed
    the way we communicate
    dog to human, me to you
    15 years of trying to make room and make sense to each other
    But you’re deaf now and yes, a little senile, no offense
    and frustrated with your new formed limitation
    but more demanding, doing the rounds to sniff at blankets, make sure bowls are filled on time, and all is business as usual
    I’ve come to clapping behind you, stamping feet and slamming doors to get your attention
    I try to ease that lost look in your eyes in the only ways I know how
    I’ll be here for you. I hope you hear me.

  192. dextrousdigits says:

    Your amber eyes hold my heart
    I caress your neck
    your hummmmm
    vibrates my pelvis
    as you curl up
    your warmth becomes mine.
    No words are necessary.
    Rose Anna Hines

  193. artistiCate says:

    Ode to White and Strunk

    I sat at the table of contents
    feasting on serial commas
    and mixed metaphors that went
    straight to my head

    periodic sentences came at the
    beginning and stayed
    to the end
    but happily,
    needless words were omitted
    from the guest list

    the vowels were late, having
    stopped at the Glottal Café
    for tea

    the tenses and the participles
    were present, but
    the tenses kept shifting and
    the participles
    merely
    dangled

    all the while, overdressed
    adverbs
    ate awkwardly

    in the end,
    the infinitives
    split

  194. Sally Jadlow says:

    Miss Communication

    “Wanda, I want to tell you something.
    Something important.”

    “Really? First, let me show you
    my new shoes.”

    “I, I think . . .”

    “Aren’t they just the cat’s meow?
    They’ll just match my new outfit,
    don’t you think?”

    “They’re nice. Listen, I . . .”

    “I found them on the sale rack
    at Nordstrom’s. Only ninety-nine dollars!
    Fred. Are you listening?
    Fred. Where did you go?”

  195. PowerUnit says:

    I borrowed from Bob’s other challenge, the platform challenge. He challenged followers to define who they are. I am defining myself in a poem. Consider yourself informed.

    I Am

    I am too nice to others
    I always help when I can,
    never refusing to lend a hand,
    I won’t let you down.

    I love ideas and thinking
    Sometimes I like rain,
    I know I don’t like pain.
    I like to find the truth.

    I fight an illness daily.
    I stick myself and cry
    and monitor the why.
    Why can’t I be like you?

    I like to be outdoors.
    I like to feel my feet
    walking down the street.
    Sometimes I stop and listen.

    Saturday is for hockey.
    Sunday is for football.
    I’ve given up on baseball,
    but I follow the Olympics.

    I vote from afar,
    but I live in the middle.
    I never use a griddle.
    Save the world, eat a vegan!

    My brain sees patterns,
    and it crafts fancy tales.
    I like to watch whales,
    I like to ride the ocean.

    My reading is eclectic.
    I drink coffee all the day,
    I never get my way.
    My kids take all my money.

    I can fix your computer,
    or help you save money.
    I love you honey.
    This is who I am.

  196. kwolf says:

    Today’s News

    You read too far
    you knew
    you should have looked away
    and now it plays
    over and over
    in your head

    so loud
    you cannot hear
    to think

    buzzing, ringing, crashing
    over and over
    a loop

    innocence
    violence
    described in detail
    combine
    to create a
    sick
    pit
    in your gut

    turn the page
    quickly now

    now

  197. MeenaRose says:

    Stunned
    By: Meena Rose

    Shocked and stunned at my wit’s end,
    My eyes glaze over at your words
    “This marriage must come to an end.”

  198. Veritas831 says:

    *I just had to post my first draft, before I screw it’s raw emotion up with revisions. ;)

    FREEDOM REIGNS

    I forbid entrance into here
    You shadow of darkness
    An all-consuming fire
    Always seeking to destroy
    With a life eternal

    You agent of death
    Lover of evil
    Take now yourself
    And be gone from my place
    Forever be cast away

    Fallen from on high
    Wreathed in flames
    Seen by us, an apple
    Life-giving, an illusion

    Expelled from the grace
    Leading astray with promise
    Hopes of new life
    Expectations destroyed
    With the illusion of gain

    Fallen from on high (I see you lurking in the depths)
    Wreathed in flames (I hear the hiss of your lies)
    Seen by us, an apple (The fruit of decay)
    Life-giving, an illusion (You cannot entrap me)

    ((freedom reigns. forever))

    **Michaela Vanden Bosch

  199. Bryan says:

    WHEN IS THE DEADLINE? DID I MAKE IT?

  200. claudsy says:

    What better way to begin the month than with communication.

    Five-Star Dining

    “Did you eat?”
    “Some hours ago.”
    “Oh? Disappointing?”
    “I hate dining out now.”
    “And why is that? Please tell me.”
    “I get no satisfaction now.”
    “In what way?”
    “Salivation.”
    “Oh. Did you get bored?”
    “My server had no taste.”
    “Do you need help finding new foods?”
    He shook his head as he drew her near,
    Nuzzling close.
    “You’ve got me spoiled.”
    She threw back her head,
    Laughing with abandon.
    Power came with submission.
    “Drink, darling, of my vintage wine.”
    He drank deep,
    Her essence warm,
    Her love new again.
    “You’re intoxicating.”
    His bloody mouth left her throat.
    “You’ve never learned. Home cooking’s best.”

  201. Natalija says:

    NO REPOSE

    in silence I sit
    in silence I ponder
    my mind drifts endlessly
    my thoughts now wander

    escape is my goal
    the pen is my friend
    do you hear me now?
    will the reticence end?

    silence is needed
    in order to compose
    to hear my own thoughts
    to write my own prose

    I yearn to share
    do you dare to hear?
    do wish to know
    what I deem dear?

    confined within walls
    behind the screen
    no one to hear
    the deafening screams.

  202. Bryan says:

    a countryboy can survive and another man tells his lies, but as long as we get along, or at the very least try, when a feather whether stales and dies, by the day that a ledbetter cries, you can tell by the stripes in his eyes, the stench that draws in the flys, can’t get a wetter sweater if the squirrels don’t get her, but these are the bonds that tie.

  203. Chris says:

    I just thought of letting you know
    That I love being back home!
    To wake up in the morning
    Hear you sniffling
    And leafing through the newspaper
    To prepare you corn cakes
    For breakfast
    And hear and pleasure in your voice
    As you take a first bite
    Into the maple syrup drenched cake
    To hear you talk about plans for the day
    Rushing through the door
    As I sit in front of the computer to finish
    Yet another essay for my unending classes

  204. Michael Grove says:

    I’ll Carry You

    Let me spend a moment on my knees.
    I have truly opened up my heart.
    I have so many things to ask of you.
    I don’t even know where to start.

    Can you love me as I am?
    Please, don’t ever leave me.
    Forgive me for the wrong I’ve done.
    Open up my eyes and let me see.

    “I’ll love you always as you are.”
    “I won’t ever leave you.”
    “You are forgiven, blessed and saved.”
    “You’ll now see all that’s true.”

    Can you heal and give me strength?
    “I’ll comfort you and care.”
    Will you walk along the trail beside me?
    “I’ll carry you and always be right there.”

    By Michael Grove

  205. De Jackson says:

    Speech Therapy

    He thrusts

    his words out
    into the world
    like shotgun shells
    bares

    his fists

    his soul with
    every statement
    every s-s-syllable
    a two-ton weight

    against the posts

    inside his tired lungs
    tongue tied in knots;
    but he has things
    he wants to say,

    and still insists

    these tangled terms
    these stumbled, tumbled
    phrases hold worlds of their own
    and in their spaces

    he sees the ghosts.

    he hears himself,
    loud and clear.

  206. introvertia says:

    A dissection
    (after Adrienne Rich)

    I know you are reading this poem
    in the late hours of a gray morning,
    your legs twisted around an uncomfortable
    chair, a mug of something hot trailing
    small streams of steam off towards the ceiling.

    I know you are reading this poem and thinking
    it is about you, as you pick apart the nouns,
    look for the slightest hint of your habits in
    the verbs, and tap your pen feverishly on the
    varnished wood of your dining room table.

    I know you are reading this poem, eager to
    draw lines through stanzas, call something
    cliche and tell me that the title is crap.

    I know you are reading this poem in bitter
    disappointment, knowing that I am being evasive
    on purpose, just to throw you off the scent,
    to keep you from all that my fingers have held
    back while writing it.

    I know you are reading this poem and have already
    buried its words into brain storage, to use against
    me at a later date, when you are standing in the doorway,
    screaming frustrations and pointed accusations.

    I know you are reading this poem, as it is the only
    thing I’ve left behind after the crisp, early April
    air has taken my breathing.

  207. Twice Shy

    I don’t talk to boys at clubs, anymore:
    too many tacky pick-up lines like “where’s your
    ex-boyfriend?” and “let’s go, it’s too loud in here
    to hear you moan.” Those are the ones

    who taste like puddles bobbing with cigarettes,
    juniper needles and syrup starting to turn:
    hot messes on a desperate Saturday night.
    Those aren’t the ones that you have to

    watch out for. It’s the quiet ones,
    speaking with ten fingertips of subtle pressure
    and uncut hair. The ones who gyrate their hips
    into question marks, add bold underlines:

    the ones that end up tutoring you in their own
    dialect of body language. (All of it force
    and suspension, and stained sheets.) The ones
    who make their excuses the morning after:

    and you head home with your teapot heart
    brewed, steeped, poured out again. That’s how
    we become slowly, silently cruel. I don’t talk
    to boys at clubs: but nowadays I think,

    maybe I should.

  208. omavi says:

    Note to Myself

    Hello you
    You may not know me now but you will really soon
    In some distant time you will be me
    Or I will be you
    Changes will come and circumstances switch
    Things that you knew right now
    Will morph into mysteries unexplained
    The place we will get to
    May not be the places you planned to go
    The place where I am right now
    Is indescribable from the knowledge I have of you
    The things that you will do
    The direction from the forks in myriad roads
    I know what bought you to this place
    Your naiveté makes me smile
    I do remember the days when nothing was forbidden
    The horizon was so wide
    Turmoil will come and failures will cause such pain
    In-between the heartache, glimmering moments of success
    Acts like the best sedative to put the mind at ease
    Don’t tarry, don’t worry, just move
    We will be just fine
    Just want to give you a vote of confidence
    What you do will create a beautiful life
    From me

  209. De Jackson says:

    Language Lessons

    In the end
    she still isn’t sure
    if it was the conjugation
    (we love, she loves, he loves)
    she misunderstood
    or the tense
    (I love you, I loved you)
    or the meaning itself
    (please stay, please stay away),
    but the final word comes easy:
    Adios.

  210. ely the eel says:

    Coda

    He’s actually dying now,
    in ICU, wires and hoses his mechanical friends,
    so what’s left to say.
    All the clichés were used up long ago,
    first when the diagnosis came,
    then after the chemo,
    and, finally, the burning.

    He was dying back then as well.
    We meant well, his long-time, human friends,
    saying what was right to say
    All the bromides were well-intended,
    First when the fear struck,
    then when hope was treasured,
    and, finally, reality.

    He’ll die soon,
    In a white room, surrounded by friends.
    No one will say anything
    that is not the truth.
    First we’ll thank him for his friendship,
    then how much he’s loved,
    and, finally, our hope to see him soon.

  211. What Do I Take From This?

    Head dropping against the wheel
    his shoulders heaving
    his little boy pulling
    but the mother had nothing to say
    as she pried her child’s fingers
    off his door handle.

    Through his slammed car door
    I watched him from across the lot
    head dropping against the wheel
    his shoulders heaving
    and huddling over my take-out food
    I feel a sting of salty tears
    dropping to season my fries
    on our regular Friday exchange.

  212. Brian Slusher says:

    “KILL YOUR TELEVISION”

    is sprayed on the wall
    of the abandoned
    garment plant on
    Poinsett Highway,
    and each time I fly
    past, I imagine how
    I’ll do the deed:
    perhaps launched
    out the upper window
    so I can see it dis-
    assemble in the
    driveway, or take
    an iron to it in the
    middle of a Master’s
    telecast, or run a
    chord out to the yard
    and bury it alive,
    all those sitcoms,
    talk shows, and
    infomercials gasping
    for eyes, and me
    close by, crying on
    the remote, staring
    at a screen of dirt.

  213. Anders Bylund says:

    Shopping List
    ==========
    Milk (2%)
    Eggs (not the X-large)
    Bread (white, not whole wheat)
    Mayonnaise (regular)

    and if you have time
    on your way back from
    whatever keeps you out
    late on a Tuesday night,
    try finding these:

    dozen roses, or just one perfect blossom
    chocolate hearts
    pepper (black, Habanero)
    passion fruit (juicy)
    sparkling wine
    and no cheese

  214. barbara_y says:

    (I know. I shouldn’t have to explain, but The Frist is an art center here in Nashville. One of their current exhibits is “Fairy Tales, Monsters, and the Genetic Imagination”. It seemed the sort of thing he’d want to check out.)
    Can’t remember if this comment form will give me italics or not.

    Nostradamus at the Frist

    First of April, Twenty-twelve:
    spinning wheelies in his over-powered chair,
    Nostradamus is in Nashville,
    and playing the Fool.  Gouty toe bare to the world

    and monkish robes exchanged
    for rhinestones, he’s searched for new material
    in hockey rinks and honkytonks
    and twenty Baptist churches.

    Now he’s come up to the gallery, and unamused
    by Henry’s wives’ untimely triumph, or much else,
    he speeds along, arrested only by a sculpture:
    naked mother, baboon butt and parasitic son.

    Denique annus,” he intones to the room. “Annus unus.”
    “The end of the world, the world’s beginning.
    “The wheel is loosed from the peddler’s cart
    “and the globe swaps poles not a moment too soon.”

    After which jest, escorted outside,
    he rolls back to the tourists at Tootsies,
    grandly faking his wisdom, unaware
    that he’s not the first fool to pull that one.

  215. Mystical-Poet says:

    Take My Hand

    Would you take the world
    if I could give it to you?
    Could you hold the flame
    of sacred fire?
    Would you take my hand
    if we could see the future?
    come on take a stand
    for your desire
    I would take you there
    if we could only find it
    down a certain path
    so many feet have roamed
    it’s only as far
    as your imagination
    or just as close
    as the next train station

    ~ Randy Bell ~

  216. De Jackson says:

    Eavesdropping

    They sit just to our left, forks in crinkled
    age-dappled hands
    food before them
    and in the 40 minutes
    we have been here, they have spoken
    not
    one
    single
    word
    to each other.

    Is one of them hearing impaired?
    I watch for the poignant flutter of hands, but see nothing.

    Maybe they’ve been married 65 years,
    and simply run out of things to say?

    Perhaps they have 7 children, and 28 grandchildren, and
    the life has been slowly sucked out of them, with nothing
    left for each other, just two empty shells sitting here eating
    their manicotti.

    Or have they just met? Is this some octogenarian blind date,
    and they have already figured out they have nothing in common?

    Are they in the midst of a yearlong silent treatment,
    fiery anger having long boiled away into steamy indifference?

    They look civil enough, though their smiles
    are as small as their dinner portions.
    Maybe everything is more easily satisfied with age.

    And then I glance across at you
    and your eyes light up in that way they do
    and the corner of your smile pulls my heart
    and there are no words.

  217. Monik says:

    It’s been three months since you have left
    So I’m writing this letter as a close attempt
    No matter what I love you still
    Thinking about you makes me ill
    Wherever I go I see your face
    I must be God’s worst case
    But someone told me I’ll be okay
    It’s grandma wishing me a better day.

  218. MichelleLynnGuerra says:

    I Love You

    I Miss You!
    I miss you too.
    I Miss Us!
    I miss us too.
    I Love You!
    I know.

  219. Nancy J says:

    Told You So

    Noah said it would rain last night.
    I should have listened.
    He really does
    talk to God.

  220. CaseyJay says:

    PAD for April 1, 2012. Topic : Communication
    “Love Letters”
    Words;
    fiery,
    ribbon-wrapped,
    haunt my attic
    realm.

  221. pmwanken says:

    AT A LOSS

    suitcase, open,
    ready to be filled
    with shoes and clothes
    and travel supplies

    I need to pack…

    he stares pointedly
    into its emptiness,
    seeing the shape
    of memories

    I wish time stood still…

    the smells, tastes, and
    sights of home
    paw at his thoughts,
    tug at his heart strings

    You were always there…

    his eyes shine,
    pooling with tears,
    as his mind tricks him
    into feeling like a kid again

    I can’t believe you’re gone…

    hearing nothing
    but his own whispers,
    he pets the dog
    sitting at his feet

    I don’t know how I’ll say goodbye.

    2012-04-01
    P. Wanken

  222. zevd2001 says:

    TRYING TIMES*
    “I’m so sorry last week
    It was so worrisome, first this, then
    that, no time, no time . . .,” “I know,
    I know, with me it’s the telephone. There I am
    sitting by the keyboard ready and armed
    with a real thought. Now get this—oh, the cell phone.
    It’s very important.” “You’re so right, people begin

    a train of thought, two words, just two, wouldn’t
    ya’ know somebody chimes in with a question, or–” “Only
    last week my sister
    was on her way to my aunt, texting on the cell phone some kid
    next to her on the bus there asked to use it.” “You’d think
    more people would have them.” “Maybe the battery was out,”
    “Good to hear from you. My brother-in-law tells me . . . I smell something

    burning in the kitchen, gotta go.” “As I wanted to say, people
    don’t realize the value of what they
    have anymore” “Good friends, for example.” “Right you
    are. I see my daughter walking up the to the house . . .” “We

    have to get together sometime, all of us
    in one place to
    talk about the important things in life.” “Yes, yes . . .”
    “Have a good day” “You, too”.

    Zev Davis

  223. laurie kolp says:

    What I’m Not

    I am not your pet; get your paw off of me
    I am not a kite stuck with string in a tree

    Nor am I a taste of a honey lemon drop
    In the shape of a sucker who knows-not-when-to-stop

    A whisper in the dark when you’re in the mood?
    No, I’m not your little trick to be eaten like soul food

    I am not something you smell like homemade pie
    I’d rather point my middle finger in your lying eye

    I wish you’d just go away, pack your bags and leave
    Shine your pseudo-light on another up your sleeve

  224. Billie says:

    Silence
    fills the void where your voice once lived
    If you love me as you claim
    Why do you make me cry?

    If I could make you change I would
    But the question is if I should
    It’s easier to lay down and die
    But I wonder if I could

  225. Ber says:

    The Title

    I send and reply to your request
    I do my best to beat the rest
    I pick my brains to find deep inside of me
    A Title that is worthy of me

    So as I sit here wondering what it is you look for
    What is your genre of skill?
    What is your looking for?
    Sitting here my mind stands still

    At last it comes into my thoughts
    It hits me like a flash of light
    Even tough the night closes in
    I try and give it my own little spin

    I send this idea of mine to you
    Hoping it will catch your attention and approval
    When I wake in the morn to read your wonderful comment
    You feel like it is suitable

    You tell me you had something similar in mind
    I know my idea was not anything
    That I got it right I didn’t jump in blind
    I hope it inspires you
    Your words are very kind

  226. RJ Clarken says:

    Watching My Child Sleep

    I gaze at you while you’re asleep.
    I wonder where your dreams might keep
    but judging by your face, I know
    I want to go where you now go.

    You murmur softly, words that I
    don’t understand, I can’t deny,
    but still, I feel connected, so
    I want to go where you now go.

    While quests of legend fill your mind,
    subconscious dreamscapes are designed
    where you’re the hero. O tableau!
    I want to go where you now go.

    Perhaps come morn, you’ll fill me in
    on what you dreamt; where you have been.
    For now, I’ll watch your magic flow.
    I want to go where you now go.

    ###

  227. traci says:

    Calling My Love
    Pressing number 2
    Anxiously awaiting rings
    His voice and I breathe

  228. mschied says:

    Deafening Silence

    You called me
    received only

    You emailed me
    not one word in response

    You Facebooked me
    one last desperate attempt

    I saw the writing on my wall
    I said “congratulations”

    You called me
    met only with

    My

    speaks volumes

    mschied

  229. PSC in CT says:

    Spring Poets

    Like spring peepers we start
    our early morning calling
    collective subconscious
    soft solo whispers in the mist
    poetic sunrise synchronicity
    trill and warble growing louder
    each building upon another’s song
    adrenaline rush ever adding voices
    until everyone is singing
    in harmonious cacophony

  230. EMAIL CHAIN LETTER POEM
    The pictures will melt you
    The animals, the scenery, the soldiers
    The lines will tickle you
    The jokes, the quips, the quotes
    All in all it’s a message I think you
    need to hear
    But instead of expressing it in person
    I’ll just send this to you
    Now forward this to twenty people and something awesome will happen

  231. Mystical-Poet says:

    For You

    For you …. I would
    cast away all I own
    tread past sand and stone
    romance you on the phone
    you and me can’t you see
    it’s the only way
    let love feed our souls
    each and every day
    when all is said and done
    darling your the one
    for me ….

    ~ Randy Bell ~

  232. Linda Voit says:

    Chorespeak

    He stokes my back by cutting
    the lawn, peers into my eyes
    by hauling garbage to the curb
    every Thursday night and kisses
    my eyelids and neck with an iron
    over my cotton shirts. I know
    he loves me. I can hear
    the washing machine.

    Linda Voit

  233. maxie2 says:

    VOICES IN MY HEART

    The assigned expression on my face
    is filtered, edited, and replaced
    often with too much consent
    from the devious instrument
    pumping life, thought, and emotion,
    although my veins resist the ocean,
    of loving too deep,
    of revenge too sweet,
    of lies that are true,
    of doubts that disqualify you.

    So, yes, when I hesitate
    a conversation is taking place,
    whispers of extremes:
    the chaotic to the serene
    are checked at the gate
    and my mind then consolidates
    with this polite shrug,
    this placid hug,
    this refined smile,
    this censored child.

  234. Nancy Posey says:

    Son of Hermes

    Covering eighty miles of rural roads
    every day, at every home anticipated
    but never asked in, he drove
    from house to house, window
    open in every season, one arm
    tanned, the one that rhythmically
    opened each mailbox door,
    removing everything inside, lowering
    the small red flag, sliding the mail
    all the way to the back, in case
    of rain, then shutting it right.

    Few knew his name,
    though everybody knew his car,
    old rusted Plymouth they heard
    before they saw. Even after waiting
    all day for his arrival, they never
    gave him a second thought
    once they’d retrieved the letters,
    bills, and flyers tucked inside
    the box. Though no one voiced it,
    all considered him a sign of hope,
    the letters that finally arrived,
    reassurance of love, handwritten
    in script so family, a return address
    is mere formality.

    Sometimes he read the postcards,
    innocent enough, just a dozen ways
    to say “Wish you were here.”
    He wondered most of all what lay
    inside those letters, especially
    the ones of such import
    they waited for him by the box.

  235. Margot Suydam says:

    When I couldn’t find the words

    you stepped forward, grasped
    my thigh with a gentle pinch

    as Bach kept on playing sad
    sonatas on painted parchment

    stuttering thoughts gone gray
    while violins chant a wailing

    texture of gentle roughness
    a duet of silence unhinged

  236. Imaginalchemy says:

    “A Pen’s Confession to its Paper”

    I tattoo stream of consciousness onto your fragile skin
    (I pray you love the calligraphic design)
    The words will make women and scholars adore you,
    Even though I wish those words were mine

    But know that if I could weave my own ink-stain spell
    Without needing a hand to make me dance,
    And tell you of my joy when my metal-tipped lips
    Kiss you across your pale expanse

    If only there was a sign to let me know
    That you could see the beauty that I scribe
    A curl, an unfurl, a ripple in your being
    To show me how you feel inside

    But sadly, as we run out of time and space
    And I must conclude this brief affair,
    The magic of the dance loses its grip
    The poem is done, the love no longer there.

    Ah well…on to the next page…

  237. ###

    Eager to see if

    Life always finds a way to

    Get across to you.
    #

  238. Hannah says:

    Happy April Fool’s Day, most marvelous first day of National Poetry Month and Poem-A-Day here at our
    Poetic Aside’s home!! I’m so excited, I’ve gotten the hiccups!! BIG smiles to everyone!

    ~CLOSE-TALKING~

    Oh, of the way
    that wind whispers,
    gently tugging
    for attention
    at the hemstitch
    of my skirt.
    Oh, swift sinking
    sunset,
    wordless soothing
    wonder.
    When you’re gone,
    sunk beneath
    black horizon,
    I ponder
    your magnificence
    splendor and color,
    mind’s eye still lit.
    Oh, what gains
    in the greenest
    of grasses,
    luminescent home;
    knees to earth,
    ear to ground,
    I listen
    to your heartbeat.
    Oh, Sun,
    rising moon,
    river, rising tide,
    pool of cool water,
    I hunger;
    slipping from form
    to become
    brandished by you,
    wooed of your wave,
    shape-shifting
    to become
    first person
    point of view
    of all that exists
    in nature.

    ©H.G@P.A. 4/1/12

  239. mich says:

    “I PROMISE”
    How often the words slide between the lips
    with reasonable intent
    though later shown false
    fleeting futures lost in the benefit of deception

    We understand and accept the possibility
    and yet

    We dare to move forward with a trust
    forged by the love in each other’s eyes
    the tender timbre of our voices while speaking the words
    the pressure of fingers at this moment entwined

    We say those words
    ONE in the moment
    Promised to each other
    for as long as we are blessed

  240. In your silence
    You say more to me
    Than any words
    Could ever portray.

  241. viv says:

    I never thought of breathing as a means of communication before, but you’re absolutely right!

  242. SAY WHAT YOU MEAN

    This dream pervades each thought
    and I ought not deny it.
    Do you love me, or only the thought of me?
    Say what you mean; mean what you say.

    I can’t be sure if you don’t know,
    and I can’t know if you’re not sure.
    Am I your only one and only?
    Say what you mean, mean what you say,

    You say I move your mountain,
    You tell me I keep you alive.
    You want me to have and to hold me.
    You mean it? You don’t say.

  243. mlcastejon says:

    Hello everybody,

    Here it gos my 1st poem.

    “out of order”

    In a phonebox
    out of coins, full of words
    to tell you before the winter.
    No more hurricanes
    for take away,
    no more races
    against the rain.
    Just me with buttons
    in my hands.

    I’m sending to you a bottle
    with no message inside.

  244. Paul S says:

    My eyes opened with the stillness of the sunrise
    My ears ringing, trying their hardest to hear any sound
    Then the cackle of the raven – asking for a hand-out
    Tap, Tap, Tap mister woodpecker
    Tap, Tap, Tap on the metal boat lift
    The sun rising, stirs the air
    A faint breeze whispers through the trees
    Unseen the wind, but creating ripples on the water
    Mother Earth coming to life in all her splendor
    How fortunate I am to share this awakening of another day

  245. EVERY BREATH

    Deep breathing exercises
    on a horizontal plane sapping
    my energies and making me follow
    wherever you lead. Breathing
    in the closeness of night.

  246. SOUNDS OF SILENCE

    I turn toward you
    eyes butterfly and fail to focus.
    But your smile appears,
    an alluring signal that says
    all it needs to say.
    I pull you closer, submitting
    to your will – and mine.
    I find that without words
    loves fire burns as fiercely.
    I am warmed by your heart.
    A great way to start the morning.

  247. viv says:

    Oh how I wished we had an edit button: beaches OF occupied France.

  248. viv says:

    A Communication Poem

    Pip pip pip pip pip pip
    Good morning. Here is the news
    and this is Alvar Liddell reading it.

    Alvar who? I hear you say.
    Why yes, he of the velvet tones
    who soothed our nerves
    in time of war
    in nineteen hundred and forty-four.

    “The Allies have landed
    a hundred and sixty thousand
    troops on the beaches occupied France,
    by sea and air.
    the Second Front has begun.”

    Before you could say knife,
    my Mum had come to life.
    She seized the vanman round the waist
    and waltzed him round the floor.

    It might take time,
    in fact it did, almost a year,
    but life was about to begin again.

  249. MiskMask says:

    The Tone of Silence

    She was deafened
    By the silence
    After she read
    Her poem
    Aloud.