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2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 16

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

(Thanks to Anders Bylund for pointing out that today’s prompt was not categorized–and not appearing on the Poetic Asides blog! Once again, Anders is a life saver.)

For today’s prompt, write a mixed up poem. I guess there are a few ways to come at this poem. Your narrator could have mixed feelings about something. Or a character could get “mixed up” in something. Or the poem could be about mixing up a drink. Or a mixtape. Or however you wish to mix this prompt/poem up.

Here’s my mixed up attempt:

“Following the road”

Or the path or the sidewalk or the river
along the bank or the shore or the rocks
worn around the edges or the collar or a ring
aournd the collar or a dog (or cat) collar
or a criminal is collared or we’re eating
collard greens or lettuce or soup or stew or
we’re not eating anything because we’re sitting
and talking or discussing or arguing or maybe
we are just following the road and we come upon
a festival and people are dancing in the street
and selling artwork and ice cream and cupcakes
or just ice cream but it’s good to be there with you
and to have nowhere else we could possibly be.

*****

 

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About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

360 Responses to 2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 16

  1. An education in music

    He handed me the
    Mixed tape
    ‘An education in music’
    Scrawled in smudged
    Ink along its spine
    I accept it
    With mixed feelings

  2. BACKYARD FILM-MAKER

    Forget the carnival uptown
    with tokens for the thrill rides, the side-
    show, the bungee-jumpers.
    We’ve got wild doings right here
    at home beyond the back-porch steps.
    The new puppy
    leaps over rake and pail and garden shovel,
    over the old gray cat sunning among
    petunias yellow and maroon,
    across the plastic wading pool
    and through the sprinklers,
    shaking rainbow water in all directions,
    barking to scare a ghost, then
    slides to a stop, and sits
    smiling
    like a porcupine, drenched fur
    at crazy angles,
    waiting for her cookie.

  3. Paoos69 says:

    Mixed Up

    Tonite was the big night
    I was throwing a party
    Everything on the menu an insight
    From sweet to sour and tarty

    I laid the tables
    Put out the flowers
    I cleaned all the ladels
    Everything took hours

    Just before the guests arrived
    All the food was laid
    Into the feast everyone dived
    Everything to perfection was made

    However when it came to drinks
    There were lots of mix-ups
    The scotch was served in sinks
    And there were no glasses, but cups

    There were margaritas
    And there was punch
    The margaritas had floating pieces of pitas
    And the punch had bit of a spicy munch

    The soft drinks, there were plenty
    Ranging from sodas to egg-nog
    The sodas were all minty
    The egg-nog, a sour, muddy bog

    There was no vodka in the Bloody Mary
    The Smirnoff missed the tang
    The tomato juice spilled on the durrie
    The champagne was opened without a bang

    The pink lemonade looked jaundiced
    So the Curacao looked mellow
    The usually aqua-marine bliss
    Had a tangy tinge of yellow

    The bar was a curse
    The guests were aghast
    Hence the party was terse
    A truly big blast!

  4. mschied says:

    A Short Spoonerism

    Once a time upon
    where thas a provely lincess
    Do hid know not tow wo halk
    In case which
    Is there lothing neft so tay

  5. Arrvada says:

    Mixed Up
    By
    Arrvada

    Is it me?
    I think it’s me
    I’m the one
    The problem
    The one
    I’m mixed up
    Disturbed
    Distorted
    Somehow…wrong
    It’s me
    Isn’t it?
    How else can I explain
    The thoughts and actions
    Of myself
    If not to say
    That something went wrong
    In the making of me?
    Some wires got crossed
    The mixture’s off
    Someone messed up
    Mixed me up
    The pieces of me
    Somehow
    Don’t match.

  6. Jamal Abboud says:

    Man’s silence

    My ears caught sight of thy fading scent,
    While my eyes tasted thy glamorous grips,
    That mingled with sighs on my lustrous lips.
    Thus my heart lulled my senses peculiar skill;
    Only thee, my soul, welcomed with sweetly will,
    And love took my thoughts where it shan’t faint,
    Where man’s silence troubled not by fate or hate,
    Or pain, or oceans of a single sincere thought,
    Blaming eyes for a word kept unwrought
    Though plangent passions echoes never relent
    To faithful love bait of impunible taste,
    And mind urges incentive cry of the soul’s repent,
    While paths of hearts are charged with suspect.
    See, what makes man’s pleasures conceal
    In silence of mines of words, not to be told,
    Brooding on sage noble untrodden zeal ;
    Only to vex chained bosom with heavy load.
    Hark, silence dances unrealized, flowing free,
    Loitering untarnished in ecstasy buds unseen,
    Parrying scud of piquant words, not thee
    To conquer audacious emotions between
    Lusty wickedness and tenderness of a saint.

  7. mlcastejon says:

    Mix-tape

    Blues in your eyes, fire in your heart
    lost little girl just being found out
    broken hollow doll at the doctor’s
    infinitive scars drawing a map
    to get into a brand new shelter
    in the middle of an earthquake
    you’re safe now.

  8. Mixed Up

    Lake Michigan:
    sapphire blue today
    shot through with shimmering sun
    more lovely than a painting by Monet,
    don’t you agree?

    A chortle erupts
    from the Emperor’s belly:
    You’re mixed up, Mom, says he.
    That’s the ocean, have you forgotten?
    God’s finger touched this place
    It isn’t Chicago anymore;
    it’s an island in the Caribbean
    the largest.

    I did forget he told me that;
    we’ve already had this conversation
    but I try once more to make him see
    reason. Jeff, the water isn’t salty.
    It can’t be the ocean.

    Did you taste it? asks he.
    I answer, Yes –
    with the mental reservation
    that I did by accident last summer
    when I lost my footing on the sand
    and fell in, mouth, unfortunately open.

    Another chortle and the Emperor says,
    You must have tasted it before God
    changed it because it’s salty now.

    I shut my mouth and hold my tongue
    knowing one of us is all mixed up.

  9. ceeess says:

    OK working hard here to catch up after days of running behind in everything!

    Mixed Salad

    A simple start of lettuce greens
    a slice of red tomato, the nip of radish
    and crunch of celery heart, but then
    it all went wrong, apples and oranges
    a toss of raisins, slim slivers of almonds
    a slick slather of lemon poppy seed
    dressing, a soupçon of sesame
    and all the strawberry slices started
    to flaunt flavour, their sweet
    saucy savour sending it all sideways.

    Carol A. Stephen
    April 16, 2012

  10. “There’s Been a Mistake”

    I thought I’d be taller than this. A couple more
    inches would do wonders for my serve. But tennis
    abandoned me when she shredded my knees.
    At least I have the backhand–cross court, down the
    line.

  11. sarite says:

    Half Baked

    Mix
    Butter, sugar
    Beat until
    Fluffy
    Begs for a taste
    Crack eggs
    Throw shells
    Into the compost
    Can
    Miss can
    Hit floor
    Ignore it
    Add two cups of
    Flour
    Water the flowers
    And a bag of chocolate
    Chips
    Maybe two
    Can never have
    Too much chocolate
    Spoon onto cookie sheet
    Spoon into your mouth
    Spoon with your honey
    Keep life sweet

  12. Arike says:

    Fusion Fairytale

    Tom and Jerry chased each other
    And then they saved a princess
    Went to meet the king, Bugs Bunny
    Fought a big green slimy monster

    Story illustrated by the writer
    A second-grade student in
    English class, India
    Creative writing assignment

    Look at that face
    Cat that got the canary, cream
    And the three-hundred dollar koi

  13. Caren says:

    Headache

    Walk into the kitchen.
    Hey mom, can I have an apple?
    Sure.
    Wait, why did I come in here?
    Walk back to the bedroom.
    Oh yeah, I needed some aspirin.
    Right.
    Back to the kitchen.
    Honey, have you seen my briefcase?
    It’s right by the front door.
    Thanks.
    Wait, why did I come in here?
    Walk back to the bedroom.
    I slap my forehead…aspirin.
    Damn.
    Back to the kitchen, again.
    Mom, sorry I spilled!
    Let’s clean it up then.
    (sigh)
    Back to the bedroom.
    Geez, I really have a headache.

    I need some aspirin.

    Caren E. Salas

  14. Yolee says:

    The 1986 Spring Diary Monologue

    Because goodbye requires my heart’s corroboration,
    I played the mix tape before leaving it on the dear
    John note.
    Gladys Knight: now there’s a woman
    who knows how to entertain fallen angels.

    He says he went to the gym to get some ring time.
    In the meantime the bell in our round fell silent,
    except for the baby’s sustained crying , which is more
    like she’s lamenting, as if her tiny soul aches
    for the break of things that words cannot piece
    together. Until now “neither one of us”
    was just a song we sang to young nightingales.

  15. po says:

    not always a good mix

    she bakes outside the box
    but even her relatives are
    perplexed when she took
    to mixing up the batter
    while standing in the
    middle of her bed

  16. Pat Carroll Marcantel says:

    My Mixed-Up World (Life in Three Stanzas)

    Chair legs caught her,

    Tree limbs fought her

    Childhood loomed large in her senses.

    Mid-life assailed her,

    With children entailed her,

    Freedom an illusion in her lenses.

    Old-age amazed her,

    Befuddled and be-dazed her,

    And then introduced Dependes.

    Pat Carroll Marcantel

  17. Attachment

    Limpet mine.
    You stick to me like the add-ons
    In an e-mail.
    Like the stud earrings I wore
    When I’d just had piercings.
    Like fingers super-glued together
    Like nail-polish freshly applied
    Like a tattoo on skin.
    Limpet mine.
    One wrong move…
    And you explode.

  18. traci says:

    MIXED UP
    Sky green and grass blue
    Birds dive, Flowers float, sees sing
    Coloring books, fun

  19. deringer1 says:

    mixed up describes my dreams

    my father riding a horse out of the orchard
    although he never did,

    my dog taking me along on
    a flying carpet ride,

    strange, round, black-robed people
    dancing up and down,

    being loved in impossible places
    by the man of my dreams.

    I’m never running,
    never falling,
    just crazy.

  20. Mixed Up

    The cat thinks it’s a dog.
    The dog doesn’t know which way is up.

    Why is the fish swimming upside down?

    Why is there a penny in my coffee cup?

    The hamster is changing colors.
    The chameleon is spinning on his wheel.

    What is that on the floor?

    Who didn’t throw away their orange peel?

    The turtle twitches his nose.
    The rabbit just can’t win the race.

    Where is Henry the ferret?

    Why are there so many animals in this place?

  21. Khara H. says:

    Love blues in your bones

    You were born from the fusion of pelvic bones and thighs,
    vertebrae bending in sacred poses
    beneath the skeletal frame of a home
    carved from cedar, finished in birch, covered in blood.

    Honor the oblique curve of your mother’s sacrum, her strong bones
    heavy in the dark reeling in cotton fibers
    and goose down writhing at her toes—
    honor her holy scales, her apex, her ilium wing gently

    fingered by melanin, milky morena, and flaked with cinnamon—
    honor her woolly mammoth roots,
    the potency catered to her cleaving umber
    phalanges sinking into daddy’s sugared cream back—

    his hallowed spinal column humming like bees—
    like blue notes,
    her balmy calves
    draped over tibiae like milky cloth.

  22. Jannelee says:

    MIXED UP WORDS

    Isn’t it bazaar how often you here
    someone say, “She’s so vein.”
    Coming from someone whose
    to cheep to pay anyone a complement
    it isn’t quiet fare,
    and seams a bit anti-climatic
    all so a breech of good manors.
    I have maid a conceited effort
    to advice her of her fowl
    arrows, but all to know affect
    Sense they’re seams to be
    a lack of communion.
    she can exorcise her own
    judgement, sew to me its a mute point.
    weather or knot she feels
    she is rite, and can except advise
    remanes to be scene

  23. eljulia says:

    SISTERS.

    We laughed, she and i
    (or is it “her and me”?
    I always am confused by those)
    coming up with a simile
    (or is it metaphor?
    those tend to trip me up)
    and decided in
    our family tree we
    were two Marilyns
    in the Munster family.

    (and here’s to hoping anyone knows about the Marilyn in the Munsters nod.)

  24. foodpoet says:

    With the cellphone lost
    I cannot access you to let
    You know you are unfound

  25. Katrin says:

    You, the essence,
    the bitters, the ice,
    and that which
    intoxicated me

    And after the shaking, and the
    drama of heaven-bound pouring,
    the garnishes I added
    to your everyday every day,
    I’ll slide it down
    the bar and let the
    next Foolette in line
    start the sipping,
    the dizzying,
    the astonishingly predictable
    arrival at Dead End,
    the yellow diamond
    so many of us
    choose not to
    notice at
    the turning in

  26. Once again, taxes and computer woes have delayed my posting, but now at least the first of those is resolved. Yesterday’s prompt from NaPoWriMo was a photo prompt, so I used one of their three photos, one of rowboats, for my poem. I’m also late for Robert’s tanka contest but wrote one anyway.

    Tanka: Aimless

    four empty rowboats
    drift together on the lake
    unnavigated
    four captains wander the shore
    unaware of who they are

  27. “A Midwife Explains the Baby’s Position”

    I kneel down beside the mother.
    Her baby will come soon.

    I place my hands on her belly
    to feel the body of the baby inside.

    He needs to turn, head-down,
    but he has chosen to curl up sideways—

    his hard little head to the right,
    his tiny little feet tucked in to the left.

    I tell the mother we can try
    lots of things to help her baby to turn.

    But if he will not move before the day,
    she will need to have surgery

    because babies cannot be born
    from his position.

    I explain this as slowly
    and as reassuringly as I can.

    This is the mother’s fifth baby,
    and she’s never had a cesarean.

    She nods and is not afraid.
    She tells me she had a sense

    that this one
    would be born that way.

    Jane Beal

  28. tunesmiff says:

    VISITING YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE
    ——————————————————-
    Among the stones
    Lies Bobby Jones,
    A chip-shot from
    Memorial Drive;

    I hate to say
    We’ve been this way,
    A time or two,
    Or three – or five.

    The Lion keeps
    His watch and sleeps,
    Over who knows
    How many men.

    We’ve come around
    To Cabbage Town
    and Boulevard -
    No – not again!

    Let’s pause our walk,
    And sit and talk,
    Amid dogwood
    And azalea;

    Recall ours days,
    Since parting ways,
    In Newnan and
    West Australia,

    Till time has flown
    And shadows grown
    And we know we
    Must be going

    No wait, no wait,
    There – near the gate,
    We passed them
    Without knowing.

  29. Flight to Oz

    Whizzing Earth’s space
    I did race;
    like Dr. Who’s tardis,
    through the northern
    constellation of Camelopardus.

    I think I passed through Cassiopeia
    but to tell you the truth, it was all a blur;
    it could well have been Andromeda.

    Drifting through Ursa Major or Ursa Minor
    I lost sight of the Great Wall of China
    I recognised the three stars of Triangulum,
    and felt a sense of equatorial equilibrium.

    But then I saw another triangle
    spinning my mind at an angle;
    I asked ‘Dog Star’ Sirius
    if it was aware of this?
    It barked the name Triangulum Australe
    adding I was now in the opposite locale.

    When I saw the Southern Cross
    I was no longer at a loss
    I had read about constellation Crux
    in some astronomical books.

    I felt more at home in Chamaeleon
    remembering my ability to chameleon
    Norma was a lass, Hydrus a gas,
    Mensa was a tester, Circinus a jester.

    Into the atmosphere I whirled east to west
    over the land of my looming test
    I could make out the Great Barrier Reef
    providing a valuable landmark brief
    A long way from home I heard hound sound
    whirled upside down I descended to ground.

  30. Jaywig says:

    Day 16 – a mixed-up poem

    This one beats me
    I must admit
    a poem that’s reluctant
    and throwing a fit.
    Don’t mix me, muddle me
    rock my boat -
    I’m committed to surviving
    and staying afloat.
    I’m logical, clear and easy
    to deliver -
    not on choppy waters,
    I prefer a river
    or stream. Of consciousness
    if you prefer.
    Dance with me, my writer
    a wordy pas de deux!

  31. lionmother says:

    My Mixture

    Take one part girl from Brooklyn
    Add years spent in the snow belt
    as a callow youth
    Mix one year of Los Angeles smog
    and frantic movement
    Stir generously with one year in Binghamton
    Fold in the restless years of Buffalo life
    and the sadness of losing both dogs and
    an unformed life
    Spread on the streets of Kew Gardens
    for eight years and then bake well in
    Rocky Point in a suburban home
    complete with children and Newfie
    Unmold and place in Bedford with
    days spent ferrying children back and forth
    Frost with two decades of work and worry
    Sprinkle a finally published book and
    poetic friends on top and serve

  32. maxie2 says:

    PASSING NOTES

    I listen, but your lips are dubbed against an unfamiliar track
    your lyrics move me forward, your falsetto brings me back

    your mixed up symphony, sung beyond its jazz
    slurred past my heart with your drunken pizzazz

    hand on my inappropriate hip, slow dancing to your heart robbing tune,
    you wonder why I stiffen, why I’ve found the rhythm and become immune

    i’ll spare your feelings, and even say you were on key
    but I know you just wanted an audience, you never wanted me

    you can ask me again, when the harmonies align, charm me
    with the refrain when your metronome finds its time

  33. Mixed-Up Poem

    The poem is distracted.
    She wrings her hands
    and curses freely.
    I am so mixed up, she cries.

    I amb so not a sonnet,
    and as for pentameter,
    I’d as soon have distemper.

    Am I just some kind
    of lune-y?
    Well mate, you tell me!

    I used to love
    sitting in sweet silence,
    all the dear words
    waiting for me to choose,
    then telling me, ‘Tanka!’

    but now I ghazal them whole
    I, the poem without a soul.

    I cannot bear to stay alone
    without a ballad to my name.
    With all my rhymes and metres gone
    there is no fame, there’s only blame.

    Listen! the high coo
    of a mournful dove flying
    away from this page…

  34. Christod says:

    Mix-Up

    I want you to keep holding my hand
    so you don’t have to get closer;
    I want to spend the rest of my life
    not being with you forever.

  35. Slow Cooker

    A little love, a little hate
    quantified sufferings mingled with joy
    Cracked hopes spilled together
    into one vessel
    stirred with emotion

    Measured spices
    sprinkled stress
    a dash of sweetness
    a pinch of strife
    seasoned with the
    lessons of life

  36. De Jackson says:

    My Bad

    “Aloha,” you said.
    “Aloha,” I replied.
    But:
    I heard hello.
    You said goodbye.

  37. Rosangela says:

    Lovers’ Disaster Potion

    01. Mix up, carelessly:
    A few years of a boring, but lovely marriage
    A few weeks of Exciting New Perspective – Rapid Yeast

    02. Stir in the emotions and bring it to high heat.
    Add some confusion, bold feelings, and curiosity.

    03.Sprinkle fun, laughter and cool childish moments. Knead well. Let it raise, covered.

    04. While the potion rests and takes form, prepare the sauce:

    05. Mix together the hot spices: lust, adventure, danger, doubts, secrecy, and lots of passion, with natural juices. Let it boil and confuse your senses. Stir and keep it over high heat until it gets thick.

    06. Now, roll out that dough (item 4). It must be elastic and nice to the touch.

    07. Cut it in two heart shapes. Bring one to the fridge and let it rest. In the center of the other heart, drop the hot sauce of item 5.

    08. Oh, No! The sauce spread all over. The secrecy is out! Danger is taking over! The adventure and passion was discovered by an undercover cup! It was a big mess! A huge disaster. I lost the dough and the sauce. All down the drain!

    09. Except… for the other part….the second heart shape… the one without the spicy sauce. The one resting in the fridge. That dough became crunchy, fresh, new. Didn’t even know what was going on! Just as well. Just stayed there… keeping cool!

    10. All I have to do now is develop a taste for that. This is what I have today, but tomorrow is another day! I may mix a better Potion!

    Bon Appetit!

  38. i shook myself awake this morning (found poem)

    i shook myself awake this morning
    to find plum-colored clusters of asters sagging
    in the gray sky on branches that are frailer
    than level thought. they shaped themselves
    to the wind echoing one another in their sameness
    of lifting their skirts and shaking off beads
    of raindrops collected at their stems.
    a tiny honeysuckle-colored butterfly slips
    through those skirts and folds itself neatly
    like a dog-eared page of a william carlos wiliams
    book. but this morning, the heaviness
    of things settled on the edges of my heart
    were like those sagging sighing clouds.
    there were too many muted lips chattering
    into handheld screens on the drive to school.
    if only i had flowered myself with those asters
    and wished for a day off, i too would fly
    and become a thirsty vessel of pollinated words.

    For information on selected lines, please see link here: http://alotus-poetry.livejournal.com/138699.html
    For me, a mixed-up poem, why not a found poem? ;)

  39. Tequila Sun

    The sun’s intrusion through my bedroom window
    Pushes back the Patron-induced fog.
    Tequila’s evil tricks swirl in my head,
    Last night’s events only a hazy blur.

    Angry words ricocheted around the room:
    You’ve changed…
    Why do I even waste my time?
    I need someone younger…richer…
    More energy…more flexible…
    Then after our dramatic exchange, the bar…
    Shot after shot of smooth agave blend
    Stoking vengeful flames…
    Attitudes soften, igniting a different fire…

    And now, with daylight rudely insisting
    I return to coherent consciousness,
    I feel his hand splayed across my hip,
    Forceful and possessive,
    His hot breath on my bare shoulder.
    I cast a sleepy glance
    Toward his sweet brown eyes and whisper,

    “What was your name again?”

  40. cam45237 says:

    The KitchenAid
    Is unafraid
    Of the thickess of the batter
    It paddles fast
    To a point past
    Which you’d think the bowl would shatter

    My arms are weak
    I cant compete
    So i will beg for quarter
    the mixer wins
    and still it spins
    and makes a mocking clatter

    But I can hide
    the stand inside
    The freezer or the oven
    and place the cake
    upon a plate
    Before my trusting husband

    The moral of the story is
    the KitchenAid’s a tool.
    you dont need turbo power.
    In the kitchen smart cooks rule.

  41. Marcia Gaye says:

    Fareie Tails

    Twice upon a time
    there were a homely princess
    who longed for nothing more
    Than to wear an homely dresses.
    She spun upon a spinning wheel
    In a turret in a garret
    She dropped a needle on her foot,
    A drop of blood fell where it
    Grew into an apple tree,
    and ever after she munched quite happily.
    Until an evil step-fairy-aunt
    Cast an evil apple spell,
    And our dear homely princess
    Into a deep sleep fell.

    Her dreams were filled with sugar plums,
    Dancing in her homely head,
    She dreamt she floated softly
    In a cotton candy bed.
    But a gangly prince decided
    To end her happy slumber
    And he crafted a tall, tall ladder
    From leftover reclaimed lumber.
    He whistled as he worked
    Wielding axe and hammer,
    And the friendly mice and bluebirds
    Wondered at the clamor.
    His lanky legs made quick work
    as he climbed to the turret garret
    where he placed a sloppy kiss
    on her forehead, where it
    blossomed into a red red rose
    and our homely princess did arose.

    Therefore evermore happily after
    They ate sweet apples and sewed dresses
    And whistled with the mice and bluebirds
    And braided the princess’s long golden tresses.
    The evil step-fairy-aunt they commanded
    To clean up their apple core strewn messes.

    The magic apple seeds they kept
    In a magic box and the princess slept
    In her cotton candy pillowed bed,
    With it underneath her homely head
    With her long golden hair wrapped around it.
    Where the evil step-fairy-aunt never found it.

    This is the happiest tale
    Just as it was told to me.
    And if you catch a singing mice
    Or a friendly blue birdie
    And sprinkle salt upon their tails
    And toss them over your left ear,
    They’ll live to tell the happy tale
    Just as I told it here.

  42. LCaramanna says:

    Mixed Berry Pie

    Strawberries, blueberries,
    raspberries, blackberries,
    all hand-picked with care
    when it was summer out there.
    Iced in the freezer ‘til the moment was right
    to bake a mixed berry pie, that delicious delight.
    A gathering of friends is just the occasion
    to retrieve Grandma’s recipe and follow her equation.
    The end result – a berry-licious treat,
    served a la mode, it’s especially sweet.
    Strawberries, blueberries,
    raspberries, blackberries -
    sweet taste of summer, my
    mixed berry pie.

  43. Brian Slusher says:

    BEING HIM

    She smiles and sidles up
    to me, begins to speak
    as though we’ve kissed,
    and I nod along, trying
    to guess at who she is,
    but then she spasms
    as though stabbed,
    realizes I’m not him,
    (whoever he might be)
    and stammers an apology,
    flees without glancing back.

    Now I am stuck with what
    I’m not, wondering who
    could make that woman
    beam with such abandon,
    and I long to know his brand
    of cologne, the verbs
    he pitches. I try being him,
    raise my turquoise eyes
    so they catch the light,
    but the jut of his stubbled jaw
    blots the sun.

  44. (mixed hues)

    on knees and palms she hovered with pastels in hand
    filling the spaces between the sidewalk cracks
    with periwinkle skies and rolling jade hills
    careful strokes outlined the silhouette of a tree
    just before the first cloud rolled over
    sending drops racing down the scene
    coalescing hues into a vibrant waterfall

  45. Linda Voit says:

    My Big Fat Greek Salad

    Rub a cut clove of garlic
    around the inside
    of a glass bowl.
    Rip romaine lettuce
    into bite-sized pieces
    and mix them
    with chunks of seeded
    tomatoes, cucumbers,
    green and red peppers,
    and red onions sliced
    translucent-thin.
    Toss in chunks of white feta
    fresh Italian parsley
    if you have it
    and kalamata olives.
    Mix it all up with
    red wine vinegar or the juice
    of a lemon and some olive oil
    dried oregano, pepper
    and salt of the sea.
    It’s best to have
    warm pita bread
    nearby.

    Linda Voit

  46. Shawna McAllister says:

    Off

    She wears her heart on her foot,
    puts her foot in her shoe.
    She hides her heart in her pen,
    puts her pen in her shoe.
    Removed.
    She holds her pen on the left—
    with what’s left of her ink,
    she draws a line from her foot
    straight up to her knee.
    Round and round
    and straight
    she goes—
    she goes on
    to the right
    side.
    She writes
    on the right side
    of the page.
    She turns away from the page—
    makes a page of her belly,
    makes a page of her back.
    Lies back.
    Lies back and takes a nap
    with her shoes
    off.

    http://rosemarymint.wordpress.com/2012/04/16/off/

  47. POOR NURSE JONES

    The cute young nurse made her rounds,
    patient-to-patient, room-to-room.
    Helping the sickly on with their gowns

    Medication in syrups or pills
    offering comfort and compassion,
    easing the suffering from their ills.

    She was putting many steps on her orthopedic shoe,
    But her latest faux pax spelled her doom.
    Behind with her charts, she in her rush made a mistake she would rue.

    Taking the temp of Mr. Martinez, thermometer positioned in haste,
    when he asked poor Nurse Jones if ’twas oral or anal,
    she asked, “How can you tell?” He said, “The taste!”

  48. amelia louise says:

    The Way Home

    I drive up to the school and find
    my place in the pick up line.
    Why is it so hot I query.
    I sit and wait and wait.
    When will the kids finally appear?
    I see them begin to trickle out.
    Now I just need to find mine.
    Where, oh where, are my kids I ponder.
    Not here, not there not anywhere.
    As my heart begins to race,
    I brood over their perceived fate.
    A teacher leans in to ask
    whose class they should search
    to find my lost children.
    I answer, and before they can
    send the troops to find,
    I remember why they haven’t shown.
    Today they insisted
    on their feet getting them home.

  49. Jane Shlensky says:

    Mill Day

    At four, I loved to go milling
    with my dad when it was
    silage grinding time,
    all the corn and grains
    of summer rendered food
    for cows and horses.

    The whole place was
    warm and oaty, dusty
    but smelling of seeds
    and ferment, molasses,
    rotting sawdust and mulch,
    and lawn-mower oil.

    The farmer’s mix would
    be spilled into the hopper,
    men with wide brooms
    sweeping in stray grains,
    the components of the feed
    adjusted for each farm’s

    needs, then the great grinder
    would swirl, mix, and grind,
    as I stood against my father’s orders,
    my toes hooked over the edge,
    looking down into that mealy
    tornado, transfixed, drawn

    by the dark mixing of it,
    coiling in on itself, all
    sound beyond obliterated.
    My father once quietly
    walked behind and grabbed
    me away from the edge,

    spanked me, and cried himself,
    we both crying for different
    reasons. The other men came
    by to lay hands on his shoulders
    and mumble words I did not
    understand, about getting mixed

    up in that great vat being horrible.
    They petted me some then,
    talking of their own children and
    smoking, while I was sent
    behind the mill to pick wild
    strawberries, small but sweet.

  50. pmwanken says:

    MIX-UPS

    ~ 1 ~
    grief-stricken,
    she stands near the box
    that holds her
    newborn babe;
    lifting lid to say goodbye,
    she hears baby’s cry

    ~2~
    best friends crash:
    one dies, one survives;
    heartbroken
    families
    don’t know they’re crying over
    the other’s daughter

    2012-04-16
    P. Wanken

    Written for Poetic Asides 2012 PAD Challenge Day 16: write a “Mixed Up” poem, and in response to actual stories reported in the news.

  51. Michael Grove says:

    A Sturdy Cocoon

    A butterfly built a sturdy cocoon.
    We stayed up all night and slept in past noon.
    The sky turned green and the grass was blue.
    You cared for me more than I cared for you.

    I had great hair and was not going bald.
    You answered the phone each time I called.
    My debtors all paid me the money they owed.
    We shared an address and a common zip code.

    The cat kept barking while the dog went meow.
    We shared a dream which was more than a vow.
    You drank the water and I drank the wine.
    We looked in the mirror and knew things were fine.

    By Michael Grove

  52. deedeekm says:

    Mass Confusion

    take a thought and pull
    a dream out of
    the air and stir them up
    and mostly you will
    jumble up the muddle
    of our middling ways we
    want to try to
    strive for clarity but
    all the mystery is that the
    more we try and cry and fry
    our brain cells brain swells
    big heads nod with
    understanding wisdom
    of the ages fill the pages
    and we read and meditate
    on all the information
    but it causes conflagration
    smelling smoke now
    something’s broke now
    take a poke and how
    we think we have the answer
    but the truth the deeper meaning
    pundits preening it escapes
    from under noses striking poses
    knowing all but seeing nothing
    fluff and stuffing just a bear
    a silly bear would share his honey
    and a hug you might as well
    I’m here to tell you
    It’s a mess and bless
    your heart you think you’re smart
    but part of you is like that bear
    just silly willy nilly
    take a breath or hold it in
    you scold me but
    I do not care and will not share
    get on the bus and do not fuss
    we’re all the same just in the game
    and hope the driver knows the way
    we bought our tickets
    have to ride so hide the button
    the inner spinner it’s your turn
    feel the burn and realize
    there is no prize
    just keep on trying
    stop the crying
    take a peek and make your move
    and try to prove
    it’s not mixed up
    we lost the rule book eight ball
    all shook and the message
    of the day is not today
    tomorrow not too likely either

  53. Lost in Translation

    “Dear Department Head,” he said,
    “You are valueless,” instead
    of saying what he really meant,
    mucking up his true intent.

    (A word of advice: “value” and “price” in exchange for each other won’t always suffice.)

  54. SHUFFLE OFF IN BUFFALO

    I touch my iTouch in a sensual way
    to coax every ditty in consecutive play,

    I don’t jump around to hear random songs,
    to pick and to choose is most certainly wrong.

    Here in the “Queen City” I choose not that function,
    they play as they lay, that’s my personal compunction.

    So, you’ll hear A to Z the songs on my “pod”,
    Shuffle’s off in Buffalo, please don’t think me as odd.

  55. Jamal Abboud says:

    A Portrait In love

    You’re prettier than a tree
    Nonchalant beauty alone
    Up the bare hill
    Reposes in the golden Beams
    lightly warm and free
    to placate the moody wind
    in the abode of leams
    far from the thirsty rill
    and the doggedly crow
    and all of it I can see
    From my dormer window
    From a house I imagine to own
    Far in the abandoned land
    Beyond that bare hill
    Where a lake mimics tranquility
    A womb of life laden and still
    Mirrors as your calm beauty
    And all of it I can see
    From my dormer window
    From a portrait of me
    A sketch unframed, unfinished
    On an easel, fancifully colored
    Waits frailly thy brush and hand
    To accomplish my metamorphosis
    To achieve thy miraculous guesses
    Of the unity of pure whiteness
    And colors of passionate kisses.

  56. SEXDAILY!

    The winsome lass she stood there each night;
    fetching, catching every male suitor’s eye.
    But try as she might, they did not bite,
    it’s for sure they did not even try.

    But I was taken by this girlish beauty
    who stood outside the reading center
    her placard offering her service, this cutie
    “I can help with SEXDAILY”. I meant

    to keep composure, but I was sure taken
    by her wiles, her smile, her voluptuous… teeth,
    and I was horny, there was no mistaking,
    with her standing there quite replete

    with the offer, “SEXDAILY” which flashed in my head.
    I smiled and approached her; she was rather perky.
    And I hemmed and hawed and stammered instead,
    despite her compassion I was acting quite jerky.

    I pointed to her signage, gave a nod and a wink,
    but she blushed extremely embarrassed,
    when I misconstrued her “SEXDAILY” I think
    she believed she was sexually harassed.

    Her slap ‘cross my cheek would confound and perplex ya
    in her innocence I did unnerve her.
    I had read the sign wrong, “I can help with DYSLEXIA”;
    you can see why this old man perturbed her.

  57. RJ Clarken says:

    Mixed Veggies

    Mixed veggies seem to get along.
    The carrot/pea thing’s really strong.
    Just buy a bag and you will see,
    that veggies get it. Why don’t we?

    Green peppers dote on onions. Why?
    They make ‘em laugh until they cry.
    No matter vine or branch of tree:
    mixed veggies get it. Why don’t we?

    Yes, cauliflower and lima beans
    play poker with the collard greens.
    And succotash digs broccoli.
    Mixed veggies get it. Why don’t we?

    They’re frozen, fresh or from a can.
    They hail from Italy, Japan,
    the US, even Hungary.
    Mixed veggies get it. Why don’t we?

    ###

  58. Andrea B says:

    Poe-etic

    Once upon an early morning, while listening to my MP3 player droning
    Over many songs that were a bore I came across some forgotten lore
    While before nearly napping, I began to sway and then toe-tapping
    As if some one was gently rappin’, rappin’ some poetic score
    ‘ ‘Tis some maniac,” I muttered, ‘rappin’ poetry in gore-
    Only this, and nothing more.’

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the late November,
    And each stanza had me dancing with your ghost about the floor
    How I wished there was no morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
    You from your grave and instigate you ravin’, Edgar Allan Poe
    For the grim and gloomy poet whom we know as Edgar Allan Poe
    Your name dwells on my MP3 player forever more.

  59. omavi says:

    On the Razor’s Edge

    Confusion
    Reigning unfettered as
    Rain falling unbidden
    Not welcomed but
    With the torrent comes a brief reprieve
    Distracting from without
    Turmoil blooming from within
    Weather changing as
    The mood flowing from
    Negatively to positive
    Then sinking to depths
    Where no joy lives
    Sanity a boom needed
    But insanity sometimes
    A beautiful thing

  60. hurtin-heart says:

               What is love
    What is love? I don’t know!
    Yes i do! No, i don’t!
    Is it pain that brings rain
    Or is it happiness that brings sunshine?
    Is love just a word
    Or does love have meaning?
    People say it but do they really mean it?
    How do i know if you speak the truth?
    When u say to me, “I love you”.
    “Oh dear”,what do i do?
    This word love sure has me confused.
    Samantha Tinney

  61. April 16, 2012 – Day 16
    Write a mixed up poem

    Unbalanced Mixtures

    Two children die
    predeceasing
    their parents,
    overturning
    natural order
    of seeds sewn
    first, flowers
    flourishing next.

    Deleterious effects
    of dysfunctional
    families where child-
    hood is curtailed,
    due to parents unable
    or unwilling to step
    up, raise their children,
    and sacrifice their
    streak of selfishness,
    results in children bred
    to function as caretakers.

    Some cocktails measure
    out in proportional
    perfection, while others
    burn throats, their individual
    tastes and subtleties lost
    in a muddled mess.

  62. seingraham says:

    When No Sense is Nonsense

    The taste of morning is honest
    And fine – and drips off your toes
    Like the juice of a blood orange
    Noon’s scent is all frayed edges and
    Swamps gone dry on top and crackling
    Late afternoon; you can feel it settle
    Like three hundred thread count silk
    On your thighs just before it slips off
    Into early evening, that sleight of hand
    Time when your eyes do deceive you
    And the sun setting sounds like death.

  63. Dear Moosehead,
    Yes sirree!!! That’s what I’m talking
    ´bout! 11 – 4! way to go Mr Jeter, a homer
    batting in 3! And wasn’t it great to see so many
    wearing a Nº 42 jersey? Don’t get me wrong, I
    am very happy that the gudfernuffin Dodgers
    scampered out of Brooklyn and headed west,
    but that man Jackie Robinson made this a mixed
    game for the first time and we should all be
    proud of that. Now we have a week of home
    games – the Twins coming to their “House of Horrors”
    to get mixed up good. Then we have a road trip
    to Boston to take care of those darned Sox.
    Harpies are back a week today, so let’s enjoy
    it while we can! pick ya up at 7 – I’ll get the
    goodies in.

    Yours with no mixed emotions,

    Ringo the Howler

  64. currencem says:

    Easter Friends

    the four of us grab hands
    and Twirl! Twirl! Twirl!
    our skirts bellow,
    our white loafers squeak on the dewy grass,
    and the parents and brothers
    and aunts and uncles turn into streaks
    of greens, and yellows and blues
    but our faces stay constant
    as we pass glances back and forth,
    catching each other’s eye
    and giggling and squealing and leaning
    back to see the spinning sky above
    just long enough to believe
    this is our world now
    and joy of the dizzying rush
    will never, never end.

  65. Crazy Little Thing Called Luff

    Everything’s by the board,
    when we’re three sheets to the wind
    and it’s cold enough
    to freeze the balls of a brass monkey.
    So, don’t be taken aback,
    when you’re being had over a barrel,
    stick with us till the bitter end
    and when you’ve had your chips,
    it’s time to cut and run.
    So, don’t waste time flogging dead horse,
    just get on the fiddle,
    or you’ll be left high and dry.
    So, if you scratch my back,
    I’ll scratch yours
    and we can push the boat out,
    luff the wind
    and beat a hasty retreat
    before we are hoisted by our own petards!

    (These are all naval idioms except for the last two which are army…hmmm…seems I mixed them up!)

    Iain

  66. K. McGee says:

    Metaphorically Mixed & Matched

    Your image fades with time,
    darkness creeps in at the corners,
    like a photo caught by the flame,
    dreams curled under the heat, forever gone,
    cast out to sea in a bottle,
    with the cork left on the shore.

  67. It’s in the mix.

    The maiden, the whore
    the wise old hag
    all mixed together
    to create this bag
    of contradictions
    truths and fictions
    part of silk, part oily rag.
    For in amongst the feminine
    is added something else of mine
    a certain masculinity
    which truth to say bewildered me
    until I came to recognise
    what makes life fun is the surprise!
    There is no person on the world
    who knows the secrets yet unfurled
    hid deep in hearts and minds and souls
    and every scrap makes up the whole.

  68. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    Loving the creative twist and fun of these last two prompts, Robert! The muse is happy! :)

    THE PATH

    Brought a wrath,
    Of grapes that were raisin,
    In the sun,
    The hot, hot sun,
    In the desert,
    Now deserted,
    Gone to look,
    For dessert,
    Like ice cream,
    We scream, we all scream,
    For ice cream,
    It would seem,
    Or seamlessly,
    We fall apart,
    To pieces,
    Not my nieces,
    Who stand strong,
    All day long,
    Until the boys,
    Come along,
    Then girls hum a different song,
    I warn there might be pain,
    Can’t refrain,
    Little advance, no gain,
    But I digress,
    Dance around the mess,
    Avoid the stress,
    Prefer much less,
    Or I eat chocolate . . .

    I confess!

  69. PSC in CT says:

    Two haikus today — about mixing &mingling. They read better with the pics I’ve included on my blog. ;-)

    violets mingle
    among cinquefoil, bluets,
    mixing spring magic

    - – - – - – -

    Seasons comingling
    spring nestles in winter’s sand,
    remnants of autumn

    - – - – - – -

  70. Playlist: Id

    The beach is a place
    where a man can feel
    he’s the only soul in the world
    that’s real,
    here’s the thing:
    we started off friends,
    you say
    I only hear what I want to,
    how do you cool your lips
    after a summer’s kiss?
    I was born from love
    and my poor mother worked the mines,
    there’s nothing you can do
    to turn me away,
    broken lives, broken strings
    broken threads, broken springs
    welcome back,
    your dreams were your ticket out,
    I’ve been searching a long time
    for someone exactly like you.

    Come on everybody
    open up your windows
    turn on the music!
    I’ve got to say it
    and it’s hard for me,
    last night I didn’t get to sleep
    at all,
    add a little sugar, honeysuckle
    and a great big expression of
    happiness.
    Who’s the black private dick
    that’s a sex machine
    to all the chicks?
    I’m coming straight for your love baby
    Like a rocket, girl,
    stand!
    in the end you’ll still be you.

    Oh I say the damnest things,
    superhighways coast to coast
    easy to get anywhere,
    you just could not know
    how long we tried
    to see how this building
    looks inside,
    Late night flight, LAX
    limousine and you’re all set
    for Sunset,
    now if there’s a smile on my face
    it’s only there trying to fool
    the public,
    life is a song worth singing,
    I can hear you sighing,
    another morning,
    you are on my mind,
    you can tell the truth,
    you can tell a lie,
    baby, lift your head up,
    they tell me you’re shy, but
    I love you just the same,
    been around the world
    and I can’t find my baby,
    I’m writing letters
    and your candle’s burning,
    my heart starts breaking
    when I think of making
    a plan to let you go.

    I’ve been walking in
    the same way as I did,
    when I say I’m in love
    you best believe
    I’m in love, L-U-V!
    As I was lying in a hospital bed
    a rock and roll nurse
    going to my head,
    forgot my six-string razor
    and hit the sky,
    he was a boy
    she was a girl
    can I make it any more
    obvious?

    It doesn’t matter what I say
    as long as I sing with
    inflection,
    I don’t think I can handle this
    another day in Metropolis,
    I met you on somebody’s island,
    I have had my eyes on you
    from the day I learned to laugh at myself,
    caught you laughing too.

    Hey, don’t worry
    I’ve been lied to.

    [Note: these are the first lines of the songs in my current Rhapsody playlist. Whoever guesses the most of them correctly, wins a free copy of my latest e-book!]

  71. “JABBERWALLY”

    ‘Twas tyme, and the writpaged tomes
    surely taught and matched in the word;
    All walloet were in bookhomes,
    And the rants, such outrage heard.

    “Heed caution to the Jabberwall, dear boy!
    devoured, scratched by the talons what grip it!
    Caution too the cuckoo bird, such a ploy
    the frurious Bastard scratch and whip it!”

    He wrought his mighty pen a verbal swatch:
    e’er rhyme the manpome penned as he ought—
    an’ forty winks ‘neath poet tree catch,
    And snores, erstwhile it ever sought.

    And surely iam pented up he stood,
    the Jabberwall, with poetpyres inflamed,
    came to shill gladly his famtome WOOD,
    And gurgled giddily just the bloody same!

    One, one! One, won! And done and done
    the verbal quill went scritch-scratch!
    No write in his head, and no thoughts come
    he went unwrit then, there and back.

    “And hast thou read what Jabberwall doth say?
    Come, my worded charms, this squeamish boy!
    O bitchinboss day! Haiku! Villonette!”
    He wrought in form inspite his joy.

    ‘Twas tyme, and the writpaged tomes
    surely taught and matched in the word;
    all walloet were in bookhomes,
    and the rants, such outrage heard.

  72. I remember teaching you

    how to make
    pancakes from scratch,
    white flour on your blue shirt,
    pants, the counter, the stairs,
    go for it, I say
    and white dot
    the tip
    of your nose,
    scrambled eggs,
    a bit crunchy, of course,
    you had to try it
    one handed,
    just like
    your father.
    We pack as much as we can,
    you searching the house for
    whatever it is you feel
    you’re leaving behind.
    It’s only 2 hours, I say, and
    you’ll visit on weekends,
    and you have friends
    there too.
    I remember you
    walking away from the car -
    I guess you forgot the hug,
    how we used to cook breakfast together,
    you were probably just
    all excited
    about school and
    whatever else
    you expect
    to get mixed up in.

  73. Hannah says:

    ———————————————————————-~ENTANGLED~
    ————————————————————————-I surrender
    —————————————————————————my soul
    —————————————————————————-to the
    ————————————————————————–shrill call;
    ————————————————————————–piercing,
    ————————————————————————–reaching
    —————————————————————————directly
    ————————————————————————-my depths,
    ————————————————————————–arresting
    ————————————————————————-my senses
    ————————————————————————–gaining
    ————————————————————————-my heart,
    ———————————————————————-blood pooling
    ———————————————————————in swift bunches,
    ______________________________________bringing me back
    _____________________________________to dock lying days;
    _____________________________________soak, sipping sun
    ______________________________________with fresh skin,
    ______________________________________salt encrusted
    ______________________________________and creeping
    ____________________________________drying completely.
    ____________________________________Closed eyes invert
    ___________________________________submerged in the glow,
    ___________________________________this pink/reddened burst
    _________________________________resembles the inside of womb.
    ________________________________In this very room behind my eyes
    _______________________________I drink in fully, with all of my faculties,
    ______________________________the truth message held here, this magic
    _____________________________I allow to mix with my being and the freeing,
    ____________________________falling feeling of sinking into porous, aromatic
    ___________________________smell of wood that is lapped, rocked ever gently
    ___________________________by the bay of those days, so crisp on my memory,
    ___________________________brought back with the call, voice brightly shrieking,
    ___________________________an osprey soaring overhead; immediately it grasps
    ___________________________innards and brings me hunger for the taste of home.
    ______________________________Planted, intertwined with rich aroma of pine
    ________________________________the thick smell of loam, that flat stone
    ____________________________________I gathered while roaming;
    ________________________________________all interspersed
    __________________________________________a blessed
    ____________________________________________curse,
    ____________________________________________a part
    _____________________________________________of
    _____________________________________________me.

    ______________________________________© H.G. @ P.A. 4/16/12

  74. Miss R. says:

    Humanity?

    The words are twisted
    As era after era we think
    We are the only ones
    Who know what it feels like –
    To be human, to love like this,
    To know God – and we rarely
    Even realize our presumption,
    As I declare hypocritically
    That I know They thought This.

  75. gtabasso says:

    The Mixup

    A child sad outside the school for hours
    while he waited to be picked up.
    No one came. No one called.
    The school tried four emergency contact numbers.
    Three were disconnected.
    One reached a woman who just got a new cell phone.
    She explained that people are calling her
    in the middle of the night
    asking if she has the money and is coming over;
    she gets texts about partying;
    men call her “angel”;
    utility companies say
    the power is being shut off.
    Everyone wants to take that child home.
    No one wants to take him to his home.

  76. Nancy Posey says:

    Freshman Mixer

    Take several dozen boys and girls,
    mere weeks removed from high school,
    new to campus and barely settled
    in the dorm, feeling grown—and scared.

    Pack them on the intermural field
    for a night of fun and games—corny
    get-to-know you ice breakers, same
    ones every year—streets and alleys,
    find your shoes in the pile, name that tune.

    Sit back and watch the magic as quickly
    they are drawn to their own, jocks to jocks,
    nerds to nerds, beautiful really, in a way
    that never worked in high school

    where the chess team never made
    for lack of participation and where,
    after years on the cheerleading squad,
    everyone knew the rumors whispered.

    Despite the attempt, for public relations’
    sake, to recreate the melting pot, they move
    like metal to magnet, relishing the chance
    to start in a fresh pool, with a clean slate.

    A year from now, they’ll have started mixing
    on their own as group projects, randomly
    assigned, put the clean cut with the pierced,
    cowboys with rockers, north pole to south.

    This first week, replete with rude awakenings
    and total shocks, they’re content, even giddy
    to land—finally—and mix with others
    who are the same kind of different.

  77. Tom-Tom Blues

    You say “Stay Left”
    I turn right
    You say “Turn around
    At the next light”
    “Right turn ahead”
    You declare to me
    Wrong lane again
    How can this be
    This trip was only
    Fifty miles long
    I’ve driven eighty
    Something’s wrong
    Right is left
    And left is right
    Dyslexia is
    Such a fright

  78. A way with words

    Speaking with you I am often
    at a loss for it,
    the quick flint strike of
    cogitation never quite
    catching until after the fact
    has fled ‐
    my spark burning down
    the trees holding the nests
    of your thoughts
    and oh, how I long for those just
    right conversations after you leave
    and I am sitting alone in the dark
    remembering
    the almost eskimo kiss
    of foreheads,
    the buhdda-like
    eye slit smiling
    hands clutching navels
    as if our laughter
    might spill out too much
    of whatever it is in there
    that we came from.

  79. Mystical-Poet says:

    Mixed Up/Confused

    need to repair pipe?
    high tech connection system
    sharkbite solution

    instant push-fit bond
    hydronic distribution
    zero soldering

    ~ Randy Bell ~

  80. wolfbolz says:

    The Quest

    I seek the alchemist most skilled.
    I’ve paid his price before.
    On painful Monday mornings
    when I crawled along the floor.

    Many claim the knowledge
    that I know my wizard owns,
    mixing up that magic brew
    that limbers up my bones

    I will see him standing in the dark
    with flasks held in his hands,
    as magic liquids are dispersed
    till here my potion stands.

    It will glow a deep rose amber,
    with a cherry for an eye,
    with sweet vermouth and bitters,
    and the finest pale brown rye.

    Here will sit my fine Manhattan,
    that the master made for me,
    I only hope to stop at two,
    or maybe even three.

  81. Margot Suydam says:

    Hole Way

    There is a hole in me that leaks, remains
    disquiet, rockets down an empty hallway

    like an ousted child jettisoned to principal
    doors with promises to confide unacceptable

    acts, thoughts that won’t perish when backs turn.
    Still that hole shrinks when I watch all-night TV

    what abides the rules, arranges flowers, mops up
    the messy, sits quietly with nothing left to do.

  82. JRSimmang says:

    Simple hand hold I a symbol.
    Resting long without the is day it
    Throbbing, warm hand in my
    Arms sleeps sleeveless it my upon
    You to I now offer and it
    It take, it is yours.
    No can longer symbol the I bear
    shaking, shackled to me at me the foundation
    into twisting me a recollection faint.
    You smile, institution a burning,
    from radiating face, your glorious face,
    and I smile.
    Easily these words come do not, but for me.
    Sat alone have I in wonder upon your gracious thighs
    supple bosom, apple cheeks
    and flirtatious hands dancing in my taste.
    Your name an everpresent warning on my lips.
    And yet, I cannot bear to say it.
    My love,
    you are.

  83. barbara_y says:

    She was a good-hearted old book but not very 
    dependable.
    Her illuminated pages were imposed
    sexagesimo but she went off on a journey:
    tanning her own leather, sizing feather letters
    with gold, making paper (and its predecessors, 
    skins and stones).  Mastering the alchemy of ink,
    she fell in with gatherer-farmers 
    and learned the seasons of pokeberrry
    oak gall and woad and how to swim in springwater
    mordanted with salt and vinegar,
    to best preserve herself with poems of good times
    (recto) and bad (notso).
    Nearsighted as well as presbyopic she could
    only read her forearms belly hands and thighs
    [when she could find binoculars, the tops of her toes
    could be seen to contain pages 5(^) and  the
    difficult-to-read-upside-down 42(v).]
    By the time she found her way back,
    from digression,
    her creases had grown to contradict
    the lines intended for folds, and she surrendered
    into quarto pages, a piebald curiosity
    of ups and downs and no apparent order.

  84. maggzee says:

    The Neighbor

    He yearned outside her kitchen window
    He thought of his wife
    Bent, maybe broken
    The love of his life

    But she, she wise and graceful
    Soothing and easy
    A baker of bread
    Earthy, yeasty

    The window glass steamed, yellow light
    Go to her, taste
    The bones of his marriage
    Laid sadly to waste

    Evening shadows gather coolness
    Seeds left unsown
    He turns, makes his
    Long way back home

  85. drwasy says:

    AT MILEPOST 33
    A Memorial in Ten Parts

    i.
    I have driven hours now
    down roads wending
    through wood and field.
    All slows to childhood:
    endless red clay, the kudzu’s
    slow creep, the pitch of pine,
    the sky opening to sea.

    ii.
    Cormorants dive-bomb
    skimming up blues and other
    chum churned in the ferry’s wake
    ahead the island
    where we slept amidst sea oats
    singing at higher pitch
    than the gulls’ keen

    iii.
    The sun burns a hole
    through blue sky,
    waves churn grey-cold, a wintry coffin.
    By the time we gather one mile
    past the ramp, the sea mirrors
    sky.

    iv.
    The wind lifts
    sifts you fine between our fingers;
    you want to leave.

    With hands lent-like
    we walk our paths
    salt spray on our cheeks,
    hearts to burst, we scatter
    you, a final wish.

    v.
    But I cannot let go.
    I have regrets.
    I have memories.

    vi.
    I remember we walked into sky,
    coral colored, sure of the night
    and the next, and I wondered
    while I crushed morphine tablets
    with Ativans in the marble mortar
    you gave me when I became a healer
    whether you regretted going
    the extra mile for science

    vii.
    If I had known
    the trip to the hospital
    was the last time
    you would ever be outside
    I would not have rushed
    you through the rain.

    viii.
    We left milepost 33.
    The sun burned holes again.
    The light pained us
    and pains us still

    ix.
    I am not sure why I favor
    forgotten detritus from
    God’s great tumbler: the cracked
    scallop, the lusterless
    oyster, the conch which
    sounds a half-sea.

    x.
    But tonight the moon pounds
    the ocean full and unabated,
    the engine thrums
    deep through my soles
    constant with the sea,
    your pulse, a memory ago.

    ***
    This poem derives from 5 other poems, all written during past PADs and all concerning the slow death of my father from cancer and the aftermath. This month he would have been 75–he is in my mind and my heart these days. Peace, LindaS-W

  86. Domino says:

    Mixed Flowers

    A packet of mixed flower seeds
    I spotted on the shelf.
    “Grown your own wild flowers:
    You can do it yourself!”

    And the idea of those flowers
    stayed with me all day
    so I went and bought the packet
    and went along my way.

    It wasn’t til weeks later,
    the packet I espied
    languishing upon a shelf
    so I took us both outside.

    I looked at my poor flower bed,
    it was such a sorry sight.
    Unpruned roses, weeds and grass;
    it needed to be put right.

    And so I put the seeds aside
    for another little while
    and I began to weed and hoe
    and rake and dig and pile.

    And sooner than I thought I’d be
    I found myself quite ready
    to plant those seeds and water them,
    the feeling was quite heady.

    And scatter them, I did, my friends,
    and soon they all took root.
    And now you see my garden patch
    is fair beyond dispute.

    For though the flowers planted here
    aren’t in lines and rows,
    they’re lovely just the same for they’re
    wild flowers that I chose.

    Hummingbirds, bees and butterflies
    find refuge in my bower.
    And I find I quite agree with them,
    I’m glad I planted flowers.

    Diana Terrill Clark

  87. The beginning of the end

    Order to stand down received. STOP.
    Possible problem. STOP.
    Was I supposed to press red button? STOP.
    Very sorry for inconvenience. STOP.

  88. Imaginalchemy says:

    Maudlin as a mandolin
    Brackish as a radish
    Uxorious as euphoria
    Obsequious as obnoxiousness
    Egregious as an egret’s goose
    Mesonoxian as Mesopotamia
    Acersecomic as an acceleration
    Calamistrate your calamari
    And Pandiculate like you are immaculate

    Perhaps I have circumnavigated my interpretations
    All I am saying is that Adoxography is important,
    This is as loquacious as a liquidation of lexotanil.

    …but you already knew that, right?
    ______________
    This has been “A POEM TO COMPLETELY MIX/MESS UP YOUR MIND”
    Thank you for your coquettishness.

  89. Mixed-Up Mania

    4/16/12

    “Wife, fax these tax forms, pronto!”
    I do as he asks.
    Later I notice the accountant e-mails,
    “We can’t open them. Please resend.”

    I rescan, resend, and get the same reply.
    I try another method. One goes through.
    Not the other.

    I try again. No deal.
    Now I’ve lost the paper.
    What did I do with it?

    After fifteen minutes of searching,
    I find them in the box marked “2012 Taxes.”
    How did they get back in there?

    Now I’m off to the UPS
    to let them fax those pesky papers!
    I’ll be glad when today’s over!

  90. RJ Clarken says:

    Why Good Usage Counts

    He wrote with metaphors so mixed
    that every editor said, “Nixed!”
    He’d then write back and say things like,
    “You twits! Go take a flying hike!”

    As you might guess, this quite endeared
    him to the folks whose pubs he smeared.
    “They’re all moth-eared!” With barbs, he’d strike.
    “You twits! Go take a flying hike!”

    One editor said, to this twaddle,
    “Sir, you’ve wind beneath your saddle!”
    ‘Mixed’ replied, “You’d bash Updike.
    You’re twits! Go take a flying hike!”

    ‘Mixed’ never understood the ref.
    He said, “I pen Romans a clef!
    So what’s a fish without a bike?
    You twits! Go take a flying hike!”

    ###

  91. From My Corner

    Energy flames through the place
    a siren blares
    a breath forgotten
    a man in black
    a wiener dog balloon
    POP
    while pucks are plucked
    cliques of girls walk by
    from braid to bun, their hair changes
    faster than a chameleon.

  92. cstewart says:

    Mixture

    From up high, fuchsia flowed into the forsythia,
    Laying its magnificent, magenta effusions
    Over the yellow buds, bushed in lengths.
    On the left, a jade plant of some age -
    Pushed heartily, up from the brown, sandy loam.
    Below, the tiny, creeping violets
    And gangly, wild strawberries grew almost flat.
    The iris and lilies pushed through the mat,
    Making terse, white and violet verticals through pink.
    The lemon tree, off to the side – seemed almost
    Aloof in this multiple, spring espectaculo.

  93. Imaginalchemy says:

    “The Mixed-Up Mind in the Morning” or “Where’s the Prompt?”

    Wait, where’s the prompt? It should be here.
    It’s usually posted early…I’m feeling quite stumped.
    My schedule says, “Compose poem between 8 and 9,”
    But how can I compose, when there is no prompt?

    Does this mean I need to make up my own theme?
    I don’t have time to think, my morning is swamped!
    Just tell me what to write, give me some rules,
    I can’t form a brainstorm without a good prompt!

    Maybe there’s no poem today? No, that can’t be.
    Things are all out of whack! My mind feels whomped!
    Maybe Robert is sick? Is he hurt, an urgent emergency?
    There must be a reason why there is no prompt!

    …Oh, there it is. Phew.
    A poem about feeling mixed up?
    How am I supposed to write a poem about that?

  94. deringer1 says:

    mixed up describes my dreams

    my father riding a horse
    out of the orchard,
    although he never rode.

    strange, round black-robed people
    dancing up and down

    my dog, taking me along
    on a flying carpet ride

    being loved in impossible places
    by the man of my dreams

    I’m never running, never falling,
    just crazy.

  95. emmajordan says:

    Sorrow is a necessary part of life,
    it shadows us every day.
    But if we look for blessings,
    it turns another way.

    Sadness can cause pain,
    Woe can find us without hope.
    A weary heart aches,
    Depression can hide anger.
    Forgiveness a curative.

    We owe to friendship,
    laughter and smiles
    a debt that cannot be paid.
    A daily dose will do us well
    to keep sadness at bay.

    (Emma’s note:

    How this is a “mix” poem?

    Stanza one has rhyming at the 2nd and 4th horrible lines.

    Stanza two is a Terrible Tanka.

    Stanza three is an awful ode.

    Finally, it has a mix of truth and ever so sappy platitudes.

    I can’t believe I wrote this!)

  96. BAC’s OF SUCCESS

    Questions abound; queries that come around
    whenever you push them from your thinking.
    Every time you get that sinking feeling it happens.
    Remember, you only live once, (even cool cats don’t get off
    thinking they’re immune to this tune). So if
    you want answers, you had better hope you
    understand what it is that you want.
    It isn’t asking much of you to
    open your mind and
    present yourself as a learned scholar.
    Any self-respecting poet should know it.
    Some feign it and explain it in terms any
    dummy could grasp. But no matter what, it’s a
    funny thing to bring your rhyme out and
    give it the presentation it deserves.
    Having said all you can, it remains
    just what you’ve put on your page. So engage.
    Keep your focus on the dreams you pursue in
    lieu of wasting your talent meant to mystify the masses.
    Zeniths are attainable;
    Xanadu is a desired destination and
    clearness of thought is the means to both ends.
    Validate your verbiage,
    bring your best for the rest to decide;
    never hide your poetic pondering under a bushel basket.
    Many will clamor for a taste of what you bring to the table.

    **A mixed up Abecedarian

  97. Marjory MT says:

    Bits and Pieces of a mixed up life
    that challenge the artist,
    who sees it all as a crazy quilt
    of experiences
    spread out across the years.

    Bits and pieces of a mixed up life
    which challenge the artist
    to understand the usefulness
    of all the fibers and textures
    of so many planned and
    unplanned events.

    Bits and pieces of a mixed up life
    unknowingly touching the lives
    of so many others
    who in turn help to bind
    each piece into a whole
    that is seen only at a later date.

    Bits and pieces of a mixed up life
    put into the hands of the great
    master artists – allowing him to work-
    are brought together to produce
    a life of beauty and usefulness.
    while filling even the
    empty places.

  98. “Backpacking in the Mark Twain National Forest”

    I thought it was love
    at the trail when the katydids fell on our heads
    like hail,

    clawing down our shirts, between the clefts
    of every secret body space that left us laughing
    and grabbing and stripping to shake them off.

    We stopped
    for lunch under the persimmon tree, its fruit fresh
    and gushy stabbing our eyes and my world was
    hazed

    in purple
    flirty words that drizzled down our chins to the
    soles of our feet.

    I remember
    you saved your dog’s hair in a bag so your grandma
    could card the fur to knit a scarf and I thought that
    was love

    in every which way and I thought you proved it
    when we slid into our sleeping bags, you even
    sprinkled garlic in my hair to ward off the creatures

    of the night
    almost as if you had known that an animal disguised
    as a man would speak with a knife in the wee
    hours, stealing your tongue and robbing you of
    your chivalry.

    I thought when the visible scars faded, so would the
    memory, but the invisible scars hurt even more.

    You know, I think I finally figured out what I really
    needed that night—

    I needed you to cry for me.

  99. Sharon says:

    Confetti

    The day is warm and I am cool.
    Not the cool cool,
    but the cool that jives
    letting me know I’m alive,
    full of vinegar and spit.

    Life’s in my control, so I think,
    I’m at the top of my game
    and ready for fame,
    not hiding behind fear.
    I’m looking for cheer
    hoping someone knows I am here.

    The confetti of life
    jumbles my fate,
    a little of this,
    too much of that,
    too afraid
    to have courage
    but doing it anyway.

  100. PowerUnit says:

    Flax seed
    The anethematic grain
    Omega six, and three
    All the way from Maine

    Chop them up
    Mix them fast
    Create some dust
    Give it a blast

    Ice cubes
    How cold
    Shove them in the tube
    Grind them uncontrolled

    Enough cocoa
    To kill a horse
    Enough vanilla
    To cause a divorce

    Steal from the calf
    Not as bad as it seems
    A cup and a half
    Of real whipping cream

    Shake your mullet
    Lock in the cup
    Start the magic bullet
    Fire it up!

    Plant your stake
    At the kitchen table
    Drink your shake
    While you’re still able!

  101. CREEK

    What’s more joyful
    than running water? After days
    of rain, our little creek
    leaps and giggles, blows bubbles, chatters
    over rocks whose moss opens
    all its green mouths to sing
    the river song. And the old
    willow leans over the bank to see
    his own reflection wrinkled and riffled
    with moving, ageless water.
    What’s more joyous?
    A new puppy who’s never met
    a natural creek – no dam, no viaduct,
    no faucet, no hose, no pipes.
    Just free water –
    Raindrops gathered together
    In a pack, a herd, a family, a tribe,
    finding its own way from cloud to soil,
    water mixing up with soil,
    leaping to sky and down the hillside
    on its great adventure
    to sea.
    What’s more joyous
    than a puppy wading out
    to wet her feet in that journey, splashing
    as each droplet leaps
    the falls; then dash back out
    and shake
    creekwater all over us
    sparkling joyous in April sun.

  102. Mixed Up Blues

    Sadness
    squeezes her heart
    tears fall
    she struggles to escape
    the rising tide of pain.

  103. The Mixed Up Life Of Colonel Kernel

    When he was young
    he told his nanny
    he wanted to be a guerilla;
    So she bought him
    a gorilla suit.

    In his teens
    he took up fencing
    and performed
    amazing feats
    with his quick
    moving feet.

    In his twenties
    he felt out of synch,
    so he joined the military
    where it was swim or sink.

    In his middle years
    he decided to set forth
    on his fourth
    tour of duty.

    When he woke up
    And realized he was bald
    he bawled
    like a newborn baby.

    When he could no longer
    hear the crashing cymbols
    in the military band,
    he took it as a symbol
    to retire.

    He wasn’t afraid
    of losing his mind,
    he figured his brain
    had already been mined
    for everything worthwhile.

    He was happy
    to let his spirit soar,
    his body was tired
    and sore
    from years of service.

  104. NUCKIN’ FUTS

    A muddle of mundane minutia is my mind,
    for poetic forms once deemed precise I find,
    have smashed their heads together
    to sadly slip from sublime to an insane grind.
    To reconstruct them would be brutal;
    and all attempt to would be futile.

    Together in mind
    the truth we find is brutal;
    a most futile grind.

    For with poetic notions in mind,
    We’re in this together to find,
    That words bad and brutal
    Leaves your style sounding futile,
    A most horrid axe to grind.

    So sticking together to find our way brings us closer,
    a dubious mind in a futile grind of poemic thought.
    We ought to allow our rhyme to heal; be less brutal.

    Nothing is ever as it seems. I find this
    Unnerving. Swerving into a mind of
    Cacophonous sounds brings thoughts together like
    Kinetic energy brings your pen to hand. An futile
    Initiation of writing wile will render words brutal;
    Not saying what your heart feels.
    Feelings emerge to grind your passion to pulp,
    Underlying the need to clear your head,
    To offer a respite from the madness it espouses, and
    Sharing our ranting with others so stricken.

    ** A confluence of Sestina, Haiku, Limerick, Sijo and Anagramatic Poetry

  105. Ber says:

    Echoes of Laughter

    Winds change as does life
    Carry me in your mind
    Don’t leave my destiny aside
    Don’t forget where you come from
    You are apart of me

    Waters may separate us
    As may time
    One day we will reunite
    And share what we have done in life

    To touch your face
    To hug you to embrace you with my arms
    To see you again
    My lucky charm

    I miss our chats
    Our time that we once spent
    If I only knew then
    It was only lent

    I would of done more
    To make it matter
    To understand all your chatter
    What good is that now

    When all that has happened
    Your to far away
    To see what has gone on
    What we went through
    What you must of too

    If I had one wish
    A hand with a token to say
    Come back and see me
    Come back I pray

    Distance is between us
    I will keep you in my mind
    You’re the piece of the jigsaw puzzle
    That has been left behind

    When your back at home
    With all who love you
    I know that distance will be a thing of the past
    I know you want this too

    We will drink to the water that has past under the bridge
    And to the future of our heritage
    So for now it is goodbye
    For someday we meet again
    Until that day comes
    Do not forget to lift your pen

  106. Mike Bayles says:

    North then South

    times awaiting
    appointment to keep
    directions on map I read
    landmarks first seen
    guide
    street I seek
    lost, turn around
    north then south
    around turn, lost
    seek I, street
    guide
    seen first landmarks
    read I, map on directions
    keep to appointment
    awaiting times

  107. De Jackson says:

    Permission to Poem in Plaid

    Let’s mix it up today.
    Let’s play.

    Let’s dangle part

    -iciples

    freely,
    write to the moon
    and pop a wheelie.

    Let’s stir in
    cinnamon, and sage,
    sprinkle pink sugar on the page.

    Let’s know a noun,
    and verve a
    verb,
    let’s adjective something absurd.
    Let’s adverb loosely, crazily.

    Let’s          our lines
              let                    loop          
                           l a z i l y.

    Let’s proposition a preposition,
    live through and of, in, over, above.
    lets unpunctuate and buck tradition

    Let’s fall in love.

    Let’s befuddle, muddle, mix and mingle
    Flummox, flim-flam, fling and sing, oh…

    Let’s stick our words with bubble gum,
                               and write our poems with our thumbs.

  108. It Makes No Sense to My Senses

    Eighty degrees in Phoenix,
    the desert landscape
    decorated with pinks, yellows, purples
    of queen’s wreath and bougainvillea,
    their light fragrance stifled by traffic fumes.
    Then up the hill through
    fields of tall, thick saguaro
    lifting their three to five or so arms
    in salutation. And then
    flashing signs on Arizona high country
    warning motorists of winter weather.
    Switching off the AC, careful on the black ice,
    but my eyes lingering as long as possible
    on snowy cover, tall pines with bright blue backdrop.
    Then popping out on lower ground,
    reddish orange earth
    contrasting pale heavens
    with whip cream clouds hovering low.
    Then other worldly rock formations
    gray monoliths, red, then sandy mesas.
    Then back to where the mountains
    meet the desert in Southwest Colorado,
    the sky uncharacteristically gray,
    with the smell of rain in the air.
    This morning, I restart my life
    where sunshine from the east
    and clouds in the west
    seem to dare each other.

  109. Dare says:

    I’ll See You Then

    “Let’s get together.”
    “Nine o’clock at the house?”…”Yes!”
    Mix dough…brew coffee…
    Munching biscuits: Where are you?
    That night you call: “Where are you?”

  110. dextrousdigits says:

    CAKE ANYONE

    At midnight during the movie marathon
    we just had to have chocolate cake,
    not cookies, not cupcakes, not brownies,
    CHOCOALATE CAKE.
    The stores were all closed
    so there was nothing else to do but bake.

    Four 3×5 cards pulled from my recipe box
    lay on the counter.
    Aunt Mary’s double double chocolate
    Dad’s chocolate and raspberry
    Nuts and chocolate delight
    Moist Death by Chocolate

    When you are low on blood sugar
    and have several people waiting
    to watch the movie and eat cake
    it is hard to decide which to make

    So it was time to compromise
    to integrate and create.
    Chocolate cake mix
    chocolate pudding
    were had in recipes all
    chocolate chips from Mary
    raspberry sauce from dad
    nuts chopped for the top
    chocolate chips & some yogurt
    from moist death
    a bit of caramel to sprinkle with the nuts
    from me.

    Each warm moist yummy piece
    served with a wedge of snickers bar
    and a cup of mocha coffee with
    coconut cream and half and half
    when we returned to the movies.

    This morning I had a slice
    with my cup of coffee.
    Like pizza, chocolate cake
    is also great for breakfast.

  111. PKP says:

    back later… to read… to write … to mix it up… :)

  112. PKP says:

    Not so fast…

    I rush with fingers on keys
    playing not sweet sonatas
    although as a child I dreamt
    I would be
    A head shaking passion
    trembling with tumbling tempest
    Each classic concerto and of
    course my own originatas

    I began my lessons
    coming to them at
    a mid-teen year
    ready to pursue
    as only girls can
    commit to something
    which rings true and to them dear
    “if classical you to study”
    “You vill not play a song”
    “You vill play nutting that sounds
    musically for at least ten years”

    Said my Central Casting
    Russian teacher perfectly
    accented – the call to action
    already music to my ears…

    And so I set about it
    climbing long stairs to
    his studio a longish
    walk away from my
    own home
    And set my double jointed
    fingers on his keyboard
    and trembled Hannon
    to his merciless metronome

    I practiced scales and
    exercises hour upon end
    and at the closing on just
    six weeks I sat at lesson
    and did my fingers begin to bend
    “Schtop” said my Teacher
    “Wait before you play”
    He handed me a program
    “You are to report here on this day”
    And sitting there before me a
    small program white and blue
    where he had had my name
    typed beside Brahmm lullabye
    a recital … a recital … it was true!

    I was too smitten with his charm
    and with the music too
    to correct him to my stated devotion
    to have him remove me as my due

    Appeared at the school auditorium on
    that wintry day .. after practicing my
    two lines of notes in order something
    for me to play
    I listened to a tiny girl with flouncy skirt just ahead of me
    her tiny fingers running up and down the
    keyboard – her chubby baby fingers playing effortlessly
    And then it was time – this Gulliver sized first grader
    student for me to play .. I lumbered across the stage
    and sat down that dismal day
    The notes had rotated on their side
    they lied
    Hopelessly I tried to right them
    before my fingers tried
    They stumbled and they stood
    in a haphazard line
    and when I thought that
    I could do it
    when I thought that I would
    be fine
    I struck the first line
    injecting even a bit of
    passion play
    but as I rounded
    the corner of the second
    disaster crashed
    and I stood, bowed
    and left the stage
    flooded tearfully

    I never played again
    with my shaggy Russian
    mentor – myself as pianist was nixed
    With a tiny child he had a woman’s surrendered heart
    Catastrophically unwisely sadly mixed

  113. R=Ah and A=eR

    Whey-a I grew up things wera
    little mixed up
    words endin’ in R were said with an Ah
    Like cah and fah
    words endin’ in A were said with an eR
    like Linder and Pauler
    It gets quite confusin’ with lettah’s
    dropped heah and theyah
    I asked if anyone wanted to go to the pahty
    with me…they all looked confused.
    “Why would I want someone
    to go the potty with me?” they asked!

  114. Maurie says:

    First is Last

    Paradoxically speaking Joe should
    have been John when he was born
    for the two had fought furiously
    over who would emerge first

    Joe, John, John, Joe
    Round and round and round they go

    An enigma in the maternity ward
    where mom struggled tirelessly
    and staff waited breathlessly
    as minutes accumulated

    John, Joe, John, Joe
    Who would be the one to crow

    Inexplicably, momentarily
    one head appeared
    only to fade with the easing
    of her contractions

    Joe, Joe, John, John
    Embroiled in battle, exhibiting brawn

    Suddenly struggle ceased
    A violent push
    moved the closest down
    the slippery slop to life

    John, John, Joe, Joe
    Mixed in womb, first to show

  115. Secret Service

    I don’t know how I got in this fix,
    or how that girl fits into the mix!
    How could I know
    that her I’d now owe?
    “Secret Service” to her just meant tricks.

  116. Snowing marshmallows

    I found my shoes in the fridge,
    chilled and stiff, as it turns out
    it will be 90 degrees today.
    My dog had my keys in her
    teeth, motioned for me to go
    in the cage this time.
    Something is not quite right.
    The lunch I made the night before
    was spotted in the clutches of the
    rabbit that sits in the grass on the
    side of my house. I think he’s
    laughing at me, left me the carrots
    I toss to him each day.
    My hair looks purple, for some reason.
    Is this someone’s idea of a joke?
    My wife is running at me with a bat.
    What the hell?! I run for the door.
    Outside, it’s snowing marshmallows.

  117. HannaAnna says:

    Happy Hurting

    She wants to go
    She wants to Stay
    He keeps hurting her
    But then always makes her feel that Way
    The way that makes her heavy heart Sing
    And every sound so happy Ring
    She knows that he will hurt her Again
    Leave her behind to be with his Friends
    But the heart, it has a mind of it’s Own
    Leaving all reason forgotten, Alone
    So the hurt will continue
    Because without him she would Hurt so much Worse

  118. I owe this one to Dr. Kendall, my Linguistics professor because I am always mixed up in her class.

    Semantics

    We are a minimal pair, close enough to be a set
    But never a match made in perfect homonymy
    Because the difference is in the middle.

    Between the same and same is something else,
    A no man’s land of tongues and broken phones
    Glossed back and forth along the palette.

    Every ugly stop tumbles smooth in your mouth
    Until the only sounds left are digested words
    That I would rather swallow whole.

  119. Process notes: I thought a cento borrowing lines from other poems would be good for this prompt, so I went to poets.org and typed in the first mixed-up-themed word that popped into my head, which was “hallucination”, which brought up 10 or so poems. I avoided the famous ones (“Howl”, for example), and clipped lines from the others for each stanza, then kept clicking the “Related Poems” links on the side, adding one line at a time until I hit a dead-end (at which point I worked on the next stanza). Punctuation and a few line breaks were shifted around. It was all pretty chaotic. :)

    The Creakings and Noises, an Old Conversation

    Once rich with meaning,
    if my voice is not reaching you,
    say, “give me an example.”
    We’ve devised such intricate rules.

    I’m not prepared to live on the bottom of
    a river of lament, find a howl
    itself, thin as a napkin, beside
    a little green sea.
    We maintain a critical distance:
    and if you have the will,
    you are dangerously close to falling.
    (I disappeared. Owls are silent:
    “no one wanders forever.”)

    And without a word,
    one can walk beneath
    piecework of the quiet shade.

    These two have a routine that goes way back:
    “bring up only that which you and I
    don’t share.”
    You fear that you have been demanded into

    this exhaustion, mutilated, to resemble
    passion.

  120. claudsy says:

    The New Home

    I followed your directions,
    Though there were missteps.
    I’d begin once again,
    Hoping to make no detours.
    I left early but arrived on time
    To your doorstep, a marvel sublime.
    A picket fence greeted me,
    Banking rivers of pansies,
    Holding back a flood of color.
    I didn’t think you’d remember
    My favorite flowers and all.
    You kept my swing company
    Until I arrived to feel the peace,
    Created for me by your side.
    There, within your glory I’ll
    Live for all eternity, a child
    Learning To Be as one with thee.

    © Claudette J. Young

  121. PKP says:

    Ode to Marianv Mix Up

    Oh Marian my dear
    on this morning quickly moving
    toward mid-day – a practice
    make it to avoid the reading
    of poetic predecessors lest
    they silence me with their
    sparkling best
    yet as I scrolled along
    to the bottom post aheaded
    I could not help but notice
    Oh my Marian prolific to
    staggering length spilled
    the length of the screen
    as though from a tilted
    Universal cup
    and then read I the prompt
    and smiled a sanguine
    grin at dear Marian
    the target of monumental
    glitched HICCUP

    Back to read later…

  122. “As if by Magic”

    This time spent
    digging in the dirt
    has returned dividends
    as I remove these weeds

         (WEED: any piece of beauty
         which is in a space
         it is not supposed to occupy)

         (“Supposed to” as defined
         by the common laws
         of suburban beautification)

         (Priorities = Mixed up)

    I find thoughts
    under my fingernails
    and memories
    gathered in the creases
    of my clothes
    and new beauty
    in the streaks of grime
    which cascade
    down my daughter’s cheeks.
    These marks,
    far more permanent
    than the new abraisions
    which appear on her knees
    as if by magic.

  123. posmic says:

    April

    That was when
    1965
    she wore
    a yellow dress
    he watered
    the lawn
    there is no sense
    talking about it
    anymore
    on the driveway
    there was
    a broken cat
    the sky was blue
    the world turned
    around
    again, as if
    for the first time
    and the last time
    in no time
    the water
    washed away
    the sun.

  124. PKP says:

    If I did not know better….

    if i did not know better
    than i might certainly
    believe that for this
    mixed up prompt not
    posting was a stroke
    of poetic genius by our
    “own” R-L-B

    but do i true know better
    could this not be truly so
    between what is and what
    could be – i will never absolutely
    know

    :)

  125. Shaken, Not Stirred

    Best of the Bonds
    Connery comes across
    and smoothly blended,
    never up-ended or blurred.
    His brogue could melt a lassie’s heart,
    leaving her shaken AND stirred!

    A curse we share (in my dreams!)

  126. Marianv says:

    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them warm but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then.

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Try to stick it out a little longer.
    Who will I be without you?

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without youSAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?
    SAYING ‘GOOD-BY’ TO MY BRAIN CELLS

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?

    They must sneak away at night
    When I’m asleep. Stashing their
    Stuff in tiny backpacks then tip-
    Toe-ing down the Eustachian tube
    And out the ear. Some might take
    The sinus route, being forcibly blown
    Into a tissue through the nasal passages.
    A bit messy, but I can understand why
    They’d want to go. Working with a mind
    Frosted over with unworkable ideas,
    Thoughts accumulated but un-indexed,
    Wrapped in long woolly mufflers to
    Keep them perculating, but no one
    Paying attention and the working
    Conditions continue to deteriorate.

    I don’t know how many have left. Lately,
    However, I’ve begun to miss the rapid response
    Of the facts team and the daily news is limping
    Badly. New faces disappear with the wind-
    Blown leaves and their names creep back into
    The anonymity of the phone book. Which
    I am able to locate now and then. I

    I ask all of you, you who are left, Please
    Don’t be in such a hurry to leave!
    Who will I be without you?

  127. DanielAri says:

    STIRRING IT UP

    and a smell in the pillow in that strange bed
    rousted me into a peaked-roof room where
    somebody else had festooned the identity
    they had settled upon onto every surface,
    blown glass in a shadow box, a pin board
    full of photos, perfumes on a shelf of that
    fragrance she chose. It came back to me
    I had not slept alone, and then gradually
    that I was near Chicago, seven weeks into
    a nomad phase, a quest under the banner
    of wanting to see it all, when really I sought
    an approximate oneness to call my own.

    FangO

  128. For this one I took a treatment of the subject in the content and format of my poem, mixing the rhyme scheme throughout. I humbly present

    “The First Time My Son Gets Dressed On His Own”

    Right foot is in left shoe
    Left foot is the right
    One sock’s red the other blue
    The pants seem succesfully done

    Except the sirt’s tucked into undewear
    Ninja turtles on display
    It’s also inside-out and backwards
    The tag flag gives it away

    But at the very top
    Beneath an unruly mop
    A smile a mile wide
    And I glow with pride

  129. Lana Walker says:

    Reweave
    every strand
    of earth and sky

    To create
    things
    anew

  130. MiskMask says:

    I wrote this for Joseph’s Reverie in Danish, but here it is in English since it surprisingly fit this prompt, too. I simply renamed it.

    Howling at the Moon

    He carried Dick in his arms,
    dead weight,
    dead dog of twelve short years.
    Midnight’s moon
    mirrored black grief into his heart.
    He buried his dog below a stone,
    a shallow grave,
    a viking dysse,
    and he howled for Dick
    at the glossy white face
    that swam with a mirage of stars.
    And the moon sang back down to him.

  131. Jackie Casey says:

    “Conundrum”

    Blogger
    blamed his confused
    twitter on Facebook page
    then googled his egotism,
    enraged.

  132. JanetRuth says:

    the mumble and jumble
    of emotion and thought
    spar in my being…
    to write: or not

    misunderstanding
    is a double-edged grief
    forgiveness and mercy
    offer relief

    to the jumbling and mumbling
    contorted descry
    sucking the well
    of inspiration dry

    hind-sight with its clarity
    and perfect vision
    offers no sympathy
    in my hour of indecision

  133. It’s a terrible burden
    Indecisiveness.
    Shouldering the burden
    Of uncertainty
    At times when being sure of oneself
    Is a necessary evil.

    Past indiscretions have been hinged
    On the wishy-washy nature of some
    Causing undesirable outcomes to morph
    Into insurmountable odds.

    Protecting instincts
    And preserving clarity
    Will allow perseverance at times
    When all seems lost
    To the subtle inner workings of a mind
    Gone foggy.

  134. zevd2001 says:

    WALKING INTO A QUANDRY
    Don’t believe me if you want,
    that’s all right,
    too. It started as a mental exercise
    when I became a part of a jigsaw puzzle, not
    a real one, but inside my head

    my eyes closed, sitting down
    on a soft pillow, an invisible hand
    watching over me, in a pile of wooden pieces,
    a hillock on a glass table. It started uncomfortably
    moving about involuntarily, pieces jutting
    into my sides, patiently waiting my turn, soon
    a bevy of fingers pushed and pulled, digits

    playing at us, setting us aside. I would have felt
    lying there patiently, contrasted
    compared to all the other discombobulated pieces
    of dysfunctional wood, looking for a home . . . Finally

    I fit somewhere with something in a section
    of a rectangle that has yet to become
    meaningful. Connecting with others,
    all the way to the side. Then to the top, faster than

    I thought. Thank God for the Invisible Hand, so far
    I have a neighborhood. I am part of a picture
    well in. I belong somewhere, maybe,

    once complete My Maker will take
    the image that He has organized. There
    you will see me in the right hand corner,
    the fourth blue piece, five away from
    the edge of the desert island.

    Zev Davis

  135. There once was a fellow from Sweden
    Who spent more time writing than reading
    When he wrote up a verse
    You would oft hear him curse:
    “This darn meter will still need some kneading!”

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