2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 16

(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.



You might also like:

  • No Related Posts

360 thoughts on “2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 16

  1. taylor graham


    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
    like a porcupine, drenched fur
    at crazy angles,
    waiting for her cookie.

  2. Paoos69

    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!

  3. Arrvada

    Mixed Up

    Is it me?
    I think it’s me
    I’m the one
    The problem
    The one
    I’m mixed up
    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
    Don’t match.

  4. Jamal Abboud

    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.

  5. mlcastejon


    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.

  6. Marian O'Brien Paul

    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.

  7. ceeess

    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

  8. randalljweiss

    “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

  9. sarite

    Half Baked

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

  10. Arike

    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

  11. Caren


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

    I need some aspirin.

    Caren E. Salas

  12. Yolee

    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.

  13. po

    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

  14. Pat Carroll Marcantel

    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

  15. Tanjamaltija


    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.

  16. deringer1

    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.

  17. Lynn Burton

    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?

  18. Khara H.

    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.

  19. Jannelee


    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

  20. eljulia


    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.)

  21. Katrin

    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

  22. Bruce Niedt

    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
    four captains wander the shore
    unaware of who they are

  23. Jane Beal - sanctuarypoet.net

    “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

  24. tunesmiff

    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.

  25. Werewolf of Oz

    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.

  26. Jaywig

    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!

  27. lionmother

    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

  28. maxie2


    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

  29. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

    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…

  30. Benjamin Thomas

    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


This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.