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April PAD Challenge: Day 20

We’re now 66.7% of the way through April (after finishing today’s poem). Despite crazy technological snafus, I think we’re going to make it. Only 10 days to go after today! Yay!

For today’s prompt, I want you to write a poem of rebirth. There are many different types of rebirth available, including the changing of the seasons, the beginning of the day, religious or spiritual rebirth, a reconfirmation of good in people, re-learning how to love, etc. So think on it a bit, and create a stellar rebirth poem.

Here’s my attempt for the day:

“No one would know”

This countertop was covered
in potato peels, onions, and
celery scraps. Flour, spilled
tomato sauce. Every meal,
a new mess. His movements
are methodical, measurements
precise. He imagines he is
making up for Chemistry 101
when he adds a teaspoon
of oregano and basil. He’s
already browned the beef,
set everything to slowly cook
as he scaped away ingredients
left over, washed measuring
spoons and cutting board
now ready for the next meal.

*****

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866 thoughts on “April PAD Challenge: Day 20

  1. JL Smither

    Starbuck

    We all saw Kara’s ship
    explode, Star Wars-style.
    So we had a few questions
    when she returned, spotless,
    scratchless, oblivious.
    We waited week after week
    for the big reveal, but finally,
    she simply disappeared, an angel
    of death leading us to our own answers.

  2. Dione

    Letting the pages of your story thus far curl
    in a tomb, buried safely beneath six feet of soil packed warm and tight,
    you climb out of the debris , sooty-faced but
    with hope still shining in your eyes, and take
    the first breath of this new life.

  3. yolanda davis-overstreet

    Day 20
    Rebirth

    Peeling away
    What could be considered unnecessary baggage
    In slang
    Peeling and disposing of all
    That abandons one in an unknown village
    Valley
    Left in an idol standing position
    Gasping at times – it seems
    for air
    -the breathe that is needed to find the way
    Crawling through cave-like tunnels of mother earth
    – In my dreams.
    It is told –things will happen
    As you draw near to your
    “rebirth”.

  4. Maureen Hurley

    Laving Las Vegas

    We’re stuck in purgatory
    because we were two minutes late
    for a 7 AM flight. Perhaps seeking words.
    my lost penknife mysteriously
    reappeared like a calyx in the spiral ring of my journal
    and Homeland Security took it far too seriously.
    No matter that I’d turned my backpack inside out,
    spilling its guts on the bed, trying to find it.

    I yelled but it was my grandfather’s
    just take it, we’ll miss our flight
    the guard, trying to assuage my tears,
    said you can mail it to yourself.

    We ran the long mile to the gate
    and were bumped from 6 standby lists
    to anywhere in the Bay Area.
    Our luggage boarded the first flight
    and arrived unchaperoned.

    Like the movie says,
    leaving Las Vegas is indeed hard.
    Very Bukowski as in Barfly.
    Every flight was overbooked
    between the Miss USA pageant in town,
    and the world’s largest horse show,
    people milled like cattle, played the slots,
    or slept it off beneath the pay phones.

    I won a nickel jackpot: wow, 35 cents.
    Last of the high rollers, stick in Vegas.
    Five more jackpots to go
    and maybe I can buy a cuppa coffee.

    Maybe we’ll get lucky this time.
    Catch the full LA flight, then another to Oakland.
    Seventh time is a charm. Will we make the cut?
    They announce our names over the loudspeaker
    and we feel like we won first place or the jackpot.
    A friend said she flew to Beijing in less time.

    Already I miss the bone-handled penknife,
    a family heirloom carried a lifetime in the pocket.
    Once young Irish boys sharpened goose quills on it,
    carved their initials on the trunks of trees,
    and I fixed meals and screws with that tool.
    A faithful traveling companion in tight times.
    Now all I can offer is a few bone-dry words.
    I can scribe no remembrance
    or scratch feathered flights of fancy,
    except on the steel wings of planes
    carrying us homeward into the west.

  5. Kelly Ellis

    About Rebirth

    This born-again loser’s
    phoenix crashed and burned
    several times over

    I am done dusting off
    I am worn thin
    rubbing that coin

    and can’t uncrumple
    Sorry
    no poem today

    maybe later

  6. Elise Huneke Stone

    I carried the baby high.
    Everyone thought she’d be a boy.
    I carried my own birth, too.
    The story is in our genes.
    I was born in the daytime.
    2:00 in the afternoon,
    in August. When any
    self-respecting mammal
    would be taking a nap in the shade.
    Most of our kind come under cover
    of darkness, between midnight
    and 4 am. Birth used to be
    the mother’s secret. It used to be
    her private hell and heaven.
    The menfolk waited outside.
    I have borne a daybaby too,
    one November noon.
    A birth and a rebirth,
    the daughter becoming the mother
    of the daughter.

  7. LindaTK

    Day 20:
    On Writing (Villanelle)

    Each time that I sit down to write
    My efforts get thwarted right off.
    I then cast my eyes to the light.

    I will not give up with no fight.
    If I do, then my brain will get soft.
    Each time that I sit down to write.

    I decided to try it at night.
    In no time my mind shut right off.
    I then cast my eyes to the light.

    Frustration is part of my plight.
    “I want to write!” I shout from aloft.
    Each time that I sit down to write.

    “Don’t Give Up!” is my mantra tonight.
    “Interruptions will happen,” I scoff.
    I then cast my eyes to the light.

    “I’m a writer!” I shout to the night.
    “I can do this – I can! I’m not soft!”
    Each time that I sit down to write
    I then cast my eyes to the light.

  8. Tara Vaughan-Williams

    Tenderly massaging the baby hair of each fruit
    And mediating on the rivulets gathered at my chin,
    I bite the peach again, and it answers in kind.

    The tang pooling beneath my tongue electrifies
    My teeth, jaw, and pulse points. Refreshing
    Sweetness cools a thirsty, angry mouth.

    And I have yet to swallow either the peach or my
    Predicament, but I am learning to love again
    With each bite of fruit, of life, even as the colors fade.

  9. Leslie Uehara

    BREAKFAST REBIRTH

    Who cares which came first
    the chicken or the egg
    as long as they add up to breakfast
    on my plate yolk-centered suns
    beating onto dunked toast
    running warm yellow rays
    under a heap of pan fries.

    My reality births eggs in cartons
    in multiples of twelve
    consistently delivered through
    nourishing acts by strangers
    routinely filling baskets
    as the sun cracks open
    its nighttime shell.

  10. Reesha

    The nifty tool (thanks btw for that!) said I didn’t have a poem for Day 20. I thought I had posted it but apparently not. Sorry if this is a double submission.

    Rebirth

    It’s the simple things
    Like Orange Juice in the morning
    Or time to drink it,
    A simple thing like
    Seeing the sun break through
    The clouds,
    Simple things like
    The crunch of gravel
    Under rubber soles
    Echoing across a hot, summer
    lawn filled with
    brown grass and children playing
    In the sprinkler,
    It’s a simple thing like
    Realizing or remembering that thing
    That makes you really excited
    To get out of bed,
    or finally succeeding or getting
    Something done,
    It’s the simplest things
    That make inspiration
    Surge forth anew
    Pumping through the soul,
    the head, the eyes,
    Until there is nothing to do
    But shine brilliantly forth
    And leave the vivid air
    Singed by an idea
    Whose time has come.

  11. Kripa Nidhi

    Reborn
    ——-
    When I walked down these cobblestone-laden
    streets the early hours of Saturday,
    these alleys smelled of beer and pee
    littered with vomit and cigarette butts. And I,
    like the rest who, wobbled along resting
    our hands on the shoulders of our less inebriated
    partners. This afternoon though, treading
    the same path, the streets sparkle with life –
    and shimmer bright under a spring sky.
    All round, though my head is still a little groggy,
    I smell colognes and perfumes of those seeking
    to make a better impression than they did last night –
    Never knew rains and showers could do so much.

    – Kripa Nidhi

  12. Lissa

    The Egyptians Believed

    Have I known you before?
    The instant of you walking through the door
    dressed all in black
    is etched too well
    to be a single memory.

    Maybe I have understood you
    in obscure whispers
    without a source,
    tasted you from the golden nib
    and smelled you in lush soil.

    Maybe I have seen you in
    spaces between the stars,
    or in the final pitch of dreams
    before reawakening.

  13. Claudia Marie Clemente

    **********************************************(slightly revised)****

    *the constant*

    cell by cell,
    our bodies rebirth
    every seven years

    gray matter
    however, renews
    much more slowly,

    cushioning the last
    exception: organic
    hard-wiring,

    indelibly written –
    housing memory, lasting
    as long as the I, in I.

    Now, I am considering
    my finger, lined
    by a butter knife,

    scarred longer
    than seven years, all
    while my mind busily erases

    dinner sunday afternoon,
    bergman’s dress in casablanca,
    and high school math;

    drives pushing
    information synapse
    by synapse until

    that moment
    no energy remains
    queued to spew.

    What stays constant
    in regeneration,
    and what alters while fixed,

    and vice versa:
    Arbitrary,
    but just the way

    it is,
    a fact, empirical –
    just like this

    love for you

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

  14. Claudia Marie Clemente

    **********************************************(slightly revised)****

    *the constant*

    cell by cell,
    our bodies rebirth
    every seven years

    gray matter
    however, renews
    much more slowly,

    cushioning the last
    exception: organic
    hard-wiring,

    indelibly written –
    housing memory, lasting
    as long as the I, in I.

    Now, I am considering
    my finger, lined
    by a butter knife,

    scarred longer
    than seven years, all
    while my mind busily erases

    dinner sunday afternoon,
    bergman’s dress in casablanca,
    and high school math;

    drives pushing
    information synapse
    by synapse until

    that moment
    no energy remains
    queued to spew.

    What stays constant
    in regeneration,
    and what alters while fixed,

    and vice versa:
    Arbitrary,
    but just the way

    it is,
    a fact, empirical –
    just like this

    love for you

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

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