April PAD Challenge: Day 8

Eight rhymes with great, which is what you are if you’ve been keeping up with the PAD challenge so far. Today is a Tuesday–sooooooo, that means you will get to choose from two prompts this morning. Actually, you’ll get to choose from two paintings, because today’s prompt asks you to write a poem that is inspired by one of the two paintings linked below. Please indicate the title of the painting or the artist’s name somewhere in your comment as well. Of course, there is also the possibility that you could blend the two together. Hmmm…

Anyway, here are the paintings:

Painting #1: Piazza d’Italia, by Giorgio de Chirico

Painting #2: The Little Deer, by Frida Kahlo

And here is my little poem (size doesn’t matter, does it?), which is inspired by Painting #1.

“Piazza d’Italia”

Everything felt off that day. Maybe in the distance
the perspective bent the two men into a handshake
beside the lazy statue. Maybe the green sky told
the train to arrive beside the columns, beneath
yellow flags. Maybe we hid ourselves from the sun.


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200 thoughts on “April PAD Challenge: Day 8

  1. S.E. Ingraham

    Ah phewy – I’ve only just noticed, after all this time, that in "Flora’s Fauna" – the last word in the third from last line should be sight, not sigh…darn. It doesn’t make a huge difference but it does. Oh well. Them’s the breaks. Sharon I.

  2. mjdills

    Frida Kahlo
    The Little Deer

    All the errors of the universe send their arrows to you.
    Just a girl,
    Tormented by life in an unnatural way.
    If you turn around you will see the ocean
    Always the pain,
    Always the pain.
    And so the soothing water seems at great distance
    Through the fields of thought,
    The trees of agony.
    Such a journey for you to make.
    Be the deer.
    Oh, pobrecita,
    Let nothing stop you.
    Go and be the storm upon the sea.
    Let the tempest that dwells within you
    Be free.

  3. Laurie Kolp

    Frida Kahlo’s "The Little Deer"

    Nine arrows from nine bows
    he did incur with pain,
    in a forest
    amongst eleven trees.
    The little deer,
    perhaps, could not see,
    that behind him was the sea.
    For his human head,
    with nine antlers
    looked not behind,
    but ahead,
    toward the danger of,
    the hunter,
    nine arrows did put,
    in the little deer.

  4. peggy verdi


    In my generation, it was no pain, no gain.
    Cheering crowds rewarded the
    lunging catch, last-ditch drop-shot,
    no matter the dislocated shoulder, bloodied knee.
    We rarely heard ‘nice job’ after a loss,
    winning was the point of it all.
    The next generation was ‘personal best’,
    trying to win was the goal,
    your own satisfaction the reward.
    Now, winners still earn trophies, money
    losers can claim a personal victory.
    Golf may be the only game in which
    one plays against oneself, not other golfers,
    concentrates on the game, length
    of tee shot, the perfect putt.
    Perseverance and talent triumph.
    In championships, the announcer’s dulcet
    tones whisper the play-by-play.
    I was drawn to tennis instead,
    sought a school’s brick wall
    to pound tennis balls, improve my game.
    I pictured myself another Billie Jean King
    at Wimbledon, putting away that final shot,
    raising her arms to the sky.
    I prayed no one heard me talk to myself,
    revel in a winning volley, yelp in victory.
    I gave up the noise of the crowds,
    the adulation, the fear of failure,
    and as a golfer might, played against myself.

    Peggy Verdi PAD #29 Exercise

  5. LindaTK

    Day 8

    The Little Deer

    How can you look into my eyes
    And not see and feel my intelligence
    You hunt me for sport
    And kill me
    The blood of my ancestors
    has bled into the earth
    Reminders only to us
    of your cruelty
    your selfishness
    your total lack of understanding
    of our place on this planet
    Your ancestors killed us for food
    Only when they were hungry
    They thanked us
    They were grateful
    There was no waste
    How can you possibly feel
    that you are becoming
    more evolved

  6. S.E. Ingraham

    Day 8 prompt "The Little Deer"
    again, sorry for playing catch up so tardily

    Flora’s Fauna

    The trees stripped bare in supplication
    Whilst still begging pardon for their deed
    Raised their boughs skyward
    And as if with reverential
    Whisperings of hallelujah
    For their captured faun-like centaur
    Felled mightily, he lay amongst their parade-perfect number
    Lined protectively all about him and as they watched
    Saw his head, still held high despite his many wounds
    Any one of which should have lead to death
    Saw his eyes – such eyes – so enigmatic yet so proud
    And at once they knew, to the marrow of their rings
    There would be no gentle giving in or going out with this young prince
    Unease is stirring now throughout the forest
    The naked arboreal seeming now a shameful sigh
    Winds sighing by saw almost noiselessly
    What have we done, what have we done


  7. peggy verdi


    Sorry I didn’t like camping,
    the hard rocks under my butt,
    bugs stinging, red spider leaving
    me with a swollen eye.

    Sorry I couldn’t stick with your
    country music,(except for Waylon and Willie)
    resented the CB you installed
    to entertain me on the road to Jersey,
    to our tryst, your escape from her.

    Sorry I couldn’t live with infidelity,
    even though it wasn’t mine.
    Sorry I couldn’t settle for second best,
    adopting your life, your needs, your wants.

    Sorry you were just one more
    reminder of him, the ‘open marriage’
    of my first husband, his selfishness.
    Sorry I was so good at giving,
    I forgot about receiving.

    Peggy Verdi PAD #12..apology poem

  8. Karen Masteller

    Piazza d’ Italia

    I climbed on my soapbox but the plaza was empty.
    No one would hear my voice of logic and reason.

    Like straight perspective lines,
    There are rules; there are guidelines.
    There is the acceptable way to take care of business.

    But even though we speak it, write it down, shake a hand on it…
    It doesn’t get done.

    Taking responsibility is like so much smoke in the wind.

  9. peggy verdi

    The Beach in Summer

    Up early, Dad has left for work
    but we’re going to the beach.
    Mom fills the back seat of our Ford
    station wagon with towels, two pails-
    one blue, one red, suntan lotion,
    bathing cap, shirts to prevent burns
    a tube, slightly squished, her journal.
    Compo beach lies at the tip of town
    and we jump up and down on our way.
    We park the car, help Mom drag the
    towels and everything else
    onto the beach, setting our towels
    near the water but away from everyone.
    The ocean is sparkling, the sun making
    it painful to stare too long.
    We clamber up the dun-colored
    cannons from the Revolutionary War,
    dive into the briny, green water,
    threading our way through seaweed,
    avoiding jellyfish, horseshoe crabs
    that skitter beneath our feet.
    We swim as far as we can before
    the lifeguard whistles and calls us back.
    We reluctantly return giving up
    our plan to swim to Port Jefferson
    Mom is surrounded by the shells she
    picked up and pulls us to her,
    smearing suntan lotion over us,
    caressing backs, shoulders, faces, necks.
    We make drip castles too close to the waves
    and watch as dark green sea, strings of popping
    seaweed, pieces of shell, obliterate them.
    Mom is happy for once,
    gazing out over the ocean
    wrinkles erased from her face
    she even smiles a little.

    Later, when Dad builds a pool,
    revels in no sand, no crowds,
    we long for those days,
    those summers of peace, meditation
    before we even knew what that meant.

    Mostly, we miss our mom,
    the tenderness we felt from her,
    the end of dark clouds she carried,
    the end of sadness.

    Peggy Verdi : PAD #10 location poem

  10. Linda Hofke

    The 5 Senses of The Little Deer by Frida Kahlo

    I smell the scent of fear
    drifting in the air,
    hear the twigs crunching
    under the scramble of hooves,
    see the eyes of an innocent friend
    sentenced to the death chamber,
    and as I touch my spoon
    I realize I cannot take one taste
    of the venison stew
    my father has served.
    To me, it makes no sense.

  11. Vivienne Mackie

    #8 The Little Deer
    It’s a vision, a nightmare perhaps
    A figment of a tortured imagination.
    Cruelty personified. The underdog bravely carrying on,
    With dripping blood.
    Dark colors, a thunderstorm
    Set the scene.
    Symmetrical trees suggest rigid rules,
    No regress.
    But, the face is incongruous,
    Not sad or tortured,
    Making the action somehow less awful.
    Oh, I hate hunting.

  12. Jennifer Terry

    "Piazza d’Italia"

    Leading lines
    sandy mountains
    shadows cast in the barren street
    feels like a western set.
    Shoot ’em up pardner-
    Let’s make a deal
    I’ll trade you this immitation Sphinx,
    if you buy me a ticket for any place
    but here-on that train
    chuggin’ to Yellow Flag Station.

  13. Kate

    Frieda Kahlo’s Little Deer

    How our animal bodies betray us:
    brittle bones break, joints inflame,
    hips wear out, arteries narrow and
    the heart skips and stutters,
    antibodies in the blood turn traitor,
    can’t tell friend from foe.

    Wounded we crouch in the clear cut,
    an amputation of the land, Cedars and
    Douglas firs reduced to rotting stumps,
    undergrowth burned and smoldering.
    Among the wreckage bleeding heart and trillium
    blossom, mushrooms push up from the decay.

  14. Connie Meng

    After The Hunt
    After Frida Kahlo’s "The Little Deer"

    Tomorrow, after the clouds scatter
    and the straw vines of lightning
    no longer dip into the sea,

    these old trees will still stand, straight-
    backed as soldiers, proudly displaying
    the cracked stumps where once were limbs.

    And underfoot, the forest floor’s
    decay, one day farther along, the leaves
    a little closer to revealing

    the spidery weave of their veins.
    In a clearing, the carcass of
    a little deer,

    nine golden arrows still protruding
    from her crumpled body, her face
    so wise she resembled a woman.

  15. Nikki

    The Little Deer Based on the painting "The Little Deer" by Frida Kahlo

    Once so strong and graceful
    Filled with life
    Dancing through the sun drenched trees
    Frolicking with friends
    So naive was the little deer

    For danger lurks everywhere
    Cautious glances become routine
    Begin to become wise
    That at any instant,
    life could be taken away

    Survival of the fittest
    An intruder decides to cease your journey
    Puncturing wounds into flesh
    Slowly dying on the forest floor
    Breathing becomes shallow

    Yet you do not weep
    Your face is serene and strong
    No more worrying
    For death is absolute
    Never to flee and hide again

  16. Sara Diane Doyle

    The Little Deer (or The Reason Why)

    I remember now why I avoid
    art museums as a general rule.
    Mixed between stately statues
    of the long dead, scenes
    of party goers and the last supper
    you find the grotesque.
    Since illusions are easier set
    in oil than in stone,
    paintings are the popular medium
    to convey the unnatural—
    a hind with a human head,
    pierced nine times, but not
    in the heart, as you might expect.
    I suppose we are meant to ponder
    what each arrow stands for—
    maybe some betrayal, or blind hate—
    but I am anxious only to move
    on to the Impressionists. Happy, muted
    pictures of a world
    that never tempts my nightmares.

  17. Nathan Everett

    Piazza d’Italia

    I don’t understand the words, but the meaning is clear enough.
    It is all sung in Italian — what opera isn’t? —
    The music washes over me with inspiration that won’t stop.
    Oh, the rudiments of the set are clear enough.
    When the chorus comes out through the arches,
    they are dancing with the scenery.
    The theatre shakes with the stomping of their feet,
    their voices raised triumphantly in praise of Venus
    and her little boy Cupid.

    The audience doesn’t understand, yet, the Green Cyc Silk light filter.
    Most haven’t even noticed it creeping in.
    I love computerized light boards!
    In the old days I never could have set a light to fade in for over half an hour.
    They won’t get the real impact until Act Three.
    Then they will realize that the deathly cloud is settling in
    over their licentious festivities.

    These two old guys who set the stage are getting boring.
    Bring on the chorus girls!

    Especially Alexandra.
    I don’t press "Go" for cue 146 until she looks up at me.
    Everyone else will leave the stage
    and she will fix me with her Pacific Green eyes
    and hold that look
    until the Bastard Amber has all cross-faded to Indigo
    with just a hint of Surprise Pink blushing on her face.
    It will seem to glow in the distant light of the volcano.

    And then she will sing, and I will weep.

    She will move into the pool of Gypsy Lavender
    that I have prepared for her next to the statue
    and I will carress her cheek with Light Flame
    brought in from the back — a corona to frame
    that heavenly profile.
    As the notes of her aria fade, so will the lights —
    the last one lingering as if reluctant to release her hand —
    and the volcano will erupt.

    I have to stay at my post through the curtain calls,
    then lock down the board and rush backstage.
    There, I will wait in the shadow of the plinth from "Xerxes"
    and watch until she leaves the dressing room.
    She might be alone,
    or some presumptuous baritone might catch her and offer her a lift.
    But I…
    I have touched her like no other living man.
    I have placed the blush on her cheek
    with lights.

  18. priya

    If people could see every ripple
    That their actions made,
    Would they think more beforehand?
    Or would they continue to kill
    Without seeing the pain
    Felt outside of themselves?

    If people could see every tear shed
    By the souls of any creature
    Who has known the extent of
    What horrors could be done upon another,
    Would they shed a tear themselves
    At the loss of goodness in the world?

    Or would you just keep on walking,
    And ignore it all?

  19. Ellenelizabeth Kashk

    April 8th, 2008
    The Little Deer
    painted by Frida Kohlo

    My harbor of safety
    within my sight
    when I am shot
    with the nine arrows
    Which represent my life
    1 self
    2 others
    3 commitment
    4 worth
    5 money
    6 love
    7 need
    8 desire
    9 death

    So in the darken forest
    baring my soul
    my safe harbor
    my last sight
    before my death tolls

    Ellenelizabeth Kashk

  20. Bonnie MacAllsiter

    Kahlo’s “Little Deer”

    Buckshot that day,
    I smirk despite each gash.

    I shouted out,
    “You could try to penetrate me,
    And I might let you.”

    The trees spread wide like vulva,
    Each branch an amputee.

    You may have nine arrows,
    But I have limbs unharmed.

  21. A.C. Leming

    "The Little Deer"

    Serene, she gazes at the hunters she flees.
    This stag may not make it off canvas;
    nine arrows, drawn blood
    dripping on the forest floor.

  22. Monica Martin

    Piazza d’Italia:

    I hid in the shadows
    and watched the men by the statue
    strike a deak that would be
    their undoing. Little did they know-
    The train’s arrival brought death
    On wings.

  23. TaunaLen

    I chose the painting “The Little Deer”. There is a Native American Myth told in the Oklahoma area, about a deer woman who lures men into the woods and stomps them with her hooves. I’ve heard variations on this story since I was a girl scout in grade school. This was a tough prompt to follow, but here’s my offereing:

    Campfire Ghost Stories

    beware the deer woman
    said the chief
    as we sat around
    the campfire tonight

    flames of shadow and light
    danced across our
    frightened faces

    she’ll lure you
    into the woods
    woo you with her
    batting eyelashes
    stomp you with her hooves

    many grandfathers
    have told her story
    and many young braves
    have hunted her
    but arrows can’t kill
    though they pierce her flesh
    nine times, for nine tines
    on her mighty antlers

    she appears a great buck
    prancing through deer woods
    feeding hunters’ lust for glory
    beware the branch
    that looks like a peace offering
    it is a trap

    grandfather chief
    has warned us tonight
    and though we think
    it a silly ghost story
    we will not go into
    the woods alone
    for many moons to come

    TLS, April 2008

  24. Lyn

    Personal Reflections after studying Frida Kahlo’s The Little Deer
    Though the deer has Frida’s face and her distinctive eyebrows
    The message strikes deeper
    To the pain caused by arrows and being alone
    And all I see is a cryptic message – Nine
    Nine visible prongs
    Nine arrows
    The ritual of the number nine in magic correspondences
    Leads to universal truths
    Life, death
    Pain, ecstasy
    Without exploring the darker side of nature, joy loses its power

  25. Susan Reichert

    Piazza d`Italila

    Could this be a foreshadowing
    of our future that man will be
    able to come together to meet
    in the middle to discuss their
    differences and to work out
    their problems and end it
    with a handshake instead of
    bloodshed. Could this be!

    April 8
    Day 8

  26. Maureen

    The Little Deer, Frida Kahlo

    Ah Frida!
    cut down in your prime
    your spine shattered
    locked in a plaster cast
    held straight like a tree
    lonely in your pain
    the hospital, a dying forest
    surgeons slicing
    into your young body
    jabbing you with needles
    no escape from these hostilities
    and your determination
    locked in your face
    you will not cry
    you will not scream
    you will not dream
    of the life you lost
    you will live a new life
    with gentle lovers
    and canvas.


  27. Raven

    based upon ‘the little deer’

    I am fallen
    Dropped upon the ground
    A tousled stick
    Bereft of fresh air
    Moldering now in the wood
    Burning in the shame of the distance
    From my parent there
    No longer suckled
    At root and stem
    I litter the ground
    Pressing down upon the leaves and the turf
    As hunted wounded animals pass
    Abounding past this place
    As if I were a haunt
    I have lost my green
    My sheer fine dress
    I am dying now
    A brown and rumpled mess
    The taste of blood does not appease
    The hope in me
    For better life
    Once I have become absorbed
    And left behind this strife

    written by Raven TK

  28. Terri

    Frido Kahlo – The Little Deer

    I take your poison darts in stride,
    Wounded, but still strong,
    Bleeding, but still full of life.

    I look you in the eye
    You with your bow drawn taut,
    Go ahead, let your arrows fly,
    You will not see me flinch,
    You will not have the satisfaction
    of watching me die.

  29. peggy verdi

    #4 Thankful Poem PEGGY VERDI APRIL 4

    The sun is out after days of gray,
    dark clouds, rain and sleet.
    even the dog notices
    stretches out over the patch
    of light shining through
    rain-splattered windows to
    dapple the rug.
    she must need a walk
    but for now, is content.
    I wonder about light,
    does it cure depression,
    or merely raise a curtain
    that blanketed you in darkness.
    Whatever the reason,
    no matter the cause,
    you are happy.
    no goal, no struggle
    no past, no future fears
    you are one in this moment.

  30. Lynn

    The Little Deer

    The little deer,
    the little dear…

    When we raised our bows,
    forgive us, we didn’t know!
    What special creature
    with human features
    did walk in the wood.
    From where we stood,
    we saw a proud buck.
    Then our arrows struck!
    We ran to claim our prize
    and found before our very eyes
    a mythical beast, slain!
    By our hand, he lain.

  31. ck

    (Day 8 post)

    de Chirico on the train

    I am on that train
    In the distance
    The train passing by
    A passerby on the train
    Traveling by and beyond this scene
    Where two men meet
    Two men greet
    In a vacant place
    Near a sculpted marble figure
    Near a mute reclining figure

    I am on that train
    In the distance
    Passing by this austere place
    Where two men meet and greet
    In a place peopled by late-day shadows
    Venetian arches and stark straight lines
    A place that sunset attempts to brighten
    But the sun cannot bring life to this piazza

    I am on that train
    In the distance
    Passing two men who greet
    And meet here perpetually
    Forever shaking hands
    Forever greeting one another
    Forever mute in conversation
    And suffering from too much brown.

  32. Tad Richards

    Everywhere reminders
    many have tried
    this same route
    and many have failed
    the border is littered

    with their remains
    some picked clean
    by scavenger crows
    bones polished by fire ants
    others bloated

    and right here
    mortally wounded
    becoming animal
    as life leaches
    out of her

    my predecessor
    who sent dispatches back
    sealed with a kiss
    I ask her
    for any last words

    but she can barely talk
    I settle for
    what’s death like?
    It’s nothing special
    not really worth the wait

  33. Vanessa O'Dwyer

    A Conversation with Giorgio

    Over 95 years he talked to me.
    Over thousands of miles he had me look.
    From a different country this image came.
    I knew him not before today.
    This distant stranger with his view of life.
    The artist who saw light and shadow.
    A man who showed there were details
    In the Piazza that might be overlooked.
    But what care he took to bring me here.
    To have me see and point my eyes
    Where he wanted them to go.
    And to provoke me to ask further – why?
    And he said to me over time and space,
    Without words or gesture,
    That all the answers that ever were there
    Will always be there
    Because they are there.

  34. savannahdreamer

    Painting #2: The Little Deer, by Frida Kahlo

    Spiraling shock of innocence lost
    Trusting feet splayed
    Angry spirit with human eyes looks out from torn flesh
    The animal dying
    The woman faltering
    Spirit ever perforated
    With the arrows of lost love
    Of broken trust
    Of life’s shadows.

  35. Rebecca Anne Grant

    OOPS! I misspelled through but I did catch it after it was too late. Sorry, but I am enjoying this even though I am always late it seems.

  36. Rebecca Anne Grant

    Painting #2: The Little Deer, by Frida Kahlo

    Why do you think you have the right to play God?
    We are more alike than you could possibly know.
    Do we not both live among the trees?
    Do we not both need them for the very air that we breath?
    Does not both our bodies need water to survive?
    And do we not both drink from the same rivers and streams?
    So tell me why?
    Why did you choose to take my life?
    Just like you, I had a family waiting for me?
    And just like you my blood is red.
    So why?
    Why did you not think that one of your arrows would do me in?
    Why did you have to endure me the pain of all nine?
    Was it because you knew?
    I think so.
    You knew that we were alike, both strong and wanting to survive.
    You knew!
    But, we are only different because you will still be alive.
    And I will be as dead as the twig on the ground before you.
    But just like you, my spirit will live on after I am threw.
    And just like me, one day you will die too.

  37. Jay Sizemore

    9 Points (The Little Deer)

    There’s always a storm in the distance,
    a tension that builds in the air
    like humidity, electric and charged
    with the weight of god-like power
    casting its shadow on the landscape,
    blotting out the sun with the fury
    of wind and gray and rain,
    driving the ants to take shelter,
    pushing us around like pieces
    on a giant checker board,
    watching the lightning
    strike the ocean,
    from this grove of trees
    it’s easy to see the motifs
    prevalent in the painted masterpiece
    of existence, an underlying theme
    of horizontal and vertical lines,
    building perspective and the frames
    of all life, the duality of giving
    and taking, the feathered ends
    of arrows mirroring the leafed
    tips of branches,
    nine arrows with nine points
    piercing the flesh
    of a deer with nine points
    and antlers, a male deer
    with a woman’s face,
    a human face
    staring with accusing eyes
    as she dies
    her blood the color of earth,
    a reminder
    of the cycle of life,
    and the unseen hunters
    kill another part of themselves,
    the beauty and the fear
    as random as the forks
    in a broken branch
    and a bolt of lightning.

  38. Bonnie

    Piazza d’Italia

    Our days have turned to dark shades
    Of yellows, greens and grays
    The grass, the trees, and flowers
    Have long since passed away
    There is no laughter in the streets
    Or talk of the day ahead
    No cherished thoughts of happy times
    Only memories of our dead
    For many years we had been warned
    Of the destruction that would be
    But we chose instead to carry on
    In a life of grandiosity
    We gave no thought of the warning signs
    Though we saw them everywhere
    And now we must face the future
    And the responsibility that we share
    As the train pulls away from the station
    A new life we hope to find
    We leave nothing in the plaza
    But death and destruction behind

  39. AlaskanRC

    The Little Deer

    Guilty I am.
    Of that, all can see.
    Captured and held frozen
    in time for all to see.

    I have been shot an abused.
    Deeply embedded arrows
    force the blood from my body.
    Guilty for I don’t form to the
    mold society requires of me.
    I am a abomnation
    an example of what not to be.
    Of what not to become.

    My blood pathes the path
    to the ocean beyond.
    I am their savior;
    the casualty of society.

  40. Kathy Kehrli

    A Gentleman’s Agreement (Chirico inspired)

    “I’m going to see a man
    About a horse,”
    He responded when asked
    Where it was he was going.
    To my ten-year-old ears,
    It sounded plausible enough.
    After all, he was a farmer—
    A dairy one but still,
    Even Holstein milkers
    Could free up a stanchion
    To accommodate a horse.
    Of course, the reply wasn’t literal,
    But in my childish mind’s eye
    An agreement was all but struck.
    He’d drop a few Ben Franklins—
    He always liked carrying hundreds—
    Into the horse owner’s hands
    And seal the deal with a handshake.
    Why then did an equine
    Never show up in our barn?
    I guess I never quite understood
    The wink that always accompanied
    Grandpa’s facetiously coy response.

  41. k weber

    little arrows

    just when i find myself
    free and running
    alongside the wind
    and everything inside
    myself that carries me
    something stops me
    like a damned deer
    in the headlights
    and i realize the sky
    is on fire, broken
    and i am full of holes

  42. Barbara Ehrentreu

    Sorry this is late, but I was too tired last night to write. I am loving this poem a day, though.

    Based on the Painting by Frieda Kahlo, “The Little Deer”

    The Little Deer

    My tender skin feels the arrows
    as each point drives deep into
    my fleshy underbelly. Crimson
    stars form around the shafts and
    still I stand naked before you.

    Unable to move I am forever
    bound in this spot never to
    leap in the air with my friends
    never to feel the fresh air or
    smell growing grass under
    my hooves.

    What urged you to stop my flight?
    Do you fear the free motion of
    my limbs floating over fallen
    branches as easily as a feather
    flies? You were welcome to join
    yet you chose arrows, their sharp
    tips now my unwelcome partners,
    joining instead.

  43. Kimberlee Thompson

    The Forest

    and bloodied
    by as many arrows
    as flesh can hold
    before becoming provision,
    I am
    and glorious
    I am what I always was,

  44. Maria Jacketti

    Hey, Piazza d’Italia

    And maybe Italy is another planet,
    traveling through my blood,
    a place I’ve never been:
    a place that lives exiled in me:
    this neon orange piazza,
    all sex and the second chakra:
    for Italians are first lovers, hmmm…

    Piazza d’Italia,
    a plaza of blood oranges,
    where the sun is the primeval vitamin,
    where even gargoyled girls eke out optical bonbons,

    where color knows less shame,
    where imagination farts,
    and even that becomes fecundity,
    manure to glut the roots
    of perpetual renaissance.

    Maria Jacketti

  45. Chris Granholm Jr.

    The Little Deer

    Oh, the slings and arrows of misfortune
    All day long feeling
    As if I were some defenseless animal
    when my surroundings are so pristine
    an endless escape just moments away
    And the wounds inflicted
    cut deep
    Left to die amidst laurel leaves


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