November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 18

So after today’s poem, we’ll be three-fifths of the way through this November challenge. That’s pretty impressive. And, as has been noted by several of you, it’s not just the quantity of writing that’s been amazing about November; it’s also the quality. Oh yeah!

For today’s prompt, I want you to write a point-of-view poem. Write from the perspective from someone or something obvious (or not so obvious) related to your theme. If you’re writing a series of accounting poems, then today is the day you can write a poem from the perspective of your spreadsheet. If you’re writing a bunch of baker poems, time to share the voice of your dough (or even your apron). If you’re writing a series of poems from the perspective of an accountant for a bakery, then, well, I guess you have some options.

Here’s my attempt for the day:

“Silver Bullet”

I’m the only sure way to kill a werewolf,
the only way to make sure a werewolf stays dead.

If you blow them up,
their body pieces will find a way back to each other.

Regular bullets just slow them down,
and wooden stakes only kill vampires.

Cages can confine,
but only I kill.

After all, guns don’t kill werewolves,
I do.


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80 thoughts on “November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 18

  1. Lynne

    Child’s Point of View

    Mommy come here quick!
    The sun came down to play
    with me and look! the
    sunbeam is jumping from my
    window to fuzzy yellow flowers
    on the grass. Oh please let’s
    go outside, Mommy, please!

    Listen, Mommy, bees are
    singing me a fumbuzzly
    kind of song and they’re
    playing tag with the flowers
    and the butterflies look like
    they want to play too and me
    too oh I wish I could fly and play.

    I hear birds singing too, Mommy,
    Where are they? Oh, Mommy,
    a whole bunch just flew out of
    the big tree. Lots of ‘em,
    maybe lebenty-three and they
    made those pretty red and yellow
    leaves fall down, now they’re
    playing loop de loop up in the sky.

    Look, Mommy, Mr. Charlie is
    raking all his leaves up. I want
    to jump in his big pile and you
    cover me up with leaves, okay?
    Oh wait I just want to watch this
    ladybug first, Mommy. This is fun,
    Mommy, the leaves are crunchy and
    smell like sunshine. I’ve got an idea,
    let’s get my little rake, the one I use
    when I help Daddy, and I can help
    Mr. Charlie too, can I Mommy?

    Who is that man, Mommy, and
    why does he have that big cloth over
    his nose and mouth? He looks funny.
    I don’t want to go inside, Mommy,
    I’m having so much fun, this is my
    best day ever and oh look Ladybug
    Ladybug fly away home. Hurry little

    Why did we walk inside so fast, Mommy,
    wait, please don’t close all the windows.
    I want to listen to my humbuzzling
    bees and hear my birds sing to me,
    please Mommy, pretty please.

    What is that man doing, Mommy,
    he looks like he’s spraying water
    on my dandelions. Yes, I know
    what poison is. Oh no! why does
    that man want to kill my flowers,
    Mommy? Why is he so mean. Make him
    stop, Mommy please make him stop.

  2. Kathy Kehrli

    XVIII. The Mathematics of Vital Signs

    My cardiac leads suction-cupped to the chest,
    I’m a graphical marvel
    Of algebraic tendency.
    My perfect sine waves
    Marred by PVCs,
    Which I count off by the minute
    Like a drill sergeant metronome.
    My pulse-ox meter,
    Clipped first to nose
    And then to index finger,
    Illustrates Numbers and Operations,
    A lesson in percents:
    92 out of 100, or 92%.
    My dual blood pressure monitors,
    One cuffed to bicep
    The other cathetered through the groin,
    Are a blasphemy of proportions.
    And you, who once earned yourself
    A reputation as mathematical whiz,
    Find yourself detesting
    My sodomy of the subject.

  3. Tyger

    From the Television Set

    Did anyone ever ask me
    if I want to spout all this
    right-wing rubbish?
    Did anyone wonder
    if I really want to broadcast
    Fox news?
    when Sarah Palin winks
    through my screen
    don’t you think I shudder?
    And didn’t you see me
    virtually glow with glee
    when the map turned blue?

  4. Peggy Goetz

    My theme is Change (and its many meanings)

    I like this riding warm in a pocket
    next to a thigh, so I can feel the
    muscles move. At night I rest
    on a dresser, breathing the bedroom
    fragrances, aftershave, a bit of perfume.
    My Lincoln face is dulled
    no more the shiny new penny
    that delighted a child
    with sticky fingers
    when I was fresh from
    minting. I’ve traveled
    six times completely across
    the continent, lived in a cash
    drawer at a New York pizzaria
    Starbucks in Sausalito, in a
    Cosco in Kansas. For three
    years I lived in a bottle kept
    by a boy, with hundreds
    others, until I was dumped
    in a collection bin Pennies
    for Prevention. Maybe if I’m
    lucky someone will throw me
    in a fountain, Rome I would
    prefer, make a wish, kiss
    and live happily ever after.

  5. Rodney C. Walmer

    Unwritten Poem

    Here I sit all alone
    I’m not much,
    but an unwritten poem

    Here I wait
    for him to take pen in hand
    perhaps to debate
    that which most will never understand

    With so much out there to inspire
    it’s a wonder
    that he never tires

    With a prompt from Robert
    a change in the economy
    what would it hurt
    for him to write just once about me

    It’s not easy being an unwritten poem
    sitting here in the dark, all alone
    when all I want is a place to call home. . .

    ©Rodney C. Walmer 11/20/08 Perspective poem.

  6. Kateri Woody

    If you squeeze my bulb any harder, I will vomit –
    I will spill my acid all down your suit.
    It serves you right, preemptively ejaculating
    my contents at undeserving pedestrians!
    I want to spew forth on the face of the Bat,
    can’t you hear my pansy eyes weeping Daddy,
    my green lugubrious tears hiss as they fall
    from my petaled face and die on your own bosom!

  7. Jolanta Laurinaitis

    I am her death

    I blanket her
    And keep her warm at night
    Sheild her from the painful
    And keep her out of sight

    Dark and nuturing
    Safety fears forming
    Old perspectives are dead
    New ones come with morning

    An over protective parent
    I am smothering my child
    Till she can no longer breathe
    Leaving her corpse to be defiled

    I am the balckened city smog
    Pollution and death is soaring
    Old thoughts are numbed
    And new ones come with mourning

    (written from the perspective of the city pollution smog.. but you already worked that one out! :D)

  8. Shannon Rayne


    We swarm
    into the sweaty heat
    of dance floors,
    we are nothing more
    than the amplified swell
    surrounding bending bodies.

    the dancers respond
    you would think
    that our vibrations
    assaults their senses.

    I do not know what
    this generation is fighting
    against. In years past
    we were greeted with tilted hips
    hands steady at the side
    ready for us to fill their senses.

    Tonight they slap their bodies
    against us, greeting us
    with pummeling fists.

  9. Iris Deurmyer

    Rock’s Lament

    You pummel me all day long
    For centuries you have beat against me
    tearing away until I am only
    a small portion of my former self

    I was once a gigantic boulder
    where sailors stood to catch your mood
    But your angry waves have carried
    grains of me into your depths or
    deposited me on uninhabited beaches.

    Some of me is even now
    covering an ancient shipwreck
    while other particles remain
    intwined in meremaids’ hair

    Here I stand as a small monument
    to your tenacity
    Oh great and mighty Pacific
    Hail, to your salty waters

  10. Kate Berne Miller

    I am the liminal
    The space between
    ½ of ½ of ½ of ½
    never arriving, never merging
    never whole. What holds you apart no matter how
    tightly you cling together.

    I am what lies between
    Here and there, the transition , the fade
    between night and day, that point where the horizon
    starts to blur,
    the stillness before the first cry,
    the breath before the last.

    I am the borderlands
    between two vastly different worlds,
    barren, dry, so hot even language
    melts away. There are those that die
    in the crossing and those who survive

    Kate Berne Miller

  11. PSC in CT

    Thank you Michelle! :-)

    Oh my gosh — so many good ones today, it’s hard to list them all, so here’s my "short" list of favorites:

    Nancy P – (The Scratchy Stack) Very nice! I remember them fondly. And Van Gone — I like it!

    Karen – love your "tomboy" trying to be tame.

    Shanon R – And to think I felt sorry for myself for joining almost a week late. You’ve got guts enough to play catch up for weeks. You go!!

    Michelle – Bare Naked was cute — but I loved Leaf!
    Linda – How true! And pretty good for a quick draft.
    Paul W.H. – very sad.

    S.E.Ingraham – some I recall from WD Forum, some were new to me. Too many, all well done, to choose a single favorite.

    Judy – such a terrible loss, so tragic & heartbreaking, and you keep on capturing it so painfully well.

    K Weber – (The Shame) I feel like an idiot — like I should understand this one — but it a riddle to me. Still, I really like it! (Want to enlighten dopey me?)

    Jane – very simple, very nice.

    Sara V – interesting idea, water seeking tranquility (Me too!)

    Victoria – your door poems have been engaging — short & succinct.

    Steve L – (Book) – Very interesting, and unexpected, perspective, since I anticipated reverence and care. Still, I understand well, how that book feels. I don’t like to be peeled open and read either — so why do I write (or try to write) poetry?? Nice job!

    Juanita – well done!

    Thanks, everyone, for yet another day of excellent poetry! We are .566667 way there. Write on! ;-)

  12. Juanita Snyder

    (ok, since my theme is the Pacific Northwest and includes a couple poems on the pacific ocean, thought this particular point-of-view/rant-back fitting. –spidey)

    Poseidon Speaks
    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    I am not your Enemy, though
    at times you render me with such cruelty.
    Lives I have taken, yes
    but never without Reason,
    and never with Greed.
    Death is such a delicate matter,
    to always be carried out with great Honor
    and Respect, in spite of your own record.
    Your hands are not entirely clean.
    You engage my children in blood sport,
    pollute my reefs with garbage & chemicals,
    come to my home and drill giant holes
    in blatant disregard of the consequences,
    how else am I supposed to feel?

    You cannot enslave or bully me.
    I cannot be bought or sold.
    I’ve been in existence far longer than
    when you first crawled out of the ooze.
    While you were busy whittling sticks
    I was carving out coastlines and
    tumbling rocks smooth as glass.
    While you were busy building your cities
    and expanding your territory,
    I sent my own painful reminders,
    hurricanes and volcanoes,
    tsunamis and quakes.
    Never think yourself my equal.
    no matter how many trips to the moon,
    or how small I seem from your space station.

    You will never be my equal.

    © 2008 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  13. PSC in CT

    Calendar’s Lament

    I tallied days with tender care
    I never could relax
    I couldn’t let one single day
    Just slip right through the cracks

    Appointments and your special days
    I tracked with care and reason
    Recording every holiday,
    Full moon and change of season

    But, though I kept track of it all
    I see the writing on the wall
    The year is quickly winding down
    I fear a new kid’s come to town

    I haven’t got a lot of time
    And so, I’ll keep it brief
    The days are quickly slipping by
    Oh Time, that awful thief!

    My days are numbered, it is true
    But friend, one day this may be you
    Trying hard to be not bitter
    Tossed aside like so much litter

  14. kate


    I’m the second incarnation
    the first is shoved on top
    of a dusty wardrobe
    one arm hanging by a thread
    face disfigured by nail polish
    and grime.

    I have power to create sound
    a contented sucking on my dummy
    wails when it falls
    from my mouth’s plastic O.

    Bottle, scratchy shirt and me,
    the trinity she needs
    to get to sleep.

  15. Shann Palmer


    Fingers hovering
    over keys, after
    comfortable words
    she plays them out-
    it’s their rite.

    People sometimes
    tell her what hymns
    to use, though
    they won’t know
    from their vantage.

    Those left behind
    will hear the song
    later, and every time
    remember, remember.

  16. S.E.Ingraham

    Day 15 – prompt – "nightmare dream" (almost caught up)

    Dreaming Dreams

    “We are near waking when we dream we are dreaming” Novalis

    It’s always the same
    The door to the cage
    Lies open, unlocked
    And my heart
    Beating a tattoo-rhythm
    Feels, even within the dream
    As if it might rip
    From out my chest
    But my legs are heavy
    Too heavy to move
    To cross the short
    Distance needed
    To escape
    And helplessly
    I watch the cage-door
    Slowly sliding closed
    As my legs refuse
    To obey my heart
    And my mind goes black
    And I dream I am
    Awake and then
    I am and still
    I am not free.

  17. Steve LaVoie


    Eww, why
    Are all your fingers
    Poking and prodding
    And moving layer after layer
    Of me around without asking?

    The worst part is I just feel
    So naked when you open
    Me up! Why must you
    Always stare at my naked words?

    Sometimes you don’t even own me.
    You just grab me off of my perch on high
    Pull me toward you
    And almost tear me open
    And after that not even give me
    The satisfaction of being worthy
    Enough for you.
    You are all just terrible!
    How would you like it if I peeled you
    Open and read what was inside?

  18. S.E.Ingraham

    And yet another – catch up poem #14, prompt "cautionary"
    Learning the Ropes

    Edith is showing me around the ward
    Giving me a heads-up about what’s what
    She means well but she is scaring me
    Half to death and I wish she would just
    Shut up now and let me go back to my room
    If she points out one more person I should avoid
    I think I might start screaming or maybe I’ll just
    Start to run down the hall and keep running
    Until somebody makes me stop or somebody
    Makes her stop – what? Oh – wait – she’s
    Going into someone’s room now and I
    Don’t have to, don’t want to, don’t go there
    Go back down the hall now and find a nurse
    Ask her where my room is, I can do that
    Don’t listen to Edith calling after me
    Soon I won’t be able to hear her
    Just keep walking past the Security Desk
    Is he getting up? It doesn’t matter, just
    Keep walking and soon I will be at the Nurse’s
    Station and then I will find someone who
    Will help me and get me back to my room
    Just keep walking, walking, walking
    Don’t listen to anything at all, don’t think
    Just keep walking, walking, walking
    Where is that room? Where is that room?
    I can’t walk anymore; I will just sit here now
    And not think and not walk, just sit, that’s all.

  19. Michelle H.

    Hi Everyone, I really enjoyed these poems today:
    Earl – "What I’ve Seen"
    Lori – "Vein Truth"
    Linda – "Mr. Paper complains"
    Meesh – Toliet Handle poem – very funny
    Sara V. – "Still Waters"
    Goodnight all! Looking forward to tomorrow and a slower pace! :-)

  20. Nancy Posey

    Van Gone

    She said Van Gogh had made her mad.
    On her first museum trip, she’d pushed
    her way up close to view the picture she
    had only seen before on calendars and
    cards. She said that once she got there,
    though, the picture disappeared—only
    brushstrokes—and it made her mad.
    She wanted to back up enough to bring
    the image back, but the room was full
    by then, so she just left him for Degas.

    Nancy Posey

  21. S.E.Ingraham

    And yet another – Day 12 – prompt "By the Numbers"

    Keeping Track of Going off the Rails

    Charting your disorder and the various attempts
    To heal your fucked-up mind can drive you
    More insane than you ever dreamed, if you let it
    Or – you can begin to appreciate the elegance
    Of mathematics and pure science and hope to
    Pursue the answer to your crazed existence
    As a purely academic exercise wherein you will
    Play the part of chief subject in the experiment
    Or, if Lady Luck smiles with particular favour on your
    Real life laboratory, you may just end up being THE ONE
    The pseudo-scientist who discovers the answers to questions
    Needing to be asked and answered for you and others
    But – and this is a huge but (no pun intended at all here)
    First you must commit to chart keeping on a monumental scale
    Learn to devote time and energy to systems and files
    And research so that you are almost as educated about
    Your illness and its possible treatments as those who treat you

    It becomes important to realize that the number of times
    You become depressed will influence – get ready for it
    The number of times you will become depressed – that’s correct
    Kindling – it’s called kindling
    – each episode sets off little fires
    That makes each successive depression
    that much easier to set aflame
    Talk about depressing – those numbers are that, yes?

    This is just an example of how arithmetic and sanity connections
    Abound in the mental health arena –
    there are dozens more, maybe hundreds
    But the lab is calling and the disorder
    a fierce mistress who appears on a whim
    This self proclaimed subject must off to work
    or will find herself incarcerated once more…

  22. Victoria Hendricks

    So many strong and creative poems. Judy, the degree of empathy in yours just makes me shudder and want to hug you now and your son then.

    Here’s mine – short and simple after a long work day.


    Shut, I separate.
    Open, I invite.
    Approach with care.
    I invite, open,
    I separate, shut.

  23. S.E.Ingraham

    Catch-up poem #12 – prompt "tiniest detail"


    The scars were healed and in time
    Would fade to un-noticeable lines
    The doctor assured her parents
    And the thoughts were gone from
    Her mind also, they, and she, assured them
    They kept saying, as if saying it often
    Enough would make it so and no one
    Noticed as she continued to pick
    At her bedspread in the hospital room
    There weren’t enough chairs so
    She sat on the bed, straight as a soldier
    At right angles to those assembled
    And she laid one hand in her lap
    But the whole time, she kept picking
    Tiny, miniscule really, pieces of lint
    Off the spread, near her thigh, with the other
    She appeared to be listening to them
    Her parents, the doctor – nodding
    Saying – ah, and mmm – at the appropriate
    Moments but really she just kept
    Mindlessly picking, picking, picking
    And no one saw her, no one, no one at all

  24. SaraV

    Robert I loved your poem–great ending!!

    Still Waters

    I seek tranquility
    Is that such a huge thing
    To ask?
    No ripples, no splashing
    No webbed toes paddling about
    Stillness is what I seek
    I am dead tired of all this activity
    Look at my beauty
    The sun creates twinkles on my wrinkles
    Sunset paints me petal pink
    I don’t mind so much if you stop and sip
    Pausing for a little drink
    But then,
    Be on your way
    I don’t need all you critters
    Mucking about
    I have sunrays to catch
    And to boughs to reflect
    I am deeper than you think

  25. A.C. Leming

    I apologize in advance for this one. It’s late and I’m tired and something my husband said at dinner spawned this one. So, here it is…

    Grrrrrr (or "The Bitch")

    Why is he always in my space?
    He pushes me off the good bed,
    the one I’ve warmed up so my
    belly won’t freeze. Now I have
    to circle three times again before
    I lay down on the rough blue bed
    while he had the tan bed, the other
    bed, the good bed. I’ll whine until
    my humans tell me to “Lie down!”
    faces redder and redder until I
    obey them. Why did they ruin
    my life? Why did they bring
    that spotted monstrosity home?
    Why didn’t I kill him when
    he was the size of my head?

  26. S.E.Ingraham

    While I have a few more catch up poems to post, this one actually belongs to today and is a "point-of-view" poem in keeping with my chapbook theme…

    Wrapped Up

    They only bring me out on the odd occasion
    The men and women in the white coats
    As they are so colloquially referred to
    The emergency workers, I mean
    They do try everything else first – drugs
    Are always really the first lines of defence
    Well – I guess, talk is, at least that’s the spiel
    Sold the public and the press, and it is tried
    For about thirty seconds maybe, oh – okay
    For up to three minutes if the cuckoo
    Is anywhere near lucid and let’s be honest
    By the time my people get there, it’s not
    Likely we have a talker, not likely at all
    So if subduing is in order, and when isn’t it
    And the drugs aren’t cutting it, and often they don’t
    You’d be surprised how much some crazies can handle
    Without going down – it’s pretty amazing actually
    And, of course, no one wants to use the dreaded taser
    That’s for sure – not with all the controversy
    Surrounding that baby, and its countless fatalities
    Of late – nossir – that’s why my sweet self
    Has been making such a resurgence and also why
    More of the husky fellows are being sent on calls
    To subdue and contain the loonies
    It takes really strong ones to hold them down
    And get me onto them properly, you know
    But once I’m on and wrapped, tied and fastened
    Well – I don’t like to boast – okay, maybe just a tad
    There is no getting around it – the game is over
    Once they’re restrained by Mr. Strait-Jacket
    They might just as well kiss their freedom
    Good-bye, sayonara, adios, and any other term
    You can think of that means – you are going to the Funny Farm
    Friend, it’s the Ha Ha Hilton for you
    – no good trying to get free
    Even the great Houdini had trouble
    getting out of a strait -jacket
    What makes you think a crazy-ass fool like you is going to
    Escape – uh uh – not going to happen – no way Jose
    And that as they say, is all she wrote folks – I love my work.

  27. Mary K

    My Mother’s Words

    Twenty-one years ago next week I died.
    I have kind of lost track of the exact date,
    as I have been so busy here in heaven since
    the time of my death, but i know I was looking

    forward to preparing Thanksgiving dinner. The
    menu had been decided on. The food was in
    the refrigerator. It was sudden. My death.
    My heart just stopped. No warning. I didn’t

    mean to leave so quickly without saying
    good-bye to everyone I loved, but maybe it
    was for the better. Good-byes sometimes
    an be long and drawn out, not to mention

    being filled with much pain for those dying
    and those left behind. For me, it just happened.
    God called me home. He must have had His
    reasons. I know my husband missed me.

    You know how quiet he was and how he
    depended on me for social things. He hadn’t
    made a lot of friends here in heaven since
    he’d arrived. No surprise, he had been waiting for me.

    I suppose you’d like to know what I’ve been
    doing here, but there’s no time for that right now.
    Just know that there is more than enough to do,
    but also all the time in the world. Here in heaven

    there is no real past and no real future. Everything
    is the present, and present is eternal and perfect bliss.
    No pain, no one ages, everyone is happy. Yes, just
    as you learned in Sunday School. But don’t rush

    to get here. Enjoy those moments, months, years
    on earth. They are special, and you will never forget
    your experiences or the people you know. Your
    memories last forever. God does have a plan.

    He is yesterday, today, and tomorrow. He is
    eternal, and you are also. Know we will meet again!

    (In memory of my mother who died November 24, 1987)

  28. S Scott Whitaker


    -In Homage to Larry Levis’ Whitman
    -For ladies who like Hamlet

    Slipped between two
    Like toes
    Between shoe and earth

    Wandered I,
    Spat from Hades’ mouth
    To know life in a circle,

    And at first there only blackness, and cold,
    So far stretched the only thing was numbness
    Then earth, finally, and grass, and stone as old

    Anything from the gods.

    Eventually I progressed through a king
    From a worm to a fish
    Dined upon a wooden dish
    While a play wheeled on before him.

    And back to grass, and to a deer, and eventually,
    Finally to a beggar, limbs so racked with spirit
    They shook when the voices took
    And death was held back,

    But only for a moment.

    After the beggar: a horse thief,
    A liar of a woman so wanton it was a relief to a whole village
    To burn her at the stake.

    Lawyer, housewife, a soldier or two,
    Lion tamer, candy maker,
    popcorn entertainer.

    Once I came back as poet,
    My moustache deliciously out of style,
    But no one paid attention.

    Actors, many. Thieves all, blind,
    Only if they lived long enough to have more of their kind,
    Breeding like a stray, afraid Zeus might yank life back.

    But having shaken off that guilt
    It is walking up and down
    That engenders the seeing eye.

    I can cross over
    To the other side,
    Death no longer my company.

  29. Meesh

    From the Public Toilet Handle, in Sorrow

    O for the touch of a human hand!

    Boots and soles, boots and soles.

    My days like karate
    movies on endless loop –
    all this kicking
    in uncomfortable proximity,
    then the smack,
    the unexpected impact,

    breaking the scene,

    a boot, a sole, its treads
    caked with clay, studded
    with pebbles, globbed
    with gum, tattery
    with the odd shred of toilet paper.

    A plunge, a stomp,
    and I remember gravity.

    Hear my cry,
    an ocean of sorrow,
    in every whoosh
    in every flush.

    O for an unshod touch!

  30. S.E.Ingraham

    Of course it wasn’t the "first" catch-up poem of the day…ignore that comment – I’m suffering some sort of jet lag; that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. Man – there’s a lot of good stuff on here! What an exciting month. Sharon I.

  31. S.E.Ingraham

    First catch up poem on this day – "deep thought or observational poem" – prompt for day 11 – hope this fits the bill

    Deconstructing Memory

    Without my asking, pages of that year
    find their way into my hands
    And before I know it, my eyes are drawn
    to the lines there limned
    Those days, so detailed at times, I cannot look away,
    yet all I want to do
    Is throw the lot of them off some cliff
    or into a furnace or a fire-pit, at least
    But all I’m able it to do,it seems,
    is read and re-read, the most graphic
    Descriptions of a woman I do not recognize,
    dismantling a life I do recall
    With such tenderness and regret,
    I find myself, inevitably reaching out
    Physically moving my hand as if to offer it
    in peace to someone
    Perhaps one of my children – oh please
    – take my hand and pull me back
    From the precipice of my own disastrous choices,
    I seem to be saying
    Now, long after that time of rash decisions,
    and judgements not entirely sane
    When hindsight is so much clearer than any
    sight was then, even though
    There was no telling me anything then
    – I was so sure I had it right, so sure
    That there was nothing wrong inside my head,
    my heart, my soul
    That all the rending of other’s lives
    was justified, was, in fact,
    essential if all were to survive
    I was convinced, of that I was so certain
    – the feeling comes back to me at times
    Washes over me; the colour of shame is as red
    as radishes or rhubarb or blood spilled
    And I think I might die of humiliation
    and remorse but there is no death from that
    Apparently, for I have lain awake in the dark
    praying for death’s pale horse
    To come riding in the night and carry me off,
    before I do any more damage
    Damage that I am sure resides in me yet,
    just waiting for its chance to leap out once more
    Grasp all that I love, all that is good and right
    in my life, and rip it into tiny, irreparable shreds.

  32. k weber

    the shame

    ridiculous, this
    of you

    fifty years:
    fifty chances
    to get well

    not soon
    enough; you
    went to kansas

    and tore

    like a wind-
    to a cornfield

    you were
    once the clown
    and the hippie

    now, we are
    at your misfortune

    how you
    let money
    run wild

    your mouth,
    you in blackface

    the routine
    of chaos
    bored us

    the doors
    are closed
    and the bridges

    splintered; each
    shred shoved under
    your coke nail

  33. Judy Roney

    Trust Me

    I was tired, Mom
    all I’d worked for didn’t seem worth
    it and my head, always the headaches
    and now something else. I find it difficult
    to get out of bed but I don’t want you
    to worry. I kept it from you for a reason.
    I had to make my own decision, my own
    way. I’m still doing my job, meeting
    with friends, doing what I need to do
    but I’m tired Mom.

    When I saw Mema in the casket
    she seemed so peaceful, at rest, she got to
    rest. Death didn’t seem such a terrible thing.
    Death seemed like an answer, just go to sleep
    forever, don’t worry about computer systems
    and company networks, the bosses, the 20 hour
    work days , don‘t worry about anything any longer.

    I didn’t know where home was anymore. My
    apartment in Atlanta, my family and friends
    in Tampa, my job site in Illinois. I’m only
    twenty-three Mom but I’m tired. I want to
    sleep and not have to worry about spreadsheets
    and bills and being away from my family
    and all my college friends in Gainesville
    spread all over the US with their jobs.

    I don’t know anyone here in Atlanta, I’m so
    lonely, and then I have to fly so much. You
    know what a homebody I always was Mom.
    I worked from the time I was in grade school
    for this opportunity, for this life I have. New
    car, grand apartment and job with a top five
    company. I’ve achieved all my goals but
    it’s not all that. I love you and Dad and Sis
    with all my heart but I can’t stay any more.
    There doesn’t seem to be an end to these
    hours with a job I don’t care for after all
    in a town where I don’t know anyone, in a
    space I don’t’ want to be. I guess its depression
    but it feels like it will last forever and I don’t
    want this pain. Remember it’s not about
    you, it’s about me and what I choose.

    You know I’ve always made good choices
    Mom. You said so from the time I was small.
    Trust me now and know that I’m doing
    what I need to do. Our last weekend
    together was great. I knew I wouldn’t
    see any of you again and I wanted you
    to have that one last memory. I wanted
    you to know this isn’t about you. I love

  34. Cheryl Chambers

    The Postcards

    It began with traveling, a trip out west
    where he had never been. Neal closed
    his eyes and breathed what he thought
    the scenery would be. They stopped.
    Neal, his wife, the little girl. The shop
    held Native jewelry and turquoise.
    The cards stacked next to the cashier
    located them in this vast terrain:
    Mountains, canyons, clouds overhead.
    Never had Neal felt so small, and that’s when
    the dreaming commenced, and he drifted
    away from reality like those clouds, shifting
    evolving, turning into someone else.
    That’s when he had lost his head. That’s
    when the questioning began, when he knew
    his size amidst the universe. He’d made
    decisions without even realizing there’d been
    choices at that point. He’d made the decision
    to surround himself with minutiae in order
    to feel grandiose. He felt huge. He knew
    now, at this moment, in present tense,
    he needed to fall back down to ground.

  35. Rachel


    I am waiting for you

    to fall off your feet
    to make a wrong turn
    to take your eyes off of His face

    I am lying in wait

    to prey on your pride
    to ride on your lust
    to drive a wedge into His grace

    It is my desire

    to see you in bonds
    to cause you to suffer
    to wrap your life in my oppression

    You have no idea

    that I hunt you down
    that I crave your blood
    that I am behind your depression

    So keep closing down

    your ears to His Word
    your eyes to His might
    your heart to His love-stricken voice

    I don’t want you to know

    that you are His love
    that you are forgiven
    that between us, He gives you a choice.

  36. S.E.Ingraham

    Catch up poem for Day 10 – prompt "survival"

    No Room at the Bin? No Problem
    (aka: survival of the lunatic fringe)

    Call, in a panic, make an unscheduled appointment
    With whichever shrink will see you
    Doesn’t have to be your shrink but is best if it can be
    Go in unwashed clothes, with greasy, uncombed hair
    No makeup – none – a scrap of makeup indicates wellness
    Slouch, shuffle, head down, meet no-one’s eyes
    Try for tears – tears are good – if possible do some weeping
    Ahead of time so your eyes are puffy, reddened
    Speak slowly, not much above a whisper
    Do not act overtly suicidal; this is way too obvious
    Especially for the long-time patient, a dead give-away
    That really, you just want a rest, and to have your meals made
    When the head-shrinker asks if you have thoughts of hurting
    Yourself or others, shrug, try to look confused, weary
    Neither weary nor confused will be much
    of a stretch by this point
    Suggest that no, not really, you are just tired
    and wish that you could
    Go to bed and sleep forever, that’s all, just sleep forever
    Try not to mind too much, that by the time you have convinced
    Your caregiver, you will have very much
    convinced yourself that yes,
    You should be in the hospital and no, you don’t care if they lock
    You up and throw away the damned key.

  37. Sara McNulty

    The Bull

    A cape is a cape is a cape,
    except of course when
    it is a red cape. I’m there
    for you– snorting, stomping
    the ground, looking fierce–
    what more do you want?
    Fair is fair and that means
    no color to antagonize me
    further. Colorless would
    do nicely. Isn’t it
    enough humiliation
    for me to be
    center ring with
    some fool in fancy
    get-up waving
    a cape at me,
    daring me to
    charge, when I
    could have at
    him with no cape?
    Do I have no
    rights, no emotions,
    no dignity? Do I
    not bleed red?

  38. S.E.Ingraham

    Back in Canada and playing catch up – I have the poems written, just could not post from there for some reason, so will post here today and tomorrow – the Dominican was lovely mostly – two weddings in two days followed by my new son-in-law’s father having a heart-attack right after the second wedding’s reception (his daughter’s) – he’s still in hospital in Santa Domingo (sp?). There is a surrealism about all of this that lends itself to my Chapbook theme of insanity, but it’s not one I would have wished for…

    Day 9 – prompt, "dream type poem"

    Anne Sexton Haunts My Dreams

    There is a gargoyle in the corner of my doctor’s office
    But you can’t see it if you look directly there
    However if I watch from out the corner of my eye
    Whilst chatting casually as if engaged in doing something else
    Then – there – just on the periphery of my vision
    He’s grinning like the evil little demon that I know him for
    Flicking his tongue in and out between his pointed teeth
    While my shrink, he’s busy making arrangements for me
    To be admitted to the psych ward on the fifth floor up above us
    All the time, watching me, trying not to see his gargoyle
    And me? I’m wondering why I feel so tired now;
    why I can’t get off this chair.

    Minutes later, or maybe it’s the next day,
    days melt into each other here
    It’s the middle of the night actually, not day at all,
    and I’m sitting straight up in bed
    Wide awake, heart pounding, scared out of my wits again
    and wondering where she’s at
    I’m getting tired of her, I can tell you that,
    and it seems like every time I turn around
    Certainly every time it’s lights out, whether at home,
    or here in the hospital,
    That freaking poet seems to think it’s party time,
    and in she waltzes,
    A volume of her poetry spread open in one hand,
    a half-smoked cigarette smouldering away in the other
    She just sashays up to me in her red high heels
    and starts right in;
    Never bothers to ask me, what would I like to hear tonight
    Oh no, she always picks the piece – not that I’d know what to choose these days, of course
    I used to love all of them, “Mercy Street”, “Locked Doors”, oh – and especially,
    “The God-Monger”, but lately I’d burn the lot
    Anybody knows me, would know how very pissed off I must be,
    to talk about burning books
    I’d rather kill somebody than burn a book, you can ask anyone;
    Too bad this particular somebody is already dead
    It’s just when I see her near me,
    all angst-filled still but puffed up
    With phoney sophistication and remnants of her own suicide
    I know what she wants; I may be crazy, as they say,
    but I’m not an imbecile;
    She doesn’t need to crook her manicured finger
    to get me to know I’m to follow her
    That’s when I start screaming
    and a couple of nurses come running,
    Waving their magic wands – hypodermics full of tranqs
    – I know the drill
    Never mind, I tell myself, at least if I’m unconscious
    Miss Smarty Pants poet person, can’t get to me there

  39. satia

    My vertigo often makes it feel as if my bed is moving. It can get so bad that I end up with insomnia, unable to sleep because of the nausea and being snapped into being awake because my head says I’m falling. Therefore, this is written from my long suffering bed’s perspective.

    Bed Ridden

    Tossing, turning she whimpers and moans through sleep
    As I try to cradle her in stillness, holding my ground while she
    Misperceives the floating feeling of endlessly falling from me.

    Within these four corners I lay myself and there I keep
    A vigilant embrace, holding and folding close enough
    And still she jerks awake, her world become too rough.

    Lifting her from a world that doesn’t shift, I let her grip
    Holding onto the only things solid in her life, the slip
    Of her world from solid to this endless boundless trip.

  40. Paul W.Hankins

    The Orphan’s Confession:

    They say –
    with biblical authority –
    that it is a most selfish
    act. . .

    But do they know:
    after the affects
    were packed in tubs
    and moved to the place
    beneath the stairs
    that I kept one coat behind?

    A plum colored coat,
    quilted on the outside lining
    with a darker accent around
    the collar and the cuffs;
    in the back of the closet
    it looks grandmotherly
    as if it were waiting for kids
    on the corner to get off of the bus
    on some late autumn afternoon.

    Sometimes – in quieter moments –
    I will take the silk inner lining
    and rub the material together
    between fingers and thumbs
    and the friction is like the end
    of a blanket I used to know –
    the one you’d throw without prayer
    over my half-sleeping body

    They say –
    with an air of conviction –
    that it is a most selfish
    act. . .

    That sometimes,
    I smell around the seams
    of that same old coat, the places
    where the scent of you still lingers –
    the proof of the fire –
    and I breathe in the memories
    of you, when life in your lungs
    burned and your presence
    was a burning ember on the back porch
    or behind the garage,
    in the time before you stopped breathing. . .

    each sniff is a wish for smoke
    to wrap around my head
    and stroke my temples
    to feel you once more
    in the smoldering.

  41. Linda

    Okay, after starting this challenge 10 days late, I am still behind, so today I have to post another quickie. Otherwise I will never catch up!

    Mr. Paper Complains

    I’ve been around the block, folks,
    and life ain’t been a piece of cake,
    ’cause nobody seems to respect me.
    Not sure how much more I can take.

    When Peter painted his rainbow
    and held it for the class to see,
    people only noticed the colors
    and they simply overlooked me.

    And that was just my first round,
    later times involved misuse,
    some of which I lament
    strongly border on abuse.

    I’ve been marked up and crumbled,
    folded, cut and chewed,
    used as a blotter, a paper airplane,
    and been both stapled and glued.

    Now I wish that in my next life
    things won’t be as complicated.
    Please recycle me into a paycheck
    so I’ll finally be appreciated.


  42. Taylor Graham


    My face is round and petaled as a globe
    to encompass the world. I measure
    it out in small angles.
    Giving allowance
    for declination, I have a natural
    affinity for north. My housing
    turns on the axis of you
    who hold me,
    but my arrow always aims true.
    I’m the heart
    of the compass-rose.
    Do you think I could point you
    the way to find a child
    lost in the dark? That’s not
    my job. It’s yours.

  43. patti williams

    I can only beat the wolves
    Away from the door
    For so long
    And then it just gets
    Really hairy.
    When they’re ready to come in
    There’s not much else to do
    Except offer everyone a nice
    Full glass of red wine, a Cabernet
    Works best I’ve found.

    Takes the edge off of the business still
    Left at hand.

  44. patti williams

    She cleans the houses for the people but
    Each family is so different.
    The man with his boys and no mommy
    Cause her to cry.
    Each time she drives away feeling their loss,
    The emptiness, all over again, the mommy’s
    Picture treasured everywhere.
    The woman who beat cancer to death
    Helps her, cleans right along side,
    Laughing at the messes her children have made,
    Proud to be around to see what her
    Little darlings have dreamed up.
    The sadness in the eyes of the woman
    Who is still in the eye of the Storm,
    Still trying to survive Life, always
    Leaves her disheveled … the broken home
    Overwhelming not because of size,
    Or mess, but because
    Of the pain painted on each wall.
    The other woman who seems to have everything
    In the world except happiness
    Whispers in her ear,
    “Don’t forget to clean the coffee pot,
    You didn’t last time, dear.”

    On her way home she drives slowly through
    The school zone, sees the laughter on the faces
    Of the freed children and wonders what
    Their homes are like and if
    They are surviving the pain
    Life seems to bring everyone
    Including her own little piece of the world,
    The one the people she cleans for
    Never asks her about.

  45. Rachel Green

    Bread Knife

    I am a sword in the hands of a child
    the slicer and dicer and tamer of mild
    a dozen or more tiny scimitar edges
    waiting to cut any monster to wedges.

    In the hands of the trained I will bite in defence
    aligned with a forearm in cut increments
    a simple punch sees me cutting up skin
    if you don’t see coming you’ll know where I’ve been

    For now I’ll sleep under a pillow of down
    protecting a child from the monsters in town
    One day she’ll forget me and then with a grin
    I’ll open her up from her leg to her chin.

  46. Iain D. Kemp

    Dear Ringo,

    Is it just me or are all you Yankees
    crazy? I just don’t get how y’all base your
    friendships on mistrust and venom. I’ve
    never met such a spiteful mad assed idiot
    in all my days. Maybe it’s driving that cab
    that sends you round the twist, with all those
    mad New Yorkers yapping at the back of your
    neck all day, every day. One thing you did get
    right though: your wife and mother-in-law are
    as mad as fish and need to be locked up. That
    cousin of Moosehead’s seems pleasant enough;
    always eager to please. Speaking of Moosehead,
    he really is a dumb-ass putting up with all your
    B.S. I can’t figure how he does it, nor why?
    Anyway, I feel better for getting this off my chest and
    I don’t want to abuse your hospitality any more than
    necessary. Also, I’m forgetting the point of this note.
    I booked lanes at the bowling alley. See you back of seven.

    Yours lacking in the usual southern graces,

    Jimmy the Greek

  47. Iain D. Kemp

    Cats, Poetry & Death #21

    The Spectre and the Scythe

    Write what you will
    it makes no odds
    No muse off sets my

    Nine lives or not
    you’ll be mine
    All come to me

    God loving or atheist
    feline or Poet
    Fear me for I am

    Darkly shrouded
    hooded I stand
    Scythe in hand for

    The only certainty
    is your end
    I shall claim you

    The Spectre that haunts
    from over the shoulder
    has only one name:


  48. Lori

    I was in a silly mood today I guess.

    Vein truth

    I’m a little slippery thing
    That likes to hide from you
    The more you think you’ll get a hit
    The more I make you blue

    Oh, with a tourniquet, I’ll sure pop up
    And when you rub your alcohol
    But as soon as see your needle
    You won’t see me at all.

    So pick and stick all you want
    The only way you’ll get me
    Is when the doctor changes his mind
    About the patient needing an IV.

  49. Michelle H.

    I’m so busy I haven’t had time to read yesterday’s posting, but I will soon. Today I started a new before school reading group for gifted readers with my 5th grade daughter, it’s also her birthday, so I just pulled the cake I made from scratch (which I never do) from the oven. The I volunteered in my 3rd graders’ classroom and they are having their big 3rd grade music concert tonight (finally dawned on my why she’s been so moody and a little sassy this morning! – She’s nervous to be in front of thousands of people!! :-)) And, no it’s not thousands. So next I’m off to have lunch with the birthday girl and then back home to make supper for the grandparents and then we have the concert!! So maybe tonight I can read yesterdays and todays!! Sorry for the rambling…
    but I can’t wait to read your postings!


    Oh, I am so wet
    And now I’m stuck to glass
    But how interesting this is
    To peer inside this home
    For I recognize this woman
    Sitting upon her couch
    She often sat and stared at me
    When I was still attached to my tree
    I wonder does she recognize me?
    Whoa, Good-bye!
    The wind moves me.

    “Bare Naked” (first title)

    My goodness it’s cold
    And how my limbs do shiver;

    I lost my coat a while back
    And now my limbs do quiver;

    I pray for spring
    And the new coat it will deliver.

    “Bare Naked Trees” (final title)

  50. Margaret

    Sugar Maple Lament

    Insects eat lunch on my crown,
    root rot weakens down below,
    twig blight burns the branches bare,
    cankers on my bare trunk grow
    so numerous I’m weakened more.
    When sap rises, it’s tapped off,
    I don’t have enough to grow
    strong green leaves. My branches bare,
    next winter broken by the snow.
    No sap rises the next spring,
    I find my branches bare of leaves.
    Soon a storm will blow me down,
    and you’ll wonder why.

  51. Shannon Rayne

    Robert, this is a fantastic idea, to have us write on a theme, soooo much better than the typical poem a day. I am just starting TODAY. I will try to catch up. So far I have posted in Days 1 – 3. Maybe its better to start backwards? Forwards?? I look forward to seeing how the collection of ‘first drafts’ build! Cheers. Shannon

  52. SusanB

    I apologize for stacking 15,16,17 and 18 all in a row, but internet in Paris only includes a view of the Tour de Eiffel lit up in blue with no guarantees for reliable internet. Thank you for indulging me.

    I am slowly catching up on the reading of the poems and must say…I love the cat poems, the lessons, and the dominoes really got me…I’m seeing them everywhere! The human relations poems, as well, are very good. Great writing folks!

    DAY 15

    No heat
    No hot water
    Unless you know where the controls are
    And they are set correctly
    Sidewalks so small you can only walk
    Single file
    Cars that often ride up
    Onto the sidewalk to pass
    Can hit you if you are not aware

    Five-block walks to everywhere
    Take your life into your hands
    Riding bikes
    Five years on average
    To get your license
    To drive a tiny car
    On the other side of the road
    Surrounded by everyone in a hurry
    Getting nowhere fast on narrow streets
    That barely have room for one vehicle
    But is still a “two-way” street

    A machine to wash your clothes and
    Dry them in three or four hours
    That does less than half the machine at home
    Half-sized fridge and freezer
    To match; don’t forget to defrost
    Time to go shopping AGAIN!

    Some days I wake up
    and ask myself
    “Who am I?”
    “Where am I?”
    Then I remember
    The great experiment

    No two- or three-week holiday this
    One school year before
    I get my kitchen back
    My attached garage
    My full-size car
    And all my belongings that were too bulky
    To carry in a suitcase
    And I will let all those folks
    Who said “Ireland is wonderful …
    You’re going to LOVE IT!”
    That being on holiday and
    Actually living there

    DAY 16
    If it WERE UP TO ME…

    A lagoon with white sand
    A chaise lounge chair
    With a cup-holder for
    Unlimited pina coladas
    Easy access, of course,
    For internet
    Free long-distance calling
    to say:
    Having such a great time
    Wish you were here
    To go snorkeling
    Dancing every night to great music
    Writing poetry by twinkle lights
    on the verandah
    And it will take a lot
    To coax me back home

    All my love
    Does that mean I have none left?
    Lots of love
    How do you measure that?
    Give your heart away
    Is there now a big hole in your chest?
    Puppy love
    Does it wear off with the first $50 pair of chewed shoes?
    Love you forever
    Does that include any afterlife?


    You can complain about it
    But you have to live it
    You can be the luckiest one on earth
    Or the poorest
    Or the saddest
    Or the happiest
    You can choose where you might live it
    Who you will live it with
    Whether you will celebrate it
    Or wish you didn’t have it
    And it’s the only thing that is truly yours
    For when you leave it
    You take nothing with you
    That’s Life

  53. Karen H. Phillips

    Nancy, I so relate, and beautifully put!

    Charles Courtney Curran, American (1861-1942)
    On the Heights, 1909

    Secret Thoughts

    My sisters sit beside me.
    How do they stay so still?
    Sedate, they clasp their hands
    in their laps.

    The hillside’s alive,
    like this shrub brushing
    my knees and its twig
    I snapped off
    and now hold between my fingers.
    Mr. Curran was none too happy
    and told me not to move,
    I’d spoil the ambiance–whatever that means.

    Summer breeze teases our
    tightly bunned and poufed hair–
    it’s the style, after all–
    and I wish I could be as
    content as we look,
    posing for the painter.

    I suppose Father wouldn’t want
    me to run down this hillside
    just yet,
    and Mother would purse her lips
    if she saw me take a roll
    through the waving grass,
    tumbling down the slope
    in my pristine white dress.

    The sun warms my back,
    so much so, I feel sweat drops
    trickle down.
    I think of the breeze
    to cool myself
    and concentrate on the
    fine blue-skied day.

    A sideways glance tells me
    my sisters still pose,
    in the clear air.

    I look as much a lady
    as they.
    I feel a bit black-sheepish,
    longing to turn a cartwheel
    in my perfect white dress.

  54. Connie

    In my second dream poem I already wrote one from the pov of a domino, so this one’s for you, Iain.

    Flippy Cat

    I’m Flippy Cat the famous domino tipper.
    I may be as popular as the dolphin Flipper.
    On YouTube, this is no exaggeration,
    I’ve become a great sensation.
    My favorites are Christmas Tree, Domino Lisa,
    Candy Corn, Doninearth—they’ll all please ya.
    YouTube displays my many fans’ tributes.
    I have a white-tipped tail and wear no boots.
    I’m black and white and a little plump,
    and at times I’m as still as a stump.
    I like to wander when I’m camera shy.
    My man took my picture ‘neath a sunny sky.
    He made domino portraits of me and my friend.
    I tip them over, and meow at the end.

  55. Heather

    Lesson #18: Lessons and Learning

    The three sat together
    Not intending to meet
    They found themselves
    In a corner
    Squeezed into ill-fitting chairs

    The smell of moldy napkins
    Filled the air and she wasn’t sure
    She was going to be able to eat

    To her left sat
    To her right sat

    Learning listened intently to
    Lesson’s philosophies,
    Soaking them into her crevices
    She took Lesson’s words to heart,
    Bookmarked thoughts,
    Calculated changes

    Learning nodded in all the right places,
    Lessons continued with her speech about
    How to set a life free

    She watched as
    Lessons and Learning had a meeting of the minds
    Learning took some of the suggestions hard,
    Lessons self-righteously continued on,
    Oblivious to Learning’s
    Growing concerns

    She didn’t stop them or interject
    She knew that in time
    Learning would understand
    That Lessons had a lot to learn

    Lesson #18: Just Because You’ve Learned a Lesson Doesn’t Mean You’re Done Learning

  56. Terri Vega

    So once again I’m struggling with a name. "Soil" just seems too obvious but, yet, that’s all that comes to me. *sigh* Oh well, here is poem # 18

    PAD Challenge Day 18 – Point of View

    You use me for life,
    your life. You throw yourself
    down on me and expect me
    to keep you warm until
    you are ready to venture out into
    the world around you.

    I am left here to ground you,
    to keep you rooted. You spread
    your bounty into the very skies
    that I will never be allowed
    to touch.

    I understand, though, I have used
    you as well. When your dead and
    rotting remains return to me I take
    them in and renourish myself I
    feed on you

    and so in this way
    we continue to be.

  57. Bruce Niedt

    Yea, Nancy! I love that record poem too! I wrote a similar poem back in the April PAD (Robert featured it) called "Record Store", that celebrates the "brick-and-mortar" store and how much more satisfication one gets from handling a record, or even CD, rather than a digital download.

  58. Bruce Niedt


    You are all so enamored of touching
    my long row of improbable teeth.
    But please remember that I am high-strung,
    and whether you play “Chopsticks”
    or "Claire de Lune”,
    you are hammering me inside.

  59. Monica Martin

    Finally! I’m all caught up! Yay!

    As of right now, I am only a frame,
    a wooden skeleton not fit to shelter.
    But tomorrow comes drywall, insulation,
    and windows. Concrete for the floors,
    and brand new doors. These guys
    are fast workers, and it won’t be
    long before a family moves in,
    and I become a home.

  60. Vanessa O'Dwyer

    What am I?

    I am best friend to man or woman
    I protect them when they are weakest
    I defend them at all times
    I exist, but I am virtually unknown
    I allow them dignity and grace
    I am impartial and do not judge
    I am not a Who, a Where, a When
    I am neither How nor Why
    I am a What, so what am I?
    I am your Human Right.
    I am yours, by your birthright.

    Vanessa O’Dwyer

  61. Ronda Eller


    I didn’t choose to become your nemesis;
    You created me inside
    that dreamy recluse of a building
    after your hunter friend came visiting,
    talking about how he killed off
    some attic-sheltering coons last year.

    You also added my friends,
    so we could thwart your attempts
    to access your car and fulfil the myth
    of how troublesome we can be.
    When you threw your keys at me,
    did you think it would hurt me
    like your friend’s rifle butt stunned
    the real coon trying to escape him?

    Of course I grabbed your keys.
    They glinted at me in the dim lighting,
    made me curious, feel mischievous
    as I pondered the unnatural way
    you put me inside, even before
    winter winds became a threat.
    Was your subconscious trying
    to save me?

    ~ Ronda Eller 2008

  62. Don Swearingen

    Oh Nancy,vinyl rules!
    But we come from different schools.
    For your have rock and roll things,
    But mine mean something ’cause they swings!

  63. Earl Parsons

    LK – Your poems have so much feeling.

    Nancy – I still have over 500 albums that I won’t part with. One of these days I’ll get another turntable with a digital converter and put them on CD. Yeah, right. I’ve been saying that for a decade now.

  64. Earl Parsons

    Day 18 for LL&L:

    What I’ve Seen

    Some amazing people have passed my way
    Over the last few thousand years
    And I’ve seen the faces of every one
    I’ve seen happiness, shock and tears

    Some didn’t believe they were really here
    Others were elated they’d finally arrived
    All were happy when they first saw me
    But they walked by like I wasn’t alive

    Some ran by while others could only crawl
    And some froze right where they stood
    Some collapsed and had to be helped on their way
    But make no mistake; they all understood

    They’d heard of me, but they never knew
    Just how pearly beautiful I would be
    They’d also heard what wonders lay beyond
    They couldn’t wait for their turn to see

    What my boss had in store for each of them
    And the old friends and family they’d meet
    The mansion He built, and awaiting rewards
    The crystal clear waters and gold streets

    I’ve been so blessed to see them all first
    My boss put me in the very best place
    For I get to greet you when you make it home
    And one day, I hope to see your smiling face

  65. Don Swearingen

    Robert, loved it. Silver is supernatural!
    Okay. To business
    Yesterday the prompt wanted a love poem. I’d already written my day 17 poem and this one is old. Very old. But it’s a love poem I gave her for Valentine’s day.

    I saw you this morning, driving home
    Waving at me as I drove to work.
    I waved back frantically, alone
    Again in a second, and jerk
    The car back into traffic, and feel
    Good all the way in, driving in
    A bubble of warmth; bells peal
    In my heart, subsiding in
    A few hours to a hum,
    A glow I carry through the day
    Until I see you for a crumb
    Of time at evening, when I say
    How much I adore you
    And recall this morning that I saw you.

    But the challenge is to write a new poem, so….

    The sun promises warmth and clear skies
    And I have no work to go to now,
    So in my driveway, my truck lies
    Silently. I remind myself how
    Each morning I made it roar to life
    So I could sally forth once more
    To face the strife
    Of day to day, the chore
    That work was, and now is not.
    Old memory has eased the stress
    And made the victories caught
    Much bigger, and the losses less.
    The past holds much. But I’ve grown wise,
    Because the sun promises warmth and clear skies.

  66. Earl Parsons

    Day 18 for SS:

    Zap Me!

    I can hear the energy flowing
    I can see the lightning flash
    I can feel the power moving
    Through ten billion of my buds

    There goes one
    That was close
    But not close enough
    I want to be a part
    Of the fun
    Zap me!

    Here comes a massive power surge
    Coming my way at high speed
    I hope they’re on a collision course
    ‘Cause it been so long since I
    Got involved in the action

    Charge me, please!
    Send me a spark
    A burst of electricity
    To charge this little neuron

    Zap me!

  67. Nancy

    The Scratchy Stack

    Twelve by twelve, suitable for
    hanging in every rock-and-roll
    themed joint, we stand forgotten,
    one notch above the stacks of
    National Geographic. In times
    past, you sorted us, first by genre
    then alphabet, then year, pulling
    us one at a time from our jackets,
    perusing the liner notes on our
    sleeves, then taking us for a spin.
    Now Abbey Road leans against
    Fog Hat’s Rock and Roll, longing
    for one more brush against the
    White Album or Hard Day’s Night.
    The world’s gone digital, the last
    needle’s broken, but you can’t bear
    to let us go, so we just let it be.

    Nancy Posey