Editors Blog

November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 22



For a collection (whether poetry, music, or whatever), I really like it when the individual pieces communicate with each other. So, for today’s poem, I want you to pick one of your earlier poems from this month and write a poem that is a response to that earlier poem.


 


To make it very immediate, you could write a response to yesterday’s confessional poem. Or you could reach back to Day 17’s Love Poem, Day 7’s Myth Poem, etc. I’m sure those reading along would love it if you include to which day’s poem you are responding, too.


 


For my part, I think I’ll respond to my Day 20 poem, which is also the longer version of Day 3’s refrain poem. Talk about some interconnectedness.


 


Here’s my attempt for the day:


 


“I am the woman standing inside my house”


 


wondering if you are watching me through my open windows;


I left all my doors unlocked and tried watching television;


my fingers play with the remote, and I listen intently;


when you make a noise, I will investigate;


if the lights are off, I will not turn them on;


I will not hesitate to walk into the darkness,


so that I can’t see who or what is coming my way.


You might also like:

  • No Related Posts

61 thoughts on “November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 22

  1. Terri Vega

    Response to Day #6 (Praise)

    And now I sleep, resting
    in winter’s solitude. My rose
    petals blacked and thorns exposed.
    My song has turned to lullaby.

    Scents of rosemary are veiled in
    snow that covers the gentle
    green spires.

    Kitties play but the peppermint
    stays snug in the hardened soil
    its watchful eyes closed as
    the romping paws fall short to keep
    the belly out of the frozen
    wonderland.

    The spider’s web has rusted
    fallen to the wayside and life is quite.
    The dance has ended as the waiting days
    of tomorrow have arrived.

  2. Juanita Snyder

    ok….original first, response poem second….–spidey

    room 429
    by juanita lewison-snyder

    she stepped out from under the overhang and into the downpour,
    relieved at the chance to ditch ghosts four stories up,
    their faces vapor-locked against glass, peering from room 429.

    she had come to the big city on business, hoping to catch the eye
    of all the right people and further advance her career. instead,
    she caught the affections of a young supernatural in room 429.

    she first felt it’s presence when the keycard swiped the door,
    felt it riffle curiously through her things like an invite when she
    laid open her suitcase at the foot of the bed in room 429.

    she thought on her mother, their line of shared gifts –
    apparitions with dancecards lining the halls
    awaiting messiahs outside room 429.

    she sensed the entity’s childlike loneliness, attaching itself
    like an unwanted pet to the back of her wool skirt,
    dragging across carpet in sheer desperation inside room 429.

    she empathized at first, until the weight of it all began popping
    rivets surrounding her heart, filling lungs with radon
    ‘til her hands pushed opened the heavy door of 429.

    she fumbled her way past shadowy figures, glad for
    the knowledge of spirits and their aversion to water,
    eager to unhinge from the haunting in room 429.

    she stepped out from under the overhang and into the downpour,
    relieved at the chance to ditch ghosts four stories up,
    their faces vapor-locked against glass, peering from room 429.

    © 2008 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    ——————

    ghost from room 429
    by juanita lewison-snyder

    sorry i scared you; sometimes we ghosts just forget our manners.
    it’s just i’m so thrilled somebody can actually see my face
    vapor-locked against glass, 4 stories up, peering from room 429.

    i’m lonely and just wanted your company; loved the smell of your
    perfume, sound of your voice, wished you could hold my hand and
    pretend you were my mother, just for a little while here in 429.

    you’d think ghosts could somehow reunite after death, but
    it doesn’t quite work that way. i’m tied forever to this place,
    dog on a chain, emotional wreck, rat hole supernatural 429.

    i can take orb form but much prefer full body apparitions.
    i can read your thoughts, feel your emotions, whisper in your ear,
    throw objects, slam doors, shake your bed in room 429.

    i can climb stairs, flicker lights, fill the hall with music or a
    thousand voices if i want; tap and knock with the best of ‘em,
    chill a room in nothing flat, inside or out of room 429.

    i can make appliances misbehave, rearrange furniture, shred
    clothes and steal items in locked suitcases, become shadows &
    vapors on whim anytime anywhere, in the wing of room 429.

    i can drain batteries, wilt houseplants, make elevators go berserk,
    smell like roses or sulphur, and at my own choosing,
    show up as anomalies in photos or on film from behind door 429.

    you must realize of course, your ghost buster equipment is
    laughable at best, all those gadgets to measure and rule out.
    ghosts never tire, ghosts never sleep, from hauntings in room 429.

    we’ve no respect for thrill-seekers and the wannabe messiahs,
    and can’t seem to steer clear from non-believers; so we
    lie in wait, apparitions with dancecards outside room 429.

    we seek naturals like yourself who can feel our self-torture
    let us hide in your hair, hold our hands, really “get” us,
    kind strangers with free passes home, away from cell 429.

    though our numbers must frighten & overwhelm, keep in mind
    as we line up for the chance to jump ship, we’re really just kids
    desperate for a stranger’s busticket gift home from gate 429.

    so sorry we scared you; please forgive our manners, it’s just
    we’re so thrilled somebody actually saw our faces,
    vapor-locked against glass, 4 stories up, waiting in room 429.

    © 2008 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  3. Kathy Kehrli

    XXII. If It Isn’t Handed Over, It’s Our Obligation

    “Right now without that paper,
    If his heart were to stop
    We’d have to shock him, you know,”
    Implying what a fair swap
    Would be the handover exchange
    But what he failed to see:
    By relinquishing living will,
    I’d give up a part of me.

  4. Kate Berne Miller

    A Response to the love poem post.

    Twins,Separated At Birth

    The summer girls are living next door to each other, a half a mile of fallow field between their houses. All summer long they wear a path through the wildflowers, eating breakfast at one house, lunch at the other, writing poems and playing Hearts, tubing down the river in the hot afternoons. One is a live-in babysitter, taking care of a city family’s five children, the youngest is a baby, the oldest almost twelve. It’s nothing to her, she has fifteen brothers and sisters at home, she can’t remember all their ages, but she sure
    knows a lot of card games.

    The other girl is visiting her grandmother, they share the same room. At night the old woman sits on the edge of her bed and undoes her bun, a rope of twisted hair, strands of white and grey streaked with silver, spilling around her shoulders like a mane. After the light is switched off, the girl lies in her bed listening to her grandmother’s snores, deep and steady for a long time, then, all of a sudden, silence. She holds her breath, counting, “one-one hundred, two-one hundred, three” like waiting for thunder after the first flash of lightening, until her grandmother inhales sharply, sputters, resumes her sonorous song. Sometimes she wakes to the smell of smoke, her grandmother standing by the window, the red glow from a cigarette tracing lines in the dark.

    The last night of vacation the girls go back and forth through the field, walking through flickering light and shadow, each not wanting to be the last to say goodnight, goodbye.
    At last they lie down on their backs in the center of the field, fingers intertwined, their eyes grainy from lack of sleep, above them the morning star swimming in a froth of blue,
    something worth keeping

  5. S.E.Ingraham

    Judy – I’ve just been browsing back, reading things I might have missed the first go ’round and I came to your "Answers:" – I don’t mind telling you, it made me weep. You tell a heart-breaking story with a poignant eloquence, and I don’t imagine any of it gets told easily. I applaud your courage and look for your work every day. Sharon I.

  6. Judy Roney

    This was the hardest prompt for me. It really had my searching in the depths. I picked the "love" poem to respond to. The first stanza is my love poem, the second is my response and so on.

    Answers :

    I loved my Dad,
    He said he loved me
    that I was special
    and the abuse got worse.
    Misplaced love. Loss of childhood.

    I did love you, Judy
    I didn’t know how to show
    you were special to me
    but alcohol was more important
    I got caught up in a cycle
    People can only give what they have.

    My first husband said
    he loved me and would
    even spout scripture as
    he beat my head against the wall.
    Mistaken love. Loss of dreams.

    I wanted you to be my wife
    I wanted to love you, too
    I didn’t know how to be a husband
    I didn’t know how to be a man
    Sometimes people try hard but they don’t have the tools

    I love you like my own mother
    said Gracie before she pulled off
    the burglary of our business and
    took everything meaningful to me
    from our safe, not to mention the money.
    Con love. Loss of safety.

    I loved you like my own mother, Judy
    Just like I told you I did
    My mother abandoned me when I was two
    I only imagined she’d care like you
    I left Mexico with good intentions
    I’m sorry you got caught in my failure

    to be the type of person you thought I was.

    The Bible says Jesus loves me
    I believed, I knew he’d take care
    of my children, that was my only prayer.
    Enchanted love. Loss of faith.

    You are precious to me, Jesus says
    through the Bible he tells me so
    though I’ve had my life shattered
    along with my faith
    I’m trying to pick up the pieces
    never doubting for one moment
    He was there. I wouldn’t be here
    if he didn’t care.

    I love you, Mom, I love you so much
    were the last words
    I ever heard from my son
    before he died by his own hand.
    Sometimes love just isn’t enough.
    Loss of heart.

    I know you loved me son, I believe that
    with all my heart. I know you couldn’t stay
    you weren’t strong enough. You knew we’d
    carry on where you couldn’t. We’d find our
    way, your love is our light. You couldn’t have
    known how deep our love for you. You weren’t
    a father, you couldn’t know. I forgive you
    I love you I always will. You’re my boy,
    my precious, my son.

  7. Jane penland hoover

    Remains

    If you were to ask and I to tell
    how he both stayed and left himself,
    what had been his body,
    his life late that night,
    left me and his two daughters

    And how the four of us, a few others
    tramped along, pushed him, we filling in,
    filling up his silence, his awkward moves,
    and our wanting something different

    How he saved his blue-eyed smile
    flashed it broad and cheery, and
    how we each worked to return favor,
    a bit of laughter when we could

    And if you asked, I could go on and on
    about copying, routines and how he delivered
    the daily news, his two girls riding high
    on the pile, pointing out which door

    How driving skills remained though words failed him,
    how smiling and retaking one test and another and…
    until his persistence earned a roade test,
    his driving won the smile of the stiff officer

    If you were to ask him anything,
    he’d brighten; maybe find a word or two
    like ‘fine or bad on long-time-ago,’ speak it
    with slim shadow of emotion, return to his book,
    his 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle, or TV sports event
    unless it’s time for dinner.
    Then he’d release the footed chair rest,
    move to get his jacket never grumbling
    at the stuffing he must do to cram one
    weak arm through the length of sleeve.

    Moving on, making one more day,
    remembering where we lived,
    what roads we’ve traveled,
    which ones we yet intend to map,
    some remnants for my writing pen.
    if you should ask…

  8. Monica Martin

    When two people move in together,
    it’s a huge change. I know you’re
    scared; in truth, so am I. But
    we talk and work well together,
    and I think we can make it. I
    can’t wait to try.

  9. PSC in CT

    My DAY 22 Response poem “Why Stop Time?” appears below the original myth poem from DAY 7 (included here):

    The Superman Myth (DAY 7)

    Superman’s a myth, my dear,
    I’m sorry, but it’s true.
    His strength could be a thing sublime,
    But it won’t help me and you.

    It’s possible – just maybe –
    That he’s great at fighting crime
    But even Superman, I fear,
    Can’t stop the hands of Time.

    – – – – – – –

    Why Stop Time?

    Now why, dear friend
    Should I intend
    To stop the dance of time?
    And when?

    Should fear of unknown, lack of facts
    Keep me frozen in my tracks?

    Why want or need
    To do this deed
    When every moment that goes by
    Brings love and beauty to my eye?

    Could I forgo what lies ahead
    Just to foil being dead?

    And just where should I choose to stop?

    Which point of love and laughter
    Would truly make it worth my while
    To give up what comes after?

    It’s true old bones may crack and break
    Old joints may stiff and sting
    But after death – for all we know –
    Is laugh and dance and sing

    I may be in the ebb of life
    When hair and bones grow thin
    But if the best is after death
    I’m ready to begin.

    So stopping time is not my goal
    Although it flies too fast
    I only want to figure out
    How best to make it last.

  10. Tyger

    Fear Not

    Fear not
    you to whom I owe such gratitude
    Though we may not see
    that promised tax cut right now
    may not achieve
    health insurance for a year or two
    and may not get our troops
    out of harms way for a term still
    I have not forgotten you
    Fear not
    for I labor daily
    to one day fulfill my promises
    I will not sit in comfort
    or sleep deeply in a silken bed
    or revel in stately splendor
    until the soldiers come home
    until the market has calmed
    until you who are hungry are fed
    and you who are sick find healing
    I am Barack Obama
    and I approve this message

  11. Shann Palmer

    Change

    Sometimes I put all my efforts
    into the wrong people, waiting
    for some change to bring me out
    from under this dissatisfaction.

    Write me a love song tonight,
    smooth as your honeyed words
    when I feel every lover’s hand
    I ever let slip away from mine.

    I’ll map the lines on my palm
    with my fingertip, see how far
    I get before I’m in the wilderness.

    Point me in a different direction,
    I can walk across Egypt alone
    before anyone notices I’m gone.

COMMENT