November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 7

Once you finish today’s prompt, you’ll officially be a week in to the challenge. Woo-hoo! Yay! Fantastique!

Okay, so today’s prompt is to write a myth poem. Investigate a well-known myth associated with your theme. Or make up a brand new myth. Be literal, or get surreal. Whatever you do, finish today’s prompt and do a one-week celebration dance!

Here’s my attempt for the day:

“Nothing works”

Silver bullets don’t kill werewolves;
Frankenstein’s Monster fears no fire;
witches never cackle over
bubbling cauldrons; and The Mummy
is not under an ancient curse.

Sunlight, wood stakes, holy water,
garlic and crosses–they can’t slow
the fast approaching Dracula.

Because not one of them exist.


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85 thoughts on “November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 7

  1. Amanda

    The balefire glows brightly this spring night
    Excited faces glow with delight
    Bringing the May Day festival to its pinnacle
    Nine woods combine to complete this ritual
    Symbolizing our Goddess, engulfed first
    White bark wood of Birch
    Symbolizing our God, that jolly bloke
    Strong, sacred wood of Oak
    Knowledge and wisdom withholds the Hazel
    Plunged in third among appraisal
    Red Rowan of the druid’s stave, bringer of life
    Bless us with protection while we listen to the fifes
    Faeries and magick ever do appease
    A door to other worlds between the Hawthorn trees
    Our lives will some day hang by a strand
    Willow, our death, reminds of those in Summerland
    End, but no end, Birth and rebirth
    Represented by no other than the forest Fir
    Where would we be without love and family
    Surrounded in the orchard by apple trees
    Last but not least, what keeps us intwined
    Covers all of our wood, this lovely vine
    Our ritual is over,our circle is closing
    The Goddess will ever in her love be enclosing

  2. Lynne

    Blessings of the Sun

    The sun looked down upon a small plant that drooped with sadness because it lacked color, felt dull, listless. It considered itself a weed and not what most would look upon as pretty, if they noticed it at all. Many creatures surrounded it with encouragement. Small ants tickled its leaves, a worm or two tunneled in for a closer look, a snail made its way towards it, three ladybugs tried to transfer some of their luck, a puppy sniffed at it, and mushrooms sprung up overnight in their efforts to brighten the plant’s spirits.

    Nothing worked until a flock of birds performed on their stage in the sky. As the plant looked up to watch the aerial acrobatics, it caught sight of the sun. The sun has forever played a part in supplying boundless beauty and diversity. It sent one of its rays straight down to kiss away the sadness and the little plant immediately turned bright sunshine yellow.
    And that was the origin of the dandelion.

  3. Shannon R

    Too often we assume
    that to waltz
    we need a dance parnter.
    Not true! I have seen
    women side stepping
    with babies cradled in their arms
    old women twirling their aprons
    and teenaged girls touring
    the room with a poodle closely
    following behind.
    True, all of this situations
    apply to only women. I suppose
    that when forced with a limited
    number of options – women
    will always chose to dance
    any means possible.

  4. Kathy Kehrli

    VII. Look What the Cat Dragged In

    God must hold felines in high esteem
    For He granted them nine lives
    While those cast in His own image
    Lay claim to a mere one.
    Why then did my childhood cat,
    Inky, succumb to cancer
    At barely six years of age?
    I don’t recall him ever escaping
    Any death-defying feats.
    His heart never stopped beating;
    His lungs never stopped breathing;
    His kidneys never stopped filtering
    Only to be restored to normal function—
    But my father’s did.
    Things like that
    Just aren’t supposed to happen.

  5. Iris Deurmyer

    My theme is built around water and the Anglo-Celtic goddess of the lake is Latis. She fell in love with a salmon so the gods turned him ito a warrior except in winter he had to return to becoming a salmon until spring. This is my attempt at a poem about this.

    Winter is approaching
    I can feel its chill
    What a sad time of year
    It always makes me ill

    To watch you swim away
    Swimming upstream at that
    I watch you night and day
    Don’t want you eaten by a cat

    Come spring you will be free
    With quiver full of arrows
    Oh my mighty warrior
    Watch out for those narrows

    It’s snowing on the hillside
    Nights becoming longer
    I’ll be waiting with the crocus
    Til you become stronger

  6. Taylor Graham


    Sometimes it’s the logical solution.

    These prints meander down a sandy wash,
    mantrackers follow broken twigs of creosote
    to a rocky ledge overlooking sunset.
    No footprints lead away, no scuff or shine
    by morning slant of sun or flashlight under stars.
    The dogs bring us to the same bare spot,
    and lose the scent. We search above, below,
    around. There’s no one here.

    Remember that hunter we trailed
    to a forest road, where all sign disappeared?
    Surely an alien ship dropped down
    and snatched him, then delivered him safe
    at home, where he watched our search
    on the evening news.

    UFO’s the only explanation that makes
    any sense at all.

  7. Tyger

    That Muslim

    An otherwise rational friend said
    "I’m not voting for that muslim!"
    without once acknowledging the fact
    that Barack Obama worships
    in a Christian church
    or that Muslims can be
    kind and considerate people
    And he sent me much political hatemail
    about ‘that Muslim’
    Thank goodness, I have
    a ‘delete’ button

  8. Monica Martin

    Beware of wild birds flying in-
    they bring bad luck, even death.

    Soap bars under sheets
    help prevent leg cramps.

    Cut flowers and potted plants
    deprive sick rooms of oxygen.

    There are so many myths
    and superstitions that

    surround homeowners. We’ll
    make some of our own.

    (thanks to for these old wives’ tales!)

  9. Vanessa O'Dwyer

    My Myths

    When I was little
    And dreaming of growing up
    I thought all little girls
    Could dream as I.
    With freedom
    With passion
    And placing stars upon
    The sky.

    When I was in church
    And contemplating god
    I thought all people
    Could worship just as I.
    With freedom
    With judgment
    Looking deeper than
    The eye.

    When I chose profession
    What to do as I grew up
    I thought that every person
    Could choose paths such as I.
    With freedom
    With purpose
    Contributing enhancement
    Across life.

    But then I found
    To my dismay,
    That most men are not free

    That most are denied passion
    That many may not judge
    To them purpose is a farce

    But what I found has blocked this now.
    The common ground I viewed,
    Was that people did not know
    That freedom
    That passion
    Judgment and purpose
    Are simply there and waiting for them
    And things that they can do.

    Vanessa O’Dwyer

  10. Carol



    … and as the earth prepares
    to watch her journey,
    it lines her route with gifts:
    plump seeds, golden leaves,
    agile paws and farewell fanning wings,
    and as she passes by, trees sigh,
    and finally let loose the effort of upholding
    the beauty her presence demands.

  11. Rodney C. Walmer

    Myths about Poets

    Whoever said poets are lazy
    is a man who must be crazy
    poets word harder to write
    with less success
    rushing to mail each entry
    hoping someone will bite
    often just feeling empty
    after staying up all night
    with a container of trash
    each new poem
    just feels like a rehash
    of something already written
    always looking for the
    words of a best selling poem unwritten

    A poet is always on the lookout
    for anything new to write about
    Poets are not lazy
    though often we might feel a bit hazy
    but, for the most part
    poets are over achievers
    who cherish their art
    firm believers
    who write from the heart
    never thinking of the money
    nor, landing on some chart
    some poets are funny
    others are sad, and apart
    staying away from society as a whole
    writing each new poem is their only goal
    something he’d continue to his last breath
    perhaps even to his death
    To a poet, his poem is his very soul. . .

    ©Rodney C. Walmer 11/08/08 myth poem. Certainly one of my worst works, but it’s a poem and
    I am behind.

  12. Margaret Fieland

    History Class

    I didn’t know my history.
    I had to check it out,
    read the encyclopedia,
    learn all I could about

    Christopher Columbus
    and those who wailed the sea,
    what happened to the Mayflower
    and Plymouth Colony,

    check out the revolution,
    read about the civil war.
    One thing led to another;
    I kept on reading more.

    What seemed so dull in history class
    was now, oh, so exciting,
    and so I wrote it all on down.
    I hope it seems inviting,

    so maybe when you sit in class
    your mind’s not on vacation,
    and when you’re big you’ll know about
    the history of this nation.

  13. SaraV

    Okay, a line got left in that shouldn’t have, here’s the correct version

    Golden Eggs

    Aesop told the story
    But Egypt had it too
    And the Grimm’s also used it
    But none of it is true
    My geese eat well
    Like kings and queens
    On whole grains and freshest greens
    But not once have I ever seen
    Them lay an egg with a golden sheen

  14. SaraV

    Golden Eggs

    Aesop told the story
    But Egypt had it too
    And the Grimm’s also used it
    But none of it is true
    My geese eat well
    Like kings and queens
    On whole grains and freshest greens
    But not once have I ever seen
    Them lay an egg with a golden sheen
    At least

  15. k weber

    the youngest

    everything hand-
    built: the personal
    touch, the labor
    of giving
    to everyone
    else’s ideas

    selfless, your
    creative fire
    burns wild
    and warm through
    the bloodline; two
    daughters left

    the hostess
    and father, brother
    sister, master
    of ceremonies, there
    would not be
    a holiday
    if not
    for you

  16. Juanita Snyder

    Big Foot, interrupted
    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    matted grass, twisted branches,
    a peculiar stench so rude it leaves clumps
    of dark brown hair around trunks of saplings
    as if they were sink rings to be picked up after;
    “what are we, their mothers?!”
    we laugh nervously, watching embers from our
    fire rise to the night sky above us.
    No shortage of rain these past few days
    has been hard on the entire expedition,
    and the sudden eerie scream in the dead of night,
    the type that sets the dogs off and makes you
    feel under the pillow again for your gloc
    doesn’t help. But that’s Oregon for ya.
    Yeti, Yayoo, Skunk Ape or Sasquatch,
    we’ve come to this magical volcanic place to hunt
    eight foot by six-hundred pound no-necks
    covered in fur with small peaked heads and giant
    tracks camouflaged by deer fern & castings of plaster.
    But thus far the only chance meetings have been
    elk, cougar, bear, bobcat, and coyote
    in place of any half human half ape-like creature.
    Years of reports continue to trickle in from
    the outer calderas surrounding the Pacific NW,
    hunters, gatherers and hikers all claiming encounter,
    blurry images caught on film stomping through brush,
    grunts & tree knocks recorded for prosperity,
    others hesitant to come forward lest they be ridiculed.
    So investigators continue to dog the beast,
    traverse thick underbrush and ravines of jagged
    fir, cedar, and spruce silhouettes,
    using sophisticated technology from infrared cameras
    to DNA-retrieving dart guns, seismic sensors,
    and night vision, reputations right on the line for
    proof – dead or alive just to thicken the ranks.

  17. Terri French

    I open my mouth to curse you
    and poetry spews out

    Balling up my fist,
    pulling back then striking out
    I connect with your jaw
    and a bouquet of flowers
    springs out of your head

    You put the flowers in a vase
    and start to sing

    I feel the blood dripping
    from the corner of my mouth
    and an ugly bruise begins to bloom
    across my knuckles

  18. Rachel

    I’m posting this again with slight changes. Like I said I was running out earlier and didn’t have time to revise. I found not only typos but a couple of probs. But here it is again. Thanks for your comments everyone.

    The Fourth Watch

    This lake
    living far below the sea,
    is the ambition of nature,
    a fertile ground giving life
    and livelihood to
    all who are born into it.
    It was the perfect climate
    to give rise to myths and legends…
    but this is no myth.

    We gathered round for evening prayer
    and boarded the wooden craft
    upon a surface glistening
    a silver path to Capernaum.
    The silence reflected in our minds eye
    the hours spent
    shepherding crowds of lost sheep
    and mourning the baptist
    whose blood still runs through
    the heart of the Jordan
    into this lake.

    It was the fourth watch.

    It was the fourth watch when
    down from the eastern heights,
    funneling through the valleys of the hill country,
    the rushing squall met us.
    And soon we were straining at the oars
    begging for forgiveness,
    one passenger short –
    the One we left on the mountainside to pray,
    the One who fed us
    and thousands more this day.
    I could not understand, but now I know.

    Fighting the ten foot waves,
    losing the battle,
    I tossed my oar to the charging wind,
    and spied a shadow appearing steadily,
    across the waves
    towards us
    and into the boat
    that had reached its destination
    on a calm silvery lake.

    He will come again during the fourth watch
    when the sun will be darkened and the moon
    will not give it’s light.
    At that time, His sign will appear in the sky,
    and begin to shake everything out,
    as it did that night.

  19. kate


    His wolf is voracious
    and most of the time mad at me
    his wolf wants it now
    and howls if made to wait
    his wolf is contrary
    and might tip the food in the bin
    his wolf is indignant
    and never ever wrong
    his wolf defies any attempt
    to tame him and sulks at the bars.
    I am battling to banish his wolf
    to Outer Mongolia
    or perhaps Pluto.

  20. Shann Palmer


    Measure the jut of chins,
    elbow cricks, hip slant,
    our complicated geometry.

    We are New Jerusalem,
    funny Valentines,
    pearls to be treasured.

    Begun as grains of sand
    rubbed hard, together we
    emerge on foreign ground.

    Irreconcilable distraction,
    my love, body and soul
    motion disorderly and true

    light dims as day expires, soon,
    we’ll turn back to back in sleep.

  21. Kate Berne Miller


    Long Ago, When the Animals Talked

    Outside my window the whole world is in constant
    conversation: the shush shush of the rain on the grass,
    the spring peepers’ song swelling up from the ponds,
    morse code of fireflys stuttering through the dusk,
    coyote’s volley of yips and barks echoing at dawn.

    Yet daily we stumble over words, say the wrong thing,
    speak before we think, bluster out excuses, spread mean-
    spirited gossip, tell outright lies, fail to say what we mean,
    forget to voice what’s most important until it is too late,
    it is only we humans who are speechless, inarticulate.

    Kate Berne Miller

  22. Judy Roney

    Get Over It

    You have to get over this
    let go
    I’m told
    but I will never let go
    of my son
    love only grows
    after death

    memories sustain
    as I adapt
    to a new relationship
    beyond the grave
    incorporate his death
    into my life
    adapt to the loss
    learn to love life again
    find joy
    establish new traditions
    move on to a new existence

    but get over this
    not in my lifetime.

  23. Jolanta Laurinaitis

    I found this one hard as there are SO many different legends with differing views about dragonflies… so I wrote 2 from 2 different perspectives. Also wrote one on my joint theme ‘character’ Gaia (or Earth).

    The Legend of Adderbolt

    Two children in India
    Eyes open slowly
    And they awake with fear.

    No presence of life

    Where are you Mama?
    Where are you Papa?

    They are forgotten.

    The hunger pains brew
    He holds his sister close
    And coos her to comfort
    She sniffles and quietly cries
    The pain in her tummy too much
    Too much, too much, too much

    He desperately gazes
    At his surroundings
    But moldy corn and
    The old sleeping grasses

    He binds it together and creates
    A winged creature of his imagining
    That she holds close and flies about
    And forgets her pain

    The children awake
    Amazed one morning to find
    That the winged toy
    Hovering, and gliding through the air
    Delighting in its shimmering beauty
    Happily distracted in the sunlight

    But as night falls,
    Sadness and loneliness prevail
    Wishing for their return

    Where are you Mama?
    Where are you Papa?

    The creature pains for the children
    And flutters to the land of the gods
    Pleading the children’s fears and wishes
    The gods of above
    Send teachings of endurance
    With the delicate insect

    Adderbolt was then named,
    A beautiful insect messenger
    To and from the Gods
    Carrying each spirit to be reunited
    With their makers

    Adderbolt is given the name

    The Devil’s Darning Needle

    Don’t sleep
    Be not dozing
    Think naught of slumber
    By the old running stream
    On a summer’s eve
    For the Devil’s Darning Needle
    Shall seek you out
    And whilst you breathe in
    The dreams of the universe,
    The spindle body
    Will weave its devils magic
    Through the lids of which you close
    Sewing its dark thread
    So that you may never again
    Wake with your eyes able
    To gaze at the beauty
    That Gaia bequeaths unto man

    The Love of Gaia

    Chaos prevails
    From which a beautiful
    Goddess emerges
    A Goddess of life, death
    Fertility and hope
    Rising with mountains
    Exquisite flora
    Inquisitve fauna
    Benevolent brooks
    A Goddess that loves
    And provides altruistic
    Love, liberty and pleasure
    To all her children
    A Goddess
    Who selflessly bears
    The abhorrent burden
    Of mistreatment
    A Goddess

  24. SusanB


    Ganesh my pet
    Sits atop a little mouse
    Obviously not afraid
    And never forgets
    A hard worker is he
    Mover of mankind
    Modest and a good leader
    Lends a theme to life
    That’s worthy

  25. Rachel

    Earl, thank you so much… that is so encouraging! I’ve actually taken to doing some research before writing.. who knew that would could be good? LOL.
    I look for yours too.

    I’ve noticed that if you wait too long to post your item the page times out and that is why your comment doesn’t appear. It will still be in the box however, so just scroll down and type in the new code and voila!

    This always happens to me since I compose my poem in the comment box!

  26. Ronda Eller

    vii. tragic moment

    winched in an eternity
    of falling, my stomach
    turns to knotting nooses
    that reach out trying to
    lasso a cloud, a ledge,
    a limb, a hand
    that will rescue

    since i cannot find
    the feathers I need
    to use as wings
    for shoring myself
    upon the current.
    I hit bottom.

    i meet the tragic moment
    will i see death
    before my body knows
    my mind has passed?

    in all, i cannot say
    such pitted dreams
    have ever
    gone and done
    me in.

    ~ Ronda Eller 7nov2008

  27. Nancy Posey

    I’ve been on a train all day bound for D.C. Here are two from me:

    Which came first, the myths or their
    images scattered across the night sky?
    Did shepherds, gazing up at stars,
    spin tales to fill their empty nights,
    then pass them off as truths? Did
    sons searching for answers take
    them at their word? Rocking
    a disconsolate babe, some mother
    may have pointed skyward,
    See that brightest star? she’s ask,
    tracing a line from head
    to shoulder, down to the belt
    girding a strong man’s loins.
    Keep an eye in that direction,
    and someday when you ask me
    where your father’s gone, we’ll
    find him there, guarding us both
    with his fearsome shaft and shield.

    The Origin of Modern Myths

    We never exactly knew anyone
    who had fallen victim to the
    dreaded electric paddle in the
    principal’s office, but we never
    doubt it existed. We could
    all attest to its appearance, the
    exact dimensions, right down
    to the hole bored in the end,
    meant to raise blisters to outlast
    the voltage. We knew, too,
    what happened to those kids
    who simply disappeared, the bad
    ones not like us at all: We learned
    they’d been sent off to reform
    school with other budding
    criminals, forced to dig holes
    then fill them up again, then
    to return to barracks where
    they were force fed pre-algebra,
    Dickens, and World Civ. And
    though we had no evidence,
    we’ve knew what happened
    to Miss Mills: Just one year
    into teaching, she lost her
    third-grade job for sporting her
    bikini at the public pool. None
    of these details appeared in the
    Flashlight, our school paper
    and the PTA had never said
    a word. The news came to us
    furtively, passed hand to hand,
    on notebook paper, folded into
    football shapes.

    Nancy Posey

  28. Kateri Woody

    Athena Joker

    Motherless I sprung from the acidic depths,
    fully formed into a piece of art
    so complete in my own deformed way
    that it brought tears of mirth to my stinging eyes –
    You, oh mighty Zeus replica,
    swathed in a black and gray kevlar toga
    a powerful figure that looms forever
    over me like a paternal shadow with the same rights
    as the Daddy of all things (gloomy and grim)
    not to mention you are the sapling from which
    all we depraved minds have fallen from,
    your adulterous ways bearing fruit
    in the form of me – your greatest feat,
    your smartest foe, I your prodigal daughter
    (err son) among others as gaudily robed
    and nearly as mentally unstable…
    You bore me life, and though I am thankful,
    I must go my own route – to prove traitorous
    at times, but ultimately, Daddy-Bats,
    you have my fullest love.

  29. S.E.Ingraham

    The Myth of the Sound

    They cut funding, closed group homes, turned them out
    Like empty pockets, as if, like loose change, people
    Could roll into the cracks of places, settle easily
    Disappear from view, never to be seen again…

    As with many of those without voices, they quickly
    Dispersed, grew confused, blended into the street scene
    Became one with the greater number – the homeless
    Soon became almost indistinguishable from their brethren

    Politicians congratulated each other roundly on a job well done
    Money saved, budgets revised, if not actually balanced
    Looked for more ways to change the unwell to the forgotten
    Get the forgotten to forget who or if they had ever even been

    The best trick of all, was the sleight-of-hand; after all
    All those crazies, under measured control of course,
    most with jobs
    Numbering in the hundreds at least, being carefully supervised
    Living somewhat independently, taking their medication,
    just gone.

    The story was, they’d all become cured, they’d all become sane
    Didn’t need their housing anymore, had their own places now
    No need for medication or doctors, no needed supervision either
    Being of sound mind and body, they had no needs,no needs at all.

  30. Sara McNulty

    Another Perspective

    Yellow is not the color
    of insanity, unless the sun
    is insane
    Blue is not a sad shade,
    unless you are a Monster
    of the night and fear
    blue skies
    Green is not a condition
    of envy, for who indeed
    would a lush lawn
    Purple is not solely
    for royalty, wizardry,
    or psychic’s quarters
    where fortunes are
    told. Would that it
    were–purple is
    my favorite color.

  31. Cher Holt-Fortin

    Achilles had it right.
    Better to be a farmer breaking clods
    than rule among the dead.
    On the other hand, Lord,
    there are a few things

    First I’d like to know my dog was happy.
    OK if Heaven is all that great, maybe I won’t need her.
    But it feels bad, to think about that.
    I am not expecting TV or radio. Maybe some
    good music. Reunion, yes. I have folk I want to talk with.
    And a number that I don’t want to see.
    Even if they want to see me.
    By the time I get there, I’ll feel differently.

    I don’t do pink, by the way. Or wings. And I
    am not musical. Nope.
    I want tea, rose petal jam,
    everyone I’ve ever loved,
    long talks, understanding,

  32. jared david

    Bruce- great poem

    –with Halloween and the elections recently passing, i’ve been itching to get something out.

    Robert- thanks for giving us this prompt and providing an outlet.

    (no title yet)

    Every ten-year-old is afraid
    of ghosts and monsters,
    because they don’t know any better.
    And teens shudder at urban legends,
    even when they know they never happened.
    But eventually, people see how silly
    all these crazy stories are,
    and outgrow the effects of folklore.

    Now that I have grown up,
    its time to dispel the myths;
    demons do exist, but not like the
    campfire tales we hid from as kids,
    and no amount of covers can save us
    from them—

    Spooks in sheets are scary things,
    but spooks in black suits who snoop
    and defy our liberties are what really
    frighten me.

    Frankenstein’s beast, with pieces
    of every poor soul beneath a headstone
    had no chance at being loved.
    But at least he didn’t try to hide
    from the citizen’s cries,
    like the lies and shady deals
    intertwined in every collaborative
    Congressional bill.

    Dracula, with no soul,
    survives on the lifeblood
    of others, while dining in his
    castle all alone.
    With resigned honor he reigned,
    unlike the vampIRS of
    today, who choose to live
    on what runs through our veins.

    You’ll run out of breath,
    trying to summon Bloody Mary
    from the mirror; nothing appears
    when you call there, no matter
    how many times you stand
    in the dark and whisper,
    “Medicare, Medicare, Medicare….”

    Haunted houses have hundreds of years
    of terror in their walls.
    But the Houses today boast only
    Fifty-five and Sixty—average age;
    those numbers make my skin crawl.

    Some myths, even still, are
    supported by the powers on the Hill.
    They even commissioned the
    Department of Ignorance,
    to keep us off their trail.
    And to feed Cerberus,
    the Three-Headed mutt,
    entrusted to guard the River Potomac,
    so no one can crack the mask
    that hides truth, and lies,
    all at the same time.
    You’d think their resources could
    afford a more convincing disguise.

    I was that kid, afraid of many things
    that go ‘bump’ in the night.
    And still am, sometimes,
    lying alone in bed without a light.
    But if someone asks,
    “Are You Afraid of the Dark?”
    I’ll say, “I am, but only
    when I’m watching C-SPAN.

  33. Jane penland hoover

    Shadowland Escape

    The story:

    There is a land beyond this time
    where only shade and shadow go
    resigned forever long to pine
    brood in deep dimness
    a sacrifice
    persuades some dark god
    to cease obscuring light,
    silencing all laughter.

    But listen:

    The secret to release,
    to perceive the light you know,
    escape the desert longing
    going on and on,
    is to gather in that brooding
    hold it close, and tighter still,
    shed tears rich and thick enough
    to soften any ancient nights —
    then turn to face dawn rising
    casting shadows low, and mystery.

    Jane Penland Hoover
    PAD 7
    November 7, 2008

  34. Steve LaVoie

    Sadly I have to save my one week dance for tommorow.

    Where are they now?

    After years as a messenger to the gods
    Hermes is now in charge of a charity
    For injured bicycle messengers.
    And lives with his wife Arachne in
    A nice ranch-style house near St. Paul, Minnesota.

    Kiyohime returned to human form in 1994,
    And after a brief career in stage acting
    She decided to move to Los Angles, California,
    And now works as a real estate agent.
    And hey guys, she is still single!

    Rumpelstiltskin underwent a risky
    Brain operation in 2003 but it was successful.
    But tragedy would strike him and his wife Rapunzel.
    Last year their first son was kidnapped and held for ransom.
    The child was returned but the kidnappers are still at large.

    Fenrir today is a stunt double for some
    Of the most famous dogs in Hollywood.
    He now lives in many posh manisons throughout California
    And Paris. He enjoys snacking on foot-shaped chewtoys
    And howling at the sun.

  35. RJay Slais

    My postings are not showing up. Do they go somewhere for approval before they are posted? I have posted today’s poem twice now without success!
    Peggy Goetz |pegganAT NOSPAMaol dot com

    I had a problem earlier too Peggy but it was my own fault I think. Either I enter the "Robot Code" wrong or it didn’t take then I clicked on the comments again to see my post and it wasn’t there. The second time it happened, I didn’t click on "comments" but scrolled down and discovered that my comment was still in the posting box and had to enter the Robot Code again (correctly) to get it to post finally.

  36. Jane penland hoover

    first of all – I have revised yesterdays and want to post it –

    Shadow Company

    Shadows rush their morning stretch
    across the long expanse,
    tree sheltered grass,
    mist shrouded lake,
    waves moving in and in
    light creeping up and up
    shortening dark patches.

    Slow and long all afternoon
    shadows march retreat
    covering their tracts
    only to discover sky
    captured the company
    and is now attired
    in the cooling treasure.

  37. Cheryl Chambers

    Multiple Neals

    Neal puts his praying finger on the duality
    of his myth, his mouth lingering on
    the possibility of a third. The first
    contains a simple set, a common list.
    Ground: soft arms, a miniature mirror,
    the dishwasher running in the background
    the steady hum calming him down.
    Sky: a head larger than his neck, unsupported
    by others but lifting limp like a balloon,
    alone, surrounded by swirling clouds
    so as to make the afternoon remote
    if one lays on the ground looking up.
    The reality cannot explain away the myths,
    as if his life were Greco-Roman in reverse.
    Air: the way his leaden feet pound into
    hardwood, the way his dried lips can’t
    touch the fruit due to the juice, the way
    his arms hang limp until he touches his own
    belly, cradles it, as if it could
    birth his twinning dreams.

  38. Peggy Goetz

    OK, so there’s that one. I will try the poem again. I hope it’s not offending anyone. This is a fictional person.

    Wanda Sue

    Wrinkles gathered round her dim eyes
    she dragged deep breaths into her lungs
    she felt bulky, clumsy trying to move
    across the dank room furnished with
    battered, frayed never-good lumps
    and patched together contraptions
    rigged to make life at 416 pounds
    seem normal. Her glance fell on
    a smiling face with cheek bones,
    faded blur with golden curls, a child
    with a mother who talked like
    growth was always a good thing.

    Nov. 7, 2008

  39. Van

    Well, I wrote a week of poems in four days, so today I caught up! I think I’ll post this one.

    My theme is fatherhood. I tried thinking of fictional stories and Classic myths about father-daughter relationships, but that didn’t resonate with the matter-of-fact style I’ve been keeping.

    Instead I played off the soapbox poems of the other day. Mine wasn’t really a soapbox; it recounted an incident I witnessed that day on the bus, in which a woman made some condescending remarks to a young father with his toddler. Mostly I just described what happened and left judgments to the reader.

    But the myth I came up with relates to that story, so this time I deliver a little lecture.

    "Myth number one"

    They say men don’t know how to look after young children.
    Like that woman-on-bus who told young-father-with-toddler
    he was playing a mother’s role.

    No one has innate knowledge how to love this squirming,
    puking, shitting, hair-pulling, screaming, fighting, tale-telling,
    laughing, running, imagining creature.

    Those with experience give well-intentioned tips, but none
    can teach how to love another being, you can only learn,
    you might learn by doing.

    If you choose to spend time with a child. Lots of time.
    All men and women possess degrees of parsimony when it comes
    to giving up years of life.

    From those dark hours you pace and pray for her to sleep
    to waking her in a tent at midnight to hear owls in the tall pines
    you will learn to look after.

  40. Paul W.Hankins

    The Benediction

    The myth of gods will
    distract even the most sincere,
    those lacking cracks in their vessels
    who hold water and truth
    in the marketplace and do not crumble

    the myth of gods
    state that anyone of us can be one
    – the euhemerists –
    who tell us to transcend
    – the purveyors –
    of the part and parcel
    who would have to
    continually take inventory of our move
    toward a perfect rendering of the original vase,
    but I know – I know today
    we are cracked about the lips
    and will never pour correctly.

    The myth of
    the day is that she is in a better place,
    that it was her time, a month before a season
    she will be missed dearly. Reminiscent of Baldur
    taken by an arrow of mistletoe,
    a tender shoot of green shot from a bow
    these are the things of mythology,
    and can be recorded upon calendars.

    The myth:
    that there is nothing that can be said better
    than scripted lines on sympathy cards
    etched in white and left about floral sprays
    and these are condolence enough to carry
    through our December feelings new.

    benediction ends and I don’t even feel
    my own wedding band biting into my finger
    her hand wound so tightly around mine
    like a bow atop my presence.

  41. Earl Parsons

    LL&L for Day 7:

    Man-Made Confusions

    You should have no confusions about Me
    I’ve made it quite clear just who I am
    And what I expect
    And how you should live
    Yet, you mortals attempt consistently
    To change My plainly written rules
    And distort My plans for you
    By adjusting My Holy Word
    And injecting your mortal conditions

    Man-made confusions
    Aimed at separating My people
    Myths, conditions, and additions
    Not contained in any Scriptures
    And, if not already written by Me
    Then they are not necessary

    So, let’s get a few things straight
    In terms a child can understand
    Let Me be perfectly clear
    Just open your ears and listen

    I am the one and only God
    All other gods were made by you
    And they have no power over Me
    In fact, they have no power at all

    There is only one way to get to Me
    And that’s through My Son, Jesus Christ
    He is the Way, the Truth and the Life
    No one comes to Me but through Him

    I am the creator of all life
    And that includes the unborn
    You have no right to kill the innocent
    Yet you end thousands of unborn lives each day

    I created the very first marriage
    A union of one man and one woman
    No other union is acceptable in My eyes
    Just another of My rules broken by man

    I did not create denominations, man did
    My church is made up of dedicated believers
    My people follow My Bible, and no other book
    Very soon, I will be coming back for My people

    I am love, for I cannot hate
    I am life, for I create all life
    I am truth, for I cannot tell a lie
    I am forever, and I’ve always been
    I am Your God, even if you don’t believe in Me

    My arms are open to all that call My name

  42. Connie

    Heather, enjoyed both lesson 7s.
    Patti–I particularly liked the story form.
    Lori-I liked it!
    Bruce-my favorite today, lol
    Ian, thanks. I like your cat poems and I think they’ll make a great chapbook. Yay for cats.
    Michelle-Thanks. I’m writing my nano novel on dominoes too. By the end of November I should be all dominoed out.
    Rachel-Powerful poem. Satia’s right. These are rought drafts to be revised later. Yesterday I used the word "spellbounding." I don’t know how that one got by me.

  43. Karen H. Phillips

    Michelle, I liked your groundhog myth.

    Heather, you read my mind. I was already plotting how to use the tortured artist myth for today’s prompt.

    OOH, Rachel, that gave me chills.

    Gustave Corbet, French (1819-77)
    Isolated Rock, c. 1862

    The Tortured Artist

    The rock is central,
    an asymmetrical diagonal,
    with other boulders leading to it
    like stepping stones for giants,
    then leading to the water’s edge.

    But the one rock dwarfs the others and
    seems to point to the sky,
    mauvy-clouded aqua,
    forming a contrast, a backdrop to
    the gray-tan of the jagged shore.
    The sky blends into a calm aqua sea.
    Perhaps it’s daybreak.

    Is the artist saying he’s tortured?
    He’s the isolated rock,
    broken off from other men
    by the fateful creative gift?

    Or perhaps it means,
    sometimes he’s lonely and feels separate,
    yet he’s a leader,
    an artistic entrepreneur
    who dares to show the way,
    and others follow,
    first timidly,
    then with the same strength.

  44. RJay Slais

    RJay, I think it’s safe to say that we’re all throwing very rough drafts up under the time constraints of writing a poem a day. If I haven’t posted a poem with a typo yet, just give it time. It is only day 7 after all!
    satia |satia62AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

    For sure Satia, thanks. Everyone is doing so well too. I enjoy reading all the way down the scroll. This is a fun challenge.

    Pretty ironic that I type-o’d the word type’o. Doh and doh


  45. Earl Parsons

    Rachel – I make it a point to look for your daily offering. I’m amazed at your ability to paint a picture and place the reader in the scene, even though the scenes take place nearly 2 thousand years in the past. God has blessed you and is speaking through you.

  46. Earl Parsons

    SS for Day #7:

    Mind Myths

    You’ve given me a bad rap on some things
    And you’ve given too much credit on others
    I’m here to set you straight, so listen up

    First of all, I’m not the source of migraines
    Just because the pain comes from your head
    Headaches and migraines result from your lifestyle
    Stress, kids, bills, allergies and the like.

    And what about this little thing called wisdom
    I only keep the things you learn on hand
    Intelligence is stored in every wrinkle
    Only God can tell you how to use your smarts

    That heart of yours keeps trying to steal my thunder
    We all know that things just a lot of muscle
    So quit the heartfelt passion for the blood pump
    Or I just might quit sending impulse reminders
    That thing can’t think or feel or make you love

    Just think of me as a giant data bank
    A smarts holding center, if you will
    I’m not your spirit
    I’m not your God
    I’m just your brain
    And that’s the truth.

  47. Rachel

    I don’t know if I like this guys… its just not coming easy today, and I don’t have tim eto revise right now. So here we go:

    The Fourth Watch

    This lake
    living far below the sea,
    is the ambition of nature,
    a fertile ground giving life
    and livelihood to
    all who are born into it.
    It was the perfect climate
    to give rise to myths and legends…
    but this is no myth.

    We gathered round for evening prayer
    and boarded the wooden craft
    upon a surface glistening
    a silver path to Capernaum.
    The silence reflected in our minds eye
    the hours spent
    shepherding crowds of lost sheep
    and mourning the baptist
    whose blood still runs through
    the heart of the Jordan
    into this lake.
    It was the fourth watch.

    It was the fourth watch when
    down from the eastern heights,
    funneling through the valleys of the hill country,
    the rushing squall met us.
    And soon we were straining at the oars
    begging for forgiveness,
    one passenger short –
    the One we left on the mountainside to pray,
    the One who fed us
    and thousands more this day.
    I could not understand, but now I know.

    Fighting the ten foot waves,
    losing the battle
    I tossed my oar to the charging wind
    toward a shadow appearing steady,
    across the waves
    towards us
    and into the boat
    on a calm silvery lake
    that had reached its destination.

    He will come again during the fourth watch
    when the sun will be darkened and the moon
    will not give it’s light.
    At that time, His sign will appear in the sky,
    and begin to shake everything out,
    as it did that night.

  48. Mary K


    Cerberus, three-headed dog of past, present, and future
    you guard your iron gate with vicious and awful fury.
    What an ominous task, a gruesome chore for you who
    stands in the place neither dead nor living can cross.
    You alone watch the gate. Innocence of birth, youthful
    dreams,old age regrets all converge in your domain. I cower before your serpent tail, hair of snakes, fearsome face.
    Your shadow looms along the River Styx. I await my time.

  49. satia

    Michelle, thank you. You can imagine how excited I started growing as I followed one bit of information to another and then to another and found all these connections. It was crazy! And exciting!

    RJay, I think it’s safe to say that we’re all throwing very rough drafts up under the time constraints of writing a poem a day. If I haven’t posted a poem with a typo yet, just give it time. It is only day 7 after all!

  50. RJay Slais

    The Myth Of A Life

    The kid wants to be up tree,
    hang one handed from the horizontal stick,
    dangle a grasping breath away from death.

    The tree wants to bark like a dog,
    to piss gallons of sap on a hairy leg,
    until claws, mud stuck take root.

    The dog wants to sweat like the rush of a river,
    wear pants, stand upright, meander around town,
    unleash all the instincts fur-burdened inside.

    The river wants to flow like a wedding dress,
    tear open the banks, fund the flooding of damns,
    cover its legs in a lake of sky blue fabric.

    The dress wants to be worn out,
    release all its tired clichés, bring down hang ups,
    divorce the old, the new, and some things blue.

    I have always wanted to be everything I am not,
    every day carrying on like a poet, a father, a man
    always believing that I was really something else.

  51. Heather

    Lesson #7: Myths

    Her day began
    On the wrong foot,
    She had meant to count her steps but
    Lost her balance
    And damned if she didn’t step on a crack
    She was so thrown off
    And desperately concerned with her grandmother’s back
    She hardly noticed the black cat
    Shoot across her path
    Close to fainting,
    She stumbled,
    Counting of steps forgotten,
    Under a ladder a man was using
    To hang a mirror
    His grip was tight but no match
    For the jarring and tilting of his ladder,
    She almost caught
    The mirror before it smashed
    Into bits and pieces
    At her feet
    Paralyzed with fear,
    Her eyes crossed
    And her jaw locked
    Causing her to swallow her gum
    An x-ray would surely be in order
    What an unlucky day

    Lesson #7: Myths Are True, They Really, Really Are

  52. Billy Angel

    Every Word Is True

    Five foot four
    he threw six foot
    men out the door.

    He led brothers
    into hell, all
    came back.

    Like Robin Hood,
    he robbed the rich,
    gave to the poor.

    He carried a clarinet
    into heaven, rode
    donkeys across

    the Rockies
    while shooting
    baskets, hitting

    home runs.
    He made millions,
    died in debt.

    He wore a lace
    tie fashioned
    of Marilyn’s panties.

    He knew someone
    in every town.
    He bought me

    a painted pony,
    delivered it
    in a limousine.

  53. Rachel Green

    The Countess

    In the deepest cellar
    of the Mansion house –
    behind the silence
    of the smallest mouse;
    behind the wall
    of reddish bricks
    beyond the frame
    of hazel sticks –
    There lies a corpse
    of ancient line
    that poison took
    before her time.

  54. PSC in CT

    SO, I joined this PAD challenge late — just today — & am madly playing catch up. And while I am making progress, I still have to go back for a couple that I bypassed, before I will be able to do the one-week celebration dance. But, for now, here’s my PAD – DAY 7 entry: “A Myth Poem”

    The Superman Myth

    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.

  55. Iain D. Kemp

    Tahnks Michelle & BTW there is snow on MY mountains… won’t be long now…Shoop! Shoop! Shoop!

    Here’s my rather sober second offering…

    Dear Moosehead,

    I heard my Daddy talking one time
    ‘bout how a long, long time ago there were three
    baseball teams in this great city. He told me
    how so terrified of the prowess of the great Yankee
    teams both the chicken-livered Giants (much smaller
    in reality) and the dodge-the-issue Dodgers
    shipped out to the Golden State where they could
    pretend that the past did not exist and start over as rivals
    in that miserable hell-hole known as L.A. Pappy said
    all this happened before the Miserable Mets ever existed.
    Now we both know my Daddy was a drunk and a fool, so
    like me you probably think he made up the whole damn
    thing. I owe you a debt of gratitude for taking “those women”
    off my hands for a few days, I really need the break &
    besides your cousin is coming over, if you get me?
    All things being well I will pick you up at seven.

    Yours in denial of urban mythology

    Ringo the Howler

  56. Euphrates

    Vulcan’s Testament

    The priests got it all wrong, of course.
    Our completely innocent love story
    Turned into a morality play
    That has nothing to do with any morality
    Any of US ever insisted upon
    Lords and Ladies, save me from our followers!
    Their petty smallness can’t comprehend what any child could tell you.
    Who better than the Goddess of Love and Beauty
    To desire the heart beyond deformity
    And love the man, not scorn the limp
    Celebrating the creative spark within?
    And who could ever hope to tame love
    Or keep it chained and solitary?
    And how could I revile the very god
    Who took the most delight in my creations?
    Plow and sword, pike and pitchfork
    I made the tools of his various trades
    And not a few for his more violent passions
    The story goes I set a trap
    To expose lover and rival to the wrath of justice
    Oh foolish mortals – the net I wove was made of love
    A symbol of my acceptance,
    One of many such toys I created for their lusty play
    How was I to know they’d become entangled
    And need me to release them?
    We laughed together, my loves and I,
    Along with the merry witnesses to their plight
    And then I showed them how to work the catch,
    Kissed them both soundly, and with a caress
    (and a well placed pinch)
    and went back to my forge and fire,
    glad to have added to their pleasure,
    and with it, them to mine.

  57. Michelle H.

    Thanks Heather! It was fun!
    Connie – love the Domino one today! (I’ve actually enjoyed them all but this one inparticular I really like!)
    Satia – Wow – great research and what a neat poem!
    Iain – As always – love it!
    Bruce – very funny!! love it!

    Bummer, there’s a lull in the snow…I hope it starts up again!

  58. Iain D. Kemp

    Great poems alreday today. Connie – I’m loving your Dominoes…

    Anyway, first of the day…

    Cats, Poetry & Death #10

    Buddhists & felines and the search for material wealth

    Seven times reborn are Buddhists
    all to live a life a-new.
    That’s an awful lot of praying
    to come up minus two

    For Cats have it easy regardless of the risks
    they’ll always be just fine.
    Until their luck runs out and they
    use up life number nine

    Now authors get great advances
    on best selling work
    But the poet who thinks he’ll get rich
    is just a silly berk

    The pen is mightier than the sword
    I’ve heard the wordsmiths cry
    But for a poet to be he famous
    he’ll probably have to die.

    Cats, Buddhists and Poets
    crave not material wealth
    For sleeping, praying & writing
    are better for your health.


  59. Bruce Niedt

    Where Are They Now?

    I hadn’t heard anything from the Muses
    for so long, so I Googled them
    to track them down. It seems they’ve all gone
    undercover, acquired new identities:

    Terpsichore’s on Dancing with the Stars
    (still hot, too – love that skimpy outfit).

    Erato’s become a porn queen – some boob job!

    Euterpe’s a producer for some indie label in Japan.

    Urania runs the planetarium at a science museum
    in Phoenix. Most nights she just stares into the night sky,
    making up new constellations.

    Thalia’s doing standup at some cheesy comedy club
    in Baltimore. Weeknights, she waitresses at the same club.

    Clio teaches history at a high school in Philly.
    Her lesbian lover’s a performance artist.

    Polyhymnia has joined a religious cult in Montana,
    and spends her days in a long skirt, on a hard bench,

    Melpomene – well, she’s a sad story, in the hospital
    for the fifth time after as many suicide attempts.
    But she’s published three books of poetry.

    Calliope is a stay-at-home Mom of three in Michigan.
    Weekdays she gives piano lessons.

    No wonder I can’t get inspired.

  60. Lori


    The motion of the ER captures my attention
    As stretchers rush this way and that
    Patients call out from the corners for someone
    to sew up their stitches or help them to the bathroom
    I start to feel at home and look where I can help
    But something’s wrong
    There’s a doctor giving blood
    And another administering meds
    Here a doctor places a catheter
    And there one is documenting a patient’s actions
    Suddenly I realize none of it is real
    This is what people believe
    The mythical ERs have eliminated nurses.

  61. Connie

    The Domino Sparrow

    November fourteenth, two thousand and five
    A tiny brown sparrow came for a call
    The unlucky bird entered a window
    Of Weijers Productions’ domino hall

    Where workers were placing four million stones
    Suddenly sound pitter-pattered like rain
    Workers went running after the sparrow
    As a full day of work went down the drain

    With only four days till Domino Day
    The little brown sparrow had to be caught
    They brought out long sticks and butterfly nets
    But all of their efforts proved all for naught

    Faunabeheer had no choice but to shoot
    Animal protection soon got the word
    Lawsuits came forth fining the companies
    Two hundred euros for killing the bird

    The news reports! The TV recordings!
    Even death threats and a tear-jerking song!
    All decrying the great atrocity
    Shooting a sparrow was horribly wrong!

    Though the reward remained uncollected
    It was offered from a DJ in town
    To someone who would complete the bird’s task
    And knock the rest of the dominoes down

    Now they go for four and a half million
    And all of the builders treat with respect
    The cousins of the little brown sparrow
    Who caused the mighty domino effect

  62. LKHarris-Kolp

    A Bowl of Hopes and Dreams

    "There can only be one true love in your life."
    This is a myth; it cannot be true.
    For she has not loved one, but many before,
    and from each her lessons in life grew.

    "I can make him change," is something she learned real fast
    that can never really take place.
    For she tried and she tried to make him change,
    but all she got was a slap in the face.

    "Love means never having to say you’re sorry,"
    is something she heard in the movies before.
    At first she thought this myth to be true,
    until she heard apologies galore.

    She tried to find someone to complete her,
    a "better half" to make her whole.
    What she ended up doing was losing herself,
    all her hopes and dreams in a bowl.

    Laurie K.

  63. satia

    Heather, thank you. Totally lucked out on that one though. I mean, I surely didn’t know how interconnected everything would be. What were the odds that my birthday would fall around the time that Qingming is celebrated, that I would find a poem that mentions alcohol (that affects the liver), that I would be born in the year of the tiger and that a wind goddess would ride a tiger? Such coincidences are exciting and I am sure that when I sit with all of this for a while I’ll come up with more.

    I mentioned yesterday how so many of the pieces are full of pain. Needless to say, I was thinking of what you have been posting (as well as some others). Powerful stuff.

  64. patti williams

    Day#7: Myth poem – Rainbows

    Sitting alone
    After the hurtful words
    Had been exchanged,
    She felt a change
    Not only with the
    Weather but within
    The storm had passed
    But there were still
    A few drops of rain floating
    In the air,
    A few tears still on
    Her cheeks.
    The light breaking
    Through the clouds
    Colored the drops
    Painting A Rainbow
    Just off the horizon.
    As the sun
    Dried her face with
    Sweet warm hands,
    She wondered if the
    Pot of gold was at the other
    End waiting for her arrival
    But the breeze whispered,
    “No, the angels put the
    Prize inside your heart.
    The fortune you found
    Today is called
    And it is far more
    Important than any
    Pot of useless gold.”

    Haiku form:

    Rainbows in the sky
    Are more than light and water,
    Instead, renewed Hope

    Story form:

    He looked everywhere
    For the illusive pot of gold.
    He stomped around life,
    The world,
    Becoming angrier
    And angrier
    Not realizing the
    Rainbow had no end.
    It was really a full circle.
    The other half was just hidden
    By the horizon looming
    In front of him,
    Playing tricks on the greedy.

  65. satia

    This one was so much fun! I did some quick research and here is what I found and how it all interconnects:

    Qingming is a festival for honoring ancestors held in China around April 4th or 5th. Feng Po-Po is goddess of the wind who rides on a tiger, carrying a bag of wind. In traditional acupuncture, vertigo is related to wind which is associated with the liver. I was born on April 4 in the year of the tiger.

    With all of this in mind, I wrote this. It is not yet noon so perhaps I’ll write more or something completely different but it was fun just getting all of this information.

    A drizzling rain falls like tears on the Mourning Day;
    The mourner’s heart is breaking on his way.
    Where can a winehouse be found to drown his sadness?
    A cowherd points to Xing Hua village in the distance.
    …………………………..From Qingming by Du Mu

    In the time of Qingming, we sweep aside the residue of yesterday as Feng Po-Po whispers an invitation to catch the wind in a bag. Tipping a glass of wine to tomorrow, the drunken steps that follow me, that sweep me footless, place me in this only moment. Now I no longer roar but in my sleep I mewl, a cub learning how not to fall and clawing at my pillow for stability. I point my way, left then right, to see if I can stir my misperceptions, stuff my disappointment in the bag of unmet expectations, pray to silent gods for peace.

  66. A.C. Leming

    Mythological flames

    The mythological flames seen upon
    reentry are not caused by friction.
    Oh, no, let go of that falsehood.

    Instead, wonder upon this – thin air
    high in the atmosphere compressed,
    molecules pressed tight together, building

    up like snow in front of a plow. Heating
    air into the plasma fireball which descends
    before the space shuttle as it dances back to

    Earth. The air molten a meter in front of
    the spacecraft, moves through the shock
    layer into the boundary layer. Heat

    conducted directly to craft’s belly while fragile
    glass tiles radiate dangerous temperatures
    back into space. Friction, that false myth

    may never be replaced by the flaming truth.

    For other myths about space:

  67. Margaret

    Discovering America

    Gunnbjorn Ulfsson sighted islands
    off Greenland around the year 900.

    Bjarni Herjoflsson sighted Labrador
    around 986.

    Leif Eriksson landed in Newfoundland,
    Canada around the year 1000.

    Even earlier, the Native Americans
    crossed a land bridge from Asia.

    But Columbus had publicity.

  68. Terri Vega

    Well, this one turned out very narrative and prose like. Big surprise…it needs a title

    Wondrous cure all.
    No disturbing side effects.
    Drug interactions a thing
    of the past.

    Where do people get these ideas
    anyway? Where do people think
    medicine comes from?

    Chemical compounds are chemical
    compounds – artificial or

    Would you take pills not knowing
    how they will effect you?
    Would you let your doctor say
    “I heard this pill is good for this
    condition. You should try it” ?

    Consumer beware! Don’t be
    fooled. Herbs are drugs.
    Remember Socrates.

  69. Michelle H.

    “Candlemas Day” (aka Groundhogs Day)
    Pray for a cloudy day
    And winter’s stay
    Will be on its way;

    But should the day be bright
    Hurry inside with fright
    For winter will hold on tight;

    For a prediction of the seasons
    We look to a groundhog for reasons
    For many, a continuation of winter is grounds for treason!

    But I don’t care, not one bit
    For on this day in November I must admit
    I’m looking forward to winter, snow and warm wool mitts.

  70. Heather

    I’m going with my theme, sorry to not follow the prompt . . . will try for another post later. Cheers everyone :)

    Lesson #7: Choices

    He threw himself off
    The top of a ten story building
    On purpose,
    For reason,
    I can’t understand

    Younger than me,
    Like me
    I attended my own funeral,
    Looked in his parents’ eyes,
    Witnessed their personal
    Loss of self

    Everything was displayed
    Just so
    Every work he’d ever done,
    Now museum quality
    His name prominently displayed,

    He threw himself off the top of a building
    Why him?
    Why not me?
    What’s the difference?
    How can it be
    That creativity did not save him
    From that leap?

    Lesson #7: We Make Our Own Choices

  71. Michelle H.

    Okay, this has nothing to do with the prompt, but I couldn’t resist – It’s Snowing!!! Yeah!!!

    “First Snow”
    Tonight’s the night
    It’s going to change
    The nip is in the air
    And soon the drip of rain
    Won’t be there;

    Today’s the day
    It’s cold at last
    The rain has changed to snow
    “Do you think I could wax my skis?”
    Her eyes are all aglow.

  72. Michelle H.

    Robert, I just have to say, that I’ve been really enjoying you Monster theme. Being an artistic person, I have no problem imaging the drawings I would do for your poems. That to me speaks volumes!