April PAD Challenge: Day 1

Wow! It looks like we’ve got even more International participation than last year, and even the North American participants are chomping at the bit. In realization that much of the world is essentially a day ahead of me, I’m going to extend the challenge deadline to May 1 at noon (EST), instead of April 30 at midnight (EST).

All right then! Let’s get started!

For today’s prompt, I want you to write an origin poem. It can be the origin of a word, person, plant, idea, etc. Have fun with it.

(Note: Through this challenge, please feel free to use the prompt as a springboard to being creative. There is no right or wrong way to interpret the prompts–so take them in any direction you want.)

Here’s my attempt for the day:

“Superhero”

 

At an early age, His parents are killed

in a skiing accident. Luckily,

His adoptive parents (two lumberjacks

named Harry and Marty) are supportive

and home school Him on topics, such as math,

history, nuclear engineering,

martial arts, and ballroom dancing. When He

learns in His teens that the two lumberjacks

actually killed His parents, He runs

away from home to become a photo-

journalist at the big city paper.

While photographing the winner of Big

City’s high school science fair, the losing

student who thought He should’ve won dumps liquid

on Him while trying to hit the winner.

This is when He gains the ability

to fly and use X-ray vision. And so He

does what anyone else would do in His

position: Design a costume and start

busting bad guys. It doesn’t take long for Him

to acquire an arch-villain, who appears

always to be in two places at once.

This villain is soon known as Lumberjack,

because all his crimes are committed with

a giant logging axe. After perhaps

too much time has elapsed, He realizes

the Lumberjack is really two people:

Harry and Marty, the same backwoodsmen

who murdered His parents. With a renewed

sense of purpose, He quickly finds his two

enemies in their Lumberjack costumes

in an abandoned warehouse down by

the river. He gets the jump on them, but

they quickly turn the tables on Him, since

He was obviously walking into

a trap designed to catch Him. This is when

it is revealed that the lumberjacks are

actually his mother and father,

who were also Harry and Marty, who

had decided when He was very young

that they would groom him to become a crime-

fighting vigilante. Just as they are

telling Him how much they love Him and how

they were sorry they misled Him about

their own deaths, the warehouse explodes from bombs

set by His new arch-villain, The Chemist,

who was, of course, the original guy

who gave Him all of His superpowers.

 

(Now get writing! Yay!)

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1,415 thoughts on “April PAD Challenge: Day 1

  1. R. SANTER

    Vermeer’s Sigh

    When cello pauses to glisten in the only placement it could be, and floor tiles hum the harmonies of their exactitude;

    When mirrored slices of reality skew their angles with immaculate honor, and melodies of tender hair ribbons swim

    through pores of draping carpet, across the backbone of a mahogany muse; When light and atmosphere vibrate seamless,

    virgin, wise, and a droplet of sealing wax pronounces all the red that’s ever been;

    Johannes will step back, fold his arms and exhale–a sigh still centuries air-borne.

  2. Stacey Cornwell

    Origin Poem

    All things have a beginning
    A point at which they started
    Plants, animals, even humans

    So what was your beginning?
    Were you born in the sea or land?
    And what was your mother like?

    Was your father with you as you grew?
    Did you ever know him?
    Do you even care?

    Where did you grow up?
    And where are you from?
    How were you born?

    Please tell me, I really want to know
    Who were your kin?
    And what is your origin?

  3. Lytton Bell

    Corporate Poem®

    I wanted to write a poem about work, but what was there to say?
    This place where I spend ten, sometimes twelve hours a day
    with people I would not choose to be with otherwise, for any reason
    though I do not hold anything against them
    even if some of them are mean, or overly bureaucratic or chronically disorganized
    This maze of cubicles with its drab carpeting and lack of windows
    This corporate desk and computer monitor
    bandaged with a picture of a forest, in case you feel like screaming
    Little photos of my family in tiny frames around the sterile desk –
    what are they doing right now? Why am I not with them? Do they miss me?

    What a weird structure we have set up here, so devoid of humanity
    where no one can even tell a dirty joke because we’re all so afraid of lawsuits
    And I sit here in my tight pantyhose and uncomfortable shoes
    buttoned into a stiff business suit, except on “causal” Friday
    when you can’t even wear your baggy sweats or favorite holey jeans
    Where my day is spent sending and reading e-mails and letters and memos and faxes
    scheduling meetings, answering phones, checking voicemail
    opening and sorting and distributing the mail, then chucking a lean cuisine
    into the microwave, which I eat at my desk while formatting and editing
    a report that my boss needed twenty minutes ago

    Doesn’t the world have more to offer me?
    I fix a jam in the copy machine, attend two long meetings
    where nothing is decided or accomplished
    and return to my desk to type up the minutes
    which no one will ever read nor even look at

    Somewhere a bird is doing something beautiful
    like making a nest of laying an egg or singing a song
    But I can’t see that bird from here – can you?

  4. Shirley A. Auer

    Origin of A Poet

    Two cuttings
    of different trees
    brought together
    to create
    a new plant is like the start
    of poetry

    within me.
    It’s been lying there
    just waiting
    for just the
    right time to form with just the
    right combination.

  5. Daunette Lemard-Reid

    untitled

    Descended from the bravest slaves
    That ever graced the Indies’ shores,
    I know that life has ups and downs.
    Though I may be on top today,
    Tomorrow could find me on the ground;
    But if history’s right, I’ll rise again

    So with head held high and shoulders squared,
    I walk with confidence in your midst;
    Certain of this path I trod,
    Knowing I may fall sometimes;
    But if history’s right, I’ll rise again

    Daunette

  6. Sammy

    Adieu/Farewell
    To see you lying there
    It stings to know that you are gone
    What is meant to be a peaceful point,
    leaves us, on earth, without words.
    You are safe now in the Father’s hands.
    There is no pain, no sadness, and no cruelty in a crippled
    body where you dwell.
    There is no mystery of what will be but only joy
    We miss you, please pray for us.

  7. Sammy

    Small Town Girl
    The fields, the blue summer skies, the wind in the trees
    An abundance of land, of love and care
    Our house was everyone’s home.
    Not a wasted minute was spent on moping
    We played, we entertained and we enjoyed
    Not necessarily without punishment but we lived
    with plenty of love.

  8. Kelly Ellis

    In the Dark

    In the beginning there was night
    and my spirit, restless, roving the
    contours of your face. My hands want
    now to read you like Braille light-fingered ,
    unsure. In walking sleep, pathless, we
    traverse each a night wood. You note
    footfalls, broken bracken, pebbles—
    breadcrumbs, maybe. Hesitant, brave
    in moonlight, I wonder about
    your voice. If I find it, will I know it?
    In this forest without compass, will I taste
    your heat, hear your eyes, shadow-trace
    the scent of your hunger? For now
    I breathe you in the dark.

  9. PriscillaAnne Tennant Herrington

    Rebirth

    She was an ordinary girl
    like most of her friends.
    What she didn’t want to be
    was ordinary.

    She longed for something
    different
    though she was not sure
    how that would feel.

    Engaged to a man
    her parents liked
    she realized, life with
    him would be ordinary.

    She would instead marry
    a man as unlike herself
    as could be imagined.
    Not an ordinary man.

    The bruises were never
    ordinary, the ones
    that showed, nor those
    hidden inside.

    She felt different
    and she was shamed,
    would not tell,
    suffered for years.

    One day she realized
    she had had enough
    and so she left
    that extraordinary man.

    The bruises healed
    and made her strong.
    She would never
    be ordinary again

    ©Priscilla Anne Tennant Herrington

  10. Liz

    I’ve been distracting myself from writing a book by collecting the Google search terms people use to land on my blog. Some of the phrases (used verbatim and with no extra words) arranged themselves into an epistolary, Dear Abby/ Dear Editor sort of format. Not sure if it works, but it was fun (and very distracting).

    Google Answers

    Sprout in the forest,
    What is mating ritual for a ladybug?
    -Armored Swift Lizard

    Armored Swift Lizard,
    Horny cowgirls!
    In Prescott, Arizona – freaky!
    Nasty, horned howl in the Sonoran desert!

    Easter Bunnies,
    I don’t care about your revolution.
    if I can’t dance creative nonfiction.
    – Mister Toad

    Mister Toad,
    Install silver stripe on blue,
    host saguaro bajadas,
    pet rabbit communication,
    and big tarantulas.

    Tomato in Dreams,
    Variations of Elizabeth slaughtered a chicken.
    –Gettys Burg.

    Gettys Burg,
    Review sonnet humor.

  11. Kelly Ellis

    In the Dark

    In the beginning there was night
    and my spirit, restless, roving the
    contours of your face. My hands want
    now to read you like Braille light-fingered ,
    unsure. In walking sleep, pathless, we
    traverse each a night wood. You note
    footfalls, broken bracken, pebbles—
    breadcrumbs, maybe. Hesitant, brave
    in moonlight, I wonder about
    your voice. If I find it, will I know it?
    In this forest without compass, will I taste
    your heat, hear your eyes, shadow-trace
    the scent of your hunger? For now
    I breathe you in the darkness.

  12. Roy

    Descent

    I don’t forget your family at the fire, listening
    To Granda going on about the gold, lost
    While fleeing out of France from the Revolution.
    I heard that history a hundred times or more.
    It was funny at first, the former aristocrats
    Intent on Ireland, their inheritance stolen
    By the English and ending up in Edinburgh broke.
    I know my lot were lackeys, unlike your clan
    But we blamed no-one and thought ourselves better than none.
    Each drop you drank, the drama was heightened –
    Your forefathers transformed into Counts.
    I wondered if the word was wrongly spelled.

  13. PB Rippey

    Blue

    Your ruffles move me,
    baubles leavings,
    the puppying push under 10 pier schtick
    men sliding over plump ass after ass
    of you. How they love you—
    your meaty winter de-
    clarations and the summer vacation
    from violence; your depth life’s guard
    commands respect, say
    salts and tourists and those
    surviving the rearing
    glittering back—
    monster and critic and de-shantied witch.
    The girl was two when you lassoed pail
    her ankles. Yesterday,
    the fisherman, his freckled son
    frisked—you sent their little boat home
    whole and empty as a green bottle in wrecked
    sand. Fish fleets dwindling, your tar- message
    missives, your red, toxic tides: I scan
    your million winks for hope,
    my lit mystic, ionic pond
    breathing. That girl masquerading
    as a clever seal (I knew her) slapped
    you with her colorful plank, carried
    on paddling at dawn. She did not live flea
    to regret this. Will I, never
    turning my back on you,
    your dutiful daughter gathering
    your discards, survive your whim
    long after I am gone, my dust
    a little sugar in your blue
    whale’s gawp.

  14. lynn paden

    "i see my future in an instant"

    your voice
    in soft velvetness
    made places i could curl up in
    and forget

    your hands
    with constant movements
    scanned, and tried to remember
    every inch

    but what made me
    love you
    what started it all

    was the moment
    our eyes met
    and you didn’t look away

    you understood
    you knew it all
    the somewhat good
    the mostly bad
    and still wanted to stay
    for the long haul

    not just today
    but tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
    forever

    (lucky me)

  15. Michael Roy

    “Thoughts”

    Sparks ignite in the synapses of my mind
    Kaleidoscope of colors exploding all around
    Symphony of noise is injected with each spark
    Each color and sound is threaded with no beginning or end

    A slow beat begins tightening the thread
    Colors move to their designated spots
    Noise become filtered to resemble a tone
    Forming something that is yet to be defined

    The beat begins to quicken its pace
    Pulling the thread tighter with each beat
    A collage of images begins to unfold
    Forming snapshots of places and times from the past or still to be told

    The beat is now continuous in harmony with my emotions
    I follow the thread to make sense of it all
    It is Calliope, pulling my heart strings
    These images and sounds are thoughts that must be share with all.

  16. Maureen Hurley

    Day One Poetry Workshop:

    On the confluence
    of a Day One poetry workshop
    April Fool’s Day
    and National Poetry Month
    a third grader
    newly arrived to writing
    who couldn’t remember my name
    wrote on both sides of her folder:
    Poetry with Merlin.
    Poetry with Merlin.

    Foolish grins all round.

    Magic was afoot.
    Magic was afoot.

    She sighed, and said, "I wish
    every day could be Poetry Day."

    The magician is in…

  17. Maureen Hurley

    By the county dump,
    lupine and poppies drape verdant hills
    in a riot of indigo and gold.
    At the edge of the drained marsh,
    saxifrage and meadow foam
    hold vigil in the last vernal pool.

    Progress is measured
    a ditch marching straight to the bay.

  18. Nilo G. Simogan

    It’s the Hen or the Egg?

    The mother hen leaps on the roof
    And seems angry at no one.
    “Put-Put-Putak”, she cries
    While the father rooster looks on
    Until she finds her nest to hid on.

    So days came after another
    Nights and days went on,
    And she cries day after day
    On that same old roof
    Of her new found home.

    Twenty-one days had come to pass
    Let’s wait what’s coming soon,
    Be surprise what’s to reckon
    Above the ceiling of forlorn.

    “Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp”
    Like music that’s so sweet,
    Atop the roof one afternoon
    “Chirp, chirp, chirp” goes on.

    It’s a bird?
    No.
    It’s a plane?
    It’s absurd!
    It’s the chicks!
    Cute tiny chicks!

  19. Sonia L. Russell

    Sorry, forgot to add the title. This is for origin. 🙂

    What is in a name?

    When my sweet grandmother named me
    She gave the name she thought it should be
    Though her own given name was Solonia
    She preferred to change my name to Sonia
    Now what is in a name we might ask?
    Well to those who believe naming to be a true task
    To give a name with fundamental meaning
    Is as important as the namesakes rearing
    So now that me and my name have grown
    I decided to find out my names tone
    And lo and behold my name derives from another
    You see Sophia is the original name and to differ
    It is spelled with a (ph) in the name instead of an (n)
    Now you understand the names origin
    But I haven’t yet told you what the name stands for
    (Here’s where I get excited,)Wisdom through God is at the names core
    So to my grandmother who named me and blessed all my days
    I pray I can measure up to such a name and acknowledge Him in all ways!

  20. Sonia L. Russell

    When my sweet grandmother named me
    She gave the name she thought it should be
    Though her own given name was Solonia
    She preferred to change my name to Sonia
    Now what is in a name we might ask?
    Well to those who believe naming to be a true task
    To give a name with fundamental meaning
    Is as important as the namesakes rearing
    So now that me and my name have grown
    I decided to find out my names tone
    And lo and behold my name derives from another
    You see Sophia is the original name and to differ
    It is spelled with a (ph) in the name instead of an (n)
    Now you understand the names origin
    But I haven’t yet told you what the name stands for
    (Here’s where I get excited,)Wisdom through God is at the names core
    So to my grandmother who named me and blessed all my days
    I pray I can measure up to such a name and acknowledge Him in all ways!

  21. Chuck Puckett

    [My first poem seems to have been mislaid, so reposting]

    A Broken Word

    The Word faces itself in its mirror,
    A being grounded in its own unity.
    If there were a morning possible,
    The Word would welcome the morning doings.
    But morning means evening, the split of day,
    And days mean yesterday and tomorrow,
    And the division of the year.
    And years mean history and future,
    And the dissolution of the point of Time.

    And now morning dew firms in a moment,
    Coats the leavings of the verbs that start to act.
    The mirror actively reflects, and separates,
    Bifurcating into Subject and Object.
    Slivers of shivering change radiate
    Unto the utmost echo. Becoming begins,
    Being becomes morning and evening and a day,
    Morning becomes electric,
    The mirror is shocked to see itself in itself.

    In a moment, the shock reverberates
    And explodes. Shards of separation shatter
    The Word in two syllables and letters and serifs,
    Then, sans serifim, a bare existence shines forth,
    Regards itself once again, mirrors in the barbershop,
    Differentiation sans integration,
    Exponential expansion engulfing the abyss.

    And it was good.

    © 2009 Chuck Puckett
    1 April, 2009

  22. Raven Zu

    Okay, started late, but more excited than scared. new to this writing game. here goes.

    Twinkle in his eye meets
    Gleam in hers.
    Ooh la la.
    Growing bulge and
    Strange food fetishes.
    In due time
    Me!

  23. Maria D. Laso

    Turns out I pasted this on the wrong comment board, so I am transferring it now….

    "April 1"

    the challenge mobilized a few.
    fires smoked, tomtoms too.
    coconut telegraph tack-tickling,
    phone lines frenzied, keys crack-crickling.
    word spread of a poem-a-day
    for fools and dreamers who want to play.
    once-lonely scribes in virtual fraternity
    birth first tries in muse-fed maternity.
    we send out our children to make us proud,
    glad that there’s somewhere they’re finally allowed
    and hope that they’ll bring back a bon mot or ten
    to cling to in May when alone again.

    Maria D. Laso |mleldersAT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

  24. Fenella Berry

    First Asparagus Harvest.

    Two seasons passed
    waiting with optimism.Desire.
    Watching weekly, daily, hourly
    hoping for success.
    Then seemingly magically
    the auspicious appearance
    of Tyrian purple tips
    from the fecund bed.
    Visceral growth
    thrusting strongly upwards.
    Slender viridian stems
    pointing fingers
    potentate of the vegetable patch.
    Smooth unadorned stalks
    aspiring perfection.
    Dissevered in their prime.

  25. Jenny Doughty

    This is a second draft of the one I posted earlier (hope that’s allowed, as we’re still in April!)

    In the beginning

    In something not nothing
    in no dimension
    infinitely hot
    infinitely dense
    inside it all space
    inside it all time
    infinitesimal singularity
    into stars expanding
    into light exploding
    into being

  26. Marian Veverka

    First the promise

    Even in the darkest hours
    Long before daybreak
    Across the empty streets
    The bare yards
    The moon, not even full
    Casts its net, catches
    Shadows of the trees
    And in all the bare branches
    The shadows of the bare
    Bone branches the skeleton
    Twigs a rough knobby
    Swelling like pimples like
    Warts like buds that will
    Open like promises of
    Shade and of blossoms
    To come, quietly sleeping
    across all the yards
    In the still cold air, the
    Scent of rosebuds is
    Hurrying towards us.

  27. Midge VanEtten

    Origin

    Pages of genealogy
    neatly categorized,
    chronologically and alphabetically filed

    hours of searching
    dusty records: US census, Ellis Island

    miles of driving
    remote graveyards
    kneeling before stone markers
    barely readable through moss and last summers grass clippings
    scraping, digging

    the excitement of the hunt,
    the mystery of the clues.
    where did I come from?
    who am I?

    Midge VanEtten

  28. Cindy Schiller

    My grandson came home for a visit
    New in the world and my arms
    Felt like a piece of heaven
    Perfectly rounded charms
    Breathing softly against my neck
    Clothing as soft and fluffy as fur
    Wishing I could just hold him
    Forever, listen to him purr,
    Breath of an angel warms me
    Makes me feel truly blessed
    The life of a new generation
    Bringing out traits from the best
    Living the life of a grandma
    Holding onto treasure of gold
    Wondering why I felt giddy
    And not at all very old

  29. Bear

    I’m reposting because it seem it never got posted to begin with. And I want my trophy award whatever.

    How Cinderella Became A Poet

    I’ll bet you’re hoping I’ll forget
    I was your little Cinderella,
    that you belittled me
    in front of my brothers,
    making me feel bad about myself
    then telling me I had no right
    to feel that way when I cried,
    leaving me to fend for my sexuality
    and sex education because
    what you didn’t know
    couldn’t hurt me,
    sending me to therapy
    and never saying why,
    scolding me for not saying “Hi”
    when you said I was beyond shy,
    then proceeding to lie
    about my having graduated
    high school while
    correcting my speech
    because you could never leave
    ME and Sylvia alone,
    giving me everything you never got
    when it was not what I needed, wanted,
    or requested and then proceeded
    to continue to buy my devotion
    and expect me to be thankful
    for, "everything I did for you",
    that after talking to you
    about personal problems
    I always felt worse
    than when I started even
    on suicide day, that somehow
    I’m remembering it all wrong
    and everything
    was just one big ball,
    that time never changed me
    and I’m still cute, helpful,
    and seven years old,
    that all the slippers
    glass or ruby
    or something else
    fit perfectly.

    Well, I want you to know
    I’ve become a poet
    and it’s all your fault.

  30. Susan Brennan

    The Spaghetti Test

    “Frenchy can come over anytime because you passed
    the spaghetti-test.” They took me into their bedroom
    and lifted the mattress, scattered across a flowered

    box-spring was dried spaghetti, unbroken. Shocked,
    that they would even think of me in that way, a virgin,
    and Frenchy, my good friend…after blood set fire

    to my skin, on the walk home I began to suspect
    his desires and reason, I suppose the parents had reason
    to conjure, afterall, it was a new born I watched

    and two other young ones; this couple had been busy
    with their own makings and since the ball was rolling,
    when I got home, I looked to my parents, their humble hands

    on each other’s shoulder, waist, and revealed was the heat
    of their touch, how it lead to me –
    as if looking into a mirror, into a mirror, into a mirror –

    and next time I babysat, changed the diaper, the baby’s penis
    spouting from his furious legs, this small blazed glee, is where

    it begins, pangs swelled my breasts and groin, as Frenchy howled
    from the other room, laughing at the Honeymooners,
    this is beginning.

  31. Sarah Provence

    Where Space Comes From

    Crammed into the corner of your sock drawer
    just behind the warranty papers for our red couch –
    the biggest thing we ever bought together
    and where you keep other things you must protect
    and never misplace, not even once upon a time –
    fairy tales are too big for bureaus.

    It’s not been ripped from its mother ocean –
    given legs but left with no tongue –
    It floats in the flotsam of our daily lives.
    When I put your socks away I see it,
    and it wears at me irregularly.
    Some baroque pearl is forming
    opalescent and dreamy,
    but forbidden.

    Kept there in the bottom of your sock drawer,
    my dreams, which are too big to fit in the corner,
    have shipwrecked on this shore,
    and, without detonation, wait
    stranded, ticking.

  32. Caroline D

    Explorer

    Imagine the rainforest’s steamy heat
    the forest floor hushed
    like a great cathedral.
    Tree trunks, endless stone pillars
    guarding the secrets.
    You the first to penetrate
    the dark with your neat white
    European feet
    where there are no paths
    only a compass to guide you.

  33. Carmen Gonzalez

    Puerto Rico
    How beautiful is the island where my family came from
    The island of the coqui.
    I can hear it in the night.
    How beautiful is the fruit that I enjoy so much?
    The taste is so exotic.
    Isn’t it ironic how I enjoy it in my Italian ice.
    How beautiful is my flag as I wave it up high.

  34. Casandra Broaddus

    I began a sapling
    reaching for light
    with intentions of growing
    straight
    tall

    but the heaviness of my leaves
    left me
    twisted
    contorted
    my left side
    dying
    branches drooping, without buds
    I trembled with decay
    when chopped down

    all that remains
    is a stump of a woman

    but watch,
    by the end of the summer…
    I’ll be the strongest tree on the block.

  35. Karen Wright

    How Art Started

    I picked up a crayon
    That’s how it started.
    Every kid picks up a crayon,
    But from mine I was not parted.

    I picked up a pencil
    That’s how it started.
    Drawing without stencil
    My first attempts were thwarted.

    I picked up a marker
    That’s how it started.
    My birthday cards were sharper
    Most of them were hearted.

    I picked up a paint brush
    That’s how it started.
    Within the paint was a rush
    From a sunset I’ll never be parted.

    I picked up a ball of clay
    That’s how it started.
    My cottage out of the way,
    Around the edge a picket fence march-ed.

    I picked up a drawing class
    That’s how it started.
    My future clear now at last
    The art teacher path I’ve started.

  36. Rose Marie Streeter

    The Bus Stop

    Another rainy Monday
    poured down from the sky
    with no sign of sunshine
    gloomy was I
    hurried footsteps grew nearer
    his smile touched my heart
    voice spoke in soft whispers
    eyes shimmered with spark
    I felt like a school girl
    giddy yet tense
    words tripped over tongue
    ‘n didn’t make sense
    a shiver of chills
    danced down my spine
    knowing he noticed
    I wanted to hide
    bus finally appeared
    he helped me aboard
    thats when it all started
    our romance was born

    (c) 04/01/09
    RMS

  37. A. Jarrell Hayes

    "The Origin of Origin"

    O decided to make a word, so he called
    R and told her to bring a friend. She chose
    I, but I couldn’t go. So I let
    G know about the event, and he said
    I should ditch my other engagement with
    N; but I decided to bring them both along instead.

    And that’s how we got the word ORIGIN.

  38. annie mcwilliams

    LIFE, LIBERTY AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS

    It’s Jimmy Hendrix playing the Star Spangled Banner.
    It’s twinkle-eyed-wrinkle-faced men and women
    polished in American military uniforms
    spewing candy at kids from a float,
    while the marching band plays
    John Phillips Sousa, really loud.
    It’s the drums that bring up the rear,
    Old Glory and Uncle Sam,
    a chicken in every pot,
    a car in every garage,
    a choice for every voter.
    We are the ugly Americans,
    …..the worlds moral beacon.

  39. Rose Anna Hines

    ORIGIN

    On the whisper of the wind,
    the seed floats.
    The sun winks.
    The seed meanders
    until it lodges in twilight,
    suspended, hibernating,
    brewing, stirring, germinating,
    growing, building.

    Then it sprouts:
    A pomegranate tree
    An artificial heart
    A bicycle that flies with zero emissions
    An insect that digests plastic
    A pill that stops aging and organ and joint damage
    A movie that make millions laugh and cry

    The light is on as scientists complete an experiment.
    The 8 year-old watches every day the pea seeds she planted.
    The grandmother reads the “Giving Tree” to her grandchildren
    Henry learns to fly a kite.
    A teacher encourages her 8th grade students to learn science
    with day trips and pizza party rewards for good test scores.

    A bird flies overhead with a seed ready to dive
    perched on its feathers

  40. Noreen Ann Jenkins

    The Origin of the Universe

    Some trees, plants,
    flowers and grass
    began with seeds.

    The sun, the moon
    and the stars
    planets, the earth
    and the world,
    God created these
    from the beginning.

    Without God
    there would not be
    living things,
    human beings
    and this entire
    universe.

    For He is the Creator
    of all things
    living and nonliving.

    By Noreen Ann Jenkins (Pen name)
    http://www.freewebs.com/noreenannjenkins
    author of You’ll Learn to Love Me

  41. H. Marable

    He Remembered

    He remembered being born,
    a gift so amazing, but one that
    no mortal truly holds in honest memory.
    Yet he imagined the warm place,
    the darkest quiet, peace.
    Then the interruption,
    the obtuse voices speaking,
    coaxing him to become, urging him to be,
    pulling him toward the light.
    And he became that miracle,
    bringing joy, breathing life.
    He remembered being conceived…

  42. Jean Powell Vosper

    Rain Shower

    Though the day passed
    brilliant and serene,
    and the merest of breezes
    ruffled our hair,
    clouds began peering
    above the horizon
    like fledglings’ eyes
    peeking over the nest at
    their mother’s flight.
    The clouds grew bolder with
    each succeeding moment,
    rising higher and higher
    at boundary’s edge,
    fluffing themselves
    for the task ahead
    until they tumbled over
    the rim, and the wind
    lifted them and carried
    them – with jubilant breath –
    across the sky.
    Raindrops kissed our faces
    like sparrows’ winged shadows
    caress the earth.

  43. Laura Kayne

    It Started

    It started with an idea
    In a mutual friend’s mind,
    How to bring two people together,
    Knowing how much they already shared
    And wanting them to share it all.

    It started with a not so random meeting,
    A connection formed through laughter
    Strengthened by the simplicity
    Of modern communication.

    It started with a risk
    Realising we were already friends,
    But could be so much more,
    Crossing the distance
    With a first kiss.

    It started with not wanting to let you go,
    And you not letting me run and hide,
    Until four years later we are living by the sea,
    You listening to the football
    While I write poetry by an open window,
    Your ring on my finger.

  44. K DeBevois

    Deep Violet

    She sighs,
    stuck,
    stuck in traffic,
    stuck, held back, hands tied
    Imprisoned
    Prevented from completely protecting
    completely protecting her Innocent Son
    her Life
    her Sunshine,
    prevented from completely protecting her Innocent Son
    from the blinded by money…
    the blinded by money
    the blinded by religion
    the backwards legal system
    she looks left
    then smiles sadly
    but with Hope

    parking the car
    they leave the traffic behind
    she rushes
    Little One, she says,
    come with Mama and
    we will plant
    flowers to celebrate spring
    She thinks to herself,
    we will wash away
    our collective heartache
    with yellows and
    deep violet and hope,
    hope that this time
    no lawyers, just my mother presence,
    my mother presence screaming the truth
    will keep you safe from
    those that desire
    to harm Your Innocent Eyes
    Your Perfect Little Hands

    they make it home through the traffic

    then they set out the trowel,
    they set out each set of seeds
    they neatly line each set of seeds in order
    they neatly line each set of seeds
    in order, one by one as
    they plan to plant each set of seeds
    depending on its need for water, sun, placement in the soil,

    they dig into the earth
    feeling the cool, moist, crumbly spring soil
    they plant violets, yellow pansies
    daffodils, blue bells, tulips
    they line the path with Hope

    they plant peas, cucumbers,
    little yellow pear tomatoes
    mother and Child, they plant seeds,
    The Little One poking holes in the earth
    With a green crayon, then oh so carefully
    Plunking in three seeds in each space
    And with Wide Eyes the Little One asks
    Mama, will we make sweet pickles
    With these cucumber seeds
    When they grow?
    Mama, will we share
    Our garden with
    The squirrels and with
    The stray cat?
    she hears,
    looks into her Little One’s Innocent,
    Wide Blue Eyes, and smiles.
    she says, yes,
    yes my dear we shall share our seeds when they grow big
    J’adore mon petit,
    put a few more seeds over by the trellis
    to grow towards the sun

    Then she silently prays
    Silently prays the time spent, the stories,
    the soccer games, the bike rides,
    the museums, the music,
    the giggles and laughs were enough
    she prays they were enough
    To protect her Little One’s soul
    from those that try
    to harm Innocent Eyes
    and Perfect Little Hands
    As her little one’s Perfect Little Hands
    plunk seeds
    into the darkness the spring earth
    And as her Little One asks
    Mama, will we share these seeds?
    Will we share these seeds we so carefully planted?
    Will we share them when they grow big?
    She replies, yes, we will share these seeds when they grow
    And as her little one speaks, she really hears,
    Mama, will this be our new beginning?

  45. Mandy Shorb

    Love

    It started with a simple caress,
    A simple embrace,
    A simple just one look into your eyes,
    The sky was clear as a summer’s day,
    Although it was winter at the time,
    I knew from that moment,
    That first look that was in your eyes,
    I knew at that moment,
    Without saying a word,
    That love was started,
    That there was no looking back,
    There was no going back to what was before,
    There was no way I could let go,
    Perhaps it isn’t perfect,
    Perhaps there is pain at times,
    But I know just one look in your eyes,
    Just one whisper of my name,
    And I am brought to the beginning,
    The beginning of the love,
    The love in our hearts,
    The love that lives despite everything else,
    Everything keeps trying to separate us,
    Everything keeps trying to break us apart,
    But nothing can really keep this down,
    This love is stronger than anything in the stars,
    And it started with just a simple caress,
    A simple embrace,
    A simple look in each other’s eyes,
    A simple kiss,
    And it was sealed,
    The origin of the love,
    The love between us.

  46. Tracy Valstad

    Revelation

    At first she couldn’t find anyone. The dilapidated mustard building seemed empty. It looked like it might have served as a hospital once. There was no one around. She was looking around and realized she couldn’t remember how she arrived. “Hello?” A shadow appeared. It said nothing. Her heart beat faster. As it disappeared and reappeared she chased it with a chill riding her spine. she noticed blood oozing from her left wrist and her chest began to heave. The shadow stood in front of her. She began racing away from it. It began chasing her. Now she noticed blood oozing from her right wrist and it came closer. Her legs gave way from fear and over-exertion and she hunched in the corner crying, scared and bleeding from both wrists. She looked up to face her fear and saw her mother’s figure standing there. “What have you done Emily?” She asked. Emily sat there looking dazed and confused. Her mother simply kept repeating the same question with tears in her eyes. Slowly Emily looked down and saw the deep cuts on her wrists and the blood. She was sitting on the floor in the shower dead after killing herself.

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