Here we are. Another November PAD (Poem-A-Day) Chapbook Challenge. Wake up your friends, bring your fellow poets. Let’s poem the heck out of this month!
This time around, I’m going to try using prompts supplied by participants. (If you’re interested in providing a prompt, there’s still room. E-mail me at robert.brewer@fwmedia.com with the subject line: November Prompt.) For instance, today’s prompt comes from Mariya Koleva (click her name to learn more about her).
Mariya’s Prompt: Write a matches poem. The matches could be sticks that make fire. Or it could be matches from a game. Or the verb of “to match.” Or as in the phrase “He’s not a good match for you.” Or whatever other match you can make.
Here’s Robert’s attempt at a matches poem:
“In Heaven”
Have you thought about the last time
your hand met mine? How you repeat
each blast of heat? You are my dream
angel. I scheme and angle for
one minute more in the night time.
Internal rhyme schemes hold nothing
on your loving ways. Please, baby,
stay and maybe we’ll always be.
*****
Now get poeming! And remember to learn more about Mariya Koleva.
*****
Learn more about me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
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I am so behind with this chapbook challenge, but I want to try to catch up because I need to write some new poetry, so here goes and see all of my poetry at http://marchthirtyone.wordpress.com
title: prom date
When I went to prom
we wore matching outfits
purple and gold lace
my first bustier
you wore a matching cumberbund
and bowtie
too bad
our futures didn’t go together
no high school sweetheart for me
c) Kellea Tibbs and march thirty one, 2012. All Rights Reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of original march thirty one material without express and written permission from the author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.
collecting matchbooks
by juanita lewison-snyder
he collects matchbooks ~
a way of soothing the sulfide beast within,
keeping in check the tinderbox monster
from otherwise igniting an impressive array
of military, bank, restaurant, night club,
and tourist attraction incendiary art
he’s accumulated the world over, twice.
a magpie with a lust for potassium chlorate
as well as neatness and order, he arm wrestles
daily the arsonistic accountant likewise within,
pouring over binders and shoeboxes
just to finger the plastic sleeves
protecting his personal picassos
from demon saboteurs.
© 2012 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
“Sensing You”
Upon walking into your house
I want to see you
waiting to envelop me
in a crushing hug;
I want to see you
curled up in the corner
of the endlessly soft burgundy couch
watching a cheesy horror film;
I want to hear your giggles
as you sneak Christmaas presents
into the back bedroom for wrapping
I’ll even take the smell
of lingering cigarette smoke
in your sun room, your sanctuary;
I’ll have to settle for feeling your spirit
as I try to live without you.
for Melody, my step mother
River and Shore
River and shore travel
toward the gulf,
and they make the perfect pair
like sun and sky
making the day
and air and wind,
nature’s song.
For there can be
no river without shore
no shore without river,
and each defines the other
as I watch on a summer day.
Happy writing PAD friends!!
’s to ALL!
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/06/day-one-match-a-haiku/
Mismatched
Sitting on the pavement my feet itch,
my socks are dirty and mismatched,
I feel like it’s been a long time since
I have belonged anywhere, a long time
Since my feet have been bare
My boots stay on, tied on tight,
I don’t regret being who I am
Yet I can’t figure out this world that
Just keeps on keeping on and hates a
being that doesn’t match up with its
Society.
“Tomorrow’s Match” (Shadorma poem)
A match sparks
flames of reflection
honors, binds
invites talk
erases what’s to forget
evens tomorrow
Brimstone
The bitter night house, hands
stiff with radiant cold and bones.
Birchbark, white pine twigs, dry
split ash. Just one strike, one fast
pop, sinuses quick with sulfur vapour,
breathing in the salt marsh on fire,
praying for the catch of tinder, kindling,
pray in winter that the whole box,
the whole yellow forest could light up.
CADENCE
Left. Right.
Left. Right.
Forward. Aft.
Cadence matched
Until broken.
Somekinda Match
I can only say what I am not,
I can only say what I am.
The wind presses through the slats in the wall,
The water passes below near the deep well,
The searing light shoots in when I open the door,
The sound of the timbers crack, move in time,
To the implication of gravity against anything.
Matches
The star with the star,
the rose with the rose—
the snifter with that
decanter, full of an
amber liquid—used
to be clear, but it’s
tainted with your
very presence, which
I hate with all my
heart. The circle with
the circle—unbroken,
mocking—why am I
always the excluded one,
the outcast? The diamond
with the ring setting
—princess-cut, half a
carat, just a glittery
rock I never deserved.
That bloodless little
shred of my soul with
the wound you left
when I let you talk
me into making a mistake.
I can’t start over, can’t
be matchless anymore.
We’re a match,
the two of us,
you with your
temper and me
too tempered
you with your
careful pacing
and me
with my wild
last minute
dashes.
We’re a match
of seeming
opposites, seamed
so closely together
that sometimes
there is no space
between us
like sky
and sea at
sunset on the
Pacific.
The swift, slick snap of the match
The wisp of sulfur, then the flame
Wavering in the crisp, fall air
Heather cups her mittened hand
To block the wind
The tip of my cigarette burns red
The flame flaters, smokes
Blows away as the leaves dance
Between our feet
I hold my burning end to Heather
As she lights hers from mine
MISMATCHED SOCKS
When I look at my feet, I notice my socks they do not match,
Worse than that, I notice my sock has a hole that needs a patch.
I am not embarrassed that one sock is black and one is blue,
No one will ever notice ’cause my socks hide inside my shoe.
I am not embarrassed that my sock has a hole and needs a patch,
Holes in socks are handy in case I have an itch and need to scratch.
If my mismatched socks are the main topic at the local coffee klatch,
Guess what-I have another pair at home like my pair that does not match
Day 1: Match
“Made Hand”
Marked prematurely, false terror in my eyes
A trap surely, rethink your alibis
Time to fold your cards; I know exactly what you are
Chill down my spleen, unlock this player’s latch
He’ll go grab the kerosene, and I’ll go grab the…
Matches Are No Longer Made In Heaven But In DataBanks
When your father and I were
growing up we had to find
find our matches the hard
way. We could not rely on
computers to match our
interests in a data base of
several hundred thousand.
Maybe soon the computer
will make the phone call.
Why stop there–virtual
control of the whole process.
You kids have it so easy
these days.
Matchless to Mach Two
Socks, always matching socks.
I’m sure my washer ate them
for try as I would when my
sons were growing up there
were always stray socks.
In high school they taught
me a better way. They would
grab any old two, pull them
up matched or not, strap
on their tennis shoes, and then
exit out the door–mach two.
Matches to Matches
A blue flame catches the sun–
two ends to a puzzle. Sparks
fall as puffs of smoke twirl
away in a warm light huddle.
In Sunday School burnt matches
were lined up to make the face
of Jesus. On birthdays Mom
would hold the match until her
finger burned lighting the
candles. Matches were, like
everything else hard to come by.
Endless sparks of molt lost
in liquid sunsets. Candles
extinguished in a heartbeat
of burnt red and orange, holy
blue and yellow.
They all look the same
Two blonde’s on a beach Sunning in the heat
With Two burgers and some fries Just makes me want to cry
In bikinis’ looking fine Wish I could wear mine
If I only I could lose that weight My waist too would look great
All those burgers and French fries Have fattened my waistline
I wish I was those blondes on the beach With their tans looking so great
So thin like the laces in my shoes Ii makes me sing the blues
in the back of the red shed
the leaves pile,
turning to wet rot and muck,
thicker and denser
by the day,
until even if a match was
flicked and dropped,
even if gasoline tipped
and spilled,
or an actual flame tried
to lick and burn,
the pile still wouldn’t turn to fire
and I still wouldn’t
be moved.
Ugly Fence
The storm knocked it down
while I was traveling.
Just part way down
while I was traveling
to London and Tuscon
and Cortez and Paris.
It just sat there
while I was wandering.
Just stayed right there
while I was wondering
about my job and laundry
and life and Christmas.
An ugly fence
that I can’t take down.
An annoying eyesore
that I can’t tear down
because I don’t have
the time or tools
or truck or patience.
Finally called a guy
to cut it down.
A guy is coming
to tear it down
and take it away
for scrap or a treehouse
or termite bait or matches.
Instant delight in the coupling heat of
words. The obsession begins with a
craze to cure a lonely heart.
In the fervor of need that claws and
climbs and ignites unresting souls.
Sweet compliments of flesh in the
rising touch. Detonates the infatuation
and crushes the flame. Madness
sweeps into the inferno of coupling.
Burning out before the fever reaches
its fullest arousal.
Late, because I decided only today to go ahead and post all 30 poems here like I did last year, rather than holding most of them close to the vest in order to ward off the dreaded “previously published.” Further explanation forthcoming later tonight, on my blog.
Match
Whittle it down to matches;
the tree is only the start of fire,
sunlight locked in its heart
like a memory of leaves.
No leaves now, it is wood
in a box; strike sulfur tip,
bring to wet, lichened log.
Cousin!, the match says.
I have returned.
Day 1
No Match
(Written as if spoken by a survivor, KST)
You.
I can match you stride for stride,
though I’m tired from the fight,
because you’re no match for my God.
You.
Cancer.
I’ve got a new husband.
I’ve got a daughter to live for.
I’m bald and beautiful and sick and scared,
but not scared or sick enough for you to whip me.
I’m kickin’ you to the curb.
Yes, you.
My poem never posted from yesterday – still says “awaiting moderation” so I’ll try again…
Strike the Match
A fire burns in my chest and rests
long enough to consume all the air
in the room to breathe. I can’t.
I reach my hands up and yell no words
to see if you care enough to help.
I swallow it down. My throat sore and dry
from all the yelling and no helping, no air
or a care. I’m drowning in these flames
that came from no where; from every where.
Can’t you see? Me? Provoked. Puffing out smoke
from the corners of my smile. Stay awhile and see
what happens when you strike the match one more time.
oops – ended up posting twice
Wildfire
She met him through a computer service,
and it was a match made in Heaven,
or at least on the Internet.
Like a match to kindling,
they struck sparks, fed a fast flame,
and soon had a roaring, crackling romance.
But before long the arguments began,
and she would prove his match.
Their differences spread like wildfire.
A few months later, their fire burnt out,
with little lost, but nothing won –
game, set, match.
Oh the pain
Oh the gain
Light a candle for the child unnamed
Sit down the loved ones untamed
Strike a match for the father insane
Life and hope and love, remain
I tried several times to reply to many of the great poems that I read yesterday, and had the same issues that other people mentioned above. Here is my poem from yesterday’s prompt.
Match
Looking
for a
match to spark
the embers of creativity
and inspiration forming ideas that
fill my white page
with the black
flame of
words.
©M. J. Lord
matchbook sonnet
Your bodyheat caught me unprepared,
the acrid burn of hell and heaven
as our elbows touched, I was consumed.
Defined by intensity, we played
pretend, lips sealed in understanding:
to match is not to go together.
Alone, I am incomplete, jagged
edge catching on the delicate gauze
our story wears in such circumstance.
You are my everyday devotion,
the scripture I carry in my hand,
fingerprints left on piano keys.
On the horizon a meteor
flares and disappears. We are done.
Positively musical, with vivid images such as” jagged edge catching on the delicate gauze.”
I hereby declare that I shall read and appreciate the poems, but decline to comment for fear of wearing out my computer in the multiple attempt process this site seems to insist on.
Dissonance
Should I draw you a picture
or would words suffice
seeing how they get twisted
when you stop being nice
When laughter turns to silence
when eyes simply turn away
thirteen months ended up
being one hell of a price to pay
Should I leave you a snapshot
or an album of fading memories
seeing how our past would be erased
and replaced with falsified stories
The firm grip of vexation
I now leave behind
the haunting of your stern look
forever embedded in my mind.
matchmaking
tiny spark fire
fly glow
worm in the fence
row out to the deep
water life
giving life
taking chances
are we almost home
coming full circle
skirt the edge
of night time
to dream
lover come back
away down south
in dixie
cups champagne
toast burned to ashes
dust to dust
the piano
player in the dark
room to develop
photo in the solution
to the cross
words are puzzles
awaiting answers
PROCESS OF MOMENTS
We drove
around Wyoming and Nebraska
in a great big car hearing tales
of my uncle’s days on the range
as a real life cowboy
sounded like a novel to a city girl like me
and there was never another moment just like that
I sat
trembling on the hospital bed
after giving birth to a baby girl
I couldn’t believe I was holding her
I was a real life mom
seemed like I’d done an impossible thing
and there was never another moment just like that
We went
to Australia and sat by a lake
where turtles swam and lizards as big
as my arm sat on a log next to me
in a real life rainforest
felt like a dream to a suburban mom like me
and there was never another moment just like that
I watched
my first grandchild being born
waiting to say hello to
a brand new generation
I was a real life grandma
it seemed unreal to the girl in me
and there was never another moment just like that
I talked
to my brother-in-law on the phone
he said she was gone
suddenly in that morning
real life meeting real loss
how could I never hear my sister’s voice again?
and there was never another moment just like that
each moment
shaping me
each moment
who will i be
each moment
I have the choice
to grow, to learn, to see
each moment
matchless
new
making me.
Love the repeated thread of the moment, the contrasts of emotion. You captured the feelings well.
Thank you, Karen! i appreciate the encouragement.
No Contest
By: Meena Rose
Go ahead!
Betray me, stab me;
Sabotage me, just try me!
A lesson in leverage!
Push me, shove me;
Just try to dislodge me!
My stance is firm!
Woo me, fool me;
Won’t work, I know me!
You can’t sway me;
You can’t break me;
Clearly, you’re no match for me!
the fire still a hope
swirls of pink, layers of richness
sweetness drips from its side,
chocolate luscious chocolate.
Toppings of petals, soft lovely florets,
slender bright and sparkling towers
eagerly await to be quenched by fire.
endeavors linger, wishes unsung
missing ingredients never to be lit
the fire still a hope with matches found.
“The Search”
That matchless part of you I will recall
when next I need a steady hand to hold
when in my terror of a nightmare’s sprawl
when visions come and I’m no longer bold.
Comparing you with others I have known
Fulfillment falls so short; so pale; so stark.
I seek the look within your eyes that shone
I cannot find another with such spark.
I search to fill the mounting loss of you;
the cost is counted with my length of life.
The longing stays amidst the searching, too.
to find a quiet lull in my heart’s strife.
I’ll end my search before it has begun;
there are some loves in life that matches none.
2 for day 1
book of matches
left out in the rain
no cookout today
——
MATCHING
brown with tan
blue with black
or maybe gray
not sure what
to do with the
lonely white one
laundry day
doing my best
to match
the socks
My face has never matched my feelings
Wrinkles and gray hair are deceptive yet revealing
When young, I looked older
Yet getting older I feel bolder
Wasn’t youth supposed to be fearless?
That wasn’t me, I was scared spitless
So I’m glad for this thing called time
It has rhythm and rhyme
So, as my outside nears fifty
The inside feels quite nifty
For it toggles ‘tween ancient & teen
With barely an eon felt in between
And as time flies to these earthly eyes
Whether immature or wise
I like my gray hairs and lines
I do, because they’re mine.
All things change in time
Strike the Match
“The color of your eyes, they match…”
Yes, I wonder what he’ll say next
My eyes are brown
What exactly might resemble brown
And still be…polite? “A match,
the moment it’s struck!” Uh-huh, next
He’ll be fawning over my rose-red…Next!
Speed dating! A blast of one-liners, no brownie
points for depth. The goal? A one-night match.
Singlehood matches my mood, except when the boy next to me turns on his flame to brown my love-clock to the perfect hour.
Pinocchio
nose his worst
enemy is a match
PA Challenge November 1-Write a `matches’ poem.
Matches (a shadorma)
If a matchmaker
makes a match,
two people
have chance to strike luck in love,
a slow burning flame.
A Pair of Socks That Match
I need to find a pair of socks
A pair of socks that match
There’s one of every color made
With stripes and dots, Oh drat!
I need to find a pair of socks
A pair of socks that match
No holes, no stains, no awful smells
No twigs, no grass, no thatch.
I need to find a pair of socks
A pair of socks that match
So when I stand before the crowd
The audience won’t laugh.
Yes! I have found a pair of socks
A pair of socks that match
Now Mom will be so proud of me
I’m wearing socks that match!
Strike the Match
A fire burns in my chest and rests
long enough to consume all the air
in the room to breathe. I can’t.
I reach my hands up and yell no words
to see if you care enough to help.
I swallow it down. My throat sore and dry
from all the yelling and no helping, no air
or a care. I’m drowning in these flames
that came from no where; from every where.
Can’t you see? Me? Provoked. Puffing out smoke
from the corners of my smile. Stay awhile and see
what happens when you strike the match one more time.
It’s me, Meg, from a while ago. It’s been a long time! It’s good to see some familiar names and to be back poeming with you guys. You are all so inspiring. Happy poeming!
Welcome back, Meg!
MATCHLESS
G. Smith (BMI)
———————————–
Three left in the book
From our first night on the town;
When we stayed out till the sun came up,
And everything we touched burned down.
The candle flame at either end,
Soon caught us in the middle,
And left us standing in the dark,
Staring at this riddle:
If we were matchless,
Does that mean we weren’t a match;
Even though we turned together
Like a key turns in a latch?
There may be more stars in the heavens,
And more fish in the sea,
But if we’re matchless;
Where does that leave you and me?
If we’re matchless;
Where does that leave you and me?
Two hearts often beat as one,
Till one heart skips a beat;
And when something sparks with someone else,
You can’t deny the heat.
The oldest lessons,
Are the hardest learned:
When you play with fire,
You’re gonna get burned.
If we were matchless,
Does that mean we weren’t a match;
Even though we turned together,
Like a key turns in a latch?
There may be more stars in the heavens,
And more fish in the sea;
But if we’re matchless,
Where does that leave you and me?
If we’re matchless;
Where does that leave you and me?
thousands of people
stood up and waved lit matches
encore performance
Since posting is a slow process I’m just going to list some poems that hit the spot for me. But if your name isn’t on my list, it doesn’t mean that I didn’t think your poem was good.
Utterances and Meaning, Linda Rhinehart Neas; Matches, Nancy J; A Matched Set, Jerry Walraven; Mismatch, J W Laviguer; Living with an Inferno, Misky; The Match of Autumn’s Lilt, Janet Ruth; Matching Smiles, Ber; Friction on the Matchbox, Leo; Close Cover Before Striking, PSC, My Sock is Missing Its Mate, Walt; Emma Meets Her Match, Miss R; Match Made in Heaven?, Holly Matison; Matchbooks, Nancy Posey; Blaze, Andrew Kreider; J Lynn Sheridan, Orange Matches; Composition, Jane Shlensky; Matchstick, RJ Clarken; Matchbooks, Ely the Eel, Swatches, Ellen Knight; Matches, Buddah; Playing with Matches, Domino; Always, Michelle Hed; Getting through the Night, Taylor Graham; But for a Match, Andy Brackett; In Love and War, SE Ingraham; Flame On, Sarite; Matches, PKP
Golden House
Striking,
Nero looked down
on the city of Rome
thinking of the glory to come:
matchless
I see you were inspired.
Knowing you, Dan, I’ll end up over the (full) moon as I read your month’s worth of prompted poems.
No doubt Robert’s trying to do something about the glitchy page because I am positive he’s losing readers and writers to its bug.
Cars
Matchbox cars came cheap
when my boys were small -
and fit in the seat
of a shopping cart,
feet dangling,
wearing real shoes.
Then, it was easy -
to collect the cars,
to scoot them across construction paper roads,
and push them over and through paper-tube bridges.
Building memories that still shine like new.
DEATHMATCH
A fight for your life,
a battle to the death.
From under the knife
you just hold your breath
and pray to the Powers
that were and are and will be,
passing the hours
to set your fears free.
Once more from the breech
to stand up victorious.
Hello to all…I did the April pad,mostly for myself because I enjoy writing eventhough I’m not very good,so decided to try this one,hope I can make it to the end.
Welcome. Just do your best. Your work is always welcomed here.
Match made in Heaven
A match made in heaven
a celestial solution
so delicately prepared
Predetermined paths of love
have been prepped
for estranged elements
elegantly paired
Transfixed hearts
interwoven, knit
now seen on earth
Timely ignition
of holy flare
A match made in heaven
now burns on earth
Attempt to quench it
if you dare
A match made in heaven,it seemed from the start.
Yet,as the years passed,heaven turned to hell as it caught a spark,
Of the liquid fired that burned
As it was being poured down,
The more it took, each time around.
Then one day it finally hit me,though once,I was his first choice,
Now,I am second,to the liquid fire
To which he has become addicted.
The spark of liquid fire burned on
Till the match made in heaven has become……History!
Cannot seem to get this prompt off my mind, Mariya. Thank you.
Two more:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/01/cleaning-out-the-attic/
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/01/meeting-her-gaze/
Huh. How interesting. Now it says “Your comment is awaiting moderation.”
Crazy Comment Gremlins.
11th attempt to post this comment. Seriously…
Yikes! I had several “your posting too soon on my iPad”. Keep tryin! Don’t give up De!
Matches
You strike
the numbers
off
your calendar,
like
so many matches,
each day
flaming
quick and bright
and so easily
burned away
and
tossed.
Didn’t you ever fear
that damp matchbook
of old age
never knowing what fuses
you may or may not
have
lit,
that it was all just
a dream,
your being part
of an eternal flame
warming
the entire world,
your one little piece
of heat
the flashpoint
burning it all
to ash?
So afraid
you’d shake out
each day
too soon,
afraid
of getting burned
and dropping
the whole box
too old
to throw it
all
back
in the face
of time
and
go out
in a blaze
of glory?
“Match”
I stand fearlessly in the wind,
staring down the
waves that crash through
fences, sand bags,
and my neighbor.
How dare the salty sea encroach
upon my lot,
engulfing my
yard like any
dune on a beach.
Then, suddenly a fire within
sparks when seeping
brine meets hot wires.
Unprepared for
this trespass, I
burn like a match.
Love it. This definitely sounds like Hurricane Sandy. I love how you portray your bold stance in the beginning and use of imagery conveyed at the end.
Thank you, Benjamin.
The Rogue Gods of Domestic Chaos
They send forth their minions
Who invade under the cover of the spin cycle,
Stealing socks and spiriting them away
Into the nether regions of the laundry,
Transforming cotton-woolen blends
Into wire coat hangers,
Those distorted instruments bent
On staging a clothing coup
And seizing control of our closets,
Leaving a path of disarray
Through our carefully constructed household bliss.
And that’s why you don’t have any matched socks, dear.
Concentration
A simple game.
A grid of cards
laid out facedown.
Turn over any two.
Do they match?
If not, replace them
and try again.
Memory is the key.
The game is
not as simple
as it used to be.
Nice take on the prompt.
Benjamin
I used to love this game
if this doesn’t post this time, i’m giving up
Ruh-roh. Somebody engaged the Permanent Bold.
Here’s the link to my second attempt:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/01/white-hot/
Some great work here, gang. Wish the Comment Gremlins weren’t so mean. I miss the old format.
de
7th attempt to post this…
Matches
I understood the little match girl
standing outside in the snow
watching all inside
warm and safe
aching
I never understood those
inside warm and safe
and happy never seeing
the little match girl
standing outside in in the snow
watching
Hi Pearl, lovely!
A beautiful poetic heartache, Pearl. How are you faring from the storm? Thoughts and wishes for your safety and comfort.
Lovely and very actual, right now, Pearl. Sadly, one side never understands the other and the people who see both, suffer for not being able to make those party see each other and connect. Sad to be in the middle and able to see…
Check out Robert’s link to Oprah! Very cool – congratulations Robert and thanks Marie Elena for the info ….
http://www.oprah.com/spirit/Resources-for-Poets-Poetry-Websites
they searched in the clouds
for a match made in heaven
and found each other
By Michael Grove
Whatever one decides to say, it can only damage the perfection of your haiku, Mike! I love it. (Now I’m thinking of it, I haven’t written haiku for a long time. Shame on me, I was beginning to get the trick
)
One Match
The flare of a stuck match
interrupts the quiet.
No bombardment tonight.
He counts down the seconds
after the match has gone out
before bullets thump into sandbags
above his head.
If they could just pin point the sniper
Is it worth another match?
He doesn’t think so.
The end of his cigarette glows
red in the dark.
Brilliant writing excersize, Caroline. Kudos!
Okay, let’s see if this works…
Flame On
Match me
Catch me
Strike that
Tender tinder
And with hot
Breath grow
That flame
Never, ever
Blow it
Out
Yay!! it worked–Thank you Mariya for a great prompt
Oh, not only it worked, but your poem is wonderful. Snappy, fast, breathless…
Pismywidgy (piz’ · mee · wih · jee)
Last night we parsed _granfalloon_ and _karass,_
ideas from Vonnegut’s _Cat’s Cradle._
The former interpersonal masses
are founded on superficial handles:
Texans, Cubs fans, writers, class of ’80…
Your _karass_ is The Creator’s circle
of people who mesh with you in The Play.
Now, granting myself hypothetical
permission from Kurt (for those who can’t see
believing in big cosmic redresses)
I propose a new term: _pismywidgy._
This is the group of people with whom you
match, first by some chance commonality,
and later by putting up with their moods
and quirks at meetings, campouts and socials.
You bond in a pismywidgy through food:
cooking, eating, cleanup, talk…always food.
LOL….right on……loved this piece!
In Love and War
Days grow shorter
As we slide towards
Remembrance Day;
I am reminded
Of an old soldier’s tale
“Three on a Match”
In the trenches at night
One struck the flame—
and the enemy sighted—
The second cupped the light—
and the enemy focused—
The third lit his cigarette—
and the enemy fired and killed
The third man on the match
Conversely, these days
match.com© promises
To commercially connect
You with the love of your life
I know people for whom
This has worked well
It strikes me as certainly
better than being the third
Man on a match …
S.E.Ingraham©
Hi I’m new here, new to this writing poems daily (usually takes me a lot longer) so this will be fun!
Matches
You hold the box
of red-tipped sticks,
julienned like carrots,
pull one from its cardboard drawer,
and scrape it across the sole of your shoe
knowing the wisp of flame
can illuminate a darkened corridor,
set a prayer on fire,
burn down an entire forest.
You empty the box
lay-in a piece of cotton batting
the kind sandwiched in quilts,
and build a bed for a handmade doll
or a tiny grey mouse,
or, perhaps, a coffin for the earrings
your husband bought you last Christmas.
Welcome to the group, Jeannine! Great poem to jump right in with! Nice job girl.
Little Match Girl
She had fanned the flames –
with each strike – some warmth
took the chill from her soul
She had fanned the flames,
holding the light close,
believing that it could last
She had fanned the flames -
until one last match
burned itself out with a sigh
She had fanned the flames -
but this love had died,
long ago, in the cold of night
Wet Matches
I don’t even try to match my socks anymore,
don’t even feign trying to pair them up out of the dryer
or fold them inside of each other to make those sock balls
I remember seeing from when I was a kid.
Other matches are starting to fade too.
How did I get this rusty?
Just yesterday it was the Battle of Bull Run,
Ricketts turning his artillery fire right at Judith Henry,
and here we are again hating the other side’s presidential candidate,
cleaning up after another hurricane.
Cue the ellipses.
Bring everything you can carry to the tailgate.
One book says it’s the grasping
and another the contemplating
that puts everything you want to control out of reach.
A third was in Greek
and so we’re still tied.
The Eagles may never win another game
but luckily we’ll be busy this November.
Once I figure out where I am
it will feel good to be back.
Eventually it will all be up to the historians.
Let them piece everyone together.
Do you remember where you were
the day your spark died out?
I do.
It was the night you were
wrapped in my arms
under the canopy of a
soft shelled tortoise.
We could hear the
rousing rabble battle cry
of the night-borne screechers.
It wasn’t enought that
your skin
radiated
outward from some internal clock
ticking tocking away the perfume
you wore all the time.
I was trapped in an effervescent
giggle,
your giggle,
tickling my nose and
sending childhood memory shivers
down my arms and thighs.
You struck,
nimble lady sulphur,
and drowned out my cold.
It was then,
your matchstick body,
kindle to kin,
that I felt with my whole body
your heart
your heat
your blossoming head on fire.
You were more than I could handle,
a blazing blubbering buxom
beauty.
When I breathed,
it was more than the
smoke that choked me.
But, as with all things that
burn so bright,
they burn so quick.
Soon,
you were an ashen twist
resting a grudge
on my newly reddened cheek.
You were the light.
Now, you are the black.
Back at ya Viv!
Compliments
When I was eleven
my mom taught me to sew.
That dress taught me everything
I’d need to know.
Whether hemline or collar
there was only one catch,
it might not be perfect
but it all had to match.
No easy task,
installing the zipper.
But if it didn’t match
out came the seam ripper.
If it didn’t line up
with the collar and yolk,
I’d do it again,
and that was no joke.
But I soon came to learn,
it was a matter of pride,
when the stripes would match up
at the shoulders and side.
Attention to detail
was the way it was shown
just how carefully
the garment was sewn.
To sew for myself now
just doesn’t make sense
with fabric and patterns
at such an expense.
Thrift shops have stepped up
as my primary source,
for attention to detail—
I have no remorse.
I still get compliments
coming and going
with all of the beautiful
outfits I’m showing.
Ellen Knight
But for a match
Alone in darkness, I can not see
I have ten candles set before me
They’d burn bright,
But for a match.
Alone in darkness, I can not eat
To light this stove would be a treat
Propane works well,
But for a match.
Alone in darkness, my one regret
Is for the one I never met
I’d be happy
But for a match.
Burn Forever
She held all the power in her bright
red top with the whitest of white tips.
He was merely a scratching post.
Her powers could ignite and destroy
an entire continent if left unchecked.
He would not allow darkness
to inherit the land. Her slender
wooden frame could burn the
fingertips of many. His only
desire would be their brief union
resulting in the lighting of a single
purple taper which shall burn
forever.
By Michael Grove
lit match
heat pools low
eyes meet
teststill testing
Don’t Play With Matches (Chant Poem)
Don’t play with matches
(You’re gonna burn, you’re gonna burn)
They said.
Don’t run with scissors
(You’ll cut yourself, you’ll cut yourself)
They said.
Don’t tell lies
(Your nose will grow like Pinocchio)
They said.
Don’t swallow the watermelon seeds
(That’s how babies are made)
They said.
Don’t step on a crack!
(You’ll break your Mother’s back – gruesome)
They said.
Who are they?
I said.
Only the middle line in each stanza should be italics…I guess I don’t have that figured out yet. Don’t you use to stop the italics?
test
Don’t Play With Matches (Chant Poem)
Don’t play with matches
(You’re gonna burn, you’re gonna burn)
They said.
Don’t run with scissors
(You’ll cut yourself, you’ll cut yourself)
They said.
Don’t tell lies
(Your nose will grow like Pinocchio)
They said.
Don’t swallow the watermelon seeds
(That’s how babies are made)
They said.
Don’t step on a crack!
(You’ll break your Mother’s back – gruesome)
They said.
Who are they?
I said.
GETTING THROUGH THE NIGHT
Cozy spot among leafless trees. November,
foggy-bottom of the Patuxent. Survival training
with search-dog, Prissy, and my daypack.
Lean-to of branches. Cleared spot for a fire.
Damp wood. A searcher prides herself on a one-
match fire. Feed it like an infant. More wood.
Dead leaves in a trash-bag – my mattress. Prissy
takes it as her own. Search-dog who was a couch-
potato before I got her. Show Prissy a place
of her own. Lay daypack on mattress. Inventory
rations: granola bars, can of sardines; teabag, trail
mix, kibble for my dog. My teammates are out there
in the dark, each alone with dog. Feed the fire,
bright spot in the dark. Cold dinner, warm cup
of tea. Lie down on mattress, imagine sleep. Turn
over, try to get comfortable. Turn over again.
Feed the fire. Tell Prissy a bedtime story, child
lost in dark November woods, saved by search dog.
Feed fire, invent more stories. Turn and turn again
on bed of dead leaves. Time lapses in ever-present
tense through the night. Morning comes at last.
We few survivors gather at the lodge. Instructor
accuses me of breaking rules. “I heard you talking
when I did my bedtime check,” he says. “You
weren’t alone.” “No. I was talking to my dog.”
Side by Side in Time
(Matching)
she was five, I seven,
when we began to sing
when we found dancing fun
she was seven, I nine,
Mom required piano,
insisted we keep time
she at nine, me eleven,
our baby sister laughed
or so it was we claimed
her tiny face all eyes
her stubby toes so cute.
Three of us a blessing
we heard from Mom and Dad
who watched us all the same
as music filled our heads
at thirteen she twirled
I marched to match her steps
she strove to catch my drift
Due to the WD computer gremlins, I’m going back to the “old days” in which we didn’t have the capability of nesting comments. Loads of talent out here, folks! Here are a few of my favorites so far:
Khara House (superb!)
Nancy J (great take, and amen!)
JWLavigue (touching, sad, and so well written)
Janet (lovely, as always!)
PSC (Brilliant!)
Buddah (WONDERFUL TO SEE YOU OUT HERE AGAIN!)
And the ever prolific and brilliant Walt!
And thanks sooo much for the kind words on my little 4-word piece.
4 words does not make a poem small when it nails the thought! Save some “brilliance” for yourself.
MATCHES
Matches.
Everything one-to-one.
Mirrored, similarities same.
Both alike. They are duplicates.
Replicas are they. Things overlaid exactly.
Copy-to-copy, face-to-face. Things matching.
Front to back to front,
Matching things. Face-to-face, copy-to-copy.
Exactly overlaid things, they are replicas.
Duplicates are they, alike both.
Same similarities mirrored
one-to-one. Everything
matches.
Fire Ritual
The trees have donned their thin,
wintry kimonos, now nearly skeletal,
to prepare for next week’s snow.
This morning, I tasted the burn
of chimney fires through the valley,
and tonight we begin our ritual
of burning too-green wood, crossed
to breathe upon the grate, sooty
like an English Cathedral, as wide
as the altar at the end of its aisle.
Tonight, I’ll strike the match
to light the crumpled Sunday Times,
crumpled and tucked within the logs,
singing my Grandfather’s Gaelic
song, Isle of Skye and the north,
as the fire reaches up, coaxing
that too-green wood that pops
and sings along, and pools of sap
bubble up in this apse of a cabin.
Wow, I really like this piece. Like the imagery, the cadence of each line. Seriously, it could almost be a Jethro Tull song! Well done Richard!
Wow, I really like this piece. Like the imagery, the cadence of each line. Seriously, it could almost be a Jethro Tull song! (big Tull fan here, so trust me when I say that’s a big compliment! His song lyrics are pure poetry!) Well done Richard!
Always
one soul drifts through
the open door, just missing
love, as another door closed
repeating missed opportunities
eternal longing, searches
for one perfect mate
disillusioned, settles for contentment
no longer recognizing love
when met face to face, loyal
until the end
never realizing, love was there
always
Yep, unrequited Love sucks. Good job, Michelle!
Your Life Before My Eyes
I’m unraveling that web you spun
around my heart, looking at those flaws
my eyes consciously shied away from.
The searing lightning of impatience,
roiling tempest of temper on the horizon,
the blood red fists that played with matches.
It was yesterday, you a neglected nine
trying so hard to be an unaffected
animated character (damn, you would
piss me off), a rude disinterested clown
drowning without anyone to see
you were smart, you were funny, you
wanted your daddy, you wanted
your mommy, your sister; you wanted
to be a kid, to be loved. You hated that
you only had me (damn, I would piss you off -
acting like grades and manners were important,
enacting limits & time-outs & groundings)
You learned; multiplication and division
finally made sense. You learned what to say
and how and when, but not why
and not how to truly mean it. And you
learned how to do what you wanted to do -
crossing from one ocean to another
(but you insisted alone). And I kept your room.
And now I’m packing it up, empty boxes
I am taping up and filling with your adulthood.
I have sealed the house against you,
wedged the windows, rebuilt the fence,
hope the police locate you; your brother and I
pray against the day we look up and you are there.
I keep the gun loaded and close – I remember
“I will do what I want when I want”, your hand
on the gearshift, your butt in the back seat –
a telling tale, you wanted me to parrot words.
You told yourself I was not your real mother;
you wanted me to release you.
I did.
Ariel
Oh…wow…..brutally powerful….
Playing with Fire
My angry brother-in-law
once found a pile of
spent matches
at my parents’ home
when my sons and I
were house-sitting.
He raged until he discovered
the culprit,
my 16 year old son,
who, like all teens,
had a penchant for
playing with fire.
“This house,”
my brother-in-law raged
“could go up like a torch.”
My son and I exchanged
glances.
“What are you,” he bellowed,
“A kleptomaniac?”
Without laughing,
(one must give him credit
for keeping a straight face)
my son replied,
“I’m sorry, I must be.
I won’t steal any more matches
in the future.”
“Better not.”
“What would we do without you,”
I said, as I smoothly shuffled
my son out of the house
to thank him for not
lighting any more fires
under his uncle.
Diana Terrill Clark
Ugh. First it says “You are posting comments too quickly! Slow Down!” and then it doubles the post one with the old title and one with the new. Sorry folks!!
I can’t seem to comment at all. I’ve tried to leave my appreciation of many wonderful poems but nothing sticks. If this one gets through it will be a miracle. Oh for a Mister Linky!
I know, this is another with the same title, but it’s just as fitting as the first. ^_^
Playing with Matches
My angry brother-in-law
once found a pile of
spent matches
at my parents’ home
when my sons and I
were house-sitting.
He raged until he discovered
the culprit,
my 16 year old son,
who, like all teens,
had a penchant for
playing with fire.
“This house,”
my brother-in-law raged
“could go up like a torch.”
My son and I exchanged
glances.
“What are you,” he bellowed,
“A kleptomaniac?”
Without laughing,
(one must give him credit
for keeping a straight face)
my son replied,
“I’m sorry, I must be.
I won’t steal any more matches
in the future.”
“Better not.”
“What would we do without you,”
I said, as I smoothly shuffled
my son out of the house
to thank him for not
lighting any more fires
under his uncle.
Diana Terrill Clark
I am having trouble posting here, too. I managed to get through to a few of these wonderful poems. I think I will also post these on my blog. Thanks!
Mismatched
You said we were not
a good match, your love
for the dark annoyed by
my light. You said we were not
a good match, you drank
yours black while mine
was white. You said we were
not a good match, force ruled
your world while mine
held peace. You said. You said.
But me. I thought. I thought we had
a match so swell, your snickers,
my sobs, our songlike sighs. Dark
and light stroked day to night, black
and white merged to tones no one had felt.
Now time has chimed its judgment,
too. A match unbalanced,
uncertain,
but true.
The Husband Match
We met, and there was a strike from a forgotten box
of matches kept in my heart’s drawer. I soon recalled
my soul rolled with four relationships. Amorphous
contracts to love were drawn by the crackle of campfires.
Past liaisons survived on atmosphere, until rain
made us scatter; short ceilings saw us, each on
our own. But there you were, cariño, fingertips
tinged by smoke. They held a bridge
between burnt and unconsumed ends.
And when seasons drench pockets
of wits and deferred dreams, we march
inside, pace around the silent hearth
until the sticks we’ve drawn light up.
Lovely love story. Great imagery, great truths we can all identify with. Nice job, Yolee.
Thank you, Juanita!
a faded number
on the matchbook cover
winter clouds
like this
Lovely.
Playing with Matches
Age: 7
Playing cards,
The game is Old Maid.
Finding matches with the boy
who lives next door.
Sure, he’s kind of stinky,
but fun to play with.
Age: 18
Playing with fire
The game is Hearts.
Finding matches in the local
high school.
Sure they’re all kind of dumb,
but they’re fun to play with.
Age: 21
Playing hide and seek
The game is Gin.
Finding matches in the
corner bar.
Shopping the meat market for
the exact right one.
Age: 25
Playing for keeps
The game is Texas Hold ‘em.
Found your perfect match
and staying at home
is more fun than you’d
ever imagined.
Age: 35
Playing with the big kids
The game is Craps.
Finding him matched with another
is the worst feeling
in the world
Age: 40
Playing the field
The game is Roulette
Finding the matching scene
is worse than the
divorce.
Age: 45
Playing for change.
The game is Uno.
Finding a match is impossible,
better to just be comfortable
in ones own skin.
Age: 50
Playing by heart.
The game is Stud Poker.
Finding a match at this age
is a miracle that you’re
happy to accept.
Age: 75
Playing alone.
The game is solitaire.
Finding a match is not necessary,
you’ve already had it all.
You’ll join him when you’re done.
Age: 87
Game over.
Diana Terrill Clark
I enjoyed the play on play and match ups, Diana. The entire truth of these matters connect well.
Alot of sobering truth in that piece, Diana that folks are bound to connect with. Nice job!
Cave Dwellers
Their fingers turn raw from rubbing
slick hope against tear-stained walls,
but tinderbox hearts must be cured
with brittle threads of things no longer living.
Don’t they know that dried up dreams
are the stuff of pyres and conflagrations?
They are signal flames alerting the world
that we are still alive.
Love this piece. Simple but quite elegant at the same time, as well as some really nice imagery there. Nice job, Catherine!
Matches
Matches
(whether wooden
or in cardboard
matchbooks)
usually look alike,
almost
interchangeable.
Human matches
rarely ever
look alike
on the outside,
but inside
all their souls
need
is a little
oxygen and
the proper balance
of friction,
intensity,
contact,
and they will
start a fire
and warm a
moonlit beach,
light a candle
and make the flesh of two
into one,
shine a light
and guide us
out of the darkness.
love the imagery.
Swatches
The migraine takes
a perfectly good brain (at least I like to think so)
and chops it into swatches
stitched back together
into random places
where they don’t
belong. The seams are
rough and jagged, frayed
edges holding hands,
to stay together in mismatched
spots—spotted with
random letters
and frayed words—that
sometimes become
a poem. Ellen Knight 11.1.12
Brilliant! and as a Migraine suffer myself, well put! Kudos!
Soul Mate
Cast your perfect shadow
Hold that perfect hand
Two matches, two souls
Intertwined forever
A perfect match
Soul to soul
Shadows, silhouettes
Matching for eternity
Last Match
They could still hear the jokes back at the office.
City slickers, they’d been called by friends just as urbane
but unwilling to take their chances, man versus nature,
for more than an afternoon. Their optimism waned
as the sun set, as their brand new rugged outdoor wear
admitted a bone-chilling cold penetrating to their core.
Cocooned inside their goose-down sleeping bags,
neither spoke a word aloud about the howls–
coyotes or just someone’s yard dogs raising a ruckus–
but when they woke to find their raft deflated,
heard the hiss as air escaped, they knew they faced
more than an easy day’s walk, and they feared
the previous night’s cold a prelude to the next.
Bone-weary, wet, muddy, tired from trudging
beside the icy stream they’d plan to navigate
afloat, they stopped to set up camp by bright
moon light, scavenging dry branches, twigs,
they searched their pockets, backpacks
for the matches each was sure the other
had used last, and finding at last one match
inside a book so old the name and number
penned inside evoked t no recollections.
Hands cupped as shelter from the breeze
now whipping into frenzy, the match
was struck, reinforced by silent, futile prayers,
a sizzle then all sound muffled by curses
as the match head broke and fell to the ground,
landed on the dry wood, prepared so well
one might expect to find an Eagle Scout nearby.
Intriguing, Nancy. The end line summons hope.
Hello, peeps, and I must say that it’s good to see everyone. Like all here, I’m in it for the discipline as much as the verse. I look forward to taking time every few days to pause long enough to read all the entries of the day and comment when possible.
Kit, good luck. Keeping my fingers crossed for you and prayers on my lips. Yours isn’t an easy path. I’ll certainly enjoy any posts to share with us.
On to the challenge. Good luck, all. Happy writing.
November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2012
Day 1 Prompt—Write a matches poem.
Spinning the Myth
School taught that skirt
Must match sweater: a set
Held more sway in circles.
Etiquette placed one in
Circles as well, lending
Ammunition to those excluded.
“You don’t match your name,”
Echoed through your mind
Until you lost all identity.
You always noticed socks
Worn as individuals in
Undiscriminating shoes.
You found yourself among
Friends who matched your
Interests, family, circles.
Your first amour had to
Fit that mold carved into
Your burgeoning social mind.
“Your name doesn’t match you,
I can fix that, you know, if
You will only marry me.”
Would this be a perfect match,
This one who wants to fix me
And make you something else?
Why must “a fix” be found,
And why is a match
Necessary for each of us?
Are all things created in pairs,
Lost to each other at creation’s
Instant of birth into the universe?
Can there be nothing of such
Profound uniqueness that
No match could be created?
“You always noticed socks
Worn as individuals in
Undiscriminating shoes.” Great line.
Good spin.
Lost Palms Oasis
Lost Palms Oasis, that aptly named trail, had come out from under our feet,
It was seven below, the mountains had snow and the evening was far from complete.
The light grew dim on the canyon’s rim and every ravine look the same,
Our mid-winter hiking through Joshua Tree had turned out to be quite a shame,
We took stock of our water, our food and ourselves, the latter was all that we had,
As day turned to night, my girlfriend and I could imagine the lost persons ad.
If only we still had those matches the chill, would be dampened enough to survive,
We crawled under a rock, huddled close as the clock ticked off every hour like five.
She was wrapped in my arms as we shivered all night, for I loved her as much as the sun,
When dawn finally came, we sang praise to God’s name, our ordeal would be over and done.
In the full light of day, her hip pack was surveyed and we found a small pocket we’d missed,
And in it the matches, we’d needed that night, she looked like she thought I’d be pissed.
I smiled and laughed told her, “Let’s gather wood,” to warm up some before we go out.
For I loved her that day more than mere words can say, of this there was never a doubt.
striking thirteen
i walk backwards
on the second hand
of a clock, one step
a tick, between twelve
& six, counting
how many times
my heart
beats yes
before i slide
like a match
down your arm
pushing me
up & over
eleven
MISMATCHED MONICKER
The Bard once asked, “What’s in a name?”
By any other, a rose would smell the same.
From our birth, names were assigned
to keep things straight in our minds.
But what is truth if called a lie?
Would folks still see things eye-to-eye?
Take the beleaguered platypii,
as funny looking as their name.
In the clearing they will lie
duck-bills facing all the same.
What is it they have on their minds
with that label they’ve been assigned?
Throughout the day we’re faced with signs,
though clearly written to the eye.
They sometimes seem silly to the mind,
but heed these signs, be true to your name.
For in the end, they’re all the same
and we play our hands as our cards lie.
Fond of my own name? I won’t lie,
from my father and grandfather, it was a sign,
that our three names would be the same.
I could stand to man their chins or eyes,
but I was saddled with their name.
Sure, I could have done much worse in my mind.
Don’t get me wrong, I really don’t mind,
but I want to make my own name! I can’t lie,
it has afforded me some fame; this name – my name,
as if emblazoned on a sign
eight miles high into the sky
or 3 x 5, it’s all the same.
My name and I are not the same,
I am unique (in my own mind).
Stuck with this heart and poet’s eye,
I see things skewed and write that lie.
And under the title someday I will sign
a pithy passage o’er my name.
A Name is a name is my name all the same.
For in my mind, it’s what I’m assigned
and through these eyes, I’ll let sleeping fish lie. What’s in a name?
Bad Matches
So, certain things don’t mesh too well,
like dentures with rich caramel
or ketchup with ‘la haute cuisine.’
They do not work. See what I mean?
And sneakers with a formal gown
are comfy but one’s hosts might frown.
You could say you’re a sporty queen.
They do not work. See what I mean?
And have you ever had a date
with someone whom you might equate
to walking dead? A zombie scene?
They do not work. See what I mean?
So, certain things don’t mesh too well.
They do not work. See what I mean?
###
Matches
the gift of fire
changed the course of humanity
giving us the power of nature
to call upon it whenever
it was needed
for food
for defense
for comfort
the art of creating fire
has long been lauded
as the first step
in the dominance of nature
and the freedom
from cold
from darkness
from hunger
but the need for fire
was greater than the desire to learn
as our fathers did
how to control nature
so we created matches
for convenience
for speed
for the masses
now fire is a commodity
a price assigned to nature’s gift
taken from able hands
and given only for our Father’s faces
and now there is no fire
without paying
without sacrifice
without matches
In forest I see
movements of each tree.
The wind matches my heartbeat
pounding hard ‘fore soft retreat,
seeking to find way
to slip ‘round my day
where frayed emotions, thoughts meet.
Day 1, Accessorize
Nowadays accessorize
means pricey bags and bits,
posh designer labels and a credit card to hit.
Matching no longer seems to matter,
only to show whose wallet is fatter.
In my young days
accessories all had to match
or Mum would send me back
to change shoes or gloves or handbag,
not to mention the all-important hat.
Now that I’m old, I don’t give a damn.
I put on the first to hand,
matching or not, comfort comes first -
a purple coat with a red knitted hat
like that poem, ain’t it grand?
http://vivinfrance.wordpress.com/2012/11/01/accessorize/
“…matching or not, comfort comes first..”
Oh, I am so there with you!
Matchbooks
Gathered together,
like our family at Thanksgiving,
recalling memories, telling stories,
each a moment in our shared lives.
There must be more than a thousand,
too many really to count,
pretending to be snowflakes,
every one distinct from the other.
The shiny ones call for attention,
their embossed lettering leaping out,
not dimming the significance of
their plainer cousins, but screaming
mightily for attention.
The calmer models,
with no special filigree,
just the facts, ma’am,
of no less significance to us.
We kept them for a reason,
some times simply for an address,
a telephone number,
a note written on the inside cover,
almost never for their created purpose,
seldom to provide fire.
We’ll keep them for awhile,
even play with them, spread on
the dining room table,
remembering the times, the places,
a bit wistful, a little laughter, feeling older.
Eventually, probably when we move,
we’ll toss them, not without an argument,
but a box of matchbooks
just makes no sense in
a moving van, moving on.
But the memories do linger and at another time recalled.
yes, indeed, and my favorite poems are those which reflect memories, happy and sad and in-between…I have more at: daniellivingpoet.blogspot.com
THE MATCH
Excuse me?
You can’t be serious, man!
You cannot be serious!
That ball was on the line.
How can you possibly call that out?
I’m going to award a point against you, Mr. McEnroe.
One love!
Even
Even if the matches fell unlit,
there was a fire
that burned brightly between us,
Even if their hatred marked us,
there was a gentle spark
that didn’t take.
Even if I find myself
still in that moment on occasion;
Even if you found your match,
among the lilies and the watercress;
We are even.
I carry my little daisies,
and happily they dream and dance,
taming your remains,
and that matchless battle within me.
I will be checking the prompts and poem-ing mostly off line this November. A few posts may appear at my blog over at henwithpen.com. I’m also doing the nonfiction challenge this month, squeezing my writing between the lines of client work, farm chores, family life and cancer treatments. We shall see how far I get. May the winds of inspiration fill your sails, fellow poets!
Hope all goes well this November for you
Sending lots of good positive vibes your way during your weeks of cancer treatments. Blessed be.
Unmatched
one sock, two socks,
red sock, blue sock
This one has a little star.
That one is too small, by far.
varied color, varied size,
some are ankle, some are thighs
Freshly washed and freshly dried,
for each mate, a search is tried.
No match found, means we chuck it
into the “lost sock bucket”.
Sooo True. Where do they go?
they ran away !!! yay
Heh!
Dr. Suess would LOVE LOVE LOVE this! Nice job!
Matchstick
For what is a matchstick, but a
diving board for a flame. What a
brilliant spark! Creativity
is my natural proclivity.
Ideas catch on with a burst:
so spontaneous; unrehearsed.
Conflagration! Festivity
is my natural proclivity.
I strike a match. It lights my space.
My inspiration. An embrace.
I get it: perceptivity
is my natural proclivity.
My muse – she dances on match-head
and through the blaze she spins a thread.
Pick up the pen! Activity
is my natural proclivity.
###
I really like this. Especially…
“…I strike a match. It lights my space.
My inspiration. An embrace.”
Well done.
Composition
“A beautiful flower, even a wild and humble one, can make you believe in God.” Mary Craver
She snips and gathers flowers
grazing across her garden and yard,
her eyes ranging for color and heft,
stem length and angle, mass and fragrance,
her basket filling as she collects
notes in a symphony of petals.
A lightness around her heart
guides her to which blossoms are
the lead singers, first to catch an eye
and confuse the senses, and
which make up the chorus,
which lacey foliage lays the bass line,
and which sweep of grass will direct
the movement in this arrangement.
She knows that some buds hum,
barely matching pitch, while others
sing an aria, voices soaring,
but truth uses them all, and
masterpiece is not a solo.
She wants her audience to pause
and sigh, to see and hear and smell
what grows on earth and be made glad.
She wants their feeling to be like hers,
that wonder and blessing, that such
things grow from dirt with little care,
that such varied personalities do not
riot in her garden, but bring peace
and joy. She wonders if those who
see her flowers perform now feel that too
and if that feeling raises them
toward the source of seedlings,
to that big orchestrator of all things,
blooms among the stones,
and makes them believe.
“She snips and gathers flowers…
her basket filling as she collects
notes in a symphony of petals.”
What a beautiful picture your words paint.
I’m still pretty new here, and I just get blown away by how many different people can have such beautiful echos from a single note.
Thanks, friends. And welcome, elishevasmom! It’s cool, hm?
I love walking through your Garden.
I couldn’t resist posting an old one that fits this prompt so well…
MATCH POINT
(a shadorma)
love, fifteen
a game long ago
love, thirty
then forty
Am I that set in my ways?
now serving Match point
2012-07-27
P. Wanken
“Orange Matches”
It’s sad that leaves burn
twice in Fall
first on the branch then
in the pyre,
Burning matches struck
by matches
a fate for Autumn colors,
A keening cloud
hides tiny hands
that tuck
the saved ‘tween leaves
of poets’ lyre
and all the children cry for one
more Autumn rain.
If only people loved these colors a little more !
A villanelle for my uncle Steve.
Blaze
The coat is surely from his east coast days
those years in Boston no one talks about
when he untied the strings a thousand ways.
I find a matchbook from the nightclub BLAZE
unopened in a pocket – without doubt
the coat is surely from his east coast days.
I think of him on stage, the thick-breathed haze
above his head and how the crowd would shout
when he untied the strings a thousand ways,
so far from home, a farm boy in that maze
of all that drugs and rock n roll could spout.
The coat is surely from his east coast days
and now I smile to think of all the ways
he honored her along that sacred route
when he untied the strings a thousand ways.
I treasure every unstruck match that says
some people love home best by getting out.
The coat is surely from his east coast days
when he untied the strings a thousand ways.
Matchbooks
Our dream house we considered it then,
having driven past thousands of times,
dreaming of life behind that boxwood hedge
inside those thick brick walls,
and then it was ours, an empty shell at first,
large rooms, deep fireplaces echoing
with their disappearing traces.
The only furnishings they left behind,
great wardrobes, build long ago
inside those walls, gave up nothing,
even the dust wiped clean, the scent
of lemons in its place. But downstairs,
still hanging on the stone walls
of what the former owner—the only
other owner—called the lower level,
sniffing at the word basement,
we discovered an unglazed framed
holding matchbooks in row on row,
evidence of travels, some quaint
and curious, others fanciful, remote,
beyond our dreams, having sunk
everything we had into the place.
And fate stepped in, treating us
as interlopers, our stay a mere sojourn
on the way to more prosaic homes
on look-alike streets. Leaving,
we knew what ghosts we left behind.
But in the last load, on our way out,
Jeannie reached up and lifted from its nail
the match collection, adding to it
year after year, their collection finally
indiscernible from our own.
MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN
(a shadorma)
“God knows best”
has been my belief.
Yet I have
had my doubts…
‘til you came along. You’re my
match made in heaven.
2012-11-01
P. Wanken
I so know this feeling !
Was looking for your words from some time
Match Made in Heaven?
You spoke to me,
stating the rythmic beating of your heart
asking breathlessly, “why?!”
I had no answer,
for mine, too, was beating incessantly.
For this moment,
we spoke the same language,
our emotions matching
unspoken wants,
evident desires.
Now you are silent,
afraid of what you felt,
afraid of what you still feel.
I can see the longing in your eyes.
Do you know I miss you?!
Do not look, just leap!
I’ll catch you, but you need to jump
and we need to rise!
You raised the stakes,
I match your call!
~HLM
11/1/2012
Emma Meets Her Match (An Alternative Ending to Jane Austen’s Emma)
Dear Emma,
I think I’ve come to the realization
After some hard consideration
That your knowledge of me and my desires,
Despite all that you so kindly conspire,
Is smaller even than what I know of me,
And that’s small enough, as you will agree.
If I’m ever to figure this out, dear friend,
Your influence must come to an end.
I say this, of course, in the kindest way:
Pack up your meddling and get out today.
If you can speak without giving advice,
I will certainly take this all back in a trice,
But I have doubts which are most sincere.
Goodbye, Emma! I’m glad you’re not here.
Without any pain of regret,
Your dearest friend,
Harriet.
MY SOCK IS MISSING ITS MATE
Where could it be?
I cannot see.
That blasted sock
is hiding from me.
It looks like this one,
but not as worn,
the color’s faded.
I’m so forlorn.
It took a scamper
from the hamper
it needed washing
a chance to pamper
all the fibers
it was knit with,
this missing stocking
is a nit wit.
Beneath my shoe,
my feet are blue,
these little piggies
sure miss you!
My feet are cold,
without protection,
oh wooly foot mitten,
wither your direction?
I’m running late
you reprobate,
I need your function;
I need your mate.
I have no time,
the point is moot,
I’ll put another
on my foot.
These mismatched argyles,
lacking style,
I think I’ll hide
this pair a while.
If it returns
by some odd chance,
I will cease
these barefoot rants.
I love this !!
*giggles*
oh, what a bad season to be sock-less
oh the endless search for just another sock
Does anyone else have a sock-eating dryer?
Close Cover Before Striking
Once ubiquitous, those books
available everywhere –
bars, restaurants, hotels,
banks and local businesses;
ambassadors of goodwill,
unobtrusive peddlers,
stationed patiently on counters
offering assistance, promoting
products & services; free
for the taking and found
in Everyman’s pocket;
once popular wedding favors
(perfect for lighting fires, but
unlucky for three on a match),
some slumber in cupboards and
drawers – relics of failed marriages –
yet some matches function still
The Failed Search
The wind blew clouds into the sea;
the sky naked, lurid and luminescent
as in the moment of creation.
When your hair tossed and turned silvery
I knew you were a lie, does one see
moon on a stormy night?
I went that night to the sea searching,
the infinity that you pointed
I dug with my fingers;
lines creased on the seabed broke as flakes -
those are the maps, your voice caressed
through the choppy water.
From the dark depths I only collected words
with lost arms. Disembodied
they floated in silence.
beauty
Wow…..beautiful…..spiritual……wow……
Not a Match
She, just a slip of a thing
with red hair.
He, a mighty oak.
“She never understood
what power she had,” he said,
as he fell.
Hi, gang.
Happy November!
Mine is here:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/01/mercury-rising/
I’m having nothin’ but trouble commenting here, but will come around and visit everybody I can who is “clicky.”
I think I’ll be joining you as a “homebody” De. Too many attempts to post is the pinnacle of frustration. Will post some at http://wojisme.wordpress.com . The rest… you’ll have to wait for the book!
MATCH
Debate
Berate
Deflate
Checkmate
Chess complete in 4 words
Short & sweet!
wow! Marie, you are very quick
and effective!
CLOSE COVER BEFORE STRIKING
It
all
starts
with a spark.
Striking is what sets
you aflame, but it’s a shame
your pyrotechnics last
just so long. But
when first lit
your heat
is strong,
but you
f i z z l e
when it
dr iz zl es
or your fing-
ers are bre-
ached. But
have no fear
there’s an-
other right
here and I
will keep
t h i n g s
b r i g h t
a s l o n g
a s t h i s
other match
l i g h t s !
CLOSE COVER BEFORE STRIKING
It
all
starts
with a spark.
Striking is what sets
you aflame, but it’s a shame
your pyrotechnics last
just so long. But
when first lit
your heat
is strong,
but you
f i z z l e
when it
dr iz zl es
or your fing-
ers are bre-
ached. But
have no fear
there’s an-
other right
here and I
will keep
t h i n g s
b r i g h t
a s l o n g
a s t h i s
other match
l i g h t s !
CLOSE COVER BEFORE STRIKING
It
all
starts
with a spark.
Striking is what sets
you aflame, but it’s a shame
your pyrotechnics last
just so long. But
when first lit
your heat
is strong,
but you
f i z z l e
when it
dr iz zl es
or your fing-
ers are bre-
ached. But
have no fear
there’s an-
other right
here and I
will keep
t h i n g s
b r i g h t
a s l o n g
a s t h i s
other match
l i g h t s !
((An experiment in poetic picture pyrotechnics! I’ll never know it works unless I try.))
OH. MY. WORD.
BRILLIANT.
Not quite. The colors failed me. It worked on my blog (colorwise).
Walt, You amaze me! Creating these poetic pictures is such magic! Then, add that the poetry is wonderful…Wow!
Walt has a matchless genius with his ability to “craft” poems.
You flatter me, Iris. Thank you.
Very smooth flow, for a pyrotecnical device
I love the ending and the beginning. In fact, I like the whole poem.
Walt, I love the way you lay these out. Fantastic!
friction on the matchbox..
she strikes a match
lights a lamp as she prays;
invoking the Almighty
to bless with happy days,
lead us to brighter ways;
give us strength to cope,
in bad luck, show us hope.
a match, a prayer, a light,
burns within, a will to fight.
a warm image this creates.
Burnt Matches
Bar Game
Man come into my bar and bet me a five.
I quit washing glasses,
and moved his damned burnt match.
I say where’s my money? He says no way,
says that wasn’t the right move, like moving
a thing can only be done
the one way, so I shot him.
What would you have me do?
“so I shot him.” I laughed out loud out of surprise
Matching Smiles
Stepping out both feet in place
her beauty made his mind race
as her image passed before his eyes
she was his affectionate surprise
Her smile made him
get weak at the knees
he wanted her to himself
he wanted to please
Wishing he had her
all to himself
knowing he had no courage
to take that step
Would they match
could he catch
her attention long enough
could he chat her up
with lines off the cuff
Scents of her
filled him inside
she walked up
as he seized his pride
His shy eyes feel to the floor suddenly
she was glad to have him in her company
her eyes locked in on his
as a smile crossed his face
their lust filled the room
oh what a beautiful chase
Perfect last line! So lovely and loveable
“what a beautiful chase”, indeed
Hoping that this comment will post
Outmatched
Foiled again
by that dastardly
do-gooder.
Game, set, match!
He aced me out today, but
I’ll serve him next time.
Made me laugh good one
Last night, as I slept, I walked out of the material world
through a portal in which I only travel as spirit,
and dreamed of you.
The setting was in a room,
perhaps an apartment, mine, with exposed brick.
I walked into the room…
you were sitting there waiting for me.
I was full of wonder but mostly awe,
to see that you were really there.
I sat on your knee and told you about my day.
You held my hands and listened.
Every touch was alive, warm, not imagined.
It was a natural moment
filled with the excitement and light of divine love.
You were there with me, spirit to spirit…
Perfect Match
Lets take it backwards,
she proposed one night;
take me back to the moment
you would not hold me tight;
think of the time,you barely knew me
or never understood half of anything;
that moment, that night,in the hotel
you did not ask,nor did I say
yet together we slept,cuddled
smiled in the morning,though puzzled;
we were always a match love,
he smiled as she pronounced;
we will always be this perfect match,
he said,and that settled the talk for a while.
ah so sweet
Gorgeous, I esp. love… ‘think of the time,you barely knew me
or never understood half of anything’
Now that’d be memorable
Lovable poem, Nim.
I can’t but agree with the above speakers: lovely, gentle and to remember.
thank you people ! Loved to see the responses
Splendid write. Well done.
Misky, Your poetry is always so full of wonderful imagery. Love that line, “sulphur dancing on the doormats.”
Well done!
Oh, Nimue! Love this! Especially like the last two lines…sweet!
If it isn’t a thrill to be writing to your own prompt! That added some gravity to my attempt, of course.
***
strike a match
with that gentle touch of your
hand which holds my
heart agile and waiting
afloat long waking
Believing in the magic of
that unmatched and
matchless
unprecedented
inextinguishable
fire of your breath
applied to my cold cheeks
That irrational thrill in my
dreaming memory of a
“Safety Matches” box
I still cling to
at night
***
MARIYA!!! CONGRATULATIONS, and WELL DONE!!!
Love this prompt and your poem…the opening lines truly stole my breath in its tender imagery!…and if this comment posts…all I can say is THANK-YOU to everyone so far for some great poetry!
Believing in the magic of
that unmatched and
matchless
unprecedented
inextinguishable
fire of your breath .
Ah ! that magic can sure create wonders .. you just don’t need a match box anymore
thank you for the prompt
Thank you, friends! Such nice responses
Totally beautiful!
Beautiful! Also, thank your Mariya for the prompt!
The Match of Autumn’s Lilt
The match that lit the hills a-fire
In autumn’s ruddy glow
Is snuffed by chill November’s ire
Exhaled in rain and snow
Leaf-lullaby and willow-sigh
Falls to the garden path
The quiet reaches to the sky
In autumn’s aftermath
The lamp-lighter of verdant tress
Wanders the stricken hill
As sky-lines flaunt the nakedness
Of autumn’s waning will
The bully breeze has snuffed the gold
The match of autumn’s lilt
Is buried in the burnished cold
Where its leaf-tear is spilt
A gorgeous autumnal picture. I especially like the “Leaf-lullaby and willow-sigh” image.
)
(Hopefully, I can post this comment
Beautiful images spring to mind love the flow of your poem my dear wonderful. I felt like i was skipping to it.
Lovely Janet, you are ever uplifting in your words. GORGEOUS.
Exquisite word pictures of burning colors of autumn. Thanks Janet!!
lovely autmn poem thanks
Oh, I love this!! It is so perfect for this time of year and the rhyme scheme is beautiful!
JR,from start to finish, you had me. You painted a masterpiece with words. Outstanding.
Gorgeous imagery. You have a way with words. Bravo Janet!
Living With An Inferno
That old house was built of matches,
sulphur dancing on the doormats,
tapping on windows, prying latches
and crawling about as leggy clouds,
through air pulled tight as rubber bands –
We breathed in the fumes of your scorn
that snorted, ‘Scratch me, scratch me,
feel the heat and watch me burn’.
Ash-flecked moths in a flame we were,
drawn to your combustible moods,
those thunderous clouds
that scored valleys on your face
and we waited behind the sofa,
for your inevitable inferno.
~ Misky
I wonder who “you” is. Misky, this is such a thought-provoking poem and one that made me read and re-read it. I like the accute imagery and I almost could smell the sulphur.
I’m glad that you like it Mariya. It’s a great prompt. Well done you!
“And we waited behind the sofa, for your inevitable inferno.” Gave me a shiver! Love this, Misky!
Misky…great poem! I could see little kids hiding behind the couch waiting for an adult to explode in rage (Ya, unfortunately, I knew what this was like as a child.) “Ash-flecked moths” what a line!
Great poem Misky!!
November 1, 2012
Cross Weaving
Matching elements in a woven pattern,
Fire,air easy but to match opposites ah
Heaven or combustion.
Take a breath soft intangible
WeaATake rooted ground
Matching elements in a woven pattern
Weave fire water slowly
Delicately on the loom of time
Fire, air easy but to match opposites
On the loom weave
A pattern of fate
Heaven or combustion.
Quite a trouble trying to cross weave those, indeed. And to think that they are all elements of the same life and existence… Nice poem!
not sure what happend to third stanza so here is reposted
Matching elements in a woven pattern,
Fire,air easy but to match opposites ah
Heaven or combustion.
Take a breath soft intangible
Take rooted ground
Matching elements in a woven pattern
Weave fire water slowly
Delicately on the loom of time
Fire, air easy but to match opposites
On the loom weave
A pattern of fate
Heaven or combustion.
Wonderful!
any one able to post>
The difficulty in posting is unmatched by anything we’ve experienced so far, food!
GAME, SET AND MATCH
The opinions you serve up
miss the net and fall short of love.
Each volley you strike
puts me out. You have set me up
to play your game, even though
you hit me with your backhand smash.
You have the advantage
and think you hold all the aces.
It’s not my fault that you let
me hang, that baseline was too far.
I was all in for mixed doubles,
but apparently that just wasn’t your racquet.
So, be assured. I will rally, and find your
sweetspot (I believe I have the balls to pull it off!)
This is set point, and the match is at stake.
It was an honest mistake. Give me a rematch,
or I’ll get all McEnroe on your ass.
OUT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?…
Walt, oh, hilarious. I loved it! For instance,
“t’s not my fault that you let
me hang, that baseline was too far.
I was all in for mixed doubles,
but apparently that just wasn’t your racquet.” ROFL
That was exactly the title that popped into my head, Walt…DRAT!
Love the poem, btw.
Thanks Mariya and Rob.
That’s why I always post before I read what anyone else writes. At least I will know I came up with it on my own!
Walt, you are always so quick with puns. Super images.
Hee-hee. Very good, Walt.
Oh, this is too funny!! Love it.
“(I believe I have the balls to pull it off!)” LOL …
Nice work!
So cleverly written!
Oh, Walt! How I have missed reading your poems…great job!
Hilarious Walt–love that wordplay!
Mismatch
She matched me
step for step
move for move
She was there
but for a moment
Then gone.
We matched each other
every day
for years
Then she turned
on me
and changed.
People grow
it is said
and move on
with their lives.
But we used to match
kiss for kiss
and now
I match myself
tear for tear.
I like the melancholic repetitions that only increase the sadness. And I deft like the bitter ending. “people grow”, indeed.
(Argh, I’m getting this trouble posting comments!)
the only thing that works for me today is to log out and then log back in grrrr!
Ahhh, so sad. Well written poem though.
Oh yes. What a nice rhythm! I love how the beat of the poem changes with the shift of the relationship. Nice!
Well-done…a universal sentiment, for sure!
A Matched Set
She carries mischief
around in a bag,
like so much pixie dust
she can pull out
and throw in the air,
catching the sunlight,
making her eyes sparkle
(green then blue).
She smiles, knowing that,
while daddy pretends to be
beyond mischief,
a small tug can pull him back
from beyond,
creating magic
under mommy’s rolling eyes.
Lovely tribute to the father-daughter relationship.
I just love this. <3
Love, love, love this! As the mother of 4 daughters and grandmother of 4 girls. You have truly captured the father/daughter relationship!
Jerry, this was so fabulous that I read it to my husband and we both smiled. That beginning pulled me in and I was yours–carries mischief around in a bag–wonderful!!
Magical! Read this a few times…
Thanks everyone. My daughter brings out the best in me.
Matchless Perfection
Matchless grace
Matchless love,
Matchless wisdom
Sent from above
Matchless power
In creation we see
Matchless beauty
Matchless mercy
Reflection of grace
Reflection of love
Reflection of wisdom
Sent from above
Reflection of power
You created us to be
Reflecting your beauty
Reflecting your mercy
Amen!
Amen, again!
Are we really that reflection ?
beautifully put though …
Matches
‘Where there’s smoke,’ she always said,
defending her gossiping ways,
passing on tidbits, spreading inuendo,
enjoying the whispers and sideways glances,
with a ready ear and eager tongue
blowing on the flames, smiling at the glow.
Truth be told, in the years of devastation
she started most of the fires.
Fabulous last few lines, Nancy.
oh, i know this woman. so succinct and yet telling. plus, i enjoyed the topic!
This is great! Wow .. those last two lines give a shiver.
Great poem, Nancy…The last two lines really hold the punch!
This is great.
Superb! Nice job Nancy!
Wow! Great poems to start our new PAD challenge.
Robert, your poem is lovely. The line “How you repeat each blast of heat?” – wonderful!
Iris, I learned to do the same thing in Girl Scouts, but before putting them in the jar, we would dip the heads in nail polish to make them water-proof. (Of course, they had to dry before we put them in the jar.) Brought back fond memories.
Khara, “the world hushed in a water quilt” – Oh, how beautiful!
Can wait to read more…Blessings to all! Linda
Utterances and Meaning
From day one, you were determined
to master this language that has the power
to change your life from one of fear and darkness
to one of hope and dreams
You work diligently, matching sounds
with marks on the page – so foreign to you -
challenging your mouth to make shapes for uttering
words that bring power to your life
More power to words
Hi, Nimue! Good to see you here. I wrote this in celebration of my ESL students.
“Woman thou art”
In the evening I flicker on, loose myself
from the grain of the day in a ripple of water
closing in tighter than a fist on my now
unsheathed frame. These are the times
I call myself She. The eyes closed inhale exhale
pulse of blood. Give it one last leap of the heart
before the stillness settles in: all the sounds
of the world hushed in a quilt of water,
and the burn of an unquenched flame.
Ah. Nothing beats a good ol’ soak.
~Misky
wow!
So visual! i love “quilt of water” especially.
That line “These are the times
I call myself She,” totally resonates.
Nice work.
Khara, you can write. I’ve not read anything you’ve written that I don’t love. Wow.
Love it!
Now THIS is simply gorgeous writing, Khara. (“…all the sounds of the world hushed in a quilt of water…” favorite line). Being female, I can totally relate to everything you wrote here. Bravo!
Priceless
In case of sudden tornados in Oklahoma, farm families were always prepared.
The most important thing besides the kerosene lantern and candles,
were the matches kept in a pint canning jar with the lid screwed on tight.
We seldom used them, but they were a constant reminder that you never knew
when the air pressure systems would change and a tornado would form.
I once used the precious matches to turn on the kerosene lantern and read.
Mother was upset because the matches were for emergencies, not for solace. I replaced them with fresh ones from the kitchen, and later that summer we had to spend half the night in the cellar due to tornados in area and I was glad for her forsight. I still keep matches in mason jar in my own cellar a half century later. Haven’t used them for two years, but if I need them, I am sure they will be ready. Priceless.
I really enjoyed this. Great imagery and interesting for me, having never lived through a tornado. Nice job.
From Nebraska originally and I really hear this…
I really love this piece, Iris. It reads kinda folksy, with a prose poem/essay kind of narrative vibe. Best of all it not only paints a snapshot of a moment in time, but also tells a poignant story. The only suggestion that might be considered is to drop the very last word at the end (Priceless) because I really don’t think it needs it. The last sentence is pretty powerful and beautiful by itself. I think you need to leave it, end it, just that way. Kudos, well done!