Editors Blog

2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 23

Today’s prompt is from Amanda Fall.

Here’s Amanda’s prompt: Write a deep poem. The deep end of the pool. Six feet deep. Archaeology. Whatever you write, just dig deep.

Robert’s attempt at a Deep Poem:

“Off the deep end”

Black Friday begins on Thursday evening,
and I’m running short on spare change. My buddy
says the deals can’t be beat, so I ask if anyone’s tried,
and he just rolls his eyes over the river and through
the wood to grandfather’s house, empty because
grandma has him out hunting for bargain basement
tablets and flat screen televisions. It’s no longer
turkey season. We’ve run out of gravy for the mashed
potatoes. I don’t know which carol to sing first,
and then it hits me like a bell ringing in the night:
it’s the perfect time to cut down an evergreen.


Thank you, Amanda, for the deep prompt! Click here to learn more about Amanda.

If you prefer sharing poems on the WD Forum, click here to make that happen.


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77 thoughts on “2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 23

  1. IrisD

    Deep Calls To Deep

    Deep calls to deep at the sound of Your waterfalls;
    All Your breakers and Your waves have rolled over me.*
    Your majesty exceeds my extravagant imagination
    Your infinite wisdom surpasses man’s corporate dreams.
    One snap of your finger brings mountains to their knees,
    While we struggle to move its boulders.
    We have absence of war and name it peace,
    You are clothed in light that calms even storms at sea.
    Man considers a century as longevity,
    While you always existed and hold keys to eternity.

    *Psalm 42:7 New American Standard Bible 1985

  2. JRSimmang

    he laughted until his sides split.
    At what, he couldn’t tell… or wouldn’t tell.
    He had been staring at the same hole for the
    past three hours,
    balancing on the edge,
    wavering and weaving,
    shovel in hand,
    sweat on brow,
    and blisters on his slick palms.
    The hole, he knew, would be around forever.
    He dug it that way.
    He stared, long and deep,
    until the bottom was no longer clear.
    The shadows enveloped him whole,
    and he slipped,
    until his head found the soft comfort of the
    bottom of the hole.

  3. J_Hemmestad

    In my depth of heart there is an ocean –
    A place of shadows and deep mystery,
    Far from witness, without sun’s rays golden,
    Wisdom comes to a place far from balmy.

    In the depth of heart where shadows linger,
    And tranquil breezes tie hope into knots,
    Fortitude rises by sinking deeper,
    Amidst the dark, unknown, limitless rocks.

    Grace lavishes the bravest of brave hearts –
    When on the edge, breathing truest wishes;
    Deepest of longings, uncovering arts –
    Deep understanding, sifting gray ashes.

    In the waters of life where deep worlds churn,
    Great witnesses of love, whisk flames to burn.

  4. po

    Digging Deep

    Dad would dig deep when he would lay straight rows with his hand
    plow for our garden. My job was to space seeds evenly apart so he

    could cover the seeds with a blanket of soil. When it came to planting
    tomatoes you would take a tender seedling and shore up the soil to hold

    the plant steady. Then crumble the earth and worms so rain would go to
    the roots, not run off in the rows. Then they would grow down deep

    in the soil, not upwards to be burned by the sun. A strong earth smell
    would stay with you even when the stars came out and supper was over.

  5. PSC in CT

    Prescribed Burn

    It’s there (still), but (buried deep
    beneath day-to-day detritus, frag-
    ments, debris, meaning-
    less details;) you
    need to

    (hold golden oxygen
    deep inside thirsty lungs,
    flood sun- starved pulmonaria,
    purge weeds, preparing soil
    for better seeds)
    dig deep

    (anger, frustration, imp-
    atience – deep into ozone to be
    banished, ignited, consumed –
    a controlled burn, making space
    for new growth; seek sprouts)
    dig deeper

  6. chryssa123

    Deep in my heart
    there’s a traitor
    a man who betrayed my love
    a man who opens himself
    to everyone else except me
    a man who once
    became my paradise
    the water of my deepest source
    my deepest need
    Whenever I look
    into his eyes’s depths
    I see myself in chains
    in their prison
    together with their silent sorrow
    and their muted desperation
    I never could bear
    Deep in my soul
    I am his soulmate
    forever bound
    forever lost
    forever alone
    I always liked
    to swim in the deep
    feeling a certain fear
    something or someone
    would pull me in the depths
    I would suffocate
    deep on the sea bottom
    if you were there with me
    It suffices me to perish
    in the depths of your arms…

  7. julie e.


    She called me “the deep one.”
    She was the blonde one, the pretty one,
    the petite one,
    so I guess it was good that
    I had “deep,”
    a word purchased by my
    going through the painful process of
    being first frozen by the
    fear I could do nothing
    then moving through
    whereby I would
    never trust myself and so
    must look at every
    from 57 angles
    and would have gladly traded

  8. bluerabbit47

    Deep Space

    past the last
    clumps of ice
    gas, rock,
    and God only
    knows what
    else at the fringe
    of the solar system,
    Voyager, a
    miracle wonder
    of my younger
    days, swings
    out into the
    more thinly
    populated reaches
    of deep space,
    just as each day
    I dive further

  9. Rorybore

    I was having trouble hanging some wallpaper. I thought I was in over my head. Perhaps the glue?
    Whatever, I was feeling in too deep.
    This is not about wallpaper; clearly.

    In Too Deep

    floating in a a luke-warm salacious sleep
    it bubbled forth from somewhere deep
    with a jolting pang it ushered in
    the aching, growing sense of sin
    that cloak of ignorance, now in shreds
    a too-bare garment of angry threads
    I push and pull the tangled knots
    while the fickle Fates are casting lots
    The Great Veil Is Rising!
    while whispering sweet nothings so chastising
    I tumbled backward, further into the deep
    “Be quiet stirrings – I’m trying to sleep!”
    and in the midst of drifting softly down
    away in endless flight I drown
    as the evening star melts away
    the fluff of wishes floats astray
    and lost within this restless dream
    mounts in my soul a silent scream
    too long I’ve lingered – and rolling the dice
    slip amorously into the Abyss; and pay the price.

  10. Glory


    Cold bones,
    chilled to the marrow
    and silence.

    Ears aching for sound
    to penetrate
    where only blackness rules.

    And the pungent smell
    of rancid earth,
    half remembered

    in endless darkness.

    An eternity of nothingness
    awaits me, here…

    in this grave.

  11. Miss R.

    Deep Issues

    I always wonder about depth.
    Spatial perception has never been my strong suite,
    And when it’s applied metaphorically,
    I’m just as confused.
    “That’s so shallow,” people say,
    Lips curling in disdain.
    Well, compared to what?
    And what if that shallow belief
    Is deeply engrained,
    To be removed only by a most painful operation
    With the forceps of peer pressure
    And the scalpel of guilt,
    Which always work together
    In cold, consistent harmony.
    Shallow, we say, is bad.
    Deep, on the other hand,
    Is all kinds of good.
    What does it matter
    Whether or not it makes sense?
    In fact, if it’s beyond the grasp
    Of ninety-nine percent
    Of the people who have the misfortune
    Of encountering muddled genius,
    The creator of such convolution
    Is all the more highly praised.
    Deep, we say, is good,
    And shallow is bad.
    I can’t help wondering
    (Although perhaps I’m just being shallow)
    Whatever happened to goods and bads
    That stood on their own,
    Judged by merit
    Rather than depth.
    I suppose you’ll tell me kindly
    That I just don’t understand.
    These are deep issues, after all,
    And spatial perception has never been my strong suite.

  12. Yolee

    Oil Can

    It is the rooted voice in each of us lifting
    skirts of intention, stripping coats
    of painted insecurities, calling on love,

    when dehydrated lips,
    dreams and hearts have had
    it with cavernous cracks.

    When you think nothing’s left, the oil-can’s wall reserves hope.

  13. Bruce Niedt

    Deep Into It

    No turning back now –
    the lines have been drawn.
    I am transported into the fray.

    Why did I ever sign up for this,
    risking life and limb
    for so little reward?

    Still, I am on a mission
    to reach my objective
    and so are they.

    They look just like me
    but I must remember,
    they are the enemy.

    Strategy and patience
    are key, but so too is
    a certain blood thirst.

    The gates have opened,
    the masses sound their battle cry –
    Black Friday has begun.

  14. Casey

    “I Shall Marry the Oak”

    You are the daring one; my loyal oak;
    You have more heart than most, my charming knight.
    The winds of autumn now blast ev’ry bloke
    who’d fight against the winter’s wicked blight.

    Old coldness comes to freeze out all our hearts;
    to strip the leaves and tear them one by one.
    Your stalwart limbs seem made of rarer part.
    Your leaves do bear the blood of God’s own son.

    My bravest one; you stand with head unbowed
    and I will marry you and place a crown
    upon that shocked and bleeding, leafy brow.
    Arms cannot stretch to reach your courage round.

    My love for you shall outlast winter’s song;
    My dust learn mystery of you ‘ere long.

  15. Amanda Fall

    Robert, what an honor to find my prompt here today. I can’t stop grinning. Thank you!

    Here’s my deep poem:


    We stand slack-jawed
    at the world,
    pointing where the eagle rests
    after swooping mighty wings
    over our tiny heads.

    Strangers, we stand
    shoulder to shoulder,
    calling out to they who walk
    with heads down, deep
    in thought. Attention caught,
    we share our secret–
    each new gasp
    a triumph
    of connection.

    We stand upright
    heads high,
    partners in this world
    where wonder

  16. Nancy Posey

    Skin Deep

    Beauty is only skin deep.
    She’d heard it enough.
    It had to be true. So why,
    when she spent November
    clean-scrubbed, not even
    a hint of lipstick,
    did she feel not ugly
    but invisible. Her voice
    seemed silent–at least
    no one listened. No one
    recognized the depth
    beneath the plain face.

  17. elishevasmom

    Have been traveling for the holiday. Have been working on the writing, but this was my first chance to post.
    Happy Holidays everyone.

    Indigo Deep

    They live on the
    edge of danger, tether
    their families to the sea,
    going off to ply
    their trade.

    Just as others go off
    to war, and are in
    danger for it, binding
    those at home, waiting
    for the possibility
    of loss—but at least
    returned for burial.

    But these go off
    against might and
    fury—at the whim of constant
    rise and fall, ebb and
    flow. Their daily battle
    but a footnote—their
    losses the ragged
    edges of the tenuous
    cordage of their lives.

    Tenuous in that there
    are no bodies
    for burial—all entombed
    in the indigo deep.

    Ellen Knight

  18. shellaysm

    “Deep Down”

    Deep down
    Below reason
    Under guilt
    Beneath regret
    Beyond emotion
    Untouched by circumstance
    Unaltered by time
    Undeveloped by growth
    Unbeknownst to immaturity
    Purely simple
    Authentically beautiful
    Serenely peaceful
    Undeniably personal

  19. DanielAri

    “TYM (Thank-You Machine)”

    Down in the ground, deep underneath the green,
    far below the magic of the spouting seeds,
    in the hot, quick center of the everything:
    the always-running, mother-loving Thank-You Machine.

    High in the sky, above the satellite screen,
    past all of the stars all our lenses have seen,
    in the chill, still outers of everything:
    the ever-shining, atom-binding Thank-You Machine.

    Gabba-gabba, wanna-wanna Thank-You Machine
    Jumblini, crumblini Thank-You Machine
    Hi-ho trailus, hoodoo-voodoo Thank-You Machine
    Boip-boip, woof-woof Thank-You Machine

    Around and surrounding the ripples of being,
    into dimensions beyond seventeen,
    of the holey, holy torus of the everything:
    the inner turning, outer churning Thank-You Machine.

    Oh-pa, baba-re-ba Thank-You Machine
    Pachalafaka Thank-You Machine
    Electric Aunt Jemima with a Thank-You Machine
    Shoop-shoop, Yadda-yadda Thank-You Machine

  20. posmic



    Deep in the vein of jam,
    there is the sun, locked in
    memory, how it coaxed hard,
    green fruit into soft and red, then
    bristled it all over with seeds, and
    the tiny hairs that protected this
    investment until the berry
    was picked, cooked,
    jarred, eaten.


    Deep in the blood, there is the
    sound, a sluicing rhythm you can’t
    hear, except late at night when you are
    alone, or may as well be, your partner
    sleeping, unable to tell you that the noise
    doesn’t mean you’re going to die, which
    is, of course, the greatest falsehood
    love ever tells.

  21. Michael Grove

    Can’t Feel The Pain

    I can’t tell if it’s real or it’s a nightmare.
    I don’t know what’s through the open door.
    I can’t see the outcome, just the moment.
    I can’t feel the pain anymore.

    I’m numbed by the prospect of the silence.
    I’m lost at the finish and the start.
    I’m blinded by the uninvited knowledge.
    I can’t feel the pain in my heart.

    It’s too deep to tread the water gently.
    I don’t want to watch what is in store.
    There’s no place to hide in the shallows.
    I can’t feel the pain anymore.

    By Michael Grove

  22. RJ Clarken

    I Am

    “I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.” ~Sylvia Plath

    Me, in the mirror: Take a breath,
    and say, “Those lines do not mean death
    but rather, living, thank you, ma’am.”
    My old heart brays, “I am. I am.”

    On inspection, I’ve sometimes thought,
    how do I ‘young-up’ my mug shot?
    But then I tell those thoughts to scram.
    My old heart brays, “I am. I am.”

    Me at twenty? I couldn’t see
    what thirty more would do to me.
    So I must shush the skin-deep slam.
    My old heart brays, “I am. I am.”

    And after all, what’s in an age?
    Each year just marks another stage.
    Me in the mirror: “Hey, girl…damn!”
    My old heart brays, “I am. I am.”


  23. De Jackson


    It’s a deeper shade, this
    peculiar sketch of midnight,
    shadowed trace of nothing.

    Remember those last
    few miles? I shrugged,
    and you nodded, and
    did we dance? I can’t

    remember now,
    in this filtered
    fog of forget. I know
    we held the moon
    at bay, and watched the day
    fade like an old photograph.
    I can still see the last
    crimson scrim closing,
    final filament spark glowing
    thin and fizzing loose,
    horizon held by unseen hands.

    When the sun stands
    and sings
    of morning,
    I crave constellations,
    stars that speak
    of wider fields
    and deeper fountains,
    where somehow I am still

  24. Sara McNulty

    Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 23
    Write a deep poem

    Long Time Ago

    I saw deep thinker
    lost in thought
    until tantrums of temper
    jarred loose jealousy,

    rose in reddened rage
    on pale skin,
    words hurled, possessions broken.
    Nothing underneath.

  25. rustydude

    November 23, 2012

    A man deep in thought
    Is a man deep in fraught


    Deep Beauty in our daughters, with a joy in their smile
    Makes every single moment, full-worth each waking while
    To know their hearts and with them walk each destined mile
    Proves three exquisite souls and exudes their timeless style

    Deep Love bequest I know it best as she stays by my side
    I gladly show and cherish her glow to savor in full pride
    This brief voyage we exist, foraging on, taking life in stride
    So thankful for a life complete, with her my enchanting bride

    Deep Peace in knowing of a love so pure and confounding
    My heart reels in attempts to grasp its true fullness bounding
    When the trumpets blast, and make their final call sounding
    I’ll rest my faith in my Savior’s grace, my sins un-founding

    Deep Thoughts a simple man I share and hold as hallow
    Some more schooled than I may find cliché, even shallow
    I’ll live this day with no regret as He I choose to follow
    For love we fail to flourish this day, may be gone tomorrow

  26. taylor graham


    Deep in the winter of his years,
    kitchen-clatter’s muted
    and a master’s voice trailed off
    long ago into distance.
    Even the chiming clock is silent.
    It’s just the stroke
    of fingers that brings an old dog
    out of sleep. So deep,
    he startles, wakes to his own
    dreams; can’t remember the room.
    The house is a pool of scent –
    his master is everywhere,
    and nowhere. When he wakes
    without the touch of fingers,
    he must bark for us
    to find him where’s he’s deep
    as winter snow.

  27. Walt Wojtanik


    Dough out of control,
    toppings galore and a pure
    sense of pizza mastery.
    No dastardly thin crusts for us.
    Keep it deep,
    keep it coming
    and I’ll keep succumbing to
    pizza deliciousness.
    I’d be remiss if I didn’t pull
    a slice from the dish.
    Forever my deep-baked wish!

  28. Marianv

    The Deep End of the Big Pond

    At evening on a day in June
    The wind dies down, the air is still
    The water is as quiet as the sky.

    I try to dive without splashing, to slip
    Like a mermaid into this fishy smelling
    World where life begins in the mud and rocks.

    As I reach the bottom I open my eyes
    To a world of pale brown – the color
    Of old ale stored in ancient casks

    My fingers claw the gravel and minnows
    Scurry away while small fish nibble at my
    Toes. I push through clumps of algae that

    Are the fresh green of springtime and the
    Water still contains a wintry chill. If I
    Lived here with these watery creatures

    I would have to burrow deep in the mud
    And sleep the winter away, dreaming of
    Spring when once again this world fills with life.

  29. Eleanore D. Trupkiewicz


    The way that water shimmers when
    you’re floating on its surface—say,
    down the Yampa River in a bright
    yellow inner tube with your sandals
    dangling off your fingers over the
    side above the water—is not the way
    the water looks when your tube
    snags in an eddy and, in something
    like desperation (because water
    really is not and never has been your
    best friend), you lunge sideways to
    dislodge it and only manage to upset
    yourself over the side and you sink
    deep and deeper and you open your
    eyes underwater, expecting to see
    the way back to the surface, back up
    to sunlight or salvation or something,
    but the only things around you are
    murky shapes, probably things that
    bite when you invade their space, and
    you know that you will eventually
    touch bottom and be able to push off
    back to the surface, but you’re still
    sinking and not touching bottom and
    beginning to realize that maybe you
    should start swimming like you know
    you know how to do, you just didn’t
    remember until the panic started to
    take over, and you kick out and brush
    up against something and scrabble
    with your cupped hands the way your
    grandmother showed you years ago in
    her safe, shallow swimming pool and
    somehow you find yourself back out
    on the surface, breaking through, and
    the water on your face could be river
    water or something else, but you don’t
    really give yourself time to analyze
    which because you suddenly notice
    a dock projecting out over the water
    from the other side of the river, and
    most of all, you notice what’s on that
    warm, dry dock: half a dozen college-
    aged men, lounging like lizards in the
    sun, dressed (or, actually, not) to dive
    into the water at a moment’s notice,
    like, say, for instance, when a damsel
    in distress is drowning, and you start
    to plan exactly what you’ll say to those
    lizards when you get over there, but
    somebody well-meaning prevents you,
    even though it would have made the
    entire experience almost worthwhile,
    and you climb back into your retrieved
    inner tube and float away from the
    evidence that any semblance of chivalry
    is definitely gasping its final breath.

  30. Ann M

    there are advantages to swimming
    beneath the surface,
    no morning sun to wake you
    or unexpected squalls to ride.
    down under the beating oars
    and blowing sails,
    the currents pick you up
    and take you away,
    not where you want to go,
    but someplace new.
    and there is always darkness,
    noon or midnight is all the same.
    sleep comes easy and lasts long,
    underneath, way down deep,
    you see the truth behind
    the averted glance and declaration,
    the arguments and accusations.
    you see the longterm
    where today or even tomorrow do not
    figure, and toothbrush,
    breakfast or small obligation
    can be skipped
    because what matters is down deep,
    time isn’t consequential
    in the deep, you can become
    what you are,
    just the stony mineral,
    dug loose from the mine,
    fallen into the sea,
    and then lost
    when the current turns cold.

  31. Michelle Hed


    We cannot hear
    the nuances of their voices
    nor discern their looks
    or body language
    but never less,
    they tell a story
    within their lines,
    grooves of life
    just waiting
    for someone
    to read
    the bones
    and tell
    their tale.

  32. Jane Shlensky


    ““Beauty is only skin deep…”

    Never patient with platitudes
    I realize they are intended
    to comfort and instruct us,
    to rebalance the universe.

    A plain or outright ugly child
    looking at a lovely classmate
    knowing that beauty belongs
    to others, becomes nice, smart.

    Seeing gorgeous men with plain women,
    we learn that beauty is in his eyes,
    not in her face or form—like astigmatism.
    Every misdeed proves to us that

    Pretty is as pretty does, the exterior
    regulating the interior, the cover
    announcing the content of the book,
    helping us judge the book by its, you know.

    Beauty fleets, launches and wrecks ships,
    is sublime, is all vanity, dreams and awakens,
    there’s no end of discussion of it.
    Skin-deep beauty has its layers still,

    shriveling like old fruit in the sun,
    time ravaging every rosebud in the garden,
    forcing loveliness to run or to burrow down
    into our hearts, take residence in our deeds,

    forcing us to dispense with platitudes
    and live well, be kind, laugh often, grow old.

  33. De Jackson


    He drinks deep
    but only
    with his eyes.
    His lips have learned
    their lessons, tongue
    still lingering in regret.

    He sits, holding breath
    and dying small
    deaths. There are whole
    worlds inside this golden
    glass, and he has visited
    them all.


  34. Jane Shlensky


    “Deep and wide, deep and wide, there’s a fountain flowing deep and wide…”

    We know it is a church song
    We are in Bible School, singing,
    wondering where this fountain is,
    wanting to have a look at the way
    it’s built, if it is spring fed or town water.

    Our school fountains are tall and metallic
    with a foot peddle at the bottom, a hand knob
    at the top, a shiny shallow basin
    beneath the spout with a drain for overflow,
    a little step placed nearby for small children.

    At school, we cue to use the fountains,
    wondering if the person in front of us
    mouths the spout or lets the cold arc
    rise up to him as he sips from the top.
    We know about germs and manners.

    We sing and flail our arms about,
    deep is down, wide is a stretch outward
    until our chests hurt, knowing this is
    supposed to be fun, as we grow tired
    of this non-specific tiresome fountain.

    We fashion deep and wide fountains
    in our minds and wonder how a child
    can slurp water there if it is too deep
    and if the design is quite safe, knowing
    small children are forever falling into things.

    People need a gentle flow, like a spring
    launching from the ground with a little gumption,
    not a flow like a torrent— like when the river
    overflowed taking trees down with it
    sucking in anything that came near it.

    My wide fountain is a series of smaller
    spouts that can serve dozens of children
    all at once, a sensible time-saver.
    We have questions the song lady
    does not want to hear—she’s having fun.

    And no sooner than we start the song
    and sing one monotonous verse
    but she instructs us to drop “deep”
    and hum the word, the way a person does
    when he holds his breath, his head above water.

    The next verse, “wide” goes, and so on
    until we are humming for two solid verses,
    just paddling along in deep wide water,
    our jaws clinched against drowning, imagining
    our feet touching the soft mud at the bottom.

  35. Andrew Kreider


    No matter how far a man may run
    The trees will still be on the horizon
    Drink tea with your enemy
    But do not speak of it
    Without anxiety of heart
    The hair falls down in ringlets
    Three things are darkest black
    The heart of a chicken, April soil, and a friend woken at midnight
    Put your sandals outside the door on a Saturday
    And a homeless child will go to mass
    Mother, father, brother, cow:
    Until death the daughter must tend them all.

  36. Linda Rhinehart Neas


    The conversation took over –
    planned activity gone asunder –
    students completely immersed
    in the query of why one word
    could be multiply defined.

    We go round and round
    with white board graphics
    to aid in the understanding.
    I am not prepared for the complexity
    of their need to know –
    my innocent approach was
    to teach one word/one definition,
    never having the need to query
    as they are doing, now.

    In utter frustration,
    one of the students –
    arms folded across his chest –
    grins at me an says,
    “Ah, I think we teach the teacher, today!”
    Such profound thinking –
    and true! Little did I know
    as the class began,
    I would learn that “deep”
    had 38 different meanings!

  37. DAHutchison

    When Most People Write

    When most people write a book,
    (Assuming that’s what they do),
    They plunder the depths and look,
    At which parts of life are true,

    They throw it all into the mix,
    And after a draft or three,
    They know which parts get nixed,
    But that’s not the process for me.

    I start with a twisting plot,
    (A structure to hang my words)
    Then fill it with air that’s hot,
    To inflate it by one or two thirds,

    Once finished (with finished in quotes),
    Most writers assume that I’m daft,
    As they carve out ornate dragon boats,
    (Where mine are inflatable rafts).

  38. Walt Wojtanik


    Funny thing about facing your mortality,
    the reality sets in that you have no time
    for the nonsense in conflict. A thick
    and endless love surfaces; everyone
    and everything. Standing on the brink
    of a deep abyss, you kiss and make up,
    taking up your animus and pushing
    it into the deep void. You are less annoyed.
    You can only go so deep.

  39. Walt Wojtanik


    Thoughts pervade, invading
    my memories of youth.
    I learned the truth there
    where the Wood ruled.
    Neighbor kids did the right things,
    being churched and schooled
    together. Learning respect
    and loyalty; treated their
    elders like royalty. Caring what
    happened to this little piece
    of paradise. It was so nice.
    This time of year it is here
    that draws me; home no more.
    But my heart is ensconced,
    Deep in the Wood.

  40. Maurie


    There, a chance for forgiveness, reprieve,
    Rests in the haze of endless dreams
    Caught between void and reality
    I look at you, and you see through me

    There, on rain washed paths of mud
    Lies your symbol of timeless trust
    Caught between void and reality
    I look at you who is lost to me

    Why I strayed, took that corner
    too sharp, agreed to a fling,
    gambled on that lark,
    is beyond knowing, understanding,
    even more now, as I’m
    caught now between void and
    reality, looking for you,
    gone forever from me

  41. Connie Peters

    The Old Pump

    Pappap’s well, one time, held Pappap—
    down that deep dark hole, harnessed by ropes,
    each foot braced on its rocky sides,
    fixing something or other, while whistling.
    An odd childhood memory to have, but
    that well also held a deep supply of water
    and more memories of pumping the iron handle
    until water poured out when we were thirsty;
    or when our hands were dirty from playing
    or garden work; or battleship gray from
    painting porches, cupboards and picnic tables.
    I can still hear the screech, screech, sploosh
    and the happy laughter of children getting wet.

  42. Ber

    How Deep is your heart

    Loving lingering eyes on him
    whispering wildness of lyrics
    in every song she wrote
    with deepness in her heart
    as it hung in his favour
    for he was her favourite flavour
    moments like this
    should be kept
    should be be favoured

    Wild was she
    like a wild thorn torn rose
    gripping every inch
    of his aching skin
    cutting his heart deep within

    Kissing her forehead
    she hung her head on his shoulder
    as his love became stronger
    it just took hold of her
    filling both of their wondering hunger
    trying to fill the gaps
    that lay like an isolated pathway

    Ripping arms
    with pumping veins
    her arms were like his shackles
    of reins
    unable to let him go
    her words seem to fall so slow
    not wanting to let him off
    as falling curls hit his empty pillow
    where he lay no more
    only emotions that were hard to let go

    Rivers of roses
    filled with scents
    of him and his image
    banks of lust
    filling her mind
    wilderness was in every inch of her mindset
    secrets for so long she had kept

  43. uneven steven

    Perception is the 3rd dimension

    and in this dream
    I am Dr. flat stanley
    walking a flat labradoodle
    on a flat 2nd avenue
    my job, as flat scientist,
    to formulate the theory
    of all things flatness –
    one perfect equation
    of everything
    and I’m always
    on the edge of
    but late
    in the mad
    mystic night,
    I can almost perceive
    some theoretical deep
    staring down at me
    from this strange thing called
    distance –
    a bemused, quizzical,
    just beyond the flatness
    expression on its face
    as if I were the one
    utterly unfathomable

  44. Misky


    Deep into bubbles,
    liquid so cool, deeper
    from brightness that sings
    in bent streams, that twinkle
    of fairy wings, those
    memories past, sink deeper
    still deeper in nothing at last.