• THE
    Writing Prompt
    Boot Camp

    Subscribe to our FREE email newsletter and get the Writing Prompt Boot Camp download.

2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 25

Categories: 2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge, Poetry Prompts, Poets, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

Today’s prompt comes from Cameron Mathews.

Here’s Cameron’s prompt: Write an opposite poem. That is, write a poem with the opposite perspective, conclusion, or form of a prior poem in the month.

Robert’s attempt at an Opposite Poem:

“Woo to How”

Spill a drink on her best coat
without saying sorry or offering
her your own. Fumble for words
just out of reach, even when
she only wants a hello. Call her
names when others are around
and then curse yourself when
you’re alone. Say anything and
everything but what you mean.

*****

Thank you, Cameron, for the excellent prompt. Follow Cameron on Twitter @truckpoetry

Click here to share your poems on the WD Forum.

*****

Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer

*****

Take an extra 10% off through Sunday…

…at the WritersDigestShop.com when you enter the Promo Code WDFRIDAY12 at checkout. For instance, you can get an extra 10% off The Poetry Dictionary, by John Drury, which includes poetic forms, poetic terms, and poetic history. It’s one of those essential desk references every poet should own.

Click to continue.

You might also like:

  • No Related Posts
  • Print Circulation Form

    Did you love this article? Subscribe Today & Save 58%

About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

57 Responses to 2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 25

  1. heiditoad says:

    The Human Perspective

    Strip malls go empty and subdivisions unsold, broken down houses sit on streets that unfold
    But move on to the next mile, build newer, bigger, better places
    And then when the land is nothing but concrete empty spaces,
    Shoot the squirrels when they bury their nuts under your deck
    Poison the rabbits when they eat your sugar snap peas or your lettuce,
    Kill the deer so they won’t starve; a cruel, gruesome death,
    Kill the wolves on your farms when they eat your best hen.
    After all, this is our land to destroy and then to defend.

  2. JRSimmang says:

    How to Keep Quiet

    It is simple, really,
    to keep quiet.
    Some say you just need to shut your mouth.
    But, you can still hum.
    So, still the vocal chords.
    Freeze them so that any
    sound radiating forth from your throat
    is coated in a pristine ice.
    If all else fails,
    cut out the tongue.
    Cut it so it no longer wags.
    Cut it so there can be no more second guesses
    and tripping.

    To truly stay quiet,
    you must keep your eyes closed.
    But, even so, eyes can be opened
    and opened further still to allow
    in as much sunlight as possible.
    So, cut out your eyes.
    Keep the eyes out of the day.
    Keep the eyes out of the night.
    Keep the eyes and keep your sight.

    But to remain truly quiet,
    the ears must go.
    The depth of speaking relies in the depth
    of listening.
    Remove the outer ear first,
    then dig in to remove the rest,
    like the inner workings of a clock,
    so that the last sound you hear
    is the tut tut of lies.

    Silence is golden.
    Silence is precious,
    Silence is the final resting place.

  3. Day 25
    Prompt: Write from opposite viewpoint of a previous poem in the challenge.

    Confident

    I can face the idea
    of kneeling before that Throne
    because He has already forgiven
    the failures I have yet to realize.

    Boldly I may approach
    knowing He has me covered,
    His righteous robe resplendent
    over my inadequate rags.

  4. foodpoet says:

    okay 2 out of 3 trying to post again

    Can you collect the wind in the desert
    Blowing free form dragons out
    Of the sand furnace below

  5. foodpoet says:

    Collections

    Collections change
    Over time
    Long ago I collected unicorns,
    Lately unicorns are only
    Echoes. Today I
    Collect memories,
    Time fragments.
    I search under beds seeking
    Older thoughts.
    Next I
    Sift photos to see you clearly.

  6. foodpoet says:

    I collect metro seats and stories.
    Each morning that I can snag a seat,
    I watch the stories sift in for the morning commute.
    I wonder what I will pen today as I watch the quiet
    Of a guide dog, still as a morning pond with no wind
    As commuters ripple around.

  7. Hell (opposite paradise)

    I thought I knew the worst that could
    ever happen to me. I thought myself
    adequately prepared for anything, no
    matter how hideous. I did not realize
    how naïve my thoughtless preparations
    really made me: cancer was as
    absolutely nothing, and persecution
    from governing authorities, those high
    -handed little Napoleons, was
    meaningless, and my own death would
    have been wholly welcome on the day
    that I found out my daughter was dead.

  8. PSC in CT says:

    [ Opposite my circular poem from day 7 - "Spinning Thoughts" ]

    Morpheus

    Only I can make them settle
    cease their mad, swirling (e)motions
    muster Merlin’s magic (if I can)
    transform them mayhap,
    into soft, silent, serene snow-
    flakes drifting ever downward
    to land each atop another
    creating a blanket of oblivion
    (or maybe stars,
    still in the night sky,
    their only movement
    nearly indiscernible –
    pinprick twinkles of light
    sparking the darkness)
    beneath which
    I might (finally)
    find sleep

  9. Nancy Posey says:

    From my “Rewind” I’m taking my Yeats’ epigram the opposite direction. (Tried to post yesterday–but I was going too fast–ha).

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    –W. B. Years “The Second Coming”

    Undone
    Still unwilling to let life spin
    out of control, pulling her away
    away from the centre,
    she wrapped her arms around him
    holding tight, but feeling the slip

    She was no match for the pull
    stronger than gravity.
    Instead of drawing him to her, the force
    pushed them apart like two magnets
    north to north,
    unwound her world
    coming undone, like yarn loosed
    from its skein
    not coiled into a tight ball, but strung out
    too far to reel back in.

    She knew now what
    the falconer heard,
    in answer to his futile call–
    the beat of wings, in retreat, making way
    back to a place she could never
    call home

  10. po says:

    somebody said
    the Mayan’s just got tired of writing–
    December 21,2012

  11. Miss R. says:

    The following is an opposite poem responding to my poem “Christmas Eve” from day 20. This opposite poem does not in any way reflect my true feelings on the subject of Christmas. :)

    No Christmas For Me, Thanks

    The light’s too bright; the music too jolly.
    We’re in the year’s worst season of folly.
    You say you dislike the frown on my face?
    Well, I dislike this holiday rat race!
    It’s tragic, really; I can hardly dare
    To leave my house for a breath of fresh air
    Without seeing Santa smiling and bright.
    And mistletoe? Now that’s really a fright!
    I can’t wait for New Year’s, if you get my drift.
    No Christmas is all that I want for my gift.

  12. Yolee says:

    From day 18 the poem (a Glosa)

    Commitment

    Saw you and switched rooms to where critical
    thoughts are stored. Had to observe from
    a stark window once stained with colored
    glass and frilly treatments. Had to take you in
    with only the tint of my eyes and translucent
    mind. Like the caterpillar’s enclosed business,
    faith tapped on the case little by little. Light
    filtered in; beauty with wings unfurled.
    In the unpredictable breath of hopefulness,
    there’s just no accounting for happiness.

    Your first two words revealed left feet.
    The conversation buckled, even so, trinkets
    from the heart spilled. The dread of rejection
    was tall but stumbling away from the dance
    would be Goliath. We became birds of paradise.
    The atmosphere developed a case of tropical
    rash. Notions had to mate. Contentment
    rose up from among thorns. There is no
    fugitive like barefooted love in the paradoxical,
    or the way it turns up like a prodigal.

    And so we sliced the moon, buttered
    it with the sun, fed it to our dreams.
    The horizon smiled when we whisked
    by. We devoured manna, until praise
    waned and complaints dulled our
    carriage. We eschewed tasty sweets
    once reserved for each other. But history
    turned around and tapped our languor,
    like the dancer on a sun-dressed street
    who comes back to the dust at your feet.

    I still watch you from a remote room
    where pictures of us emerge in all ranks
    of natural light. There’s a chair. Only you
    make it rock. A crow’s nest sits high and
    stable like the memory when serendipitously
    you appeared to me on that blessed day.
    Devotion changed the forecast within
    and conserved the cerulean sky. Long ago
    I pictured love roaming without a place to stay,
    having squandered a fortune far away.

    The opposite is a free verse poem titled:

    Uncommitted

    A mixed array of flowers broke one Tuesday’s
    fabric into pieces. His hand, a temporary
    pot, held them until I looked away from a work
    project and landed my stare on him, much
    like a hummingbird locating a sun- soaked
    branch hours before winter would snow in.

    It was the kind of gesture that warmed my
    throat, the kind that would reach for the song
    stuck in my ribs since the day he walked over
    to where I played pool with my sisters:
    “Can my brothers and I join you ladies?”
    It was casual and unexpected like a complimentary
    cup of good cocoa offered by an attentive waiter.

    What I did not see coming the day after his flowers
    and almost handsome face re-painted my work space,
    after petals in my own heart began to open like fingers
    of a once cold hand, his indifference, more startling
    than his entrance. His exit committed to a sucker punch.

  13. Bruce Niedt says:

    My response to my own Day 7 poem, “Hamster Wheel”:

    Off the Wheel

    you sleep in again and
    have a leisurely breakfast and
    take a nice, long, hot shower and
    laugh at the traffic report on the radio and
    spend the morning doing whatever you want and
    go someplace different for lunch and
    spend the afternoon doing something interesting
    (reading, writing, a long walk, a museum) and
    think about the evening rush hour you’re not in and
    fix a fancy dinner for your wife and
    go out to a movie or a show and
    nestle into bed with a smile and

  14. sonja j says:

    Fat Man’s Misery II

    What the hell is the Devil’s Corncrib?
    Is that some kind of Puritan snack food?
    As if I would ever try to crawl through
    that grimy little hole. Do I look like I’m
    planning to audition for a reality show?
    Nobody told me there would be mosquitos.

    I need some bug-spray and a sweet tea.

    You know I’m missing that rerun
    of “Housewives”. My cousin from
    Florida went swimming with manatees
    last summer, and feeding kelp to
    sausage seals sounds like a lot more
    fun than this. Actually, a nice air
    conditioned mall sounds like an even
    better idea. We could get chinese food.

    I need some bug-spray and a sweet tea.

    Next time you decide to plan a little
    adventure for us, just leave me out.
    I have panic attacks when the nurse takes
    my blood pressure, so I certainly am not
    interesting in being squeezed under a rock
    just to say I conquered my fear.

    I need some bug-spray and a sweet tea.

  15. DanielAri says:

    “Paradise is outdoors”

    The canopy ravels from gray nacre
    the mountain’s verdant living filigree.
    In dark and light, divine blessings accrue,
    furling in bright fern-tip complexities
    to adorn the one space of the sacred.

    Heaven is the gateless sanctuary.
    Here my heart can run itself rabbit quick.
    I’m sublimated by the breath of me,
    the gospel rhythm of my walking stick,
    surrender emerging, a rare orchid.

    Palpitating glory requires a break.
    That’s when we go into church, temple, mall.
    Under a roof only humans would make,
    we collect into our scale our recall
    the transports of sequoia and fungi.

    For prayer in the present, there is one hall:
    the unroofed architecture of the all.

  16. Ber says:

    Hunger Games

    Similarities there simply was none
    opposites all over the floor
    plain as the nose on your face
    looking around the same place
    hunger for just one taste

    Eyes wonder
    looking for something
    looking for each other
    turning around
    wanting to be under the covers

    Rolling movement
    pushed deep down
    emotions of old
    emotions of new

    Tongue barely licking his bottom lip
    her lipstick really did the trick
    close up
    come to him
    don’t turn away
    let someone in

    Stop holding back
    stop wanting to say no
    lead by wildness in her heart
    taming her would mean
    dealing out all of his cards

    Throwing them out for her view
    approval would be something new
    hot for her
    him for her
    sweet taste of lusting opposite clues

  17. NEW POINT OF VIEW

    Thanksgiving Day has passed,
    and at last I can look forward,
    toward the holiday that is a blessing.
    And my curse. The weather
    has taken a turn and I yearn
    for the soup that steeps in the kettle.
    I stir and peek out at the snow falling
    calling me to play. Or plow. But, now
    our roles have been reversed. I had
    rehearsed this part from the start
    of my life. But now, my wife
    has taken charge while I
    recuperate. Bundled and gloved;
    a scarf wrapped for warmth.
    Her shovel skills need honing,
    but she’s owning her situation
    and my undying affection.
    I owe her so much more.
    The view from here is clear.
    I’m a lucky man.

  18. Sara McNulty says:

    Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 25
    Write an opposite poem to a previous one

    How To Wallow In Depression

    Do not open those blinds
    to light of day, far better
    to wallow in dark rooms,
    unwashed, taking care
    to avoid mirrors.

    Rifle through recordings
    of blues to bleed to, or
    country-western wails
    of lost love, liquor,
    and loneliness.

    Open that bottle;
    find that vein.

  19. posmic says:

    Shallows

    I only swim where my belly grazes the bottom;
    I only fly on the lowest air currents I can reach.
    I never stretch for anything, never look at
    anything unpleasant. I leave those

    logic puzzles to the philosophers; who cares
    about how the world works, and life, or all
    those questions that you can’t turn off?
    It all hurts my head; that’s why I stay

    here, above it all (but just barely), bobbing
    on ginger ale bubbles and celebrity gossip,
    both of which I get piped in daily, so I
    don’t even have to leave my house,

    the place where I am always the prettiest,
    the brightest and the best. I always wear
    an attitude T-shirt, even when there’s
    no one here to read it, so I go into

    my mirrored closet, shut the door, talk
    to myself about myself, for as long as
    it takes to convince myself that I’m
    OK, that it’s OK, it’s all OK now.

  20. Marianv says:

    The Lie about writing poetry

    Start with a big word. Open
    Your dictionary. Look at the words
    Try one you haven’t heard very often.
    (Do remember that modern poetry is
    very obscure.) find some other words
    that sound good next to it. This will be
    your first line. It doesn’t matter what
    order you put the word in. Try another
    big word. Dot not use “The” or “a”. and
    remember that modern poetry doesn’t have
    the last word of a sentence at the end of the
    line. Sprinkle in some words like “death” or
    “cemetery”. If you can’t think of anything
    else, use “zombie” But not too often. Love
    is always unhappy. True lovers make each
    other miserable. Try to make your poem as
    miserable as you can.

  21. Jane Shlensky says:

    I took Day 9′s “When he is gone” and made it “when he returns” keeping my storm theme.

    Finger in the Eye of the Storm

    We have known those who go to sea just to ride the hurricane
    waves into shore, a rush like being fired from a cannon.
    “Exhilarating!” one chum proclaims as we own our insecurity.

    We watch the weather man point to the storm on his monitor,
    white circular swirls edging away from Florida and grazing
    along the Eastern seaboard, like sheep dancing around
    a center. His eyes are large and serious, defining the girth

    and speed, the category, the likelihood of disaster on its way.
    Once the winds pick up and rains begin, blowing horizontally,
    it is too late to lay in groceries, to take the dogs and kids
    and run inland. We have boarded up, unboxed the storm
    supplies, and listen to one meteorologist after another

    for a hint of hope that the hurricane will miss us, at the expense
    of someone else along a coast, pummeled with wind and waves.
    Even religious quibblers look to something larger than this storm,
    saying, “Please” to whoever hears the prayers of the besieged,
    “please” mingling with the screaming wind, “pleeeaase” we beg
    to the god of storm surge, of narrow escapes, of flying shingles.

    Water rises and washes, gaining speed in the night, unseen
    depths shaking us to our cores, as we sit in darkness, the power
    gone, water in the toilets sloshing, walls vibrating, “please.”
    And then the rain all but stops, as if the hurricane lost interest

    in itself, self-regulated with “enough already” and calmed.
    We dare to feel giddy, to unclench, to breathe deeply at last.

    We are in the eye of the storm, a gentle reprieve, a moment

    of grace, knowing this boxing match is half finished. In relief,
    we forget “please” and think “whew”, needing hope, believing
    in survival intact. We grow philosophical, allow ourselves
    to think aftermaths, repairs, possibly helping the less fortunate.

    And then he’s back, this hurricane, a dragon whipping his great
    tail about, smashing whatever he sees, his feet grinding whole
    areas into dust, as if we ourselves are a finger in the eye of the storm.
    He is back like a savior, to teach lessons, to raise his voice, to preach
    his new gospel. And his return undoes whatever reserves we have

    of courage, false bravado, and arrogance. We are believers in weather
    patterns, in Doppler, in global warming, in greenhouse gases and carbon
    footprints, taught by an outcome. And suddenly we know the earth will
    survive everything we do, everything we are and cause to be,
    every act of selfishness and ignorance, the world will survive,
    but we will not. And we are small in the largeness of things.

  22. Mike Bayles says:

    Another Look, an Unstuck Poem

    When it seems like I’m lost
    I go past a turn in the road
    and cross another bridge
    on the way to what I seek.
    An odd job leads to another job
    and another friend,
    and I stay the journey
    until settling
    upon one that lasts for me.
    I look behind me,
    and ahead, and at where I am,
    to see the road
    is my destiny.

  23. julie e. says:

    OOPS! i clearly didn’t copy the edited version which is:

    INVITING YOU.
    And I call to you, my only son
    to let you know the time has come
    I’ve worked and sweat my way until
    I’ve made a healthy, lovely meal.
    You ask me, “Mother dear, what is
    this gourmet treat? I know it tis
    for daily, nightly, you employ
    your knowledge and your love and joy
    of culinary prowess here,
    pray tell, what is it, Mother dear?”
    I call to you, my full grown boy,
    “It is a food that brings you joy!
    A crust delightful, and within
    meats and cheeses, come dig in!”
    “How truly scrumptious a delight!
    I’ll dine with you on this fine night!”
    and I with secret smile say slow,
    “it’s really meatloaf, you should know.”
    A feeble voice from nether realms
    says “Boxy Jack was at the helm,
    the food that he provided me
    keeps coming back, I’m sick, you see,
    perhaps when at a later time
    my stomach calms, you’ll see that I’m
    able then to eat the meal
    you’ve made to keep me even keel.
    But now, with sorrow I confess,
    I’m rather full. Dear Mom, God bless!”

  24. julie e. says:

    INVITING YOU.

    And I call to you, my only son
    to let you know the time has come
    I’ve worked and sweat my way until
    I’ve made a healthy, lovely meal.
    You ask me, “Mother dear, what is
    this gourmet treat? I know it tis
    for daily, nightly, you employ
    your knowledge and your love and joy
    of culinary prowess here,
    pray tell, what is it, Mother dear?”
    I call to you, my full grown boy,
    “It is a food that brings you joy!
    A crust delightful, and within
    meats and cheeses, come dig in!”
    “How truly scrumptious a delight!
    I’ll dine with you on this fine night!”
    and I with secret smile say slow,
    “it’s really meatloaf, you should know.”
    A feeble voice from nether realms
    “Boxy Jack was at the helm,
    the food that he provided me
    keeps coming back, I’m full you see,
    Perhaps when at a later time
    my stomach calms, you’ll see that I’m
    able then to eat the meal
    you’ve made to keep me even keel.
    But now, with sorrow I confess,
    I’m rather full. Dear Mom, God bless!”

    (opposite of)
    U’VE BEEN TEXTED.

    me: dinner!
    son: wtr we hvg?
    me: pizza
    son: b rt there!
    me: it’s really meatloaf
    son: nt hungry 8 b4.

  25. TRUTH AND LIES ABOUT A PUPPY

    A scatter of blackbirds. She pushes through
    the gate, off pavement. Is she still on-scent,
    or crittering? This wind-blown field is new
    to her. It beckons. Here are grasses bent

    as if our morning’s quarry walked this way.
    My puppy’s so intent – the hunt, pursuit.
    A game she’s bred and trained for. Since the day
    we got her, tracking is her shepherd-suit.

    A handler always doubts. I question: Are
    you sure? She speeds her pace; it’s looking good.
    But dogs can be distracted, or just lie.

    She darts off to the side. It’s dark as char.
    And here’s our camo’d quarry, at edge of wood –
    so well hidden, I would have walked right by.

  26. Sally Jadlow says:

    Opposite Poem

    The Opposite of “The Truth about Seventy”

    Now that I’ve reached seventy,
    I’m old.
    I don’t matter anymore.
    My days are numbered;
    they’re getting shorter all the time.

    My regrets overwhelm me.
    There is nothing left to live for.
    My productive years are over.
    Life is the pits.
    I quit.

    This is quite a downer. Sorry. I don’t feel this way. See yesterday for the real me!

  27. bluerabbit47 says:

    Lies About Art

    The harder
    it is the better,
    after all,
    it’s about
    the skill,
    the height
    of the leap,
    the length
    of the note,
    the flawless
    reproduction
    of a photograph
    in an unforgiving
    medium.

    The best
    is dearest,
    after all
    experts know
    a fine
    investment
    when they
    see one
    and no
    great poet
    has died
    unknown.

    It takes
    years to learn,
    after all,
    the wheel
    has been invented
    and there are
    so many
    conventions
    to attend.
    Besides,
    who would
    want
    to be called
    a child?

  28. double negative

    no one can be sure
    from one moment to the next
    if you are lying
    even when you assure them
    everything you say is false.

  29. Michelle Hed says:

    The Truth About Death

    Sometimes he lingers in the lounges
    reading a magazine and sipping coffee;
    Sometimes you feel his icy grasp
    only to feel those cold fingers melt away;
    Sometimes he snatches people away
    when you least expect it;
    On rare occasions, you welcome him,
    thankful he takes the pain with him.
    As you side step him over and over again,
    he waits…knowing eventually
    you will go home
    with him.

  30. Half Moon

    Jonah sliced the moon in half
    with a knife, on Eve’s behalf.
    When they were caught, she simply bailed.
    He spent one-hundred days in jail.

    The opposite from…

    Full Moon
    (Day 1)

    The man in the moon
    got kicked out this afternoon.
    The reason? No room.

  31. Domino says:

    This method is opposite to the method described in “How to Get Over a Broken Heart on Day 17. http://dianaterrill.wordpress.com/2012/11/17/how-to-________-november-pad-day-17/
    This was fun to write in a different kind of way. ^_^

    Witnessed From the Sidelines

    Yeah, you’re fooling around, I know it!
    You must be!!
    So I’m gonna go through
    everything you own,
    just to find PROOF
    of what I think is actually happening.

    And if I do find that “proof,”
    (A restaurant receipt? A hotel room?
    A gift to someone I don’t know?)
    then I’m gonna call
    and harangue you
    all day at work. I will
    never let you go. Ever.
    I will always be
    shrill and angry.
    You will always have to
    hang up on me,
    fueling my rage even further.

    I might insist that you
    buy me presents
    or take me places
    or quit your job
    because there are too many
    beautiful people that you might like
    who I see as threatening.

    I will never look inside myself
    to find that something might
    be wrong,
    I will always blame you
    and despise you
    and drag you down
    into this morass of
    loathing
    with me.

    This is how I will
    prove my love to you.
    This is how I can keep you
    forever, even though
    I hate you.

  32. day 25 Opposite poem , opposite poem from day 24 copied below

    The Truth About Us
    the heaviest in the back gets to steer
    the lightest in the front tells where to go
    to move right the back adjusts the paddle angle
    the front provides the momentum paddling forward
    the dripping off the paddle tip, the sound of water over rock
    the truth about us no obstacle

    Day 24 The truth about us

    Living in another country
    trying to figure out the word for peach
    he swung from the dorm stairwells
    grunting like an ape
    trying to change the tense
    someone else let him in
    looking over my shoulder
    he always had the answer
    ducking the crackling fireworks, afraid
    I kissed someone else
    the pinch in my gripped shoulder told me
    it didn’t work
    the truth about us
    our panicked parakeet with freshly clipped wings

  33. Misky says:

    A recently written poem, re-written in reverse (opposite) to mirror the original. Artwork accompanies it, so I’ll post a link back to my blog if you wish to read it. http://miskmask.wordpress.com/2012/11/25/when-rainbows-kisskiss-rainbows-when/

    ~Misky

  34. RJ Clarken says:

    Schoolwork Sucks

    I think I might well 86
    my studies. Here’s why: just for kicks
    I will not care if I can pass.
    Goodbye good grades in every class.

    ‘Cause after all, why study? I…
    …I do not even want to try.
    And add to this, each prof’s an ass.
    Goodbye good grades in every class.

    And homework? It is for the birds.
    Each textbook’s boring. Words, words, words.
    I’ll blow it off to raise a glass.
    Goodbye good grades in every class.

    So I won’t be graduated.
    Higher learning’s overrated.
    Ummm…end of rant. I’m out of gas.
    I want good grades in every class.

    ###

    • RJ Clarken says:

      On A Magazine Sonnet (Russell Hilliard Loines, 19th Century)

      “Scorn not the sonnet,” though its strength be sapped,
      Nor say malignant its inventor blundered;
      The corpse that here in fourteen lines is wrapped
      Had otherwise been covered with a hundred.

      I would not for the world a sonnet scorn.
      A sestina is a much crueler beast,
      and ‘though a fourteen line corpse one might mourn,
      ‘tis easier than thirty-nine, at least.

      And the opposite:

      The sonnet, I absolutely abhor.
      All poetry too. (I’m being candid.)
      And poets? Each one is a crashing bore:
      pompous, quarrelsome and underhanded.

      ###

      • RJ Clarken says:

        Wow…that’s weird.

        After I posted my first poem, I was suddenly unsigned-in. So, I re-signed in and then tried to put the 2nd poem in a completely new entry in the box at the bottom of the page. Then…the ‘you are posting comments too quickly’ mechanism/monster appeared a few times – and then (somehow?) placed this new poem as a comment under my previous poem. Not sure how that happened, but I’ve never been able to figure out why something happens in cyberspace. Especially here.

  35. De Jackson says:

    Map Extender

    I always eat shred
    -ded wheat when I think
    of you, and the shards
    that struck us through
    and through. I wish I
    could ratchet a rib spreader
    clean through the center of
    (my chest)
    the map, and pull it
    all out long and lean,
    stretch a million extra miles here
    in between my fragmented
    heart and your fractured
    smile. It will take me awhile
    to build something strong
    enough, but someday I
    will reside beyond that lucid
    moon, on some distant
    northern star. And you? You’ll
    stay right where you are.

    .
    Written as an opposite perspective to this one:
    http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/12/map-folder/

  36. Glory says:

    Above My Head
    (Day 25)

    Above my head,
    the dark night sky with its face
    full of scattered stars, looks
    down on me, insignificant
    creature that I am.

    While I sit,
    ponder on this universe,
    its secrets forever hidden among
    swirling planets, hidden from
    us mere mortals.

    Eager, with eyes
    searching, always searching
    for some sign of that lost soul
    no longer earth bound, now seeking
    solace among the stars.

    Glory -

  37. De Jackson says:

    Confession of Venus

    I’m no goddess, you know. I
    don’t deserve the best seat in
    the house, but who am I to
    question why this gorgeous gold
    -en creature pooled herself at my
    feet? I am beholden to her quiet,
    humble grace, her light-spilled
    face, the savage howls she fetches,
    the poems she inspires. She
    never tires of ebb and flow, pull
    -ing full those ocean tides,
    making much of salt. Please
    don’t judge me; it’s not my
    fault the sky shines flashlight
    heavenward, and I absorb
    some sacred corner of its glow.

    (Original poem, from Nov 2. Full moon):

    Throne of Venus

    She’s sitting up there on that
    full fat golden pool, clever girl
    perched proud on high,
    drenched in swirl of inky sky.
    She embraces poet’s pen, howl
    of savage – thinks they are for
    her and her alone, forgets there
    is one for whom the very tides
    pull, turn and sway. One day,
    she will look out below and
    know the whisper of an
    entire universe. But tonight,
    this circle of light is a goddess’
    dream, a saucer of cream. She
    drinks deep, rocked to sleep
    by an ocean spill of stars.

  38. shellaysm says:

    “New Moon”
    (Fibonacci Poem)
    New
    Moon
    Barely
    Subtle tease
    Discretely waiting
    Gradually exposed spotlight

    (Opposite of poem titled “Full Moon” from Nov. 2)

  39. pmwanken says:

    WHEN HE’S HERE
    (a shadorma)

    I feel warm
    kisses on my neck;
    hands running
    through my hair;
    our bodies pressed together
    closerthanthisclose.

    Written as the opposite of the “When He’s Gone” prompt, found here:
    I’M RIGHT HERE

  40. madcapmaggie says:

    Nov 25; Write an opposite poem (subject, form, POV, whatever) to a previous one this month

    Poetic Formless

    Dust like stars. Any storm in a port. The eye of my apple. Dust the bite. Blind a turned eye. Fuse a blow. Worm an open can. A death worse than fate. Ice the break. Knot the tie. A society of pillars.

    Moons with rock piles made of diamonds, worlds of water where huge ships sail, never reaching shore, jungles full of purple cows, green tigers, and yellow elephants, dragons, fairies two feet tall, ten-foot-tall giants, magic wands, movies that turn themselves on with a blink of an eye.

    My car sprouts helicopter wings. I look down on the cars lined up on route 95 as it winds through downtown Providence, and I open my mouth and sing, loudly, beautifully on pitch, remembering all the words.

    Margaret Fieland

  41. DAHutchison says:

    Now & Then

    I wrote a letter to myself,
    When I turned thirty-nine,
    Addressed it to my inner child,
    A missive across time,
    Stop taking stock of debt and loss,
    I told myself that day,
    It’s all a win once you begin,
    To see it all as play,
    Take care of all the ones you love,
    The way you cared for Bear,
    And keep your parents in your heart,
    For they’ll always be there,
    Take courage against bullies now,
    But never raise your fist,
    ‘Cause bullies are half-crazy
    So just don’t get on their list.
    Now and then I read my note,
    Was life that simple then?
    The fundamentals haven’t changed,
    When I remember when.

  42. jacq says:

    Spider, Oh Spider
    Why do you hinder my window’s view
    With silky strands that encapsulate the width
    Floating effortlessly as the breeze tussles about
    Brilliance highlighted by daylight’s glorious rays
    Masterfully woven and sitting with ease
    Oh Spider

    My focus is impinged by your presence
    Yet adds dimension to the outer world
    Where butterflies flicker about
    And grasshoppers prance and climb
    Branches and leaves move in synchronization
    Harmoniously it all appears
    As if I were the outsider looking in
    On second thought Spider, Oh Spider
    Reside as long as you can

  43. SOMEBODY

    Who am I? I am the respected –
    I am the woman who teaches your children
    I am the man who judges others deeds
    I am the child with talents galore
    I am the old man filled with wisdom to whom
    you rush when life throws curve balls
    I am the old woman in the center of the photo
    with grandchildren gathered round her chair

    Who am I? I am the respected.

    Opposite to the poem written on Day 8

    NOBODY

    Who am I? I am the unseen –
    I am the woman who cleans your house
    I am the man who cuts vegetables for your favorite meal
    I am the child too afraid to speak
    I am the old man picking through your trash
    to garner your waste – subsidy for life
    I am the old woman jostled by the crowd
    with feet too feeble to resist

    Who am I? I am the unseen —

  44. suzanneh7 says:

    Sleep found me early
    in my bed
    where he did not snore
    right as my brain waves
    had just finally fallen off
    that conscious awake state
    my shoulder did not ache
    under my own torso’s weight
    I did not have fantasies
    of detaching
    scapula and arms
    for comfort
    hanging my limbs in the closet
    until morning
    I did not think any of that
    instead
    I slept soundly
    minus the bruxism that usually haunts my jaw
    slumbered for far longer
    than 2 hours
    within a well nested chrysalis
    that did not feel
    like being perpetually heaved out
    from some ridge hill
    memory foam rejection

  45. sonja j says:

    Robert, your poem is perfect! It made me laugh – I have known so many men like this…

  46. Why the hell you wanna freakin’ write

    It’s early afternoon
    the sun is shining
    and you just got up.
    Sun, beach, babes,
    you name it,
    they’re all waiting
    just for you -
    get out
    of the damn
    house.

    Hey, didn’t you hear me, I said
    get off your ass.

    There’s work to do,
    you have obligations
    to fulfill.
    You wanna be without
    health insurance?
    Hey, you see that dirty,
    homeless bag lady
    over there?
    Put the pen down
    or you’ll end up
    just like
    her.

    Written as opposite poem to day 2 full moon poem – why I write (gonna include it it’s only 33 words)

    Why I Write

    Because it’s night,
    the edge of sight
    unexpectedly bright
    and I always
    have to stop
    and
    name it

    Full
    Moon

    heart skipping
    beats
    thinking
    this stranger
    in the crowd
    might have been
    you

  47. Unstuck

    U nderstanding a need to move
    N o longer immobilized
    S et free to be in motion
    T umbling forward in anticipation
    U sing what’s available to progress
    C arefully avoiding quicksand
    K eeping one foot in front of the other

Leave a Reply