Editors Blog

2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 26

We are really into the final days of this challenge now. I can’t believe how fast November has swept in and is trying to sweep out already. I hope everyone survived the holiday weekend!

Today’s prompt comes from a former winner of the challenge: Shann Palmer.

Here’s Shann’s prompt: Write a poem about something you collect (or would collect if you could).

Robert’s attempt at a Collection Poem:


They’re everywhere,
and they don’t cost nothing,
and the world is made of them.
I don’t understand
why more people don’t collect them,
and adore them,
and write poems about them.


Thank you, Shann, for adding your prompt to our November collection! Click here to learn more about Shann.

Click here if you prefer poeming on the WD Forum.


Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer


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64 thoughts on “2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 26

  1. IrisD


    Pastures, creek, and hayloft were our playground.
    During the summers my sister and I shared our domain.
    Cousins would take turns staying a week at a time.
    We fed the hogs, gathered eggs, and worked in garden
    in mornings, but then we explored the farm.
    My favorite was the two story barn with its huge hayloft.
    We would move the bales to make hay igloos and play cowboys and Indians
    until we were called for lunch or supper.
    A race was on to the windmill to wash our hands and face under the pump,
    then hurry to sit at table where Mother always led us in prayer.

  2. JRSimmang

    It’s more of a hobby,
    I s’pose,
    than a habit or an
    adolescent booklet with tiny little stamps
    licked and posted on the inside.

    I guess I found out what it was I wanted to keep
    when I was really young.
    I was always curious about my own.
    I would sit for hours and play with it,
    trying to find it before it slipped away.
    It is a slippery mother f-er,
    silvery and sublime,
    slick and perfect.
    Then, one day, I touched the damned thing.
    I became obsessed.
    I tried to find the ones others had.

    It was a little more than a month later,
    Algebra class.
    I was speaking with a girl, Abigail,
    sweet little thing with crystal clear eyes
    and auburn hair.
    I figured out that all I had to do was ask.
    She let me touch it.
    She let me hold it.
    She let me keep it.

    Now, it’s the first of my collections.
    It’s the first of many.
    And whenever I wish,
    I can call them all.
    I am the devourer and
    they owe their souls to me.

  3. Karen H. Phillips

    Day 26
    Prompt: Collection poem

    Collected, Hopefully Kept?

    Boxes of uncatalogued photographs
    Albums of other photos
    Stacks on a closet shelf of greeting cards
    Boxes of newspapers bearing historic headlines:
    Challenger Explodes, 911, UGA Wins National Championship.

    Brochures from Disney World, Ringling Brothers, Phoenix,
    not to mention Broadway Playbills and programs from
    a hundred local shows, a few including my name
    in cast or crew, and many with our son’s name,
    often as a lead.

    Framed photos and quotes hung on the wall
    or scattered across the furniture
    of family groups and our daughter’s sports and our son as a Ninja Turtle
    Bulldogs, cats, and dachshunds
    Georgia and Tennessee football memorabilia
    Books and books and more books.

    So many objects which could be swept away
    in a tornado or a fire,
    yet the ultimate collection cannot be destroyed,
    unless my mind leaves earth ahead of my body:

  4. foodpoet


    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.

  5. foodpoet

    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.

  6. Sally Jadlow

    A Collection Poem

    First we collected wedding gifts
    which gave way to gathering children.

    Then came their toys,
    school mementoes and awards.
    Not to mention roller skates,
    soccer equipment, and bikes.
    When they left home their junk stayed.

    Next we received a generous sprinkling
    of inherited antiques,
    family treasures, and non-disposable plunder
    from parents, now gone.

    Many items found their way into the basement
    to share space with large patio plants
    abiding the winter under grow lights.

    I think it’s time to share
    many of these collectables
    with the world.
    Perhaps we could fill a dumpster
    and let the landfill be the blessed receiver
    of large piles of our gifting.

  7. Sara McNulty

    Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 26
    Write a poem about something you collect
    (or would if you could).

    House of Giraffes

    Standing on carpets,
    sitting on shelves,
    grinning from paintings,
    reclining on chairs,
    my giraffes are everywhere.
    Gentle, graceful, tall swaying
    trees, dressed in designer
    best, knobby-kneed. Some
    are furry, some carved
    from teak, and one family
    intertwined in marble. Open
    my cabinet, select a giraffe-
    handled mug to grasp
    while sipping hot cocoa
    by firelight.

  8. Eleanore D. Trupkiewicz


    Sometimes I wonder:
    what am I accomplishing,
    really? If time is money,
    I’ve spent a trillion dollars
    or as many years, give or
    take, and what am I given
    in return? Ulcers, insomnia,
    a complex, a piece of paper
    that will only collect dust
    as years pass. Normal people
    collect rocks, stamps, letters,
    shot glasses—I collect college
    degrees, for what they’re worth.

  9. Bruce Niedt

    When Life Hands You Lemons…

    I collect rejection slips
    because they inspire me.
    I can paper my walls with them
    and write an instructional poem
    or brag about my beautiful décor,

    or I can line the bottom
    of my canary’s cage with them
    as I write a nature poem
    on the beauty of birds.

    Perhaps an environmental poem
    on what we can do to preserve our world
    as I shred rejection slips
    and dump them in my recycling bin.

    Then, at the end of the day,
    a romantic poem, as my sweetie
    and I cuddle before the fire,
    kindled by you-know-what.

  10. zevd2001

    You can’t do this without taking a hike
    out in fields of wild flowers, where tall grasses wave
    and butterfly flit about, as they save
    the liqueur of the flora inside them. Then they strike
    into a forest, to spin new life, new wings
    back to the habitat from whence they came.
    You arrive, your net raised as your heart aflame
    the woop and the warf of the threads flow, it rings

    in the air, caught in a glass bottle, not the first
    nor the last, back to place it upon the page
    with an enlightening entry in your journal, to engage
    your colleagues in a discussion of the best and the worst
    countryside hostels they’ve encountered in their search
    of life so small yet captivates the mind,
    of beauty at the middle its life, the color of a kind
    not even the wildest-eyed artist, sitting on a porch

    of a sunset, gathering his intuitions onto the brush.
    It happens in the moment the cocoon unfurls,
    how much more original can it ever get—
    Who painted that, how many more, the lush
    hues defy imagination. So you cross
    oceans, trek steamy forests, mountain climes,
    where almost no one lives, to trap the times
    when Creation stands still, and you’re the boss.

    Zev Davis

  11. Casey

    The Collector

    I’ll keep this moment for myself tonight
    I’ll watch from cozy fireside, and so
    the wind, his partner, makes a handsome sight
    as swirl and waltz, and pirouettes the snow!

    Pale moon above; he’s idle, full, entranced.
    We watch the dancers; frenzied in their cause
    as snowflake sparkles, stepping up romance.
    The game is on and so they do not pause.

    The wheeling wind now makes repeated sigh,
    and I will capture; mime this scene awhile,
    but out of step, his partner says goodbye;
    their dance will end in whispered, quiet style.

    I’ve held this picture in my mind before;
    collected many; always wanting more.

  12. posmic

    Fruit Crate Labels, Seattle

    It’s coming up on ten years since I was thirty, standing on
    the side of a hill with my husband in downtown Seattle,
    the city where I was born—or I was born near it, anyway,
    which is what you say when you’re as suburban as I am,
    or was. I am urban now, so I know how it is to stand and
    smile politely, interject a word or two, as a stranger jabbers
    at you—in this case, about virtual reality helmets. That was
    just the thing to listen to in 2003, how everything was right
    on the verge of changing. And it was; he was right about that,
    the antique store employee who followed us to keep talking
    after I had paid $75 for a stack of fruit crate labels, brightly
    inked and printed, and then piled in a warehouse, unused
    for decades, preserved—as was explained on a small square
    of paper stuck to the back of each plastic sleeve. I thought
    these would be my new things—collecting fruit crate labels,
    visiting Seattle. But now, I could no more drop $75 on labels
    than I could go back there to see if the city still slants as it
    once did, whether the hill is still there, the store, the man,
    if he ever made his fortune in the virtual world, or whether
    he found, as we did, just how real actual reality can be.

  13. uneven steven

    When he was young,
    tin man collected
    broken hearts
    with wild wantonness –
    a little boy’s first bike ride,
    falling and scraping
    his knees,
    a father’s half-step
    to help
    cut short,
    every son
    needing to learn
    to be a
    a mother’s quick rush
    to cradle her child,
    the hard stare
    between them
    as the husband
    walks slowly

    Now that he is old,
    tin man collects
    broken hearts
    like an old man collects
    baseball cards –
    a connoisseur stealing
    the smell
    of stale bubblegum
    once a year,
    the corner of his treasured Wagner
    folded from fighting
    and tearing it away
    from his brother
    when they were children,
    every year,
    on his brother’s birthday,
    asking for bids on the internet
    though he knows
    he could never bring himself
    to sell it

  14. De Jackson


    She collects worries
    like jagged stones, groans
    with hope’s each tear and shred,
    dreads the fog they will bring
    in the dark. Shines them by the
    light of day, smoothes them
    loose, and lets them stay.


  15. DanielAri

    “The library”

    John and I ordered two slices
    and a raspberry soda each.
    Sat, ate and took turns reciting
    snips and strophes within easy reach,
    chuckling, focusing or sighing

    as fit the words until our speech
    joined together on Innisfree.
    We chanted the secluded beach
    into being. W. B.
    then coaxed in the cat, Minnaloushe,

    who puzzled the moon, far and wee—
    and so we came upon Cummings
    hiccupping his typography
    over our paper plates and crumbs.
    We stood up. It was time to teach

    of what had passed and what would come
    and how poems make a honeycomb.

  16. jared davidavich

    Saving Time

    Each morning I am greeted
    By the sweet absence of yesterday,
    Having taken with it the
    Seconds, minutes, and hours,
    That pass before it
    All fallen as the next one appears
    And piled here, into weeks,
    Months, and years,
    One atop the other,
    Never higher than the one before
    Never more than one at a time;
    I cannot keep them or release them
    Only count them as they arrive
    And remember that for a moment
    They were mine

  17. Jacqueline Hallenbeck

    Since 2001, this has been my addiction…

    Love is…

    If for words you’re at a loss,
    or want to say Hi just because…
    Love is… to the rescue!

    When you want to keep in touch
    because you care so very much…
    Love is… to the rescue!

    If somebody broke your heart
    and your world’s falling apart…
    Love is… to the rescue!

    Be it a sad or happy occasion.
    For Good-Bye or Congratulations!!!
    Love is… to the rescue!

    Good for families, friends and lovers.
    When it’s needed the world over…
    Love is… to the rescue!


    Love is… is a comic panel printed from Monday to Saturday on The Record (Hudson/Bergen Counties, NJ). It was created by Kim Casali and is currently drawn by Bill Asprey. For more on Love is…, visit their website: http://www.gocomics.com/loveis

  18. po

    Warning: Your Collection May Be Hazardous To Your Health

    When does your collection turn on you
    and become hoarding? We have eleven
    bookcases overflowing with books. Piles
    of books on and around furniture. Hidden
    in cabinets, staked on the fireplace, and piles
    cleverly disguised as furniture. Some have
    even migrated into the bathroom. Our motto
    could be: books for every room. We can’t
    have pets because we might lose them or
    worse find them under a fallen pile of books.
    You know you have a problem when you buy
    back books you have donated to the library
    book sale. I read that you can burn a book
    for heat in an emergency. It will last fifteen
    minutes. We’re good for a year.

  19. claudsy

    I’ve done the last five prompts but posted them only on my blog. This is today’s offering.

    Sun’s Children

    From legend to lore,
    From lore to dream,
    From dream to hand,
    Little or large,

    Brightly colored
    Or plainly made,
    Dragons grip my

    Whether waxes
    Or good Thai woods,
    Fire breathers move
    On wings made light.

    Two heads as good
    To see far prey
    And locate new
    Horizons here.

    Incense burners,
    Pillar candle
    Castle towers
    Carry wyverns

    To my dreamland,
    Watching me sleep,
    Never leaving
    Me to lone nights.

    They say little,
    But listen well,
    My charming beasts
    Of legends gone.

  20. RJ Clarken

    A Collection of Moments in Time

    “Time stands still best in moments that look suspiciously like ordinary life.” ~Brian Andreas

    Within each album, on each page,
    are captured moments from each age,
    composed and carefully maintained.
    The rear-view mirror life explained.

    Time is caught and documented
    so it’s not misrepresented.
    Collections of what’s been attained:
    The rear-view mirror life explained.

    The commonplace becomes the spot
    for memory’s forget-me-not.
    It’s all at once quite unrestrained.
    The rear-view mirror life explained.

    A photo is a billet-doux,
    a sentimental mind tattoo.
    Collections then are preordained:
    the rear-view mirror life explained.


  21. Domino

    Strange Collection

    I keep collecting children,
    friends of my children.
    I like it when they call me mom
    or even by my first name.

    They used to come over
    and hang out when my kids
    were still at home,
    and I would feed them
    and try to keep out of the way
    and chat when they wanted.

    Sometimes I was the stage mom
    who helped make costumes for plays.
    Or the mom who would drive everyone home.
    Or the mom who they could
    ask difficult questions
    and not be judged.

    But now,
    even though everyone
    is all grown,
    they still come over
    just to talk.

  22. Jane Shlensky

    Thanks for the prompt, Shann. My mother used to say that my sister collected stray animals and I collected stray people, but that’s another poem and another habit.


    I grew by collections as a child—
    each addition mounted and
    labeled with care, part of a learning
    discipline for me: shells, insects,
    butterflies, leaves pressed in wax
    paper, wood samples, rocks,
    pressed wildflowers, even spore
    prints from wild mushrooms and
    fungi—there my hand holding
    sea life, sky life, woods and earth
    life. I spent time with types and
    textures of cloth, stamps, crystals,
    all of them dead or previously living,
    like the Latin names beneath them,
    each eventually admired by its
    new owner. I had no fidelity to
    any of these collections after
    I’d learned what it had to teach.

    Recollecting now, I see that
    my only real collection was
    knowledge, bits and pieces of
    ideas, answers and observations
    to stem the tide of my curiosity
    of the world, a way of bringing
    order to a varied landscape of
    being. Is my library a collection?
    Those volumes are friends, pure
    and simple, my notes in their
    margins proving that a dialogue
    has taken place, is on-going.
    To this day, I enter meaningful
    lines and passages from my reading
    into a small book to think about
    later. I scan the shelves of each
    room, looking for give-aways,
    throw-aways, places I won’t go
    again, then tuck them back in
    their places when I know I have
    not finished that conversation.

    For their part, quiet as they are,
    they stare back, humoring me
    as best friends do, reminding me
    of what I used to know, of who
    I used to be and value. Every
    single collection of my life has
    helped me to look with care at
    universes within small existences—
    birds’ feathers, flower petals,
    the spidering veins in a leaf,
    the mother-of-pearl splendor
    in a conch shell—thankful they
    have honed my imagination,
    made me ready joyfully to
    collect myself.

  23. taylor graham


    Leashes of webbing or leather, some with extra
    D-rings and snaps at both ends; long-lines
    braided, woven, frayed by dogs pulling me over rocks,
    curbs, broken branches in the woods. Soft web
    collars (purple for Piper, blue for Cowboy,
    red for Loki; Cody’s was green, it’s with her
    in the grave, as token we’re still together); collars
    sized from puppy on up to great old patriarch,
    passed down dog to dog. Equality of partners, each
    one different but equal, still holding the scent
    of fur. Sardy’s collar that she didn’t wear
    those whole five days of searching earthquake
    rubble, crawling through jags of rebar,
    chunks of floor wall ceiling. Generations of collars.
    And curry combs, flat combs, brushes imbued
    with decades of dog. Also, binders full
    of training logs and search reports I seldom read,
    but still remember. The hiker Sardy would
    have found if she’d had wings; Cody’s turn
    on trail that clued a mystery; Roxy daring pipe-
    walk over the abyss. And of course the photos,
    never quite as true as memory, of dogs
    that still come to me in dream; who won’t stay
    still on a shelf.

  24. Yolee

    Love’s Collection:

    moods, like well-worn shoes, gaffes
    like unfinished letters, morning face
    and evening fatigue like used and new brushes.

    Love gathers reflections like compact mirrors,
    faith like buttons with slogans. It amasses
    weaknesses, and strengths like costume

    or fine jewelry. Love accumulates unwritten
    poems like pearls from obstinate clams, finished
    work like wooden crosses, orphaned phrases

    huddled in white space like dolls with missing
    appendages, heartbeats like cut-rate or designer
    bags. Love draws in soft and hard lines like tubes

    of lipstick, coups like bestsellers, failures like torn
    paperbacks, appetites like recipes for humble
    or gourmet meals, fears like trinkets, dreams

    like tea-cups, purpose like fountain pens,
    gumption like silver-spoons, lovers like
    exotic birds, family like rare coins.

  25. Misky


    Tick and tock,
    every clock and chime.
    Tall and lean, and
    short and squat, wound
    on key and weight.
    Turned with gears and levers,
    spin go hands and numbers.
    Tick and tock
    go all my clocks.

  26. Michelle Hed


    Memories mix
    old with new
    and as more are added
    the old ones slowly fade
    into the background
    and knowing no memory is indelible
    against time –
    I take snapshots
    to help me remember,
    to help me pull those memories
    from the background
    and keep them
    from fading

  27. Michelle Hed


    Thoughts hibernate within my mind
    collecting dust
    while words frolic in the snow
    and when the sunrise is still blushing
    and souls are slumbering,
    I gently blow off the dust
    and wake the thoughts
    weaving them with
    loose words
    until I’m ready to cut the threads
    and pull the finished piece
    off the loom.

  28. Connie Peters

    Collecting Collections

    It seems I don’t have the attention span
    to stick to one collection throughout my lifetime.
    When I was a child I collected boxes—
    little boxes. They made good spy radios.
    It got me in trouble when I claimed
    my oldest sister’s engagement ring box.

    Next, I collected colorful glass bottles
    not just any bottle, the daintier the better.
    In my teens as I traveled more, pennants—
    pennants from all along the east coast
    from north to south, except Maine,
    and western ones from a Wyoming trip.

    Then there’s the walking sticks—
    shiny gnarled ones, ones with places
    inscribed such as Yellowstone National Park.
    Now, I collect sample copies of magazines
    my work appears in. I need to get a bigger drawer,
    a good problem to have.

    And I collect books. Used to be, I couldn’t
    imagine owning a book and not reading it,
    but now I own hundreds I haven’t read yet.
    Many of the books I have now are authored
    by my friends and partially by me. Plus,
    I collect thousands of my poems.

    My favorite collection is my Christmas tree ornaments.
    At least one a year: the crab claw poinsettia from
    Louisiana, the painted gourd from Sedona,
    the bagpipe player from Scotland,
    a mouse in a matchbox—baby’s first Christmas
    among all the crudely made ones
    by my kids when they were little.

    What is the reasoning behind collections?
    What makes a bunch of them better than one?
    How many walking sticks does a person need?
    Maybe I’m collection memories, hanging onto
    a part of this life before it disappears, and
    leaving something behind for my kids
    to sort through reminding them of me.

  29. Miss R.

    Your Smiles

    Every time you smile at me,
    I tuck it carefully away
    For some gloomy future day
    When there is nothing good to see.

    Then I recall it gently,
    And it shines so small and bright
    That it fills me with delight
    And gives my own smile back to me.

  30. Nancy Posey

    National Geographic

    Rumor has it the world
    has begun to tilt
    slightly on its axis,
    leaning toward
    the Western Hemisphere,
    caught off balance
    by the accumulated weight
    of all those old copies
    of National Geographic
    stacked up in basements
    across America, saved
    for a school kid’s project
    on Zambia or Timbuktu,
    satisfying the curiosity
    of young boys eager
    for a glimpse of breasts,
    even wrinkled and pendulous.
    Never arranged by date,
    they sit stacked, yellow cover
    on yellow cover, ready
    when we need them.

  31. elishevasmom


    I don’t even have
    to collect them.
    They collect themselves.

    I have always thought like a story
    teller, taking any small
    whimsey, and spinning
    it into a grand yarn.

    Have always been that
    way—spinning threads,
    way before the
    cyber-threads we all
    swing from today.

    I have no problem at all
    collecting the kernels.
    The trouble starts in
    trying to separate out
    the chaff.

    When I write down those
    words that squirt out of that
    hole in my head,
    I have to be careful to
    balance the pressure
    between inside and out.

    Otherwise I get
    word-logged, needing to let myself
    dry out a bit before
    I pick up where I left off.

    Once the words have
    begun to pool in a safe valley,
    I can catch those chosen few
    that grab me on their way by.

    The difference between a
    valuable collection and
    just a pile of stuff
    is to know each item’s worth,
    and how it fits together
    to form the perfect

    Ellen Knight

  32. bluerabbit47


    They fill
    the silvery
    surfaces of
    computer disks,
    the hidden
    of external
    drives, cloud-tops
    from long flights,
    footprints in snow,
    drifting gold
    leaves, glinting
    sun on summer
    lakes, blossoms
    in spring orchards,
    baby faces,
    smiling friends,
    all of them
    held in virtual
    memory, formatted
    in universal jpeg.
    Like Midas, I run
    them through
    my fingers,
    longing to
    hold on.

  33. shellaysm

    “The Fully Empty Jar” (Vilanelle Poem)

    Fully empty, ready to hold
    Dreams of tomorrow and perhaps
    Something collectible as gold

    The walls of glass to touch feel cold
    A cloak of fear chilled to ice caps
    Fully empty, ready to hold

    Upon shaking palms, truth foretold
    Like a plush blanket that enwraps
    Something collectible as gold

    A poker hand nearing its fold
    A chance without paved roads or maps
    Fully empty, ready to hold

    To peek inside, polish so bold
    Before hourglass sands elapse
    Something collectible as gold

    Stifled beliefs, story untold
    Hidden potential gently taps
    Fully empty, ready to hold
    Something collectible as gold

  34. JWLaviguer

    Collect Your Thoughts

    Collecting my thoughts
    with fingers on keys
    what should I write
    with thoughts such as these
    roll around my head
    and down through my hands
    and from my fingertips
    I write of strange lands
    and sailing on ships
    on seas and on rivers
    fighting some pirates
    they give me the shivers
    keep writing they tell me
    it’s good stress relief
    gotta work the brain muscle
    that is my belief.

  35. Andrew Kreider


    Fifteen sparrows out of nowhere
    Two blue jays, one grackle
    One red-bellied woodpecker, male

    Two brown squirrels on the ground
    One black squirrel hanging upside down
    From the pole above

    One dog
    No squirrels
    No birds

    One indignant voice on the roof,
    Three minutes
    One screen door

    One red-bellied woodpecker, male
    One grackle, two blue jays,
    Eighteen sparrows out of nowhere.

  36. Glory

    (Day 25)

    To hold in my hand
    feel the weight, turn the page,
    sneak a quick look, no one
    will notice.

    To hold, keep, line
    upon line of stacked shelves
    waiting for my choice,
    all new.

    Silence, stillness, the hush
    of tempered speech, a wonderland
    to visit, all mine to have albeit,
    short time.

  37. Nevada Benton

    Little porcelain hands, rosy cheeks, lace neckline
    pastel pink, green, blue squares on a neatly tucked quilt
    sitting up as if she is ready to get up and toddle over
    to the porcelain boy pastel blue shorts and his
    pastel brown dog where they will play in the mud,
    sparkling white.

  38. Walt Wojtanik


    Don’t we all?
    We write them,
    amassing a mess of words
    left unheard until the spirit moves
    and behooves us to assemble them
    in some semblance that makes sense.
    What recompense does a poet need except
    for some willing audience to read what we’ve penned?
    To that end, collections of poems is what I have, glad
    to share with the world. A chapbook or better to open; hoping for better.
    Read all you want, I’ll write more, (Like you had doubts!)

  39. sonja j

    For once, I am not posting in the wee hours!

    Seed Saving

    Other people would raise them
    for food, but these plants exist for
    their various and spiraling genes.
    To be selfed and sibbed, to be
    carefully hand-pollinated, coddled,
    until it is time to catch the beautiful fruits –
    silicles and siliques, drupes, pomes,
    achenes, dry or fleshy, with all their
    ways of traveling, shattering, their burrs
    and wings. They live to be sung to
    until threshing time, until they give
    up those precious packets of spring,
    cotyledons, dormant radicles
    and plumules all wrapped in seed
    coats and sealed at the hilum. Then
    we can cover our counters with trays
    and trays of the tiny jewels, the little
    drying gems.

  40. Rorybore

    In reality, I am collecting snowflakes today. Which is actually quite inspirational……for now.

    Buried in Flakes….also, children

    as I look out my window
    the morning sun glistens
    upon the first snowfall
    the first sleepy child rises
    and comes to stand
    with nose pressed upon
    the frosted window pane and
    with happy cries exclaims:
    “it’s snowing! It’s snowing!”
    awakening another child who comes
    to gaze upon this new wonderland
    my mothers’ sense is tingling…
    one more to wake….and then
    from their brother’s room
    the sound of deep coughs –
    the verdict is in:
    No school for him today.
    Turn on the news and
    see how much of this white stuff
    will be collecting upon my drive
    “here are the bus cancellations….”
    and another one remains home.
    As my message alert chimes
    Can you babysit today?
    Sure…what’s one more to the mix.

    So now I sit before warm fire
    with warm mug
    a mother hen watching
    her expanding brood
    sipping hot cocoa
    and I hope and pray;
    that along with the fuffly flakes,
    and the excited children
    today I might also
    collect some patience.

  41. Linda Rhinehart Neas

    The Collector

    Books inhabit the tiny house
    like rabbits a hutch!
    Most are shelved, but some
    climb the side of the bed,
    linger in baskets or
    lounge beside the couch.
    “Nice book collection,”
    someone once said.
    “I don’t collect books,”
    she replied most adamantly,
    “Can’t you see?”
    “I collect words – need someplace
    to store them!”

  42. DAHutchison

    Post Cards

    As a child, I collected post cards, but Rushmore and General Custer,
    Stopped holding my interest and after a time my post card collecting lost luster,
    But after three decades went under, my niece pulled them from mother’s attic,
    And started to plunder my 4×6 wonders so now she’s the post card addict.

  43. DAHutchison

    I realized that
    After seven years,
    Of “making it happen”
    At Hollywood and Highland,
    I had seventy dollars in change,
    Cause even when I didn’t charge it,
    You don’t end up with a lot of coinage,
    On a diet of ninety-nine cent Top Ramon.
    But would I trade the grand adventure,
    For a peaceful life gathering wool,
    In less daunting circumstances?
    Actually, I do believe I would,
    But sometimes the young,
    Need to get schooled—
    A little blood sport,
    Is a good way
    To learn

  44. Walt Wojtanik


    Bookshelf re-purposed.
    Rows of video tapes and DVDs.
    Up to my knees in sports flicks,
    and space movies. Gangster films
    and war stories. I’d be in my glory
    if could collect enough time
    to watch these things!