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    2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 26

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

    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.


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    64 Responses to 2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 26

    1. IrisD says:


      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 says:

      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. 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 says:

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

    5. foodpoet says:


      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. 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.

    8. 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.

    9. Collection

      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.

    10. PSC in CT says:


      If only I could,
      I would snatch
      (one and all)
      to suspend from the ceiling,
      festoon on the wall,
      or I’d catch
      (on my tongue)
      their enchanting free-fall.

    11. 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.

    12. zevd2001 says:

      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

    13. julie e. says:


      China cups
      in the cupboard
      Grandma’s china
      in the hutch
      Things that pour,
      way too many
      Even more.

    14. Casey says:

      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.

    15. posmic says:

      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.

    16. 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

    17. De Jackson says:


      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.


    18. DanielAri says:

      “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.

    19. jared davidavich says:

      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

    20. 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

    21. Hannah says:

      Something impossible to collect! :)


      Thanks a bunch for the prompt to inspire.

    22. po says:

      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.

    23. claudsy says:

      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.

    24. RJ Clarken says:

      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.



      glasses standing there
      forever in their glass cupboard.

    26. Domino says:

      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.

    27. Jane Shlensky says:

      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.


      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.

    29. Yolee says:

      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.

    30. Misky says:


      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.

    31. Snapshots

      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

    32. Threads

      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.

    33. 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.

    34. Miss R. says:

      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.

    35. 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.

    36. elishevasmom says:


      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

    37. JPEGs

      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.

    38. shellaysm says:

      “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

    39. JWLaviguer says:

      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.

    40. Feeders

      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.

    41. pmwanken says:

      (a shadorma)

      Shooting star
      wishes, moonlight dreams…
      cherished, held
      in my heart; given new life
      with each breath I breathe.

    42. Glory says:

      (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.

    43. RobHalpin says:


      various topics
      disparate and random tidbits
      filling my noggin, good for nothing, but Jeopardy!

    44. Collection
      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.

    45. POEMS

      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!)

    46. sonja j says:

      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.

    47. Rorybore says:

      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.

    48. 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!”

    49. DAHutchison says:

      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.

    50. sonja j says:

      I get up early, check the challenge, and every day you guys have already posted. How do you do that?

    51. DAHutchison says:

      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


      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!

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