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2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 30

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

Okay, today is the final day of the poeming part of this challenge. Beginning tomorrow (if not already), you’ll begin the process of revising and assembling a 10-20 page poetry chapbook manuscript. Click here to review the guidelines.

Today’s prompt comes from Violet Nesdoly.

Here’s Violet’s prompt: Write a milk poem. This could be about the moo-juice kind of milk. Or it could explore milk metaphorically, as in the expression “milk of human kindness.” Of course it could also be about the act of milking something. And no, it doesn’t have to be nourishing.

Robert’s attempt at a Milk Poem:

“The Final Poem”

The final prompt, the final day,
and here I am milking the situation
as if tomorrow won’t come, as if
it won’t bring more prompts, more
poems, more lines to break.

*****

Thank you, Violet, for the great prompt! Click here to learn more about Violet.

Click here to share your poem on the WD Forum.

*****

Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer

*****

Write 21st Century Fiction! Click here to learn how.

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About Robert Lee Brewer

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83 Responses to 2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 30

  1. viv says:

    I missed the last few days of the challenge, as I have been in hospital after a heart attack and 3 lots of surgery in 4 days. Tillybud has sent me the prompts I missed, but I don’t know that I have the mojo to write to them. Can I still submit my chapbook poems – I wrote to every prompt up to 21 November?

  2. Miss R. says:

    DONE. :) Thanks for a wonderful month of poetry!!

    The Milkman

    A poke here, a jab there –
    Always verbal, of course.
    He kept at it daily
    Without sign of remorse.
    Cruel word by cruel word
    He slowly milked away
    All of her confidence
    And never had to pay.

  3. PSC in CT says:

    Milking Venom

    It’s a dangerous job,
    but necessary. Caution
    and coordination
    (prerequisite skills
    for the position – both
    sorely needed and surely
    lacking) must be
    carefully cultivated,
    patiently applied, else
    one risks a most
    venomous sting

  4. heiditoad says:

    Milk, milk, lemonade, around the corner fudge is made!!

    OMG – I just had to do it and NO this is not my poem and I give full credit to whomever made it up in the first place; although, I have no idea.

    Am I going to get in trouble for posting this?

  5. pmwanken says:

    I didn’t get this posted yesterday…

    HO-HO-HO!
    (a shadorma)

    Each year I
    wait, with cookies and
    milk, trying
    to stay a-
    wake to hear him exclaiming:
    “I am Ho-Ho-Home!”

    2012-11-30
    P. Wanken

  6. zevd2001 says:

    STAYIN’ ALIVE
    I lay beside green pastures and conspire
    to find the ways of keeping what passes through
    unhindered by too much civilization, all the undue
    interference of what doesn’t belong. I tire
    of the calls of them that complicate my life
    with devices that are supposed to ensure
    that my existence won’t be encumbered, that lure
    me into a gallery lit with attractions, rife

    with lights, camera action, and the uneasy feel
    somebody is watching me, they want to know
    where I am going, leading me to follow their flow,
    no, it’s here where the sheep graze, I kneel
    over a patch of flowers gazing at butterflies
    congregating about the petals drinking their fill . . .
    off in the distance my feet sense the thrill
    of the sound of the sheep, the voices rise

    in the distance. Always there, reminding me
    where they are in the circle of life, where I am,
    biting away at the flowers when I just came
    following them back to the pen, I let them be . . .
    mother lambs at the milking, first the flock
    then the machines in tins, carrying them in
    to the plant where the liquid turns, my head spins
    how everything goes round comes round the clock.
    Zev Davis

  7. Yolee says:

    Dear Santa, I will leave milk and cookies on the coffee table this time. I’m sorry I sorta blamed you last year when mama asked who chipped her half moon tableinthe hallway . She would never believe me if I told her the real truth. I hope you understand. Don’t you have children? Didn’t they break things? I bet you helped them get out of trouble with Your wife. I bet you brought them a computer they really really needed. You are a good dad. I can tell. Ps I’m going to make sure my dog will be in the basement so he won’t bite you.

  8. Glory says:

    Cleopatra . . .

    Cleopatra bathed in asses’ milk
    I’ve often heard it said,
    so I decided I would too before I went to bed.

    I filled the bath with asses’ milk.
    well almost to the brim,
    a foaming bath it was, in which to bathe my skin.

    I didn’t like the texture, didn’t like
    the smell, but most of all
    I must admit, I missed dear Anthony as well.

  9. RJ Clarken says:

    The Ilk of Milk

    “The cow is of the bovine ilk; one end is moo, the other milk.” ~Ogden Nash

    If one end’s milk, the other moo,
    I wonder: could you then construe
    that chocolate milk should be called choo?
    Or is it chilk? What would you do?

    I think where bovines are concerned
    re milk production, we’ve all learned
    that cows have no real point of view
    on choo (or chilk.) What would you do?

    But as a fan of chocolate drink,
    no matter choo or chilk, I think
    if from a bovine, call it boo
    (or maybe bilk.) What would you do?

    And here’s a thought on bovine-juice:
    If grass fed, is milk then chartreuse?
    And if it’s green, is it called goo?
    Or rather, ‘gilk’? What would you do?

    ###

  10. rustydude says:

    Participating in this month’s activities is my first ever attempt of anything of the sort. Must admit it was way beyond me to keep up – made about 50% (too many irons in the fire). Enjoyed getting to meet ya’ll through your poetry and posts. Meandered thorough several of your sites and blogs and decided to give that a go as well. Stop in sometime and say howdy, you are welcome at my campfire anytime. Thanks everyone!

    Nov 29 – Birth
    Nov 30 – Milk
    (Combined)

    The Fawn

    The doe gives birth, alone, in pain,
    Slowly new life emerges, one last strain.
    Carefully the mother cleans her young,
    Daylight breaks, christened by the sun.

    Hastily the mother nuzzles the new gent,
    The air spilling her fresh-blood scent.
    The fawn reaches its knees awkward, and feeble,
    Just minutes ago in its mother’s womb, fetal.

    Legs shaking, the fawn takes its first stance,
    It’s a miracle, its life, its creation’s dance.
    The fawn drinks in warm mother’s milk,
    Its coat glistens, as new woven silk.

    Slowly, the mother leads her babe away,
    Deep in the tall grass, she coaxes him to stay.
    Carefully she leaves him all alone,
    The fawn lays motionless, camouflaged stone.

    You could easily walk past and not take note,
    The new babe hiding, shadows blending in its coat.
    It lies there fearless, sure of its mother’s return,
    All things new, everything to learn.

    The doe hides close, with a watchful eye,
    Ready as any mother, to defend till she die.
    Both rest long in the early spring sun,
    Life is but a miracle and for the fawn – day one.

    The Lord’s gift of nature, and all its majesty,
    From highest mountain, through sky, to deepest sea.
    All His creation, all His wonders, all – for His glory,
    No doubt, no question, what else it could be?

  11. sonja j says:

    Milk Paint

    Walk from town to town, ask
    the wealthier households if
    they need portraits, or want
    their walls decorated. That’s
    how itinerant painters made
    their way. They brought their
    own brushes, poured pigment
    and lime into buckets of curds,
    each working his own secret
    formula.

    When children see the murals
    on farmhouse walls, they ask
    why there are no forests, only
    hills. The forests were cut down
    for farming, we tell them. There
    were no forests here then. Why
    does the tree in the garden look
    like that, they ask. Why does it
    look like a fountain.

    Those were elm trees, we tell
    them. You could shimmy up
    the branches and slide right
    down to the end; the branch
    would bend to the ground, you
    could hop off and do it again.
    Can we grow trees like that,
    they ask us. No, we tell them.
    Not anymore.

  12. Marjory MT says:

    Because it is so challenging to post — I am going to post collectively today (30th) several poems I have not before poster successfully.
    \
    22 PARADISE LUNE (Kelly)
    Any place I am
    with you is
    paradise to me.

    23 DEEP (Fib)
    I
    long
    to once
    again stand
    with you, feel and then
    share love’s music that’s in our hearts.

    23 (DEEP) FIRE (Nonet)
    In the quiet night, below moon and stars,
    I build a fire of memory
    and in the burning coals, I
    seek to reclaim the one
    hot, hidden spark
    used for igniting
    love’s first
    flame.

    24 The Truth about
    (Haiku)
    The truth about life
    comes when minds and hearts open,
    look beyond themself

    22 PARADISE — Etheree
    I
    was your
    sweet princess,
    spark in your eyes.
    I loved you closeness,
    attention to our needs
    wrapped up in warm tenderness.
    You and I together always
    On earth we had our own paradise.
    We did anything, everything as one.

    25 PARADISE LOST—(Nonet)
    Caring, helping, and always close by,
    filling my life, my days and nights,
    choosing, touching, holding tight.
    What I thought was love, I
    came to realize
    was just control.
    Paradise,
    somehow
    lost.

    .

  13. Sara McNulty says:

    Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 30
    Write a milk poem

    Wrung Out

    My brain has been milked
    and wrung out
    for the month
    of November for challenge.
    I will replenish.

  14. Galletas con leche
    (Cookies and milk)

    If St. Nick you want to impress,
    give him what he likes the best…
    Galletas con leche!

    When he comes through the front door,
    he’ll be hungry and thirsty for…
    Galletas con leche!

    Down the chimney he won’t fit.
    This is Santa’s favorite treat:
    Galletas con leche!

    Santa is a dairy nut.
    Stock your fridge with nothing but…
    Galletas con leche!

    If in Santa you believe,
    don’t forget this Christmas Eve…
    Galletas con leche!

    Done! I won’t be submitting ’cause I don’t have enough decent pieces for this challenge, but this was fun and quite a workout for my tender brain. This was quite awesome, everyone! Thanks for all the prompts. Thanks for the challenge, Robert. ^^

  15. posmic says:

    A Bad Fall

    Someone keyed my Corolla,
    the one my parents leased for me
    (electric green with a spoiler
    and a gold package—ridiculous
    and loved). As I looked at the
    scratch, the gallon of milk I had
    just bought, just splurged on,
    tumbled off the roof, hit the
    asphalt and exploded, ran
    in all directions even as I
    indulged wild fantasies of
    somehow scooping it up,
    or getting back in my
    scratched car, driving
    back to Kroger, getting
    a replacement as if
    any of it was the store’s
    fault, what happened in
    my apartment building’s
    parking lot, under a stupid,
    stupid purple twilight sky.

  16. po says:

    Lake Mystery

    Wind raw, cuts like March.
    If February, instead of November,
    I would think thaw. On the north
    side of Delia Lake seagulls rest

    against the wind. Near the road a
    bird with milk white feathers, too
    big for a seagull, flies the rapacious
    path of a predator. I drink warm milk

    from the shelter of my car and watch
    the parade of migrating birds. Wish I
    had binoculars but then might lose
    the mystery of this gray day.

  17. claudsy says:

    I chose Lyric Style for this one simply because it flowed better than free verse or other forms; at least for me.

    Lesson Learned

    The milking of cows has both rewards and hazards. Learning technique takes finesse, surety. Approach milker with caution, as it smells fear and hesitation. Position yourself up close and personal; nestle cheek into the throbbing warmth of her side to quell likelihood of meeting hoof with your head or mighty chest. Warm your hands, for Daisy doesn’t like cold. Don’t grab and tug hard, unless you want a hoof in your face. Caress the udder to bring down milk; firm, gentle finger pressure’s best, and feed the cat that wanders by looking for cow’s hand-outs. If teats are unresponsive, don’t continue more than five minutes, or a ruined milker you’ll have, until she’s stood and been rebred. Above all, for heaven’s sake, don’t try to ride her unless bronc riding is your forte.

  18. Marie Elena says:

    I ended up totally dropping this ball this month. BUMMER!

    But what fabulous poets out here in Asides land. Y’all ROCK.

  19. Michael Grove says:

    Sometimes

    Sometimes there is crying over spilt milk.
    Sometimes there is dancing in the rain.
    Sometimes there is walking on the thin ice.
    Sometimes there is pleasure without pain.

    Sometimes only love is the answer.
    Sometimes you need the shoulder of a friend.
    Sometimes there is light in the tunnel.
    Sometimes it is at the other end.

    By Michael Grove

  20. DanielAri says:

    from this that comes from this that comes from this that comes from this

    there’s no duplicity in milk
    as a creative expression—
    it comes like the worm’s thread of silk—
    a necessary emission
    nurturing in copious bulk—

    body to body transmission—
    strange, warm, specialized substances
    of the passing generations—
    what stuff drizzles as it dances?—
    white on the rhyming tongue—drunk ilk—

    asleep in the stream—and chancing
    dream on the mountainous pillow—
    who are you who comes from the glance
    of lovers under the willow?—
    born, lowing animal nation—

    fertile to fecund to fallow—
    hot and quick as melting tallow

  21. PKP says:

    Through the milky haze of ending -

    It was the thirtieth of November
    and all through the page
    squiggles were stirring
    final day did they gauge

    Had been gremlin laden
    For some storm tossed too
    And yet “The Street” walkers
    soldiered on for what else could they do?

    There is but one November P A D
    looked forward cross seas, mountains
    deserts, plains spanned internationally
    And yes, now we have come inevitably

    To the finale of November’s P-A-D
    A smile, a nod, a sigh and an all
    embracing thanks to all thee
    and of course a deep bow to the
    creator our own RLB

    *Hope to see many of you on Wednesdays and to the inveterate once a year PAD’ers
    May the wind be at your back and your fingers fly inspired….

  22. PKP says:

    Together

    with a tempest tossed flick
    of her head
    she gathered
    them
    from all corners
    hands come together
    to hold, to support, to sip
    the cup
    of kindness
    as one
    indivisible
    nation
    united
    soaring into
    a milky way

  23. I was going to try to write to each and every one of you, but the gremlins of which I speak are driving me crazy! So-

    Robert, thank you, thank you for another wonderful PAD. I am happy to share that the fact that I wrote over 30 poems this month raised over $500 for the Center for New Americans! Some days it was difficult to come up with a poem that incorporated the prompt and my theme of literacy and second language learning, but, I did it!

    Dear fellow poets – thank you for the opportunity to once again stand among you and face the challenge of prompts and posting gremlins. I am honored to be counted among the ranks here. I will try to catch a Wednesday prompt more often this time round. Doing so has been a bit of a difficulty this past year.

    Blessings to all! Until the next PAD~

  24. Mañana

    Procrastination has become a close friend.
    These last moments before the end
    are being savored for each alteration and metaphor.
    Oh, the joy of pondering prompts in the wee hours,
    the mind-numbing challenge of connecting the prompt
    to a theme – self-chosen – for the month,
    not to mention the joy of being one of the first -
    when the evil posting gremlins allowed.
    Unfortunately, I think I have milked this for all it is worth -
    the end, must come. So, let it be -
    Fini!

  25. Jane Shlensky says:

    Love the prompt. I love cows, the perpetual mothers. Gang, I enjoyed your poems so much but I can barely post my own, each time taking…long time. But the prompts and reading the poems here were a ritual I love. Thanks to Robert and everyone in the challenge. See you next Wednesday??

    Milk Sop

    Every litter has its milksop,
    Mama says, watching cats
    trail behind us to the barn.

    Most become mousers,
    useful and worthy of respect,
    but this one gray and white,

    noisy and clingy, is a milksop,
    his habit becoming his name.
    A milkoholic, he is unafraid

    of hooves, slapping tails, and
    snorting noses twice the size
    of his head. He sits near

    the milking stools, looking up
    at the towering heights of cow
    as if he were admiring a monument.

    He would suckle directly
    from the source udder
    if he could strategize.

    Instead, he looks to us
    to squirt milk into his mouth,
    knowing once a pail is full

    and set aside, once we move
    to another cow, he can not
    be trusted to leave it cat-free.

    Since milk buys our clothes
    and shoes, our books , even
    my piano, Milk Sop is clearly

    competition we do not need.
    Once they take to milk, there’s
    no breaking them, says Mama.

    He needs to learn to like meat—
    mice, rabbits, birds. He’s to be
    pitied, but not to be fed milk.

    Cut him off, she says, as if he is
    a late-night bar fly, jonesing for
    a nightcap. Cut him off! Cold turkey!

  26. Hannah says:

    Wow…Is it REALLY over?!

    What a crazy-fast and full poeming month!!

    Thank you and congratulations to all that participated and prompted…wow!

    I’m sorry I wasn’t available to talk much…this is the way I had to roll this time around though, I’m sure many understand…lots to balance.

    Ended on a kind of crazy-note but here’s the final offering. :)’s to everyone!

    http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/30/day-thirty-of-mother-milk-and-poisona-string-of-haiku/

    See ya’ll around on Wednesday!!

  27. julie e. says:

    FORMULA BABIES DON’T ALWAYS LOSE OUT.

    Fostering
    Others
    Replacement
    Mothers
    Using
    Love
    As milk.

  28. salaslp says:

    Hey, Violet–Great to see you here! I haven’t been commenting often, but I’m very thankful for this challenge. I’ve written 30 poems and am about to add 2 more. I’m excited to start revising my drafts into a cohesive collection. This one was an idea I’d written down long ago and never done anything with. Thank you, Robert, Writer’s Digest, and all the prompt writers and poets!

  29. elishevasmom says:

    It has been an honor to be counted among your number. I look forward to “seeing” you all soon.

    God Bless the Child

    The men had come home from
    “The Big One”. Some swords were
    bent into wheelchairs, and spears into
    crutches, but the guys came home. It was
    the origin of a new era. The government was
    there to help out with mortgages, tuition grants
    for college and vocational training. She was at the
    edge of a new time. Rosie the Riveter had been retired.
    Gone were the necessities of practical work clothes. And
    whereas the government might be offering a financial hand, the
    best way to make the men feel welcome was to accentuate the
    female form—anything to enhance feminine appeal. Cinched waste-
    lines, pencil skirts, corsets and girdles to assure the smooth silhouette,
    but most contrived of all, the conical bra. Regardless of her natural
    shape or size, her bust had to end in a precise point. In preparing
    for her first offering to the god of the baby boomer, she went in
    for a check-up with the family doctor. Breast-feeding simply
    just wasn’t done. That would mean tampering with the
    image the world of haute couture had worked so
    hard to achieve. But she had read that breast
    milk was much healthier for the baby, and
    she really wanted to nurse this newest
    member of the family. At this point
    the doctor slid his glasses down,
    looked over them, and opined,
    “Well, they weren’t just
    put there for men
    to play with,
    you know!” Ellen Knight 11.30.12

  30. shellaysm says:

    -I thoroughly enjoyed my first (it won’t be the last!) PAD challenge. Thanks to Robert for this forum & all the creative prompts which some days had me scrambling, but always intrigued me to see what they brought forth. I’m proud of myself for making it through, as I’m completely a novice poet. I’m kind of dreading tomorrow”s feeling of let down that it’s over; imagine that! Posted all my entries on my new website: Michele K. Smith

    “Milking the Muse”

    As creative souls,
    we must milk the muse
    for all she’s worth–
    lactate pints or even gallons
    daily of her inspiration.

    Ignore the concept that
    she’s often quite elusive
    (sometimes utterly slippery),
    for the muse is the
    cream of the crop to a creative life, and
    must always be revered on a high shelf.

    Of course the muse is female:
    She arrives fully-enriched
    with wholesome intentions for us,
    and that doesn’t even
    skim the surface of her value.

    What percent of us would admit
    there’s no substitute for the real thing?
    Would you put your contents on display
    (even campaign in a white mustache)
    just to publicly support the message
    that the muse does a body (and mind) good?

  31. JRSimmang says:

    I can’t have milk. It’ll kill me.
    That means I can’t have:
    milk, cheesecake, cheese,
    McDonald’s french fries,
    Doritos, ice cream, cream in my coffee,
    chocolate cake, cupcakes,
    butter, caramel,
    cereal bars, sandwich bread, crackers,
    cold cuts, granola, cottage cheese,
    yogurt, chocolate, mashed potatoes,
    pancakes and waffles, doughnuts,
    puddings, and custards,
    gelato, Bailey’s Irish Cream…
    I have often sat and pondered,
    wondered at my window sill,
    why all this stuff is so grand,
    why it offers such a thrill.
    Berries have their own delight,
    beer and wine are fair,
    dark chocolate: so romantic,
    and an apple or a pear,
    offer so much more than that white stuff
    that comes from a cow,
    which humans really shouldn’t drink
    or eat, or smell, or chow.
    Your bones will grow without the aid
    of curdled cow excrement,
    your muscles get the help they need
    without this protein quick-cement.
    Feeling sluggish, feeling tired,
    feeling under weather?
    Cut out dairy from your dairy-aire
    and you’ll feel so much better.
    Since I began my epic journey,
    I’ve come to realize
    I’m here on the planet Earth
    milking it for all it’s worth.

  32. Domino says:

    White fluff aloft in
    Azure summer sky
    Sun-warmed milky floss

  33. De Jackson says:

    Great month, gang. Sorry I didn’t have/find/make more time to comment.

    http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/30/milky-way/

  34. Mike Bayles says:

    Milking A Cow

    Before the sun rises
    duties must be done.
    The farmer’s son attaches
    the milking machine
    to the teats of a cow.
    Care must be taken
    to keep from disturbing the cow,
    and the son avoids the errant kick.
    All this must be done
    before he goes to school,
    for this smooth treat,
    a cool sip of milk for others
    late in the afternoon.

  35. barbara_y says:

    Cheers to all, and Happy Holidays

    Snapshot

    Four little girls in the mucky cow lot,
    learning to milk. The three onlooking blonds
    and Marie, laughing, tugging at the teats.
    The infant me is nowhere to be seen.
    I don’t know why I never tried my hand
    at milking. Another experience
    I held back from? I don’t understand
    the way my bedrock folds, just have a sense
    of exclusions and faults. I never milked
    but, swinging a stick at the briars and sedge grass
    would stump down the hills and afternoon fields
    and bring the cows back in from the pasture.

    They would have come with no urging, I now
    know, and I’d have roamed the hills with no cows.

  36. RobHalpin says:

    Making the Cut

    November’s last poems
    done, we now start the sorting,
    hemming and hawing,
    picking which poems make the book.
    It’s always as clear as milk.

  37. Milk

    The first thing
    introduced to us
    upon our arrival
    is milk,

    warm and
    (in the absence
    of any other flavor)
    sweet.

    Delivered
    as the newborn
    lays soft head
    upon softer breast,
    close-eyed
    and softly suckling
    in an open-mouthed kiss
    attached to
    a loving mother,
    this becomes
    our unconscious archetype
    for care,
    for love.

    Imprinted
    in our souls,
    this universal
    relaxant,
    this calming
    trusted sedative,
    still works
    on sleepless nights
    filled with worry
    and doubt

    about
    what happens
    next.

  38. Michelle Hed says:

    Robert – Thank you for a delightful month of poetry. Loved the guest prompters. – Michelle

  39. Michelle Hed says:

    The Pounding of the Keys

    Hurt, anger, sadness -
    all pouring out
    through her fingers
    as she relentlessly
    pounds on the keys
    of the piano…

    until

    …all the pain is gone
    and the soothing melodies
    caulk the wounds
    and the world has
    re-tilted back into place
    as the decibels lower…

    peace

    …she is ready
    to face the world again.

  40. Castro Camera

    He was just another Lithuanian-American
    Jewish boy who played football and joined the navy
    a straight-laced actuary who loved the opera
    and kept private matters private.
    But then came San Francisco.

    He said, “I finally reached the point
    when I had to become involved or shut up.”

    On Castro Street he flowered
    turning to his neighborhood
    unflinching in his call for civil rights
    Ten months a Supervisor, till his
    shocking death, November 27, 1978.

    He said, “If a bullet should enter my brain,
    let that bullet destroy every closet door.”

    After the trial, the White Nights
    the riots and the beatings
    they laid his ashes to rest
    beneath the sidewalk at 575 Castro.
    He was my age, more or less.

  41. Michelle Hed says:

    Last Note

    Black ink tear drops fall
    on the milk white parchment
    as she decides how to say
    goodbye

  42. Marianv says:

    My Milk Runneth Over

    How it flowed as every drop
    Ran into the mouths of my babies
    Their rose-bud lips puckered
    Fat little cheeks sucked in and out,
    In and out; their throats swallowing

    Faster, Timid at first, with the nurse’s
    Help-some catching on easier than others.
    The first-born switched to a bottle, after
    A few weeks the supply was dwindling.

    The other five eager and demanding.
    I learned to become a cow – a little
    Factory of milk production. , The two
    Two older girls hugged their dolls to their
    Nipples. They were mommies, too

    Every day my milk-stained t-shirts hung
    On the clothes line next to the diapers.
    In his morning shower, Hubby tried
    To scrub the milk-smell away. After

    All these years I still can invoke it.
    Our daughters, daughters-in-law,
    , grand-daughters too, all of us bcame
    honorary cows. If only a few weeks ,
    or for many months, our babies, we
    believed, were given the best start of all.

  43. Bruce Niedt says:

    I skipped Day 29 – will have to come back to it later today.

    Weaning
    My teenager refuses to drink milk anymore.
    All the arguments about nutrition are to no avail.
    He says he no longer likes the taste, but I wonder
    if it’s a sign of independence, as he moves toward
    the age where we no longer dictate what he can eat
    and not eat. It could be psychological too – milk
    as a symbol of childishness, what little kids drink.
    It’s a baby step, for sure, but it foreshadows
    giant leaps to come – driver’s license, college,
    marriage, and his own kids who will go from breast
    to bottle to cup, to someday telling him they no longer
    need his milk, as they carry their things out the door.

  44. EVERYDAY THINGS

    Old house we live in –
    these skins, obdurate doors, tricky
    steps. You’re watching
    the morning news. The TV hisses
    if I turn on the office light –
    our wiring’s getting touchy. So
    we make tradeoffs – by flashlight,
    I scribble notes that may or
    may not be a poem.
    Then I’ll make us toast, pour
    the milk, tell you breakfast
    is ready. This morning, by email
    I learn two friends – a couple –
    have gone their separate ways.
    Had it anything to do
    with faulty circuitry, souring
    milk, stuck doors, aging
    houses?

  45. IrisD says:

    Got Milk?
    They say he was so mean he could milk a rattlesnake.
    I live in rattlesnake country and I shudder and quake.
    What evil can drive a man to be so rough and callous,
    That all men would shake in their boots from Dodge City to Dallas?
    Perhaps he was abandoned by his mother while a toddler.
    Or being thrown from his horse while young made him a killer.
    He became the terror of the whole territory it seems
    And then one night his hatred existed only in dreams
    Gunfight at O.K. Corral became his final showdown
    Now he milks rattlesnakes where they surely abound

  46. With a quite hectic month, I had to play catchup and still lack one poem, which I WILL finish today. Didn’t get to read many of the always-scintillating offerings here, but what I did read, I enjoyed. What a talented group with whom I’m honored to attempt these challenges! Thanks to all the creative prompters, and thank you, Robert, for offering these bi-annual opportunities and the weekly prompts, as well as all the valuable information, interviews, and encouragement on this blog. I love hanging out with all you lovely people!

  47. Nancy Posey says:

    Milk

    Not exactly city slickers, still we clung to the illusion
    that everything came straight from the store,
    plastic wrapped, hermetically sealed. Bread sprung
    into being uniformly sliced; eggs never made contact
    with a chicken’s hind end but, like lab specimens,
    developed by the dozens in Styrofoam containers.

    Milk appeared magically on the doorstep in glass
    bottles that rattled as Mother retrieved them.
    Udders were unthinkable until our teacher
    ventured with us to the farm on a field trip
    where the kind, gruff farmer, an uncle perhaps,
    pointed to the bovine beauty in his barn
    and asked, “Who’d like to try to milk her?”

    No one moved.

    Even boys quickest with off-color jokes,
    regular skimmers of National Geographic—
    for the native bosoms, not the scenery,
    stood speechless. Finally Mrs. Hester
    volunteered, seeming as brave to us
    as Arthur stepping up to the Green Knight.

    Squatting on the wooden stool, too small
    for her amble buttocks, she firmly grasped
    the teats and pulled, expertly sending
    squirts of fresh while milk into the pail,
    producing a kind of music we’d long recall.

    No one said a word.

    Later on the bus back, we talked in quiet
    whispers, suddenly piecing together
    our common knowledge, dredging up
    our earliest memories—memories before
    memory, the closeness of Mother’s breast,
    the warm sweet smell, the taste, like love.

  48. Day 30
    Prompt: Write a milk poem

    Better Milk

    My parents had left two percent milk
    in the condo at the beach.
    So happened we arrived a few days
    after their departure,
    so they skipped the usual clean out
    (they flew, we drove)
    and left us any groceries that wouldn’t
    last till spring.

    When I poured the milk
    in the glass, unlike our usual
    watery but healthier blue-white skim milk,
    the thickness,
    the heavy milky smell exuded,
    and after drinking,
    that cream-white film coated the glass.

    Steve noted how much better
    the fattier milk tasted on his cereal,
    commiserating by phone with our pregnant daughter,
    who switched to two percent for her developing baby,
    that he would prefer any day to drink the dregs
    of two percent milk from the cereal bowl.

  49. bluerabbit47 says:

    Milk

    White as
    winter, poured
    icy from
    the refrigerator

    White as
    Grandmother’s
    sheets.
    delivered to the doorstep

    White as
    summer clouds
    in my
    first cup

    White as
    cream
    for Dad’s coffee
    from the top

    White as
    light
    through the morning
    window.

    White as
    simple
    beginnings:
    milk.

  50. DAHutchison says:

    What a great month of poetry this has been. I learned so much–my strengths and weaknesses. AND enjoyed this community of wordsmiths immensely. Thanks everyone.

    Turnabout Is Not Fair

    I used to chide my cousin, cuz his milk would always spill,
    At every family dinner, he would ask for a refill,
    I’d laugh and say remember when—those awkward early days,
    Until… he said he caught me popping zits upon my face.
    Ah, those awkward teenage years, I tried to laughed it off,
    But he unleashed an arsenal so large I couldn’t scoff.
    Remember on the playground, when my sister was just seven,
    You clipped her to the flag pole and hoisted her to heaven?
    Remember getting grounded when you couldn’t get her down?
    Remember when she called you out to everyone in town.
    Remember getting misty-eyed while watching M.A.S.H. reruns,
    When Clinger put that dress on, but his Army days weren’t done,
    “Enough!” I said, “You made your point. I was a goofball too.
    I must insist that you desist or I’ll spill milk on you!”

    ###

  51. Walt, whatever time it is, you always beat me. Also today and thanks. And yes, the prompts. I’m so grateful that this is possible so thanks to Robert and all the poets who created the prompts.
    And thanks to all the poets who posted wonderful poems during November. Here I must add a special thanks to Domino because some time ago, maybe 14 days ago, Domino wrote a poem that I loved but I never managed to enter my appreciation.
    Here thank you all and congratulations to all who feels this day like something special, something achieved on Poetic Asides. Congratulation.

  52. Say Cheese

    Every holiday season,
    it tastes so
    good,
    no matter how
    sharp
    or lined with moldy
    ferment,
    this mother’s milk
    curdled and set hard
    with the heat and indifference
    of children who never
    ever call.

  53. Darryl Willis says:

    I’ve not been posting my poems throughout the month. But I thought I’d post my final one!

    Been there, done that: Got Milk

    My father in his mid-life crazies
    recruited me for milking cows.
    He packed me off to a farm in Texas
    where he build a fine brick house.

    I hated milking cows.

    My arms grew thick and strong, I had
    a death-grip handshake—
    it gave me strength, taught me how
    to appreciate my work.

    I hated milking cows.

    Five o’clock every day
    I would rise, pail in hand
    and stomp my way to the barn
    to relieve two brown Jerseys.

    I hated milking cows.

    I asked why the task fell
    to me, after all, it was
    his idea to begin with.
    He explained how I received
    The benefits of fresh dairy:
    milk, cream, and butter.
    Our cows ate weeds, the milk was strong
    the cream was rank and butter bitter.
    I didn’t seem to profit much.
    But it taught me industry,
    early morning solitude,
    and the meaning of metaphor
    which I milked for all its worth.

    And I hate milking cows.

    • Darryl Willis says:

      oops, posted too soon: some corrections

      line 4 – “built” instead of “build”

      Final stanza rewrite:

      I asked why the task fell
      to me, after all, it was
      his idea from the start.
      He explained how I received
      The benefits of fresh dairy:
      milk, cream, and butter.
      Our cows ate weeds, the milk was strong
      the cream was rank and butter bitter.
      I didn’t seem to profit much.
      But it taught me industry,
      early morning solitude,
      and the meaning of metaphor
      which I milked for all its worth.

      And I hate milking cows.

  54. sonja j says:

    Wow, what a breakneck month! That you Robert, for hosting and coordinating; for me, it was a true challenge to work under daily deadlines – I learned a lot about mental discipline. Thanks to everyone who gave us prompts. So often they sent me in directions where I would never have thought to go. Most of all, thank you to everyone who was generous enough to post their work, even though that may limit your submission options. I loved reading through all of them, and would often turn to all of your work to put me in the mindset to write. There were so many times when I tried to comment, but did not have the time to struggle with the posting gremlins (you haven’t seen the last of me, you little beasts). Please know that I was there, reading and appreciating!
    Oh, and briarcat and poesmic, you each have pieces that went straight into my “very favorite poems” collection!

  55. Sally Jadlow says:

    First Visit to the Milk Barn

    Boyfriend instructs,
    “Don’t make any sudden moves
    or loud noises. You’ll scare the cows.”

    I whisper, “They’re bigger than me.
    How can I scare them?”

    “You’re a stranger. If you spook them
    they won’t let down their milk.”

    I stand in a corner of the pristine stanchion area.
    Imagine myself invisible.

    Boyfriend’s brother, Tom, opens the gate to allow Daisy
    to enter, eat, and receive the milking machine.

    Tom cleans her teats, and applies the machine to suck
    her rich milk while he absent-mindedly daydreams.
    During his reverie, he grabs her tail and ties it to the stanchion bar.

    Her milk gone, Tom opens the exit gate.
    Daisy ambles out; leaves her tail behind in a neat knot.

  56. LACTATION NATION

    Suckle, suckle, give a chuckle,
    shake above the old belt buckle,
    mother’s milk is rich and flowing,
    and her face is truly growing.
    (Though her brood is largely growing)
    Her quintuplets the why she’s dragging,
    and her breasts are badly sagging.
    So lift her up give a cheer,
    show support if finally here!,

  57. Great start, Andrea. Good Morning (or whatever time of day you’re in! ;) )

    Yes, mapoet, it’s been a great month!

  58. Ber says:

    Moving Mountains

    Move those mountains
    make room for light
    open up your eyes to the sunshine
    don’t fill up with spite
    your hurt and fight

    Arms held out
    fingers waiting to be touched
    a pounding heart
    wishing for love from the start
    islands apart

    Echoes of silence
    waiting on words from the other
    some new
    some old
    imagination very bold
    dreams take hold

    Milk me with all of you
    fill her inside
    make her feel new
    turn her inside and out
    feelings like never before
    bringing her smile up off the floor

    As his lips sing out those words
    her ears hear all he has to say
    milking her emotions
    on that very significant day

  59. Saturated
    Her breasts were full
    Aching
    She could feel the milk running
    Soaking her bra
    As tears ran down her cheeks
    They said the milk would dry in a few days
    But not the tears

  60. mapoet says:

    Thanks for another great challenge, Robert, and thanks to everyone who supplied a prompt.

  61. THE STABLE MINUTE

    The dim light,
    the sound of 68 cows,
    the smell so clinical clean,
    the sound of the machine
    milking
    the
    animals lined up chewing
    and Dad working hard to keep us all alive
    and
    Red
    saying good morning
    in her cow language
    and me saying the same
    teaching her to speak properly.

  62. WORDS OF SUNSHINE

    No, we don’t need to take the umbrella, Sweetie.
    No, put back the umbrella.
    What?
    Milk?
    No, milk does not come down from Heaven
    and just to make things clear,
    honey doesn’t either.
    What?
    Rained?
    No, it flowed with milk and honey,
    not rained.
    Now put back that umbrella.

  63. WHY BUY THE COW?

    The sad state of society,
    why buy the cow when you
    can get the milk for free?
    But women’s studies show
    that men outlive their usage,
    who needs the whole pig when
    all you want’s a little sausage?

  64. LACTOSE INTOLERANCE

    I love milk
    but milk does not like me.
    Just a sip and it tips
    my fine balance and
    it’s a mad dash to relief.
    My belief is a cow conspiracy,
    brought on by my love of beef!

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