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2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 7

UPDATE: As problems continue with the commenting, I’ve decided to open up a WD Forum thread for the first 7 days. Beginning with tomorrow’s prompt, there will be prompt-specific threads linked to each post. Click here to share your poems/comments for the first 7 days.

Sorry for the late prompt today–stayed up a little late last night.

Today’s prompt comes to us from Eleanore D. Trupkiewicz.

Here’s Eleanore’s prompt: Write a circular poem. It could be a poem about circles, or about a circular concept, or about something shaped like a circle. Or it could be a poem with a circular format, in which the end of the poem somehow connects directly back to the beginning of the poem.

Robert’s attempt at a circular poem:

“Been Here”

Feels like I’ve been here before
with my head hidden under the covers
and wanting another hour or two.

Feels like I’ve been here before
rushing around to get lunches packed
and telling people what to do.

Feels like I’ve been here before
saying “goodbye, have a great day”
but wanting more time with you.


Thank you, Eleanore, for the terrific prompt! Click here to learn more about her.


Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer


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121 thoughts on “2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 7

  1. Karen H. Phillips

    Day 7
    Prompt: Circle

    Circle of Thanksgiving

    This time last year, I planned my list,
    my agenda of shopping, cleaning, cooking.
    I listed in my mind my thanks.

    This year, even more to be grateful for,
    I start my list anew:
    Groceries, tasks, blessings.

  2. KathyA

    Women’s Circle

    Women, each with a story
    Claim their spaces in the circle
    Under the twinkling stars,
    Firelight dancing off their faces.

    A circle of tents surrounds them
    Canvas protectors of the tales within.
    One reveals her heartache
    And the others say, “Oh, no…”

    The next one speaks of work
    And money, saved and spent.
    Two more nod with understanding,
    While a third throws a log on the fire.

    The shy one who just got here
    Pulls her chair up close to me.
    We heard she just lost her mother
    And is finally starting to talk.

    The jokestress cracks a good one
    And the night air crackles with mirth,
    And the woman wearing the jacket
    Says she’s leaving early tomorrow.

    The two that have been friends forever
    Are discussing when to head home,
    And the talking comes full circle
    Once everyone goes to bed.

  3. Nancy Posey

    When You Arrived

    When you arrived, looking so fresh,
    so ripe, the new and improved version
    of everything I never even knew
    I needed walking right in the door,
    with nowhere else to go but here,
    I poured us both a glass of sweet tea,
    we sat right down at the kitchen table,
    and the rest of our lives began
    it seemed. I knew I would mark
    the beginning of my life of happily
    ever after from this November day
    when you arrived, looking so fresh.

  4. po

    The Trouble With Color

    The problem with describing color is that color is not a word.—Robert Hass

    I disagree.

    Of course color is a concept
    but it is also a exquisite word.
    A word to build other words—
    watercolor, colorblind.

    How many colors to know
    the pine tree? Its bark turns
    from gray to silver in the sun.
    Needles green, then gold as they
    fall to cover the bare ground.

    A finch hides her nest of brown
    and black twigs intermingled with
    colorful pieces of string. Shadows
    turn blue when the sun goes down
    and at night a black reflection dances
    before the moon.

    Of course
    color is a word—it holds the world.

  5. PKP


    A lone refugee
    my great grandmother was
    borne across the roiling seas to
    relatives on streets peopled by pushcarts
    possessions spilling with no place

    I fled to leased marbled grandeur
    displaced guiltily into buffeted breakfasts
    by a angry sea too lightly regarded

    Home as visitor spectator assessor
    amid displaced possessions
    pushcarted onto an unpeopled street

    I stand

    A lone refugee

  6. PSC in CT

    Spinning Thoughts

    In dark, silent stillness they
    launch from their perch,
    tiny rockets circling, circling,
    swooping, swerving in perfect unison
    until, as one, they settle to preen,
    flaunting their feathers, (ruffling mine)
    then lifting off to take flight again
    in a whirlwind spinning eddy of
    autumn leaves, swirling flutter dance
    divinely choreographed ballet, where they
    pause, breathe for but a heartbeat,
    shiver, quiver, rustle in place
    before spinning off again in a flight of
    fish swimming in flawless synchronization,
    flashing light and color, moving as one:
    up, down, left, right, around and around,
    keeping me sleepless
    within those spinning circles

  7. Paoos69

    Going in Circles

    Have you ever wondered?
    Why circles have no sides
    Why dogs chase their tails
    And how soap bubbles glide

    Have you ever wondered?
    Why ripples are concentric
    Why water in a sink twirls
    And bellies become a curve

    Have you ever wondered?
    Why baldness leaves a ring of hair
    Why most spas are round
    And curls are curls no squares

    Have you ever wondered?
    Why the earth is round
    Why our eyes have circular pupils
    And “Ohs” follow anything profound

    The questions are endless
    And go around in circles
    Because in the end
    Anything that goes around, comes around.

  8. Yolee

    Three Times Expectant

    I rubbed my planet
    often when I was significant
    with child; spoke my peace
    of heart; my son and two
    daughters pushed their universe
    with fists or feet and formed
    circles within my internal
    loops as if to answer
    by codes, pregnant
    with inscrutabilities.

  9. foodpoet

    Broken Circles
    river chimes from ice melt
    young frisk roaring
    eating earth rock land
    etching forming veins
    from ice to ocean
    ending with a sigh.
    Rivers are always in a state of flux.
    Why control the floodgates of tomorrow,
    drums beat with rain of tears
    dance in the mountain swirl
    of green land of youth roaring
    over and over in
    white rapid terror
    risking daring fearing nothing
    and only change is eternal
    and the rain pounds on
    feeding the mountain’s tears.
    And the drums echo out
    of the mountain
    to flood the floor of agless
    between time in the chant of rain
    the river meanders killing feeding fueling
    But now in new cycles
    oh to be tamed and burnt used
    no longer churning but wrought thin as slivers are shared.
    Water is sucked up by man faster
    then the drums of rain can fuel the flow and the chimes falter.

  10. Tracy Davidson

    The Circle of Life

    How that song in ‘The Lion King’
    made me choke up…
    not with emotion
    but with a surge of vomit
    induced by the sight
    of the cutesey-wutesey cub
    being praised and adored
    by other animals.

    I wanted to stand up
    in the cinema and shout
    “That ickle-wickle cub
    will grow up big and strong
    and tear you all to pieces
    you stupid creatures!”

    Circle of life, my arse.

    Only my 5-year-old’s hand
    in mine stopped me,
    made me sit quietly
    through the whole thing.

    Now, she makes me sit
    through the DVD
    over and over
    and over…

    I don’t have the heart to tell her
    I like Scar the best.

  11. Tracy Davidson


    The world is round
    but not a perfect circle.
    It’s slightly flattened
    at the top and bottom,
    it bulges around the middle.

    I know how it feels.

    Perhaps the Earth
    has its own version
    of middle-age spread.
    Perhaps the Earth
    is having a mid-life crisis.

    I know how it feels.

  12. Walt Wojtanik


    Good days come.
    Bad days linger
    and I lose control
    of most of my fingers.
    Some days find me
    incoherent, not so
    apparent when it’s done,
    not recognizing my voice
    and none of the words
    Translate great on the slate
    of a blank page.
    Can’t blame age,
    I’m not that old,
    but I’ve been told
    I carry myself thus.
    When the tremors can be seen
    it is a mean trick to play
    on a poet poeming
    a poem-a-day. But today
    seems a good day.
    I seem to be coming around,
    and when I do, I won’t slow down!

  13. aviseuss


    Music inside us
    Plays the story of our lives
    On this circular disc, holds secrets
    Only shared by us, only known by us
    As it spins around and ‘round, we kiss
    Run your hands through my hair
    I listen to your beating chest
    In your arms I feel at rest
    You are my muse
    My sprite

  14. Buddah Moskowitz

    The Process (for me)

    white page,
    waiting for the muse.
    Suddenly, she quickly flies
    in the window sometimes straight,
    sometimes on an angle, and the ideas
    race like wildfire across the plains
    of my imagination as I pluck
    the right words to tame
    the moment, before it
    goes, taking with it
    the life, the zing,
    before returning
    once again to

  15. sonja j

    Sigh…Robert said ‘circle'; it is Joni Mitchell’s birthday, and that was it for me. No matter how hard I tried, the only thing I could hear in my head was Circle Game. I can’t beat it, so I am joining it with a found shadorma from those lyrics.

    Fearful child
    behind the circle.
    Over ten
    seasons we
    turn and drag feet to slow him
    before better years.

  16. Benjamin Thomas

    Life is Circular

    Life is hardly a linear experience
    on a single plane

    a tediously boring

    once and for all stretch

    but very circular in nature

    taking a turn for the better

    or for the worse

    oftentimes repeating itself

    over and over again

    in mundane ordinary ways

    otherwise adventurous

    continually guiding us unto

    unimaginable destinations

    and situations unfathomable

  17. Jacqueline Hallenbeck

    Santa’s lovely shape

    Santa doesn’t like the gym.
    (He gives kudos to the slim).
    Santa is not a loser!

    He despises Jenny Craig.
    He avoids workouts like the plague.
    Santa is not a loser!

    Santa won’t go on a diet.
    He thinks dieting is a riot.
    Santa is not a loser!

    Doesn’t weight watch, he just eats.
    Santa likes all kinds of meat.
    Santa is not a loser!

    Of his shape, he’s not ashamed.
    He wants you to feel the same.
    Santa is not a loser!

  18. Eleanore D. Trupkiewicz

    Circular Reasoning

    Some things don’t change:
    the pulse of your blood as it
    beats through your veins; the
    quiet strength of an older
    man who drives with one
    wrist; the uncanny ability of
    a young guy to handle a
    pickup truck on corners with
    one hand, with implacable
    grace and poise; the crystal-
    clear sapphirine blue of the
    sky; the mosaic of colors in
    autumn leaves; the feel of
    a child who buries her head
    beneath your chin in a silent
    plea for comfort; the bitter
    spicy taste of a salted caramel
    mocha, extra hot; the majesty
    of an eagle—an emblem—
    soaring against that clear sky;
    the crashing roar of ocean waves
    on a black-sand beach; the
    inexpressible wonder of a
    waving American flag, in all
    its glory; the inimitable
    release of relief from a prison
    (pick your poison); the crisp
    sheen of satin in black or
    Christmas green or red like
    rubies or silvery grey; the
    timeless look of ancient
    wisdom in a newborn’s eyes;
    the soundless fall of snow on
    a static-white night; the
    reliable sneer on a cat’s face
    at your return home; the
    gleaming beauty of a cello
    from the 1700s with a mellow
    alto voice; the inexplicably
    predictable slide of sweat
    in wet rivulets in the space
    between your breasts as your
    anxiety or your desire—six
    to one, half dozen the other—
    rises; the glistening fall of
    misty rain on sparkling wet
    asphalt; the haunting loveliness
    of music with a Hebraic
    tonality; the easy breathlessness
    of a major triad with a minor
    jazz seventh arpeggiated all
    the way up the piano; the
    shimmering pain in the arches
    of your feet when you wear
    your favorite stiletto-heeled
    sandals; the classic simplicity
    of a strand of matched pearls
    (synthetic, but, really, who’s
    counting?); the sour vinegary
    dressing over German potato
    salad; the just-right flavor of
    hot homemade pizza, topped
    with roasted green peppers with
    blistered skins; the delicate
    scent of a baby’s milky breath
    as he sleeps and dreams
    impossible dreams; the worn
    comfort of fuzzy socks; the
    safe cocoon on a brisk winter
    morning that your inert body
    forms under layers of quilts;
    the smell of Old World soup,
    a family recipe, simmering
    gently on the stove; the view to
    eternity from the precipice of
    Storm Peak in Steamboat Springs
    on a day when your breath
    crackles cold in the air and the
    sunshine sparkles off mounds of
    snow and the horizon melts over
    the mountains in the distance;
    the brisk cut of a black business
    suit with heels and the power of
    the same ensemble in red; the
    delicious sensation of
    unconditional belonging in God’s
    throne room (wherever it is); the
    uncontainable surge of pride at
    seeing a member of the United
    States military—greatest on earth,
    any branch—in impeccable dress
    uniform; the almost-invisible
    glimpse of a silver sliver of moon
    at mid-morning; the selfless
    attentiveness of a lover for his
    beloved; the self-sacrifice behind
    every rare and lovely act of
    chivalry a man makes on a
    woman’s behalf; the kind-hearted
    affection between two people who
    have spent decades growing
    together and somehow know much
    more than what the other person
    is thinking; the blush of spring on
    thorny roses; the incomprehensible
    knowing that your life is worth
    someone’s death; the slow fall of
    shed blood and gushed water that
    co-mingle and obliterate your
    record of wrongs; the pulse of
    precious blood in the veins of
    someone who believes, even now,
    that you are worth everything.

  19. Dan Collins

    Cosimo’s Lament (triolet)

    No dome, this church, to shield us from the sky
    No plan to hold the weight of brick and plaster
    Foolish Florentines to build so wide and high.
    No dome, this church to shield us from the sky
    come snow and rain the floor is seldom dry
    Santa Maria del Fiore waits upon the Master
    No dome, this church, to shield us from the sky
    No plan to hold the weight of brick and plaster

    1. Dan Collins

      Cosimo’s Lament (triolet)

      This church has no dome to shield us from the sky
      No plan to hold the weight of brick and plaster
      Foolish Florentines to build so wide and high
      This church has no dome to shield us from the sky
      Come snow and rain the floor is seldom dry
      Santa Maria del Fiore waits upon the Master
      This church has no dome to shield us from the sky
      No plan to hold the weight of brick and plaster

  20. chicneek

    Not Like Him
    I ate
    the crust
    the bread.
    Saved the best
    for last.
    Just like Dad
    who saved for
    and died
    Spun me
    right around.
    I fold the bread over
    and bite the middle first
    and throw away
    the crust
    when I don’t
    want it.

  21. 1flychicken

    Here’s mine, ok? (: I haven’t tried to share yet. It’s kind of silly. But I’m really enjoying this! And all of the sweet poets here. Nice community. Ok… here goes:

    your mouth is what’s stuck. small flower,
    pink as reason & slow to wake. tell me:
    what is it you won’t miss? in this flight
    [the hum of my hover] you have me—
    promise of a body, both
    foreign & tragic to travel you:

    the lengths between your
    once-a-week reach for sun,
    trenches pinched into the folds of
    your fragile no-bones, sticky gaps
    of indifference, where
    pollen collects, i orbit—

    waiting for touchdown, quick
    gasp [like instinct] to catch that
    single second we might intersect;
    so long, i might smash myself
    into you, hope nothing breaks.

    thanks for the read!

  22. seingraham

    The Circle of Life and Death and Poetry

    Before I began trying to write
    Poetry with anything like real
    Seriousness – that’s not to say
    Every poem I write is of solemn
    Nature, or even true – what I
    Mean, I suppose is back when
    I just fooled around with the words
    My perception was that poetry
    Was written by dead white guys
    From centuries ago, then interspersed
    With the odd – very odd – white broad
    Or two, also usually dead, not surprisingly
    Or maybe it was – I can’t remember
    What I thought – actually yes, I can
    It bothered me more than a little
    That more than a few of the poetesses
    I fancied had offed themselves

    This I discovered just as I was beginning
    To pen verse myself and it seemed
    A bit of a cautionary tale coming as it did
    At a time when suicidal ideology
    Also figured prominently in my own life
    And so it went – the more I wrote poems
    The more poetry I read, the more I learned
    Of poets I liked who had taken their lives

    This was not a circle of life and death I cared
    To spend time examining but examine it I did
    However, it didn’t keep me from writing
    In fact, in the way of it, my eccentric concentric
    Circles spread themselves like ripples
    Growing exponentially larger – the more poems
    I write, it seems, the less suicidal I feel
    It might be my imagination but I’m not
    About to put it to the test …

  23. Bruce Niedt

    Hamster Wheel

    you get up again and
    drink your coffee and
    shower and shave and
    sit in rush hour traffic and
    spend the morning on drudgery and
    go to the usual place for lunch and
    spend the afternoon on drudgery and
    sit in rush hour traffic and
    heat up a quick dinner and
    watch TV all evening and
    crawl into bed and

  24. Catherine Lee


    Heading west out of Phoenix
    in a worn Chevy that matches
    me scratch for scratch

    Our soles rubbed free of traction
    kick up clouds of dirt that stay
    beneath my nails

    It reminds me of the dust
    left behind and the fire
    by night that guides me home.

  25. tunesmiff

    (A Pantoum)
    (c) G. Smith
    Round and round I go
    Spinning like a top;
    Where I’ll stop, who know,
    How hard will I drop?

    Spinning like a top
    I teeter at the brink.
    How hard will I drop?
    I don’t have time to think.

    I teeter on the brink,
    Of seeing you again.
    I don’t have time to think:
    A beginning or the end

    Of seeing you again?
    Where I’ll stop, who knows:
    The beginning or the end?
    Round and round I go.

    Round and round I go,
    Spinning like a top;
    Where I’ll stop, who knows…

  26. Jane Shlensky

    Circle of Friends

    I had forgotten
    who I used to be
    when we were
    young and had
    such naughty fun,
    laughing too loud,
    before we acquired

    I don’t use that nickname
    now that I’m older,
    a professional matron
    away from home,
    now that wine is
    the worst habit
    I’ve kept and memory
    has circled back on me.

    But oh, it is so fine
    to see you all, my dear
    old friends, so good to
    remember who we were,
    what we stood for,
    what we suffered,
    where we grew up
    and caroused—seeing
    the early signs of who
    we might become,
    all these new wrinkles
    in time, these new selves,
    just flimsy robes
    covering our aging
    but solid

  27. Sara McNulty

    Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 7
    Write a circular poem

    Bicycle of Life

    We are born unblemished, curious,
    needing caretakers, guiders, teachers
    to provide food, shelter, education.
    We are taught how to tell right
    from wrong, goodness from evil,
    and history’s place in shaping
    marvels of the present,
    promises of the future.

    And so we grow, some following
    rules, others breaking them, all
    the time evolving into who
    we are, and how to fend
    for ourselves.

    When we are old, most of us
    are blemished. Some maintain
    curiosity, continue learning,
    and growing. Others know
    they are no longer participants
    in the future. Independence
    reverses, tasks are troublesome,
    if not impossible. With minds
    intact, knowledge and marvels
    still occur. If faculties fracture
    as old bones, you become
    helpless, and once again,
    reliant on caretakers
    to keep you alive.

  28. shellaysm

    “Carousel” (Rondeau poem)

    Once again, up and down, round and round
    mystical equines on common ground
    prancing in eternal rotation
    aristocrats in glam formation
    masquerade, dignified and profound.

    Gilded mirror, dancing light playground,
    this elaborate merry-go-round
    remains a carnival foundation
    once again, up and down, round and round.

    Cotton candy-stuck fingers surround
    metallic poles as the organ sounds.
    Beware the childhood fixation:
    golden-token-only elation
    ushers young greed (not awe) to abound
    once again, up and down, round and round.

  29. Misky

    Covetous of Circles

    She was jealous of circles,
    such sheer perfection –
    those miraculously ends-meeting
    together rings, 360-degree’ing,
    zealously looping and scooping
    up and back on to itself again,
    rounds of spheres and drops
    of tears, rope wound and bound
    round into balls. Circles to be found
    everywhere she looked and they
    all made her covetous heart spin.

  30. Mike Bayles

    Fall Again

    I’ve seen this weather before
    the gray haze lingering all day
    and weighing upon my thoughts
    while falling leaves
    leave trees bare
    after the verdant incarnation summer
    so alive after winter and spring,
    after the last fall
    when I’d seen this weather before.

  31. Andy Brackett

    Sun’s Circle

    Dawn’s light breaks
    With early warning
    A new day
    Is just beginning

    It rises higher
    Softly healing
    Natures hearth
    With gentle warming

    By midday’s acme
    Brightly shining
    On fallow Earth
    And cloud lining

    By dinner time
    Slowly waning
    Setting soon
    Sunlight’s fading

    Touching horizon
    Its last glow cast
    It’s circle done
    It sets at last

  32. Michelle Hed

    Full Circle (Palindrome)

    “Love you, love”
    whispered before leaving
    never forgotten
    before sleeping, whispered
    sleeping before forgotten
    never leaving
    before whispered
    “love you, love”.

  33. Marianv

    From a broken circle

    After dinner has been finished, a friendly group
    ,of patients gather. Some chairs are pushed
    into a circle and while the staff is occupied
    hustling off the remains of dinner, a chorus
    of their friendly chatter blends into the
    clank and clatter of busy hands and busy
    lives, Meanwhile, those who have all
    The left-over hours of their remembered
    Lives to ponder will have jokes to tell and bits
    Of gossip to pass on to one another, At times
    They may grow quiet and somber, as an empty
    Chair intrudes into their company . Often
    The name is never mentioned for they are
    Determined that their circle stay a scene of
    Happy harmony. Soon enough more room is
    Needed as another patient enters and is welcomed
    To the group.. They will say their circle is not
    Unbroken but has been broken and mended more
    Times than they can remember The staff is
    Relieved for they must hurry. hurry
    turn down the beds and make them
    Comfy. Naptime is next on their busy
    Schedule and the circle of chairs waits
    Empty and alone.


  34. Jane Shlensky

    Ghost Fawn

    A white fawn
    grazes the pasture,
    leaping the fence
    to the lawn among
    brown does. their
    spotted young

    Does he feel
    his strangeness
    in this herd where
    only a white doe
    hints at his parentage?

    Do they wear
    their difference,
    mother and child,
    with pride or peril–
    white only visible
    when their tails
    lift skyward as they run
    for the cover of woods
    or high grass,
    sniffing the air
    for snow?

    This time next year
    will there be another
    albino generation
    of ghost nibblers
    or none at all
    reaching for fox grapes
    and persimmons,
    hanging among the trees
    or gathering acorns
    on the lawn?

  35. De Jackson

    point of tangency

    with this ring
              she he wed
         caused tear shed
               made their bed
                      and lied
                                    in it.


  36. uneven steven

    The animal zodiac mysteries

    She vaguely remembered happy
    memories of riding her father’s
    strong shoulders – the year of her being
    his special little monkey
    the subdued school
    year of the rabbit
    year of the sheep
    year of the ox –
    the long
    year of the horse
    her slow unleashing
    the year of the rooster
    and the year of the tiger
    spent eating up
    the local
    then college
    and back to being
    the year of the dog
    the year of the pig
    consoling herself
    a final succumbing
    husband one
    husband two
    long years
    of the rat
    and the snake
    enough is enough
    she vowed this cycle
    this vicious circle
    would stop –
    dragon lady they all whispered
    and just
    like that
    dragon lady was what
    she was known as
    for the rest of her life

  37. posmic


    In the circle of the road,
    the oldest circle, of home and away,
    we roll on four circles to close
    big circles of child and parent,
    child and grandparent.

    Though we know the circle
    can never be unbroken
    by distance, by who knows
    what gaps in understanding,
    differences in seeing,

    (How is it that people can
    love each other and yet want
    such different worlds? Oh,
    but they can. They can.)
    yet we will try it, sometimes

    fail, always try it again,
    this trick of bringing our
    loose ends together, being
    whole, that being enough
    for at least a few round days.

  38. elishevasmom


    cause we
    can’t see the
    of the universe holding the
    world together, does not mean it is not so. If all
    you see is darkness, just reach out
    and grab a handful
    of the light

    Ellen Knight

  39. Poet Ariel

    Fourth attempt at posting this today. Frustrating, no matter how much time I take it tells me I’m “psoting too quickly. Robert, Can you see if someone can fix this? It takes longer than my morning break IS to post.


    It’s a peculiar kinda arrangement
    carried over perhaps by the trail,
    the streets are circles upon circles
    and spreads us like a wagon wheel.

    The thing that is most peculiar
    and every day I find this true;
    all roads in Salem go in circles
    and they lead me back to you.

    It’s bad enough my thoughts go that way
    lighting on you when there’s a pause.
    That any car I drive follows –
    well, must I be blamed for the cause?

    I apologize. To work, to friends’ house
    or even driving to the store –
    no matter how I vary my routes,
    I still end up driving past your door.

    As much as I try to escape it
    I’m angry how the planners drew;
    all roads in Salem go in circles
    and they lead me back to you.

    I’ve tried to set me wandering
    following any likely direction or fork,
    I’ve tried to break this cycle,
    but even by foot or bike – it just won’t work!

    It’s not that I follow my heart,
    everyday I fight it through & through.
    It’s just that every road in Salem goes in circles
    and every time it leads me back to you.


  40. JRSimmang

    I feel like crap today.
    Just put me in a tumbler
    and mix me into your drink.
    Swirl me in tight circles
    with your finger
    and wash me down your throat.
    Allow me to make your stomach ache,
    your heart race,
    your fever pitch and
    sweat drip
    from your perfectly
    round face.
    Allow me to be your
    poison and
    come full circle
    under you.

  41. bluerabbit47

    My father
    told me
    when I
    was small
    I drew
    pages and
    pages of
    round and around
    up and down
    beginnings and endings
    together. I told
    him I was probably
    trying to write
    but he said no
    he didn’t think so
    not sharing what
    he thought I
    was really trying
    to do, the artist
    who had a recurring
    dream of trying
    to get back home
    told me that
    when I was little
    I drew pages
    and pages
    of circles.

  42. RJ Clarken

    A Love Letter (which should have gone into the circular file)

    My love for you will never end
    and like a circle, will transcend…

    Ye gads! How trite! What have I penned?
    So glad I did not yet hit send.

    You are my love; you’re my best friend.
    We’re what the Fates did so intend…

    Such a (yuck!) pedestrian trend!
    So glad I did not yet hit send.

    Dearest, my heart you apprehend!
    I cannot lie, cannot pretend.

    What utter nonsense I dispend!
    So glad I did not yet hit send.

    In misery I should descend
    if ‘ere this message would offend.

    This message I should simply rend.
    Oh no! Oh crap! I just hit send.


  43. elishevasmom

    For R.P.

    Used to be, for all
    Those years, during all
    That time
    The weave of our friendship
    Ever-thickened with bonds of

    Used to be, I could always
    Count on you to pay rapt attention to my list
    Of ailments – before making carefully considered
    Comment (when necessary),
    But with patient silence often
    Curative enough.

    Used to be, we would spar and lunge –
    Block and parry, with words
    Our weapons.
    Both of us so intuitive to the power
    Of seemingly simple syllables;
    Their ability to conquer worlds.

    Used to be, we would square off, circling
    ‘Round each other ever seeking
    The cracks in the other’s armor
    Looking always to test them, to forge stronger
    Links – create surer bonds, for that
    Is the work of friends.

    Was a time, when controlling these
    Bouts of banter
    (Or perhaps just the illusion
    Of that control)
    Gave me an anchor amidst the
    Raging tides within my mind. And now…

    Now, here you are, (and I’m not quite sure how you got here)
    Like a comfortable old pair of
    Moccasins, just kickin’ around inside my head,
    Makin’ yourself right at home
    With all that other good stuff
    Like it’s alright.

    And you know what?
    Now, it is.

    Ellen Knight

  44. Connie Peters

    Isolation Circle

    Through years of Bible, though this may sound odd,
    I can see clearly how to tick off God.
    When you think of sin, if you do at all,
    You may think of pride, Adam and the fall.

    Or lust, greed, laziness, wrath, gluttony,
    Hate, disrespect, Sabbath breaking, envy,
    Thievery, blasphemy, adultery,
    Dishonesty, murder, idolatry.

    Or you may think self-centeredness is chief.
    You may get close with doubt and unbelief.
    Or not doing all the things you should do,
    Reaching out to less fortunate than you.

    To grieve God’s heart, draw a circle about
    you and all you love, and leave Jesus out.

  45. claudsy

    Everyone is moving right along and with wondrous results. Congrats, all. We’ve manage the first week of prompts.

    Today’s efforts for a circular poem.


    Such a tiny thing,
    This sphere of life
    Nestled with a cosmos
    Filled with other spheres,
    Other shapes, other purposes.

    Such a tiny thing,
    To hold a promise
    Massive enough to create
    Life made complex by
    Sharing a single breath.

    Such a tiny thing,
    To combine with a
    Tiny arrow of life from
    Without, forging union
    To bring forth a new being.

  46. DanielAri

    “Looking for a Thing”

    Molly’s wedding band glinted as she reached
    down to spin the Wheel of Fortune. “Come on,
    big money!” In person the flat disk seemed
    smaller than TV. “Tricky camera lens,”
    she thought as the wheel’s rainbow sections bleeped

    in a slowing rhythm that found an end
    in wild applause. Before her eyes, glinting,
    five thousand dollars. Pat gushed, “What a spin!
    Let’s see what you can do.” She touched her ring,
    thought of Bob, looked up at the squares, darkened

    but for one L, one C. She was blanking.
    What that money could do! She could get Paul
    full-sized drums now that he was outgrowing
    the youth set. She blinked: “I’ll buy a vowel.
    Is there an I?” Vanna White revealed one.

    “H?” Three of them—fifteen thousand total!
    “Pat, I’ll solve the puzzle: HIGH-HAT CYMBAL.”

  47. Casey

    Full Circle

    The houses are all changed since my return
    to that old neighborhood where we’d begun.
    The streets are patterned same, though houses stern;
    their colors paled, so long they’ve faced the sun.
    I heard our children’s laughter as they played
    I watched a game of dodge-ball in the street.
    I felt the warm winds of a summer day;
    I glanced into those faces, oh, so sweet.
    But sudden slaps the circle now in place:
    suspicious eyes do stare as I drive slow.
    My longing to go back and thus embrace;
    forbidden is that street for me to know.

    My darling love, our house; it is not there;
    though by your sweat and tears you would thus swear.

  48. Michael Grove

    2 Circles – 1 Ring

    Separate circles unite inside a protective ring of love.
    Passions and compassions shared as if from up above.
    No more cold, there’s only heat or warmth as it may be.
    2 circles inside the center of 1 ring for all to see.

    Let the circles overlap a little,
    or more or all the way if you do choose.
    Don’t ever try to shrink another circle
    or it’s pretty gosh darn likely you would loose.

    Independent lives can merge into a unique world.
    2 can be themselves yet become 1.
    Empathize, Communicate, Respect, Uplift, Adore.
    Then share and care and bare and have some fun.

    by Michael Grove

  49. IrisD

    Incarceration Carousel

    Midnight luggage search confounds
    International flight was so profound
    Baggage carousel continues around
    And around, suitcases abound
    Errant suitcase never found
    Now to office to get runaround

  50. jared davidavich

    redefining revolution

    a new light rose with the sun,
    striking the world differently
    than yesterday, or tomorrow,
    illuminating change-
    neither a singularity
    of reorganization,
    nor an epi-phenomenal
    response to chaos-
    but a new process,
    a systemic approach
    to understanding
    and solving problems
    that has led
    to the creation of
    and solution to
    ubiquitous discontent
    with the world that appears
    when eyes are opened today;
    a revolution of ideals
    no longer circular
    but a unidirectional journey
    towards progress

  51. PowerUnit

    A coffee cup, headphone ear cups, and the bottom of my glasses cleaner bottle
    all have something in common
    besides sitting on my desk.

    The empty cream cheese tub
    and that Mason jar with the purple seeds in it
    surround my station.

    I increase the volume
    of my radio
    by turning the big round knob.

    My simple apple basket
    holds an extra power cord
    and a stack of round beer coasters.

    My two light’s bases
    bookends of my work
    surround me with light.

    I work in a circular world
    a ring of random spheres
    is it any wonder I can’t think straight?

  52. Domino

    How to Have Fun

    With a loop, metal or plastic
    or even made of pipecleaner,
    dip in the soapy water
    and blow through the

    Sometimes one
    and sometimes just a few
    little ones jumping out,
    solitary and staid,
    and sometimes
    a long skein of bubbles
    flying forth in a crazy-long
    line, tangling
    mixing together and joining/separating

    The dog will try to bite them,
    more serious than playful:
    they are his mortal enemy.

    The cat will be curious,
    of course,
    and reach delicately with nose
    or paw
    and once splattered
    will scatter
    to a corner to (huffily)
    clean the moisture

    The children will laugh and giggle
    try to catch or pop
    or herd
    the bubbles,
    always begging for more,
    let me try!!

    Diana Terrill Clark

  53. DAHutchison

    This Globe

    Heaven and earth,
    Carved from Nothing,
    A single, master carpenter,
    All-knowing and meticulous,
    Ever-mindful of our hearts,
    He grants us all free-will,
    We spin from His orbit,
    This was the plan.
    A house that can
    Have more angles than
    its omnipotent architect.
    A single… master… carpenter.

  54. Domino

    Circular Thinking

    Before I learned better,
    my thoughts often took
    when I least expected it.

    I would be grocery shopping
    or gardening,
    or getting dressed,
    and my thoughts would wander
    into some bizarre “what-if”

    I would think, “what if
    the reason my husband was
    late last night was really because
    he’s having an affair?”

    From there, the train of
    (un)reason would wander
    the countryside,
    making up
    scenarios that became more
    and more
    as the day passed.

    By evening, I would be
    so worked up, that when my husband
    finally got home again,
    I would demand an explanation
    for his behavior.

    And his answer would be

    And I simply had to learn:
    Just because it happened before
    does not mean it will happen

    And I had to learn to break
    that cycle,
    that devious circle,
    believing my own wayward
    as if they were true
    and real
    without any outside

    And that is why I write

    Diana Terrill Clark

  55. taylor graham


    Two ravens circle overhead. Trees
    are silent, a breathing, speechless
    chorus. That print I found in mud –
    a mammoth foot with claws. Bear.

    My old dog trots down the road,
    focused on finding Linda,
    who walked this way not long
    ago. And the barefoot print?

    We cross a brushy gully, my pup
    goes wild – spring sprung
    back to prehistoric; clock whirled
    in reverse. I yank her back.

    We continue on trail; far uphill
    my dogs discover Linda hiding.
    Ravens are gone. The forest
    spins on a barefoot track.

  56. JanetRuth

    LIfe’s Merry-go-round

    First a smile, then ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’
    Then before we know it we’ve made a friend or two
    But just as we begin to know more than their names
    Instead of ‘hello’ it is good-bye again

    If I could then I would if a way could be found
    I’d grab on and slow down this merry-go-round
    But we all climb back up and ride for a while
    Until it’s good-bye and a farewell smile

    We share our triumphs and sometimes our sorrow
    Tell them of dreams in a hopeful tomorrow
    We laugh together and shed tears when they cry
    Then suddenly, just like that…it’s good-bye

    If I could I would stop this merry-go-round
    But it seems to this merciless circle we’re bound
    For almost before our tears are dried
    We dare to climb on for another ride

    Why do we fail to treasure today?
    But wait ‘til we see someone walking away
    And then, how our hearts over-flow with pain
    To know we may never see them here again

    If I could, then I would stop this merry-go-round
    But I can’t seem to bring this moving circle aground
    So I climb back up, forget that I cried
    Smile, say ‘hello’ and go for a ride

  57. Marjory MT

    SEEDS (loop)

    Children scurry to collect bean seeds
    Seeds from the garden for their mom,
    Mom, who stores the beans for spring.
    Spring time is time for planting
    Planting in the big garden
    Garden where the green bean grow
    Grow up wires stretched on tall poles
    Poles that march down long rows
    Rows filled with vegetables
    Vegetables that they love to eat
    Eat fresh from the vine or leave to dry
    Dry to become next years bean seeds
    Seeds that children scurry to collect.

    ….* * *

    Would love to comment individually, there are some really wonderful poems written already. Wonderful way to kick off the day by reading them

    Viv, Jerry, Mariya, Andrew, Marile, Ben, Walt, Nimue, Dan, Glory, RJ ,Janet – GREAT POEMING. :)

  58. JanetRuth

    …of life-circles and choices

    We serve, Creator or created
    Before dust returns to dust
    Whether prince, priest or pauper
    We must choose whom we trust

    The leaders of earth rise
    Transient they fall
    There is One, Supreme Being
    Above us all

    From our very first cry
    As He grants us breath
    We know, you and I
    Will someday face death

    And as we choose Whom to serve
    In life’s brief circle we
    Choose not for mere Time
    But for eternity

  59. RJ Clarken

    Circular Logic

    “Contrariwise,” continued Tweedledee, “if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’ s logic.” ~Lewis Carroll

    If it were so (to state my case)
    it might well be (said with straight face.)
    But logic is a pretzel twist
    and since that’s so…you get the gist.

    We can go round and round the course,
    ride circles on a hobby horse,
    but all this is just mills for grist,
    and since that’s so…you get the gist.

    You say this make no sense, but I
    detect a sphere of s’fear. But why?
    I’m kidding now (I can’t resist)
    and since that’s so…you get the gist.

    A circle is mythology,
    contrariwise, per Tweedledee.
    It’s what the ouroborus kissed.
    And since that’s so…you get the gist.

  60. Glory

    Memories (circular poem)
    (Day 7)

    Round and around memories within my head
    of days long gone, days I spent with you.
    Forgotten, the tears, your hash words
    your coldness that broke my spirit,
    the way you harried away, didn’t turn back,
    never to return, only in my head
    where round and around spin memories of you.

  61. Nimue

    Day in, day out,
    stuck on same thought,
    sometimes let out,
    liek a sigh,never aloud.

    Numerous calls
    and as many blinking pings
    i ask it no more
    you answer me still.

    Muted conversations
    between the sheets,
    the decision hangs in middle
    tossed away for time being.

    Day in,day out,
    stuck with the routine
    meet,smile and part.
    till next time maybe.

  62. Jerry Walraven

    I can always write about leaves,
    fallow and fawn,
    rust and umber,
    their sound, amplified it seems,
    under my feet,
    reaching my ears
    with percussive sounds
    like cymbals crashing and hissing.
    The wind winds through
    adding a texture to the sounds
    just as I pass a playground
    in full orchestra,
    children’s voices carried
    and twirled about,
    twined together
    as one instrument
    by the occasional staccato shriek.
    I tap out a beat on my thigh
    as I let my ear buds dangle,
    and my feet shuffle
    through the next pile of leaves.
    I can always write about leaves.

  63. Mariya Koleva

    Whenever I reach back
    To remember you and me,
    Hand in hand, strolling in the park
    I have to turn my gaze and see
    My little one
    Remind me of myself,
    Hand in hand with Daddy.

    Her lovely chestnut curls,
    Her shiny eyes like olives,
    Her tiny hand in grip of mine,
    Her slender body curled asleep
    Just next to me,
    Remind me of myself
    and you, Dad.

    The circle is complete.

    1. Mariya Koleva

      ah, what a predicament ;-)

      (If I don’t post any more comments, it’s not because I don’t read or have nothing to say, but because of that ugly comments posting gremlin that accuses people of posting too quickly, which is just his/her stupid excuse to be ugly to us)

      phew, 12th attempt

  64. Walt Wojtanik


    It’s a start.
    A jumping off point
    for all you have conceived.
    If you believed you had the power
    you could shower the world
    with your point of view.
    It’s up to you to see
    what you could do.
    It’s a start.

  65. Ber

    Inner Circle

    Oh my cirlce
    its is so good
    it protects me
    it lets me live
    nothing else is like it
    it always wants to give

    There for one another
    through the good times
    and the bad
    knowing when the other
    is feeling down and sad

    Helping hands
    there for the other to see
    letting each other
    be who they want to be

    Stories exchanged
    lives combined
    friends for ever
    even through the stormy weather

    Circles can all come in different sizes
    big and small
    protecting us and loving us
    loving arms around us
    and all

    So let your circle in
    let them know who you are
    they will be with you for life
    never needing you to set the bar

  66. JWLaviguer

    Circling Back

    The lives we’ve lived
    and the loves we’ve loved
    interconnect like a magician’s hoops

    Seemingly linked
    but just an illusion
    we’ve pretended made sense

    You used to be there for me
    but when I needed you most
    your heart was an empty black hole

    Now, as i spiral into infinity
    like a dead goldfish
    You flushed me down and away

    But like the mythical Phoenix
    I will rise again
    And ride the carousel of love again

    1. viv

      Sad, but salted with hope. A good circle. This is for JWL – my response to Marie Elena was being written at the same time as you posted. For some unaccountable reason, PAD posting has gone into overdrive: a welcome change!

  67. viv

    Great circular poem, Robert. Serves you right for stopping up?


    I really do not want
    to treat as inevitable
    the vulnerability of the tangible.

    Concrete crumbles, an old oak tumbles,
    morphs from glorious might
    into a habitat for beetles.

    I prefer to ignore the evanescence
    of endangered species,
    not excluding me.

    Safer to consider ephemera,
    fleetingly collectible –
    bus tickets, opera programmes,

    postcards and stamps, signatures
    of the soon-forgotten famous,
    nevermore regarded;

    shards of glass and pot,
    disinterred and then discarded;
    the daily dross of newspapers.

    Better far to observe with pleasure
    the pop of a rainbowed bubble –
    no struggle –

    or the plop of a stone into a pool,
    as widening circles coalesce
    into a liquid frill and de-materialise.