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    2013 April PAD Challenge: Day 22

    Categories: Poetry Challenge 2013, Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

    The April PAD (Poem-A-Day) Challenge is designed to help poets do one thing and one thing only: Write more poems! The process of revision may go on for weeks, months, and years later, but this challenge is all about getting that first draft. Please poem along with us–either in the comments below or silently at home.

    For today’s prompt, write a complex poem. Complex is a complex word that can refer to mental state, apartments, difficulty of a situation, and so many other complex situations.

    Here’s my attempt at a complex poem:


    under these wooden floors
    creaking beneath her feet
    lives the guy she adores

    no end to wanting more
    she imagines his sheets
    under these wooden floors

    she feels an awful bore
    reading books when beneath
    lives the guy she adores

    she sees him at the store
    always shy  always sweet
    under these wooden floors

    she wants to knock his door
    down in this summer heat
    lives the guy she adores

    like a lion she roars
    paces on padded feet
    under these wooden floors
    lives the guy she adores


    Workshop Your Poetry!

    Writing poetry is exciting, but the hard work of poeming is working through the revision process. The best way to work through this process is to workshop the poems with other poets, and that can be done with the Writer’s Digest 6-week course, Advanced Poetry Writing.


    Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer


    Quick note on commenting: Please always save a copy on your computer. There have been moments in the past in which comments have disappeared, and I don’t want anyone to lose their work. Heck, I’ve lost some of my work here in the past, and it’s not a great feeling. That said, commenting here is a lot of fun, especially in April. If you’re completely new to the site, you’ll be asked to register (don’t worry, it’s free), and your comments might not appear initially until I manually accept them. However, after that initial phase, your comments should appear without my help.

    Want some more poeming fun? Check out these previous Poetic Asides posts:

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    About Robert Lee Brewer

    Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

    216 Responses to 2013 April PAD Challenge: Day 22

    1. cstewart says:


      I imagine his voice to be so soft
      His turbulence eclipsed.
      The place of her cheek against mine,
      Contours meant to match.
      His inside hand, strangely rough
      And rounded fingers.
      His way of peculiarity in his body.
      Her roundness; soft and insular.

    2. Alpha1 says:

      Meta-Cognition Seminar

      Found an empty seat
      back row auditorium
      notebook at the ready
      instructor on the podium
      feelin sleepy right now
      thought about tonight
      goin home to rest
      drowsy gotta fight
      recovered for a moment
      dreamin so deep
      thinkin I’m awake
      but really fast asleep

    3. PKP says:

      The New Boy

      He lived in the ‘complex’
      So he said
      His smile bright and eyes
      She told her mother
      Breathlessly of the
      new boy – heart pounding
      Her mother said he lied
      He lived in the “projects”
      Nothing complex there

    4. And the world thinks I am a complex number

      A+Bi is as simple as I can be
      You say there are two sides to me
      One real and the other imaginary
      I help you solve some mysteries though
      Of science, math, engineering and lo
      You call me complex, when I uncomplicated
      And help you understand the intricate!

    5. vsbryant1 says:

      Complex Life

      All the screams a contained under the roof of the place we call home

      Angry words litter the floors on the rooms that use to hold nothing but love

      Tiptoeing through halls that were meant from running and laughing

      Complex is home and home is life

    6. bxpoetlover says:


      When I try to imitate
      the twisting motions of her fingers
      all I make of my hair is a tangled mess.
      That is why
      I make her rich.

    7. Yolee says:

      Mid 60s/Early 70s

      We were the family of ten living in a one bedroom apartment
      in uptown Chicago. You could short-cut to Mrs. Dunlap’s
      place from the second floor porch. We rarely saw her go
      outside. Once she told us kids she was in the movies. I believed
      her. Why would an elderly lady living alone with three tabbies
      and a big old turtle lie to us kids? Besides, she gave us starlight
      candy. I wondered what it was like to just see one face in the mirror
      in the morning and not hear “desayuno! avancen! I used to believe
      her life was easy because her every household doing had none
      of the rumpus prospering through our home. But many years
      later I reckoned complexities visit the lonely too.

    8. Linda Voit says:

      My what complex eyes you have

      The better to see you with
      said the fly to the girls
      in the crimson hoods.

    9. IrisD says:

      Onion Tears

      Onion tears I heard mother say,
      as she used her apron to wipe them away
      But she was in the process of kneading bread
      I knew those tears were genuine instead
      She never wanted us to see her cry
      But her tender heart would often sigh
      Tears cleanse the soul of deepest pain
      Clear the path for smile to follow the rain

    10. Weather Report

      Don’t escape into dreams
      which are cool to the touch
      filled as they are with frothy drinks
      topped with pink paper umbrellas.
      Here, every day is sunny
      and you’ve found your sunglasses.

      Instead, move forward
      into the complex weather of real life.
      Storms brewing,
      bills to pay, children, cars, cats.
      Everything is messy
      and has Opinions.
      Doldrums and tiny dust devils
      and time for a nap and a dance
      before the next emergency.
      Tornadoes spelling out
      This Is Not A Drill
      across your sky.

    11. omavi says:

      “the cut & dry myth”

      confused by clarity on the horizon
      lives like a haunting ghost
      calling but running so fast
      that the mind is so torn
      that reality seems ultimately surreal
      sometimes on the horizon
      the sun happily peaks only
      so a blue moon poisons everything

      knowing this is the place needed
      to be but only hurt
      in this house lives
      enjoying a passion so furiously deep
      seething with a decaying stench
      of a thing that should
      never really be

      cursing at all deities
      but in this place I choose to live
      complaining about everything
      still moving in
      weathering a storm of horrid end
      why does heart do such
      beautifully stupid things

    12. drwasy says:

      Deus Ex Machina

      It should be easy
      to love you but after
      I unwrap your skin
      all your moving parts
      hinge and fold
      from different spots
      than before.

      The bones and organs
      shift and shimmy,
      the nerves and muscles
      transmute to more
      or fewer when I fail
      to pay attention.

      Who plays god with you?
      Who shifts your fealty?

      I peel back thin metal
      a dull brass that clangs
      under my clacking fingertips
      dig-dig-digging for you,
      for the gelatinous
      sheath pulsing blue
      and red, the soft
      and tender bit.

      Under the bony cage
      My hands pulsate,
      but you have traveled
      to another space,
      another time,
      or perhaps you have shrunk
      to a corpuscle.

      It matters naught.
      The key the gods
      threw down in fury
      has rusted.

    13. Beyond the shores of slumber,
      Where peace overtakes daylight’s stress
      Upon the starry shore of sleep,
      There lies a place of dreams
      Over which reigns tranquillity and
      Serenity. Hand in hand,
      They show deepest desires: wishes
      Given life. Hazy, dim, those
      Visions shrouded, lend a certain
      Happiness. Things impossible
      Or improbable upon waking; clarity
      Cloaked by nightfall, a blanket of bliss,
      Encourages, comforts, granting
      Relaxation during repose, a
      Sense of wholeness found,


    14. D Street

      In tall brick cubes at the edge
      of a city people were filed away
      like old index cards in the Dewey system.
      Each apartment like a mausoleum
      entombing the poor,
      keeping them hidden and away.

      But, something happened
      that pulled open the shut doors
      that allowed children to run free
      that, horror of horror, permitted growth
      until the boxes where empty
      inhabitants, dead or gone.

      Now, urban renewal has swept in
      with renovating authority.
      Gone are the brick boxes.
      Welcoming condos, bright and shining
      hold court for those who want
      a place in the city to call home.

    15. lionmother says:

      A Complex Man

      Beneath the surface
      is the man he once was
      leaping through life on
      two healthy feet
      jumping to play basketball
      arms strong to hold me close

      Beneath his surface
      the young man lies
      face unlined with his
      arrogant eyes and soft lips
      mouthing the phrases young
      men use to entice women

      Beneath his eyes is the
      man who once inhabited
      this body
      virile and strong eager
      to catch life in his teeth
      looking for adventure
      around every turn

      each day a new place
      spacing his moments
      dreaming of a freedom
      he saw somewhere
      out there in the distance
      planning for the future
      always looking to tomorrow
      not seeing today

      His days are now filled with
      doctor appointments and
      long hours spent sitting in
      his leather chair with feet
      defeated by the disease
      that is silently destroying
      him and though try as he
      might it will not subside

      He lives with the four-toed foot
      and accepts the wounds caused
      by his need to ingest the
      steroid that keeps him aware
      and holds back the sarcoid
      injects himself with the life saving
      insulin and holds back the truth
      of how he feels.

      When asked how does he feel
      his answer is always, “Fine, great,
      couldn’t be better!”
      The mix of medication such a
      cocktail it takes five doctors to
      keep it balanced

      Beneath the hazel eyes I know so well
      is the youth he once was and in dreams
      his feet move running through the
      city streets as he did as a boy

    16. Complexities of Being Newly Single

      It’s been surprising but
      I’m learning the new rules.

      At parties, couples close ranks. I
      must talk to other single women.

      Their families seem relieved:
      Oh good, Mum’s taken care of.

      (To some I’m a husband-stealer,
      to others a harmless old duck.)

      So how do I do it now?
      With old friends, there’s no issue.

      Everything’s as always,
      except without my darling.

      We miss him, but we still enjoy
      each other’s easy old companionship.

      With the new, things can get tricky.
      Warmth may be misconstrued.

      I realise all my platonic mateships
      formed in the context of me being married.

      Not so with those I meet now. They
      perceive me as free, perhaps available.

      (No, that’s not on the cards.
      I’m still in mourning. Permanently.)


      I’m staying away from parties
      unless I know the crowd.

      I’ve put my wedding ring back
      on my wedding finger.

    17. Dini says:


      checking the view
      from where I stand
      observing parallel lines
      conflicting accounts
      which facts to consider
      calculating the vanishing point
      wondering what was intended
      what thought to convey
      muddling around
      seeking the truth

    18. julie e. says:


      Oh the laughing/talking/creating
      of my sister, mom and me
      all the times that we
      were together when life was good

      Oh the hurting/stinging/harming
      of mom to my sister and me
      all the times that she
      was unhappy ‘cause things were bad

      Always hoped it would end on a high note
      always hoped she’d see the real me
      always hoped that we could end things
      but if times were bad

    19. tonijoell says:

      hands pressed to her ears
      a cacophony of sound
      inside the silence

    20. THEGingerSass says:


      Fire was about to be set to the stage
      and poetry was set to escape my lips
      when I felt a songbird break free of its cage.

      The songbird seemed to be energized by rage
      as the sky erupted with a solar eclipse.
      Fire was about to be set to the stage.

      A new life seemed to dance upon the songbird’s page
      and words flowed together like the ocean’s ships
      when I felt a songbird break free of its cage.

      The songbird cried as society reverted back to the Stone Age
      and its heart was beaten by whips.
      Fire was about to be set to the stage
Is this the best we can do, in this day and age?
      I questioned our sanity and found it hard to come to grips
      when I felt a songbird break free of its cage.

Its only goal is to sing and engage,
      yet it always goes along on life’s crazy trips.
      Fire was about to be set to the stage
      when I felt a songbird break free of its cage.

    21. julie e. says:


      hard enough for me
      how these peeps
      far past my comprehension

    22. Deri says:

      (In keeping with the idea of complexity, the “complex” in this poem is not immediately obvious.)

      Not So Simple

      should be this hard
      she thinks
      elbow on knee

      at that place
      that has
      scabbed over

      for him to
      just speak
      those small words

      another man
      in his place

      the flow of
      sweet blood.
      Scab again.

    23. julie e. says:


      Do other writers stress as much
      as I do, while i point and touch
      and ask “What do you think of me?”
      while trying to lean casually
      against a stanza just written
      with which I’m really quite smitten,
      and try to ask offhandedly
      “So, what was it you thought of me?”

    24. I attempted an acrostic of sorts -COMPLEX is spelled out diagonally in the poem. It is easily visible in my Word document, but I wasn’t sure how to make the letters bold here.

      Carry on-
      nOthing is longed for like
      norMalcy in the midst of chaos
      when Peace eludes, precludes the
      inevitabLe onslaught of
      irresolute Emotions, naked
      intentions eXposed –carry on

    25. ewdupler says:

      Racing, with the Computer Guy

      You want the change now?
      And everything must keep running?
      Yes, it’s easy to do at home.

      Let me explain the complexity, here:
      Does your home support a million users?
      Do you lose money when you reboot?

      Imagine you’re in a race car,
      Going 200 miles per hour,
      and want me to change a spark plug.

      If you don’t want it to explode,
      And if I’m not aloud to pull over,
      Give me some time to plan a little.

      • I like this! But does your next to last line say: ” And if I’m not a “loud” to pull over.”? or Does it say
        “and if I’m not “allowed” to pull over”? Or does it say “and if I’m not, aloud, (newly coined?/meaning?) to pull over”. As usual, you computer guys keep me in a storm of confusion and complexity.

    26. BDP says:

      “Complex Orangutans”

      At night they sleep in treetops, in a nest
      of sticks—I wanted that as a child, swing
      from branches, power glide the canopy.

      Their hands have a masseuse’s grip with long
      slim fingers, elegant, the stuff of nail
      polish ads. Opposable big toes hug

      the bark. If their proportions were like ours
      they’d climb as clumsily as most humans.
      Instead, they’ve Cirque du Soleil grace, these high

      wire gymnasts. On soil, they clown: sashay arms
      about their hips to whirl their bodies much
      like slo-mo tops, legs twisting, finally

      toppling. And one more thing: food. They’re always
      sharing. Button-iris babies halve bananas
      for their parents. We’ve not managed that trick

      yet. Elders’ eyes are lidded as though wisdom shrinks
      their view, seen clearly without smudge or mar.
      Intelligent, they’re ninety-seven percent us.

      B Peters

    27. LCaramanna says:


      42 hit baseball’s homerun
      Crood’s road tripped to an incredible new world
      Ferocious dinosaurs preyed the theme park
      One man’s battle waged to save mankind
      The magician hurled into epic problems in the Land of Oz
      Gatsby roared into greatness
      All in the climate controlled confines of the movie complex
      Characters, setting, plot
      Adventure, drama, twists of fate
      With hot buttered popcorn, an ice cold soda,
      And a theater size box of Jr. Mints.


    28. In Honor of Earth Day

      Pine cones
      earth’s first flowers
      a complex mechanism
      evolved for spewing seed
      escaping the stationary plant

      The pine cone blooms
      when the green pod dries
      Not yet as velvet as winged
      butterflies nor delicate as silk
      the wooden pine petals detonate

      Silence cracked apart
      by the sudden petal snap
      and the faint ping of seeds
      as they strike the ground, hitting
      rock or shallow soil or good ground

      Whole forests sown by no human hand

    29. carolecole66 says:

      Apartment Complex

      In a corner of the city off highway 31 at the outer edge
      where the interstate will run one day, I live
      in a warren of flats stacked three high and as far
      as I can see, a square mile at least, all painted
      yellow, adjacent to the black asphalt parking lot.

      Above me a shirtless man stands on his balcony
      playing his saxophone to no one, alone, not caring
      who listens, who doesn’t. It’s about the music.
      It’s about how he plays it. His eyes are open
      to follow each note. At five, he’ll go inside.

      Next door, the television is turned up loud,
      Looney Tunes and Roadrunner and Tom
      chasing Jerry. The child sits alone in the living room.
      His mother works late; his father is not around.
      His brother watches him through a closed door.

      In the apartment below, I hear a quick yelp
      a muffled thump. A door slams, a young man
      shoots into the parking lot. He doesn’t say a word.
      The bottle in his hand is brown and his fist
      clenches around it as he disappears between the cars.

      Yesterday I met a woman by the pool
      who said she was moving on soon.
      These kinds of places are temporary, she said.
      it’s nowhere to raise a family. She been
      here five years. Tomorrow she’ll pack another box.

      We are stacked one on top of another,
      in a warren of rooms, a sad imitation
      of neighborhood, no common language,
      no blood ties. We park our cars side by side
      and lock our doors with care each night.

    30. nessajay says:

      It’s Very Simple

      It’s very simple
      The way the world works
      The earth rotates at speeds of up to 1038 miles per hour, causing the sun to appear to rise in the East
      Daily without fail
      Your parents love you, but being human they cannot help but bruise you in ways that will manifest just when you want to love someone
      Deeply without fail
      Every living creature moves inexorably and with increasing acceleration toward the day of its death, which is terrifying, and also the source of meaning, shape, and urgency in our lives
      Darkly without fail
      Your prefrontal cortex imagines the world it wants – a peaceful, just world through which you ambulate gracefully, knowledgeably with well-defined muscles and well-timed generosity – but your cerebellum and hippocampus repeat certain behavior patterns in self-fulfilling feedback loops, keeping you more or less flabby and petty and resulting in rates of viewing television or movies 100 times greater than combined rates of strength training and being neighborly by baking a pie or lending jumper cables
      Disgracefully without fail
      The way the world works
      Is very simple

    31. Human complexity is a commodity in today’s society.
      The diversity is a necessity to exercise our minds perfectly.

      Too many times people fall into an place of complacency.
      They act without thought and the mind loses efficiency.

      We think we want it simple.
      We think we want it easy.
      But thinking and discerning, my friend
      Are already complex entities.

      This poem, for instance, follows a certain grammatical procedure.
      But take it a step further and let’s complicate the structure.

      Normally we read left to right just like this.
      .bit little a for left to right go let’s Now

      .discern to hard and strange it’s first At
      .learn to begin you lines few a after But

      .do to needs it what to adapt will mind Your
      .amused hopefully then confused first At

      I hope you can see that we’re back to normalcy.
      Now let’s change the view and drop a vowel or two.

      Y?ur m?nd w?ll perce?ve what ?t sh?uld see,
      F?ll?ng ?n the letters w?th m?derate ease.

      Just a way to explore,
      The mind’s apprehension.
      I said it before,
      And I’ll say it again:

      Human __________ is a _________ in today’s _______.
      The _________ is a _________ to exercise our minds _________.

      (Now, did you look back up to see?
      Or did you repeat it from memory?)

    32. Angie5804 says:

      The music of the woods
      Is not just a bird song
      It’s the beat of the brook
      The harmony of wind and leaf
      A twig, a scamper, layers

      The music of the ocean
      Is not just the cry of the gulls
      It’s the crash of the waves
      The melody of wind and water
      A splash, a scrape, laughter

      The music of the snow
      It’s not just the hoot of the owl
      It’s the patter of flakes
      The rhythm of wind and white
      A crunch, cold, whispers

      The music of the world
      Is not just a song, a cry, a hoot
      It’s beating, crashing, pattering
      It’s melody, harmony, and rhythm
      It’s love, peace, God’s creation

    33. ValerieO says:

      Cabrini Green

      She hid under a cot
      Cousins did the same
      All covered their ears
      Lay belly down in the bedroom
      Outside multiple shots fired
      Ricochet off barred windows
      They wait until its safe again
      To play with dolls

    34. tunesmiff says:


      Baseball, Softball, and
      Soccer huddle in the shade
      of Football’s shadow.

    35. Domino says:


      A hive of honeybees,
      careful and sure,
      pollinate flowers and
      make honey pure.

      A mound of termites,
      with labor and grit,
      build enormous palaces,
      because they commit.

      Wasps all freely work on
      the nest they all build.
      Building their nest,
      their destiny fulfilled.

      Ants are the masters of
      underground lairs.
      The burrow and delve and
      all commonly share.

      And all of these critters
      are social and free
      to live in their dwellings
      just as you and as me.

      So on this new earth day
      in twenty-thirteen,
      let’s all make a promise
      to try and live “green.”

      Diana Terrill Clark

    36. De Jackson says:

      What on Earth?
      (an Earth Day poem)

      Is it really that

      Take what you need,
      need what you take.

      Recycle what you can,
      for goodness sake.

      She’s three-fourths water,
      so keep it clean.

      Don’t trash her lands.
      See what I mean?

      A little kindness
      will make her smile.

      Let’s assume she’s gonna
      be around awhile.


    37. “Complex”

      can be
      a variety
      of different things
      One thing
      we don’t want
      is a complex life

      It is better
      to live
      a simple
      easier life
      it demands less
      but provides
      us with more

      When things get
      they sometimes
      get out
      of hand
      and we are left
      holding the bag

      Take a look
      at what
      you really
      and let go
      of what
      you don’t

      Wayne L Murphy 4/22/13

    38. Lindy says:

      Dueling Banjos

      Cinderella doesn’t care about the ball.
      The Prince’s heart for her is all -
      house and home and garden walls,
      dancing down domestic halls.

      Superman takes care of things alone.
      He doesn’t want to be a drone.
      Marching to a beat he owns,
      turning over all the stones.

      Inside of me are both of these
      complexes of a mind uneased.
      Buzzing on like threatened bees,
      they’ve still agreed to disagree.

      Oh really what should I expect,
      as I sit here to reflect -
      my twin fishes swim opposite;
      yet together, out of respect.

    39. EbenAt says:


      It’s complex,
      You had
      to be there.

      In your mind’s eye,
      see the north end of
      The Olympic Peninsula,
      late 70s through early 80s.

      Ostensibly there
      to burn slash
      The Forest Circus,
      in reality
      we were there to
      play music,
      make love,
      talk philosophy,
      and mystify
      the locals.

      From PHD candidates
      to High School
      drop outs and
      everyone in between,
      it was
      the place to be.

      Oh, there was work;
      work which,
      very realistically
      could and would kill you
      for a single mistake.

      We waltzed through it
      with a cheer,
      a wink and
      a shit eating grin.

      We saw more fire in a season
      than ‘real’ firefighters
      in a career;
      hundreds of acres
      at a shot.

      Now, we sport
      a touch of gray.
      Some are gone,
      or have disappeared.
      Most of us
      are still here
      some of us
      are still connected.

      Oh there might be
      a respectable few who
      might deny they were there;
      but we know
      who you were.

    40. Julieann says:

      The Complexity of Human Emotions

      She showed up at the door
      With tears in her eyes
      Removing her ring
      She started to speak

      The wedding is off,
      It just cannot be
      I love you, I do,
      And love you, I don’t

      I would have a wonderful life with you
      I will have a good life without you
      I want to be your wife, but
      I don’t want to marry you

      To be married to you
      For the rest of my life
      Would be a marvelous thing, and yet
      I fear, this marriage would cause great pain

      I can’t say why these feelings I have
      They led me to you,
      They are tearing me away
      Good-by, I have to go

    41. profal29 says:


      from a
      blood clot/stroke combination
      paralyzed, stuck, fighting my way back to now
      I’m ok

    42. Jezzie says:

      A Sestina – My Gardening Year

      My garden’s lovely, all pink and purple
      interspersed with the odd splash of yellow
      because it is finally Spring season.
      But everywhere else, of course, it is green,
      except for the footpaths and patio,
      and, not having a lawn, where there’s gravel.

      There’s lots of hyacinths in my gravel,
      they’re all growing wild and mostly purple.
      Looking from the windows by my patio
      I can see patches of sunshine yellow
      daffodils still blooming amid the green.
      This year surely has a mixed up season.

      I missed mowing my lawn late one season
      so next year I replaced it with gravel.
      and just to make sure my garden was green
      I placed conifers amid the purple.
      Then my concrete ducks I painted yellow
      and left them to waddle the patio.

      Forsythia’s in flower, it’s yellow
      but quickly it is sprouting vibrant green.
      Snowdrops have all finished in the gravel,
      violets spring from cracks in the patio.
      But I know it is really Spring season
      seeing Aubretia cushions of purple.

      From now on there will be lots more purple
      and I’ll have seen the last of the yellow.
      I’m not keen on it in Summer season
      I much prefer pink, magenta, and green
      in my flower pots on my patio
      or amongst the rocks around the gravel.

      Then in Autumn I will clear the gravel
      and chop down my Buddleas, all purple.
      I’ll empty all the tubs on my patio
      and watch most of my trees turning yellow,
      then shades of red, although some will stay green.
      That’s the end of my gardening season.

      Leaves lie on gravel, all curled and yellow,
      my hands go all purple, flagstones go green,
      no flowers on my patio, in Winter season.

      Complex or what? My first attempt at a Sestina – not really my style but I just had to give it a go!

    43. RJ Clarken says:

      All the Answers

      “For every complex problem there is an answer that is clear, simple, and wrong.”~H.L. Mencken

      Those complex problems plague us all.
      You think, “Aha!” But then you find
      you’re wholly wrong. Then you’re inclined
      to give it up. You’re in a stall.

      These issues do not play fair ball.
      (This doesn’t help: you’re in a bind.)
      You think, “Aha!” But then you find
      Those complex problems plague us all.

      So, when this happens… to the mall!
      You haven’t really lost your mind;
      It’s just shop therapy combined
      with problem solving. (A good call!)
      Those complex problems plague us all.


    44. pmwanken says:


      It seemed so simple then,
      the days of early youth.
      Nothing more to worry about than
      making sure my toys were put away.
      Of course there were endless
      chores on the farm, but it was a part of life.

      Life changed, though,
      when our family fractured.
      While I was really still a kid, the simple
      became much more complex.
      Responsibilities shifted, my age
      became greater than my years;

      independence became my life ring and
      self-sufficiency, my anchor. Later,
      anonymity of city-life, my sustenance;
      the business of busyness, my companion.
      Decades of responsibility brought
      another shift, to a different kind of focus.

      It’s simple: life doesn’t have to be
      as complicated as I’ve made it.
      The stuff that surrounds me is not
      what is important—the people are; and
      making time to play and doing your chores
      is as complex as it needs to be.

      P. Wanken

    45. Green Complex

      Elaborately designed,
      maze of green shrubs
      meanders back to front,
      side to side. Some areas
      are wide, others narrow.
      Gamers gather at outside
      corners, all warned that no
      help will be forthcoming
      should they find themselves
      trapped. ‘Let the games
      begin,’ Master calls through
      his megaphone. ‘Only those
      who win, will rule the fools
      who could not find
      their way out.

      Poetic Asides
      April Challenge – Day 22
      Write a complex poem

    46. PowerUnit says:

      The filtered sun lands just right
      Aimed carefully, intentionally
      Through the fleeting hole
      Bounced off the myriad mirrors
      Positioned by computer
      And captured silently in the grainy blackness
      Such a complex set of states
      Set in motion by a simple button push


      “It’s a bit complex,” he says.
      She staring in the mirror,
      analyzing her pores, tugging
      at the laugh lines that make
      her want to cry.

      He’s in the bedroom pulling on
      his pants going on about
      some scientific discovery he
      read about yesterday, oblivious to
      his own uneven complexion.

    48. Sentence

      Language is my life sentence,
      plowing through the syntax
      of amateurs with no interest
      in going pro. Like Stanley
      in search of elusive Livingston,
      I comb through mire and mazes,
      dangling participles, lonely
      prepositions, hanging out
      alone on the corner of a clause.
      Like Thoreau, as I encounter
      them holed up in compounds
      I rouse my imperative tone
      and shout, Simplify! Simplify!
      Why, I ask, do they choose
      the complex, a clause leaning
      on the rail of its mother ship?
      I have grown to empathize
      with the man in the second-
      hand store, dealing daily
      with odds and ends, bents
      and dents that others discard.
      I want to work with words
      of my own, finding balance,
      creating perfect parallels,
      swinging on the trapeze, rope
      held in my teeth, juggling
      startling nouns, zealous verbs.

    49. Kimberlee Thompson says:

      A Particular Recipe

      Take one herb
      grown out of season
      on the slope of
      an inhospitable mountain.
      Gnaw it.

      Add one drop
      found inside an other-
      wise dry vessel,
      forgotten in a dark cupboard.
      Swallow it.

      Find a seed
      left over from sowing
      during the full moon
      when last you felt truly happy.
      Toss it

      over your left shoulder
      Lost as the day you remembered.

    50. burrhead says:


      Brother liar roamed his old cherry orchards
      staff carved with love
      original Mother tree
      clicking against rocks
      sacks of goo with porous membranes
      pedigrees of specific strains
      a little indelicate
      prized for his uncultivated immature complex
      sense of being
      roasty character
      vigor without a limp
      beam illuminating suspended haze
      small amounts of bitterness balanced
      by sweeter, saltier memories
      the middle of his life
      groundfog hugging polymetric enzymes
      as the earth warms into late morning
      enraptured by view
      mountains, shorelines, trees, the orchard

    51. Jezzie says:

      “Can it really be that hard?
      Only an idiot couldn’t work it out.”
      My husband said to me,
      Putting the flatpack on the kitchen floor.
      “Let me show you, Honey.”
      Eventually, a couple of hours later,
      Xpletives forgotten, he had done it!

    52. (Sestina – the most complex poetry form (in my opinion).)


      The fickle, blustery wind
      sucks the heat by the dollar
      from every room, quickly past the hearth
      leaving the occupants scrambling for two
      sweaters as they shiver in despair –
      and yet a weak ray of sunshine gives hope.

      There is that startling word again – hope.
      In a time and place where the only weather is wind
      and the grasping hands of despair
      claw and scratch at you as you try to save every dollar -
      so seldom is that word used, you don’t even need two
      hands to count the utterances, as you move closer to the hearth.

      Bowing your head, you sit upon the hearth
      searching for a single strand of hope,
      wishing for two,
      whispering your wishes, sending them on with the whistling wind
      dreaming of a dollar
      for every wish and sinking into despair.

      Gut wrenching, sobbing despair
      overcomes you as you fall into a ball off the hearth,
      your last dollar
      clutched in your hand, as hope
      falls into the darkness, swept away by the howling wind –
      your heart beats slowly for two.

      Yes, two.
      A life soon to enter your despair,
      wondering how you will protect that life from the wind
      as the fire within your hearth
      grows ever colder, that even hope
      is losing its tenuous grasp, like every last dollar.

      Through tear stained lashes she looks at the dollar
      and in her mind sees two
      and with the two comes ideas and hope -
      the crushing weight of despair
      is lifted, and she sits back up on the hearth
      no longer hearing the wind.

      She has a plan for her last dollar, she chases despair
      away, and wraps her arms around two, and stands from the hearth
      with purpose, with hope, and the calming of the wind.

    53. Never2L8 says:

      She loves too easily
      and then wonders
      what’s wrong with her.
      Why no one stays.
      Her hearts breaks
      are legend
      on facebook.
      In a relationship
      It’s complicated
      Single… again

    54. RAVEN’S EYE

      Where hazard’s jumbled its strange building-blocks,
      look – today a foot-traveler is lost.
      Raven circles this wonderland of rocks:

      limestone, granite under a sun that mocks
      the eye with shade, with glitter of a frost.
      Where hazard’s jumbled its strange building-blocks,

      now the lost man without direction clocks
      his pace, his chance of water; doubts accost.
      Raven circles this wonderland of rocks.

      The random roamer stops, looks around, cocks
      his head; considers two weathered sticks, crossed
      where hazard’s jumbled its strange building-blocks

      around such casual sign. There, a fox
      left prints in sand, its hunger-stride embossed.
      Raven circles this wonderland of rocks

      a man may wander as if in a box
      without an exit. As on heat-waves tossed
      where hazard’s jumbled its strange building-blocks,
      Raven circles the wonderland of rocks.

    55. De Jackson says:

      needing a siesta after her sestina…

      Six words, seven stanzas
      ending each in turn.
      Sweaty palms, tired brain
      trying desperately to learn. (Absurd!)
      I was told there would be
      no math. But this is
      Algebra, with words.


    56. Raina Masters says:

      Complex living is not complicated

      It only takes one careless person
      who sets their kitchen ablaze
      while satisfying a late night craving.
      One person to steal your assigned
      parking space, one ignorant jackass
      who needs to commandeer every
      washing machine and every dryer.
      One inconsiderate person blasting
      their music at midnight. These are
      the ones who make you glad to pay
      a mortgage, glad to do yard work in
      ninety degree weather, glad to be
      out of apartment living.

    57. De Jackson says:

      The Complexity of She

      Don’t bother;

      She is bomb shelter shocked
      and struggle spent,
      knees locked and
      dark promise bent
      too far against this hard
      -en rock.

      She is in
      -fidelis and out
      of time, lost in rhyme
      and ocean sway;
      shipped, wrecked
      on land and
      here to stay.

      She’s racked with re
      -sillience and reason,
      temptation and treason
      and the endless drive
      of thrive.

      She’s ex
      -hausted, -hilarated,
      and she’s a

      This was also inspired by the Wordle words over at the Sunday Whirl:

    58. Rhae says:

      ‘No Harder, Than This’

      the simplicity of my words are
      too easy on the masses and
      too difficult for those residing in boxes,
      my hypotheses leave me falling
      to bended knees
      praying that these find easier routes
      out of all ever said
      others play dead in order not to really feel,
      we live hill too high
      to see pass our own truths
      and these proofs reveal during troubling times
      when minds are too young or
      too weak to speak
      thru – to get thru,
      this nation is broken apart
      and those of us who
      praise the carrying of pen
      live within
      hoping for a reach out,
      well what’s it worth
      not going forth to expel the real
      pain of this world,

      I ask,
      remember when you got so wasted
      at a party
      the prank was either drawn on your forehead
      or shaving cream in hand to your face
      even syrup between the toes,
      here lies the more complex part
      when our youth have reached a part
      where its easy going recording a rape,
      “f***!” are we too late
      have we lost them
      to losing vision so there are no better choices,

      so I try using my pen = hoping we’re all trying to use our voices
      because like I see it
      we need to seriously start recognizing
      or else
      this will SURELY be repeated.


      (a senryu)

      Life is so complex
      Need a syringe to inject
      Some simplicity

    60. De Jackson says:

      It’s Complicated
      (an Ovillejo)

      It isn’t that I can’t trust
                  you, just
      that even the stars above
                  never loved
      this light, so truth will fight
                  me, right?
      Here in my arms wrapped tight,
      your heart concealed
      all is revealed:
                          You just never loved me right.


    61. priyajane says:


      A simple carbon bond
      Creates encrypting forms
      From head to toes,
      From warm to woes
      Attract, contract, delete,mutate
      And up and down they all rotate
      From home to street
      and global tweets
      Galaxies of continuous ways
      Complexities of a million rays
      They all just start with a basic thing
      A simple loving carbon ring

    62. De Jackson says:

      For this poet, it doesn’t get any more complex than a Sestina. (Tried to throw in all the other meanings of “complex,” as well.) Whew.

      Love Lessons
      (a Sestina)

      ‘I am not here for your amusement,’
      she says, wiping away her tears.
      Antonio takes her face in his hand
      and slowly caresses it with no
      hesitation. This is harder than she thought,
      this fling, this thing called love.

      ‘For what is love,’
      She thinks, ‘But a muse, meant
      to be used.’ It is a profound thought,
      transparent now through her many tiers
      of doubt and fears. After all, he doesn’t know
      all of the facts at hand.

      She’s impressed, though, got to hand
      it to him, this man, her love,
      whose answer to ‘Do you love me?’ is ‘No,’
      Lovely Leila from 3B, but you amuse me.’Ant-
      onio smiles when he lies, a fact that tears
      at her very soul. Yes, much more complex than she thought.

      She is in awe of his thought
      process. The way his hand
      carefully plots its territory, tears
      tiny lines in her skin as if love
      were proven in souvenirs, shiny tokens left behind to amuse. Meant
      for her, perhaps? Or perhaps no.

      She does not know.
      It has been years since she unearthed the thought
      that she has always been able to amuse men,
      true talent for which she must hand
      credit to her mother, whose first love,
      her father, drowned his inferiority in trembled tears.

      Or so she is told. Now she tears
      a path of her own in life, since no
      one else is going to do it for her. Love
      her, the way she must love herself: in thought,
      in action. She thinks this even as Tony’s wandering hand
      doodles on her skin, messages for his own ardent amusement.

      And then, her tired heart knows this thought:
      ‘No, I am not here for your amusement, Antonio. And this is not love.’
      And she claims her life back, tears it from his hand.


    63. dextrousdigits says:

      The dog was rushed to the Vet
      Yesterday he was his normal
      run around in circles,
      tail wagging,
      play with me, self.

      This morning he was lethargic
      didn’t want to eat
      not lifting his head up
      to greet me, a stranger.

      Initially it was clear he was anemic.
      After hours of IVs for hydration
      tests from every orifice
      the cause was determined.

      Fixing it, however, was a problem.
      His own body was attacking
      and eating his own blood cells
      giving him blood would just increase the attack.

      Medications like chemo,
      could likely be too strong for his
      now weakened body.
      How to decide what to do?

    64. foodpoet says:


      Complex is juggling
      Over and over too many task balls are dropped.
      My mental ability is
      Painfully over worked.
      Leisure is nonexistent
      Eaten up by
      Oh oops another dropped x ball.

    65. Ann M says:


      Tousled soft-eyed boy
      set loose among banners
      and brotherhood. All ropes
      untethered, mother gone.
      What is to be done
      and how is it to be stopped?
      Too late to touch his cheek,
      or turn his heart.
      No more to do
      but hide in the hold of a boat
      and set sail
      into the hail of storm,
      all damage done.

    66. alana sherman says:


      If longing for her shimmers and murmurs,
      why not say gathering of chickadees
      or one bird on the highest branch crooning?
      Why not say that pile of snow unmoving,
      hugging the house near a crabapple tree
      tranquilly coming into bud where she
      is not? Why not playful boy pushing
      a red truck into and out of puddles
      while the sun haloes his hair? Why not love
      this spring day, cool and breezy, dog rolling
      over and over in new grass, four paws
      in the air, downed branches by a garage,
      flowering quince lopped almost to the ground?
      Why not love for the child so far away?


    67. I’m still in a “senryu mood” from yesterday – here’s one that just came to me – maybe more poetry later.

      cherry tree blossoms
      a different day each year –
      how complex you are

    68. Wistful glances at far-off landscapes
      Proclaim hardships that don’t do much
      To quell the for-naught feeling of despair
      That some identify as the crux of existence.

      It is a hard-knocked truth to relish
      For time is a difficult mistress to face
      Uncertainty beckoning us in
      Every chance it gets.

      The world is our oyster
      We are told
      But too often we remain locked inside
      Effortlessly stuck, yet willing to
      Be guided.

    69. Glory says:

      COMPLEX . . .

      You look at me with the saddest eyes
      You listen hard to my replies
      You answer when I call your name
      You sleep, you eat, you never complain
      I love you, yes I really do
      I love to spend my time with you
      You brighten up my every day
      I’m glad you’re here, here to stay
      The only thing that bothers me
      Is when you wag your tail so free
      I thought it love, but can it be
      If you wag for every one you see
      I think I’m beginning to recognise
      That sad, sad look is your disguise
      I don’t know you, no not at all
      I’m just a sentimental fool
      As each day I’m beginning to see
      How complex a dog like you can be.

    70. PressOn says:


      Iambs I confuse with the trochees;
      I can’t find new words for the Smokies;
      my rhyme schemes are bores:
      each line break deplores
      a complex for bad karaokes.

    71. Rachel Blake says:

      Simply beautiful!
      The first reaction
      before you really look.
      Study then a world revealed
      much faceted, complex .
      a thumbprint here
      layering there
      a creature disguised by trees
      subtle hues make up a skin
      rainbows deck the cloth
      The background is not dark at all
      there are that many greys?
      a Turner sky,
      Van Gogh dots,
      the lips ,
      slightly parted,
      the weight of a pearl earring,
      what lies beneath the enigmatic smile?
      A feast so rich
      it demands all senses
      to unravel the plot.
      Wonderful complexity,
      simply beautiful
      it is not.

    72. PoM says:


      Poetic complexity the arrangement of lines
      It’s O so much more than rhythms and rhymes
      Literary terms that I must define
      Literary systems organization of lines
      The more I attain It astounds my brain

      Trochee pentameter prosody of speech
      Personification hyperbole tone
      Metaphors smiles simile
      I did not realize the magnitude of thee
      A true poet I now see I’ll never be
      A student of poetry that’s all I’ll ever be

      This complexity and beauty of poetry
      So awesome bewildering it electrifies me
      The more I see the complexity of thee
      My love how it’s amplified
      By the beauty the complexity of poetry

    73. Words like intricate
      Lightly tap dance on your tongue
      And sing their meaning

    74. missjoyce says:

      A complex poem.

      An Idea

      It starts with a spark,
      a quick wrist movement,
      brightness in the dark
      then a fast descent.

      Unless its sustained,
      this hint of your light,
      only if maintained
      can make the room bright.

      It travels a path
      all throughout your mind.
      No distinct math
      but neurons you’ll find.

      Left brain to the right
      vice versa, it goes.
      Tapping doors that might
      keep the spark aglow.

      Just keep it going
      and see where it leads.
      No use in leaving
      an unplanted seed.

      It might seem shaky
      to pursue this task,
      it might sound silly,
      you’re too shy to ask.

      Let it float around,
      tie it on the pier,
      try those rhyming sounds
      until it becomes clear.

      The poetry tips
      and ideas roam,
      all led you to whip
      this short complex poem.

    75. Amy says:


      We used to fit together
      you were my out
      of plastic smiles and
      an empty stomach
      I was your in
      to the upper echelons
      of the small-town
      we’d disappear for days
      submerged in obscenity
      There was you and
      there was me
      But boredom reaped
      what boredom sowed
      and now I pass you
      on the street and think
      It’s complicated

    76. A Complex Family Dinner

      Mother, with her martyr complex, had slaved
      all day over a hot stove, No bother, she assured
      her guests. You know me, give, give, give,
      and never take. She’d worried, though,
      about seating arrangements, even considered
      place cards, assigned seats, keeping Electra
      away from Mom, but not too close to Dad,
      who naturally shied away from Oedipus,
      not just because of the battering his ankles
      took from that boy’s bad feet, but the looks
      he gave him. He couldn’t seem to help himself.
      Lolita, always such a little bimbo, found herself
      too near Uncle Humbert, without the sense
      to watch what she wore, her pigtails bouncing
      and she sat twitching and squirming. Napoleon
      from next door frowned his crossest look
      when asked if he preferred a taller stool,
      snapping orders at everyone around the table,
      as if this were his feast, not theirs. Don,
      the next door neighbor, Mrs. Juan’s boy,
      appeared without invitation, a free meal
      just the ticket that drew him, leaving without
      goodbyes soon after dessert. Aunt Cassandra
      said she just knew he would leave before
      anyone could rope him into clearing tables,
      washing dishes. Was it something I said?
      Brother always asked, reveling in guilt
      he hadn’t even earned. No bother, Father
      said, Baby Sis always comes to the rescue.

    77. Complex Poem

      Weird people live in this complex.
      We have a guy next door
      who has no job,
      stays out all night,
      comes in at dawn.
      Never speaks to anyone.

      The lady down the hall
      laughs loud enough
      to wake my baby.

      Opposite my door
      the lady cooks with ginger . . .
      every day.
      Doesn’t she like any other spice?

      Out the window
      I watch a very fat man
      from first floor
      sit on the park bench every day
      while his small Chihuahua
      runs in circles
      on a leash.

      The mom in 2B
      screams at her toddlers.
      Does she ever speak with kindness
      to her children?

      And then there’s me,
      who watches, listens, and sniffs,
      but never addresses anyone;
      just writes.

    78. Miraculous Complexities

      Not about her tainted past,
      the drinking days burning fast

      against lost time, lost memories
      or warning signs she failed to see

      a downward spin as food she stuffed
      regurgitating, huffs and puffs

      smoking after 5-mile runs
      denying damage to her lungs.

      No, she had no complex ‘bout these things
      she’s given up, and now she sings

      praises for her life aware,
      strength she got from being there.

    79. PressOn says:


      Of complexity
      the poet knew so little,
      mired in simple words;

      he wrote
      to ease his doubts
      and a sense of ennui
      engendered by an old vision
      of love;

      but each phrase he coined
      was a fraud, enjoined
      with desire for achievement.
      The result was dross:
      no more love; just loss
      and a sense of bereavement.

    80. Jane Shlensky says:

      March of the Fire Ants

      They’ve been down there all winter
      tunneling, training up a new generation,
      expanding their territory,
      plotting a takeover of the sidewalk,
      the yard, flower gardens.

      By spring, they’re pushing up
      big mounds of pebbled clay
      mining shafts that lead—
      to where? Foundation walls?
      Beneath the porch?

      I don’t begrudge them life,
      but they are anxious trespassers
      on my home, apt to bite,
      bringing pain for weeks.
      I can’t have that.

      I pick my battles carefully,
      but there’s no winning here.
      I spray the sidewalk. Give them
      some of my bite. Take back
      the flowers and shrubs for weeks, days,

      watching new mounds push up
      in new locations, the tiny
      belligerent workers mining
      deeper, wider, tunneling,
      expanding, this queen
      keen on empire.

    81. PressOn says:


      I cannot comprehend the connection
      between sex and a sense of affection;
      it would seem that the first
      is a simple outburst
      while the latter’s of complex complexion.

    82. JRSimmang says:

      “Do as I say, not as I do,”
      I remember my father, alone on the porch,
      chewing his SKOL, and spitting the charred
      remnants into an old Coors can.

      I always wondered what it was he tasted.
      It looked like gasoline, swirling around with
      little bits of gunk mixed into the oily blackness.

      But, he dipped. And dipped again.

      When I was four, I tried to drink some of it, swill it down
      like I thought he did when he was done.
      My mother told him that would be the end of the marriage if I did.
      They divorced anyway, so I guess it doesn’t matter much now.

      Dad quit anyway, and bought a pipe, a nice briar pipe with an
      old man face carved into the bowl.
      He bought some vanilla tobacco, which smelled like
      wealth and bourbon.
      At that age, I didn’t know that, but I do now.

      He said he would quit at some point.
      He said that it was bad for him, and more importantly
      I should never start.
      He wanted me to be around for a long time,
      longer than him,
      but that was pretty much a given.

      As my 21st birthday rolled around, I couldn’t help
      but think back on my 13th birthday.
      My dad sat in the corner of the living room
      with white smoke tracing the ceiling, carefully
      laying in the stain that would be there until we ripped
      out the roof to make room for a solarium.
      It was pleasant, whisky mixed with birthday cake.

      I bought my first pipe when I was 21, a simple meerschaum,
      no face, no animal, just a simple carving of a tree.
      That night, I sat with my dad on my apartment patio,
      whisky in hand, pipe lit, and
      we talked for hours about the sunrise.

    83. All these smart people
      walking around and
      gets so complex,
      in my simple way
      I notice it’s always
      to their benefit

    84. A woman defined
      No other word fits better
      Than complicated

    85. Oops!

      It can’t be that complicated
      Mechanical things are all the same
      I’ve got the tools and the knowhow
      And the time on my hands
      It’ll save me a boatload of jack
      And if all else fails
      I’ve always got the Internet

      It’s just a motorcycle
      How complicated can it be?

      I’ll take pictures of every step
      Document every screw and bolt
      Lay out all the parts as I go
      And in no time, I’ll be riding again

      All back together
      Check one more time before
      I hit the starter button
      What’s this?
      Where’d that part come from?
      And that one?
      And that one, too?
      Where do they go?
      What have I done?

      Guess they don’t make them like they used to
      Better call a pro

    86. Ann Graham Price says:


      She thinks she is manic-depressive, she says, using
      The language of a generation ago to describe
      What I saw every day.
      The bursts of creativity, the beautiful melodies,
      Whole programs taking shape in a single flash of insight.
      These she juxtaposed among the late nights she dragged me out of bed
      She said to shore her up
      But really just to pull me down and down into her nightmare realm.

      Did she have a choice?
      I say she did.

      There were those lucid moments when she knew,
      When she could see the wreckage in her wake,
      But it was too easy to make it someone else’s choice:
      Her husband, her friends, her family all gave her the easy out,
      All said she could not help herself,
      And therefore I must.

      Which left me with a choice:
      To follow suit, or to find a different way.
      I preferred Plan B,
      Which despite its many pitfalls and uncertainties,
      Has mostly worked out rather well.

      Especially for her granddaughters.

      She pauses, fork poised with the next bite,
      Waiting for … what? I’m not sure. Disbelief? Evidence to the contrary?
      Reassurance? Yes. Probably that one. That was always my job.
      But instead I laugh, my years of anger and misery long since passed.

      “No,” I say, meaning yes.
      “Do tell.”

    87. Motherhood

      Yesterday she needed understanding
      It was a long day of conversations
      Sparked by an unruly child
      She wondered where she went wrong

      Last night she needed distance
      As she pondered her next move
      To win her daughter’s love back
      Bring her back under her wing

      This morning she needed compassion
      From a childish misunderstanding
      She had read the signals incorrectly
      Thought the worst, as she often did

      Right now all she needs is a hug
      That expression of love through contact
      Mother and child embracing
      All is well in her complex world

    88. JRSimmang says:

      means to plant our feet
      below the
      others who shadow our quaint,
      earthly existence.

    89. Margot Suydam says:

      The Orchard

      Translucent willowing lace bare
      against a single screened window,

      empty vase perched on the sill.
      A room singed in apricot, wall

      trimmed ripe yellow like bananas
      aging in hot kitchen air, softening

      soon to black from brown. This is
      what I remember. Your complex sweet

      could taste slightly of rot enough
      to cause a slight gag, a twisting

      away. Yet, still I digest the ripened
      words aimed to maim the unprotected.

      A dancer, I spin and spill, still
      to your guitar I strum and hawk

      and when you seed me, I blossom,
      bake in shades, and apply you slick

      to parted lips. An orchard inflamed,
      I let you circle and stake. Your stem,

      tall and lanky, staples me while
      embers prance in gray debris,

      orange glows up my skirt.
      And so now, I implore: Mix me

      up into the willowing yellow,
      singed apricot, and ripe lace.

    90. happys says:

      ~Complex Equation~

      A lady teacher gently wrote on the board
      An extremely complex mathematical equation
      With variables a, b, x to z as expression
      For her young students to find a solution

      These youths so focus with determination
      Attitude of never giving up with resolution
      Discipline and perseverance their intention
      Complex equation no more in their humble opinion

    91. JanetRuth says:

      Complexity of the Heart

      The greatest complexity I know
      Is the convenience of your eloquence
      Pleasing, tormenting me so

      You woo in whispers laced with death
      Deception shapes such pleasantness
      While disassembling bastions breath by breath

    92. JanetRuth says:

      Complexity of Words

      Words are fickle, winsome things
      With which to build our boasts of sand
      Unless their guise is augmented
      With upright action of the hand

      The logic of the human heart
      Is quick to defend and to blame
      We ought to ponder carefully
      These rudiments of hope and shame

      How smooth these syllables ally
      What credence fills their guild with voice
      Yet, we do well to recognize
      The silence thunders with our choice

    93. mlcastejon says:

      Hello everybody!

      My complex poem for today

      Lost in the abstract
      axioms and theories
      You made me decide.

    94. JanetRuth says:

      Complexities of Love

      For love we suffer to find its comfort
      Its beauty runs deepest in rivers of blood
      Love is a word best-spoken with action
      We cannot love and yet deny God

    95. Dear Moosehead,
      Is it too much to ask
      for the pitcher to pitch and the batters to hit?
      Have they got some sort of complex about getting
      the job done? Fer crissakes, what’s the matter with
      those guys? Win two – lose one! Way to go – said
      no one ever! And no, you half-wit, I have not got a
      complex about your job! I am just interested, intrigued,
      curious to know what it is and how come you’ve never
      told me. I am not obsessed. The only obsession I have
      are baseball and for reasons I don’t understand,
      writing to you every day, ya schmuck!
      Still on the road – Rays tonight. Pick me up at 6.

      Yours pondering the complexities of life while
      waiting for the lights to change,

      Ringo the Howler

    96. Mysteries of Life

      the undiscovered country
      lays not beyond the sea
      the reflection of the mirror
      is not what others see

      the mystery of youth
      may ne’er be explained
      nor the wisdom of the age’d
      in hasty youth be gained

      the demons that haunt
      may not be easily slain
      the mind playing tricks
      again and over again

      the wonder of creation
      is unfathomable to most
      as the movements of the tides
      that pulse along the coast

      the depths of imagination
      cannot easily be defined
      nor the ways for man to be cruel
      unto his fellow kind

      the complexes that we suffer
      in our hurly burly lives
      appear to be absurdities
      to simple native tribes

      as long as the sun rises
      there are questions to pose
      but the answers remain mysteries
      as every small child knows


    97. Sorry, but i just couldn’t do this one here. If you’d like to see it:

      “not so complex”


    98. Arash says:

      Complex poem Robert, well, like some of my other poems, I’ll say this one I wrote today is a pain to decipher, lol.

      Do Not Feed the Ducks!

      by Arash

      Apple blossom plum in bloom
      Trees tentacles subdue the blue
      Spit the pits over the rocks
      Stars burst into navy blue
      Filling the lake for whom?
      Do Not Feed the Ducks!

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