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2013 April PAD Challenge: Day 6

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 post poem. Post could be short for post office–or traditional mail. Post could be a wood or metal post. Or post could mean relate to words like postpone, post-punk, or whatever.

Here’s my attempt at a post poem:

“post”

she checks in the morning
she checks at night

but she finds there’s nothing
no mail in sight

she wants him to write her
she wants his voice

but he left to spite her
it was his choice

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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.

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

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330 thoughts on “2013 April PAD Challenge: Day 6

  1. Marjory MT

    Day 6 – POST (Haiku)

    It had been posted,
    “No trespassing past this point’
    DANGER, Wilderness.”

    Those who venture past,
    will do so at their own risk,
    advancing too peril.

    Going their own way,
    thinking they are in control
    of their own fate. Not

  2. Mr. Walker

    Aletea would write letters
    of her long days
    and of Laurana, their daughter

    Naldo was in Salinas
    he would get to the motel
    in the evening and write

    he didn’t have much to tell
    no stories really
    mostly questions about Laurana

    and then he would open Aletea’s letter
    and smile, the weariness he felt
    lessened a little just with those words

    in the morning, on his way to work,
    he’d put his letter in the blue box
    and look south to Arizona

    Naldo would pray and then turn
    his attention to the work
    ahead of him in the fields that day

    they would talk on the phone
    on the weekend – until then,
    it was love by post

  3. Lynn Burton

    Post-Apocalyptic

    Hidden in the ashes
    a crumpled heap emerges
    black and bruised,
    limping blindly through
    a cloud of smoke.

    Consumed by her own
    self-induced disaster
    she chokes on
    what could have been
    and what’s left.

    Through the fog
    an errant memory
    pierces her heart.

    He asks, “Would you?”

    She closes her eyes
    before she falls again
    and through the pain, says,
    “Not even if you were the
    last man on Earth
    because
    these things always end badly.”

  4. Lynn Burton

    Sticky yellow squares
    float in the air,
    giving purpose
    to what not to miss
    with their good intent
    of what you don’t want to forget.

    A day’s worth of notes
    and things you wrote
    scribbled across
    thoughts not lost
    firmly held in place
    just in case.

  5. Sharon

    Waiting for the Post

    Remember waiting with fluttering heart
    for a letter from your honey,
    a missive filled with passion
    and bad poetry?
    Now if you’re
    lucky he posts
    I luv u
    on your cell phone.
    What happened to romance?

  6. bookworm0341

    “Post”

    It’s still there
    the 1600 block of Broad Street
    where my great uncle died
    after his car hit a telephone post.

    I remember the day
    in my parent’s car
    driving past.
    He took early retirement
    to help his siblings who were older.
    His life was cut too short!

    Driving to the auto mechanic to drop off his car
    telling my aunt to finish eating her breakfast
    before she picks him up,
    so he can have a little guy chat at the shop.
    He didn’t realize that he was saving her life.
    A drunk driver hit him so hard and at such a fast speed,
    that my amazing great uncle,
    who would have given the drunk a ride home if he needed,
    flew into a post!

    *Dedicated to my Great Uncle Charlie Duh. I miss you so much! Your smile and sparkling eyes told the world that you loved it!

    1. bookworm0341

      Typo: Dedicated to my Uncle William Duh… my grandmother jokingly called him Charlie, but out of respect, I wish to correctly put his real name. :)

  7. Nadienne

    Three Post-Fortune Cookies

    1

    Flowers lose their petals,
    trees their leaves,
    even mountains their majestic peaks.

    2

    When all else is gone, peace remains.

    3

    Told you so.

  8. Margot Suydam

    Farewell Post

    Today, you left me a message you
    were leaving, taking the post road

    west. I can see your horse gallop,
    run you late without a single stop

    since no one posts letters anymore
    to declare their love or fond farewell.

    It’s just digital missives, momentos
    deleted with a fingertip’s tap. And so

    there’s no way I can catch you
    once you disappear into the fog.

  9. Glory

    DAY 6

    Through the door it comes
    white envelope holding inky signs,
    who for? Not me.
    I can see the stamp from where?
    I know no one there, so there it lies
    its secret undisturbed forever,
    the white envelope.

  10. foodpoet

    Post Office?

    Post mail or go
    On-line email or
    Snail mail each
    Takes time

    Often i
    Find myself
    Flailing at windmills
    i scrabble through words but
    Cannot find open time only
    Echoes of paper

  11. tunesmiff

    ARLINGTON

    Twenty-one steps, and then about face;
    And move my rifle to my outboard shoulder.
    I keep a clear and steady pace.
    Twenty-one steps, and then, about face.
    There’s something sacred about this place,
    And the honor given this Unknown Soldier.
    Twenty-one steps and then, about face;
    And move my rifle to my outboard shoulder.

  12. donnellyk

    PostScript to a Nightmare

    Afterhours
    along those lamp lit golden Georgetown alleys
    steamy cobblestones dark
    slick hot
    sweat drenched bodies stumble
    from those no name warehouse bars
    scattered debris and wasted

    Heatwaves
    tight white v-necks and rolled twice pegged jeans
    sweat drenched nipples
    straining taut
    Italian glove leather tasseled loafers
    shiny patent black stilettos clicking toward
    stalking prey but who stalked who

    Famished
    lips lifted over pearly incisors eyes locking
    at once devouring souls
    fear feasting
    coupling in the chaos seeming sated
    a tragic love letter smeared with tears
    boys and lipstick

    Fruit
    of thy womb the tow headed beauty boy
    delicate and doe eyed curly girl
    innocents but
    the beast and the best of us
    now dance in the same wastelands
    silently screaming

  13. Beth Rodgers

    I tried an acrostic (sorry I’m a day late with this one!):

    Promise me this will be the last time
    Of course I know to take it with a grain of salt
    Surface features mar my perspective of it all
    Total comprehension will never be in my reach.

  14. Sally Jadlow

    A Post Poem

    Posts are necessary to our everyday lives.
    Fence posts, military posts,
    post-mortem investigations.
    Mail posts, public notice posts,
    and hitching posts.

    Without them, we’d have
    many holes to fill.

  15. omavi

    “The Morning After …”

    He sits and wonderers what went wrong
    Where did the road to riches turn to dust
    When did the silver lining rust
    When did a life elated decayed and died
    What happened after glittering sunset
    Turned a dawn dreary and dark
    Yesterday a future looked full
    This morning a pink slip
    And nothing but doom

  16. JRSimmang

    It’s a kind of confusion,
    one where the myriad visions
    become nondescript
    and the reality
    becomes a certain absolution,
    where the colors remain
    forever blended on a
    canvas.
    Post.
    After.
    And when it comes, you shall know.

  17. rose1102

    Post…
    There is before you
    And after you.
    My first born…
    My Nathan.
    Postpartum was blissful.
    Loved you to life inside me…
    Loved you in my arms
    in my bed
    in my life.
    Postmortem is a horror.
    24 years is not enough…
    Not even a blink of the eye of God.
    My baby, my son,
    My Nathan…

  18. vsbryant1

    A Message To The Message Carrier

    dear mr. postman,

    I’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting
    Still no letter from the one I love
    I’ve been sitting and sitting and sitting
    Still no sound from the voice of my sweet dove
    Please, please tell me that today will be the day
    That day you carry that precious envelope that we both know I will hold so dear and never ever throw away

    Sincerely,

    Hopelessly In Love and Patiently Waiting

  19. PuffofSmokePoems

    Posting A Letter

    is the phrase in my head
    when I fold this ink on paper
    into its clever envelope.
    And I say it to myself in a clipped British accent,
    and a crisp cotton dress, belted, with a
    full skirt. Matching heels. Nylons.
    I pick up my tiny handbag,
    slip on white gloves, pearl buttons at the wrist,
    and go to post your letter.
    Days like these, this is me
    waving to the past
    on its huge island,
    while everyone else on my ship
    rows frantically forward,
    hurling electronic messages into
    the static filled sky of now
    (except you, posting a letter to me).

  20. Yolee

    Post Card from My Younger Self

    The sun pushed hard today,
    and in the evening the clouds
    did a drive by. This smoky mountain
    is soaked to the skin. You think angels
    try to catch spilled orange juice?

    If you were here I wouldn’t need a wish.

  21. drwasy

    ON THIS DAY

    He entered the world
    76 years ago, this day,
    a morning like any other:
    pale sky, hint of another spring.

    He grew through this world
    like any other boy, or not:
    helped his father build
    a home with hands,
    ate corn muffins made
    by a Finnish Mumu,
    cared for his mother
    tested by the disease marked
    by a butterfly, fished in a small boat
    whenever he could;
    loved a willowy girl who could sink
    a basketball as high as he.

    He became a man, hard
    working like others:
    worked his way through college,
    married the willowy woman,
    traveled from New England
    to New York, Georgia,
    sunniest San Diego,
    working with test tubes
    and chemicals, seeking man-made
    cures for man-made diseases,
    all the while raising two girls,
    one dark and fast, the other
    light and brooding,
    with the willowy woman.

    He settled down, a family man,
    like any other man: bought a home,
    adopted a puppy, lifted
    his brief case five mornings
    after toast and coffee;
    mowed the lawn, planted gardens,
    loved the willowy woman and the girls.
    He watched the news and the world
    whirl by, too fast.

    He died, like any man,
    though not the way any man
    should die: the cancer was a cruel one.
    He died on a pale winter morning,
    the promise of a spring
    years away.

    ***
    An obituary of sorts, or a homage, or a simple re-telling of my father’s life. Today is his birthday. I wish I could celebrate with him. Peace…

  22. Kriz Talladen

    Posted my attempt in my blog again. Feel free to visit. :) Happy poeming, everyone! :)

    http://turtlekeziah.wordpress.com/2013/04/07/slowly-but-surely/

    Slowly but Surely

    You were snails racing
    On the concrete porch
    Of my childhood house

    Pairs of eyes watched
    And waited ’til forever
    As your bellies crawled
    Your shells followed
    Contained messages
    In lines and passages

    The childhood house
    Has long been gone
    The same pairs of eyes
    Wonder where you are
    In this age, this hour

    The concrete porch say
    There are no mail
    No more race of snails

    But the eyes say admittedly
    The shells may come too slowly
    But the messages come so surely
    On the tangible hand that wait

    Patiently.

  23. Jezzie

    Post

    My post has just arrived, for what it’s worth,
    more junk mail than letters to cause my mirth:
    double glazing leaflets – two of a kind,
    and an advert for a vertical blind;
    a bag to hold some charity money,
    and a poster for a play that’s funny.

    A bogof offer at a sandwich bar,
    and a discount if I buy a new car;
    a cheaper package for my mobile phone;
    a dating site leaflet if I’m alone;
    a letter from the R.S.P.C.A.
    asking me to donate more from today.

    And just in case I get hungry at night
    there are meal deal offers to give delight:
    a free glass of wine in my local pub;
    and mid-week offers for some cheap pub grub.
    There’s an Indian food take-away menu
    and another for a pizza or two.

    All this junk mail keeps my postman in work,
    as he passes it to me with a smirk.
    There was too much mail for my letter box
    all bundled up, so on my door he knocks.
    On the outside is a biggish booklet:
    mobility goods. Do I need them yet?

    Next a ladies’ spring clothing catalogue;
    a thank you card sent from a sponsored dog.
    Then there’s another letter from someone
    who would like to come and value my home,
    just in case I were thinking of selling.
    Well, will I let them? That would be telling!

    I have thrown all the junk mail in the bin.
    This week I have filled it full yet again.
    But now I’ve found an important letter,
    the one that might maybe make life better,
    from my pension people. Will I be rich?
    Oh no! Not on that offer. Life’s a bitch!

  24. julie e.

    DEAR SIS–

    You know that recipe Mom
    used to make, the one with
    the carrots in it that she got
    off the ketchup bottle? I made
    it for dinner the other night,
    remember how much I liked
    that one when we were kids?
    The note she wrote at the
    bottom made me giggle
    again and I wanted to call
    her, but she’s gone.
    And then I remember,

    so are you

    and there’s nobody to
    call in this post-family
    world of mine.

  25. pabeyer

    Memo: For Sandy

    Miguel left the apartment
    earlier than usual
    He took the 187 instead of the 74
    He had no need to stop at the Amtrak kiosk
    his ticket was already purchased
    He gazed at parts of the country
    he’d never seen before
    He finally felt right when he stepped out of the station
    in Astoria, and breathed in the salted air
    and waited until nightfall
    to walk across the bridge
    and take off his Sunday socks
    He left with no luggage
    and no note
    His only parting gift, a post dated check
    left in the kitchen next to the sangiovese
    with “For Sandy” written on the memo line

    Sandy came home to the apartment
    later than usual
    with Chinese takeout
    Too damned tired to cook
    She knew Miguel didn’t dare
    step into the kitchen
    She called out for him while
    reaching for a wine glass
    Sandy saw the zeroes
    Mascara streaked down her eyes
    and landed on the shattered glass
    fallen onto the linoleum counter
    There was no need to guess where the money
    would come from, she knew where
    and in her heart, she knew why
    and now, looking at the check date,
    she knew when

    and on the seventh day
    she couldn’t rest
    knowing that he
    finally would

  26. tonijoell

    Forgive me, but I’m feeling a little goofy today.

    POST ZOMBIE APOCOLYPSE POETRY SLAM

    Aaah aahhhH AAAH
    uuurgh oooor rrrrroooorh
    mrrmmm aaaahrrrm
    rroooooom ddddd aaaahhh bbb
    bbbraaaiinnnnnnnsss

    [fingers snap-snap-snap off
    to the sound of an unhinged jaw
    clattering to the floor]

  27. Benjamin Thomas

    APRIL INSANITY
    (bear with me, I wrote this at midnight)

    Yep.
    It’s that time of year folks.
    April Insanity.
    Who will be the fairest of the fair?
    The honorable crowned laureate of famed cyber-land.
    Who will straddle that beast of doubt?
    Post me, or post me not?
    Slay him fiercely before you
    And without mercy

    Be bold.
    Be daring.
    Release what is within you.
    Like wildflowers in the open plain
    Run, let the seeds be sown.
    Let your words be known

  28. THEGingerSass

    “Post-it”
    -KB

    I wanted to leave you a note,
    expressing my love and thoughts
    and all that I never got to say,
    scrawled on a post-it,
    but then I remembered
    your eyesight is probably worse
    buried underground.

  29. DanielAri

    “This point slips on”

    Subaudible thrum.
    When our dances stop
    micromomentums
    carry from each spot.
    Band prosceniums.

    Metallurgy pots.
    Soles striking the floor
    vibrate our crown tops.
    Before strobes after
    becoming the drum

    that beats furthermore
    from the newest past-
    present world of verbs.
    In our noun outpost
    our unfolding opts

    to spin round the post
    grown always utmost.

  30. WayneLMurphy

    “Post”
    The post office is gone
    there is no more mail
    We’ll save a ton of trees
    no one thought a snail

    You can always make posts
    on sites like a blog
    Your posts can be sent
    while you sleep like a log

    No stamps are needed
    just the click of a mouse
    No need for the office
    you can stay in your house

    Times they are changing
    technology moves fast
    The post office is gone
    It’s a thing of the past

    Wayne Murphy 4/6/13

  31. Janet Rice Carnahan

    Post-Production

    A son in the film industry,
    Doing his best to survive,
    When she gave him plans ahead of time,
    Expecting them for breakfast next week,
    She just assumed he’d make the time.
    No, he said, we’re in pre-production.
    Asking about lunch the following month,
    No, he said, we’re now producing the film,
    How about dinner in three months, she asked.
    No, he answered, we’ll be in post production.
    Getting on Face Book to pass the time,
    Waiting as he opened up his schedule,
    She noticed several postings,
    Photos were up of all his recent parties,
    Trips away and time out with his buddies and girlfriend,
    Spelling out all the good times he’d been having,
    Post production, she thought . . .

    My foot!

  32. carolecole66

    Posted: No Trespassing

    The elegant Victorian on the corner
    has sat vacant for a decade,
    the purple paint fading, the white lace
    curtains sagging gray like a sad
    Southern Belle, still waiting for the suitor
    who now will never come. Squatters
    light candles in the parlor, crack pipes
    clutter the fine wool rugs. The air
    of desperation lies thick against the glass.
    She’s pulling in the mat, nailing closed
    the shutters, turning off the gas. Beer cans
    and pizza boxes litter corners where
    party shoes and lingerie were once discarded.
    She leans into the night, a has-been derelict
    mourned by strangers, those who linger
    on the sidewalk, try to peer into her windows,
    reminisce as though they knew her, want
    to walk the wide veranda, past the signs
    the sheriff nailed through her heart.

  33. SidraQ

    The Journey

    The round belly of the moon
    pulls me forward
    over hill around twist
    and snarl.
    No guideposts
    but my feet. Heel, toe
    on each flat stone.

    In the distance
    the yellow flower of knowledge
    the clear star of truth.
    My own heart.

  34. Carl

    Marked Measures of Death’s March

    Walking what I remember to be
    desert roads, cloudy but paved,
    layers of dust bracketing charcoal,
    and as a child, remembering ranch

    fences, posts at regular intervals, 
    counting time and space in a day 
    broken by too many micro moments
    of doubt. The posts work, providing

    false assurance, brokering chunks
    of lanky steps, and I’m done, remembering 
    now, an emptiness, ripping pains, merely
    a prologue to destitute soaking old, blue
    nerves on this miserable leather couch.

  35. Dan Collins

    Post Poetry (for Archimboldi)

    Only poetry is not the sound
    of leather on leather as a book
    of some age, though in good condition
    is returned to the shelf in such a way
    as to scrape ever so lightly
    the sides of two other books,
    also well kept, or barely ever read,
    or protected from desiccation
    by frequent handling, though the owner
    unable to read in the language
    they are written admires them
    alone for their beauty as objects,
    as softly as a weasel, or a ferret
    or a weasel who is mistaken
    for a ferret, or perhaps a mink,
    but not a particularly fine example
    of mink, perhaps too old, or diseased,
    or just moving too slowly so as to make
    itself suspect whom the hunter, feeling
    the ache of a long day slogging
    through the dark and increasingly
    hostile trees, or maybe not hostile
    but rather rude at his intrusion into their long
    preserved meditation, had passed by in favor
    of something with a little better pelt
    in the dead of winter sliding into its snowy
    hole. One of the books being a story
    by a minor writer of fiction from the nineteenth
    century about a family of peasants
    looking for a lost Mexican girl
    out in the desert, only now
    able to express her animal wolf self,
    or her animal javelina self, or even
    her lizard self, though probably a large lizard
    and not one of those skulking horned
    lizards that squirt blood, but an iguana,
    but only if the iguana could screech like
    field mice escaping the claws of an owl,
    scurrying not to be caught, or found out,
    or gleened by those who are looking,
    or listening to starlight as it falls on the rocks.

  36. Jerry Walraven

    Post Holiday

    Wormholes exist in this house
    allowing Santa
    to camp in a haunted house
    while Easter eggs roll by.
    This schism
    I blame on time-quakes
    ripping holes in memory,
    creating blind spots
    where nothing can be seen
    until pointed out
    by someone
    with open eyes
    and time
    to spare.

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