• THE
    Writing Prompt
    Boot Camp

    Subscribe to our FREE email newsletter and get the Writing Prompt Boot Camp download.

    2013 April PAD Challenge: Day 6

    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 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

    *****

    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:

    You might also like:

    • No Related Posts
    • Print Circulation Form

      Did you love this article? Subscribe Today & Save 58%

    About Robert Lee Brewer

    Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

    330 Responses to 2013 April PAD Challenge: Day 6

    1. Marjory MT says:

      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 says:

      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. 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. 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 says:

      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. Mel Lewis says:

      This Old Hitching Post

      In the few moments
      following a desert rain
      this old hitching post
      shaped by the teeth of bored mares
      smells of horse, old leather, and spurs

    7. bookworm0341 says:

      “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!

      • bookworm0341 says:

        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. :)

    8. Nadienne says:

      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.

    9. he used to be mine,
      sending love letters, but now
      my post box’s empty

    10. Margot Suydam says:

      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.

    11. Glory says:

      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.

    12. foodpoet says:

      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

    13. Post-Traumatic Order
      ================
      There’s nothing like a major shock
      to force you to take stock
      of all the things you thought you knew
      and start over anew.

    14. tunesmiff says:

      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.

    15. donnellyk says:

      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

    16. 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.

    17. 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.

    18. omavi says:

      “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

    19. LouiseBilborough says:

      I would slide the sunshine
      Inside an envelope
      And send it across the seas
      To light your face
      If I could

    20. JRSimmang says:

      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.

    21. rose1102 says:

      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…

    22. The P’s Have It!

      Properly posted posts
      promotes perusing,
      pondering privately
      paradoxical paradises,
      parallel paths…
      pausing…
      premeditating postulations,
      potential poems –
      provoking posting.

    23. vsbryant1 says:

      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

    24. 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).

    25. Yolee says:

      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.

    26. drwasy says:

      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…

    27. 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.

    28. Jezzie says:

      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!

    29. julie e. says:

      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.

    30. pabeyer says:

      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

    31. tonijoell says:

      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]

    32. 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

    33. THEGingerSass says:

      “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.

    34. I combined this prompt with the one at NaPoWriMo and came up with the poem you’ll see at: http://hopefuljo.wordpress.com/2013/04/06/creativity-project-year-two-day-88/

    35. DanielAri says:

      “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.

    36. Post

      Oft he looked out, far and wide
      Through his lens, through the enemy’s snide side
      He ne’er gave way, his courage did not sway
      Till the last man standing, did not cross the fated gateway

    37. “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

    38. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

      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!

    39. carolecole66 says:

      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.

    40. SidraQ says:

      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.

    41. Carl says:

      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.

    42. 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.

    43. 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.

    44. maggzee says:

      Post Hope

      At thirty
      You stop imagining the future
      And start re-imagining the past
      It may be why
      We have children
      And ice cream

    45. PKP says:

      Posted – Mrs. Geraldine Post has passed.

      Posted in the Teachers’ Room
      Mrs. Geraldine Post has passed
      the young ones eyes flick on
      they did not know she was
      the last of a time when teachers
      wore lace-up shoes, white collars
      starched and stiff, all of a molded cast
      They did not know her difference
      Her eyes sparkling over stern
      of-the-time down turned lips
      “Did you know her? – Anybody?”
      Through the day they’d ask.
      Between coffee mugged sips

      Through the day
      coffee poured amid their sighs
      shuffled papers, chattered sing.
      Someone looking for space – pins
      Book Sale notice over hers
      and no one moves a thing

      Until the nightfall, when all
      have left – moonlight
      mirroring his flashing beam
      as Mr. Madden Night-Security
      catches sight in his swathe of
      check light her name illuminated
      neon to him, does it seem

      Mrs. Post? “His” sacred Mrs. Post?
      He cranes his neck
      and nearly hits with ancient
      bones the teachers’ sanctuary deck

      Indeed it is his sweet young
      Mrs. Post, newly arrived back then,
      fresh bride with husband
      gone to sea – her eyes bright
      shimmered, oh how she shimmered
      Past Mrs. Post did up at me!
      Mrs. Post, soft arms around my neck
      lips opening – Ah. So very long ago.
      He feels his shoulders broaden
      Legs throb with need to run
      And yet his gait somehow so slow
      Just yesterday she lied here
      This morning still a possibility
      Now she’s vanished really done
      They curled together safely
      How can all of this true at one time be?
      It is time itself, the murderer
      Life-stealing – cruelly, vicious, virulently.

      Oh! What the heck! To be expected.
      Mrs. Geraldine Post has passed.
      He turns and walks back down the hall
      Hand trembling, thinks this night might
      be his last.
      Mrs. Post.
      A memory to not a single one
      but for the shadowed former
      football player Mr. Madden
      dipped in the love chocolated
      night now sand-time run
      meeting sweetly, secretly
      when all their work was done
      And as the former Mighty Madden
      turns eyes blurred with tears
      her smile he’ll later swear
      twinkles showers of starlight
      as he walks his route comforted
      within her ever embrace gladdened.

      • PKP says:

        Eh…. liked this written in a flash – after posting -… rewrote the ending … NEEDS WORK
        but here’s a better ending…and agree with all those who yearn for a DELETE key!!!

        And as the former Mighty Madden
        turns eyes blurred with tears
        her smile he’ll later swear
        twinkles showers of starlight
        as he walks his route comforted
        within her embrace ever to be gladden.

        Mrs. Post has not passed.

    46. cam45237 says:

      Post-Apocalyptic

      Where lies the world?
      What is this wall of winter withering my vision?
      Tears form from the effort
      Of forcing my eyes open against the sheer, pure glare.

      What future shrouds this world
      Where direction misplaced sanity
      And the compass lost all sense of self?

      I walk a fine line on a white and wide plateau,
      Not knowing if I’m upright, downwind, right-brained, left over.
      I’m dizzy and I can feel
      The flutter of panicked blood in the fine veins,
      And the throb of an odd thought.

      I don’t want to be alone,
      In a sunless, moonless, starless, friendless cloud,
      When the rain etches grooves on those exposed,
      When skin and bone and rock and iron and sense and memory melt,
      And all I’ve ever known,
      And all I’ve ever been,
      And all I’ve ever loved,
      And all I thought I wanted,
      And all the time I wasted,
      And all that’s left of life
      Effervesces.

      Then ghostly,
      Coalesces with the cloud.

    47. catlover says:

      I would love to post
      Such an amazing poem
      But I will not boast

      My mother is here
      Its time to visit
      I hope that’s clear

    48. seingraham says:

      THAT OLD POEM-A-DAY ITCH

      Imagine the spark that fired
      or misfired the synapse
      Activating the one urging me
      to undertake a project
      At once so stellar and delicious,
      It made me over-ride
      My usual mantra singing,
      “Too much, it will be too much”
      Bared the over-inquisitive cells,
      Until any reticence ordinarily snugged
      in place, merged with some inexplicable
      Desire to once more work with the technology
      Join with others in a like-minded unity
      And write a poem-a-day, at least

    49. Dini says:

      Yard Light

      Perched atop a cylindrical post, the yard light
      illuminates the settling darkness, brilliantly
      encircling a young girl, gathering
      courage to flip the switch, thereby
      magnifying the blackness, as she races
      from the now darkened circle to the welcoming
      step light of her comfortable farm home.

    50. BDP says:

      Note: For inspiration, looking on the internet for any paper with Post in the masthead, I found a Selfridge quote by someone named Postrel, which in turn seemed a sign to write about department stores. Kind of a cheat, but her name is the only thing re the prompt, as in POSTrel. Plus many people on Robert’s blog have referred to NaPoWriMo, so I looked at their Day 6, and the task was to write a valediction. I didn’t set out to do so, but realized that my poem could be called one.

      THE QUOTE: Ambitions that an American [PBS] drama might treat as self-centered greed become, in a British context, a bold strike against class privilege. “You show great potential,” Selfridge tells the talented shop girl Agnes Towler (played by Aisling Loftus), the show’s working-class heroine. “You remind me of myself when I started out—grasping for every chance, keen as mustard to learn. You love it, don’t you? The customers, the selling, the feeling of the merchandise under your hands.…” [“How Mr. Selfridge Created the Modern Economy,” by Virginia Postrel, Bloomberg, April 5, 2013.]

      “Valediction to My First Department Store”

      Just keen as mustard to explore, age twelve,
      with mom. Our shops on horizontal Main
      might pack one level of the vertical,

      if lucky. There I was, a small-town jane,
      my Keds’ thin soles pressed light across each floor
      of ballroom hard rock maple. Nothing plain

      in presentation: crystal chandelier
      to greet along with uniformed valet,
      or that’s my memory, not less but more

      excess than now. The mink fur coats. Displays
      of sapphire necklaces. The mannequins
      with sleek, rich silk, a hint of giveaway

      to them, of spy intrigue with each thrust chin,
      laid-back poise, hip bones forward. In Duluth?
      Well, yes! They slouched like girlfriends in James Bond!

      Besides, that view out toward the Lake was worth
      a bribe or two, especially from the sixth,
      though all the storeys had the gifts to soothe

      my pre-teen wishes with an opulence
      much like a great cathedral, velvet layers
      we commoners had access to, hushed sense

      of out of reach except through cash, not prayers.

      B Peters

      • cam45237 says:

        really like the description of the mannequins. Department stores arent often like this anymore, are they?

        • BDP says:

          No. This store was free standing, not in a mall. So nice. I still miss it–was demolished in favor of some structure with better insulation and windows, I supposed, stuff like that, less demanding. I also loved the pnuematic tubes to send messages and small items back and forth. I’ll have to try to put them in a rewrite.
          Glad you liked the mannequins, Cam!

    51. Jane Shlensky says:

      Gummed

      The post-it note is an antidote
      to loving conversation’s needs.
      If words won’t fit, be sure that it
      suggests reduction of seduction.

    52. I can’t believe I provided the wrong link for the second time. OK, this time I swear it is the right one, I double checked: http://natasa-summerblues.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-post.html

      All that poetry writing must have messed up my brain. On the positive side, the previous link leads to an older poem of mine which you might read if you wish.

    53. Thank you for this prompt. It reminded me of a story I have been wanting to tell for a while: http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2013-april-pad-challenge-day-6

    54. lionmother says:

      Blog Post Revisited

      My post sat there after
      I wrote it and I wondered if
      any would catch it as it
      spun in the internet
      If someone from maybe
      Australia or my native US
      would click on the subject
      and find the thoughts I had
      so labored over and written
      flowing from my fingers like
      water from a long-blocked
      fountain

      Would there be eyes seeing
      my words or would they
      languish in dark silence
      to be found by an archivist
      seeking to know the thoughts
      of a retired teacher/author/poet?
      Someday, will my post join
      thousands as a chronicle of
      this time as some researcher
      painstakingly pieces together
      the lives of this time period?

      Will my post be remembered
      or will it continue to be veiled
      in the anonymity of the internet?
      If I don’t let anyone know about it
      will they read it anyway?
      What if no one came to read it?
      Should I post again or leave the
      space blank for another more
      erstwhile poster who wishes to
      shout out that they have written
      probably the greatest post ever.

      Is it better to shout about
      mediocrity or simply share
      your great jewels without fanfare?
      In the world of the internet I fear
      the latter leaves you silent and barren,
      while the former creates an internet star.

      • PKP says:

        BABS!!! Where are you? and why are you there? PM me – but first… a comment…
        TERRIFIC POEM here my friend – love its flow and content and the sense of shouting across cyberspace. :) So good to see you here :)

    55. Postehaste

      You ask why I am always the first to look away.
      I say it is the way of the guilty. We can’t peer too long
      into reflective faces because we are spinning tops–
      taking a turn on surfaces made of precious things
      but faltering without fail until we tilt off the axis.
      I look away because I am afraid of falling.

    56. Here Comes The Mailman!

      We would wait for the post
      to arrive. Two chances
      were presented each day,
      except weekends. If you
      only received one birthday card,
      you reserved disappointment
      until second post showed up,
      later afternoon. That square
      envelope, shape and thickness
      different than ordinary mail.
      Glue stuck so firmly, you would
      have to rip open top portion unless
      a letter opener resided nearby.
      In housing projects, no one had
      letter openers. Oh! Three squares,
      all white, were nestled among
      the thin long, boring envelopes.
      Now you’d have a proper
      shelf posted with celebratory
      cards. Everyone had remembered.
      One week rule–unstated–said your
      cards could be taken down, touched,
      reread, paper rough between
      your fingers, then propped back up.
      After seven days, the choice was yours,
      save them or toss them, and wait another year.

      Poetic Asides – Day 6
      April Challenge
      Write a post poem

    57. I have to admit I cheated a little today: my original poem didn’t have the line about “posting”, but I added it just to fit Robert’s prompt, so the connection is tenuous at best. The NaPoWriMo prompt was to write a “valedictory” poem, one that says farewell. So this is a farewell to a very famous person who just passed away the other day.

      Valediction for Roger

      I know it is coming, and I do not fear it, because I believe
      there is nothing on the other side of death to fear. – Roger Ebert

      In the darkened theater sits a man with a notepad,
      ready for the screen to come to light.
      If he loves this film, he will gush about it
      like a festival fan, and if he doesn’t,
      he’ll skewer it hilariously with his trademarked snark,
      and it will all be in the papers or posted on his blog.

      Soon he realizes that the movie isn’t about to begin,
      it’s already ended. The usher comes down the aisle
      and politely tells him it’s time to go. He shrugs,
      gets up reluctantly, adjusts his corduroy jacket,
      and heads for the exit sign. As he opens the door,
      he looks behind him and sees a projector beam
      cutting the darkness.

      Fade to white.

    58. MeenaRose says:

      Changing of the Guard
      By: Meena Rose

      You stood watch, old Sentinel;
      Three generations you guarded;

      Those be the ones I reckon alone;
      I hear you have been around

      Since the First Dawn – my, how
      Time slips, shifts and changes.

      People continue to let you down;
      Yet, you remain ever watchful true

      To your purpose in a world now
      Blinded and without a clue.

      The young have turned their back;
      Not just on you but me as well;

      Just yesterday they joked about
      Visiting the Witch of the Mountain

      Wondering what curse she might fling
      Their way but I know that is their

      Bravado talking – no one will admit
      That fresh bread served with honeyed

      Butter in nature’s garden is really
      What they are after – I, always

      Welcome them. I have to for who else
      Will sit and stand watch at Twilight

      And reinforce the Veil with benediction?
      My bones be brittle, old Sentinel;

      Pray that I am granted another winter;
      I sense a Seeker ready to take up watch;

      All cannot be lost – the Veil holds true;
      The Universe provides as the wheel turns.

    59. Jane Shlensky says:

      Post-Poeming

      My own light blinds me
      for minutes, seconds, until
      words and feelings cool.

    60. “Post time”

      The bugler’s brass is buffed
      and glinting in the spring blue sky,
      the call to arms,
      another mint-julip and
      a handful of bets for perfecta’s,

      Feisty three-year olds in the hands
      of trainers, riders, mud-slingers,
      cheering for a pay-off
      and a blanket of red roses.

      His heart beats with the thudding
      hooves ‘round the first turn,

      his lucky pen is hot,
      his fresh sun-dressed lady hotter

      than the one he left at home—

      for he only promised to love, honor,
      and obey
      except for the first Saturday in May.

    61. Larry says:

      I missed your post and I cried.
      My dusty tears though made no tracks.
      I had a horse tied to a post but someone stole it.
      They hang horse thieves don’t they?
      On the fence post hung a boot.
      It was the only one there.
      How sad a post can be!
      Yet still my dusty tears make no tracks.

    62. Playing Post Office

      We retreated to the damp basement
      where the parents appeared
      feet first if at all,
      for our first parties
      with boys.

      We played the games
      we’d heard whispered about
      by older kids—spin the bottle,
      kiss, slap or hug,
      and our favorite—post office

      as we delivered practice
      kisses
      to whom it may concern.

    63. Post

      The sign
      on the
      construction company’s
      temporary fence
      said “Post no bills.”
      I could read
      all the words
      as I skipped past
      and I read it
      over and over,
      so seemingly
      simple, yet holding
      so little sense.
      My parents
      said something
      about advertisements,
      but what had
      Brill Cream or Babbo
      have to do with
      posts or bills?
      They must have,
      I thought,
      misunderstood me
      again, and I mulled
      what adult secrets could
      be hidden so out there
      in the open, among
      little words.

      • Post No Bills (instant revision–actually, fixing an oops)

        The sign
        on the
        construction company’s
        temporary fence
        said “Post no bills.”
        I could read
        all the words
        as I skipped past
        and I read it
        over and over,
        so seemingly
        simple, yet holding
        so little sense.
        My parents
        muttered something
        about advertisements,
        but what did
        Brill Cream or Babbo
        have to do with
        posts or bills?
        They must have,
        I thought,
        misunderstood me
        again, and I mulled
        what adult secrets could
        be hidden so out there
        in the open, among
        little words.

    64. ewdupler says:

      Post With a Box

      Pole, topped with a metal box,
      Over by the end of the yard,
      Steady in the blowing wind,
      Takes away mail for us all.

    65. Karen Jane says:

      The Life of a Dear John Letter
      bone bleached fibers burdened with messages
      of goodbyes too cruel for fear-strained throats
      traverse o’er bottomless waters on boats
      to reveal late-night tear-stained passages
      dropped conspicuously when tide recedes
      an omen unspoken whose life precedes
      frantic eyes scanning and an ear that itches

    66. Raina Masters says:

      Post it to Facebook

      It will not be on Facebook.
      I do not have one.
      Twitter will have to do,
      but I’ve only six followers
      and I’m sure that at least
      four of them are bots,
      so they won’t care that
      I will have written for the
      day. I once had a Facebook,
      though I don’t remember
      what exactly I posted there
      before I refused to give them
      my cellphone number and they
      locked me out of my own account.
      It really is fine. I don’t have
      very many friends anyway,
      but something makes me want to
      sign up again, give a fake number
      and post these random thoughts
      to people I’ll never meet,
      to friends I don’t really have.
      I’m signing up again now.
      Will you friend me?

    67. Emily

      A long time married,
      seemingly forever,
      or at least, like swans,
      mated for life,
      they still argued, bickered,
      even fought.
      To her, the fight was
      always about him.
      To him, it was
      always about money.
      It wasn’t that they
      loved each other less,
      simply that they
      found things not to like.
      At such moments,
      and the reason they
      stayed married forever,
      a particular type of
      etiquette prevailed.
      They could yell, talk back,
      accuse even, but one rule
      always carried the day:
      no matter what,
      no matter when,
      no matter where,
      it was okay to act crazy,
      so long as both of them
      were not
      temporarily insane
      at the same time.

    68. pmwanken says:

      HITCHIN’ POST

      Guess what, world,
      we’re
      getting married!

      They announced,
      on
      their Facebook page.

      2013-04-06
      P. Wanken

    69. post hole digger

      The mechanics of slicing
      straight down
      through turf and tough earth,
      scooping and lifting away
      heart after heart of dirt
      to make one narrow opening
      deep enough to support
      any structure
      cannot be practically
      accomplished
      by any other means.
      I swear to you our marriage
      is just like that
      and we’ve been slinging it
      all these years, smiling
      white teeth
      under grimy faces,
      arguments over
      what we’ve been building
      fences or
      gardens
      or patios
      long since forgotten.

    70. Misky says:

      THOSE POSTS

      A lamppost without
      a light is at most
      A post, nearly, almost
      A rod, a branch, a roost
      For birds aloft, coasting
      Airborne, a roosting croft,
      Posts to fence, posts on gates,
      turn out the light,
      sleep tight, my dear,
      In beds with spindled posts.

    71. Julieann says:

      PhD

      The calls come in
      From near and far
      I start early in the morning
      And work late into the night
      By the sweat of my brow
      And the chill in my bones
      My muscles ache, my shoulders sore
      I have calloused hands, even more

      I provide a service
      Whether utility or looks
      Privacy, wrought-iron, chain-link
      Whatever height, whatever length
      My degree is unusual
      And laborious to earn
      I have a PhD
      I am the post-hole digger

    72. mlcastejon says:

      Post poem

      Envelope, inside
      Paper dreams flying away.
      My heart made of ink.

    73. Another combination of two prompts for April poem a day writing:

      Post-reading John Donne’s
      A Valediction Forbidding Mourning

      Mired in hyperbole
      shoes stuck in the muck
      of metaphysical conceit
      I snatched at likely googles
      to escape the morass.

      Not by intent I stumbled
      over Adrienne Rich who
      had cadged Donne’s title
      to name her goodbye poem
      netting analyses of her own

      Next, I felt Ernest Dowson
      “touch mine [flailing] hand”
      extending his from line five
      of the poem “A Valediction”
      published in Verses in 1896.

      Feet firmly on my carpet
      keyboard at my finger tips
      now is the time valedicere
      as all good women need do
      once the sentence’s typed.

    74. Alpha1 says:

      After The Storm

      Always lookin for your face
      in rain clouds
      passin through dark
      skies
      hopin to see your smile
      in bright flashes of lightnin
      hear your voice
      in the boomin aftermath of
      thunder rolls

    75. WHAT HOLDS FENCEPOSTS TOGETHER

      Barb-wire was born under the sign
      of Aquarius; no, of Pisces. Wrong, it was
      Sagittarius with his arrows twined
      in metal and patented. Whose patent?
      I’ve got a tablet here with too
      many answers, interminable back-and-
      forth of silly dates which we must
      twist into meaning by the stars. Was it
      1873 or ‘74? Could the progenitor
      have been a bearded man walking his
      little dog on leash (no loose dogs
      allowed)? wearing running shoes as if
      he meant it – but not work-boots,
      to fix a fence-line, nailing his cunning,
      stinging wire to each post so as
      to carve the whole green blooming
      field into quarters, so wild deer
      must leap high to find their range,
      and the cattle must churn their portion
      of grassland to mud; and only bees
      and pollinating birds might pass through
      unimpeded? And yet, I found a blue-
      bird once impaled on a barb, driven
      against fence by a fierce wind. No one’s
      patented a fence to hold the wind yet.

    76. PKP says:

      Post

      moistened by tears
      of love flowing
      into smiles of
      memory

      I float on the
      edge of a
      dust mote
      in the slanted
      sunshine

      at the topmost
      leaf of that
      wind shimmered
      tree on
      the horizon

      just above
      the last
      ripple
      of that
      sunsetted
      wave touching
      shore

      and more

      dancing
      on the
      tip of all
      freed from
      physicality

      post

    77. Angie5804 says:

      Dear Mom

      Traveling afar
      Argentine, Ecuador, Ireland
      The postcards tell her story
      Patagonia is lovely
      I’ve bought you some fantastic earrings
      Today I biked for miles

      Texas, Kansas, Montana
      Hours and hours of desert
      I met your cousin today!
      First snow this year!

      And I long to go with her
      To roll back the years
      And the things postponed
      To attach a postscript
      Meet you there!

    78. Domino says:

      …As a Post

      My mother’s husband,
      his last name is Post.
      And the grandchildren love to poke fun.
      When grandpa can’t hear them
      they giggle and boast, and say,
      “Grandpa is deaf as a…”

      No, no, little children,
      you shouldn’t mock,
      don’t laugh at grandpa,
      and don’t put up a squawk.

      Their little dog, Poppy,
      will run wild and bark
      and can easily get quite confused.
      She acts so goofy,
      the kids laugh and point, and say,
      “Poppy is dumb as a … “

      No, no little children,
      you shouldn’t be mean.
      Poppy’s a good dog,
      so please don’t demean.

      Their cat is named Jean Claude,
      He’s sleek and well groomed.
      He’s a hunter who likes to catch mice.
      And when he presents them
      the kids solemnly say,
      “That mouse is dead as a …”

      No, no little children,
      you don’t want to offend.
      Let’s all just say that
      this mouse met his end.

      Thank goodness my mother
      and her husband, dear,
      have a sense of humor about it.
      They easily laugh off
      the kids poking fun, saying,
      “Those kids are a cute as a Post.”

      Diana Terrill Clark

    79. Past pretense

      The day we left, they walked us home. We made
      an oddly gay procession, fifty strong,
      uncertain what to say now that our long
      goodbye was done. Out on the lawn they prayed
      for us, and tied a banner they had made
      upon our lamp post. Then they sang a song
      and drifted off before they gave the wrong
      impression through the feelings they betrayed.

      In days to come, I found a hornets’ nest
      inside that hollow post, fixed in the place
      where light was borne – a banner bristling
      with industry and secrets unconfessed.
      I killed them all without a thought for grace.
      I did not care about their suffering.

    80. Penpal57 says:

      Post

      Please post something.
      It’s been so long,
      I haven’t heard a thing from you.
      I need to see a post from you.
      The silence of the internet is
      perplexing.
      Please post something!

    81. PoM says:

      I know not how
      To write this post
      The history of paper
      I’m interested in most
      If I could travel back in time
      A Colonial Day would do just fine
      Would I make my own paper
      To write rhythms and rhymes
      Of Poetry in stanzas
      OO so fine

    82. Melanie says:

      AWOL

      She abandoned her post
      Neglected the duty assigned her
      To love and protect her child
      And defend to the last breath

      But she deserted and went AWOL
      Volunteering for a narcissistic mission
      She left in search of herself and
      In finding herself she lost me

    83. Lindy says:

      Like Mother, Like Daughter

      Walk right in and just take over -
      get things done, then find your closure.
      To become her without a face,
      she raised you well to fit her place.

      I know I can do this task at hand,
      but do I want to take command?
      I guess I am the only one
      that’s left to make sure all is done.

      The photographs and history,
      keeping up the family tree,
      stepping in when things get too rough -
      keeping our place, staying in touch…

      I guess I walked right into this,
      I can’t stop now to be dismissed.
      The eldest girl behind Mom’s ghost
      fears her matriarchal post.

    84. De Jackson says:

      Parcel

      Post-pride,
      we boast
      of healed lies
      brighter sides
      and secrets shown,
      wrap our shadows
      in a plain brown paper
      sack and tie it all up
      with twine. It’s mine,
      for hiding under a bed;
      yours, for sending off
      to parts
      un
      known.

      .

    85. profal29 says:

      post

      send it to me post fader babe
      I want to hear the changes made

      as you go and make my mix
      don’t hide me from your little tricks

      everything you do and say
      I want them in my ears today

      so mix me good, mix me well
      but mix me post or go to hell

    86. Arash says:

      The Grizzled Post Office

      by Arash

      Words are not enough…but would
      you marry me? I said the words
      where the grizzled post office stood
      between she and I, protruding onto the road
      like a thorn lodged in the throat
      chocking me, till love died for good.

      I tear the love letters
      and flush them down the toilet.
      (I know, it’s not romantic)
      The super shakes his finger.
      Like it matters:
      they were undeliverable.

    87. priyajane says:

      POST MORTEM
      The post mortem said his heart was attacked
      How could it?
      He had kept it safe and barricaded
      Planning carefully, vigilantly
      Who knew?
      Invaders from within
      Had gotten under his skin

    88. Deri says:

      Post-Apocalyptic Brainstorm

      All the pretty girls
      are gone now.
      No one to dress up
      for, or spackle that
      face dewy fresh,
      spreading those legs
      just for fun.

      It’s about survival now.
      Who has got the time for
      Saturday dance parties
      when you can’t remember
      what day it is?

      It’s three days after your
      best friend succumbed
      to the waves; sickly sweet
      smell of death came panting
      with every plea.
      “Not like this.”

      It’s five days after the water
      ran out, leaving dusty trails
      down convulsing throats.
      The cold taste of beer in a
      frat house kitchen while you
      leaned in closer for that
      inevitable kiss — forgotten
      like all those sunny postcards
      you mother sent from
      the other side of the world.
      Has it reached their yet?

      It’s seven days since the
      gas needle hit “E” and
      you abandoned the
      leather and chrome womb
      your father bought for you
      to keep you safe.
      “Nothing but the best.”

      It’s two weeks since the
      television blasted their
      final warnings, the
      plastic and sprayed,
      pretty girl,
      teeth like Chiclets,
      stoned-faced
      while she monotoned
      carefully worded directions
      which dropped like boulders
      to delay the mass exodus.
      Give the prepared a head start.
      Survival of the fittest.

      It’s been a month since you
      woke, crusty-eyed hopeful
      cursing alarm clocks and
      adulthood, wondering
      when your adventure would begin.

    89. dextrousdigits says:

      Thumbtack Bureaucrats

      As of today no more posting
      notes on the wall
      or cupboards in the office,
      the safety committee has determined
      they are a fire hazard.

      If important or urgent,
      I suggest write on the wall directly
      with erasable pencil.
      Once a month we will repaint the wall.

    90. PressOn says:

      OVERHEARD IN AMHERST

      I heard that
      that lady in white
      who lives in that
      brooding old place
      on Main Street,
      writes poems that
      are full of dashes that
      dash across meaning
      and invent new meanings,
      and that
      she is a genius,
      but that is between
      her and that
      lamppost.

    91. identity says:

      Post a Sentry

      Post a sentry ‘round the border of the garden
      Where my childhood faith is in bloom
      Deny entry to Dishonor and his cohorts
      Let Integrity wander Free
      Unencumbered Unreality

    92. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

      Robert . . . I just want you to know these are wonderful prompts! So many possibilities, offering a variety of directions for the poems. Thank you!

      Being able to post here makes sure I don’t postpone writing poetry. Sitting her at my writers post can become quite tedious. Sure I can stare at the fence post outside or have another bowl of Post cereal or distract myself by running by the Post Office or just write a poem today . . . post haste! :)

    93. keithdozier says:

      Posted: No Trespassing
      by: Keith Dozier

      Posted: No trespassing
      Or at least that’s my take.
      Of the heart in your chest
      You’re afraid it will break.

      Those signs make me leery,
      Most times I go hide,
      But, not this time,
      I need you to invite me inside.

      I can’t promise to save you,
      Or fix things unknown,
      I can promise to be,
      A place you call home.

      We’ll take the sign down,
      We’ll put up another,
      That says WELCOME !
      All my sisters and brothers.

      Happiness lives here,
      We share this place together.
      We brave storms, welcome sunshine,
      And all other weather.

    94. Brian Slusher says:

      LAST LETTER

      It will arrive finally,
      a handwritten page
      in a neat paper coffin.

      In this Post-Apocalyptic
      time, the last mail carrier
      can now retire and dream
      of all the dogs he outran,
      while the quaint metal
      boxes outside each house
      will be replaced by
      something robotic.

      Finger the terminal stamp,
      its perforated edges like
      a lace collar you saw in a
      Daguerreotype. Perhaps you
      should leave this missive

      sealed, like a tomb overlooked
      by vandals, its inky secrets
      ultimate and mortal.

    95. Post-apocalypse
      Zombies inherit the earth
      I run for my life

    96. ELLENLAMBERT says:

      Relational Post Mortem

      So it’s been long enough to discuss it
      Not with you, but about you, that is.
      In my head and in my head only
      The pain’s still too raw to be shared.

      What the WHAT was that that just happened?
      No warning, no notice at all
      Dropped flat, that was that, with no notice
      So much for “best friends from now on.”

      If I wanted I could spin this to take it,
      Just misunderstanding, must be
      But the method of leaving was brutal
      So my grace has run out, I’m done too.

      You make me question my memory
      We’re we even that close after all
      Did I really think we were forever
      I’m a fool to have thought otherwise.

      I can try, I suppose to dissect it,
      The how it could all come to pass,
      The loving, the leaving, the wordless goodbye
      But what’s the point if I did?

    97. PressOn says:

      WEST POINT

      While walking the grounds I can see
      all the spectres: of Ike and of Lee
      and of many a ghost
      who began at this post
      and remain, some in bronzed memory.

    98. antsocial says:

      Post

      In this era a post is digital
      that remains residual if you
      tweet its minimal
      and sometimes criminal
      for all opinions to agree or
      be cynical
      a post goes around and comes around
      its cyclical they can contain pearls
      of wisdom enigmatic & mystical

    99. Loss

      The mailbox stayed empty
      too many days in a row,
      and she swallowed her tears

      and tried to pray, to see
      that he’d had to leave her and go
      to work to face his fears.

      He wrote to her from one
      place after another, letters long
      with love and dotted with tears,

      and she watched the sun
      rise every day, wanting to belong
      again, and the sunshine seared

      her heart and sealed the hole
      left by the empty mailbox,
      and she saw his face, clear

      and lovely, and felt his soul
      alive, and felt the hardened locks
      in her heart crumble and disappear.

    100. JWLaviguer says:

      I’m such a geek lol

      POST

      Power On Self Test
      is the technical term
      or booting up
      for the rest of us
      wake up from sleep mode
      and start your day
      rubbing the sleep from my eyes
      so I can read the words
      that have been left overnight
      by strangers and friends
      interconnected in cyber space
      virtually living

    101. alana sherman says:

      Deltiology (from Greek δελτίον, deltion, diminutive of δέλτος, deltos, “writing tablet, letter”;
      and -λογία, -logia) the study and collection of postcards.

      1. Post Card Mailed from the B.V.I.
      “Capsized” c. 1895

      Well, what would a sailing trip
      be if one of us didn’t go overboard?
      My “dunk” in the turquoise sea
      under a bright sky left us
      both laughing. You can’t be a sailor
      if you can’t take a joke. Here’s
      to more adventures in paradise.
      You, me, the ocean…
      it doesn’t get better than this.
      Love

      2. Post Card Mailed from Costa Rica
      Dos Lapas Rojas (Two Scarlet Macaws)

      Here we are, looking
      at each other still.
      Two rare birds–a pair
      made for each other.
      I am always happy to be perched
      with you looking out at the world
      even when it seems we are
      on opposite sides. I love you
      now and forever. No matter what
      new plan you make
      we are out on a limb together.
      Love

      alana

    102. Linda Voit says:

      The blessing of being a teen in the 70’s

      My angst lived in a 5-year diary locked
      with a flat golden key and in spiral
      tablets of poems hidden
      in drawers. Nowhere
      to post it.

    103. JWLaviguer says:

      Post-Apocalyptic

      The loneliness crowds in
      and the silence deafens me
      I sure do miss technology

      Get out and play they said
      put down your cell phone
      now I miss those days

      With my thumbs flying
      texting with unseen faces
      “that’s not communicating”

      I had thousands of friends
      all over the world
      but none of them are here now

      I used to love my solitude
      now it scares me
      every little sound

      I thought I saw someone yesterday
      but it was just a mirage
      I don’t wish to be alone anymore.

    104. Amy says:

      Inspiring prompt today. Here’s my second:

      Her gaze is fashioned
      past reflective glass
      that throws her rosy
      buoyant face back
      she plays catch
      with her image
      while she awaits
      the man in blue
      who carries both
      nightmarish
      tribulations as
      well as dreams
      come true.

    105. The love of my life faces surgery this week -no surprise that it’s foremost on my mind.

      UNDESIRED POST

      Vibrant, strong,
      Helping, doing,
      Loving, laughing,
      Life pursuing,
      Your hands hold,
      Caress and stir
      Passion to create,
      To risk, endure.
      Impatient, eager,
      Always in a hurry
      This is you, my love,
      pre-surgery.

      Post-surgery
      The picture’s bleak
      Strength will wane
      Leaving you weak
      Functions lost
      May not return
      And others you’ll
      Need to relearn.
      Cancer that
      Unnoticed grew
      Demands its pay
      Before it’s through.

      I must be strong,
      Accept, believe,
      Be your support-
      But now I grieve.
      Changes threaten
      All that’s dear
      Doubts keep whispering
      in my ear.
      God will restore
      Our joy, our bliss.
      Love will survive
      It’s made for this.

    106. Posting my poems
      Here for all the world to see
      My heart on my sleeve

    107. RJ Clarken says:

      A Private Station

      “The post of honour is a private station.” ~Joseph Addison

      I found a scarf on a newel post.
      I wondered, was it something lost
      from being casually tossed?
      Did someone leave it while engrossed

      in conversation? It’s almost
      as if no thought was paid to cost.
      I wondered, was it something lost?
      I found a scarf on a newel post.

      Could it have been draped by a ghost
      to decorate, in silk, embossed
      with patterns full of dew and frost?
      Poetic. Scarf on oaken host.
      I found a scarf on a newel post.

      ###

    108. Post-It Notes

      One
      Yellow
      Post-it note
      Was all it took

      One
      Yellow
      Post-it note
      One
      Name
      One
      Number

      One
      Yellow
      Post-it note
      One
      Smile
      One
      Wink
      One
      Laugh

      One
      Yellow
      Post-it note
      Was all it took

    109. RJ Clarken says:

      Relationship Status

      “The perfect love affair is one which is conducted entirely by post.” ~George Bernard Shaw

      He changed ’Relationship Status’
      Facebook now? “It’s Complicated,”
      so a lot’s been left unstated
      on his page. This apparatus

      does not say, “Been on hiatus,”
      or “Just hooked-up and elated.”
      Facebook now? “It’s Complicated.”
      He changed ’Relationship Status,’

      and then posted, “But like lattice,
      some small gaps exist, created
      by some points not yet debated.”
      I want to post, “It’s commitatus.*”
      He changed ’Relationship Status.’

      ###

    110. Amy says:

      He stands firm in the gusting squall
      around him, monuments will fall
      a paradigm of strength to all
      He will stand tall, he will stand tall

      Cement feet planted deep to hold
      the weight of burdens new and old
      when temperatures descend to cold
      He will be bold, he will be bold

      He will provide a solid base
      in keeping with the steady pace
      of life’s antagonistic race
      He fills the space, he fills the space

      • PressOn says:

        Ah, a wonderful monotetra. The form is new to me and, like many forms, it tends to stimulate rather than diminish creativity. At least I think it does. I think I see an example here: you have layers of meaning in “life’s antagonistic race.”

        • Amy says:

          I agree. I was intrigued by yours last week and wanted to give it a go. I used to consider myself a free-verse writer but lately I am enjoying my forays into new poetic forms. Yes, many layers of meaning here; glad you picked up on them. Thanks!

      • identity says:

        A great tribute to endurance. It reminds me of people I’ve known.

      • PKP says:

        Was not familiar with the form – enjoyed the poem in content and noticed the form and how it did enhance and emphasize. Kudos!

    111. IrisD says:

      Post Modern

      Post hole diggers used by hand
      Dug the holes in the hard clay land
      Muscles, toil, dust, and sweat,
      Made the fenceline standing yet,
      Posts were made by hand too,
      From the trees that we grew.
      Modern farmers use iron posts
      But in Guatamala I was taken back
      To my childhood by their lack,
      Everything there is done by hand,
      Burros before tractors you undestand
      Farming as done centuries before
      Working with handtools, not much more.
      \

    112. PressOn says:

      IN THE OLD FACTORY TOWN,

      upon a post
      a post is posted near the mills;
      upon a post,
      all tattered like a comic ghost
      and faded to the hue of chills,
      the post still orders, “Post no bills,”
      upon a post.

    113. “Notes for a Lifetime”

      We passed, like strangers, quickly down the hall.
      His night shift done; he dove into his crib.
      No pity has the morn for me to stall;
      Tis time to put the baby to his bib.

      To work and to the sitter; life’s a sigh!
      But on my coffee table, there’s a note
      where I must quickly scribble out reply
      to running songs we do between us quote.

      “You are my Juliet and I love you
      in dreams”, sez he. ”And you will be my sun!”
      But hark, my answer, though it be quite true’s
      conditioned by my feet about to run.

      “Sleep on, oh Sun God, in your bed of brass!
      Tomorrow, may we in the hall, ‘gain pass!

      (My cop husband worked the night shift. My teacher’s job meant we passed like ships in the night.
      But funny couplets flew back/forth between us during the week. One original, scrawled in pencil on yellow legal, survives. We were together 62 years. )

    114. Intoxicated No More

      Flowers
      Cards
      Teddy bears
      Bunnies
      Makeshift memorial
      Where 90 mph careening car
      Met 0 mph post

      Baby on board

    115. burrhead says:

      St. Peters Creek
      ============

      When I say we
      I mean I
      Wanted to move to the country
      To live in the mountains and valleys
      Crickets and stars put us to sleep
      Roosters to rise
      Deer, bear, coyotes, falcons, meadow larks, rabbits, pocket gophers, owls, bats and goats

      She always said
      She wished we lived in the country
      Until time came to move there
      Then she asked “where is the mall?”
      You must mean the trading post?
      She was not impressed

    116. EbenAt says:

      Post Up

      C.W made
      Postum
      In his barn in
      Battle Creek

      The Cereal City
      named after
      A survey party
      fought those
      They’d stolen the land
      come.

      From small things
      Baby
      Big Things someday
      come.

      Postum
      to
      General Foods

      Colonies
      To
      Land of the
      Corporation.

    117. ValerieO says:

      Post

      It was the only one that fit
      Diamonds from him
      Such a tiny thing
      To cry over
      Invisible in plush cream carpet
      Days of searching
      Retracing steps
      Determination wanes
      For an impossible find

    118. PKP says:

      the posting gremlin cometh

      named by Marie the loverly
      the posting gremlin cometh back
      he stops flying fingers in their track
      with a stern gray visage to me

    119. LCaramanna says:

      Post Up

      Back to the basket, down low in the post
      Instincts high,
      Head-on collision imminent,
      Teammates sprint to help, three steps behind.
      Offense charges into the paint,
      Defender on guard
      Eyes on the ball, feet planted,
      Post player anticipates body contact.
      Slam to the hardwood, ref’s whistle blows
      Charge drawn.

      Beat it back down the court
      Reposition in the post position,
      Physical encounters, mental strength,
      Touch the ball, swing it out around the arch,
      Jump shot teammate, off the mark,
      Box out, rebound the shot,
      Pass the ball, work the defender,
      Pivot, pivot, step through, sweep,
      Touch the ball, execute the move.
      A glimpse of the basket, precise aim
      A soft hook shot in the hoop
      A slam dunk score,
      Ref’s whistle blows, and one
      Moment at the foul line
      Composure, confidence, precision,
      Swish.

      Half court return, top speed, post position,
      Basket behind, eyes on opponent,
      Feet in motion, hands up, head in the game
      Intense pressure, excitement rush,
      Key to the win,
      Post up.

      Lorraine Caramanna

    120. Post-it

      Squares of paper
      Low-tack glued
      Mr. Fry, well aren’t you shrewd?

      Household word
      In no time flat.
      Wishing I had thought of that!

    121. NOTE: I didn’t really go on a trip. But it fit. haha

      Post

      I sent a big package parcel post
      To my sweet granddaughter dear
      Mickey and Minnie dolls stuffed inside
      You know, I think I made her year

      She knew from whom the box came
      No anonymous post for me
      After all, I am her Grandpa
      The one she knows as, “Pachie”

      I booted up my computer
      Logged in to the Washington Post
      But reading the news from their view
      Almost choked on my coffee and toast

      So I tuned in to the basketball tourney
      And the team that I rooted for most
      They lost to a lower ranked power
      Our boys need to work on their post

      Went outside for a bit of yard work
      My fence gate was sagging a bit
      I noticed both gate posts were broken
      Have to add this repair to the list

      Stopped in at the Duke Post Exchange
      Got gas and some snacks for the trip
      Forgot to get me some nose spray
      To handle my post nasal drip

      Pulled into an Interstate rest stop
      While they all sauntered inside
      I finished this poem in a flash
      And posted it on Poetic Asides

      © 2013 Earl Parsons

    122. vxl says:

      Post Comment

      One tall black woman
      thin as the number 1
      and full of possibility
      stands on my left
      blinking in disbelief.
      She asks me why things need to be dirty
      why I can’t leave things be.
      I tell her voids are meant to be filled
      with things – that it is not
      a matter of importance
      but of beauty – not necessary
      but nice
      and that I need her to move.
      “A lot like God”
      she said as a way of explanation
      “and why we are all here
      to begin with.”

      I suppose. Now will you dance?
      Like you always do
      fast and furious
      at the command of my hands?
      Silent, but not without
      music? Would you please just
      dance? Do anything but stand
      and stare and talk about God.

      But there she stood. Blinking.

    123. Two feet below grade
      Water, gravel, and Quickrete
      Plum it up and wait

    124. Posted

      P oem in the making
      O thers forsaking
      S o cerebrally engrossed
      T ime quickly passing
      E ach thought amassing
      D ownright determined to post

    125. Frustration / Perseverance

      I’m posting to my facebook photography group
      over and over again — now. I’d like
      to get to bed some time soon, preferably
      without breaking down and screaming.
      But it will not load and will not load …

      I am not the only one. Many complain.
      Some give up altogether. I go on
      repeatedly posting and posting, or rather
      starting to post. Failing. Sometimes
      the attempt spontaneously aborts.
      The blue line dances backwards to nothing.
      Sometimes it sticks half way or less,
      and will not move to completion.

      No matter if I select from my desktop
      or drag and drop. When it won’t, it won’t.
      Seems to depend on the time of day —
      when facebook is busy here
      in the Southern Hemisphere, and also
      when it’s active in the north, no go.
      Have to time it right, but it’s only guesswork.
      Packing it in now. I’ll try again tomorrow.

      (Sorry, very busy next few days; will not be posting comments.)

      • PKP says:

        Rosemary – terrific description of abject frustration subjected to persistence …. hope you are sweetly dreaming. As far as not commenting for next few days – you have been commenting so profusely – you deserve the rest of the month to attend to other business :)

    126. Weedlewom says:

      CEREAL KILLER

      The Gerber baby beamed at me
      while oatmeal filled my tummy.
      My taste buds were not highly trained,
      so that stuff tasted yummy.

      Rice Krinkles and Post Toasties
      were the next to set me chomping,
      sitting at the breakfast table
      in the morning before romping.

      Then Kellogg’s Corn Flakes entered in
      with mighty rooster crowing.
      Though tedious and soggy,
      for years it kept me growing.

      A brief affair with Cap’n Crunch
      made sugar highs appealing.
      Then Wheat Chex, Rice Chex, Corn Chex
      teamed and hauled me from the ceiling.

      Now Crispix is my constant friend
      when I want something crunchy,
      but as a Southern girl, it’s grits
      that feed my morning munchies.

      Susan Dean Wessells

    127. annell says:

      DON’T STUMPLE OVER SOMETHING BEHIND YOU

      The job is before you

      It does not matter

      What you did yesterday

      It is your past

      What have you done today

      There are always mountains to climb

      Things to clean

      Love to give

      Letters to post

      Much to accomplish

    128. REALLY?

      No letter in my mailbox isn’t
      opened
      without hesitation.
      Tenants aren’t paying their rent and
      hello,
      no,
      I am no shark and
      the world is a mess,
      I know.

      I’m on my knees,
      bills everywhere.
      I’d like to wipe away things, papers, houses and
      I wonder:
      what do you in fact want to wipe away?
      I’d like to wipe everything.

      Then this other letter?
      I’m lockouted?

    129. PKP says:

      HI all – Happy Weekend – back to read and comment :)

    130. PKP says:

      Ride

      she rises
      thighs tight
      squeezing
      the hot
      flanks
      of the
      beast
      wind in
      her hair
      back never
      as straight
      again as
      on those
      chilled
      hoof clacking
      straw scented
      mornings
      of possibility

    131. PKP says:

      Toasties

      Post-Toasties
      never graced
      our breakfast table
      but smiled their
      name on many
      a morning
      not a tiger
      nor a crackle
      just a name
      floating as
      giggled good

    132. PKP says:

      Write no postmortem
      sing praises or blame today
      in warm sanded now

    133. PKP says:

      Penned Pal

      Reached high stretched
      on tip-toes
      to drop the
      pencil impressed
      letter away
      into the slot
      to soft hands
      waiting with
      thrilled
      anticipation on
      the other side
      of the world
      widening

    134. PowerUnit says:

      The fields look so inviting with their green undulations
      marked by fences and trees
      and the distant red barns and silver bullet silos
      tucked in the gentle hills
      but life is not so bucolic inside, on the ground
      cow patties, mud patches, and old fence posts
      create an obstacle course that make you wander
      and wonder how life must be
      as a farmer today

    135. bxpoetlover says:

      Posts

      First piercings
      at 8.
      First earrings,
      14 carat gold posts.
      Had to twist them
      every day to keep
      the holes open and
      rub them down with alcohol.
      That stung.
      At 19 I pierced each ear
      again. More posts and stinging
      for permanence.
      When the holes set
      I laid the posts in my jewelry box.
      To stay.
      Bought two sets of gold, then sterling silver hoops.
      The rounder
      the longer
      the sexier.

    136. Lamppost

      With all the modern renovations,
      this was the one thing I didn’t expect.
      There almost to the corner it stood,
      a memory of the past -
      tall and regal, still, with its crown of light.

      Flashing back to roller skates with keys -
      penny bubble gum, bull’s eyes and fireballs
      carried in an elfin brown bag -
      this sentinel of summer nights
      greeted me, like an old friend.

      Corner caught tears well and hold -
      I reach out my hand, touching
      the place you carved our initials
      the imprint still lingers, even after
      years of paint and separation.

      With all the urban renewal,
      this was the last thing expected.
      Our lamppost still standing
      where we parted, all those years ago,
      bookmarking that moment in time.

    137. RobHalpin says:

      Post Vacation

      memories made, we
      recount them,
      sleeping better, home

    138. RobHalpin says:

      Losing the Game

      disparate
      non-standard symptoms
      were well-blocked
      and tackled
      while the cancer ran a post
      and scored a touchdown

    139. The Post Posting Post

      I post
      you post
      we all post together
      my typos confuse us
      you’re grammar is a bust

      So, I post
      you post
      we all post together
      I correct your mistakes
      you say give me a break

      Then I post
      you post
      we all post together
      I post some meme tricks
      and you post some cat pics

      Until I post
      and you post
      and we all post together
      I tag your sister
      you get mean and bitter

      So I post
      you don’t post
      Why don’t we post together?
      we are cyber-friends
      I try to make amends

      You post
      and I post
      we all post together
      you call me brother
      and say stuff about my mother

      So I post
      and you post
      we all post together
      you lock your caps
      and we start to scrap

      I post and
      you post
      we all post together
      with LOLs and smiling icons
      we forgive each other’s wrongs

      so then I post
      and you post
      and we all post togetter

      *together! MY BAD! :-)

      Iain

    140. Dear Moosehead,
      Sweet Mother! What do we have to wait for?
      Divine intervention? This has to be one of the worst
      opening weeks ever! A sports trick-cyclist on the news
      says they are suffering from PP-SHITS – Post Pre-Season
      Hitting Is Terrible Syndrome! I think some of them have
      also got Head-Up-My-Own-Ass Syndrome and I’m getting
      sick of it! It costs a fortune to be as dedicated as we are
      and they are screwing us royally. Speaking of which, your
      ma & sis are both doing that to my neck and sanity. seems
      like the whole world, his wife and daughter are against me.
      So anyway we can watch the game at the bar where your
      cousin works and stay for post-game debauchery if we win.
      Pick ya up at 3 – bring Kleenex – I may make an ass of myself!

      Yours post-traumatically inconsolable,

      Ringo the Howler

    141. Post
      Oft he looked out, far and wide
      Through his lens, through the enemy’s snide side
      He ne’er gave way, his courage did not sway
      Till the last man standing, did not cross the fated gateway

    Leave a Reply