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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:


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.


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

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

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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


    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
    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


    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


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


    When all else is gone, peace remains.


    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


    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

    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

    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

    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

    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
    And when it comes, you shall know.

  17. rose1102

    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


    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


    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! :)


    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


  23. Jezzie


    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.


    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.


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

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

  27. Benjamin Thomas

    (bear with me, I wrote this at midnight)

    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


    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
    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

    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


    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.

  37. PKP

    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.

    1. PKP

      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.

  38. cam45237


    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

    Then ghostly,
    Coalesces with the cloud.

  39. seingraham


    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

  40. Dini

    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.

  41. BDP

    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

      1. BDP

        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!

  42. Jane Shlensky


    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.

  43. lionmother

    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

    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.

    1. PKP

      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 :)

  44. Catherine Lee


    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.

  45. Sara McNulty

    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

    1. PressOn

      One almost sure way to tell the generations apart is to note who looks for the mail carrier, these days. The most arresting line, though, for me, was “In housing projects, no one had letter openers.” Nice job.

  46. Bruce Niedt

    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.

  47. MeenaRose

    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.

  48. J.lynn Sheridan

    “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.

  49. Larry

    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.

  50. Nancy Posey

    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
    to whom it may concern.

  51. bluerabbit47


    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.

    1. bluerabbit47

      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.

  52. Karen Jane

    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

  53. Raina Masters

    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?

  54. ely the eel


    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.

  55. uneven steven

    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
    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
    or patios
    long since forgotten.

  56. Misky


    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.

  57. Julieann


    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

  58. Marian O'Brien Paul

    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.

  59. Alpha1

    After The Storm

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

  60. taylor graham


    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.

  61. PKP


    moistened by tears
    of love flowing
    into smiles of

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

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

    just above
    the last
    of that
    wave touching

    and more

    on the
    tip of all
    freed from


  62. Angie5804

    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!

  63. Domino

    …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

  64. Andrew Kreider

    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.

  65. Penpal57


    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
    Please post something!

  66. PoM

    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

  67. Melanie


    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

  68. Lindy

    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.

  69. De Jackson


    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


  70. profal29


    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

  71. Arash

    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.

        1. PKP

          Yes agree with dd above – actually has been proven that we see the words as they were meant to be read! Aside from this comment – a realiy good poem – great finale punch !

          1. Arash

            Thanks dextrousdigits and PKP, appreciate it. I was initially frustrated but I thought everyone’s writing first drafts, that’s the nature of the thing.

  72. priyajane

    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

    1. PressOn

      I think this is brilliant. It also reminds me the song, I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and its second line, “… deep in the heart of me.”

    2. dextrousdigits

      I love the play on words that his heart was attacked
      rather than he had a heart attack.
      I like your use of barricaded and vigilantly.
      Good job.

  73. Deri

    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,
    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.

  74. dextrousdigits

    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.

  75. PressOn


    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

  76. identity

    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

  77. Janet Rice Carnahan

    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! :)

  78. keithdozier

    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.

  79. Brian Slusher


    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.


    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?

  81. PressOn


    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.

  82. antsocial


    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

  83. Eleanore D. Trupkiewicz


    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.

  84. JWLaviguer

    I’m such a geek lol


    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

  85. alana sherman

    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.

    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.


  86. Linda Voit

    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.

    1. PressOn

      This form works well for me; its declension fits, in my mind, anyway, the voluminous material in the diary that cannot, in the end, be shared. Thanks for sharing this, though.

  87. JWLaviguer


    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.

  88. Amy

    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
    tribulations as
    well as dreams
    come true.

  89. Alphabet Architect

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


    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,

    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.

  90. RJ Clarken

    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.


  91. RJ Clarken

    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.’


  92. Amy

    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

    1. PressOn

      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.”

      1. Amy

        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!

  93. IrisD

    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.

  94. PressOn


    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.

  95. Jackie Casey

    “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. )

    1. PressOn

      This is an arresting little piece. Years ago, I recall signs along the roadsides, put up by the Burma Shave people. Most were funny, but some had a serious message. Your piece, oddly enough, reminded me of one that I wrote in that vein:

      Nothing but
      the crunch of steel
      will fix the nut
      behind the wheel.

  96. burrhead

    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

  97. EbenAt

    Post Up

    C.W made
    In his barn in
    Battle Creek

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

    From small things
    Big Things someday

    General Foods

    Land of the

  98. ValerieO


    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

  99. LCaramanna

    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,

    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

  100. Earl Parsons

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


    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

  101. vxl

    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.

  102. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

    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.)

    1. PKP

      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 :)

  103. Weedlewom


    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

  104. annell


    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

  105. Andrea Heiberg


    No letter in my mailbox isn’t
    without hesitation.
    Tenants aren’t paying their rent and
    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?

  106. PKP


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

      1. PKP

        Hi there Marie – Been enjoying playing here together – uh oh the ‘lil posting gremlin’ stuck his tongue out at me for a second :) Wait! Did you write a posting gremlin poem? hahaha going to write a little one now!

  107. PKP

    Penned Pal

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

  108. PowerUnit

    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

  109. bxpoetlover


    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.

  110. Linda Rhinehart Neas


    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.

  111. Iain Douglas Kemp

    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! :-)


  112. Iain Douglas Kemp

    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

    1. LCaramanna

      I read in the New York Post,
      The Yankees were beat by their host
      The Tigers’ Fielder, Prince
      Made all the players wince
      But when Nunez hurt his biceps right
      Fans suffered through a painful night