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2013 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 25

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

I have a confession to make: I’m in Ohio right now with limited access to the Internet. As such, I’m not able to share each day’s prompt on social media sites like I usually do. Soooo… I’m asking a favor: Could you share today’s prompt (and the rest of the prompts this month) on your social media profiles (if you have one)? It would really help keep others engaged and motivated. Thanks in advance!

For today’s prompt, take a poem from earlier in the challenge (that you’ve written) and remix it. You could take a free verse poem and re-work it into a villanelle or shadorma. You could re-work multiple poems into a new one. You could take a line from one of the poems and write a response poem to it. Or you can take it in an entirely different direction.

Also, before I get to my example, I’d like to share that I’m currently running a remix challenge for poems in my debut collection, Solving the World’s Problems (click here to read about the challenge). It’s free to enter, and the winner will receive a $500 prize. Be sure to check it out.

Here’s my attempt at a Remix Poem:


I left just before they started
running. I watched them watch. Sometimes
intent trumps technology. He

beat a woman with a hammer.
Take it like a man. I’ve felt death
at my elbow. I remember

your hands, your words. Every time,
a gun is fired. In every
large city and small town, there is

so much beauty it hurts to look
too close. Children play, their parents
talk, and databases collect

us all. You didn’t know me, but
I heard shots and wondered before
leaving, and I’ll never return.


Learn the Fundamentals of Poetry. Click to learn more.


Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and took the remix approach of lifting lines from multiple poems he wrote during the first 24 days of the challenge. Not every poem had something to offer, but it was a fun exercise. Robert is the author of Solving the World’s Problems and married to the poet Tammy Foster Brewer, who helped show him new ways to attack the process of revision. He can be followed on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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About Robert Lee Brewer

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119 Responses to 2013 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 25

  1. JRSimmang says:


    Though I, on the surface,
    remain a still glass,
    you are able to see
    the tumultuous waves
    and spinning cyclone.
    So, while you say I am
    you can see that
    I breed volatility.

    -JR Simmang

  2. Yolee says:

    Phrases From November’s Poems

    The day packs her harvest, and Maria
    picks up the old oval mirror.
    Silence, and dust gauze over her
    reflection. Memories blow inside
    the opened window of her heart.
    Rain tinkles in the cup her mom
    drank from a year ago when Maria
    brought water to her dry lips.

    The end came unexpectedly
    like a mystery from a floating
    plan. Darkness stretches across
    the length of the wood floor like
    it is warming up to exercise
    on Maria’s survival. The soup can,
    filled with sharpened #2 pencils
    is the only object in the room
    lit by the almond extract
    of emerging moonlight.

    Mom was a gorgeous summer
    stuck to the bone of warm days.
    But her body and soul had to
    part. That which does not,
    is testing things Maria needs
    to say. Her mind is a nightstand
    where flat opened onion pages
    have check marks in self-help

    Mom was her favorite lullaby
    who transcended words, and opened
    a portal to a new knowing.

    She’s Maria’s home sickness,
    coming and cooking- now her mom
    is a flyer among autumn leaves.

    Thin ice cozies up to the window.
    A chill wrestles under her Old Navy
    sweatshirt. Life assigns, and Maria
    must tackle home work.

    A rustling wind taps the pane
    as if it to remind Maria
    that the invisible
    is present none-the-less.

    Nothing prepares a person
    to live with a time of death.
    Maria stares at the strange
    face through the thin veil
    of dust. She feels divided
    like an orphan leaning
    on a big sheet of glass
    vividly exposing something
    warm on the other side.

    November’s license will soon expire.
    Winter will soak in this room.
    Maria rolls out of bed, and leaves
    the mirror on top of her mom’s
    orange comforter with pale white
    roses. Her heart is on the hook;
    the doorbell has been crying out.

  3. BezBawni says:

    of Earth and Plant

    Your skin is rough against my touch.
    New life will still fight its way through
    and offer tender malachite stalks
    to lacing whips of raging sky.

    New life will elbow its way through:
    you raise it well, you turn your back
    to lacing lips of raging sky,
    drink up the pain. New life is strong.

    You raise it well, you stretch your back
    towards the sun until it’s down.
    Drink up the rain – new life is strong.
    The water seeps into the air

    towards the moon until it’s down;
    you welcome flames of rising fire,
    the water dies into the air -
    alive again on waking leaves.

    ~(Pantoum remix of “Elemental song”: http://keinerschertsich.blogspot.ru/2013/11/november-pad-chapbook-challenge-17.html)~

  4. seingraham says:

    Using lines from my own November challenge poems (1st line from Nov.1st, 2nd line from Nov.2nd, 3rd line from Nov. 3rd and so on) – I’ve loosely followed the instructions to create a cross between a Dadaist poem and one that would meet with the prerequisites of one of Bernadette Mayer’s experiments (in this case, limiting the number of words in a line to no more than 5 words) It’s an interesting exercise and one I’ve done before but never using my own words…(strictly speaking, the Dada should use printed matter like a newspaper..The links are so others can see how these forms work if interested…thanks to Al Filreis and ModPo/Coursera at University of Pennsylvania for the information and knowledge!


    Then Back Out They Go

    Everyone commented
    words overly harsh
    too drunk to…
    I wonder

    Ah, here come the rest
    that much prettier
    the trees

    It’s not that we
    finally made it,
    leaving a
    baby with croup

    He gets asked
    now and then
    and wonders
    at the size

    The most banal
    thoughts, like pigs
    in a blanket

    If you can imagine
    not well lets me
    easily check
    leads me
    to New York

    And if, snake-like tongues
    my main secret
    is the buried cities…
    I stare at shades
    of shattered stars

    My life is warmed
    like babies in sleepers
    for what feels like hours
    and melted like snow
    It shimmers over dusk
    like warmed oak

  5. Jezzie says:

    Ladies who Lunch (remix)

    We Ladies who Lunch have a good natter
    (when you live alone there’s not much chatter).
    We talk on every subject matter
    over our pub’s cut-price lunchtime platter.

    We girls love to come here once in a while,
    we do not drink much, but we dine in style.
    Our waitress greets us with a cheery smile,
    and when we leave we make it worth her while.

  6. The House Remixed (twice)
    from ekphrastic poem day 11


    I dream of a house
    on a cliff above the sea,
    forest at its back
    and green grass all around it.
    I dream it waits for me there.

    (My own invention: 3 lines, 3 rhymes, 8 syllables per line.)

    The house above the sea is old.
    Its big windows gaze from the cliff
    and the forest rises behind.

    I wonder has the house been told
    that I’m the one it waits for; if
    it knows that it is mine to find?

    I dreamed of it always: the gold
    sunlight, the breeze a little stiff,
    the sea shining … time out of mind.

  7. Cin5456 says:

    In Medias Res Revisited

    labored all day long.
    Worked harder,
    less, and I’ve nothing to show
    why I was busy.

  8. Months After Morning

    (Remixing “Milling for Morning”)

    It was a mistake to meet that boy
    in Badger. A girl always knows
    when something is going to go wrong
    when she can’t meet her own eye
    her momma’s mirror.

    I spent hours in front of
    fingerprinted silver, tracing
    my neckline, marveling over
    the pearls at the hollow
    of my throat, and steadfastly
    ignoring my own gaze,

    unwilling to be hooked
    like a fish by the knowledge
    I’d see there. The boy by
    the windmill is not my
    husband. But that’s my
    mistake to overlook.

    Still I never bargained for
    a soft stomach and the
    way panic replaced the pearls
    when I discovered a roll
    on hard ground meant that
    sometime soon I’d have to
    look my husband in the eye
    when I told him the truth.

  9. bethwk says:

    No angels
    on ladders this time.
    Only this:
    One old man
    wrestling me in the darkness,
    telling me my name.

  10. LeonasLines says:

    Well, this one was a challenge for me….but I came up with something that I could post—so here it is….My remix was of my 11-20-13 Free Verse titled “Always in Demand” which I turned into a Clerihew poem titled “A Purpose in Time” . posted on my blog at : http://leonaslines.com/2013/11/25/a-purpose-in-time/

  11. Julieann says:

    If I Only Used My Brain

    For my remix I used the line from the 11/18 “Forget what I said earlier poem” —
    “But stupidity seems to be the only truthful reason”

    Stupidity seems to be the reason
    For the things I do and say
    Acting without thinking
    Causes problems all along the way

    If I hadn’t taken my sister’s bike
    Without my parents’ permission
    Maybe I’d have had time for swimming
    Rather than the sin of commission

    Throwing the ball through the window
    Created quite a thrill
    Until I had to use my allowance
    To pay back the repair bill

    That left over ham begged for me
    To take a bite, and bite, and bite
    But when Mom when to heat it for supper
    There wasn’t enough left to be right

    The list could go on and on
    Including many words I’ve said
    It seems I do not do well at repentance
    And where I go, I don’t seem to lightly tread

    Truthfully, it really isn’t stupidity
    Or even a lack of brains
    I just never seem to use them
    Before I am the root of others’ pains

  12. randinha says:

    A remix of “Mappa Mundi” from November 19.


    I set out to find my heart
    on the mappa mundi.

    The sheen of the gilding
    was so sharp,

    the black lettering
    so blotted,

    I could only wander
    the world over, wondering

    if this or that sheen
    or this or that blot

    or this or that missing piece
    was mine.

  13. Clae says:


    Cremated by its own desire, another moth
    Tried to eclipse the spark
    Found it could not last
    Another reminder that what I long to touch
    Could torch me into dark
    Smoldering ash

  14. bartonsmock says:

    reworking of first prompt 24 poem formerly called ‘segregation’.

    -to keep from falling asleep-

    I picture my father
    lighting a cigarette
    in the baby dark
    of his bodily
    while sitting
    on a motorcycle
    not yet surrounded
    by snow

    I listen for my mother
    telling tales
    of white owls
    in outhouse
    and of the hole
    with a bottom

    I admire
    the dollhouse
    brushing its hair
    in the lopsided
    of my brother’s

    and I plan
    to make a stick
    from no more
    than eye-

  15. bjzeimer says:

    Remix from the poem I posted on Nov. 1.


    She appeared that Sunday
    morning as I waited
    in the lounge for her to be born.
    With her Aunt Brittney
    as Mommy Chelsi’s side,
    I waited in the lounge, whiling
    away the minutes
    on Facebook, scrolling,
    scrolling down,
    looking at the pictures—
    Baby Alaziah on facebook!
    her sweet baby face wide-eyed
    and sucking her tiny thumb
    lying on her mommy’s chest,
    Brittney in the background
    all that love and joy—
    pure innocence radiating
    from Facebook’s News feed!

  16. cbwentworth says:

    My life has changed
    I feel so blind
    Nothing is there
    nothing remains
    Notion dismissed,
    the feeling nags
    The day moves on
    thick London fog
    It hits at once
    I cannot see

    **Remixed from the poem I posted on November 1st.

  17. LeAnneM says:


    Seen pushing a cart of groceries
    Full, it was noted, “according to the American tradition”

    Snowden, hollow-eyed,
    Snapped on a tour of the city
    The Cathedral of Christ the Savior in the distance

    They report that
    He’s reading Dostoevsky and studying Russian
    That he’s followed everywhere by security

    Compared more than once to Philby
    Can he imagine a lifetime of this?

  18. MichelleMcEwen says:

    I remixed this poem “I Will Take Anyone to Bed (Poetically Speaking of Course)” by Sara Littlecrow-Russell; it can be found here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/239036

    Lit. Lust

    I have taken Etheridge Knight to bed
    on the same night I’d been with Langston
    I let Terrance Hayes rest on my breasts
    and he got lightheaded
    I’ve had a love jones for Leroi Jones
    and for nights couldn’t think of anyone else’s body
    of work— he was that good
    he almost ruined me
    I have bowed down to Komunyakaa’s
    and marked up Cornelius Eady
    in a twin bed in The Hill District

    I stayed up all night, once, swallowing Al Young
    I woke up the next morning speaking in tongues

    Oh, my literary lust is also interracial
    I fingered Ferlinghetti and Bukowski
    while Robert Lowell watched and waited his turn
    I tried Walt Whitman and Ezra Pound
    they did nothing for me
    However, Allen Ginsberg made me howl

    Tonight, I am having a threesome
    with Warsan Shire and Erica Dawson
    I’m a literary lesbian, too…

  19. Lori P says:

    The Other Day Dream
    –remix of “Other___” and “Sweet”

    when you close your eyes
    do you wake up in a different place
    claiming the wrongs and fears, empty
    faces blending together
    I suffer through this bundle
    shifting like sand
    to forget your yesterday’s
    purple and Oliver and freshness
    for today’s door chimes and promises
    empty people that haunt you
    friends and foe struggle to make sense of it all
    I have to wish your mind
    because it is my job

  20. bxpoetlover says:


    There Is The Right To Own.
    The Last Time I Was Here,
    sheet of ice.
    What is should not be,
    on detail.
    Hardship was in
    The Pen,
    The Other Day.
    Give me some sugar and
    A Walk At Sunset–
    The happiest day of my life.

    What is it made of?
    I Did Not Know.
    And This Morning,
    If You’re the Only One Digging It,
    Always choose wisely.

    Secret messages.
    My Ideogram Looks Like a Light Bulb
    because I Shouldn’t Have Been There
    After My Last Break Up.

    (This is what came out when I made a poem out of all my titles of the poems I’ve done this month).

  21. rosross says:

    Secret message (2)

    Dream in staggered haunting reveals the image set in place,
    repeats the message yet again, of something lost
    … but what, is never shown or part revealed, in shape,
    yet comes to taunt and teach, of memory now tossed.

    In time tied to forgetting and pain of ancient cost.
    remembering is tangled and broken through the nights,
    of something which has happened, left imprint on dark host;
    yet huddles in the hidden realms of shadowed fright.

    This loss is ever lingering and trailing through the years,
    reality diluted, devoid of rigid thought or form
    as something dark and awful, in shroud of unshed tears,
    to wrap my dreams eternal, in torn, tormented cause.

    • rosross says:

      Secret Message (1)

      The dream in staggered haunting
      reveals the image set,
      repeats the message yet again,
      of something lost … but what?

      It comes to taunt and teach me
      of memory now tossed;
      of time tied to forgetting
      a pain of ancient cost.

      Remembering is tangled
      and broken through the nights,
      of something which has happened,
      yet hides in shadowed fright.

      This loss is ever lingering,
      a trailing through the years
      of something dark and awful,
      in shroud of unshed tears.

      It’s lost, it has no presence
      in real words, or thought or form
      and yet it wraps my world of dreams
      in torn, tormented cause.

  22. De Jackson says:

    original poem, here: http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2013/11/03/returning/


    Returning, again
    (an erasure poem)

    The moon
    turned                      and

    asked if I would wait.
                     No sky stretches out for

               Naughty moon.     Here,

                             wily one,


               ragged shore;
         like you,            sent back      to sea.


  23. Sara McNulty says:

    Against Love

    He followed ideas
    for romance,
    wanting love.
    Efforts went unrewarded.
    Dames are not worth it.

    (See Love and Anti-love)

  24. Amy says:

    “It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light.” -Aristotle


    There are facets to a moment;
    planes that split and pitch the light
    in endless spectral roads.

    I stood still with the light;
    let it break upon my face
    and the moment of ruin

    rolled off my cheeks as tears,
    just following their path.
    I thought it was for me to decide,

    what to make of listless instants,
    but they bent and twisted like
    dried up leaves in winter wind;

    so carelessly discarded into shadow.
    The light retreated from my face
    back to its prismatic origin

    at the end of the spectral road.
    No longer split, I pitched forward
    into a facet of the moment.


    Kisses I savor, peppermint
    flavored. Candy kisses so sweet
    the way love’s kisses were meant.
    Kisses I savor. Peppermint,
    whether by flavor or scent,
    her kisses make me complete.
    Kisses I savor, peppermint
    flavored. Candy kisses so sweet!

    Remix (triolet) of Peppermint Kisses -Nov. 10 – Something Sweet

  26. Margie Fuston says:

    (Written with pieces of poems from days: 8, 16, and 21.)


    She’s always searching
    for silhouettes,
    tracing the forms of men
    in the glow of her bedside lamp
    as if shadows hold secrets
    like lines in a palm.
    In the morning,
    when the light through open shades
    leaves no more illusions,
    she wonders:
    How does the shadow
    from half a man
    always look so deceptively whole?

  27. DanielAri says:

    “Eclipse during Saturn return”

    a black hole
    in a ruddy glow.
    The moon went incognito.
    The earth followed suit. We reeled below

    like drunken twentysomething werewolves in snow
    painted red-black by the passing penumbra. When clans
    of carnivores feel their brethren, they howl concertos,
    hunt and howl long Os in trenscendant, blood-bound harmonies.
    Sleek-furred, open-nostrilled, taut-muscled, Josho and I

    twined our vulpine, astronomical supplications
    for connective joy, for female companionship—
    we caterwauled our throats raw for women.
    When the frozen white lite returned,
    we panted our prayers so

    bless by earth-moon


  28. gl866 says:

    The Return, a somonka

    Last time I was here
    I said I’d never come back,
    yet when I walked in
    neither of us was surprised
    and your smug smirk spoke volumes.

    Last time you were here,
    you packed and left in a huff,
    so when you walked in
    looking sheepish and flustered,
    my relief spread to a smile.

  29. hohlwein says:

    I have fish
    the pond drew raccoons
    And my birds
    eat fish too
    I hung the birdhouse out front
    white cats wait below

  30. Day 25
    Prompt: Remix previous poem/poems from this challenge.

    (From my Day 7 poem
    Prompt: Write a hardship poem.)

    (my attempt at a Terza Rima)

    She hoped for a clean scan for her stepdad,
    tumor markers low,
    radiation to zap bad

    cells, but no.
    He saw his doc; she’s sad,
    report cut off air to her hope.

    Keep the chemo coming till his body’s sated,
    only to keep him alive.
    The cancer won’t be abated.

    The cancer, not the man, will thrive.
    His options truncated,
    she will pray and wait and watch him die.

  31. De Jackson says:

    For my remix, I decided (heaven help me) to braid a cento from the titles of all 44 previous poems for the month. Whew.

    Naming the Stars
    (a cento)

    I know a few things about ink
    and old salt. Always, and everything
    after the word
    changes things, yep. Wave,
    weave some magic, spell
    your name in the slant
    of sunlight on sea,
    the quiet whoosh of a window
    opening. Siren it
    into song.

    You think this is un
    -familiar territory?

    I have read my own rap
    sheet. I have felt these long
    always blank sheets between
    tired digits. I know
    how to fold a fitted sheet
       (plump the verbs, tuck the nouns).
    I have seen the news
             (this, just in)
    and sometimes some of it
    is good.

    I have explored
    the other side of Franklin Street,
    the other name you gave me
    the conjugation of constellations
    and the teachable imposture of always
    even when it falls, far off,
    the sound of foghorns
    on deaf ears.

    I have stayed
    in Cordelia’s Cottage
    for wayward sea maidens, stretched fin
    and fingers far and wide and deep,
    embraced full this Tahoe
    moment, held hard
    -ship against my ribcage.

    I am beyond
    bottles, returning myself
    for chump change left to jangle
    in once empty pockets.

    I am the other time
    you smiled, and the strange
    symbiosis between salt water
           (NaCl H2O)
    and other solutions that sting. I am
    the answer to the way the sea
    smooshes herself
    against the butterscotch pockets
    of the other shore. I am the question
    left when she leaves with a moan,
    and milky moon.

    It’s closing time, and
    I have met
    my other, the one
    tryin’ to throw her arms
    around the world, trying to tie
    ember and ether
    together with silence,
    half truth,
    broad appeal, loose
    bootstraps. She’s tired,
    but still she dreams
    of pies, and bluer skies.

                 What is it?
    This thing I am stretching
    halfway there to heaven, this
    scar and scrap,
    slivered semblance
                           of poem?

    It’s born, and bare
    and black. And soon
          I am
    (O, for pete’s sake)
    taking it back.


  32. Nancy Posey says:

    For a start, I decided to use some of my one-word titles to make a sestina, the hardest form to write–if one wants to make sense!

    Sestina to the Frightened Dead

    Always afraid of her own shadow
    she would her passing made the news.
    She lost her way, even with her map
    tucked somewhere in her pocket
    she could have sworn; Arrangements
    should have been made for her to survive–

    And no one ever called her a survivor
    She never even cast a shadow
    of confidence, of hope. Arrangements
    made by others felt like yesterday’s news
    to her. Fidgeting hands in her pockets,
    she wouldn’t even glance at the maps.

    She mistrusted all makers of maps,
    cast as she was– a lone survivor
    of a lonely life. Her pockets
    hung weightless as shadows,
    as if she hadn’t heard the news
    that all had changed, rearranged,

    and even age-old arrangements
    never lay smooth as folded map.
    Her wanderings begun anew,
    she could not have survived
    the unfamiliar haunts and shadows
    with less than a dollar in her pocket.

    Along the busy streets, in pockets
    flowed the people who arranged
    their lives as if they were not shadows,
    pulled forward, like magnets to maps
    of destinations. Who were these survivors
    Could they not bring her better news?

    Would they bring her any news
    at all? Like pickpockets,
    they robbed the last survivor
    on these mean streets. Her arrangements
    were announced in all the papers. A map
    showed where she lay, now a mere shadow,

    the shadow of a shadow. And how the news
    spread! Printed on maps, her empty pockets
    stripped by the deranged of all that survived.

  33. gl86 says:

    The Return, a somonka

    Last time I was here
    I said I’d never come back,
    yet when I walked in
    neither of us was surprised
    and you just sat there smirking.

    Last time you were here
    you packed and left in a huff
    so when you walked in
    looking sheepish and flustered,
    I smiled in my relief.

  34. alanasherman says:

    Day 25 A Re-mix

    This is from an earlier poem–New title as well.

    Things Change

    In dreams
    people love, argue,
    for what seems
    like a cause.
    Like life it appears to have
    direction —a plot.

    People move
    forward: One person
    at the heart
    of the action
    believes he can
    control the outcome.
    He tries but it is like
    putting his hand
    in an icy stream.
    Others get caught up
    in the spectacle
    and there is commotion
    in every event.
    There are characters
    and enough inventions
    to fill up time itself.
    Yet it ends without anything
    to take away except the telling.
    There is no denouement,
    no understanding
    of what it was about,
    but we know just the same,
    nothing is ever the same.

  35. MLundstedt says:

    “Half Awake Again” (villanelle based on “Half Awake” 11/16? I think)

    Where only darkness heard me scream,
    in that awkward state, half awake,
    I fought to shake a poisoned dream.

    So lonely, wretched, was the theme,
    I feared that I would simply break
    where only darkness heard me scream.

    But I was tangled, it would seem,
    in the coils of a satin snake.
    I fought to shake a poisoned dream.

    My senses slow, my pulse extreme,
    my hands and lips began to quake,
    where only darkness heard me scream.

    Frantic, I searched for any beam
    of moonlight. For sanity’s sake,
    I fought to shake a poisoned dream,

    that drowned me in a wicked stream,
    and caused my heart and soul to ache.
    Where only darkness heard me scream,
    I fought to shake a poisoned dream.

  36. Linda Goin says:

    Hunger Book, a Body Synopsis in American Sentences

    Chapter One: The young tongue tastes everything, yearning to learn rules, drooling for response.
    Chapter Two: Teens bite into ideas, body parts, and resistance like vampires.
    Chapter Three: Twenty-somethings nibble on leftover carnage and thick nonchalance.
    Chapter Four: The plot begins to fall apart; yet, cravings continue to inspire.
    Chapter Five: Best chapter by far, with life served on platters that affect gall bladders.
    Chapter Six: Midlife marked by macabre removal of non-essential body parts.
    Chapter Seven: The characters lose teeth and taste, the grip is shaky, the end matters.
    Chapter Eight: Too tired to rage, the finish is a surprisingly quiet dessert.

  37. Mixtape preview

    It always starts
    a hero or a villain
    poetry a painting more felt
    than thought
    Karma town
    and some big tatted Hawaiian
    throwing horseshoes
    over hand, overhead
    at windows of wonder
    your spun sugar
    and suddenly
    you think you’re old,
    hung out to dry
    no thunder
    storms left
    outside one creaky windowbox
    blowing in the wind
    a single flower
    your garden

  38. Hannah says:

    Thank you, Robert, that was a good opportunity to revisit the month so far…

    I can’t believe how fast it has flown!

    I ended up using one line-ish from each poem oldest -newest. Fun process.


    Smiles to all the poetical peeps in the house. :)

  39. Jane Shlensky says:

    This is a remix/response to Nov. 19′s “Daily Fare” that painted a pretty grim family picture of abuse. I apologize for the length. It seems that positive warm things may take longer than destruction.

    Daily Fare

    I hear their morning talk,
    how his rumble lies below
    her higher lilt, no words
    are clear, just sounds
    soprano, bass, a slapping door,
    the tumbling wood, the scrape
    removing ash, relaying kindling,
    remixing embers, stoking,
    scent of smoke from the stove.

    The pans and coffee pot
    have things to say, the water
    gurgles, mixing bowls for
    flour, the fridge whispers
    open, tutting closed.
    The back door must be open—
    drafty chill that carries outdoor
    morning sounds upstairs.

    The cows mill and moo,
    the collies yip for kibble or
    for scraps. He’s back
    in minutes with a slab of ham,
    I’m hoping, tucked beneath
    my quilt. It’s cold upstairs.
    We’re all awake but reticent
    to move, unless we smell
    a reason sizzling, the biscuits
    rising upward like a prayer
    and browning as the eggs
    make golden clouds.

    She’ll call us soon,
    children, it’s time, get up.
    Again, again, each time
    closer, firmer, louder, now,
    like labor birthing morning
    every day. He’ll take initiative
    rapping the wall, and booming,
    I better hear those feet
    upon the floor. Cold sparks
    leap as warm feet touch
    hardwood chill, and we don’t tarry
    pulling on our clothes.
    She giggles every time,
    hearing us rise, and I’d bet
    anything she meets his eyes.

    It makes him feel important
    that we move when he adds
    hints of threat into his voice.
    We let him think so, because
    she knows well it’s breakfast
    that we rise for,
    then the chores.

    • PressOn says:

      I adore this vignette, a little story all its own. Your words conveyed sight, smell and sound as clearly as I was a fly on the wall. Thanks very much for posting this.

  40. gl86 says:

    The Return, a somonka

    Last time I was here
    I said I’d never come back,
    yet when I walked in
    neither of us was surprised
    and you just sat there smirking.

    Last time you were here
    you packed and left in a huff,
    so when you walked in
    looking sheepish and flustered,
    I smiled in my relief.

  41. priyajane says:

    An attempt at a shadorma with remixing poems

    I shouldn’t
    Peek thro the cracks
    Spinning tunes
    But, spread arms
    freely, alive, with all parts
    Squeezing with passion—–

  42. Domino says:

    In response to “Code”
    Found here: http://dianaterrill.wordpress.com/2013/11/21/secret-message/


    I got your notes, I got your blocks
    of hieroglyphicked stone.
    I read your message in the sky,
    and couldn’t help but groan.

    I tried to crack your number code
    with the key you also sent,
    and accidentally spilled my tea
    on your cryptic argument.

    I can tell you wanted something,
    but I’m not sure just what
    and I’m not saying that you’re crazy,
    but you’re acting like a nut.

    I wish you wouldn’t scare me so,
    I kind of like your style,
    and when you’re not all nervous
    it’s nice to see your smile.

    So tell me now, get to the point,
    I need to know the score.
    I wish you’d tell me darling
    it’s me that you adore.

    (a remix of “The Trail To Black Rock Springs” 11/3/13)

    A trail
    I’ve walked before
    seems different in this light.
    The passage of time dismantles
    dubious memories.

    A wall,
    behind which stood
    a hotel spa for town folk,
    has no reminders save decay
    of ruined majesty.

    A thread
    in my thinking
    unravels to discover
    all that nature has reclaimed
    is given back a hundred-fold
    in images unseen.

    recall laughter,
    silence supplies the music.
    Contemplation heals the ailments
    of all who venture here.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  44. Michelle Hed says:

    If at First You Don’t Succeed…
    “The knack of flying is learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.” ~ Douglas Adams

    I envisioned throwing myself down
    but I never missed, I went splat.
    Except in my dreams, I fly
    swoop, turn – until I wake;
    the devil tempts me
    to try for real
    but I know
    it won’t
    So I
    smirk and throw
    myself at tasks –
    succeed or to fail
    at least I tried to fly
    and for every skid mark or
    bounce made to the ground, I had two
    times the adventures amongst the stars.

  45. Earl Parsons says:

    Decided to remix the challenge to use 3 of the 3 words on 11-22-13.

    From Bullet to Burial

    The free world leader slain
    Hope of a nation eclipsed
    The nation mourns as one
    The final trip begins

    From Dallas to DC
    24 hours at 1600 Pennsylvania
    The casket loaded in caisson
    Horse drawn ride to the Capital

    One day for public view
    10 wide and 40 blocks long
    A quarter million or more
    In wretched cold they waited
    To walk past a closed coffer
    Lost hope interned inside

    Sunday morning on the move
    Casket and caisson slowly move
    The final trip to the Cathedral
    A funeral to attend

    From around the world they came
    To pay their final respects
    To shed a tear with the widow
    Condolences from far and wide

    Again casket and caisson unite
    JFK Jr. presents final salute
    Procession Arlington bound
    Cold, open plot awaits

    Words spoken
    Prayers prayed
    Tear shed
    Casket lowered
    Eternal flame lit
    That we should never forget

  46. Michelle Hed says:

    Flipping Through Ideogram Memories

    Some memories eclipse
    others, acting like
    morass remoras
    drawing you back
    over and over again,
    sending tremors
    through your brain.

    While some are just wretched
    and you turn away as if scalded
    trying to close the casket lid,
    wanting to bury them deep,
    but they act like an overstuffed suitcase
    that won’t close…
    causing you to finally throw
    some metaphoric dirt
    over the top and
    walk away…

    to flip more memories
    to erase the unpleasant ones
    that keep crawling out of the earth,
    until you find a pleasant interlude
    and you mentally press
    a self imposed repeat button
    repeat, repeat…
    until the memories sigh
    and go to sleep.

    • PressOn says:

      The “or” sounds sprinkled through this have a lulling quality, or so it seems to me, and I find myself expecting the morass to or memories to fade, as indeed they seem to. This poem again draws vivid images, to my mind.

  47. writinglife16 says:

    This is a remix of my Day 4 poem, Papa’s numbers sheet.

    Papa’s numbers sheet(the remix)

    Papa played the numbers.
    Consulted his books.
    But there was a problem.
    Ma wanted him to stop.
    She went to a spiritualist who sprinkled
    the dream books with a fine dust.
    Papa’s sleep became filled with nightmares so frightening
    he burned the dream books.
    He played no more.

  48. Missy McEwen says:

    Don’t know if this counts as a remix. I changed the title and some words in the poem, so it’s more like a re-fix.

    Sometimes happiness

    Where we live, sometimes, most times despair
    hovers over us heavy like smog like the smell of cheap
    booze, cigarettes, and weed in the breeze that’s blowing
    our dreams down the street like old newspapers, it seems
    that way to us, where we live. Where we live, we live
    in houses crowded with three, four generations– grandmothers,
    mothers, sometimes fathers, sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles,
    grandchildren, everybody, and nobody can find work, screen doors bang
    shut in frustration like throwing their hands up along with the rest
    of us who live here, where we live. But sometimes, though,
    when it seems like this is all there is and hope is nowhere
    to be found, just hard luck and sorrow, sometimes happiness creeps
    up on us: a ray of sunshine through a curtain on a sleeping baby’s
    face or a ray of hope shining on all of us that day a black man
    was sworn in as the forty-fourth president of the United States
    of America. We were happy as can be, that day, suddenly smiling,
    like change was coming, like a new beginning, like it was finally our turn
    where we live.

    • PressOn says:

      I think this is superb. The repeated “where we live” phrases tap like a hammer, even as the lines stream along like those dreams in the breeze. Your poem concludes with a ray of hope or happiness, and the way you wrote the poem accentuates that conclusion, or so it seems to me. Thanks for posting.

  49. Dare says:

    (In appreciation of a Nose)

    Draw deep the scent of Life
    Lungs bursting with unspoken Moments
    Ever-Being, Ever-Becoming
    Kaleidoscope of Now

    And, another take :-) :
    Nasus Invictus

    My nose protrudes
    to lead the way
    as I explore
    each newborn day

    As every moment
    comes and goes
    I seek the courage
    of my Nose!

  50. FIGS

    I stop here for my dogs, green patch of grass
    where sun and windfall figs mix and mix again.

    Here’s a man with dog reciting his own verse:
    knives, unshaven rooms mix and mix again.

    Each line of verse lurches, as if a death-march;
    but his eyes bright, fired to mix and mix again.

    I was driving to a reading – signals, ideograms,
    what my dog finds – words mix and mix again.

    He found his dog in a goat field without a door.
    Dog wags, smiles, wants to mix and mix again.

    There’s poetry in dogs, I say. Just follow yours
    where words and sunlight mix and mix again.

    A man wanders mythic isles of the not-found
    following his dog. They mix and mix again.

    Drone of traffic, a stranger’s song, the wind’s
    long memory of cries all mix and mix again.

    As sweet as figs late-fallen off the tree, light
    and shadow, wind ready to mix and mix again.

  51. RJ Clarken says:

    I decided to take What a Peach/He was Sweet on Her and then use an Oulipo form called S + 7 on it. Essentially, you take the significant nouns in a poem, and change them to the 7th word which follows each of those words in a dictionary. The Oulipo poets were mathematicians and poets, and they loved games which combined the two disciplines. If you are interested in finding out more on the Oulipo forms (challenging but lots of fun) please visit Poetic Bloomings’ In-form Poet this Wednesday. :D


    What a Pecan/He was ‘Swinburne’ on Her

    disintegration of
    pecan iconoclasm
    is sure to be a whole lot ‘Swinburne’ when
    it’s shared by two peptides who are in lower-case,”
    he said, “So…
    here’s your



    (Remix of Secret Message)

    He trained
    His eye
    Upon her

    encrypted smile

    Lightly at her gifted

    Slowly strode
    Unable to break
    Her code

    Her gait
    Seamless hips

    Didn’t want
    To get hurt
    Heightened security

    Had an option
    To hack
    But backed off

    She was quickly
    Disabled her firewall

    Her guard
    Plates of armor

    Inhaled fresh air
    A deep cleansing breath
    Expanding her chest

    Traded floating signals
    Networks connected

    Turned out
    To be a solid connection
    At high speed

    Eyes continually freed
    Streamed countless motion

    Became avid readers
    Continually downloading
    Each other’s looks

    Tweeted simple
    Facial gestures
    Enjoyed open books

    Life was quite a blog
    A themed story
    Of steamed romance

    With great
    Mutual entries
    Of bonding love

  53. Bruce Niedt says:

    I decided to go the “response poem” route. Here’s my Day 21 poem again:

    To a Woman in the Sports Bar,
    After the Game

    The way you smile,
    the way you toss
    your hair back,

    the way you bring
    your drink to your lips,
    you have more signals
    than a third-base coach.

    If I should round the bases,
    would you hold me to a triple,
    or would you wave me home?

    ..and my new response:

    To the Guy at the Sports Bar,
    After the Game

    I don’t know what signals
    you though you saw,
    but I certainly know a leer
    when I see one.

    You’ve got me all wrong.
    I’m not a coach,
    I’m an umpire.

    If you slide over here thinking
    you’ll get at least to third base,
    I’ll be waiting with my thumb
    jerked in the air – you’re OUT!

  54. PressOn says:


    Overhead they pass, on levelled wings;
    their gazes are fixed to the north
    as steady winds from the south
    bring springtime to the air
    and hope to my heart,
    although the snow
    still festoons

    NB: this nonet is a re-mix of an etheree submitted 17 November

  55. annell says:

    Forget What I Said Earlier
    Yes I answered your question
    With a funny response
    Instead I should have said
    “In significant nothingness”

    For what else could it be
    If it is not true
    If it is not authentic
    If there is no blood
    At the scene
    And no heart
    In the creation
    We can’t call it art
    It is…..
    “Insignificant nothingness”

    I chose my poem blindly, just picked a date and then looked to see what I had written.

    Remember What I Said Before
    In early morning
    Before the sun
    Is up
    Think of me

    During the day
    When the sun shines
    Or the sky is overcast
    Think of me

    Later when the sun sets
    And all the world is aglow
    Draw a color from the
    Color box
    Think of me

    Remember what
    I said before
    No need to repeat
    That if it is not true
    Not Authentic
    Trifling or petty
    Too small to be important
    Or is of no consequence
    It is….
    “Insignificant nothngness”

    Note: In art class my instructor used to say, if it is meaningless, it is “insignificant nothingness.”


    Used to be that they came like
    migrant birds back to the nesting grounds.
    Now, with families of their own,
    they flock to other tables – in other homes.
    The nest is empty, but “home is where the heart is,”
    so, others come, having learned to migrate
    towards the open door where Love is always

  57. Misty Fjords, Ketchikan

    Gray sea breathes
    High cliffs hide in mist
    Falls form stripes
    Whales emerge
    Seals lounge lazily on land
    Eagles nest in pines

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